Pancake Tuesday

The day before Ash Wednesday is known throughout the world by many names (Fat Tuesday, Shrove Tuesday, Tuesday...), but in Ireland, it is known as 'Pancake Tuesday.' This title seems to originate from the need to rid the house of flour before Lent (a practice with which I have been unfamiliar until now), and the best way to do that seems to be by converting the flour into pancakes.

As the token Yank, I was placed in charge of the pancake making this year, since apparently Americans have an innate pancake-making skill. I haven't made pancakes in years, and the ones I used to make on the griddle back home were small and somewhat thick. In Ireland, however, pancakes are the size of the pan, and quite thin. Nonetheless, I resolved to flip them to the best of my ability, regardless of the damage to the ceiling of the kitchen.

Thus, last night, I whipped up some pancake batter, and with mild trepidation, poured it into the pan. After seeing the telltale bubbles, I boldly seized the handle of the pan and flipped. The pancake barely flopped at the edges. With less temerity, I flipped again, and this time the pancake hopped up in the pan, but unfortunately landed on the same side. Knowing that this next toss would make or break my unearned pancake reputation, I flipped a third time, and the pancake soared into the air...

... and landed perfectly in the pan, right side up. Well pleased with myself, I slid the cooked pancake onto a plate, and proceeded to successfully cook the rest of the batter. We ate them with lemon juice and brown sugar (an interesting but not bad combo) and with maple syrup (much more up my alley). I had a bunch of these lovingly-made delicacies, and then began to understand how Pancake Tuesday could actually just be a synonym for Fat Tuesday...

St. Valentine

Valentine's Day, though it is a disingenuous, manufactured, Hallmark Holiday, can still be fun to celebrate when there is a more unusual way to mark it than chocolate and roses. This year, I found that I could celebrate Valentine's Day in Dublin in a way that you can't celebrate it anywhere else: with a trip to see St. Valentine himself.

The story goes that Father John Spratt, a Carmelite friar, journeyed from Dublin to Rome in 1835, and so impressed the Pope, Gregory XVI, that il Papa decided to present him with the remains of St. Valentine to take back to his home church. The truth of this trip is attested in the letter, displayed in a bronze tablet in the church, written by Gregory. Since December of 1835, then, the Whitefriar Street Church has had a shrine to the martyred patron saint of lovers, and a box of his remains and a vial of his blood.

This Saturday Valentine's Day, we arrived on Aungier St before mass was finished, so the church was quite crowded. When the service ended, we joined the line (I'm sorry, the queue) forming on the aisle nearest the saint's shrine. Here is a picture of the shrine:


It was pretty special, actually, to see all the people asking the saint for luck and love on the most romantic day of the year. There was a book underneath the statue of the saint in which the visitors wrote prayers or intercessions or requests. I read a few of them when it was my turn, and people were expressing their love for each other, for their families, even for the city of Dublin itself. There were thanks and requests, and when people were done writing, they turned around and lit a candle in front of the shrine. You can see a few of them in the picture, but it doesn't really give an impression of the light and shimering heat of the hundreds of candles.

After this visit to the shrine, the queue snaked around to the front of the church, where the box containing the saint's remains sat on a table. As people walked past it, they touched it, a motion very familiar to me, after leading people into St. Peter's every day last summer. It was a really unique and special way to mark Valentine's Day, and Hallmark had nothing to do with it...

Up Ireland!

Last night was a World Cup qualifier match between Ireland and Georgia. (For those of you who might prefer the other kind of football, I should mention this was a soccer match.) Even though the next World Cup isn't until 2010, the teams are deciding now who will be attending the final in South Africa. A bit hasty, I think, but I love a good sports game, so I can't really complain.

In my new house, I live VERY near Croke Park, affectionately known as 'Croker,' the stadium where basically all Irish sports are being played at the moment. Usually, soccer matches are played at Landsdown Road (no, Boston fans, not THAT Landsdown Road), but since that stadium is under construction, soccer has joined rugby, gaelic football (don't ask), and hurling (really don't ask) at Croke Park. Thus, I can be assured that about once a week, the Gardai will shut down my street, which will then be inundated with green-clad men, women, and children, all yelling and pretty much all intoxicated. The atmosphere on these days is unbeatable, and I have been known to just walk the length of my street, trying to be a part of it. I can't afford a ticket (nor do I know the rules to most of these sports), but that doesn't stop me from putting on my green and white striped shirt and walking with the crowd.

Yesterday, I decided to walk not only up my street, but also to continue on all the way to the pub, so that I could actually watch the match. Joining the green mob in the pub, I watched the playing of the Irish national anthem, which no one really knows, and sat down with my pint of cider to watch. Within the first minute, Georgia scored, and things looked really poor for Ireland. After another pint and some helpful instruction from a hardcore fan of the Irish team, I felt comfortable enough to offer my own high-decibel advice to the television screen. Ireland finally came back towards the end of the second half, scoring two goals in five minutes, and effectively preventing me from having to deal with upset drunks outside my house all night. When the team wins, the Irish fans go out for another drink, but when they lose, they tend to hang around the stadium for a while first.

I walked back home, through the throng of singing Irish fans, seriously enjoying the post-win buzz. They turned off the stadium lights fairly late, but they'll be on again next weekend, when Ireland plays Italy in Six Nations Rugby. And then I'll get to do it all again.

WHITE OUT!!!!!

Today, all of Ireland is at a standstill because it is in the midst of THE STORM OF THE CENTURY, described to us news-watchers in that tone of voice that implies capital letters. Reporters on Sky news are standing in front of their green screens in their warm offices dressed in parkas and fur mittens, relaying the dire weather conditions while the wind machine blows fiercely at them, too scared to venture out into the snow.

To give you an impression of the sheer volume of snow that has caused schools to be canceled and buses to stop running, I present you with this picture:


Yes, dear friends, it's true: the snow has actually stuck to the ground. Those cars you see in the background have been there since this morning, unable to move because their tires aren't suited for this kind of precipitation. The poor drivers are probably freezing slowly as their cars run out of gas. I would bring them out hot food and blankets, but we are basically snowed in. In fact, the doors have probably frozen shut in the 32-degree weather. I only hope that I have enough non-perishable food to last me until someone can come remove the centimeter of snow from the front step. Maybe I will try to make water by melting some of the snow. I wonder if there is enough out there for a cup of tea...

My Bike

Today, I bought a bicycle. While you might say to yourself, 'But wait, isn't it wintertime?', let me assure you that Ireland's climate (which is maritime, technically) is not all that cold. Except in August, of course, when it is freezing. While there is a great deal of rain in general, there is almost no snow, and no ice, so riding a bike simply requires a bit of fortitude and a good rain coat. In fact, the largest threat to cyclists is traffic. I have been on buses that 'accidentally' sideswiped a biker, or seen cars pull out in front of a speeding bike.

Darkness is worse (and Ireland is very dark right now), because the drivers get a bit more reckless, and the bikers are still forced to ride in the streets. To avoid serious harm, most cyclists wear neon yellow reflective vests. I find that these serve mainly as bright targets, at which cars aim with general abandon. Nonetheless, I am very excited to have a bike, and very hopeful that I won't get hit by anything worse than the rain.

Locked Up

Continuing my tour of Irish monuments, I went to Kilmainham Gaol this week to explore the Dickensian, Victorian, Revolutionary part of Irish history. Also, the Tudors is filmed there...

The gaol (DON'T call it a 'jail,' apparently...) is unsurprisingly cold and damp. I won't give too much of the history here, mostly because our tour guide didn't do a great job of explaining it. Most of the people on the tour were foreigners like myself, who don't know that much about Irish history, but this guide seemed to assume we all knew the details. Even so, it was interesting to see this building which played host to some of the most famous people in Irish history, including the leaders of the 1916 Easter Rising.

In addition to seeing their cells, we also saw the change in the style of incarceration in the architecture. Kilmainham was a 'reform' prison, a marked improvement over the conditions and facilities so familiar to Dickens. In fact, part of the new wing was almost beautiful. So long as you had a coat and were free to leave... Some pictures:

The Céilí

Yesterday, just for kicks, I decided to go Irish dancing with a few friends. We had no prior experience with such things, but we did have a few pints, so off we trekked to the Céilí. Céilí is an Irish word (pronounced 'KAY-lee') meaning 'dance party.' This particular one was being held specifically for people like myself, who had never had the fortune to learn how to Irish dance as a child. Thus, when we arrived, we found the place filled with other wary, variably intoxicated, and shuffling Yanks, Canucks, and Aussies. Our mutual presence assuaged most of the lasting fears about looking like a fool in front of a huge window facing the street.

The two man traditional Irish band lulled us into further security with their familiar tunes (including the quintessential hit 'Irish Rover'), and then introduced our dancing mistress, a tall blonde in a tiny purple dress. Actually, the dress was a traditional Irish dancing dress, and I am pretty sure I'd like to have one. But back to our story: Sue, as she is called, danced solo for a few reels, and then beckoned us wary watchers onto the floor. She was an excellent teacher, and thankfully didn't try to teach us anything too complex. After arranging us into a circle, she informed us that she was going to teach us a 'circle dance.' So far, so good.

The circle dance involved a lot of holding hands and yelling, which was soon found to be 'great craic', and not at all embarrassing. The pints of cider or beer we had to drink because the dance was tiring also helped with this impression. After the circle dance, we learned a line dance, which was much harder than the circle dance, and this time the cider was not helping. It still involved holding hands, however, so we clutched each other for safety. After a herculean effort on Sue's part, we dancers finally managed to get through the dance without falling all over each other (harder than it sounds, trust me), and soon enough, were happily skipping away to the music.

We all took a bit of a break to listen to the band after this, and to let the dance steps (and another pint) soak in. After singing along (and whooping and clapping at all the right spots during 'Galway Girl') we got back on the floor to perform our impressive dances. We did the circle dance and then the line dance, and then the circle dance again. We were meant to do the line dance again, but no one could make it to their spots, and we all ended up trying to go under each other's arms. This resulted in some accidental clothes-lining of a few of the shorter dancers. Laughing and leaving for another pub, we decided that we'd definitely go to another céilí, if we'd only be invited...