Saturday, October 27, 2012
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Finished college demotivation
From what I hear it's a common trend. You spend the last 5...4...3...2...1...point 5 months of college dying to be finished. You think of all the things you'll do with your freedom, the places you'll see. We spend 80% of our waking lives up until this point in education, in the system, institutionalized. And in being so there's always pressure to stay in, read the book rather than going out then plan for your next essay. The end of college while you're in college seems like the end of an 18 year prison sentence, not because it's not enjoyable but because of the lack of freedom. And what am I doing now that I'm free? The same thing I'd do on a weekend during college. Playing a video game or watching dvds.
I'm not sure why I'm surprised, we tend to repeat our behaviors and it takes tremendous effort to break patterns. Today I sat down after having a pot of Macaronni and Cheese for breakfast and played 8 hours of Command and Conquer, a game I don't even think I like. Everything's on hold, life's on hold. It brings me down. Before the last exam it was on hold because I had the exams to get ready for. But now there's no excuse. My suspicion in is it's because my last exam didn't go tremendously and I won't feel complete till the results come out. Another 3 and a half weeks to go.
Semi-jokingly yesterday I asked a good friend who's 2 years graduated now 'So what now, what do we do now that we're finished?' And semi-jokingly he said 'face disappointment trying to find a job, work in a crap depressing job.' Which is what he's been doing, and he's far better qualified than I am. This on the same day we went to see the Obama rally, which in today's Ireland, has to be among the most motivating events one can experience first hand. Barack more or less echoed the words of another US president with Irish roots, Kennedy, when he said:
I'm not sure why I'm surprised, we tend to repeat our behaviors and it takes tremendous effort to break patterns. Today I sat down after having a pot of Macaronni and Cheese for breakfast and played 8 hours of Command and Conquer, a game I don't even think I like. Everything's on hold, life's on hold. It brings me down. Before the last exam it was on hold because I had the exams to get ready for. But now there's no excuse. My suspicion in is it's because my last exam didn't go tremendously and I won't feel complete till the results come out. Another 3 and a half weeks to go.
Semi-jokingly yesterday I asked a good friend who's 2 years graduated now 'So what now, what do we do now that we're finished?' And semi-jokingly he said 'face disappointment trying to find a job, work in a crap depressing job.' Which is what he's been doing, and he's far better qualified than I am. This on the same day we went to see the Obama rally, which in today's Ireland, has to be among the most motivating events one can experience first hand. Barack more or less echoed the words of another US president with Irish roots, Kennedy, when he said:
"And, Ireland, if anyone ever says otherwise, if anybody ever tells you that your problems are too big, or your challenges are too great, that we can’t do something, that we shouldn’t even try -- think about all that we’ve done together. Remember that whatever hardships the winter may bring, springtime is always just around the corner. And if they keep on arguing with you, just respond with a simple creed: Is féidir linn. Yes, we can. Yes, we can. Is féidir linn. "
Barack Obama, Dublin, 23 May 2011.
Having nothing to do, no real responsibility may seem like no obstacle and zero hardship. But at the same time it's no obstacle to overcome. The future possibilities at this point can seem either mediocre or impossible. I guess it's time to start setting some new goals. With a properly positive mindset you'd never tell yourself that too much time has been wasted, rather than racing from running out of time you'd be racing to your goal for the sheer want of achieving it.
This demotivation slump needs to end. It's a clear indication that a currently held mindset needs fixing. This task is not a simple one. It's not easy, but as the mana Obama says, Is féidir liom (though I thought that meant I prefer).
Anyway, 2.30 am. Bed time. Time to wake up and put a stake through this lazy daemon's heart. Goodnight.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Surely someone's come up with answers to the big questions at this stage
Recently a quote from the Merchant of Venice summed up my fears for the near future. In fact quotes could probably put what's on my mind better than words of my own. No that's not true. You've read my stuff if you've read this. The quote I'm on about is I think by Antonio when he's a bit melancholy over something. Now I'm not trying to say I'm melancholy, that shit I keep off the internet. I'll show you the quote and then explain.
"In sooth I know not why I am so sad, It wearies me you say it wearies you. Yet I know not how I caught it, found it or came by it, what stuff 'tis made of, whereof it is born. And such a wantwit sadness makes of me, that I have much ado to know myself" - Shakespeare.
This I feel is a possible pitfall in life that can follow not knowing who you are and what you want. There is a certain amount to be said for just going with the flow, enjoying life as it comes one day at a time. But as the mechanic said in fight club, "If you don't know what you want in life, you end up with a lot of stuff you don't". It's at the points in life such as where I now find myself, the intersections. The point where one stage finishes and a new stage has to start. Between secondary school and college, between college and the real world, these times really call for some evaluation.
Keeping an open mind and admitting that I don't have everything figured out has it's merits for me. I think it's a more honest exclamation. I see a lot of people who just followed the sensible path discontented at 25, 30, 40, 50. At 50 years of age if you've followed the sensible path and it's led you somewhere you wish you weren't you're screwed. Let's face it. I'm not saying that at 50 if I'm not loaded I'll be unhappy. Really the opposite could be true. I think for most with a few brain cells it's possible to make a mint by 50, though that could be a consuming way to live, leaving me looking back at all I hadn't done.
"Know thyself" a greek maxim inscribed on the temple of Apollo. It's meant as a warning about not getting too big for your boots. But it's always meant more to me being a person trying to figure myself out. It should be at the basis of all your big decisions. The decision about what college course to take was made largely based on influence, luckily it worked out and I ended up liking it. But that was a fluke.
Another reason for figuring out who you are and what you want being so important is summed up in another fight club quote, this time one by Marla Singer. Talking about herself in the third person Marla says: "she's afraid to commit to the wrong thing, so she never commits to anything". Without commitment great things never happen. Without committing yourself in rock climbing you never push your grade and make harder climbs. Without committing in running you'll find yourself sitting in front of the tv with a bag of doritos more often than getting out on the road for a 5 k run.
I could go through more ins and outs of the whole figuring out stuff and why it's bugging me recently but it'd go on all day. And seeing as a few of you were talking to me about earlier blogs I figured I'd put my thoughts to text, as much as a means of therapy, to try figure myself out as it is to get your ideas.
This summer I plan to do some soul searching. A month or two on my bike and the open road. I'm unsure about whether to bring my netbook so I can keep up to date with job hunting and to keep a blog or to totally unplug and delve a bit deeper with the self exploration. It's a couple of months away though. No panic.
"In sooth I know not why I am so sad, It wearies me you say it wearies you. Yet I know not how I caught it, found it or came by it, what stuff 'tis made of, whereof it is born. And such a wantwit sadness makes of me, that I have much ado to know myself" - Shakespeare.
This I feel is a possible pitfall in life that can follow not knowing who you are and what you want. There is a certain amount to be said for just going with the flow, enjoying life as it comes one day at a time. But as the mechanic said in fight club, "If you don't know what you want in life, you end up with a lot of stuff you don't". It's at the points in life such as where I now find myself, the intersections. The point where one stage finishes and a new stage has to start. Between secondary school and college, between college and the real world, these times really call for some evaluation.
Keeping an open mind and admitting that I don't have everything figured out has it's merits for me. I think it's a more honest exclamation. I see a lot of people who just followed the sensible path discontented at 25, 30, 40, 50. At 50 years of age if you've followed the sensible path and it's led you somewhere you wish you weren't you're screwed. Let's face it. I'm not saying that at 50 if I'm not loaded I'll be unhappy. Really the opposite could be true. I think for most with a few brain cells it's possible to make a mint by 50, though that could be a consuming way to live, leaving me looking back at all I hadn't done.
"Know thyself" a greek maxim inscribed on the temple of Apollo. It's meant as a warning about not getting too big for your boots. But it's always meant more to me being a person trying to figure myself out. It should be at the basis of all your big decisions. The decision about what college course to take was made largely based on influence, luckily it worked out and I ended up liking it. But that was a fluke.
Another reason for figuring out who you are and what you want being so important is summed up in another fight club quote, this time one by Marla Singer. Talking about herself in the third person Marla says: "she's afraid to commit to the wrong thing, so she never commits to anything". Without commitment great things never happen. Without committing yourself in rock climbing you never push your grade and make harder climbs. Without committing in running you'll find yourself sitting in front of the tv with a bag of doritos more often than getting out on the road for a 5 k run.
I could go through more ins and outs of the whole figuring out stuff and why it's bugging me recently but it'd go on all day. And seeing as a few of you were talking to me about earlier blogs I figured I'd put my thoughts to text, as much as a means of therapy, to try figure myself out as it is to get your ideas.
This summer I plan to do some soul searching. A month or two on my bike and the open road. I'm unsure about whether to bring my netbook so I can keep up to date with job hunting and to keep a blog or to totally unplug and delve a bit deeper with the self exploration. It's a couple of months away though. No panic.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
The 11th hour of power
If you know me you'll probably know that I'm not a total politics-phile. But I like to have a gander at it once in a while. Last night I was reading through a few articles for my literature review for my FYP not really watching the TV which my homie Mike had on the 11th hour. It's coming up to election time so it's a little easier to inflict the torture of such bullshit on one's self for the moment.
They'd a panel of Irish guys, I didn't know any of them. I assume they were economists or in politics. Anyway this table of panelists were chatting about where you'd find Irish people abroad these days, where we fit in society. Pretty interesting point and he's saying how you'll find us right in the middle ranks, never at the top (the Americans) never at the bottom (the Czechs, he said), right in the middle. Then one of them goes (no bullshit here), 'at the bar'. To which this genius and the rest of the panelists all broke their shits laughing.
Now I'm not saying that these shows could do without some change of perspective to make them a little less mind numbingly boring to watch, nor am I saying that the people on them shouldn't be down to earth normal people at the end of the day. But I just don't know what to make of this, the kind of humor you'd expect to hear from a bunch of drunk retards(myself at times) in the bar at the end of the night. These are the same people who are going to be shocked over the coming year or two by the amount of graduates who'll emigrate. Two points struck me when I saw this.
Firstly that these guys are so removed from the reality of the car crash economy we're now in that their minds are free to wander from the topic of discussion to a happier time(last Friday night when Jimmy said to Decky how you'll find Brian Cowan in the Irish bar in Malacca next year). And secondly that these guys don't belong on TV. I mean if you're not clever enough to make the kind of neutral humor(that can still be hilarious) that's typical of economy shows, or even the type of humor that's points out a huge irony but makes an important point then stay off the airwaves.
I'm bitching here, and I'm sure there's a throng of old men throughout the country who had a chuckle at it. I just thought it was pathetic. And felt like putting it into words.
Check out the episode yourself and decide. The quote I'm on about is at the 15 minute mark.
http://www.rte.ie/player/#v=1091258
Garion out
They'd a panel of Irish guys, I didn't know any of them. I assume they were economists or in politics. Anyway this table of panelists were chatting about where you'd find Irish people abroad these days, where we fit in society. Pretty interesting point and he's saying how you'll find us right in the middle ranks, never at the top (the Americans) never at the bottom (the Czechs, he said), right in the middle. Then one of them goes (no bullshit here), 'at the bar'. To which this genius and the rest of the panelists all broke their shits laughing.
Now I'm not saying that these shows could do without some change of perspective to make them a little less mind numbingly boring to watch, nor am I saying that the people on them shouldn't be down to earth normal people at the end of the day. But I just don't know what to make of this, the kind of humor you'd expect to hear from a bunch of drunk retards(myself at times) in the bar at the end of the night. These are the same people who are going to be shocked over the coming year or two by the amount of graduates who'll emigrate. Two points struck me when I saw this.
Firstly that these guys are so removed from the reality of the car crash economy we're now in that their minds are free to wander from the topic of discussion to a happier time(last Friday night when Jimmy said to Decky how you'll find Brian Cowan in the Irish bar in Malacca next year). And secondly that these guys don't belong on TV. I mean if you're not clever enough to make the kind of neutral humor(that can still be hilarious) that's typical of economy shows, or even the type of humor that's points out a huge irony but makes an important point then stay off the airwaves.
I'm bitching here, and I'm sure there's a throng of old men throughout the country who had a chuckle at it. I just thought it was pathetic. And felt like putting it into words.
Check out the episode yourself and decide. The quote I'm on about is at the 15 minute mark.
http://www.rte.ie/player/#v=1091258
Garion out
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
A change of scenery
I've just come to the Teaching practice prep lab that we were given for our final teaching practice by the college. It's a pretty decent room and the computers here are better than the ones in the library or my laptop. And I was getting a bit of work done when two idiots came in.
To be fair they're probably perfectly lovely people with as much right to be here as me and a load of work to do. But I still can't help hate them for taking up seats in what would be a lovely, peaceful and empty room. It's the same at home, esepecially when it's time to do a bit of work. When people are around I notice how much I'd rather they weren't there. Not to sound overly anti social. I repeat, this is just when I want to do some study. I love you guys all the rest of the time.
To be fair they're probably perfectly lovely people with as much right to be here as me and a load of work to do. But I still can't help hate them for taking up seats in what would be a lovely, peaceful and empty room. It's the same at home, esepecially when it's time to do a bit of work. When people are around I notice how much I'd rather they weren't there. Not to sound overly anti social. I repeat, this is just when I want to do some study. I love you guys all the rest of the time.
Rome
For the purpose of this blog post I've changed the name of my ex to Helga, though those of you who know me know her real name anyway. But alas this is what she wanted and so 'tis. Also before I was intending it for the college newspaper, an Focal. But it got out of hand and hit over 2000 words so they'll never publish it. So I added a few comments in brackets that were after thoughts and wouldn't have suited the college paper.
Rome. I’m not sure if it’s a common picture, but when I think of Rome I imagine everyone wearing black suits, on their way to the opera with some spaghetti sauce on the corner of their mouths. Or young Casanovas wearing white shirts and slicked back hair hitting on your girlfriend every ten or twenty paces. We decided to go to Rome, my girlfriend at the time Helga (name changed at request of actual ex girlfriend) and I, based on a discussion and a compromise. I wanted to go to Germany for the Christmasyness; she wanted to go to Rome. I wasn’t sure why then, and I definitely don’t know why now. At the time it was a disaster of a trip, and looking back it still seems it, but hey at least we didn’t have an awesome time in Germany.
We jetted off on Dec 17th, shortly after she finished her last exam and I turned in my last paper. All excited and dressed up(well I was anyway) we arrived in Fumicino airport at 11 am, and efficiently found our way to Rome city centre an hour and a half later(because of my excellent planning, oh why didn’t I plan a bit more). Despite what the lofty TV3 weatherman (Damn Martin King) had to say, Rome was not 7 degrees Celsius (Lies). In Republica square a large and impressive sculpted fountain (Stupid fountain) was covered in ice, and light snow was falling as we made our way to our hotel. But the room wasn’t ready at the time they said it would be (lying is something I got used to in Rome), and we had to spend another hour in a nearby Castroni restaurant. When we eventually got into our Room, in the Eurostars International Palace it was time for a rest, before going for a bit of an evening excursion. At this point I should mention that Helga and I were ticked off with one another over something (this is I believe what made her wish to change her name, I didn’t think this reflected badly on her, but meh), this lasted until late that night. So not really talking, we took the tube to try and find a restaurant with Gluten free food, as Helga is celiac. The first place we found, after the taxi driver took us on a very overpriced and scenic drive, cost €130 for a pizza (seeing as he dropped us right outside this place I think I know why he overcharged us, I should mention I was wearing a smashing French Connection suit). We figured we’d look elsewhere. So we started trying our look in every restaurant we came across with our trusty phrase of ‘sanza glutine’, the second restaurant had gluten free pasta. Out of all the restaurants we went to it has to be said that the food wasn’t great. Tired and soaked we called it a night and made our way back to our hotel.
The following day we woke up bright and early. Well earlyish, but not so early as to risk being tired later. But early enough so as not to miss most of the day. One issue we noticed upon our first morning waking up in Rome was that the room was still pitch black at 10 am. This seemed strange and upon further investigation was due to the inordinate thickness of the curtains. The room also had a sort of thin padding in place of paint or wall paper. Possibly for insulation, possibly they get a lot of crazies there (they’ve had one anyway). On approaching the Vatican City, our primary port of call for the day we were harangued by a swarm of tour guides. For a good 2 km before even reaching the place they seemed skilled at identifying us as English speaking tourists and even more skilled at annoying the crap out of us(Pesky Romans). One especially persistent guide pushed me to the point of telling him, ‘no it’s ok, we’ll get one closer to the place.’ The guides promised to get us past 2 hour ques, yet the wait was no longer than 15 minutes. I’m sure a lot of tours are great, but I think we would have been paying to be tied to a group instead of free roaming about inside as we pleased (Plus the guides were annoying, so screw that). Also almost all of the attractions in there have plaques with information in English. The Beatified popes were my favourite. But the grandeur of the place is most impressive, and is sure to take your breath away. There’s something about the intricate detail and decadence and size of everything. It’s bigger than the University, yet is as finely decorated as a Faberge egg. Every last bit of it. We also made our way around the Sistine chapel and the
Vatican museum. The museum is huge. If you’re a Historophile you could easily make two trips into it, though you have to pay (of course we cheaped out with our ID cards, go being a student!). Helga, being American had to take a picture in the Sistine chapel and get us into trouble (Typical). Don’t do that if you go. It’s a strange place, nothing like what you’d see in your history book. It’s kept dark to preserve it, and you’re not allowed talk for some reason. A security guard with a resonant baritone voice kept saying ‘Silencio’. Which I thought was a bit rich, seeing as he was talking himself. Also two people asked me about the place. I don’t know why, perhaps because I was explaining stuff to Helga and looked why I knew what I was on about. Which I kind of did, I love the Sistine chapel. Later that night I got drunk and went on a ramble on my own. Drunkenly I found the Coliseum while I was looking for a whiskey bar a friend suggested. The coliseum is well worth seeing at night. They have lights placed throughout it and it’s actually more impressive than during the day. Much more impressive, though you lose your bearings after circumnavigating it drunkenly a few times and end up having to ask directions off a roman, this is a bad idea even when sober.
The next day Helga and I revisited the Coliseum. It is a ruin, and inside it’s not as impressive I felt as The Vatican city. There isn’t as much to see (photos of me show a bored individual with an electronic tour phone thingy). But the ticket for the Coliseum is good for two days, and also gets you into the Palatine Hill and the Roman Forum. It’s like a combo meal deal. But it was kind of dull, and we couldn’t even find any loose pieces to chip off to take home with us (they have fake chips lying around to try and fool you, don’t fall for it. Bring a little pick if you want some coliseum). We soon left and went in search of a restaurant where Helga could eat. This time we struck gold and found one that did Gluten Free Pizza. Out of all the pizzas I had there it wasn’t the best. But hey she could eat an authentic Italian pizza so we were both happy (see I’m nice, weird that she didn’t want her name in this right? Damn straight it’s weird). This restaurant was right beside a street we were recommended to check out for shopping. Though being broke I only bought a tie (my obligatory piece of fine Italian clothing) and some caramel tea from another Castroni shop. This was supposed to be our last day, so after a lot of walking and getting tired we decided to go back to the hotel, open a bottle of bubbly and turn in a little earlier for the day of travel ahead of us.
Eight am. We wake up to our pitch black room, to make our way to the airport for our flight in 4 hours, aiming to be at the bus stop for 10. This was a bad mistake and raises an issue to consider if you ever find yourself in Rome. The traffic can be hell. The bus into the city took about 40 minutes in total. However, with the bus sitting around for 20 minutes till 10.20, it’s scheduled departure time and the mental traffic that it faced getting out of the city we only arrived in the airport 25 minutes before our flight was set to leave. Despite the hopelessness of the situation we made a mad dash for the check-in desk but alas no one was there. Then tried information. A call to the boarding gate later, or lack thereof as no one answered and it was final. We’d missed our flight. This being the 20th the concern wasn’t that we wouldn’t get back to Ireland, but that Helga wouldn’t catch her flight back to the states, due to leave early in the morning 2 days later. A few phone calls to the mother and we’d 2 €250 flights booked (cheers ma!). But booked with Ryanair (rookie error, I honestly think those pirates have become dependent on screwing over their own clients to keep the company running) leaving from another airport on the opposite side of Rome (Ciampino). A train, a quick meal, some sorrow drowning wine, and another shuttle bus later and we were waiting for our flight to leave. This time 2 hours early. At this stage we’d accursedly said our final goodbyes to Rome and were looking forward to being back, even if the day ahead would be disgustingly draining. How cruel fate, the weather this winter and Ryanair can be. Cancelled. Back in crappy Rome we got the closest
hotel we could find to the train station. Luckily it had free wifi, so we could book flights and keep abreast of the flights status. It also had a TV, which was running an American news channel. American news is very sensational(funny that Americans consider themselves so straight talking then) and after looking at it for 10 minutes I was convinced we wouldn’t see Ireland for at least another 2 or 3 weeks(Heathrow airport looked like some sort of Refugee camp in the Lebanon). On the Aerlingus website flights were available the next day for €250, or two days later for €90, meaning that Helga and I had to get different flights home and would say our goodbyes in Rome and I’d have to spend an extra day there alone. My heart sank (Maybe she thought this was sarcasm??).
Five thirty am. I wake up before the alarm and get dressed and make my way down to the dining room for some breakfast, figuring I might as well stuff myself on the buffet since this excursion has totally cleaned me out. I also check Helga’s flight status downstairs where the wifi signal was better; secretly hoping it was cancelled to delay the inevitable last goodbye. Luck was not however on my side. Those pesky runway crews had endeavoured throughout the night to clear all snow and ice from the runway, all flights were running on time. I would be alone. An hour or so later and I returned to the room to start Helga on her way. 3 hours later and we’re in the airport waiting for the clock to strike 10.30, the time we’ve designated ourselves for the final goodbye. It eventually came, despite my willing it not too and the ridiculous belief that it may possibly just never come. Robotically we wheeled down to the security gate where we shared a tearful embrace, “I love you’s”, “I’ll miss you’s” and some “good luck’s” (I was unaware that half of it was lies, live and learn).
I began writing this as an exorcism of demons during the recovery period of a breakup. But left off on the last paragraph. Since then things have changed and I couldn’t care to finish up. The events following were pretty dull in any case. One interesting thing that her flight got rerouted to Edinburgh and she had to get another flight to Belfast and a long ass bus back to Limerick. Karma perhaps. When I was coming in to land a blizzard had just started (yeah, definitely karma). I was lucky to get back to Ireland with Such ease after. Also in my extra two days there was a bit of a fiasco with getting enough cash for taking the train to the Airport and getting from the Airport back home. But it all worked out in the end. And I ate a pizza with mouse on it in a Hallal pizzeria before I left. Ok, well I hope this has served as enough of a warning to deter anyone of you who are thinking of going to Rome. If you’re going to go anyway, which you should definitely take into consideration the traffic. (Reading this without the parts in brackets gives the original draft before I decided to go through it and add a little sass, after all sass makes the world go round and this article has already reached over 2,000 words in length so there’s no way they’ll publish it in an Focal.
Garion out.
Rome. I’m not sure if it’s a common picture, but when I think of Rome I imagine everyone wearing black suits, on their way to the opera with some spaghetti sauce on the corner of their mouths. Or young Casanovas wearing white shirts and slicked back hair hitting on your girlfriend every ten or twenty paces. We decided to go to Rome, my girlfriend at the time Helga (name changed at request of actual ex girlfriend) and I, based on a discussion and a compromise. I wanted to go to Germany for the Christmasyness; she wanted to go to Rome. I wasn’t sure why then, and I definitely don’t know why now. At the time it was a disaster of a trip, and looking back it still seems it, but hey at least we didn’t have an awesome time in Germany.
We jetted off on Dec 17th, shortly after she finished her last exam and I turned in my last paper. All excited and dressed up(well I was anyway) we arrived in Fumicino airport at 11 am, and efficiently found our way to Rome city centre an hour and a half later(because of my excellent planning, oh why didn’t I plan a bit more). Despite what the lofty TV3 weatherman (Damn Martin King) had to say, Rome was not 7 degrees Celsius (Lies). In Republica square a large and impressive sculpted fountain (Stupid fountain) was covered in ice, and light snow was falling as we made our way to our hotel. But the room wasn’t ready at the time they said it would be (lying is something I got used to in Rome), and we had to spend another hour in a nearby Castroni restaurant. When we eventually got into our Room, in the Eurostars International Palace it was time for a rest, before going for a bit of an evening excursion. At this point I should mention that Helga and I were ticked off with one another over something (this is I believe what made her wish to change her name, I didn’t think this reflected badly on her, but meh), this lasted until late that night. So not really talking, we took the tube to try and find a restaurant with Gluten free food, as Helga is celiac. The first place we found, after the taxi driver took us on a very overpriced and scenic drive, cost €130 for a pizza (seeing as he dropped us right outside this place I think I know why he overcharged us, I should mention I was wearing a smashing French Connection suit). We figured we’d look elsewhere. So we started trying our look in every restaurant we came across with our trusty phrase of ‘sanza glutine’, the second restaurant had gluten free pasta. Out of all the restaurants we went to it has to be said that the food wasn’t great. Tired and soaked we called it a night and made our way back to our hotel.
The following day we woke up bright and early. Well earlyish, but not so early as to risk being tired later. But early enough so as not to miss most of the day. One issue we noticed upon our first morning waking up in Rome was that the room was still pitch black at 10 am. This seemed strange and upon further investigation was due to the inordinate thickness of the curtains. The room also had a sort of thin padding in place of paint or wall paper. Possibly for insulation, possibly they get a lot of crazies there (they’ve had one anyway). On approaching the Vatican City, our primary port of call for the day we were harangued by a swarm of tour guides. For a good 2 km before even reaching the place they seemed skilled at identifying us as English speaking tourists and even more skilled at annoying the crap out of us(Pesky Romans). One especially persistent guide pushed me to the point of telling him, ‘no it’s ok, we’ll get one closer to the place.’ The guides promised to get us past 2 hour ques, yet the wait was no longer than 15 minutes. I’m sure a lot of tours are great, but I think we would have been paying to be tied to a group instead of free roaming about inside as we pleased (Plus the guides were annoying, so screw that). Also almost all of the attractions in there have plaques with information in English. The Beatified popes were my favourite. But the grandeur of the place is most impressive, and is sure to take your breath away. There’s something about the intricate detail and decadence and size of everything. It’s bigger than the University, yet is as finely decorated as a Faberge egg. Every last bit of it. We also made our way around the Sistine chapel and the
Vatican museum. The museum is huge. If you’re a Historophile you could easily make two trips into it, though you have to pay (of course we cheaped out with our ID cards, go being a student!). Helga, being American had to take a picture in the Sistine chapel and get us into trouble (Typical). Don’t do that if you go. It’s a strange place, nothing like what you’d see in your history book. It’s kept dark to preserve it, and you’re not allowed talk for some reason. A security guard with a resonant baritone voice kept saying ‘Silencio’. Which I thought was a bit rich, seeing as he was talking himself. Also two people asked me about the place. I don’t know why, perhaps because I was explaining stuff to Helga and looked why I knew what I was on about. Which I kind of did, I love the Sistine chapel. Later that night I got drunk and went on a ramble on my own. Drunkenly I found the Coliseum while I was looking for a whiskey bar a friend suggested. The coliseum is well worth seeing at night. They have lights placed throughout it and it’s actually more impressive than during the day. Much more impressive, though you lose your bearings after circumnavigating it drunkenly a few times and end up having to ask directions off a roman, this is a bad idea even when sober.
The next day Helga and I revisited the Coliseum. It is a ruin, and inside it’s not as impressive I felt as The Vatican city. There isn’t as much to see (photos of me show a bored individual with an electronic tour phone thingy). But the ticket for the Coliseum is good for two days, and also gets you into the Palatine Hill and the Roman Forum. It’s like a combo meal deal. But it was kind of dull, and we couldn’t even find any loose pieces to chip off to take home with us (they have fake chips lying around to try and fool you, don’t fall for it. Bring a little pick if you want some coliseum). We soon left and went in search of a restaurant where Helga could eat. This time we struck gold and found one that did Gluten Free Pizza. Out of all the pizzas I had there it wasn’t the best. But hey she could eat an authentic Italian pizza so we were both happy (see I’m nice, weird that she didn’t want her name in this right? Damn straight it’s weird). This restaurant was right beside a street we were recommended to check out for shopping. Though being broke I only bought a tie (my obligatory piece of fine Italian clothing) and some caramel tea from another Castroni shop. This was supposed to be our last day, so after a lot of walking and getting tired we decided to go back to the hotel, open a bottle of bubbly and turn in a little earlier for the day of travel ahead of us.
Eight am. We wake up to our pitch black room, to make our way to the airport for our flight in 4 hours, aiming to be at the bus stop for 10. This was a bad mistake and raises an issue to consider if you ever find yourself in Rome. The traffic can be hell. The bus into the city took about 40 minutes in total. However, with the bus sitting around for 20 minutes till 10.20, it’s scheduled departure time and the mental traffic that it faced getting out of the city we only arrived in the airport 25 minutes before our flight was set to leave. Despite the hopelessness of the situation we made a mad dash for the check-in desk but alas no one was there. Then tried information. A call to the boarding gate later, or lack thereof as no one answered and it was final. We’d missed our flight. This being the 20th the concern wasn’t that we wouldn’t get back to Ireland, but that Helga wouldn’t catch her flight back to the states, due to leave early in the morning 2 days later. A few phone calls to the mother and we’d 2 €250 flights booked (cheers ma!). But booked with Ryanair (rookie error, I honestly think those pirates have become dependent on screwing over their own clients to keep the company running) leaving from another airport on the opposite side of Rome (Ciampino). A train, a quick meal, some sorrow drowning wine, and another shuttle bus later and we were waiting for our flight to leave. This time 2 hours early. At this stage we’d accursedly said our final goodbyes to Rome and were looking forward to being back, even if the day ahead would be disgustingly draining. How cruel fate, the weather this winter and Ryanair can be. Cancelled. Back in crappy Rome we got the closest
hotel we could find to the train station. Luckily it had free wifi, so we could book flights and keep abreast of the flights status. It also had a TV, which was running an American news channel. American news is very sensational(funny that Americans consider themselves so straight talking then) and after looking at it for 10 minutes I was convinced we wouldn’t see Ireland for at least another 2 or 3 weeks(Heathrow airport looked like some sort of Refugee camp in the Lebanon). On the Aerlingus website flights were available the next day for €250, or two days later for €90, meaning that Helga and I had to get different flights home and would say our goodbyes in Rome and I’d have to spend an extra day there alone. My heart sank (Maybe she thought this was sarcasm??).
Five thirty am. I wake up before the alarm and get dressed and make my way down to the dining room for some breakfast, figuring I might as well stuff myself on the buffet since this excursion has totally cleaned me out. I also check Helga’s flight status downstairs where the wifi signal was better; secretly hoping it was cancelled to delay the inevitable last goodbye. Luck was not however on my side. Those pesky runway crews had endeavoured throughout the night to clear all snow and ice from the runway, all flights were running on time. I would be alone. An hour or so later and I returned to the room to start Helga on her way. 3 hours later and we’re in the airport waiting for the clock to strike 10.30, the time we’ve designated ourselves for the final goodbye. It eventually came, despite my willing it not too and the ridiculous belief that it may possibly just never come. Robotically we wheeled down to the security gate where we shared a tearful embrace, “I love you’s”, “I’ll miss you’s” and some “good luck’s” (I was unaware that half of it was lies, live and learn).
I began writing this as an exorcism of demons during the recovery period of a breakup. But left off on the last paragraph. Since then things have changed and I couldn’t care to finish up. The events following were pretty dull in any case. One interesting thing that her flight got rerouted to Edinburgh and she had to get another flight to Belfast and a long ass bus back to Limerick. Karma perhaps. When I was coming in to land a blizzard had just started (yeah, definitely karma). I was lucky to get back to Ireland with Such ease after. Also in my extra two days there was a bit of a fiasco with getting enough cash for taking the train to the Airport and getting from the Airport back home. But it all worked out in the end. And I ate a pizza with mouse on it in a Hallal pizzeria before I left. Ok, well I hope this has served as enough of a warning to deter anyone of you who are thinking of going to Rome. If you’re going to go anyway, which you should definitely take into consideration the traffic. (Reading this without the parts in brackets gives the original draft before I decided to go through it and add a little sass, after all sass makes the world go round and this article has already reached over 2,000 words in length so there’s no way they’ll publish it in an Focal.
Garion out.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
An article I wrote 3 and a half years ago about climbing in the Alps
OPC Alps trip 07
Garion Bracken
If by chance sometime you happen to see a person with a strut to their walk and a glint in their eye, as you go about your business in one of the many halls, corridors, lawns or courtyards of UL, there’s a chance that you have been in the company of one of the eleven fine members of the outdoor pursuits club who went on the club trip this year. You may feel a presence that is hard to pin, for these brave and daring people are not your normal everyday, moper, drinker and smoker breed. They share a metronomic motivation and love for getting high.
This year’s trip was to the beautiful hillside town of Arolla in the Valais region of the Swiss Alps, 25Km south of Sion. Accommodation consisted of Swiss campsites and Aldi tents. Dinner, couscous, mayonnaise, chili flakes, tinned tomatoes, a dash of oregano and a hint of imagination, washed down with local wine at €2 a bottle.
When not scaling the many Pignes, Monts, Dents and Aiguilles that the Valais region has to offer, swings, volleyball courts, tight ropes, skipping ropes and zip lines were the products of a rope, two trees and a group of people with too much time on their hands, and no TV. If the weather crapped out, as it did almost every single day, incessantly at precisely four o’clock, playing cards or a few bottles of wine were the order of fun, the wine swilled down and rounded off with some banter, a sing along and seven or eight shots of absinthe.
But it wasn’t all fun and games. Climbing mountains is a serious business if you don’t want to find yourself in trouble. In the days leading up to the climb, the cards are replaced with maps and guide books. The wine is reduced to a maximum of one bottle per sixteen hour period and eating lots of high flatulence foods is very important, especially in larger parties. The training took place over two days, in which crevasse rescue and some rope techniques were learned. After that we were on our own, to plan routes and form groups and climb mountains. The climbing varied from nail biting rock climbing up narrow ridges with nasty unforgiving drops on all sides, on snowy icy rock in bitter cold winds that can make your lips turn blue, to never-ending snow plods, along avalanche prone slopes and across crevasse ridden glaciers, with the sun beating down on you and then bouncing off the snow and coming back yet again to make sure your well done on both sides. After five hours simmering you begin to curse your clothes until eventually the contempt grows ‘till you get an insane urge to tear them off, stamp on them and dive into the snow screaming like a loon in some sort of crazed act of self liberation. This may sound like a fate worse than an hour and a half listening to your uncle’s fascinating new business idea that he’ll never go through with. I won’t lie to you; it is at times that monotonous and physically excruciating. But to stand on the summit of a difficult climb, the pinnacle of eight hours of gut wrenching effort, and to look around at three hundred and sixty degrees of panoramic alpine beauty and to breath in the cool crisp mountain air, with a couple of chocolate biscuits gives a feeling that’s hard to describe with pen and paper. It’s like the accomplishment of beating your best friend in mariokart mixed with the satisfaction of spraying a girl with a hose.
For some this stuff is a hobby, for others it’s a passion. If what you’ve read sounds appealing to you or you have any ambition to find yourself in the Alps or Himalayas someday, make your way to the OPC climbing wall and give it a go. Or go along on one of the weekend trips and see some of Ireland’s most beautiful scenes and sites. Maybe even reach Irelands highest point Carrantuohill in the MacGillycuddy reeks. If you want to see what the trip was like come along to the slideshow.
Garion Bracken
If by chance sometime you happen to see a person with a strut to their walk and a glint in their eye, as you go about your business in one of the many halls, corridors, lawns or courtyards of UL, there’s a chance that you have been in the company of one of the eleven fine members of the outdoor pursuits club who went on the club trip this year. You may feel a presence that is hard to pin, for these brave and daring people are not your normal everyday, moper, drinker and smoker breed. They share a metronomic motivation and love for getting high.
This year’s trip was to the beautiful hillside town of Arolla in the Valais region of the Swiss Alps, 25Km south of Sion. Accommodation consisted of Swiss campsites and Aldi tents. Dinner, couscous, mayonnaise, chili flakes, tinned tomatoes, a dash of oregano and a hint of imagination, washed down with local wine at €2 a bottle.
When not scaling the many Pignes, Monts, Dents and Aiguilles that the Valais region has to offer, swings, volleyball courts, tight ropes, skipping ropes and zip lines were the products of a rope, two trees and a group of people with too much time on their hands, and no TV. If the weather crapped out, as it did almost every single day, incessantly at precisely four o’clock, playing cards or a few bottles of wine were the order of fun, the wine swilled down and rounded off with some banter, a sing along and seven or eight shots of absinthe.
But it wasn’t all fun and games. Climbing mountains is a serious business if you don’t want to find yourself in trouble. In the days leading up to the climb, the cards are replaced with maps and guide books. The wine is reduced to a maximum of one bottle per sixteen hour period and eating lots of high flatulence foods is very important, especially in larger parties. The training took place over two days, in which crevasse rescue and some rope techniques were learned. After that we were on our own, to plan routes and form groups and climb mountains. The climbing varied from nail biting rock climbing up narrow ridges with nasty unforgiving drops on all sides, on snowy icy rock in bitter cold winds that can make your lips turn blue, to never-ending snow plods, along avalanche prone slopes and across crevasse ridden glaciers, with the sun beating down on you and then bouncing off the snow and coming back yet again to make sure your well done on both sides. After five hours simmering you begin to curse your clothes until eventually the contempt grows ‘till you get an insane urge to tear them off, stamp on them and dive into the snow screaming like a loon in some sort of crazed act of self liberation. This may sound like a fate worse than an hour and a half listening to your uncle’s fascinating new business idea that he’ll never go through with. I won’t lie to you; it is at times that monotonous and physically excruciating. But to stand on the summit of a difficult climb, the pinnacle of eight hours of gut wrenching effort, and to look around at three hundred and sixty degrees of panoramic alpine beauty and to breath in the cool crisp mountain air, with a couple of chocolate biscuits gives a feeling that’s hard to describe with pen and paper. It’s like the accomplishment of beating your best friend in mariokart mixed with the satisfaction of spraying a girl with a hose.
For some this stuff is a hobby, for others it’s a passion. If what you’ve read sounds appealing to you or you have any ambition to find yourself in the Alps or Himalayas someday, make your way to the OPC climbing wall and give it a go. Or go along on one of the weekend trips and see some of Ireland’s most beautiful scenes and sites. Maybe even reach Irelands highest point Carrantuohill in the MacGillycuddy reeks. If you want to see what the trip was like come along to the slideshow.
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