As If I Needed More Irish Exposure

Anyone who knows me knows that I have an unhealthy obsession with Ireland (and that's putting it lightly). I couldn't tell you where the obsession started, only that I love Ireland so much that I decided to get my Master's in Irish Studies. I'm gonna stop you right there, because I know what you are going to say. What am I going to do with a Master's in Irish Studies? I'm going to be honest with you...most likely nothing. But I enjoy the subject, so that's enough for me. (And it certainly seemed like a good idea to at least be doing something right after undergrad graduation, when I had no job and no prospects.)


This is a shot of some buddies and me in July of 2006 when we studied abroad in Ireland. On the way back to Dublin from the Dingle Peninsula (that's really the name), we stopped off for a little taste of the opposite side of the Atlantic.


One of the courses I'm taking this semester is Irish Language. What. A. Joke. I'm serious. You think Arabic is hard? Hold onto your hats, my friends. This language is impossible. In what universe is the world "bhfuil" pronounced "will"? The Irish one. While I can't see myself getting anything more out of this class other than knowing how to say "My name is Meagan," (Is mise Meagan) there are certainly a lot of perks.

1. My professor is the man. Imagine Shrek, but not green, and with a handle-bar mustache that curves around to his ears. Then you have Professor Art J. Hughes, originally from Belfast and lecturing as a Fullbright Scholar for the year at NYU's Glucksman Ireland House. He knows no one is going to amount to much in our class, so we spend the time repeating after him and then learning the history of language.

2. You get to attend events. Last night I attended a reception at the Consulate General of Ireland on Park Avenue in New York. It was in honor of the Deputy Consulate General's launch of the European Certificate Irish Language program, which will be run in conjunction with Glucksman Ireland House. I must admit I didn't know what to expect. But when I got there I saw a table of food and an open bar. Score.

The evening continued with poetry readings and a lot of Irish speaking. I absorbed about 15 percent of the night. But with my glass of wine and the bouncy, traditional music (which makes me weak in the knees) it was smooth sailing. Cap the whole night off with a private show of traditional Irish step-dancing? I'd say it was a success.

Now all I have to do is get back to Ireland (for my sixth visit). Oh what a post that will be....

Barcelona Thieves

I head off to Sundance Film Festival on Friday. Until I have a report from that five-day frenzy, here is a little something to get you started. I wrote this for my good friend Joe Pike's blog. The scene: Spain in August of 2009...

In my short 22 years I have visited over 200 cities in 17 countries. I’m still working out my list of top five cities but I have it pinned down to New York, Dublin, Paris, Venice and No.5 is to be determined. I like to think of myself as the anti-tourist, and arrogantly so.
I laugh to myself when I hear tales of woe from people who make classic mistakes: being lured to the world’s largest ball of twine or buying that ring for grandma from the guy who swore it came right off the Pope’s hand. But hubris is a tricky friend and I certainly got what was coming to me on my most recent trip to Barcelona.
My passport was stolen.
Yep, that’s right. Magellan over here had her most important document swiped, leaving me panicked in a foreign city running around like a moron trying to get help from anyone and looking a lot like those people I mercilessly mock.
I was traveling with my family and while I was watching the car with my brother and stretching our legs someone rode up to us on a bike and started speaking in Spanish and French. We don’t speak either and I’m pretty sure this guy picked up on that as I was sporting my Minnesota Twins (Joe Mauer to be exact) t-shirt.
As he pedaled off it dawned on us that this guy was a clever decoy. We had been duped. His henchman opened the other side of the car and swiped my mother’s purse, in which were all three passports.
To be polite I’m going to censor the stream of expressions that spilled out of our mouths. Brother kicked off his Birkenstocks and took off barefoot after the thief. But it was too late. There would be no heroic end to this tale of woe.
And all I saw of Barcelona was the inside of the police station waiting room and interrogation room.
As for the locals, I met Phillip, the six-language-speaking, delightfully sarcastic tourism officer assisting the drunk, hysterical and impatient tourists who were also taken for a ride. I also became acquainted with some of the city’s finest as I looked at mug shots.
The Barcelona cuisine? Well, that chocolate bar and Fanta from the vending machine certainly exceeded my expectations.
After three hours we left the station with a police report. What was supposed to be a long, relaxing weekend turned into a disaster and we were out of there before 10 a.m. the next day. Sorry Barcelona, you didn’t make the top five cut but you definitely took me down a few much-needed notches.
It Could Happen to You
In all seriousness, if you should find yourself in a similar situation the first thing to do is file a police report. The US consulates cannot issue new passports without an official report. Second, locate the nearest Consulate General because only these can print new documents. Call them and get their hours of operation and any other information they require from you. For us, our passports could be reissued within a day but not all are the same so make sure you have all the info from the specific U.S consulate in the country you are visiting. And third, don’t freak out. People are much more inclined to help you if you aren’t in hysterics - and trust that it will all get taken care of.
You’ll get home. And a good tip is to travel with copies of your passport because this expedites the process at the consulate and many hotels require your passport number at check-in.