Yesterday was my first day of the scoil eigse, Irish
for, roughly, “learning school.” After being sorted into 5 different class
levels—and being shown the door by a bunch of way-too-talented teens and
pre-teens, who’ve clearly been doing this since before they were born—I landed
in one level up from the bottom. I could probably have gone into the middle
level, but I like the teacher, and didn’t complain. After a day, though, and
being made aware of an adults-only class where they just work on building
repertoire, I think I’m going to switch. A few of the kids—I’m talking 8 year
olds—in my current class should be outside playing, not inside doing something
they clearly don’t want to be doing. It feels a bit like daycare.
So: Drogheda—the town. Fleadh—the festival. (By the way, for those who, like me, don't speak Irish, it's pronouced “flah.”) I’m still not
getting my bearings. There was a drenching, sustained rain in the afternoon
that cleared the streets for a while, but by the time classes were over and I
made it down to the streets of the town (with some aid from a taxi this time,
to avoid getting soaked), things were back to normal. Lots of kids busking on
the street, some higher-end tunes being played in the pubs and restaurants, and
still not sure where the yummy stuff is. I spoke with someone in the pop-up
store where fleadh information is given, and she gave me lots of general ideas
of where to go and what to do, particularly next week when the fleadh is over. I
hadn’t gotten much sleep the previous evening, so I was tired and just wanted
to go back to Dublin by late afternoon. So I did.
When you’re home and just living your life, you don’t constantly
think “I should be doing something.” Well maybe you do, but I don’t. I’m here
for a month, but it’s not really possible or preferable to be constantly in
vacation mode. I’m trying not to beat myself up for just wanting to take things
as they come, make some plans, but not feel like I need to go go go all the
time. Conversely, I think about what it would be like to live in month-long
timelines, using that arbitrary time frame to accomplish more, do more, live
more. And maybe I do think about it when I'm home, but I'm not as aware of it. Something to ponder.
I bought a week pass for the train to Drogheda, but I bought
it from the wrong originating station. So every morning I need to go to the station
attendant and ask him to let me in. Yesterday he wasn’t around, but he left the
gate open for me. This morning I thought I’d play dumb and try to use my pass,
but it kept beeping.
Here’s how that would go down in DC’s Metro station:
Me: “My card doesn’t seem to be working.”
Station Attendant: Frowns. Asks for ID. Scans card. Stares at computer. Calls supervisor. Says they’ll let me through this time, but go get a new card.
Here’s how it went down this morning in Dublin:
Me: “Good morning.”
Station Attendant: Pushes button to let me through.
At the scoil eigse (skol egg-sheh) are a bunch of folks from the States, including
several from my area, and a rabbi who’s half Irish and who sings in Irish. I
think she and I are going to be fast friends.
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| On the train to Drogheda |
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| On the streets of Drogheda |
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| Some of the many super-talented kids busking |
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| Decisions, decisions... |
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