Emily Bennett is a junior journalism major and photography minor. Originally from rural Fairview, West Virginia, she enjoys attending school in Pittsburgh and the opportunities that accompany professional city life. Her freshman year, she became involved with the Globe newspaper as a staff writer and photographer, then advancing to a copy editor and then as co-copy desk chief. She now serves as Editor-Elect and will take over as Editor-in-Chief in the spring of 2018. Additionally, she became involved with the Body Christian Fellowship during her first year on campus and accepted a leadership position within that facet. Her sophomore year, she was elected President of the Body and still holds that position. She is a member of the Honors Student Organization and was a Resident Educator for 32 wonderful freshmen students this past year. She loves porch swings, espresso and music you can dance to. Despite what this photo may lead you to believe, she actually thinks Les Paul was a big jerk.
Her dream is to support herself by writing books, but would love to live in the Middle East and work as a MMJ. This summer, she’s working remotely as a theatre history and database intern for BroadwayWorld.com. After she spends two weeks galavanting through Iceland and Ireland, she’s working as a summer live-in nanny in Pau and Saint Jean-de-Luz, France. (She does not speak French.)
Pre-trip blog
The calm before the storm: the dramatic title
Song of the day: The World At Large // Modest Mouse
I’ve been home for a week and two days.
In those 9 days, I have a.) acquired remote summer work actually relevant to my major, b.) took a weekender to New England to meet my favorite band for free on the beach, and c.) ate Chick-Fil-A four times. I also spent way too much money on a pair of aesthetically reprehensible mountaineering sandals.
While I suppose these 9 days have been unique, I’m ready to get on a plane.
While some think the worst part of traveling may be the endless hours on the road, ibuprofen-addled altitude changes, or how ungodly expensive the most basic human necessities may be in other locations — my hate-fire finds its rest in packing. Yeah, you heard me. Packing.
If you’ve seen the amount of clothing I own, you’ll find it easy to understand why. (I have a closet just for coats.) I also possess next to no spatial intelligence. (For example, I have absentmindedly tried to put a guitar in a mandolin case and I always pour too much or too little coffee in my to-go mug). I’m going to be out of the country for 14 days in less than 36 hours, nothing is packed and everything is fine.
At least I bought one of those mystic electrical adapter things that will astoundingly make my phone charge!
Truth be told, I’ve never learned how to properly pack for air travel. I’ve driven on ridiculously long trips across the country, where the packing limit — while not bottomless, has been pretty negotiable. Put side by side with my on-land traveling experiences, I’ve flown a limited number of times. Every time, I’ve been stuffing items in every nook and cranny of my suitcase in the fashion of Spongebob on the Granny’s Homemade Cookies episode.
Not to mention the weather is going to be a bit miserable. Iceland and Ireland are going to be cold and wet. (Insert pouty face here.) If all goes according to plan, I intend to pack three raincoats all of varying styles and colors. The obvious purpose of this is so I’m ready for anything, and not because I’m a wildly indecisive clothes hoarder who wants to produce some quality Instagram photos.
The powers that be said to keep this first blog pretty short, so I’ll leave it at this. If you’re a praying person, send some prayers up to the Big Man that I can somehow squeeze at least two pairs of shoes into my carry-on.
Affectionately,
Em
Wreck-Ya-Vick
We’re here (somehow)
Song of the day: Step Out // Jose Gonzalez (this movie was filmed in Iceland!)
Guys, Iceland is weird.
There’s a hot dog stand on every corner, everything is written in English, and all the dads are really handsome. So far, so good.
The strange little town of Reykjavik is chock-full of people. Stores are stuffed to the brim with thick, overpriced sweaters with wild patterns. Families are ducking into restaurants and cafes left and right — tucking their little ones away from the wind. (It’s incredibly windy with the occasional sweep of bitter rain. But hey, all the roofs are colorful, and that counts for something.)
My credit card doesn’t work (a fun fact) and I’ve had to brave the battle of using actual Krona, which is mind-blowing. A cup of coffee costs thousands of krona here, so it’s been a tad on the rugged side.
Also our bus broke down.
Also some places were closed that we wanted to see.
Also I think I probably broke my ankle. (I kid. Just know that I’m actually physically injured at the moment and praying that I heal in an adequate amount of time!)
On the bright side, I ate the best cookie of my entire life today — and I’ve eaten a lot of cookies, y’all. The dainty label in the cafe called it “Sara;” I called it heaven. (It is no coincidence that this cookie has a human name and especially one as lovely as Sara. I plan on penning her a poem later to express my gratitude.) I also got to hang out in a fantastic art museum that truly rivals any art museum I’ve ever been to. I could have stayed for hours.
While Chloe and I were in the art museum, I found a book that was a bit of an artistic parody on the people of Iceland — who they are, what they’re like, what they value. One of the pages related to the concept of punctuality. An Icelander is always late, apparently. Time is relevant, the people are wildly flexible, and meetings are normally never planned more than a week in advance. It’s common for an Icelander to say “Well can you meet right now? What about tomorrow?” You can say I’m an honorary Icelander.
We drove directly up to the President of Iceland’s home and our guide told us that he can be seen regularly riding his bike along the road. Coffee costs more than soda here. A topless woman crawled on a conveyor belt for 30 minutes (twice) as part of an art piece while families stood by and observed the entirety of the exhibition. The water pressure is suspiciously other worldly good. The square that serves as the hub for shopping in the city of Reykjavik turns into a skate park at night. Speaking of night — there is none. The midnight sun is a thing, which means that as I type this at 1:17 a.m. Iceland time, the last wisps of gray sun are just now slipping away from view.
This place is weird in the best way.
Tomorrow, I’m hanging out at a national park and a waterfall. I’m joyous beyond words to get to see more of this crazy, unpredictable terrain.
Ending on an honest moment: my current morale is about as genuine as the somber excuse for pillows that airlines give you on overnight flights. (They feel like literal napkins.) I’m sleepy and a little stressed and my left ankle is very large in context of my right. I don’t like feeling this way, especially when traveling. I’m hoping that this underlying uneasiness finds the door soon. Thank you endlessly for your support and prayers and sweet vibes!
Affectionately,
Em
P.S. It’s very very very hard to find ice in Iceland!!!!! What a time to be alive, folks!!
Reykjavik: take two
Also known as: a love letter to Gullfoss
Song of the day: Sweet Creature // Harry Styles (I listened to this album on our flight to JFK, and then this song played at breakfast this morning! Harry, you handsome rock ‘n roll genius, reaching my ears all the way in Iceland.)
There’s a phrase people here in Iceland use to express surprise.
“Það er rúsínan í pylsuendanum.”
Translation: That’s the raisin at the end of the hot dog.
The point is that this whole day has been one beautiful raisin at the end of the glorious hot dog!!!!
The last thing I want this blog to be is a summary of the places I went and saw and the food I ate or the coffee I got at those places. Of course I want to be able to look back and read these things and remember where I was, sure. But truthfully, I’d rather remember how they made me feel. So I’ve comprised a small list:
Waking up: like death. Pure, unrequited death.
The bus ride to Thingvellir: more death. Sleepy. I woke up at the end of the line in a daze and had no clue where we were.
Inside Thingvellir: Like I was in a movie. I felt incredibly rushed. I wanted to freeze time and sit down and just look for a while. I think the important thing about experiencing things and places like this is engulfing yourself in them — not just checking a location off of a map and hopping back in your car and heading to the next stop. You have to let these places swallow you whole for a little while!
Standing in the steam at Strokkur: “Wow this place smells like eggs.”
*See also: “I feel like I’m in the inside of a tea cup.”
Mid-bite of homemade salted caramel ice cream and mid-espresso sip at a dairy farm located on the Golden Circle: “I have reason to believe I was made for this moment.”
At Gullfoss: I am so, so small.
There are a lot of things that words have the capability to do. They can accomplish vast feats. They bridge gaps. They can honor, unite, connect, loosen, serve as catalysts. But I would be doing Gullfoss a disservice by trying to put words to what I saw and felt in the midst of those falls. This isn’t me giving up or cutting journalistic corners, I swear! But this place. THIS PLACE. You have to go. Stop what you’re doing right now and go!
Affectionately,
Em
You can skip ad in 5 seconds…
Losing my purse at the Grapevine Magazine
Song of the day: I Heard it Through the Grapevine // Creedence Clearwater Revival (look at the website of the hippest/swankiest magazine in the whole gulldurn country of Iceland — https://grapevine.is )
I loathe the world of advertising. Just thinking about hearing the ear-splitting volume of the SurveyMonkey ad on Youtube sends a chill down my entire body. I think advertising is sleazy and dishonest and quite frankly, I find it a shame that it’s so closely associated with journalism — a career path that’s rooted in objectivity and truth.
I knew we were visiting a PR and ad agency once in Iceland, but never thought that it would be as unique an experience as it turned out to be. But of course, Iceland is basically one big, windy surprise.
Promote Iceland is a tourism company that finds its roots in telling the truth about the natives and the landscape — not about disguising their unrepeatable, eccentric country as something it’s not as some ploy to make the numbers go up. The director began his presentation (wearing a denim-on-denim combination and a slew of Chinese characters tattooed on his forearm) by telling us, “Iceland is not for everyone.” For two hours, he took us on the journey of Iceland’s PR reputation. (The story involves volcanic eruptions prohibiting air travel, recruiting willing Icelanders — including the President — to take random travelers into their homes to literally just hang out, as well as proper hot tub etiquette instruction videos). Throughout his presentation, I became more and more attracted to the honesty behind Icelandic culture — and that’s exactly what’s at the forefront of their campaigns — transparency. I like it.
After having my stubborn mind changed by Promote Iceland, lunch was a chocolate and “pekan butter” crepe, and I ordered a spicy honey milk — one of those things that seemed like a good idea originally but then ended up tasting like I was drinking a burrito. Happens to me all the time. Apparently there were onions in it. When in Rome!
After refueling, we made our trip to the Grapevine. This was a trip I was definitely looking forward to. Grapevine’s got a great reputation, and getting to visit the physical office — well, it was everything I hoped for.
The magazine, which has dramatic, dynamic and occasionally weird covers — coupled with fantastic pieces dripping with voice, functions basically out of a few rooms on the third floor of a building that has no sidewalk entrance. The guys that run the joint (they all looked like they were all in indie side projects and needed a cigarette) were casual but thorough when talking about their work — and they should be proud of it. It’s a beauty. Being there made me nostalgic for the Globe. I’m going to miss that place and its shenanigans this summer. (I also left my purse there but realized it within the hour. I went back to retrieve it and turns out they had already emailed one of my professors and even sent a photo attachment to try to get it back to me. Good people, journalists.)
We had a lovely little trace of free time (most of which was spent looking for a hole in the wall restaurant a photography store clerk told me we had to try) but we uncovered a rad record shop/independent record label combo Chloe had read about. She got to interview the ridiculously friendly co-owner (he gave us free espresso as soon as we walked in — an Icelandic tradition he says he will never give up) and we met some visiting Yale students who were madly in love and very, very adorable together. They sat on a decaying old recliner that belonged to the co-owner’s grandfather — her on his lap, sharing headphones and an Icelandic experimental CD.
We leave tomorrow.
I’m coming back, don’t worry.
Affectionatey,
Em
Reykjavik ⇒Dublin
“One more song about moving along the highway…”
-Queen Bishop Lord Carole King
Song of the day: So Far Away // Carole King (“so faaaaaaaaar away, doesn’t anybody stay in one place anymore?????!!!!!!” I mouth this quietly/angrily/sleepily to myself as I shove my shoes through security after leaving Reykjavik to board a plane at 3:15 a.m.)
We have left Iceland and I am already mourning the loss (!!!!) This place was truly the most unique location I’ve ever been. Half the time I felt like I was on a Hollywood lot and the other half was spent in a Lord of the Rings movie. Water was free everywhere (really, really tasty water that literally drips unfiltered off of a real life geyser) but you had to pay $1 to use public bathrooms.
I truly feel like everyone we encountered and ran into (visitors as well as natives) were incredibly up-front, genuine, and hilarious. Isn’t it sad that’s something that we find so truly out of the ordinary? Maybe human authenticity is easier to find than we think. Maybe we just have to go to Iceland for a few days.
It was pure, unadulterated exhaustion that I experienced today. I normally like to do this thing where I sleep very little and do lots, and sometimes it means falling asleep in completely random places (like the Irish Parliament building during an important hearing……nervous laughter…..). Also our plane from Keflavik to Dublin had a bit of a malfunction in terms of landing (aka it quite literally wouldn’t land and we had to just fly back up off of the runway and make a circle and try again). But guess what? I slept completely through it!!!! I woke up as we were taking off again from the tarmac on the second go and thought to myself, “Seems as though we have made a pit stop…” only to look around and see the people sitting next to me and their faces of complete horror and trepidation….also….I fell back asleep again as we were making the circle to try to land again…..I’m kind of proud and also kind of ashamed….
RIP Iceland, truly, but I’m typing this sitting in an apartment in Dublin, Ireland, looking out over our veranda at the sunset. Yes, it’s actually dark here in Dublin, which hopefully means I can make myself go to bed before 4 a.m. for the remainder of this trip. But I can tell the sun never really sets here — the streets are filled to the brim with people and street musicians (as in, ones that are actually good) and it seems like everyone here is in a grand rush — quite the juxtaposition with lazy, sweet Iceland. It reminds me a lot of New York, but with seemingly (somehow) more bikes, and less expensive. A basket of fish and chips cost 30 Krona in Iceland, around $30. Everything here in comparison is wildly affordable. We have an adorable little Irishman named Joe showing us around everywhere. He taught me a jig today! Then I ate Irish stew and went to a castle-church. Life is good here.
Affectionately,
Em
Dublin days
The prettiest city
Song of the day: When You Sleep // My Blood Valentine (an Irish band! Also the title is fitting, considering I haven’t slept in what feels like approximately seven years).
Journalists can be pretty boring. A lot of them are, too. Don’t let us fool you. The journalism field is similar to that of law in one way — we romanticize their roles. We think every journalist jumps out of helicopters and runs from the bad guys through the desert with their camera strapped to themselves. In a similar fashion, we think all lawyers are Atticus Finch or Matthew McConaughey’s character from Lincoln Lawyer. The truth is, a lot of journalists do things like work for Buzzfeed. And some think media people are the worst and probably just better off dead (#fakenews). Last year, Poynter reported that “newspaper reporter” was ranked one of the worst jobs in America — claiming a spot right underneath “logger.” “Broadcaster” was ranked third, just a bit shy of moving up in the ranks past “disc jockey” and “pest control worker.”
It’s true that when I think of my interactions and relationships with journalists — professional and otherwise, it’s not their shining personalities that come immediately to thought. I personify their unending drive, their vocabulary, their incurable addiction to knowing what’s going on in the world; but there’s no way I think “what a great bunch of lads; I could really rely on them if I popped a tire.”
Today, my faith was restored a bit for the people that operate in the world of media.
I got to sit in on a lecture at Dublin City University — which has an incredible campus. The presenter discussed modern media in Ireland, and it was super compelling to compare their place in the media world to ours here in the states. After concluding the lecture, Chloe and I talked to DCU students and staff about their feelings on the Trump presidency. We received surprisingly mixed reactions (everyone we asked was willing to talk to us) ranging from “he’s a blooming idiot” to “I like the guy; he tells it like it is” to “I’m not a very political person.” It added some depth to the way that I view the Presidency. After one student told me, “It’s your fault; you guys voted him in,” and a staff member completely schooled me when it came to how much he knew of Trump’s policy-making, I had quite a bit to chew on.
In the afternoon, we visited Harmonia Publishing — the biggest magazine publishing company in all of Ireland. Located on a kitch corner inside a three story brick house, the environment was welcoming. We sat in on a creative talk-back with an editor-in-chief, a creative director and a designer from some of the popular Irish magazines represented by Harmonia. They were kind and humble, showering us with endless tidbits of advice ranging from getting hired (and standing out) to staying organized once you’re in the business.
Following, we attended a business-centric presentation, where three directors within the publishing company talked money with us. I hate math as much as the next guy, but they revealed some industry secrets that just might have helped me find the holy grail that is the happy marriage between creativity and business.
After being let loose, (I was falling asleep standing up again) Chloe and I went back to a shop we both saw swimsuits in that we wanted to buy. Neither of us left with swimsuits, but we stayed out until the shops shut down (and I bought another jean jacket and more polka dot dresses because I have a small problem). Cheers!
Affectionately,
Em
Blogging is hard
And other complaints
Song of the day: TRUTH // HORNETS (Disclaimer: This song does not in any way reflect my musical tastes. It does however reflect my decision making skills, considering I had the grand idea to go see this band in a pub last night. Please listen to this and just imagine me there. You won’t be disappointed.)
I really like the purpose behind this trip. We’re doing a lot of studying, yes. But it doesn’t feel like we’re just here to soak in all things media — we’re experiencing these cities in very intimate ways. We’re getting endless information about these places from our fantastic guides and locals, and we’re also being thrust out into them on our own — to discover our own new favorite spots — places we’ll take our kids when we come back years later.
These media trips have taken a toll on me — those relating to PR and Ad, rather. It’s hard to understand something if you’ve never truly learned the mission behind the entire profession. During the two hours plus presentation by the PR agency yesterday, I found myself asking the question, “what the heck do these people actually do?!” Maybe it’s my ignorance to the business, but I felt lost for those couple hours, and felt as though precious time ended up falling void on my non-PR-geared ears.
During the question and answer period, I helped kickstart some interesting conversation concerning NGOs. The PR Agency that was represented there mentioned they represented an NGO that had a presence in Haiti. I asked what kind of specific issues they dealt with in terms of their NGO representation, considering NGO presence in Haiti is wildly controversial (and also just a really terrible, infrastructure-destructive thing) and received really no answer back. After enduring a rambling answer for about five minutes, I accepted the fact that the people in this profession indirectly answer questions for a living. I also had approximately five shots of espresso before sitting down for the presentation….and I was pretty sure the people sitting next to me could hear my heart beating…..I literally had to do the in-through-the-nose-out-through-the-mouth exercise before asking my question to prevent sounding crazed…..so that might have had a small effect…..
But let me tell you — Michael Chester. This guy’s done it all. He holds the prestigious title of President of the Press Photographer’s Association of Ireland, and we were given the gift of hearing him speak for our next media visit.
Truly a renaissance man, Michael, or as his friends call him, Chester, has done a little bit of everything. He used to work on a ship — a job that allowed him to travel the world (he’s been to every country except for Australia and New Zealand). Among the many hats he’s worn, he went to school for engineering, worked for a super glue company (????), and is now a fantastically renowned journalist. I go into detail for days on how moving his presentation was, but just know that Ireland is in an impressive place photojournalism-wise, and they have a fearless leader at the forefront of the operation. (Chester also toured with U2 and photographed them regularly and casually refers to them as “the boys” so there’s that). He’s as sharp as a tack and as funny as anybody. He’s one of those guys that you can tell knows anybody who’s anybody in town (he showed us photos he had taken of the queen and Obama, some crowd favorites).
I really had two requests for visiting Dublin. I wanted to see live music and I wanted to eat a darn boxty potato.
I grew up eating boxty potatoes — my mom would fry up pans of them for a late lunch or for snacks. For those of you who have never been BLESSED BY THE GODS and have never eaten one, think of a thin, crunchy, buttery outside and a sweet, mashed potato-esque inside — IN PANCAKE FORM. That, my friend, is a boxty.
So a couple of us went to the Boxty House. The line was out the door but I was determined. EYES ON THE PRIZE, PEOPLE. THE PRIZE = FRIED POTATOES. My entire meal was superb. Long live the boxty.
In a potato stupor, we walked across Dublin to a live venue and pub (as aforementioned above). Admission to the show was free if you got in before 10:30. The music didn’t start until almost midnight, so we found a corner and watched the hip Dubliners snake in and out of the expansive venue (it was absolutely huge and incredible looking). We ordered a pizza when we got back and ran into some local guys at the ATM, who stopped to chat with us for a while about growing up in Ireland vs. the states. They were kind (and a little sloshed) but were generally entertaining.
Tomorrow’s our last day in Dublin. I’m mega attached to this place. In Iceland, it felt like the blink of an eye and then we were gone. Here, I’ve already developed an emotional attachment to the window sills in our little apartment! Don’t make me leave quite yet, please and thanks.
Affectionately,
Em
A day so good I chose two songs
You heard me. Two.
Song(s) of the day: Beautiful Day // U2
A Head Full of Dreams // Coldplay
Following Chester’s presentation on Friday, he made a promise to the photo students I was unsure he would keep. He said he would take us the next day all over the coast of Dublin for photo opportunities – all the way from downtown to Braye. At that point, I found it hard to believe that this man (with such an impressive portfolio) would be willing to drag some college kids he had just met around all day for some Kodak moments (especially because he railed on digital and the accessibility of cell phone photography and praised film – calling it “real photography”). I fell asleep with lots of doubts concerning the photo escapade.
The next morning, I met Chloe at an internet café to work on some writing. By early afternoon, Chester hadn’t reached back out to Chloe, and she and I had started planning a Dublin museum route as an alternate. Chloe, who had been in persistent contact with Chester for months before this trip to set up the media visit, remained hopeful. Not five minutes after I said the words, “I say he bails on us,” Chloe received a text from him that read, “Where are you?” She dropped him a pin, and five minutes later, he sent another text. “Come ouside.” We shared a look, slammed our laptops shut, and speed-walked out the café door (so quickly, in fact, that we completely forgot to pay – something I realized almost 24 hours later – forgive me, Irish infrastructure). Sure enough, there he was – the man himself – getting out of his 2016 BMW, wobbling towards us, making big, welcoming gestures with his hands. He insisted on buying us another coffee, and left us in his push-button-to-start vehicle alone while he ordered. He drove us quickly back to our hotel to grab our gear (my digital and my 50mm – something he was elated about – and called a “real” camera) and pick up two more of our peers.
On our way to Dublin Bay, he blasted Coldplay’s newest jawn – singing along in hilarious falsetto and dancing with the hand he wasn’t using to drive. He never forced conversation. He made endlessly bad jokes and hand-selected me to make fun of for the entire day. Truly, it seemed natural to be driving all along the Irish coast with this man we had just met.
Aside from the loveliness of the coast (I’ve never seen a single thing so beautiful) our experiences were speckled with anecdotes from Chester – stories of photographing concerts in sold-out arenas, tracking and photographing mafia bosses, talk of his two 10- and 13-year-old boys – and rugby, lots of rugby. He bought us 99 cent ice cream from a famous soft-serve place tucked in the side of Sandymount – a swimming hole adjacent to the sea. After, he walked us up a hill to the James Joyce tower – where Joyce spent four days writing with students. On the top of the turret overlooking the blue, he insisted on taking our group photograph.
He drove us through the town where he lives — Dalkey. It was small and beautiful and we couldn’t drive half a block without someone recognizing him through the car window and shouting out and waving to him. The same guy that knows Bono knew the coffee guy selling hot drinks on the boat docks; he knew the woman standing in front of the wine shop smoking a cigarette. And thanks to his generosity, he knows us now, too.
(He also took us past Van Morrison, Bono and the Edge’s houses.)
We drove us to the park where he takes his two boys and dog every Sunday to show us the view. He showed us the blue bench he sits on to sip coffee and collect his thoughts. He drove us back late, suggesting places for us to go the whole time (we ended up getting lost and ordering really bad Chinese food).
You know how there are days you tell yourself you’ll never forget? And then….you….uh….forget? I pray I don’t forget this day. I’m writing this so the vision of an Irish rainbow on the beach doesn’t slip my mind. I’m writing this so I don’t forget what it was like to watch the rowers jump from the edge of the rocks into the deepest part of the swimming hole, taking videos of one another and yelling across the divide at us to ask for requests. I hope I never lose the image of that Irish coastline — a thousand shades of green, cool and warm at the same time. I hope I never forget Michael Chester and his coarse, tried-and-true Irish humor — and the moments of secret tenderness, shining out of his face while sitting on that beautiful, very tall hill, showing us photos of his children.
Affectionately,
Em
Well that was Bel(fast)
An additional title: forgive me for that pun
Song of the day: Peacekeeper // Fleetwood Mac
“Don’t be afraid to fight / love is the sweet surprise….”
We left Dublin today via train and my heart is sad but anxious (in a good way) to have crossed the border into Belfast. Sometimes I forget that Ireland is made up of two completely different countries, both under completely different political rule. The feeling is quite different here – more historical, less irreverent, more British. The currency is the pound here (sigh) so we had to switch once again. At least it’s not the dreaded Krona! Also the accents here are more Scottish- and English-leaning, which is as entertaining as ever. Why oh why must my American accent be so lackluster…
As we’re traveling out of the Republic and into this part of the country, I’m hearing murmurs of “why are we here?” from our group. In juxtaposition of Dublin, this city is full of banks and city council buildings, not shopping centers. The suburbs are riddled with peace walls, separating Catholic and Protestant communities post-Troubles era. The streets (supposedly) have potential to become violent, given a disturbance between the communities. While I guess this isn’t what some of my peers bargained for, it’s exactly what I’m interested in seeing. Who cares about the size of the H&M here when there’s a three-layer peace wall looming in the background of your line of vision?
Before we reached where we were staying, we pulled off to look at the peace wall. I ran my fingers along the concrete, permanently stained with the Sharpie-wishes of strangers – “peace for Belfast,” “love is love,” and “our wall came down, so will yours” — the wishes of visitors from Berlin. I first scrawled “love thy neighbor” onto an open space, then marked “shalom” underneath someone’s entire family’s names who signed.
Standing there — at a wall so high you can’t see the clouds when you’re pressed against it – tilting your head up, squinting into the heavens, you could ask God a lot of questions.
There’s something about this city that draws me closer to it – its history, people, architecture. Everything here is muddied from the Troubles. Nothing has gone untouched. Pray for Belfast and its renewal and resiliency.
Affectionately,
Em
Talking fast while eating breakfast in Belfast
Song of the day: What Would I Do Without You // Drew Holcomb and the Neighbors. This is one of my favorite songs to play (and sing with my friend Carrie back in Pittsburgh) but it’s a little more meaningful if you read on. So, read on! I dare ya.
Thanks to my Ireland-savvy friend (who I met in a Pittsburgh coffee shop after following him on Instagram after a Drew Holcomb concert in New Jersey) Chloe and I had the best iced coffee we’ve had in Ireland so far.
A sad aside:
THERE IS NO ICED COFFEE TO BE FOUND IN THE COUNTRY OF IRELAND. ALSO ALL OTHER COFFEE HERE IS DISTRESSINGLY BAD. SEND HELP AND A FRENCH PRESS.
Anywho, thank you Michael Rickerby for suggesting Established Coffee for breakfast (he’s a really sweet human being who just released a bunch of songs; you should listen to them because he gave me good coffeehouse suggestions à soundcloud.com/michaelrickerby/sets/learning-to-fly).
Today, we toured BBC Northern Ireland as well as the Irish Times. I feel as though it’s important to include that I wore a sweater vest to visit both.
The BBC was dream-like. After a meaningful introduction, we were taken directly into one of their radio studios while a show was going on. It’s just as fast-paced and wild as you imagine – people handling phone calls, managing website comments, turning mics on and off – all while the people on the other side of the glass are filling the air with their thoughts. The newsroom, glowing with television and computer screens, bustling with journalists speaking with accents so thick it sounds foreign, was a journalist’s dream come true. Things got less shiny and much more poignant, however, when we spoke to a journalist working on the afternoon news show. The headliner was a story on a 15-year-old girl who has just overdosed and died in the city. There’s just something about this place…
The Irish Times was a compelling visit. One of the most interesting parts of the visit was meeting and hearing from the editor of the religion section (coincidentally he’s also the editor of the automotive section). Religion is the source of such a vast divide in this country. This newspaper is considered largely Catholic-leaning, meaning that Protestants probably wouldn’t buy or read the content from the Irish Times. This editor, however, is Protestant – yet he writes for and edits a Catholic religion section of a newspaper. That is fantastic. Objectivity is significant!
Following our visits, I went in a music shop we had passed earlier. I was desperate to play a guitar or piano and sing something (I knew that traveling for this long without an instrument would be a test of my musical endurance!) and so I wound up in the acoustic room of a two-story music store. I had 15 minutes until the place closed down, so I teased myself by playing for such a small amount of time. As I walked down the stairs, I saw a Drew Holcomb and the Neighbors poster – the band that my friend Michael Rickerby has guitar-teched for. The poster was from a show back in September, and I immediately asked the manager if I could buy the poster from him and give it to Michael as a gift. He turned down my offer – insisting that Drew was one of the best guys they’d ever had play there. He wanted to keep the poster up in case they ever came back and played. Small world, folks.
Chloe, Trevor and I ate dinner (upon Michael’s suggestion, once again) at a place called Muriel’s. It was DELECTABLE. One of Chloe’s friends was also in Belfast at the time, so she met us there for dinner. She was ridiculously sweet and we talked shoegaze and post-rock all night. Oh, Muriel’s….it was here that I was harassed by the bartender who questioned my entire reason for being in Ireland given that I don’t drink……sigh…….
We’re headed to Galway tomorrow and Chloe and I can’t stop blasting Galway Girl.
Affectionately,
Em
No Gal(way) I’m ever leaving
A pun so bad it’s good
Song of the day: Galway Girl // Ed Sheeran (It’s only fitting, okay. Also I didn’t hear anyone play this song while I was here…..hmmm……plus Ed filmed this in Galway! He also got his musical start busking on the streets of Galway, right in front of a swanky shop called the Treasure Chest. I went inside to ask about stamps).
This city…
I’m not sure if anyone has ever truly questioned this before, but the endless hours switching from place to place are always wildly worth it once you arrive. Never again will I question a long bus ride, endless train ride or bumpy airplane trip. The product will always be beautiful and exciting.
We haven’t been here long, but this place easily rivals Dublin. I feel incredibly welcome here. (Not to mention the Irish say “you’re very welcome” when they greet you anywhere, which I first thought was sarcastic….but then realized they actually meant we were legitimately welcome there…)
Despite foggy rain, we walked from our hotel to the center of downtown. We did a walking tour of sorts – peeking in shops and restaurants. You’ll definitely never guess, but there was more live music. On every corner, somebody was playing something – everything from Britney Spears covers to a traditional Irish folk tune, there was no quiet. I liked it quite a bit.
We went to another music shop, where I quickly became friends with the co-owner after he asked me what instruments I couldn’t play, instead of which ones I could. I had heard that I needed to play a Lowden (a handmade guitar native to Ireland) and he let me mess around on a handmade something-or-other from Sweden. He also let me play a beautiful piano and I told him I would be back tomorrow.
We had fall-apart-in-your-mouth fish and chips afterwards and then listened to a band in the square for a while – they played a great version of Richard Thompson’s “Beeswing.” We later saw some live music at a place called the Quay’s (pronounced keys) and the band there covered the same song. Must be a crowd favorite.
She was a rare a thing/light as a bee’s wing/she was a lost child/she was running’ wild…
Affectionately,
Em
All I have to do is dream
Working title: but actually I have to spend hundreds of dollars on plane tickets
Song of the day: All I Have to Do is Dream // The Everly Brothers. When I asked two musicians tucked into a Galway alley who their biggest influence was, they named off the Everly Brothers first. Then they played this song for me on an American guitar. The rest of the day was a little bit like a dream.
We got to sleep in today and I was overjoyed (let those without sin throw the first stone). We had our single and final media visit scheduled today at Galway Bay FM, the highest reaching station here in Galway. It was here my eyes were opened to the sports god of Ireland and its immense powers…….(and quote: “Lasses will date lads just because they play a sport.”) Wait…doesn’t that happen here too?
After sitting in on the news radio show and talking to several of the sports editors, (who were super inviting and gave us cute canvas bags) we were released into the wild to do with the afternoon whatever we pleased. This was our chance to simultaneously greet Galway and bid it farewell. Tomorrow, we’re headed to Bunratty.
Part of this trip means working and nurturing an article that we put together while we’re across the pond. My ideas fluctuated (typical) and I changed themes as quickly as we changed landscapes. But once we got nestled in Galway, I knew I had to write about the small, family-owned music shops downtown. I had to go back to interview my friend who invited me to play the Swedish guitar the night before.
Chloe, Trevor and I split up. I left to work on my article, snapping photos of pretty custom headstocks, silvery flutes and whistles, and recording sound bites from shop workers, while the two of them explored.
While walking back towards the shore after an interview with a luthier named Kieran Moloney, I passed a small entrance to an alleyway. Music swirled out of the V that the lines of the walls formed looking towards the other end of the alley. The sounds stopped me dead in my tracks. I immediately backtracked the step that I had taken beyond the entrance and walked through the passageway.
I paused to listen to two musicians, who, according to the cardboard sign propped in the velvety inside of their guitar case, were the Gawley Brothers. After gaping at them for the entirety of a song, I told them how lovely they sounded and how I had to turn around to come back to hear them. One half of the brothers was playing a gorgeous acoustic with a tortoise shell pickguard, dotted with abalone inlay that trickled down the neck. I took a quick glance at the headstalk to see if I recognized the maker, only to see the word “Blueridge” swirled across the top. I said something about being from West Virginia (Blueridge mountains represent, y’all) and he told me he got it from a fellow named Keiran Moloney. Small world, eh?
Long story short, I played a song for them that I’m working on finishing and then they asked me to play something with them when they performed later. (This is the equivalent of asking a person if they want a million dollars for free.) Of course I said yes! We stumbled through a couple Dylan tunes – “Don’t Think Twice” and “Make You Feel My Love.” Some of my classmates got to hear me play the latter, and it was mad fun. The brothers were blisteringly kind and enormously talented. If you’ve got a pair of ears, listen to their stuff and tell me their voices don’t sound like water running over rocks.
I hoped to run into both of them later that night, but maybe it’ll have to be later in life. I’ve promised Troy Gawley a songwriting session.
Sometime in between singing and swaying in the streets of Galway, I sat by the river with Chloe and Trevor. We ended up hanging out with some locals who reminded me a little of my friends back home. They were rolling cigarettes and made fun of the way I said “y’all.” We talked Trump for a while, voicing woes and drawing conclusions. One of them taught me some apparently genuine Irish slang, although I wondered aloud if he was making it all up as he went. (He didn’t deny it.)
We went to a burrito place they suggested (similar to Chipotle but tastier and cheaper) and then sat together on the water and watched the boats drift off and the sun go to sleep.
On the walk to the Front Door to hear more music, I couldn’t help but already miss this place. I know it’s profitless to mourn the loss of a place before you’ve even left, but today I just couldn’t help it.
I need you so that I could die / I love you so and that is why / Whenever I want you, all I have to do is / Drea-ea-ea-ea-eam, dream, dream, dream…
Affectionately,
Em
I went to one of those castle dinners where you eat without utensils
And I didn’t hate it
How do you wrap up a trip like this?
I’ll tell you how.
You make merry in the mead hall.
Today, we drove to Bunratty. We saw an incredible amount of adorable baby sheep along the way, so I was pretty high on life. (I am transfixed by tiny sheep. It is one of my attributes. I am unwilling to change.)
The inn we’re staying at is just adorable, and probably the coolest place we’ve stayed so far. It’s single level, and really expansive with a rambling garden around the back. (There was a point in time where I thought Chloe had been stolen, but turns out she was just roving through the gardens. Now that I’m thinking about it, there have been a lot of times on this trip where I have convinced myself Chloe had been stolen.)
So, yes, we ate dinner in a castle. The employees were in full on renaissance era garb. They operatically sang “O Danny Boy” in five-part harmony. I ate chicken breast with my hands. And despite all the details I just told you, it wasn’t that bad.
After we returned back from the feast, Chloe, Trevor and I hung out and reminisced on the trip, and on Ireland in general. It was beyond wild to think that the next morning we were getting on a plane headed to New York. We somehow ended up ordering a pizza (don’t ask how it was humanly possible to somehow consume more food) and we sat in the windowsill of our hotel room and laughed until we forced our bodies to go to sleep.
Affectionately,
Em
A series of unfortunate events: an absurdist’s perspective on flight delays
Pending title: 9 minutes too late
‘Twas a dark and stormy night.
So stormy, in fact, that every flight from here to Nova Scotia was delayed.
It was the iPhone ding heard round the world. “Flight delayed.”
Things started going downhill for the Point Park University International Media class the minute those phones vibrated or pinged or flashed or whatever your text alert notification preference happened to be.
Morale worsened when we realized that we would miss our NYC to Pittburgh connecting flight by less than an hour, therefore putting our journey home substantially behind.
Cue the panicking college students.
At this point, I truly felt little to no turmoil about the whole ordeal, considering we had been gone for two weeks at this point. What damage could a few (or more) extra hours do? Chloe was with me in the whole remaining satisfied with our present lives thing. Some of our peers…not so much.
During our seven hour plane ride from Shannon to JFK, we got word that the plane leaving for Pittsburgh was going to wait for us, given that we took up 1/8 of the seats in their vessel. We knew we would have to book it once we landed, but things were looking up. (They really were, y’all.)
Once we touched down in JFK, our pilot told us there was a bit of traffic on the runway and that it would take a while for us to be able to exit. This put pretty much everybody on edge more than they were already, and when they finally released us, I quite literally sprinted to our terminal. At this point I’m still impressed with myself, quite honestly. Literally I was the first person from our group there. I know, reader. It’s incredibly hard to believe. But apparently I have some cardio left in me somewhere. (I have witnesses! I did not give up, people! When I got tired I literally thought “if your entire class misses this flight by 30 seconds….just because you got tired…..you will never be able to forgive yourself.”)
Turns out we missed it by 9 minutes!
Cue the hyperventilation!
(Not on my part, but a lot of people were really upset and ended up scheduling and paying extra for other flights and bus rides and things of that nature.)
When we were sitting in the terminal waiting for someone from Delta to come and talk to us about where we were staying for the night, amidst the reverberation of my weeping classmates, Trevor looked over at me and said, “I’m gonna go get a snack.”
That was pretty much our attitude for the next 24 hours. We were put up in a nice hotel in Queens (for free) and Chloe and I ate some really bad burgers and decided to take the train into the city for the night. We were sleepy, but we bought clothes for the next day (because we had next to nothing in our carry-ons) and went to Central Park, and of course drank a lot of iced coffee.
We left early the next morning for La Guardia (we were part of the smaller group of five that got split up in the new flights) and soon enough, I touched down on Pittsburgh turf.
When I saw my family, it felt reminiscent of returning from summer camp. The two weeks had flown by. I told them so many stories that my voice felt hoarse and I barely touched my food at the restaurant.
I’m elated to get to travel to France (and get paid to live there!!!!) but for now, being nestled back in the mountains is pretty mellow. I should discipline myself to write more willingly when I’m away. Already, it’s been rewarding to look back at these little musings and remember these days away from home. Any writer will tell you that the mark of a good writer is that they write even when they aren’t feeling especially creative or inspired. Don Miller insists that if you only write when you’re feeling like a virtuoso, you’re nothing more than someone who likes to journal.
Thanks for following me on this little journey. I owe you one. Here’s to learning how to write through the complacencies.
Affectionately,
Em
