Pancakes. Maple Syrup. Faulty stove. Party.

Let this be a little known fact-Sometimes you don’t appreciate what others do until they are no longer there to do it.  Case in point:  Dinner Parties. 

In Corvallis, it seems like we were always having a dinner party of some sort.  Shannon would throw together a Mexican fiesta authenticated with real grasshoppers and mole smuggled across the border.  Or perhaps a birthday feed of homemade lasagna or a Greek food surprise 21st.  Sometimes we would cook a roommate meal of something special just because we loved hanging out together-and eating good food.  As Kaci and Anneke and Shannon know, I was often visibly less than excited for some of these dinner parties.  It’s not that I don’t love social gatherings or eating.  It’s just that filling a small college house with people and feeding them several courses on a regular basis seems to sound remotely similar to work. 

So when I first had a discussion with Ollie about American food we discussed the things he most enjoyed when in Arizona:  pancakes.  Before arriving in Ireland it never occured to me they don’t eat pancakes.  It is such a staple at home.  On any given weekend we pull out the pancake mix and maple syrup and go to town.  It soon became apparent that Ollie would love to experience some American pancakes again and I would love to cook them.  Further discussions on the horticulture field-trip bus led to the beginnings of a class pancake party. 

A trip to Tesco revealed to me we would be having authentic homemade pancakes because finding pancake mix would be a feat in and of itself.  This really was no problem because at this point I was exceptionally happy to be able to make something homemade for others-and making pancakes is remarkably similar to baking.  What I had a hard time deciphering was ingredient proportions.  Now- my class is made up of eight boys and one girl other than myself.  I know these eight boys can eat a lot so I planned accordingly. 

 I also found that student housing is exceptionally ho-hum not just in America but in Dublin as well.  A “student stove” means it doesn’t work well.  And it’s not expected to.  So much for calling Dick-the-landlord and begging him (again) to come fix it.  They don’t even try.  Pancake making was an experience with just the right amount of skill needed to crisp the pancakes perfectly while not burning them and allowing the middle to cook.  It was a work in progress.  I think I got it right by the time the last ones were done. 

Further comments led me to the acknowledgement that pancakes are seen as a dessert.  This became apparent when everyone had already eaten dinner and only wanted one (or perhaps two) pancakes.  Why else would Americans pour copious amounts of sugary-sweet syrup over already sweet bready dough?  Because they want to eat a light dessert- duh!  Hmmmm…I had some explaining (ahem…demonstrating) to do. 

This entire experience became a brilliant educational opportunity.  I learned that a large house of college boys in Ireland live remarkably similar to their counterparts in America-clean and unkempt and in need of their mother.  And that once again we Americans are living up to our standard of sweet dessert-y dishes as main courses.  Most of all I learned that spending time with others-for others-in the kitchen is something that simply cannot be missed.  Thankfully, my friends at home gave me the foundation to enjoy the dinner-party-pastime.  After finally hosting one of my own and being able to fully appreciate the results, I realise this group-gathering technique will surely be utilised more often.

Cuidar nosotros bolsos en Madrid

I approach the UCD library on Sunday evening and notice Dan socialising out front.  The first thing that strikes me is the fact that his belongings are not with him.  They are inside the gated entry that I soon go through.  After printing off class materials for our exam the next day I exit and see both Dan and Liam still avoiding the plague of things called studying.  They have now been out there at least 30 minutes. 

Another moment I sit inside this large concrete block and contemplate thoughts other than retail horticulture-the topic at hand for today’s study session.  As my mind drifts and wanders I notice the contents of the desk in front of me-and the missing occupent in its seat.  Books, papers, bag-all common study items.  Then my eye centers on the laptop strewn haphazardly across the table and I realize I’ve been sitting here not studying for a while now and I have yet to see laptop’s owner.  Well that’s fine and well but isn’t he/she at all concerned about the possessions left behind?

I have reverted to thinking about these types of things-where personal belongings might have wandered off to when one looks away-since my recent jaunt down to Madrid.  While there, I quickly realized, unlike the Irish, the Spanish are fond of taking other people’s valuable items.  They are so fond of this pastime that I in-fact got my purse stolen from between my feet (from between my feet, Regan’s feet, and within Kaitlin’s direct line of sight to be more exact) within the first couple hours of my arrival. 

It’s an extremely vulnerable feeling to realize you are in a foreign country (where they don’t speak your native language) without even one piece of ID and no money.  Luckily, I was for once smart enough to tuck my phone into my pocket or I would have been without my last line of security-a very short amount of money on my phone-just enough to call my mom and let her know I was safely in Madrid and had just been robbed.  For those who can imagine my dear mother’s histeria (something I am glad to have missed), it was a moment of truth.  The instant I realized my purse had not just been kicked aside under the table and was in fact gone, I stepped into the loo to make my phone call.  I silently waited for a connection and had a brief chat about the contents of my purse that were now missing.  In the last few moments before I hung up tears started to come down.  I allowed them to fall silently for a few seconds before I brushed them aside and exited the room.  Later the girls told me I was remarkably calm for someone who now had so few possessions and no easy path ahead to getting out of the country. 

The next morning we rose early to find the tourist information office and make a police report.  By the time I arrived at the police station (the one solely for tourists) and sat in a small room for at least an hour, I was called before one of the policia to confirm my report.  After giving all the details the policelady walked over to a shelf in the corner with a large number of purses, pulled mine off the shelf, and asked if it looked familiar.  Bingo.  Inside, were some dear possessions that I had never even hoped to see again:  my passport, driver’s license, student ID.  Judging by the fact that not only could my thieves wrestle a small heavy object from between my feet without notice, but could also drop it off at the one place I would know to look, they were professionals. 

The girls paid for my meals for the weekend but the lack of camera made touring the city glum.  On Monday morning Kaitlin offered me a euro and said, “Here’s a gift.  You might need it.”  I thought about buying a drink but for some reason I decided to embrace my dehydration and save it for later.  I was to travel home that afternoon alone since Regan and Kaitlin didn’t need to be back for class until a day later.  We waved goodbye outside the metro near the airport entrance and the girls took off for more sight-seeing adventures.  Much to my surprise, when I went to walk through the gates, I was stopped and asked for a ticket-the price of which cost exactly one euro.  That evening I arrived back in Dublin alone with 34 cents to my name and 14 cents on my phone.  Enough to get me effectively-nowhere-in Dublin.  Despite this fact it never felt so good to be back home in Dub where the people are amazingly friendly and helpful. 

So today I walk out of class and set my jacket and bag down in the Ag Block common area with all the other bags.  I wander off for a bit, socialise, and come back to find my stuff exactly where I left it-untouched.  For a brief moment it flits through my mind that someone might want my purse, or my cell phone, or perhaps if they’re really desperately bored- my International Food Marketing notes.  But that soon passes as I smile and sigh-and think, it’s good to be in Ireland.

That Marathon Rush

I am standing 100 meters from the finish line.  There are balloons in the air, people cheering, and a general feel of excitement.  The first runners are coming home.  As I stand along the side with friends and families, I watch a man make his last final dash for the clock.  His face is tortured but he’s going to make it.  Just putting one foot in front of the other.  And then it happens.  The cramp that hits his left thigh is visibly agonizing.  Not only is he no longer moving, he’s barely standing.  As the crowd roars their cheers of support and encouragement-and remind him the Dublin Marathon Finish banner is waving only a few strides away- he is painfully collapsing along the sidelines.  The cramp does not cease.  Soon there are trainers bringing in a wheelchair  for him to sit in.  He politely refuses.  He is not going to quit.  But after several minutes it becomes apparent he cannot walk.  And as he is lowered into the chair his knee doesn’t bend.  His leg is sticking out, oddly straight for a man that is sitting. 

Later, hours later it seems, he is able to shakingly stand up and be supported across the finish line.  He will beat himself up later for the time lost.  But he made it 26.2 miles.

A few runners back a group of men come in, three together.  It’s apparent they are at different points in their lives and their finish styles are each distinct from the other.  But as one begins to go down- almost exactly where the runner cramped earlier- the fellow runner beginning to pick up speed, ready to sprint to the end, stops and grabs the falling man to help him up.  The third man slowly coming from behind catches up to help support their falling comrade.  Together the three walk the remaining 100 meters.  One sacrifices his time.  Another’s doesn’t matter-he just wants to say he completed it.  The last man is only able to finish because of the other two. 

                         

This is the Dublin Marathon.  Where sacrifices are made for others.  Sacrifices are made for self.  And the dream of winning- of completing- of running 26.2 miles becomes reality.  On this day I stand along the sidelines guiding runners.  Posing in their photos.  Taking their pictures.  Today my medal is not that of one who finishes the marathon.  It is of one who supports those who do.  Today I am happy just to engage in the atmosphere of the race.  To share the excitement.  To cheer for others who may one day cheer for me.