Friday, November 21, 2014


blog zone
Hello again after my unintentional eleven-month hiatus from this space. The only real excuse I can offer as to why I’ve been absent for so many moons is that I’ve been busy with a capital B. Something tells me this state of busy is something that a) is not unique to me and b) I had better get used to. The to-do list never goes away. It just morphs a bit here and there.

Nonetheless, the busyness is real. I’m nearly halfway through my senior year of college. That sentence is simultaneously exhilarating and distressing, so we’ll just keep moving along. For my final fall semester, I surveyed the courses remaining for my major and thought to myself: oh what the heck, hit me with your best shot, college. And, thus, I proceeded to smash all my hardest classes plus an internship, and a side teaching assistant job (and oh, I don’t know, a social life?) into one cramped and crowded semester. On the record, this is ill advised. 

Enough complaining. It’s highly un-fun and I’m over it. Except for one detail: my life, you see, has felt completely and utterly out of balance as of late. I’m not saying I expect each and every compartment of my life to fit neatly in its place, like my dinner plate when I was younger. (Food touching was the worst kind of crisis, only prevented by proper zoning technique to prevent peas from rolling over into gravy.) While that sounds neat, it is quite unrealistic. One part of life spills over into another and then another and then another. It is the beauty and the chaos all in one. 

A balanced life is elusive. It’s pondered in magazines and books and on talk shows to no end. We make movies and write stories about what happens to the people whose lives fall out of balance. The workaholic who can’t find love. The mother-daughter duo that can’t see eye-to-eye. The family that lets sports/jobs/school trump togetherness. The girl who gets promoted at work and forgets all of her friends.  …The list goes on. It’s a common topic because it’s happening all around and within us every day. The list of obligations grows, knee-jerk choices are made about how to spend time as it slips past fingertips, leaving hands pulling through hair and frown lines embedding between eyebrows.

Personally, I can point to certain indicators when I really know my life is out of whack. The basic sign is an overall state of feeling bruised, like I’m worn out from a battle I’ve been fighting sans weaponry. I’m exhausted. I’m vacant. I’m touchy. I’m less than peachy to be around.
Even the dog can tell.
Realizing the majority of said obligations are not things I can really cut out of my life right now, I’ve been doing a bit of self-investigation in order to solve this predicament. I can’t spend the rest of my semester (much less the rest of my days whenever life gets busy) furiously treading water. The eureka moment came while catching up on my Line-A-Day Book the other day. The fact that I left a whopping four weeks empty recently should have been the first signal that something was amiss.

(Quick aside: For those who don’t know what a Line-A-Day is, allow me to enlighten. It is a little blue book I’ve been using since June of 2011 to chronicle a snippet of every day of my life. One book covers five years and is divided up into 365 pages with five spaces designated to five consecutive years per page.  I have been waving the Line-A-Day banner since my fabulous Aunt Jenny gave me one as a graduation gift.  I call it the journal for the non-journaler. Invest in one and you will not be sorry.)

Back to my research findings. As I fill out a day, I can look back on four years of that same calendar date. It’s pretty rad. Some days bring the hugest nostalgic grin to my face, and other days I would just as quickly scratch out with my pen. Beyond the reminiscing, I’ve noticed certain trends. And this brings me to my hypothesis: there is a distinct positive correlation between “good” days and the presence of specific variables on those days. Yeah, I took statistics.

These “variables,” if you will, are the things that make me feel alive. Unexciting, even stressful days in which one or more of these things was present were documented in my book in a significantly more satisfied light. Looking back on the past few weeks, however, when I’ve felt especially frenzied and frazzled, I see that these activities conspicuously fell through the cracks of a demanding schedule.

My life is out of balance when I don’t feel like myself. No, I’m not having an early onset quarter-life crisis. I have a reasonable grasp on who I am and who I want to be. All of that to say, so far in my twenty-two years of living I have begun to learn the things that make me feel like myself.  The things that make me feel alive. And when they’re not a part of my life, I don’t feel like myself. I feel like the walking dead. And I don’t even like that TV show.

What are the things that make you, Katie Kennedy, feel alive, you say? Oh, I’m so glad you asked. As a communicator by nature, I could talk about these things all the way to Pluto if you’d let me. They give me a sigh of satisfaction. They often involve a process of sorts, to further underscore that feeling of satisfaction. They’re the things that make me feel good about who I am and who I am becoming. And they can be summed up in the following four “-ing” statements: moving, creating, adventuring, and refueling.

I feel alive when I’m moving. I love to exercise because it is a competition between me today and the me I was yesterday. (The competitiveness of organized sports was never really my thing.  I mean, it’s just a game, right? No? Okay.) Exercising is a process. It’s full of variety. It ushers in community. Nothing beats the combination of fun and accountability of a good workout buddy, or the solidarity found in a bunch of strangers breathing through downward dog. And, most importantly, it propels you through even the dullest day by providing a much-needed burst of smile-inducing endorphins. And endorphins make you happy and happy people don’t shoot their husbands. They just don’t.

I feel alive when I’m creating. I am deeply convinced that the act of connecting words together to create meaning is part of the reason I’m on this earth. I look back at my Line-A-Day and see the day I promised myself I would take my writing public through a blog, and I am grateful for the chance to do so. I see the days I have created something with words and can literally feel the excitement just as clearly as I felt it that day. And I don’t just write to share thoughts and stories with others. Nope. In fact if I’m being honest here it’s a bit scary to do this. It takes a healthy dose of bravery. Which is why I write for me. It’s how I process and how I learn. A wise, wise friend of mine compared it to free therapy the other day and man is she spot on. When I get into the groove, the words pour out of me like they’ve been trapped inside for too long. It’s part of what makes me who I am. My need for creating goes beyond writing, to composing outfits or to decorating spaces. Lately (and by lately I mean for way too freaking long but hey I’m indecisive so what can ya do), I’ve been working on compiling the perfect pieces for a gallery wall above my bed. Now that it’s all come together, I am thrilled and satisfied and ready to start another project. Which is why I just ordered five new fancy pens online to practice my hand-lettering skills. I need to create. I just do.
Voila. And yes, obviously J made the wall. Crew forever.
I feel alive when I’m adventuring. Exploring and discovering are two of my favorite things. If you look at my Instagram account, you’ll notice I follow lots of strangers. It’s because they give me ideas of places to visit near and far, products to try, outfits to take for a test drive, foods to taste, and so on. That’s just one little thing that spurs my adventuring spirit. Since I’m not traveling Europe at present, I’ve resorted to other ways to keep the adventurer in me inspired. For example, I have a list on my phone of restaurants, cafes, and coffee shops to test out, because I’m an aspiring foodie. It thrills me to discover fabulous new locations to take part in one of the greatest hobbies known to mankind: eating. You just type an address into your GPS, with full knowledge that this unknown locale could be a total bust or it could be cause for a major happy dance. That’s the adventure part. Lucky for me, I’ve found some other lovely humans who share that desire and we have a grand old time trying new places. If you’re not in a new part of the globe or the country, you simply must explore your own city and discover the millions of hidden gems within. I owe it to the Twin Cities that raised me to leave no stone unturned while I call it home.

Friday night feasting (on grilled cheese, duh) with my lovely roommates.
The Freehouse | North Washington Avenue | Minneapolis 
Testing restaurants on my foodie list for my dear old dad's day of birth.
Burch Steakhouse and Pizza Bar | Colfax Avenue | Minneapolis
I feel alive when I’m refueling. Perhaps the clearest evidence of when life has become horribly hamster-wheelish is when I can’t find it in myself to devote even a few minutes of my day to God. When it’s eight in the morning and I’m either oversleeping or finishing an assignment that’s due at nine (c’est la vie), these precious minutes of stillness are easily the first to go. Even as I type that I know it is absolutely not how it should be. Lately, with the help of this book, I’m learning the practice of eucharisteo. The Greek eucharisteo means deep joy in giving thanks, in identifying God’s graces.  Pausing to count the gifts so graciously poured over me each day infuses joy into even the most blah of days. When I’m not spending that time with the One who made me, I don’t feel like myself anymore. When I’m always hurrying, I don’t feel alive. 

As I said before, this moving, creating, adventuring, and refueling – these are the things that make my days more than just an existence. They are the weapons gifted to me as I fight whatever battles come my way, like a schedule that makes me want to pull my hair out. These activities remind me where I fit and why I matter. And while that is internally focused, I don’t think it’s selfish at all. You need to understand yourself to know why you are here. You need to know and understand the certain things you need in your day in order to be more than just a moderately productive zombie. 

When life feels chaotic, do everything in your power to make time for the things that make you feel like you. Sometimes absolutely everything and the kitchen sink is against you in that endeavor. Don’t let that stop you. Your passions become your saving grace amidst the hustle. They are a healthy vacation from unavoidable routines and a reminder that there are wonderful things to be lived outside your to-do list. Be intentional about them. 

What makes you feel like yourself? What are the things that make you come alive?  The things you’re excited to talk about and share with others? The things that, even when no one’s around, you can do on your own and feel blissfully and exquisitely alive? If you don’t know, a little “self-study” never hurts.

Howard Thurman once said, “Don’t ask what the world needs. Ask what makes you come alive, and go do it.  Because what the world needs are people who have come alive.” Right on, Howard. Right on.

Wednesday, January 15, 2014

cheers, london

So.  I realize that you’re probably supposed to write some sentimental post about your semester abroad within, say, ten days of finishing said semester, but in my case that just didn’t happen.  But this is my blog, so I’m the boss and I make the rules.  Also, I’m choosing to rebel against my habitual rule-following tendencies.  That means that you can look at this post as one that displays an absence of punctuality or the presence of personal growth.  I pick option B.  

It’s been one month.

And here I am in my new house at school, with J-Term in full swing (or as much as you can consider a month as low-key as interim in “swing”) and a new routine taking form.  What once consisted of the rooftops of charming English flats, squished together and stretching for blocks and blocks, the view from my window has since been replaced by a brown and white suburban house that was probably built in the eighties, sitting on a spacious and snow-covered yard.  Quite a swap, huh?

When people ask me about my semester, I sometimes get a bit tongue-tied.  Actually, a lot of times.  I don’t quite know how to put to words what this semester was to me.  (Which is silly, really, considering I am now two hundred words deep in this post.)  It’s not because I don’t have anything to say.  It’s because I have a lot to say.  A million billion thoughts twirling about my brain that sometimes meet difficulty when attempting to exit through my mouth in a single file line.  

Do you miss it?  Of course.  I deeply miss it.  With a worried ache that wonders when I’ll get to go back again.  In fact I might need to swear off all forms of social media for a spell, because with all you other folks hopping on your own study abroad trips, the travel withdrawal is coming in hot.  I’m happy to be back.  I love to be surrounded by the people I love most on this planet.  I miss London and I’m happy to be home.  There’s no “but” between the two.  I am both, inconsequentially and uncompromisingly.  

People also like to ask if I came back with an accent and I must kindly reply with a no.  I wish.  But come to think of it, even as I write this now I’m saying the words in my head in an English accent.  And that’s the truth.

On the flight home, I was determined to find a clever way to sum up my trip in one final London post.  But then Brad Pitt was saving the world from rabies in World War Z and I was officially distracted for the remainder of the flight.  The problem is you can’t exactly “sum up” an experience like this.  It’s a million things all at once.  And since I just can’t get London off my mind, here are a few of those million things.

What London Taught Me.

  1. There’s always another train.  Don’t worry so much.  Things work out.  Even if it takes four trains and four hours to get to a place that’s only an hour and a half away… Ask me about our trip to the White Cliffs of Dover the second to last week in London.  Trust me.  You’ll get there when you get there.
  2. Seek adventure.  You don’t have to get on a plane to find it (although that certainly helps).  Let an adventurous spirit draw you into the unknown.  
  3. You can grow up, but you don’t have to grow old.  In Kensington Gardens, there’s a famous Peter Pan statue that always caught my eye.  As the old familiar days of bedtime stories taught us, Peter forever rebelled against a foe far worse than Captain Hook: growing up.  The real enemy, I think, is growing old.  Losing a youthful spirit.  Because let’s be real, if it weren’t for growing up, my parents wouldn’t have let me set foot on that plane in the first place.  We have to grow up.  And it’s good to grow up.  It means new opportunities and adventures, new battles to conquer and new things to learn.  But we must never grow old.  Because growing old means outgrowing a sense of wonderment that keeps the magic in the world.  After all, “The creative adult is the child that survived.”
  4. Mind the Gap.  Between the train and the platform.  Between continents.  Between people’s thinking.  Between ways of living.  Understand that not everyone thinks the way you do, talks the way you do, hopes for what you hope for, cries over what you cry over, or even eats the way you do.  Appreciate and try to understand differences.
  5. Keep learning.  One of my favourite parts of London is that it is covered with (nerd alert) museums.  How come museums were a fundamental component of elementary education, but didn’t make the cut anywhere beyond eighth grade?  What a travesty.  Here’s a story for free: Back in the days when Tweety Bird themed birthdays were a thing, my mom used to read me a book by James Mayhew called Katie’s Picture Show.  In the story, a little girl named Katie takes a trip to the National Gallery with her grandmother.  She wanders off and finds herself sucked into multiple paintings throughout the afternoon, in which she proceeds to nonchalantly chat with the characters in the paintings.  In those days I used to introduce myself to every stranger in Cub Foods, so I can only imagine I would do the same given the situation.  Anyways, the book is based off of real paintings that actually hang in the National Gallery.  And I know it’s true because I went and found them all there the last week I was in London.  How cool is that?  Talk about stories come to life.
  6. Be a lion.  I wish I could say I always lived by that motto on this trip, but that would be a lie.  In Trafalgar Square there are four massive statues of the king of the jungle.  I realize they are, indeed, motionless slabs of rock, but I’d like to think that they’d hold their ground just as much if they were alive.  I’ve never heard of a lion that would crumble in fear.  Lions don’t back down.  And neither should you or I.
  7. Throw yourself to the wolves every now and then.  Get out of your comfort zone, even if it’s terrifying.  Nothing beats the little voice inside your head squealing, “I did it,” when you’ve conquered something that once terrified you, or the aha! moment when you’ve finally got it.  Whatever it is.
  8. There is beauty in the most unlikely places.  One of my favourite days all semester long was back in October, when Maddy and I took the tube to Shoreditch to find a vintage shop we saw in a book.  Emerging from the Underground, the area seemed less than promising at first glance.  Industrial.  Lackluster.  Drenched in rain.  Turning a corner and proceeding in the direction of the shop, we ended up finding the absolute cutest shopping area and our new favourite spot to eat.  Keep your eyes open.
  9. Understand the value of money.  Appreciate it.  Do not obsess.  Yes, it’s important, but it is simply a commodity.  A weekend in Rome can’t be measured in euros.  An afternoon by the sea spent trekking to cliff tops can’t be assessed in pounds.  Money is simply a means of making memories.  Hold it loosely.  And having lived through a semester of abroad expenses, I join Destiny’s Child in proudly singing, “I’m a survivor.”  Flex on these haters. 
  10. Don’t wait around for the perfect opportunity.  (Except el oh el at myself and how long I’ve been waiting around to write this…)  “Let’s just figure it out tomorrow” is the ultimate omen when it comes to booking flights, hostels, and making plans in general.  I’ve come to find that the perfect opportunity does not exist; most of the time you’ve just got to go for it.  So come along now, spit-spot.
  11. See the good in the bad bits.  Because there are bad bits.  In the spirit of honesty, I will disclose that there were indeed days when I wished with all my might that I were not in London.  (Absurd, but true.)  So instead of wasting a day living in London (or, you know, a day living) I had to learn to see the goodness.  Because it’s always there, even if it’s hard to see sometimes.
  12. Walk like a royal.  Know your worth.  Kate Middleton doesn’t have to wear a crown for everyone to know how fab she is.  It’s quite understood.  This doesn’t mean be snotty.  Carry yourself in a way that shows you know who you are and what you’re capable of.
  13. Look at things from different perspectives.  I can tell you that looking at the city from high up in the Eye is quite different from the view from Westminster Bridge, just two minutes’ walk from there.  My dear old dad so wisely reminded me the other day that it’s an incredible gift to be able to truly see things from another’s point of view, yet also very hard to come by.  In this case, trying is what counts.
  14. Take a walk.  Be it down the crowded High Street, through the picturesque Hampstead Heath, the all-familiar Hyde Park, or up the White Cliffs of Dover.  A breath of fresh air, with limbs moving and heart beating, cures all.  
  15. You can’t read the map to your life.  It’s not like the Tube where after a few weeks you’re a seasoned pro and know exactly where to go.  The sooner you (I) come to this conclusion, the better.
  16. Live in possibility.  If spending nearly four months exploring Europe would not lead a person to that resolution, then I don’t know what would.  
  17. Erase expectations.  This was the word of advice I received most often in the months leading up to my departure.  This isn’t meant to be cynical advice to set the bar low so you’ll always be pleasantly surprised, but simply a wish to keep an open mind and an open heart.
  18. You don’t know the answers.  You probably don’t even know the questions.  See No. 19 for assistance in this predicament.
  19. The human soul is not meant to dwell in one place for too long.  This I truly never understood until I moved to Kensington.  I always thought, “I just love Minnesota so much I can’t imagine living anywhere else!”  Well, silly, that’s because you’ve barely ever left the country.  Learning the lay of a different land taps into the resilient nature of the human being.  It moulds an individual to become one who can thrive in unfamiliar realms.  As if that would never come in handy…
  20. Don’t be boring.  Just don’t.  This is London’s best quality, in my opinion.  London is exploding with hidden treasures.  You could never run out of things to do there.  And there is always more than meets the eye.

Well, London.  Until we meet again.  Cheers.

{ here's a few snapshots of my last couple weeks across the pond }
The lovely river town of Hampton.
The White Cliffs of Dover.
At Cambridge University.
Covent Garden at Christmastime.
St. Paul's Cathedral.
The National Gallery.
The Eye.
Window display of the lovely J.Crew on Regent Street.
Oxford Circus.
Sunset outside my window. OKAY.
Abbey Road.
The one and only.
FYI: For those of you who thought this was fun, I’m going to keep this whole blogging thing going and just see what happens.  Because I thought it was fun.  I probably will not continue alerting all of Facebook when I do, though.  So stay tuned here.  And even if no one reads it, I’ll just write into the nothingness and that’s fine by me.

Thursday, November 21, 2013

bohemian rhapsody

During the very first week I was here, before I had conquered jetlag or memorized my new student ID number, my school hosted a travel seminar with Andy Steves (son of world travel extraordinaire, Rick Steves) to teach our unaware and unaccustomed American selves the ins and outs of traveling Europe.  Only a few years older than his audience, Andy shared his own wild and inspiring study abroad stories and introduced us to the program he started all by himself, Weekend Student Adventures (WSA for short).  He was entertaining, honest, and an incredibly astute traveler due to many years spent adventuring all over the map.  Needless to say, his presentation had my friends and I hooked, and within a week we were all signed up for one of the WSA weekend tours to Prague.  Both the largest and capital city of the Czech Republic (historically also referred to as Bohemia), Prague seemed like a good pick mainly because each of us had heard it was awesome from other friends.  I, for one, didn’t know much about it at all, but I was definitely game for an adventure.  Scheduled for the middle of November, our Czech adventure felt like it was a million light-years away.

That was early September.  And here I am already blogging about the trip past.  Time flies when you spend it flying all over Europe, huh?

We arrived in Prague around half past nine on Thursday night.  To make it to our hostel, we had to conquer the public transportation system.  Easier said than done, as I’m sure you’ve all caught on.  Flabbergasted by the strange Czech labels, we followed the directions our tour guide had sent via email closely and crossed our fingers for success.  Finally, we climbed up the steps from the Underground and our eyes landed in relief on our final destination: Wenceslas Square.  Sprinkled with street vendors closing up shop and bordered by tall buildings of hotels, retailers, restaurants, and more, the square was inviting, even though it seemed to be calling it a night.  At the end opposite where we stood, we laid eyes on the pinnacle of Wenceslas Square: the Czech National Museum.  The museum loomed over the city-centre, beautifully lit and carrying an uncanny resemblance to the United States Capitol.  I seem to see a little glimpse of home wherever I travel.
Wenceslas Square by day.
The four of us checked into our hostel (which was located right in the city-centre on Wenceslas Square and probably one of the nicest hostels I’ve been to thus far – booyah) and climbed the stairs to our room.  Since some of the others on our tour wouldn’t be arriving until early Friday morning, only one of our roommates had checked in.  Kimberly was a sweet, friendly Southern girl from North Carolina who joined in with our jokes about as quickly as she’d introduced herself.  We all hit it off right away.  We knew daylight would come much sooner than we’d like since we’d be sharing one bathroom with one mirror and one shower with at least eight people the following morning, so we decided to head to bed.  Minus a stint around four in the morning when our remaining roommates joined us (Question: when is munching on Pringles while the entire room is attempting to sleep ever okay?), we all slept soundly on uncharacteristically cushy hostel pillows, with visions of Prague dancing in our heads.

On Friday morning we bundled up and hit the streets in search of some breakfast before our tour began.  As we navigated the cobblestone streets, I felt as if I had stumbled onto the screen of an animated Disney fairytale; I would hardly have been surprised if Belle came rounding the corner with her nose in a book, singing townspeople close behind.  Mesmerized by the picturesque scenery and running out of time, we found that blessed place we all know best: Starbucks.  Here’s a fun fact: the Czech Republic uses an interesting form of currency called korunas.  My coffee and breakfast at Starbucks cost me 115 Czech korunas!  But since 20 Czech korunas is about equal to 1 US dollar, that was only a little over five dollars.  Still, forking over a bill labeled “100” to pay for Starbucks felt really, really weird.  And to think I thought British pounds were difficult to get the hang of…
Wandering the streets of Prague on a chilly November morning.
After breakfast we met up with our tour guide and the rest of our group from WSA to kick off the weekend.  One cool thing about WSA is that in each of their tour cities, the guide is a young adult who actually lives there and usually has lived there his or her whole life.  This means you get the full tourist experience, but with a unique local twist that many miss out on in such a quick trip in a foreign city.  Our guide in Prague, Iva, was an absolute gem.  She went to college in the States but has otherwise spent her entire life in Prague.  Iva knows her lovely hometown like the back of her hand.  That is, if the back of her hand also doubles as an encyclopedia and history textbook, because WOW does she know a thing or two about Prague.  All weekend long, she effortlessly rattled off names, dates, and places wherever we went.  Her enthusiasm was contagious and kept us going when the walks got long and the air got chilly.  Basically we loved Iva so much we wanted to take her home to London with us by the end of the weekend.  Chick is that good.
Photo-op with our fearless leader.
We started out in the middle of Wenceslas Square.  The street vendors that had been closed up last night were now easing into the hustle and bustle of the cool November morning and hundreds of people already roamed the Square.  Iva explained that Wenceslas Square is truly the place of the people.  It’s where all the action is – politically, socially, seasonally, what have you.  It’s been that way for decades.  In the late 1980s, this was where the people gathered by the thousands to protest the Soviet Union’s communist grip on the Czech Republic, projecting their disdain with shouts and jingling keys.  And on a lighter note, in 2010, this was where the Czechs congregated to celebrate their World Championship winning hockey team in an explosion of excitement and Czech pride.  

Continuing onward, we stopped inside Lucerna Palace.  This was one of the many passageways connecting the buildings surrounding Wenceslas Square, complete with restaurants, a theatre, a ballroom, shops, and more.  It felt a lot like an indoor shopping mall; naturally, I felt right at home.  Inside, Iva snuck the entire group of twenty into a hotel lobby to ride an old-fashioned open elevator shaft.  We literally had to jump into a moving box in order to ride it, bringing new meaning to the casual phrase, “Quick, catch the elevator.”  Two-by-two, we returned to the ground floor to a frowning security guard.  Worth it.

Continuing on in the spirit of things out of the ordinary, Iva pointed out a rather peculiar sculpture hanging from the ceiling: a kingly figure riding on an upside-down dead horse.  Its creator, David Cerny, is an Andy Warhol-esque artist whose controversial pop art can be found in odd and unexpected places all throughout Prague, poking fun at others with Cerny’s sarcastic social commentary.  In this case, the victim is the Czech president, who is said to be the horse’s rider.  Within the weekend, we stumbled upon two other works of Cerny.  We found one rather freaky piece high above our heads while walking back from dinner later on: Sigmund Freud, one hand casually in his pocket and the other gripping a beam that he’s hanging from.  Another was located outside the Franz Kafka museum, and it features two moving statues peeing on a map of the Czech Republic.  His mother must be so proud.

As we walked, Iva pointed out all kinds of interesting places.  One was Prague’s first theatre, called the Estates Theatre, which is where Mozart, a close friend of Prague, debuted two of his most famous works.  We also walked through a gate that’s been around since the 1300s.  Called the Powder Gate, this towering gothic-style arch was one of the thirteen original gates into the city.  Iva explained to us that during the Communist era, when the Czech Republic was under Russian control, the beautiful buildings and structures were left completely on their own.  Thanks to the severe lack of upkeep, these pieces of Czech heritage were seriously damaged.  So, the fact that this gate still stands today is a tribute to the talent and intelligence of its fourteenth century Czech architects.

Next came one of my favorite parts of the weekend: the Astronomical Clock Tower.  Located in Old Town Square, this grand old clock is the third largest in the world and the oldest working one, clocking in at over 600 years old (pun absolutely intended).  Legend has it that the clockmaker who made it had to have his eyes gouged out for some seriously whack copyright practices of the olden days.  He then defiantly threw himself into the clock system in suicidal protest, knowing that if the clock were ever to break, no one else would be able to fix it.  Lucky for Prague, this guy proved to be one of the best clockmakers around and the clock’s been running for well over half a century.  We took a glass elevator and a long spiral staircase up the inside of the tower and reached the top to witness an incredible view of the city.  They say a picture is worth a thousand words, so here’s a few pictures worth a few thousands words on this unbelievable sight.
We climbed down just in time to watch the clock go off at noon, putting on a show like a super-size cuckoo clock.  There are little figures that pop out, like the biblical Twelve Apostles and an angel of death and Saint Wenceslas.  I’ll admit the clockwork show was a little on the creepy side, but the clock itself was cool overall.  After the rooster crowed to signify the end of the spectacle, Iva led us to a restaurant called Lokal for a traditional bohemian lunch.  She walked us through the menu, pointing out her favorites and what foods make the best combinations, until we were each able to decide on something we’d like.  I went out on a limb with pork knuckle goulash and bread dumplings, which was actually pretty yummy and very filling.  We London girls were especially happy to discover that a good meal in Prague is quite cheap.  Our wallets thanked us profusely.
The Astronomical Clock Tower.
After lunch we kept walking all over the city, stopping at random places of interest.  We stepped inside one building, but I honestly couldn’t tell you what its significance was.  I can tell you, though, that right inside the door is a giant pillar of books, stacked on top of one another in a hollow column reaching from the floor to the ceiling.  If you stick your head inside, there is a mirror at the base that makes the book sculpture appear to go on forever and ever.  Way cool.  We then made our way through the Jewish Quarter, bearing witness to the Czech remains of this part of history.  Iva pointed out the Old Jewish Cemetery and the old synagogue, which happens to be Europe’s oldest active synagogue.  The Jewish Quarter wasn’t a huge part of our tour, but one thing that Iva pointed out that caught my eye were these little oblong boxes on the doorframes of all the houses.  These boxes hold Bible verses, and the Jewish families nail them to their doorposts to signify a commitment to Scripture.  What a remarkable testament to their faith in God, despite such a deeply traumatic history.  
A peek inside the book sculpture.
Our last stop on Friday before we took a break was the Museum of Communism, which, I might add, is located in a casino.  By this point we had been walking for so long that our movement would better be described as sleepwalking, so I can’t say that this museum was particularly engaging.  I did, however, get a little history lesson on communism in Prague.  Here’s the short version: The Soviets enforced communism in the Czech Republic from after WWII, when they saved the Czechs from Nazi rule, all the way until 1989, when the people revolted and dissolved the communist regime in Czechoslovakia.  By then, the Soviet influence had long overstayed its welcome, leaving this small country in a mess that would take them years to recover from.  I would imagine the Czechs waved goodbye to the oppressive regime with something along the lines of, “Don’t let the door hit you on your way out!”

As a Minnesota girl, the part of the museum that I personally appreciated most was when Iva talked about the importance of the Czech Republic’s national sport: hockey.  When it comes to hockey, this nation is small but mighty.  Iva recalled 2006 as a special year for her homeland – the year the Czech Republic beat the Soviet Union 3 to 0 in the Olympic bronze medal game.  Winning an Olympic medal was one thing.  Gaining that medal by defeating the Soviets, the nation that had kept their small country firmly under its thumb for so many years of communist domination?  That was just icing on the cake.  A tour full of American kids can vouch for that.  We get what it’s like to be “sick and tired of hearing what a great hockey team the Soviets have…”

At this point we got to relax for a bit before dinner, so we took the opportunity to explore some of the shops around the city-centre.  We stopped at one of the street vendors for a snack and got our first taste of a yummy Czech dessert.  Trdelníks, or “turtlenecks” as we so fondly refer to them, are breaded pastries in a cylinder form, with a cinnamon-sugarcoated crust on the outside and a warm doughy inside.  What’s not to love?  Come to think of it, these “turtlenecks” actually do look a lot like the neck of everyone’s favorite 90s fashion statement.  So not only is our nickname catchy, it is also quite clever.  Trdelník stands in Prague are about as numerous as crepe stands in Paris or dogs in Hyde Park; they are everywhere.
Warming up with a turtleneck.
Iva took our group to another traditional Czech restaurant for dinner called U Medvidku.  Don’t ask me what that name means, because I don’t have a clue in the world.  Our exhaustion kicked in right on cue and Kayla, Caroline, Kimberly, Abby and I laughed our way through a delicious meal of roast chicken, potatoes, and salad.  It was a scenario of utter simplicity – a fairly basic meal after a long, full day.  Yet all throughout the meal I remember thinking to myself that I couldn’t be happier.  There wasn’t really anything special about dinner, other than the fact that I was in Prague (which is a fairly big deal on most scales).  For some reason that I can’t quite put my finger on, I was completely undistracted by whatever had been previously on my mind and left with the simple, unhindered feeling of gratitude.  And that, my friends, is one wonderful feeling.  

Saturday morning our saint of a tour guide asked her favorite breakfast place to open an hour early to accommodate our group for a delicious and nutritious morning meal to start our day.  Major kudos to Iva because this was hands down one of the best breakfasts I’ve had since going abroad.  We then headed to the western side of the city and walked along the river for a while, pausing for nuggets of information from Iva and photo-ops on this picture-perfect day.  Just the day before, Iva told me that they rarely see the sun this time of year.  November has Prague forever frozen in a forecast of partly cloudy, mostly cloudy, and/or chance of showers.  Well, Saturday must have been our lucky day, because Mister Sun smiled down on us all day long.  And for that, walking along the river couldn’t have been lovelier.  We eventually made our way to the Charles Bridge, named for King Charles IV, under whose reign Prague absolutely thrived.  I mean just look at how pretty the bridge is…  Clearly good things were happening in Prague if those days inspired this gorgeous arched walkway over the river.  Along the bridge are handfuls of street vendors and musicians, but surprisingly enough these ones were not of the nagging variety.  They just went about their business as we continued on our merry way, soaking in the beauty unfolding around us. 
Bundled up and snuggled in tight on the Charles Bridge, with Prague Castle in the distance.
After crossing the bridge we entered into another area of the city and found the famous John Lennon Wall.  A bit smaller and more tucked away than I had expected (or, should I say, imagined), the wall was in a quieter area, lending the mural a more thoughtful and introspective air.  Some might be surprised to know that John Lennon never actually made it to Prague; he was supposed to go, but his untimely death prevented this visit.  During the Communist Era, the Beatles’ music was banned in Prague, thus inspiring the creation of the wall.  Since the 80s, young people have been coming here to tag the wall with their hopes, dreams, and words of inspiration.  It’s not even considered vandalism.  
Iva surprised us by bringing along cans of spray paint so we could join in the tradition and tag the wall ourselves.  Caroline, Kayla, Abby, and I painted our initials together in honor of our travels together, and then individually we made our own contributions to the wall.  I chose to write, “Be here now.”  Those three words have continued on as my personal mantra for my time abroad, sticking out in my mind as a constant reminder to be present.  Not only does this phrase carry personal significance, I learned in my Modern Popular Music class that this seemed to be a theme for the Beatles’ songwriting.  Lennon and McCartney didn’t believe in writer’s block.  In fact, if they had walked into Hotel Chocolat last week while I was struggling to crank out a blog post on Ireland, they would have looked at me quite puzzled.  You can always write, they’d say.  You just have to look inside yourself and write whatever it is that’s on your mind or on your heart in that very moment.  Considering their musical success, these guys just might be on to something.
Leaving my mark.
Iva gave us a little over an hour for a lunch break – plenty of time to grab a quick bite before continuing on with Saturday’s festivities.  Or so we thought.  She had also warned us to eat a light lunch, because dinner was going to be a three-course bohemian meal for FREE.  With the hallelujah chorus echoing in our minds, we walked into the Bohemia Bagel, which came highly recommended.  With Iva’s advice in mind, the five of us (Kayla, Caroline, Abby, Kimberly, and myself) sat down and kept it simple with our orders.  I ordered a whole-wheat bagel with PB and J.  Easy enough, right?  Wrong.  The five of us sat in the tiny restaurant for over thirty minutes waiting for our meal, watching other tables that ordered after us receive their meals long before we did.  Something was amiss.  Also, restaurants seem to have this odd effect on me.  I walk in totally fine, not even hungry actually.  But by the time my meal request has left my lips, I am immediately famished.  So that was happening.

Finally, the waitress came to our table and said (without an apology) that she lost our order a while ago and could we please repeat it to her?  We looked at her stunned for a second, not quite knowing what to make of this news, then proceeded to begrudgingly relay our orders.  She walked away with our ticket.  Another fifteen minutes passed.  After what felt like an eternity, our lunch arrived.  Alas, a few of our orders were incorrect, including mine.  Without any explanation, she handed me what Bruegger’s Bagels would definitely classify as an “everything” bagel.  It wasn’t until I indicated that I had actually ordered a whole-wheat bagel (okay yeah I know, diva alert, just bear with me) that she cared to mention that they had run out.  Like what, you didn’t think I would notice that my bagel was white and covered in sesame seeds instead of brown and at least pretending to be nutritious?  Half of us, mind you, simply ordered a plain bagel, with plain cream cheese.  This place is called the Bohemia Bagel.  How long does it take to pop a bagel in the toaster?  After eating and paying in less than fourteen minutes flat, we gathered up our things to leave, peeved to say the least.  Then, to our complete and utter surprise, our seemingly unapologetic waitress handed us a peace offering on the way out: a bag of cookies.  Okay.  Forgiven.

Now I didn’t write that to complain.  I didn’t even write it to shame the restaurant.  Really, I promise.  I actually wrote it because I’m already thinking back on the story and laughing over how utterly ridiculous it was.  It reminded us all of a similar experience we had in a French café, right on the Seine.  We thought we ordered ham and cheese paninis, but to our dismay, the very rude waiter brought each of us a meager slice of toast, topped with one thin slice of cheese and one slice of deli ham no larger than the palm of my hand.  And it cost 8 euro.  Then, get this: we found the same exact thing at a street vendor less than a block away for 3 euro.  At the moment, we were beyond annoyed.  Looking back?  I can’t help but smile.  The restaurant system in Europe is quite different from how it is in the States.  In Europe, they don’t hand out free meal coupons or drinks on the house to any angry customer that makes a scene.  Here, they typically could not care less.  This time, though, we walked away with cookies.  Victory.
I'm telling you, ALL the buildings look this cool.
We spent the rest of the afternoon popping in and out of little shops.  One of my favorites was an actual gingerbread museum, the perfect place to be with Christmas around the corner.  The shop was filled with thousands upon thousands of cookies, in all shapes and sizes.  They were incredibly intricate, covered in icing with highly detailed designs.  The shop carried a massive variety, too: cookies shaped like elephants, princesses, fish, flowers, Christmas trees, and anything else your sweet little mind could imagine.  They even had the city of Prague made out of gingerbread in a huge table display – a total shoe-in for any gingerbread-house-making contest.
The winding cobblestone paths wrapped their way up the side of a hill until we eventually reached Prague Castle.  Prague Castle encases a complex of royal palaces, cathedrals, gardens, etc., and it holds the Guinness World Record as the world’s largest ancient castle.  Before venturing inside, we stopped at the top of the hill for a while, pausing to take in yet another captivating view of the city.  It seems as if everywhere you look in Prague the sight is even more delightful than the last.
Looking down the oldest street in Prague.

Prague is so cool it even has its own mini version of the Eiffel Tower.
After watching the Czech rendition of the changing of the guard (which I will gladly report is tremendously shorter than the British version), we made our way inside the castle to the Lobkowicz Palace for a private tour.  This wasn’t just any tour, though.  Thanks to Andy Steves’ friendship with the royal family, our tour guide was eighteen-year-old Prince William Lobkowicz himself.  Prince William walked us through his family’s palace, which has now been transformed into a museum holding the Lobkowicz family’s famed collection of art, music, and artillery.  I swear, this collection must have taken centuries to compile; every time I thought there couldn’t be another artifact, Prince William would usher us into yet another wing filled with at least a dozen more paintings.  Perhaps the most memorable was the music room, which had an entire wall covered in old-fashioned instruments.  On the opposite wall was, among other works, Beethoven’s 5th Symphony, one of the three symphonies that Beethoven commissioned specifically for Prince William’s great-great-grandfather.  I was going to raise my hand and say that at my house I have a CD signed by Amy Grant, but then I thought, mmm, better not… 
Prince William and da ladiez.
We finished off the tour by stepping out onto the balcony for yet another view of the city.  (Sensing a trend, are we?)  This time, however, it was from the balcony of a palace, with a real live prince, at night, with the city lights sparkling away.  AND it was a full moon.  Honestly.  You can’t make this stuff up.  
Once our visit was over and we had some time to peruse the gift shop and casually chat with the prince, we gathered the troops and made our way to our dinner destination.  The meal was absolutely, positively scrumptious and set in the coziest of restaurants.  The heavy wooden tables and the massive wood-fire oven in the corner created an atmosphere much like a mountain ski lodge.  We were treated to a delicious three-course meal of garlic soup, pork steak topped with poached pears and blue cheese with greens on the side, and for dessert: raspberry apple strudel a la mode.  As it was the end of the tour, Iva gave us the sweetest, teary-eyed goodbye and hugged us all.  It was the perfect conclusion to one fantastic weekend.  

On Sunday morning, with nothing else on our schedule except our early afternoon flight home, we meandered about the streets of Prague one last time, imprinting our memories with the sight.  We treated ourselves to breakfast at the cutest café called The Bake Shop, followed by one last sweet bohemian treat.  We had to get rid of the rest of our korunas, okay?
Old Town Square.
Let me just say that Prague was easily one of the most enchanting cities I’ve ever met.  If you ever get the chance to visit, take it.  As I said before, I honestly had no clue what I was in for.  And when I think about it, that glorious state of unknowingness couldn’t have been a better mindset going into the trip.  Certain cities come with certain expectations.  We can’t help it.  We can’t help it that the Olsen Twins traveled the world before we did and infused our minds with preconceived notions of what Paris is supposed to be.  Or what Rome is supposed to be.  Or, let’s be real, what virtually any foreign city is supposed to be.  We are victims of the media and slaves to our own presumptions.  Don’t get me wrong.  I’ve adored all the cities I’ve visited since the start of my travels, but each one seemed to come with its own set of expectations.  Prague was the opposite.  You don’t really see a lot of movies based in Prague (except, fun fact, Mission: Impossible) and it’s not the most obvious item on a list of famous travel destinations.  Prague was truly foreign to me.  I had no idea what to expect.  The little world that I discovered, then, apart from plans and expectations and premature judgments, was truly magical.  So here’s my two cents on travel, and I guess on life in general: erase your expectations and give people, places, and things the chance to be exactly what they are.  Give them the chance to astound you on their own terms, and they just might do it.

Wednesday, November 13, 2013

on ireland and other beautiful things

Oh the beauty we have to behold in this life It blows me away. 

Here I am sitting in Hotel Chocolat, “the deliciously British chocolate shop,” attempting to overcome writer’s block, which in my case could be more accurately described as a boulder.  I’ve been sitting here for a while now.  Starting and restarting.  Typing and backspacing.  Referring to articles I’ve pinned on how Mark Twain and Barbara Kingsolver overcame this unfortunate occurrence in their day.  One of those “off” days when even all the Queen’s Men might not be able to help me get my act together.  Also, there is a girl in my peripherals who is literally petting and pouting at her boyfriend, which is painfully distracting and throwing off my mojo.

And then, as I’m staring off into the nothingness, the most beautiful sight finds its place in my line of vision.  A little baby boy.  Sitting on the table.  Staring directly into my eyes, with eyes as deep and dark and delicious as the chocolate in the shop.  Naturally, a smile broke across my face.  (There really must be a scientific causal relationship between babies and smiling If baby, then smile.  Yes.)  And then his chubby cheeks smiled a little bit bigger.  And then I laughed a little bit brighter.  And then he laughed a little bit louder.  And then I sat on my hands to keep myself from scooping up the little nugget and stealing him away forever.

After a few minutes of absolute distraction, smiling and laughing, (and realizing that the fact that I’m effectively flirting with a four-month-old reinforces my grandmother’s advice that I join a singles group), my new little friend was tucked into his pram and rolled out of the shop with his mum.  And I’m back here thinking, isn’t life beautiful?

And then I remember I just spent a weekend in Ireland and I say, yes.  Life is beautiful.

In the wee hours of Thursday morning, when all the little children of Kensington were tucked sweetly in their beds, an alarm was ringing in Room 309 of Atlantic House, pulling two not-so-little children of Kensington out of their slumber.  Abs and I said “hello” to 4 AM, “see you later” to London, and began our journey to the Emerald Isle. 

After a few minor setbacks (no one ever said adventure was easy), we were well on our way to part one of our weekend getaway: Belfast.  From the Dublin airport, we hopped on a bus that would take us to the north.  We had every intention of napping away this two-hour ride to rest up for the day ahead, but the rolling hills of Ireland had another plan in mind.  We were both so amazed by the scenery that our noses were practically pressed against the windows the entire ride.  Parts of the ride felt like a cross-country trip across the states, minus the boring ones like Nebraska and Nevada (no offense).  The ride brought me back to the days when my family of six would make the sixteen-hour trek to Colorado, when not even a broken DVD player or a seriously carsick kid (usually me) could keep us from reaching those snow-capped mountains.  We almost always took the scenic route, because if you’re going to be stuck in the car for the better part of a day, you might as well have something beautiful to look at. 
View from the bus window?  I can deal with that.
The bus to Belfast was just that, except shorter and complete with the luxury of stretching my legs without starting WWIII with my sister.  I made a bold attempt to count the cows and sheep as we passed through, but I lost track somewhere in the eighties, with many more barnyard friends in sight.  The hills rolled on and the trees sprouted up all over the place.  Nature, I’ve noticed, has this strange ability to calm the soul.  Especially when that soul has been dwelling in the bustling city for a spell.  It calms the thoughts and cares swirling within, leaving behind the delicate sound of quiet and the peaceful feeling of wonderment.
If you squint your eyes real close to the screen, you can see little white dots speckling the hills.  Hi, sheep.
We arrived in Belfast and took a quick walk to our hostel, soaked in sunlight.  On this walk, we made a quick comparative assessment of our surroundings.  While the boys in England are prettier than the girls, the girls in Ireland are prettier than the boys.  (And I think they all get their eyebrows done at the same place.  Just an observation.)  Now I’m not trying to be judgmental here.  I’m just feeling all the more confident in my decision to study in London.

We found our hostel, jumped for joy when we realized that we had a six-person room to ourselves for the night, and then headed toward Queen’s University, where we had plans to meet up with our friend from Bethel, Trent.  Since Queen’s sprawls throughout much of the city, Belfast had a similar feel to a college town in the States.  I actually felt like I was walking through Madison.  That is, until, we asked for directions from a group of very Irish boys with very Irish accents to match.  Nope.  Definitely not Wisconsin.  We searched high and low until we finally found Trent, and then proceeded to nearly bowl him over with a bear hug.  It’s not every day you meet up with friends from school in a foreign country, okay? 

After a quick lunch, we took a trip to Belfast Castle for a hike!  And it was just marvelous.  I’ve had a fierce craving for a good hike for quite some time now, so this was right up my alley.  The view from the top was just breathtaking – a view of the entire city of Belfast all in one swoop.  The city is nestled on the sparkling coast, with a river running through the center.  To our left were rolling hills and grassy green cliffs peering over the sea, and to our right was the cityscape down below, stretching for miles before disappearing into the foggy sky.  It felt a bit like the Lion King, with Mufasa’s deep bellowing voice in my ear saying, “Look, Simba, everything the light touches is our kingdom.”  More accurately, it was just Trent pointing out notable landmarks to Abby and I.  Close enough.  We even learned a thing or two about Irish history thanks to a class Trent is taking.  (Yes, we study abroad students are indeed doing school here.  Do not be misled.)  One of the most exciting things I learned was that the Titanic was built and launched in Belfast.  Who knew?  Not me.  I could have sworn Jack and Rose set off from NYC...  Clearly my historical recollection and geographical understanding of this event is a tad foggy.  From where we stood, we saw the huge landing strip where the ship was built and the museum that stands as a tribute to this monumental part of history.  Pretty cool, huh?  Also, the wind was so strong I was a teeny bit alarmed I might take to the sky like a kite.  So after a quick Snapchat to all our friends back at school to stir up a little good-natured jealousy, we decided it was time to come down.
On top of the world.
Belfast Castle.  How's that for a backyard view?
After our hike, the three of us ate breakfast for dinner at a cozy local restaurant called Maggie Mays.  Trent threw out some ideas of what we could do after dinner, and Abby and I graciously decided to let our host pick.  And thus, we found ourselves buying tickets to the 6:30 showing of Thor: The Dark World at the movie theatre down the street.  That’s what happens when you let the boy decide for the girls.  To be honest, I wasn’t exactly dying to see this movie, nor was I confident I would even be able to stay awake to see it after a long day of travel.  On the contrary, not only do I report that my eyes remained wide open for all 112 minutes of the movie, but I urge you all to call up the first person you can think of and go see this movie.  (Once you get to the bottom of this page, of course.)  Ladies, I realize that Thor himself is possibly the only reason you might consider buying a ticket.  Same.  Totally acceptable.  What I did not anticipate, however, was what a BOMB movie it was going to be.  It got me all pumped up and ready to watch the next one right that very second.  And of all the cities in which this action-packed flick could take place, Thor just so happened to take place in LONDON.  Can you say synchronicity?  The only other time I have ever been able to interrupt a movie and say, “Hey! I live there!” was while watching the 1996 American Christmas comedy Jingle All The Way, so yes, I was rather thrilled.

We finished off the day by heading back to Maggie Mays for some hot chocolate and good conversation.   It is just so incredibly strange to think that the last time we were all together we were in the quaint and comfortable suburbs of Minnesota, surrounded by all of our best friends.  Five months later, we’re sitting in a restaurant in Northern Ireland, sharing stories about life on our own in big European cities and thinking about how weird it will be to be back in the States in a few short weeks.  Take it from me.  Life has a wild way of taking you to places you had never imagined.
…like to Irish cliff-tops, for example.
Well the day flew by and before we knew it it was time to say “see you later” to Trent and “hello” to the second portion of our journey.  Nothing like an all-out sprint to catch the bus to Dublin to get our blood pumping on a brisk Friday morning!  If travel has taught me anything it would be to hold those plans and expectations loosely, because it is dang hard to keep your act together.  Also, it is always wise to have an ample supply of deodorant on hand, because you never know when being on time will literally cause you to break a sweat.

By the sheer grace of God we made it to our hostel in Dublin, all in one piece, suffering only a lost towel as a casualty.  A group of our friends from London had signed up for a trip to Dublin through our school that weekend, so we decided to make like a box of Girl Scout cookies and tagalong.  (That was both the best and worst pun of my life.  Nonetheless, I hope you slapped your knee like I slapped mine.)  We met on the corner of O’Connell Street and tooled around the city, popping in and out of shops as the rain came and went.  Later on, the whole group had dinner at a pub called O’Shea’s.  (FYI: If you wish to sound Irish, tack an “oh-apostrophe” on to the front of your last name and you are good to go, my friend.)  In our mad dash of a morning, Abby and I only had time for a piece of bread from our hostel (indeed, we missed breakfast) and a protein bar.  So by six o’clock in the evening, “famished” was an understatement. 
After dinner, we covertly joined the school group in a musical pub-crawl.  Now this was not your average pub-crawl, I might add.  I would more accurately describe it as a musical tour through an area of the city called Temple Bar, led by two Irish musicians.  At each of the three pubs on the crawl, these two guys hosted what they call an “acoustic session.”  They played for us traditional Irish music, using guitars, an Irish drum-like contraption, and their own voices, in a small gathering space, with commentary throughout the night to give the audience a greater understanding of the history and inspiration of Irish acoustic music.  Sounds super dorky, I know, but by the time we arrived at the final pub, I was surprised by how entertaining it turned out to be.  The atmosphere was cozy and casual, the musicians were talented and quirky, and the evening was enjoyably Irish.  I was thankful for the chance to experience something that is such an important part of Irish culture, a notion that would be reinforced the following evening.

We made it back to our hostel to find that one of the other guests in our room had arrived while we were out: a sweet and innocent Asian girl, rocking blush pink long johns from head to toe and tapping away on her iPad.  Bless her heart.  Our new roommate, along with the shower situation in general, made me realize what a shaping experience summer camp is.  Camp prepared me for hostels for two reasons: 1. You never know what kind of character might be sleeping in the bunk next to you, and 2. Public showers are a frightening reality that must be dealt with both calmly and rationally.  So thank you, Lake Beauty Bible Camp.  Your pivotal life lessons continue to build character long after my days as a camper. 

On Saturday morning, our lovely new roomie seemed to think it was about time we all greet the day and flipped on the light at the bright hour of eight o’clock, serving as a delightfully unexpected wakeup call.  We got all ready for the day and headed over to meet the rest of the group for a walking tour throughout Dublin.  An animated Irish degree student by the name of Eoin (pronounced Owen) led the tour; Eoin spoke quickly and extensively as we marched all over the city, trying our best to retain the flood of information coming our way.  (I swear, tour guides in Europe are like a walking, talking Wikipedia page on their city of choice.  The amount of knowledge this kid had locked inside his brain was astounding.)  The tour began at Dublin Castle.  Historically known as the city prison, this castle has lasting connotations as the source of all things evil in Dublin.  Coincidentally, the building right next door is the Irish equivalent of the IRS.
See those windows way up high? 3 prisoners escaped…1 died…1 got frostbite…1 survived and started a war. Yikes.
Since we visited more places on this tour than I could possibly remember, I’ll just entertain you with the big ones.  We saw the Project Arts Centre, where some band you’ve probably never heard of got its start.  I think the name was U2?  Directly across the street stands the Clarence Hotel, a hotel that kicked Bono and his band mates out on the street one night many years ago when they had only just begun their career of music-making.  Not one to be bossed around, Bono snapped at the hotel manager on his way out, “Just you wait.  One day I will own this hotel!”  Many years later, I’ll give you one guess as to who owns this lovely establishment.  You guessed it.  Bono.  Stick it to the man, kids.
Well look what we have here… :)
Looking at Dublin from an architectural standpoint, this city is like a teenage girl who can’t quite decide what to wear.  Some buildings are boldly colorful, but some are calmly neutral.  Some buildings are extremely modern, but some are traditional and slightly British.  For example, if you walk down O’Connell Street and look just past an old colonial-looking statue of O’Connell himself, you’ll find something that looks like it belongs in outer space.  The Dublin Spire, which protrudes upwards from O’Connell Street over 120 meters into the sky, pokes through the clouds like a giant stainless steel toothpick.  Even later in the tour, though, we found ourselves in the quad of Trinity College, surrounded by remarkable collegiate buildings that reminded me of the U.S. Capitol.  So while many of the people of Dublin generally look very much alike, the buildings in which they live and work and learn are strikingly dissimilar. 
That skinny silver thing in the back? That would be the Spire.
Trinity College.
The tour concluded in St. Stephen’s Green Park, a lovely grassy area with ponds and birds and gazebos that reminded me of London’s own Kensington Gardens.  At this point of the tour, I’m afraid my brain was so full of information that the remainder of what Eoin told us in the park was lost on me.  What I do remember was the part in the middle of his last spiel when the professional Irish rugby team nonchalantly strolled right past us on their way to their afternoon practice in the park.  That I remember quite well.  Then later that night we watched those exact same guys absolutely crush Samoa on TV while we ate dinner at O’Connell’s Pub.  It’s casual.
We stopped at the oldest pub in Ireland, The Brazen Head.  It's 300 years old… that's older than America!
A quick peek inside...
After dinner, our group of six girls set out to explore the nightlife in Temple Bar, starting with The Temple Bar Pub itself.  This place is renowned for its vivacious atmosphere and live music tradition; it’s absolutely exploding with dancing and live music on any given night of the week.  I even saw a sign on the wall that read, “Guitarist Dave Browne broke the Guinness World Record for longest marathon playing guitar here: 114 hours live / 12th-17th June 2011.”  How cool is that?  We listened to two younger guys play guitar and belt some Mumford & Sons covers.  The main guy was as fantastically talented as his hair was red.  And oh was it red.  How’s that for a surefire sign you’re in Ireland?  The pub was completely packed and the energy was contagious.  Everyone was smiling and moving to the beat.  And the next place we went to was just as loud and lively.  This, I realized, was just what the two guys on the music pub-crawl were getting at.  Music runs through the veins of the city of Dublin, energizing the people like a heart pumping blood.
Live music at the Temple Bar Pub.
We topped off the weekend with a tour of the Guinness Storehouse on Sunday morning.  This factory-slash-museum was fascinating.  The tour takes you step-by-step through the longstanding Irish tradition of brewing Guinness.  The company takes its trade very seriously, treating it as both a science and an art.  I was thoroughly impressed by how much work goes into a single pint of this classic Irish drink.  And for a drink so important, not only do they have a specific method of pouring a pint, but they also have a special way you’re meant to drink it.  When it comes to Guinness, the Irish don’t mess around. 
Outside the Storehouse.
Through the whole tour, as we climbed up and up through the storehouse, I couldn’t help but feel like Charlie in the Chocolate Factory, except that this building had professionals brewing alcoholic beverages instead of Oompa Loompas making chocolate.  Minor detail.   The final leg of the tour takes you to the tippy-top of the storehouse, to the Gravity Bar.  The Gravity Bar is surrounded by windows from floor to ceiling on all sides, much like the John Hancock building in Chicago, where you can look out over the whole city of Dublin.  The view is incredible.  It was the perfect place to end the weekend and say “cheers” to a fantastic stay in Ireland.
Whether I’m traveling to new countries, sitting in cafés in London, or simply going through my normal routine, I am stunned by the beauty that surrounds me, time and again.  I don’t always see it, though, and I would bet you’re right there with me on that.  Sometimes our eyes are clouded over with the heavy fog of things to do and worries to entertain.  What a miserable state, isn’t it?  Surrounded by such remarkable things, yet distracted and detained.  To be frank, it’s embarrassing how easily I allow myself to enter that state sometimes.  And then I find myself standing on a cliff in Belfast, looking out over creation in absolute awe of my Creator.  Or standing in a jam-packed pub in Dublin, pulsing to the beat and singing along with a brilliant musician and a crowd of many.  Or even sitting in a café in London, caught up in a happiness contest with the sweetest little baby.  And all of a sudden I consider the beauty that surrounds me and I simply can’t keep the words inside me.
One last look at Dublin.