One place is a thousand memories.

It’s funny how you don’t realize what an impact a certain place has in your life until you visit it and an overwhelming sensation overcomes you at the mere sight of the place.  Yesterday I was on my way to Monterey for a teaching seminar.  As I was headed toward Monterey on Hwy 1, I saw the Pacific Ocean.  Normally, the ocean brings a serene calmness over me.  I love the ocean, yet I have seen it so many times that I don’t think much of it.  I just enjoy the tranquility of the vast blueness.  This time it was different.  I saw the Pacific Ocean near Monterey and a thousand memories both happy and sad came crashing into me like the waves against cliffs.

My first memory was of a dear family friend named John Fong who lived in Capitola.  My father and John were very good friends and liked to fish together. The ocean—particularly the ocean in that part of California—reminded me of John…of visiting him…of his friendship to the family…and off his passing.  When we visited him at his house in Capitola, we would buy ice cream at a creamery down the hill and then hike up the stairs that seemed to go on forever to get back to his house.  While walking back we would go down the street parallel to the ocean.  This street was only for pedestrians.  The strength of the waves against the cliffs has eaten the road away over the years.  Each time we visited the road it seemed more of it was gone.  We would talk of the rebar and other preventions the city tried to take to stop the erosion and how nothing seemed to work.  I’d like to go back and see what is left of it now.

I remember one time visiting John I was making flies for the fishing trip John and my dad would go on.  I liked the pretty material used for the “tail” of the fly, so I remember using the whole pack on one.  Instead of John yelling at me for using all of the expensive material, he chuckled and explained I needed to use about a 50^th of what I did.

I was ten when we got the news that John had drowned after their small boat capsized in the ocean.  This was a shock to the family not only because of John’s young age, but also because he was the best swimmer we knew.  Every morning he would swim a mile or two at the Y.  He had even taken my brother a time or two.  How can a good swimmer drown just like that?

The news of John’s death hit my father the hardest.  I remember him getting ready for his funeral and dressing in one of his finest suits.  When his friends arrived to take him, he just couldn’t go.  He said it would be too hard for him to handle.  I could see the torment in his eyes because of his internal conflict.  He knew how important it was to go, but the pain of going would be too much to handle.

My memories of John made my heart both heavy and light.  As I drove further down HWY 1, I remembered my best friend—also my childhood dog—Vito.  How I loved my Golden Retriever.  The ocean reminded me of celebrating his first (or second) birthday with us—yes, my family is one of those families that celebrate their dog’s birthday as much, if not more, than a family member’s birthday.  We decided to celebrate his birthday on the beach.

Dogs—especially Golden Retrievers—are supposed to love water, right?  Well my dog was terrified of the water.  He was so scared he would not even touch the wet sand.  While, the other dogs at the beach, even the little ankle-biter-sized ones, were enjoying swimming, my dog stayed far away.  I believe one of my parents stayed with him and then put him in the car because he was having none of it.  I’m sure that seeing his family go near the blue beast of an ocean was scary enough for him.

Arriving in Monterey, I drove near the park my brother and I would play in before visiting the Monterey Aquarium.  Known as the Dennis the Menace Park to others, it was known as heaven for my brother and me.  From the Locomotive that would give you third degree burns if you put your hand on the hot metal too long, to the hedge maze, bridges, and swings, it was paradise.  The only parks that came close to this park would be the crazy German parks on a military base where I worked.  And even those don’t come close.

Being in Monterey made me think its beloved Monterey Bay Aquarium.  My family would visit a few times a year and it would always be interesting.  One of the first things we had to do was visit the orange jellyfish that were my mom’s favorite.  Then we could never miss petting the sting rays and going out to the deck to see if we could see any otters floating on their back in the ocean or seals (or sea lions?) bathing on rocks.  One year we heard about all the seals (or sea lions?) dying from something…I think some time of poisoning.  Whether this poisoning was intentional or not, it really upset my family.

Monterey and that part of the Pacific Ocean is one of my favorite places on earth and I didn’t realize this until just yesterday.  The rush of fond memories that washed over me made me see just how important this sea is.

Thanks a Million

In honour of my one-month anniversary of coming home, I am listing the million—well let’s see how far I get—things I either loved about Ireland, I got in trouble or nearly in trouble for saying in Ireland or in the States, or I things I thought were hilarious 

1.     Flying 5 thousand miles (8 thousand Km) to live and work with people I have never met—thrilling

2.     Meeting the best Erasmus group that ever existed—words aren’t proficient

3.     Having Moville surprise (not so surprise after the first one or two) birthday parties—brilliant and inventive

4.     Creating new themes for Moville birthday parties that were original and mirrored the personalities of the birthday person—Moville Erasmus 2011 should start their own party planning company

5.     Working with the best Múinteoiri (teachers) that ever existed—again words are not proficient

6.     Using the metric system—hallelujah: finally I could use the system that makes sense.  What do we call ours except confusing (inches divided into 16^ths, 12 inches to the foot, 3 feet to the yard, 5280 ft to the mile…need I have more proof?)

7.     Taking turns cooking and experiencing the foods from other countries—yummy

8.     Irish spellings; colour, honour, centre, travelling, realising, programme etc.—we are such lazy spellers in the States

9.     Saying “haych” for “h” and “zed” for “z”—Love it even though “….x, y, zed, next time won’t you sing with me”  doesn’t really flow, but hey at least it’s not my voice messing up the rhythm and rhyme.

10. Saying half one for half past one and Wednesday week for a week from Wednesday—love confusing people in the states.

11. “Hiya”—took me almost the whole four months to realize that it was like saying “Hi.  How are you?”

12. Saying BalleyferMUHH-sound like a real Balleyfermot-ian

13. Going on holiday with 10 teachers you work with—never imagined I would socialize with people I worked with since that rarely happens in the States—work is usually separated from play.  Why is it almost an unwritten rule in the Sates that coworkers can’t also be friends? 

14. Making fun of the “mythical” Fungie—“meow” (that’s what Damien thought the mechanical Fungie would say instead of the dolphin’s typical “ee” or whatever sound a dolphin makes)

15. Finding out that Fungie was real—priceless—actually the fare…and well deserving tip...for the boat tour since seeing Fungie meant our boat trip was not free

16. Being called Múinteoir Caitlin—still showing respect, yet so informal…love it

17. Writing the date with the days of the week in Gaeilge: An Luan, An Máirt, An Céadaoin, An Déardaoin, An Aoine—In the States I get weird looks when I ask what plans someone has for Aoine.

18. Morning prayer, special intentions, and end of the day prayer—who would of thought I’d become “religious?”

19. Accidently saying “ride” for lift—perhaps something the guys loved to hear, but not so much what you intended to ask for or wanted to thank someone for.

20. Having a girl come up to you in class concerned about a character’s name of Fanny in her book and you reassuring her that it’s fine—so glad I didn’t ask my CT (cooperating teacher) what the big deal was; also glad I didn’t ask the kids to sit down on their fannies—I could probably have seen how fast the Irish equivalent for CPS would arrive.

21. Speaking—well writing—of CPS, saying “Boy did I give out to little Johnny in class today” in the States would definitely bring on an investigation—giving out in Ireland merely means scolding

22.  Now that I’m on the “OH…is that what that means?,” I will never watch Glee with out laughing hysterically when the title comes up before the finger making the “L” finishes the spelling of Glee

23.  Glee brings me to the gleeful—literally “Glee”-ful mornings of the Múinteoiri singing and harmonizing scores from musicals or just random songs in the staff room—wish I was somewhat musically talented so I could have joined in, but (a) I cannot remember lyrics for the life of me and (b) I did not want to clear the room in two seconds flat.

24.  The staff room—more like a spa—what schools in the states have tea and biscuits during their break?

25.  Also what schools in the States have a tea lady making them tea during their break?

26.  And what schools in the States relieve teachers from class for ten minutes for small break and thirty minutes for big break when they have yard duty?—no wonder our teachers are so stressed in the states

27.  Experiencing the pub life—do I need to explain?

28.  Guinness—true Guinness not that garbage they sale in the states

29.  Becoming a fan of Henrietta Game—when they are world famous, I can say that I both worked with them and listened to them in pubs in Ireland when they were just putting out their CD

30.  Using the double-decker buses for transportation—so cool, until people decided to smoke cigarettes or joints in them

31.  Occasionally walking the 7.99 miles from school to home—great exercise and not too scary—although I was told not to linger in certain neighbourhoods for too long

32.  Walking home after listening to Henrietta Game late at night after promising that we would take the bus or a taxi—not scary, but most likely stupid

33.  Staying up until 2am most nights to work on my PACT assignment, college work, and lesson plans and then getting up at 6am to get ready for teaching…also spending about 8 hours on Saturday and Sunday to work—how I did not fall asleep while teaching is a miracle

34.  Playing football with the Erasmus group and having the guys play easy for the girls without appearing to—sweet

35.  Learning slán for goodbye and then slan go foíll for goodbye for now—now I don’t ever just say slán.

36.   Going back to my “home” country—wonderful—okay so it is my ancestor’s home country but erin go bragh says it all.  Even after generations of American-born family, I still feel connected to Ireland

37.  Having the best four months of my life—unforgettable, amazing, full of craic…

38.  Thinking about returning—every second of the day for the past 30 days.

Le gach dea-ghuí,

Caitlin

I met a lot of people in Europe. I even encountered myself. ~James Baldwin

Traveling is my love, my life.  It is what envelops and develops me. I think I have always been destined for lands unknown and for journeys within myself and among foreign places and people. 

When I was a child I was drawn to globes and maps.  There was nothing more beautiful as a depiction of the lands of the world.  I would run my fingers along the concave and convex lines representing the borders of countries and of continents. Spinning our globe slowly at first and then more quickly I would stare until sea and land blurred into one, then with my eyes closed I would place my index finger on the globe to stop it. Opening my eyes I would discover the place I would one day go.  What would it be like to live there, what were the people like, the food, the culture, the weather?  Would I like it?  More times than not, I would open my eyes to find myself in the middle of one of our oceans.  I knew even at a young age that the probability of landing on an ocean was very likely…after all it makes up 70% of Earth.  When I would see sea, my questions change to “would I be on a ship destined to a country nearby or thousands of feet above the water in an airplane?”  Which country would I be headed to and which country had I left?

My first trip overseas was in high school with my history class.  My AP history teacher had planned a trip of Italy and France—two countries that he had never been to, but was in love with and new the history of.  I could not wait to go on this week and a half journey throughout Europe.  Mr. Hobbs was both enthusiastic about the trip and full of knowledge.  I was particularly looking forward to seeing Versailles, since I believed Mr. Hobbs knew more about it than the Sun King had himself.  However, this wonderful history-filled trip was not meant to be.  Mr. Hobbs’ cancer had returned and this time the cancer would win.  I knew Mr. Hobbs would not want us to cancel the trip, so we found another teacher to take us.  The trip changed from an educational point with an exuberant history-loving teacher to just being a high school trip.  I was sick with the flu the whole time and I felt like the trip was “see Italy and France in 9 seconds” rather than 9 days.  Even with all the downfalls, I knew that I loved traveling—but the next time I would not do a tour; I would stay for an extended amount of time and would go alone.

My next two trips overseas, I did go alone and I did stay for extended amount of times.  I moved to Ansbach, Germany twice.  Once for four months and a second time for three.  There, I worked with children on a military post through a program called Camp Adventure.  Both times were incredible.  I met new friends and traveled on the weekends.  Still I learned what I would do the next time I traveled overseas.  While the program was great in that it paid for my airfare, gave me college credit, and a weekly living stipend, it was very limiting.  We had curfews, check-ins, the buddy system, a no fly and a no drive restriction.  I lived in Germany, but was confined to the U.S. military post unless other Camp Adventure interns wanted to venture out into the country. 

My fourth time traveling overseas was a charm for me.  Perhaps it was the luck of the Irish. I moved to Dublin after being accepted into the Ireland Exchange Opportunity.  While there, I student taught at an extraordinary primary school, lived with humorous and kind-hearted Erasmus students, and explored Dublin to my heart’s content.  Prior to going to Ireland, one of my aunts bought two Ireland travel books for me because she knew I would want to experience every inch of Ireland while I was there.  The funny thing is that I read through both books on my way to Ireland, yet once in Dublin, I had little desire to leave.  Yes, I wanted to see all of the Emerald Isle, however, first I wanted to discover Dublin.  I spent four months not doing the touristy things, but becoming a Dubliner.  Leisurely enjoying a drink at a café or pub(s), strolling in the city’s many parks like Merrion Square or Stephens Green, shopping on O’Connell Street or window shopping on Grafton Street, and attending my students’ concert at the National Concert Hall.  I found my niche. I enjoyed the unhurried and unstressed air to both the workplace and life itself. 

Traveling envelops me.  It’s like an enormous embrace of culture, novelty, and beauty.  I love how I feel comfortable when in unfamiliar settings.  Traveling breaks down prejudices and makes me see how similar we all are while still learning about and accepting our differences.

Travel develops me.  When I travel alone, I am forced out of my comfort zone.  I can’t take my sweet time getting close to people.  I can’t be shy like I normally am.  I need to become gregarious and willing to get to know others.  Each time I travel I open up a little more.  These people I meet also have never known me, so I can become who I want to be.  I am not changing who I am; I am merely highlighting the parts about my personality that I like.  If I did this with friends I have known for a very long time, they may think I’m being fake or not the real me.  Going to new places and meeting new people, I get to redefine myself.  I can be the jokester, more assertive, more confident, and less shy person that is the real me.

Do you believe in love at first sight?

I started this blog to write about my life, love and travel, yet I have not blogged for a while.  Perhaps this is because I do not believe I am an eloquent writer; a writer who can depict exactly what they are thinking or feeling in words—thanks a lot Blarney Stone, I kissed you upside down for nothing!

Why I decided to actually start a blog beats me.  I have always been the “keep your feelings to yourself” person.  I had a few diaries growing up, but I never wrote in them in case someone read about my secret crush or other things that would have just “killed” me if someone found out.   (I do remember writing about a crush once, but within a week I was sure somebody had read it, so I tore up the pages and then placed them in different trash cans). I still sort of have that mentality of keeping to yourself.  To this day my dearest friends usually don’t even know my crushes or deepest feelings. 

Now I have an On-line journal that describes my thoughts and feelings and I don’t stop there—no I then announce it to my friends on Facebook.  For someone who is extremely shy (some of you may not believe this about me, but it is pretty true) it’s a crazy notion that I now have a blog for anyone to read.

Today’s blog is my thoughts on love.  Perhaps tomorrow I’ll write about life or traveling.

Do you believe in love at first sight?

Ahh..the phenomenon of love at first sight.  Are you a believer in it?  Personally I am not.  That could be because I have never been a victim—if you will—of it.  I do believe that love at first sight is possible (but very rare) for others, but not for me.

Oh yes, I am one to walk by a guy of the street and think that he is adorable, attractive or just down right hot (these are all very different adjectives to describe very different guys).  As quick as these thoughts enter my mind they also leave my mind.  I am not one to be drawn to someone by looks alone.  For me love is something that must grow and evolve.  I am much more attracted to personalities than a connection based on a first glimpse.  Hey, looks are a definite bonus but not essential (good teeth are essential and I will not compromise on that, however).  I am someone who likes to know a person, although,  I never go into a friendship thinking, “I hope this goes further than ‘friendship status.’”  No, I love the normal friendship.  I love the craic (fun), inside jokes, stories, honesty and non-judgment that is shared between good friends.  Then weeks, months, or even years (hopefully not too many years) later you find that your connection is more than mere friendship.  I write “mere friendship” as if friendship is a lesser status, however, it is not.  If I thought this, then I would not be insistent as having it as a foundation.

This way of thinking/believing that true love happens only after becoming dear friends does have its downfalls…many downfalls.  He may find who he thinks is his one as you discover you believe he is the one for you.  He may move away; you may move away.  You may not fall in love with each other at the same time or you are too terrified that showing your true feelings can and will ruin your friendship.

Heck, maybe my wanting friendship first is just because I’m terrified of getting myself too deep too fast then feeling either suffocated or getting hurt.  Yeah, maybe that’s it.  If so, I just wasted a heck of a lot of time writing the initial part of this blog.

One thing I know for sure, though.  A love that lasts must also have friendship, honesty and humor.  Perhaps the order in which these come does not matter as long as you accomplish and maintain all of them.

Help—I have an obsessive-compulsive mind and I’m stuck with a scattered brain!

Much to my parents’ disagreement, I love order in my life.  I could be the psychologist and bore you with incidents and experiences growing up that make me want certain things in a certain order or tasks done a certain way, but they would probably just be excuses for my craziness.  We’ll just say that I am meticulous about some things because it is something that I have total control over.  Life may be unpredictable, but at least my books will be in perfect order.  The paperbacks (fiction) are alphabetical, and then the hardcover (fiction) books are alphabetical.  The non-fiction is organized into the topics—no I do not go as far as the Dewey Decimal System (I don’t have a big enough collection for that).  My “library”—as I call it—is in the guest room of my parents’ house…aka my dad’s office.  My dad often places his stuff on one of my library shelves, which is a big no no.  I not only take his “stuff” off the shelf, I then have to go the hundreds of books to make sure that nothing else invaded or messed up the order of the books.

A few other quirks I have:

My closet has to be organized so that there are the pants part (denim on one side, dress pants on the other), a top part (tee-shirts on one side, blouses on the other), a coat part (casual coats on one side, dress coats in the middle, winter coats on the other side) a dress part (formal dresses on one side, summer dresses on the other), and a baseball jersey part like every all-American girl’s closet should have.

Colored pencils and crayons need to be organized like a rainbow in their boxes (when you are looking for a certain hue of blue, it is a lot easier to find if the blues are together) and pencils, pens, and highlighters need to be kept in their separate piles, and all need to be facing the same way—it does not matter that they are in a drawer that no one will see.

The kitchen is a big stressor for me. The fridge should only have magnets that a) match b) have meaning or c) a and b.  Photos or a few important notes can be on the fridge, but none of these should overlap because then it is too much of an overload for my mind.  I collect magnets from places I visit, so that my fridge when I move out has just meaningful magnets with meaningful pictures underneath them.  The organization of the contents in the fridge is also very important.  Things like orange juice or pickles cannot be next to the milk, nor can they be next to each other.  I think about (the impossibility) of them mixing and it turns my stomach.  I also don’t like raw meat anywhere near anything.  AND mayonnaise does not belong in the fridge; it belongs in the trash!  Cutting boards in the kitchen—there should be one for raw meat and however many for anything else.  Dirty dishes should be cleaned, but if I am lazy (which, unfortunately, I often am) they should be rinsed and in the sink (by this time, it’s easier just to finish washing them, dry them, and put them away).  At no time (unless doing the dishes that minute) can there be water in the sink. The sink in the kitchen should be turned on and off with your wrist.

My toiletries also have certain places.  My floss, toothbrush, toothpaste and any other teeth-related objects cannot be in the same drawer as anything else.  My extra towels and cleaning supplies are under the sink, but they cannot touch one another. 

My special quirks don’t stop at my house.  No I have freak-out sessions away from the house.  After filling up my car with gas, I have to use hand-sanitizer on my hands, the steering wheel, the door handle, the keys, the radio and anything else I may have touched.  I have been told that hand-sanitizer doesn’t really kill anything and that it may even just kill the good germs, but it is a psychological thing I must do.  Door handles in bathrooms must never be touched.  I love when they put the trash bin next to the door. When they don’t, I have to use my shirt as a protection barrier between my hand and the door handle.  I hate to break this to you, but there has not been days that I do not see someone just walk out of a bathroom without washing their hands.  Just thinking about that makes me want my hand-sanitizer.

So there you have it—I am very obsessive compulsive.  I am also very scatterbrained.  In other words I describe myself as having an obsessive-compulsive brain without the capability to uphold it.  I often find my closet in disarray, the orange juice next to the milk, dirty dishes in the sink and when I start my “who put the...” tantrum, my mom informs me that it was me—and it often is me who did it.  I like things done a certain way, but I rarely put them in that way.

This is the reoccurring theme in my life:  I spend a good week or nine organizing and reorganizing my room, the kitchen, my bathroom and my library.  It stays organized for a time.  Sometimes it’s a month and other times it’s an hour or two.  Slowly—or quickly—entropy takes place and everything becomes out of sorts.  I deal with this until it drives me absolutely berserk and then I spend a week or nine putting everything back in order.

Funny side note:  in one of my need to be organized frenzies, I took everything out of the kitchen and out then put it back in a way that made sense to me—at the time.  “At the time” is the key thing here because after a year and a half of it being organized this way, I still have no idea where anything is. 

Today is exactly two-weeks since I have been away from Dublin and organizing my life back home is keeping me sane—or insane depending on how you want to look at it.  I have literally cleaned out my room five times and organized the library twice.  I haven’t gotten to my bathroom, the kitchen, or the laundry room yet, but in time I’ll get there.  I strive for perfection in my life especially when I don’t know where it is headed.  I need order to anchor me and so I organize.

Some say the glass is half empty, some say the glass is half full, I say, are you going to drink that? —Lisa Claymen

Everything you have to overcome in life has the 12-Step, 5-Step, or n^th-Step program.  They are all pretty much the same motivational gibberish that supposedly helps one through their tough time.  The first step is usually something like denial, and then admittance and the ultimate goal is acceptance or helping others through their difficult life. 

Denial and Isolation-I don’t deny I have a problem, but the isolation thing could be happening, but hey that is not something I planned on.  I mean I live in a town of a thousand people, the closest “big” town is 35 miles away and with the outrageous price of petrol and the total of 27 buckeroos in my bank account, I am some what stuck.  So I keep myself busy with important work like watching my Irish documentaries, listening to Irish music, reading Irish books, writing my blogs, “facebook researching,” organizing my library of books for the n^th time, and occasionally looking at jobs and working on applications.  Don’t forget my shower and getting dressed about 5p.m.

Admit you have a problem- Well it doesn’t take a genius to see that I have a problem.  Normal people don’t mope around the house in their PJs all day saying that they miss everything about Dublin.  They also don’t usually cry at their graduation ceremony because they are graduating.  Nor do they “facebook research” all the people they know from Dublin or International students they lived with to see what they are up to.  They probably also don’t talk about themselves like there are parallel worlds (e.g. 3a.m. California time- “I’m going over the maths homework right now.”  Not, “I would be going over the maths homework right now if I were still in Dublin”).  Admitting I have a problem—tick that off.

Recognize that a higher power can give you strength- Well hello, that is also easy.  The higher strength that starts with a “G” is not up to par in the states though.  Guinness is only good in Dublin.  They try to sell it to unsuspecting, unknowledgeable Americans, but once you’ve had the real deal, you can’t pretend that it’s good here.    Recognizing that a higher power can give you strength-tick that off  (Hey it literally does give you strength—that’s how I got my daily iron intake)

So then there are other steps that I could bore you with, but for your sanity and mine, I’ll just skip over a few to helping others who are suffering like you.

Helping others -Not to this step yet because I feel like being selfish for once in my life.  I think I’m going to help myself here.  Yep, I’m going to help myself get back to Ireland, which means I have to accept being back in California.

Acceptance-So I accept that I am back in California.  Tick this off.  I’m back to my old routine of a whole lot of nothingness.  I accept that to be able to go back to Dublin, I must get a job.  Unfortunately, $27 dollars won’t get me very close to Dublin.  Heck that can’t even get me to Dublin, California.  So now, after a week of being home, I am ready to get cracking (not craicing) on job applications. 

Only three hours and forty minutes until I can download Henrietta Game’s single off of iTunes =)

Music is the divine way to tell beautiful, poetic things to the heart--Pablo Casals

To me music is synonymous with life.  In a way it is my oxygen.  There is rarely a moment in my life that I do not have music playing or think about lyrics.  I listen to music when writing my blogs, cleaning, driving, doing homework, writing lesson plans, reading (yes reading), walking, and falling asleep.  My obsession with music is somewhat odd because I have very little musical talent.  My talent includes playing the iPod and that’s it.

I appreciate and love all types of music.  If there were such a thing as Music ADHD, I would have it.  I can listen to classical and immediately go to alternative or rock. 

Music and I have not always had a love affair.  In preschool, my mom let me know that I was the worst singer in history.  She told me the only reason she knew what I was singing was that she could make out the words “twinkle, twinkle little star.”  In fifth grade I decided to join band.  At this point, I was already in love with music and wanted to learn how to play an instrument more than anything.  My mom’s friend had a flute that I could use for free, so that determined what I would play.  I am not sure how long I lasted in band, but it was not very long.  I like to say I got kicked out of band because it makes me sound like a rebel, but in actuality I left band with my “tail between my legs” like an ashamed and embarrassed dog.  After weeks of practicing at home every night, my band teacher came up to me to tell me that if I was not going to take band seriously to just leave because he did not need to deal with students who weren’t practicing.  I tried to explain that I had been practicing.  In the end I went back to my class with a tear-streaked face.  If I remember correctly, the band teacher came to apologize and asked me to come back, but after that embarrassment why would I go back?  In college it was a little better.  I took a Music for Children course and we played recorders.  I think if my mom ever hears me play “Hot Cross Buns” again she will kill me.  I was so determined to do well on the test that I literally played it hundreds of times each night.  My mom should be happy I had to learn it in different keys.  At least it created variety.  Anyway, I got a perfect score on my test.  I was shocked to say the least.

This semester as a student teacher at Saint Ultans, I was surrounded by music.  All the students at this primary school learn to play the violin and almost all the teachers are very musically talented.  I always looked forward to Thursdays when my students went to their violin lessons.  I am probably the only person at the school who loved hearing the offbeat plucking of the violin strings or screech of the bows against the strings.  They actually weren’t that bad; rarely did it sound like nails on a chalkboard.  Some of the students who were exceptional violinists played at the National Concert Hall and they were amazing.  I wish I had the same opportunity when I was a child.  Maybe I would have gained a little musical talent through practice—I doubt that. 

Three teachers from the school are part of a band called Henrietta Game. They just launched their single today and in a month their CD is coming out.  Describing the style of Henrietta Game may be difficult—some describe them as “alternative folk merchants”—yet loving their distinct songs and lyrics is not.  Best of luck to them!  I will be the first one to order their song on iTunes on the 27^th (26^th for me in California—at least being 8 hours behind is good for something).  

I think the reasons for loving music so much is that it is relatable and expressible.  Music can get into your soul in a way that nothing else can.  It knows how you feel even when you don’t really know how you feel.

Music connects us to the past, present and future.  It helps us remember the good and bad memories of our past.  We can express how we feel at a certain time just by playing a certain song.  We also hear songs and think about the future. I often hear a song and think I want to be that in love, or gosh I hope I'm never that in love.

I believe that our personalities and lives can be mirrored in instruments.  If I had to compare myself or my life to an instrument it would definitely be a cello.  I can connect to the sound of a cello because it is a lot like me.  It’s sound is deep, warm, and beautiful, yet has a somber undertone.  My life is beautiful and happy, yet I have a yearning for something that I can’t quite pinpoint.  

P.S. I hope your dreams come true

We had been reading Christy’s Dream and talking about our own dreams or wishes.  Some of the students wished that they could fly and others dreamt of more practical things like playing football (our soccer) or becoming singers (not totally out of reach for some of my students).  When it came to me, I said that I had already had one of my dreams come true.  I told them about my dream I had wanted three years prior—to get accepted for the Ireland Exchange so I could student teach the best children in Ireland.  I told the students that my hard work and dedication made it happen.  They then asked if I could have another dream come true, what would it be?  Without any hesitation, I told them that it would be to be able to stay and teach at their school forever.

All the students wrote goodbye letters to me when I left.  All were extremely sweet, thanking me for being “the best” teacher.  Not sure about that, but it made me happy all the same.  One student came up to me and as she handed me her card she said, “I hope your dreams come true and you come back to Ireland.” 

I am a happy person and I always see the glass as half full.  I know that wherever I end up in the next few years, I will be content.  I have been so fortunate to be given such great opportunities in my life—this is mostly due to my brilliant parents.  I am only twenty-three and I have studied abroad in Germany for seven months, Ireland for four, received a bachelors degree in Liberal Studies, have my own car (under my parents’ names of course), will be receiving my California Multiple Subjects Credential shortly, and owe no student loans (only a promise to help pay my parents back).  I owe my happiness, my world travels, and my education to my parents because without them I would be just another broke adult trying to work her way through college and most likely giving up after eight years for a four-year degree.  Instead, it is my parents struggling to make ends meet because they supported their children through college.

I have been back from Ireland for three days and it has been 2 ½ days too long.  I long to go back to Ireland and have been coming up with crazy (well my family thinks is crazy) ways to be able to return.  I would have to learn Gaelic to teach in Ireland, so I’m looking at other jobs.  Yes, my teaching credential that I worked so hard to get—I actually did it in four years instead of the five and worked full time during part of my schooling—is not the most important thing for me right now.  I want to be back in Ireland ASAP, and while teaching in Ireland would be my ultimate goal, I would be willing to get there in whatever ways I can.

I am applying to a teaching job in Chico, California at a school that seems like a near perfect fit for me.  Their philosophy of education mirrors mine exactly.  Its downfall is that it is in California.  The pro would be that I would be getting a salary that would allow me to visit Ireland for long periods of time (if I live frugally and save my money). 

My other option of work that I am totally stoked about even though my family is not as enthusiastic about is becoming a nanny in Ireland.  The money would not really allow me to save and may not be enough to slowly pay back my parents, yet the location would be perfect.  I would not be using my teaching credential, but I would be happy all the same and I would still be working with children.  Another pro about this situation is that it would be much easier to learn Gaelic and work towards being able to teach in Ireland.

Okay, so there is another option.  That is to take any teaching job that I can find in California.  I would do this for a year or two for a steady income and stability—and the money to be able to visit Ireland.

My mom wants me to apply to elementary schools in California and then if nothing comes of it, apply for nanny position in Dublin.  She is probably right that I should apply to teaching jobs first, but I am more of the adventurous type (it’s ironic that that comes from mom because I am like her when she was my age).  Or maybe I am the impatient type.  Impatient is more accurate.  When I want something, I want it now. 

I may be impatient, but I also am focused.  When I have a goal in mind I will get there even if it means going to bed at 2 a.m and up at 6 a.m. for a semester, commuting an hour and a half (one way) seven days a week, working over 25 hours per week on top of 21 units at school, or becoming lifeguard trained when you are pretty terrified of water.  Yes, when I have a goal in mind, nothing stops me.

Don’t cry because it’s over. Smile because it happened—Dr. Seuss

Such a great quote, yet impossible to abide by.  I’m sitting in the airport waiting to board my flight crying my eyes out because it’s over for now.  It’s ironic that I didn’t cry in Moville when all the other International students were hysterical. No if crying is the norm in the situation I can’t cry.  I much prefer to make a spectacle of myself—that must be how people who like to be invisible do it.  I cry during lunch in the school staff room, when I should and want to say how wonderful the school is.  I cry in front of the students in the yard as Julie leaves the school for the last time.  I cry when I hear Tina on Skype with her parents saying how sad she is about leaving the Erasmus students and Ireland. I cry when I see a key chain of a footprint and “Ireland” written on it because it reminds me of all the inside jokes friends and I have. Just when I think I am done crying over the foot keychain, the song “The Dawning of the day” comes on which is the song that my students will be singing in one week when Mary McAleese, the Irish President, comes to school—so I cry for that, too.  I cry when I go through the U.S. customs because I know it means I’m leaving Ireland. Now I am crying because it is maths time at the school.

I have pretty much cried for the last month because I am so sad to leave.  I know that I will be happy to be home with my family and friends, however, I also know deep down I will have a void in my heart because I am leaving part of it in Ireland.  All I want is to turn back time so I can experience the four months all over again.  

Yesterday was my last night in Ireland (in this trip to Ireland) and I want to thank my class and the teachers for making my last day so pleasant.  I also want to thank Jamie for making my last night brilliant.  I had already cried all day and I just wanted to go out to the City Centre and enjoy my last few hours of the Emerald Isle. Jamie helped me do exactly that. For a few hours I forgot how sad I was about leaving and enjoyed the night.  We may also have enjoyed a pub or two, a Guinness or two, and curry =)

My plane is getting ready to board and I’m getting ready to cry again, so I’ll leave my blog for now.  Slán go Fóill

Well now it is exactly 23½ hours later and I just got back to my parents’ home in California.  (I’m in denial that it will be my home for the summer or until I find a job).  I’ve greeted my animals and gasped when I saw my room that my mother decorated until it looked like a bulimic leprechaun ate St. Patrick’s Day.  

Former conversation with my mom: 

(mom) “I may have decorated your room a little”

(me)  “What do you mean?”

(mom) quiet……. 

(me) “Mother what did you do?” 

(mom) “Well, Big Lots was having a sale on their St. Patrick’s Day things.” 

(me) “MOTHER! It better not look like a leprechaun upchucked in my room!” 

(mom) quiet…. “I was just kidding your room is fine.” 

(me) Mom, you're lying to me aren’t you.  It looks like an ADHD leprechaun went ballistic in my room doesn’t it?” 

(mom) “no…!?!!”

(me three weeks later)  “HOLY SHI…em…Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death Amen”

“Where we love is home, home that our feet may leave, but not our hearts.”—Oliver Wendell Holmes

 

I came to Ireland for an adventure in my last semester of student teaching.  Family and friends teased me about how I would go, fall in love with the man of my dreams and never want to come home.  Studying abroad and falling in love happened to my cousin, Sarah, so it could happen to me, too.  While I am not that girl who dreams of fairy tales, prince charming, and happy endings, I secretly was open to the possibility of finding The One.  The one who doesn’t change me, but brings out the best of me.  The one who loves me for being myself.  Little did I expect that I actually would find The One.  I found the one that loves me for me, the one who makes me happy beyond belief, and the one who I will think about and love for eternity.  The One, if you have not guessed already, is Ireland.  Every aspect of my life in Ireland was perfect.  I lived with the most amazing Erasmus group in the history of Moville and possibly the history of any university (Erasmus is the name for European international students and Moville is the name of the international dormitory on campus). I student taught at Saint Ultan’s Primary School where the vibrant staff, enthusiastic students, and beautiful building made my days fly by.  Four months seemed more like four minutes.  I leave Ireland in less than 36 hours and I don’t know how long it will be before I can come back to my love.

“Where we love is home, home that our feet may leave, but not our hearts.”  I may be leaving, however, part of my heart will always belong to Ireland.  It will belong to the children and staff of St. Ultan’s Primary School.  It will belong to St. Patrick’s 2011 Erasmus group.  It will belong to Dingle Bay and the Cliffs of Moher.  It will belong to the CIE tour and FUN BOBBY.  It will belong to Whelan’s pub, the music of Henrietta Game, and the craic that was had with true friends.

It’s like déjà vu all over again –Yogi Berra

Tautology: noun—needless repetition of an idea

To say I am a fan of Yogi Berra is to put it mildly.  I am definitely more than a fan-atic.  It is more on the verge of obsession.  I quote Yogi (I like to think that we are on first name—well nickname basis), I celebrate his birthday (which is today), I forced my mom to get personalized plates that professes my love for him, I specially ordered a license plate holder with his famous “It’s like déjà vu all over again,” and I have adopted the number eight as my favorite number.  My mom jokes about how I could actually marry an octogenarian (well a certain octogenarian anyway) for love rather than money.  I laugh at this, but she probably is right. 

 

There is something special about Yogi Berra and his Yogiisms that can cheer me up even when I am in the foulest of moods.  The most amusing thing for me to do is to quote Yogi to an unsuspecting  “non-Yogi-knowing person.”  For example, I will use the most famous of the quotes “It’s like déjà vu all over again,” when the “non-Yogi-knowing person” kindly informs me that it means the same thing.  This is when my Academy Award skills take place.  I love to keep a straight face and pretend that I had no idea.  Why this is hilarious to me is unknown, yet it never gets old.

 

Happy birthday dearest Yogi.  Make sure they cut your birthday cake in four pieces because I don’t think you can eat eight.

P.S.  Happy birthday to you, Emma!  Congratulations on passing your Dip.

If you don't know where you are going, you might wind up someplace else –Yogi Berra

Eight—usually my favorite number—has lost its appeal to me today. Eight is the number of days I have left in Dublin. While going home to friends and family and attending my recognition ceremony for my credential are things I greatly look forward to, I am thinking about the beautiful place and brilliant people I must leave.  This is what is breaking my heart. 

Eight is also the amount of days that I know where I am going and what I am doing.  After that, it is an unknown abyss.  In the past I have had school to look forward to.  This time I am going back to nothing set for the future.  I will be in the competitive hunt for a job; a job that is—well—who knows where.  In part because of the “Enron“ state of the economy and in part because of my undetermined state, I have no idea where I want to teach or if I can even find a job.  In a perfect world, I would have learned Gaeilge in the four months I was here, passed the Gaeilge test to be able to teach in Ireland, and been offered a permanent teaching position at the school in which I am currently student teaching.  However, the world is not perfect and, unfortunately, it is time for me to move on from paradise.

“A journey is best measured in friends, rather than miles.” –Tim Cahill

There is something special about traveling that connects strangers at a quick pace.  Maybe it is knowing that the journey is finite—there is an imminent end to it—that makes us want to get to know one another faster.  Perhaps it is knowing that the people on your trip are the only ones you can truly relate to in regards to your experience.  They have the same stories to share because you shared them together.  They understand the beauty and the downfalls of the trip.  It’s similar to best friends having a whole conversation of inside jokes—no one except them fully understands.  I think it is a combination of knowing the trip is short-lived as well as only sharing the unique experience with the people you are traveling with that makes people become fast, hopefully life-long, friends. 

A few weeks ago my mom came to visit me.  We did a two-week CIE tour of Scotland and Ireland, where we traveled to beautiful places and met some wonderful people.  We shared many fun and funny incidents, we had some deep heartfelt conversations, and we enjoyed each other’s company.  In nine days I found friends that I now refer to as family.    We have inside jokes that I try to explain to others, yet it loses its hilarity—even to me—as I try to explain it.  Saying, “watch your Stef” as someone trips or “sin e dúirt sí, baby!” aren’t as funny if people don’t know why you are saying them.  When I laugh it may even scare them a little.

I started today’s blog with the quote “A journey is best measured in friends, rather than miles.”  I cannot agree more with Tim Cahill.  If I measure my CIE tour or student teaching journey in friends, then there is nothing that can beat it—for I have truly met some of the most wonderful people.