Navigating Home

“You look the same.     Do you feel the same?” 

Dr. Thompson, my academic advisor at OSU, asks me as I walk into his office and take a seat.  An overwhelming feeling comes over me as I immediatly answer, “No”.

My grandma called on one of my last days in Dublin.  I was alone in one of the science practical rooms in the Ag Block.  Writing on the chalkboard.  Studying.  She talked about Christmas and snow and missing me.  She asked if I was ready to come home- if I wanted to at all.  At this question, there was a long pause as I considered how to answer–the pause said it all.  “Not even a little?” she asked. 

As I came back, battled my way through the Chicago airport, talked to friends, and contemplated what my first impressions back in America were(McDonalds food and American accents), life here looked different.  As I knew it would.

 My first days were bittersweet.  Adjusting to time change and not sleeping.  Missing carefree Ireland while not sleeping.  Loving Christmas at home with family.  Hanging out with friends.  Telling them stories.  Catching up.  Thinking about school.  Wanting not to go back to school.  Thinking about how close graduation  is coming as soon as I go back to school.  Contemplating going back to school in Ireland.  Wanting to graduate this year.  Seeing the dwindling sum of money in my bank account.  Realizing more money is needed for Ireland.  Thinking about friends back at school in Corvallis.  Thinking about the fireplace at school and the beach room.  Mom buying a new mattress for my poor sore back for the bed in the beach room.  Wanting to sleep on the new mattress more than the one that broke my back in Dublin.

Driving around Eastern Oregon for a day with Seth and Alex.  Attempting to attempt snowboarding in the rain.  Catching up with Shannon.  Running with Kari.  Eating Mexican food and making it a daily event for lunch at Hale’s.  Experiencing Hermiston.  Attending the last annual dinner at Trevor’s.  Arriving in Corvallis to the first (informal) dinner party of the term.  Hashing out details with Kaci.  Getting motivated by Dr. Thompson.  Adding my Irishness to Anneke’s to complete the decor of our Irish house. 

Arriving late (and yet mysteriously on-time) daily to Animal Nutrition.  Crawling over lots of pre-vet animal science girls when late (and mysteriously on-time) for Animal Nutrition.  Attempting to contrive friendliness out of pre-vet animal science girls (and winning). 

Going to class at 8:00 am.  Attendance required to go to class at 8:00 am.  Assignment due every time I walk in the door to class at 8:00 am.  Arriving late and tardiness being counted for class- again at 8:00 am. 

Not going out on a Wednesday night.  Going out Tuesday night instead.  Deciding it probably wouldn’t be in our best interest to go out on a Tuesday night.  Going out on a Friday night.  Realizing some things never change. 

Loving.  Loving.  Loving.  American friends.  Missing Irish friends.

Missing rhubarb yogurt.  Trying to find the best American yogurt to rival rhubarb yogurt.  Failing- yet- still looking.

Loving the fireplace.  Realizing wood needs to be split for the fireplace to be loved.  Asking Anneke to split the wood (again) :)

Realizing that I love being home in Oregon.  Still missing Ireland.

I Always Knew I Wanted to be a Part of Harry Potter’s World

It’s 12pm.  The clock chimes and over 1000 people scramble into their school-desk seat, writing utensils out, photo ID ready.  Poised to begin Hogwarts-I mean- UCD exams.

The Irish way of learning is slightly different than back home.  First of all, studying is kept at minimal levels during the 12 weeks of lectures.  This means that up until a week ago I have spent all of two hours outside of class studying International Food Marketing.  To be fair, this is probably two more hours than any other person has spent on it, seeing as how I am American- and like to think studying during the term will get me somewhere.  In truth, that two hours could have been utilised doing something else entirely- but I like to spout random facts to anyone who will listen- and have found my knowledge of where, how, and when to find different foods has come in handy given any disscussions that take place among the Americans.  So it wasn’t a complete waste.

I distinctly remember a warning on my first full day in Ireland:  “Irish students don’t study during the term; then they cram.  Don’t fall into this trap.”  Realistically, one cannot blame them since the system has been designed to do exactly this- there is absolutely nothing to study until it’s time to force everything learned in at once because the exam is worth 100% of the grade.  Honestly, I think it works because I now have a thorough understanding of everything I had up to this point, barely processed.

In Oregon, studying means nine weeks of a quiet build-up to tenth week, where  little sleep occurs and papers, projects, and studying are all completed in what little time is left.  By finals week, there is hardly anything left to do aside from drag oneself out of bed and show up to the classroom. 

Not so at UCD.  Here there is a true “dead week” where campus is anything but.  After witnessing three months of the laid-back Irish non-studying habit, it comes as a shock to see everyone (and I do mean the entire school) in the library- where it takes a good 20 minutes to find a seat and one camps out for 8-10 hours at a time.  This occurs for at least seven days straight, the last of which one wakes up to have absolutely nothing to look forward to after showering- and can only hold onto one’s sanity during the multiple tea breaks which occur outside the library with the rest of the student population.  At this point exams begin to take place.

They are a bit more official than the exams at home.  And when I say this I’m under-exaggerating.  Held at a remote location that takes at least 20 minutes to get to via bus, there are two very large halls with thousands of seats, large boards with seat numbers, and official-looking administrators walking the rows, watching every move.  Large clocks that chime and an official announcer all add to the fun of this strangely charming rendition of Harry Potter exams.  Two hours are alloted, every answer is in essay form, and then easily enough- it’s all over and one is free to slump back to the UCD library and begin studying for the next one.  Along with the rest of the school.  Scratch that.  It’s time for (another) tea break.

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. 

What You’ve Heard Is True

Three lads were out for a drink.  A Brit, a Scot, and an Irishman.  A fly landed in the Brit’s pint and he took one look, scoffed, and spoke to the barman in his arrogant manner, “Take this away immediately and bring me one fresh”.  Another fly buzzed around and landed in the pint of the Scot.  Seeing how he was thrifty and didn’t want to waste a good drink, he quietly shooed the fly away.  Now the Irishman, when coming upon his pint, looked down at the same fly and took a moment to consider.  He reached down, gently lifted the fly in his two hands by each wing and held it up, before bellowing out, “Alright ye wee bastard.  Spit it out!  Spit it out!”

It is not just a rumor that the Irish love their drink.  Alcohol consumption by the Irish is nearly the highest of the European countries, being only slightly outcompeted by the Czech’s.  Point proven:  My first night in Ireland was met with an experience of not one, but two pubs.  I have never frequented an American bar.

Even better, a UCD tradition is to skip the first day of lectures and go to the pub instead.  This is easily done since their are two pubs on campus.  While some students take this to an extreme and really do skip all lectures, most will at least make an attempt to make it to the first class.  So after meeting the eight other fourth year horticulture students who I have since come to spend a great deal of time with, I was surprised to find that in my next lecture, International Food Marketing, not one person including the professor, showed up.  After working my way downstairs and discovering the boys I had just met,  they instantly attempted to cart me off to the bar. 

During “Fresher’s Week” new students have the opportunity to sign up for campus clubs and societies.  Within an hour of being on the UCD campus, I met with my academic advisor who urged me to sign up for the Ag Soc.  When I asked the hort boys what the Ag Soc functions entailed, Dan simply replied, “We drink.”  Further investigating on this subject (both the drinking habits of Dan and Ag Soc activities) have revealed that quite a substantial amount of alcohol is involved.  No details are needed here of course, other than the idea of going to the pub is much more socially acceptable in Ireland, young and old alike will be found in the pubs, and the Irish are much better able to “hold their drink” than nearly all Americans. 

In closing, I will leave off with a merry sing-song tune sung by Dan in his delight for (another) pint.  Remember to think of a cute Irish accent singing this as it goes:

 ”Beer Beer Beer, Down Down Down, In my belly (rubs belly), Yum Yum Yum.”

Taking a step Back to the Future

Before embarking on this journey to Ireland, I was aware that Europe has different views on the environment than we Americans do.  The complete ban on GMO’s and grocery store labels that indicate not only what country, but which farmer, produced the product surely indicate this right away.  And if the reliance on systems where hot water is only available at a certain time of the day, electrical outlets have off switches, automobiles are smaller, and bags for goods purchased are not readily supplied indicates anything, it is apparent that being ”eco-friendly” in Europe is not just the latest fad.  It’s a way of life.  The EU government is also taking decidely measurable steps to ensure that the environment is well taken care of.  

Currently, the EU Parliament Environmental Committee plans to change legislation that would effectively take approximately eighty percent of currently used pesticides, insecticides, fungicides and herbicides out of the hands of agricultural producers.  If passed, their new regulations would effectively supply no alternatives.  While this is shocking enough for farmers to come to grips with, what is even moreso is the fact that every member state in the EU (there are now 27) supports this proposal except for Ireland, the UK, and Poland.  These three countries are left to ask, “What are they thinking?” 

If passed, it has been estimated that brassica yields in Ireland (the second most commonly grown vegetable family behind potatoes), would have yields reduced to fifty percent of their current amount.  As one of my fellow Horticulture students put it, we will be eating ugly food.  And less of it. 

Organic Agriculture is easily the most popular class among Ag students that I’m taking while at UCD.  It’s enlightening, encouraging, and so down-to-earth that a student that wants to go into the field will soon realize, it is extremely challenging.  As my professor says, a good organic farmer first has to be a good farmer.  Period.  He’s not a hippified tree-hugger with his head in the clouds, spouting about protecting the wild owl/salmon/polar bear (insert one/all as you please…)   He has to actually understand the biology and better yet the ecology- the interactions between all the organisms- to be effective.  To produce beautiful organic food.  The organic farmer is effectively nourishing the soil (biology) while the conventional farmer nourishes the plant (chemistry).

While all this may sound good.  Or not.  As you please.  It’s not easily done.  It’s not for everyone.  It won’t feed the world.  It shouldn’t be (basically) shoved upon farmers because of legislation.   And while it’s apparent that the agricultural community in Ireland is bracing for a very possible-drastic-policy change, while less reliance on a system that utilizes large amounts of fossil fuels and synthetic chemicals is appreciable-at the end of the day…one is left to wonder…where will we be in 5/10/15 years?  Is the aging population in Europe less concerned with how we all are to be effectively fed?  Or are we taking a step back-in order to go forward-for the future?

A Visit to the Country

 

 

An angel passed my way

Brought me roundly back.

Fed with fish and bread

Warmed heart with tea where it had lacked.

 

A dear farm in rural Kells

With cattle, sheep.  Hens that peck.

A proper place reacquainting faith

The most amazing trek.

 

On Dingle Bay I found

The farm.  The O’Sullivan lot.

Agnes, cousin, baked the bread

And set the tea kettle hot.

 

 

 

A short step to the Atlantic

Out the door and down the lane.

Smell of rural country life

Pleased my sense again.

 

A softly lilting welcome.

A family that lets love in.

The way we all should have done

As did the O’Sullivan’s.

 

Night of peaceful slumber.

Break fast to much delight.

On our way again.

Ahead the way a bit more right.

 

Then as reflections set in

And the gift is passed around,

In the west of Kerry

An angel can be found.

 

 

A Vegetable or Two…

I stroll down the drive and out of the manor area.  Take a left where the sidewalk ends and the boys drive fast to impress the girls.  Watch carefully.  They won’t slow down as I cross the road.  I take a right at the hill and go straight until the pier is reached.  (Remnants of Irelands’ ownership by feudal English lords and a few centuries old).  Turn left and go down the hill until I near King Cod.  (Supposedly the best chips in town…after a few pints.  Forego the pints and they’re just…deep-fried soggy potatoes…)  I continue until I come upon the main road and follow it down under the train until the school.  Take in the sights.  The fresh country air.  The sun.  The squash.  Tomatoes, cucumbers, mushrooms, zucchini.  Oh yes, don’t forget the pears.  Crisp, absolutely crunchy.  Less sweet and bearing no excess juice.  Perfect.  This is where Ireland begins.  With the farmer.  At the market.  With the sweet old man who greets me with poetry.  With the woman who tells me all about the different types of cabbage.  This is Gorey, County Wexford at its best.

I close my eyes a moment.  Breathe in.  Breathe out.  Open them to a street lined with (literally) thousands of people.  Bustling, jostling, chaos.  Walk a few blocks and meander in and out of fellow pedestrians searching for something different.  Something amazing.  Here is the Dublin Food Cooperative.  Where artisan cheeses, crepes, jams, and produce abound.  Where the Denis Healy farm plies its organic pumpkins.  Where I refresh my stock of tomatoes.  This is Dublin, City Centre.  The center of it all.  On the most amazingly beautiful, sunny Saturday that Ireland has seen in weeks. 

Back home I make a sandwich.  Because I love sandwiches.  On organic mushrooms from Gorey.  Tomatoes from the Healy farm.  Smoked cheddar cheese from some cow out in the back pasture.  And since I’m still baking my own (Irish) bread…it’s the good stuff.  The best sandwich.  The apple I’m paying a lot of money to receive free from the school orchard comes at no extra cost.  Dessert.

Today I read about the Irish vegetable industry.  This is interesting because I eat a lot of produce.  The two vegetarians in my program are impressed with my ability to consume mass quantities of these tasty delights.  I’m also taking Potato and Vegetable Crops so this is required reading.  I don’t need to study anything to know that Ireland likes its potatoes.  Take away the starchy tuber, however, and you are left with the humble tomato.  It is the country’s second favorite vegetable, served at every meal.  It’s worked in, like the potato, to most plates in some fashion.  A hearty Irish breakfast needs to be balanced somehow afterall so a slice or two of tomatoes is certainly welcome.  In Gorey, the family we visited on Sunday afternoon fed us heirloom tomatoes from the garden in fresh slices.  It reminded me so much of summers at home…

 

Carrots.  Parsnips.  Beetroot and Rhubarb.  The Brassicas.  There you are.  The Irish veg industry.  I sampled the beetroot chutney at the farmer’s market in Dublin.  Delightful.  In an attempt to be lazy and still consume rhubarb to my satisfaction, I have purchased rhubarb yogurt. Twice.  The best thing ever.  I strongly recommend that America should get this flavor.  Let me know if they do.  I just might come home… 

An Apple Today…

Some days it’s the little things that get you.  The quiet mocking helpfulness of an Irishman.  A woman who goes out of her way to assist.  A couple walking across the square.  Their gentle closeness.  The way their hands come together just so.  Or the apple, crisp and sweet.  The one you walked half an hour out of your way to get to–only to be late and in the wrong place­–for Pomology lab. 

Some days I am enormously thankful the boys in my class are so helpful.  Some days I want to curse them for not being more so.  As I headed for the orchard this morning I had a general feeling.  I had no reason to believe we weren’t meeting there.  It just didn’t seem right.  Where were the boys?  Were they coming late?  Had they already gone over?  The orchard is 15 minutes from the Ag Building.  I know this because I walked there and back.  When I was supposed to be in lab.  Despite my nudging intuition, and the fact that Conor didn’t answer his phone, I kept traipsing.  Only to realize the gate was locked.  So I hurried back.  Now, I vaguely remembered something about a room number where practicals were held.  I asked at the front desk and got a vague, questionable reply.  So I set off to find the room with the Horticulture boys on my own.  This wasn’t difficult.   I soon came across a note taped to a door indicating the location had been moved upstairs.  Ah–late…as I quietly slipped into the room where a small gathering was huddled around groups of apples, no one commented.  This was somewhat eery and a relief at the same time.  I caught a sidelong glance and a smile–that “she’s so stupid” smile– between two.  The little things, you know. 

Sometimes when I don’t quite catch what someone says, I smile and nod.  Just a habit I’ve picked up over the years.  Sometimes when I hear a particular Irish professor with an impetuous accent give directions, I choose to forget that he mentions an important detail I didn’t grasp.  To my disadvantage I chose the wrong day to miss hearing our practical would not be located in the orchard. 

I really did want the exercise, you see.  And I particularly wanted to offer the boys a chance to help me in their quiet mocking way.  An advantage of being late.  I bite into my apple.  Sweet, tangy.  On the verge of being perfectly ripe.  And I think to myself, today I walked half an hour out of my way despite a nagging feeling that I shouldn’t because I was too stubborn to ask otherwise.  The little things you do when you’re feeling particularly Irish.  

An inability to ask for help.  The answer you don’t want to hear from the registrar and the bank.  A nice woman to ease your worries away.  Dreading the garda.  Lisa at IFSA-Butler that goes above and beyond to fix ANYTHING.  The nice guys who won’t flat out say you’re silly.  Lost.  An ignorant American girl.  The four letter word chronically flowing from the security guard–just so as to be both romantic and barbaric at once.  A juicy, flavorful apple when you particularly love apples.  Just one more day­–one moment– in Ireland.