This Just In:

In Ireland, it is apparently not possible for guys to use "too much gel," or for girls to use "too much eye makeup."

That is all.

Minnesota Fats, I am not

Last Thursday I went to the pool hall to compete in the weekly college 8-ball tournament. I'm not a great pool player, but I'm not bad either. I got knocked out in the first round, two games to one. In my defense, the Irish game is quite different from the American one. First of all, it's played on a different sized table with different sized pockets. If you've played much pool in America, you've probably realized that the coin-op tables in your local bar room are about a foot smaller than the standard pool hall variety. The 8-ball tables here are smaller than either by about a foot. Which at first glance would seem to make the game easier. But countering that are the facts that the balls are smaller and the pockets both smaller and angled much more tightly. That is, the jaws, or openings, of the pockets are completely parallel in the corners, and on the sides are only slightly more forgiving than in America. Also, the only balls that look the same are the eight and the cue. There are no 'solids' or 'stripes.' There are just seven solid red balls with no numbers, and seven solid yellow ones with no numbers.

Scratches and fouls are different, too. After a scratch or a foul, the opponent gets two shots in a row.

I'm not sure yet which style is tougher, but I will say that it definitely takes some getting used to. I'm setting a short term goal of winning a match.

Long term is to win a tournament, but I'm not sure I have that much time.

A Cafeteria Experience

For the first time in a long time, I had dinner in a cafeteria. Ok, that's not precisely true. When I worked for the university I occasionally had dinners in the cafeteria there. But those were free. This one I actually paid for. By choice.

The cafeteria here has several counters, three of them serving hot food. There's "home" which serves a traditional Irish home-cooked meal, "roma" which serves an Italian dish, and "grill" which serves items from the burgers n fries genre. I went with "home." They were offering a chicken breast in bacon mushroom sauce, cheesy potatoes, and choice of one vegetable. I was tempted by "roma's" ziti covered with alfredo sauce and vegetables, but it didn't come with anything else. Plus, I was getting over the tail end of a cold, and "home" sounded like it would really hit the spot.

First of all, as much as I complain about things being smaller here, this was one massive serving of food. They take a regular sized dinner plate and cover it with three heaping piles of food. If I had to carry it without the assistance of a tray, my thumbs would have had to touch the food - that's how full it was. Oh, and if you don't like your food touching, you're out of luck. There was just no way to pile the food that high and simultaneously get it to keep to itself.

I went with corn as my vegetable, and it was excellent. I don't know how much butter they had to drown it in, but it was super sweet. That being said, I have to reserve myself a bit on this basis: even I can make corn. You take it out of the freezer and boil it. It doesn't even count as cooking. Still, it was superb. Grade: A-

The cheesy potatoes, however, were a disappointment. I realize that it's tough to make flavorful food in mass quantities, but I shouldn't have to add butter and salt to cheesy potatoes for flavor. That's just nuts. Plus I was cranky that they charge you an extra 20c for a pat of butter. What is that? Bottom line, they were bland but passable. Grade: C

The main course, the chicken breast, was somewhere in between. They definitely get a bump up for using real bacon, including bacon bits in the sauce. But for whatever reason, the bacon and mushroom flavors did not seep into the chicken. Maybe it's that mass production thing, I don't know. But it essentially tasted like a good chicken breast that had just begun marinating in brown sauce. Grade: B

So the net is on the line between B- and B. Based on the amount of food, value (5 euro), and low expectations, I'll give the overall experience the higher. Overall Grade: B

Born to Shop

Another observation from the grocery store: here in Ireland, they sell "man-sized" tissues. And not just one brand. Every brand, including store brand, has a "man-sized" variety. So here's the conundrum. I'm a man. I need tissues. Do I really buy overpriced, oversized, man tissues? Or do I have enough confidence in myself to stride, with head held high, to the checkout with girly products? It's almost as though I'm buying tampons.

I imagine two big Irish blokes behind me in the express checkout.

"Seamus, have a look at this lad here - he's buyin' regular-sized snot rags!"

"Is he really? What's he, some kinda fruit?"

"Christ, Seamus, if I tried to use one of those tiny things it'd be a sight to see!"

"Laddie, the snot I got in one nostril would use up tree or four o' those little tings! Be a man and get some sizeable phlegm goin'!"

"Indeed, son, show some self-respect! What would your mum think?"

No worries, faithful readers, I stuck to my girly guns and bought store brand, regular-sized woman tissues.

Know Your Audience: "More Joking and Drinking"

Giraffe walks into a bar.
Bartender: "why the long face?"

…

Molecule walks into a bar.
Bartender: "you seem out of sorts, what's wrong?"
Molecule: "I lost an electron."
Bartender: "are you sure?"
Molecule: "I'm positive."

…

Two peanuts walk into a bar. One was assaulted.

…

Jesus Christ walks into a bar. He begins laying hands on patrons and healing their ailments. One guy runs for the back door, though.
"Don't touch me you son of a bitch! I'm on disability!"

…

Penguin walks into a bar.
Penguin: "hey, have you seen my brother?"
Bartender: "I'm not sure - what's he look like?"

…

Termite walks into a bar: "is the bar tender here?"

…

Freud walks into a bar.
Bartender: "what can I get you?"
Freud: "what do you think you should get me?"
Bartender thinks, then says "a pint of lager."
Freud: "boy your mother sure did a number on you!"

…

Skeleton walks into a bar. "I'll have a beer and a mop."

…

Claude and Pierre walk into a bar.
Bartender: "what can I get for you bons hommes?"
Claude: "I'll have a beer."
Pierre: "no-ting for me, tanks."
The bartender goes to get Claude's beer.
Claude: "Pierre, ce qui c'est la, did you quit drinking?"
Pierre: "mon dieu, no! I've brought my own termos!"
Claude: "a termos? What does it do, ta termos?"
Pierre: "ta termos keeps hot tings hot and cold tings cold!"
Claude: "tabernacle! What a great idea! Tell me, Pierre, what's in your termos?"
Pierre: "two popsicles and a cup of coffee!"

…

Tissue walks into a bar.
Bartender: "draft beer?"
Tissue: "no you jerk, that would go right through me!"
Bartender: "well you don't have to be snotty about it!"

…

Pair of jumper cables walk into a bar.
Bartender gives him the hairy eyeball. "I'll serve you, but you'd better not start anything."

…

A priest, a rabbi and a minister walk into a bar.
Bartender: "what is this, some kinda joke?"

The Nerd Factor is Still Intact

I think that since this is a blog by a law student, I should at least comment on Gonzalez v. Oregon. The Supreme Court decision about physician-assisted suicide came out last week, probably the last in Sandra Day O'Connor's career, and the first in new Chief Justice Roberts'. Depending on whom you ask, the case is either about an individual's right to die, or it's about the federal government's power with respect to state's rights and their so-called "police power." Police power is just the concept that generally, states have the right to police the people, not the federal government.

The bottom line of the decision is that physician-assisted suicide is still legal in Oregon, and this may cue other states which had been waiting for this to wind its way through the courts to pass similar laws.

What strikes me about the decision is that, in a sense, it is a fulfillment of the last couple of sentences of the last physician-assisted suicide case, Washington v. Glucksberg. That case's bottom line was the opposite: Washington's law prohibiting physician-assisted suicide was held constitutional. The court concluded that there is no "right to die," and distinguished that from a right of privacy which included the right to refuse medical treatment (which one does have the right to do). At the end of the decision, though, the court pointed out that "Throughout the Nation, Americans are engaged in an earnest and profound debate about the morality, legality, and practicality of physician-assisted suicide. Our holding permits this debate to continue, as it should in a democratic society."

Now, with the Oregon decision, they have held to that same premise: this is something that deserves to be publicly debated, and we won't stymie that debate by ruling that physician-assisted suicide is unconstitutional, nor by ruling that there is a constitutional "right to die." It would appear, then, that each state may decide for itself whether physician-assisted suicide should be legal.

I guess what intrigues me about the two decisions together is that it changes, to some extent, how the Supreme Court defines itself. They've decided not to be the final arbiter of the constitutionality of this practice. I wonder, too: is this a reaction to Roe v. Wade? By declaring that a right to privacy existed in the United States, and that such a right included the right to choose to have an abortion, the Court in Roe completely removed the issue from debate in the legislatures, both state and federal. Would the reverse have been better? Or does it divide us even further as a nation to have one set of laws in blue states and another in red ones? Because as it stands now, a Washington resident can just go to Oregon to get the drugs they want to end their life. Is that a "better" answer than a categorical ban or acceptance of physician-assisted suicide?

And you thought I was just getting drunk over here...

Who's on First?

During Operation Beachhead, we of course had a rental car. And since most nights were spent having a few pints, we typically left the car on the side of the road overnight and took cabs or walked.

One morning we arrived to find our car had been booted, or as they say here, "clamped." They do not mess around with tickets and amnesty. If you park where you shouldn't, or over your limit, the clamp you. Eighty euro to get released. We had apparently parked where we should have fed a meter, but in our defense I should point out the system here is far different than at home. Here, there is one machine, not even a meter, per area. You need to look around and see if there is a machine, and if there is, pay into it, get a receipt (or "disk") and put it on your dashboard to avoid a clamp.

Well, we didn't see the machine. Needless to say this put us in a cranky mood. But we headed to he pub next door to call the parking division and also, to find out what street we were on. The ticket on the window gave us the number to call.

Once inside the reasonably crowded bar (it was 11am on a Monday, mind you), I approached the bartender.

"We've just gotten a 'clamp' out front here. I'm going to call them, but can you tell me what street I should tell them?"

"What quay?" The bartender said. Now, "quay," pronounced "key" is a name of a wharf or pier-like street.


Thinking I'm doing pretty good knowing 'clamp' and 'quay,' I said, pointing, "the one right out front here."

"What key?" The bartender repeated.

"I don't know, that's what I'm asking you for."

"No," he said, putting both palms down on the bar and speaking slowly, "Wood. Quay."

The Change Story

Ok, the change story. The smallest bill is a fiver. Twos and ones are coins, as are 50c, 20c, 10c, 5c, 2c, and 1c. So there are eight - count 'em, eight - different denominations of coins (don't be scared of 'denominations,' it just a big word that means different values). Anyway, the USA only uses four: quarters, dimes, nickels and pennies. Yes, I know that 50c and dollar coins exist, but seriously, whenever you get one, you think "now what am I gonna do with this?" And it ends up sitting on your dresser until you can think of a little kid to give it to for Easter or something.

And unfortunately for me, my instinct was always to toss my change in a jar and roll it up every once in a while when it was time to go on a beer run. But here, a handful of "change" is a dinner out, not a six pack.

And the more I think about it, the reason dollar coins have never taken off in the US is because we still print dollar notes. If coins were the only option, they'd catch on just like here. Although just be ready for people to really want to spend their change rather than save it. For example:

The other day at Dunnes a guy paid for his 9.95 euro grocery tab in change. Except the cashier counted up 9.80. So the guy insists. She counts it again, although clumsily. She gets the same 9.80. I'm holding my change in my hand, cause you know damn well I want to get rid of it, so I put a 20c piece on the counter to help him out. The guy refuses it.

"I counted it before I came. There is ten euro there."

At this point I'm at a loss. There are like five people in line and you're going to quibble over 20c? Even when I'm ready to take a 15c loss? So the cashier calls the manager over to recount. Then the guy gets saucy and throws a 10 euro note down.

The manager, obviously well trained in customer service, insists that they recount it, it may very well be the store's mistake. So they recount. Meanwhile the guy looks at me, with the 'sorry' look. I am such a polly-anna, I say, "hey, no problem, really," although I am thinking why wouldn't you just take my feckin 20c piece you gelled-up superfreak tool. They get done counting. Result: 9.80. I put my 20c piece back down.

THEN, THE GUY TAKES BACK HIS 10 EURO NOTE, PUSHES BACK MY 20c AND GETS 15c OUT OF A SECRET POCKET OF HIS WALLET.

Now I know there are those of you out there who think that the principle of 5c really does matter. I have a message for you people: die.

Little Differences

Not to rip off Pulp Fiction, but you know what the thing is about Ireland? It's the little differences. They got the same shit here as we got at home, but it's different. What's that, Vincent Vega, you want examples?



Stores don't give bags. At least not for free. And they don't bag what you buy in your bags when you bring them or buy them, either. It's just - here's your stuff, deal with it. My first instinct was quite American. What, would it kill you to throw in the five-cent plastic bag with it? You gotta charge me for it? But upon further reflection, I suppose when they're "given" away in America the store must take the cost of the bags into account when they price stuff. So it's probably fair. That being said, when I was in the Lidl Grocery Store (which is German for "we don't have much, but what we do have is cheap") the other day watching a mother frantically bag her own 80 euro worth of groceries for the week, it seemed kind of silly. Here she is flipping open bags and throwing stuff in as fast as she can to avoid holding everyone else in line up, while the cashier sits with her hands folded in her lap. I felt both foolish and guilty. I wanted to say, look I'm in no rush, please don't hurry and smoosh your bread on my account. But she did, and then threw down 100 euro. Which means she had to get a handful of change, since the smallest euro bill is 5. But that's another story.

At first I thought I would just throw stuff in my bookbag, but it's really designed as a briefcase, so groceries don't fit so well. I finally broke down in Dunnes and paid 15c for a heavy duty plastic bag. Now I'm determined to make it last the entire semester. Yeah, I'll show them!

Registration and a Glass of Water

A week ago Monday was "registration." This entailed going to the Quadrangle, waiting in no line whatsoever and handing over a form. Since the form was in Gaelic and English, and all of it European style (what's the difference between "home school" and "sending institution?), I asked if I had filled it out correctly. The glanced at it for a split second and said yes. Then she scanned my passport photo and printed out a laminated ID, and handed it to me.

"There you go, love."

"I'm all set?"

"Yes."

Silly American that I am I thought it would actually be more involved. But no. Now I'm free to attend any classes I like for the next couple of weeks. Then comes "final registration." But does that mean you've picked classes? Of course not. No pressure, you can still do add/drop for another three weeks or so after that. And if you're wondering, grades from last semester should be coming out about that time. It's a whole new level of being laid back.

A week ago today I took my travelling [sic] companions back to the airport for their journey home. Being the only one confident enough to drive, and being the nice guy that I am, I volunteered to drive them to the airport, turn in the car and take the bus back.

I had over an hour to kill before the bus left, so I went up to the airport bar. Just after I got there an elderly couple sidled up and sat down. The Mrs had claddagh earrings, claddagh necklace, and of course, ring. She reminded me quite a bit of my grandmother (long sweater with some sort of winter scene on it). She orders a scotch on the rocks, and a glass of water on the side. She gives the bartender a look like he'd better not get smart and mix them for her. Then they don't have Dewar's scotch. I braced myself for a scene in the middle of the airport bar. Oh, in that case just make it a Jameson's whiskey. Water still on the side.

The bartender turned to the Mr "anything for you sir?"

"Just a coke," he said meekly while pulling out his wallet.

She put down her drink in about the time it took me to finish one third of a pint. This is some kinda country. Although, to be fair, it was after noon. By ten minutes.

Driving, then Drinking

One week ago today we jumped in the car and headed to the Cliffs of Moher. Eight hundred feet high facing the Atlantic. It was a very strange day weather-wise. We went back and forth from foggy to clear a half dozen times. It kept seeming like it would burn off, only to come back thicker.

Approaching the cliffs it cleared for a bit and we came across a very strange cloud formation. It almost seemed like the clouds fell from the sky and were there for us to drive through.



When we got there it was very windy and foggy. We thought we wouldn't be able to see anything. And while we didn't get the best possible view, we did get an eerie one, with the wind whipping the fog off the cliffs only to dissipate over the water.

On the way home we made a wrong turn. And because we (I?) did so in the Burren, a creepy, wasteland type area void of any sign of people save endless rock walls, there was no way to turn around. I was not about to try a 3 point turn in total darkness at the edge of a cliff flanked by rock walls. After about a half hour we finally came to a town and got directions. Of course they confirmed my worst fear: we'd have to turn around and make the same drive back. By the time we got home I felt like I had been in a fight. My back was sore from tension and my mind was pretty well spent. Solution? Go drinking. What was that, some type of trick question?

We spent our evening at The Bunch of Grapes, which is a misnomer, because it is not a wine bar. We ended up having a grand time. My uncle, that little devil, got us to share our feelings and thoughts about ourselves and our families for hours. He was especially entertained and intrigued by my brother's favorite joke as a kid. It goes like this:

Two guys are walking through the woods. They pass a pile of rabbit poop (although I changed it to sheep poop in "honor" of what we saw everywhere around here). One guy says, "what's that?"

The other says, "it's brain food."

So the first guy eats some. "This tastes like shit!"

"See, you're getting smarter already."

Uncle claims you can tell a lot about a person based on their favorite joke. Hey, he's the psychologist, who am I to disagree? Although he wouldn't say what this revealed about my brother. Hmmm… hope little brother's not about to go nuts or anything.

East Coast Beachhead

One week ago today we took the train to Dublin. I would have taken a picture of the scenery along the way but the windows were so dirty they wouldn't have come out. We wandered around the city for a bit, whereupon my friend took a digger in the classic way: wow look at that beautiful building ... klunk. It's hard to see the curb looking up. At that point we thought it best to get off our feet for a bit, so we ate lunch. I will say the food here is quite good, and compared to the skyrocket prices on almost everything else, it's pretty reasonable. I had a Heart Attack Special which they call a "mixed grill": one pork chop, two bacon, two sausage, and two black puddings (don't ask).

After lunch Uncle was hell-bent on returning to a pub he had been to last time he was in Ireland. It was an out of the way place, and we sure did go out of our way to find it. I've found that the Irish have at least one thing in common with the Japanese: they really don't like to come right out and say "no." Although, as my uncle later observed, there are probably very limited circumstances where one should just blurt out "no." Anyway, everyone we asked for directions to the pub was pretty sure they had an idea where it was. No one admitted they didn't know this pub from that one, in a town where it's been determined it's not possible to walk across it without passing a pub.

There seemed to at least be a majority opinion that it was near Stevens Green, which is a public park. After walking halfway round it, we were directed a few blocks down a street just off Stevens Green. Honestly!

After we settled in, Uncle wanted to move to the bar. It makes it tougher to converse, but again, he seemed to be on a mission. Once there he starts chatting up the bartender. Then I remember that the whole reason of coming to this bar was to see if the same bartender would be working from when he came last time a year ago, and whether such bartender would remember Uncle's wiseass friend. Typical to Uncle's style, he doesn't come right out and ask. He chats him up first. Attempting to help, I ask the bartender about his unusual name.

"Is [name] short for something?" I asked.

"Yes," he said. Then he walked over to the next customer, smirking.

Eventually he returned and told us (named after some obscure saint, of course), but that trick made Uncle take to him even more. I think the bartender appreciated that we didn't mention it again until he felt like telling us. Hey, he keeps playing, we keep playing, right? Anyway, by the time we're set to leave we've chatted about bartending and tourists and his kids and taxis and who knows what else. He was the same bartender as before, but did not remember Uncle's friend, by the way. He had mentioned that his daughter was at the same university as me. As we're leaving he takes down a card and writes her name on it. Uncle didn't react then, but this impressed him in a huge way. "Giving you his daughter's name! Never even metcha before!" To be fair, however, there was no phone number...

I also liked the bartender's line about his daughter. He said something about how well she's done in school and in dance. Uncle said, "she must be very smart."

The bartender said quickly - "but she doesn't need it, she's in love with life."

Walking out the door we can see Uncle's very pleased. "Now you've got a beachhead on both coasts," he declares.

It's then that it dawns on me that his idea of a beachhead doesn't have to do with getting me moved in, oriented to the campus and the city, but with getting me a home bar. He considers Richardson's to be the west coast one. We had stopped in there twice, once when we first arrived, and then another time to meet up with Uncle after unpacking everything to my room. I had said he didn't have to come unpack; it would be boring and the room is so small it would barely hold two people trying to work, never mind three. Did he want me to drop him at his B&B for some R&R, maybe read his book?

"I'd just as soon you drop me at Richardson's," he said with a smirk.

So yesterday, on my way home from Richardson's...

Connemara and the (not so) Quiet Man

One week ago today we got up early and headed out for a drive around the Connemara region. Much of it is bogland, which is described as "barren," "erie," or even "Mars-like." I'll let you judge for yourself:



Although not the bogland part, Connemara is also the setting of the 1952 Best Picture with John Wayne and Maureen O'Hara, The Quiet Man. I haven't seen the film (here pronounced fillum), but the story is about an American boxer who, after having accidentally killed an opponent in the ring, returns to his mom's Irish village for some peace and - that's right - quiet.

Our ride though, was anything but. Accompanying me on Operation Beachhead were my eccentric uncle, and my best friend. It was my mistake, I suppose, to try and tell a couple of cute stories in front of my uncle. I know how he likes a good line, so I shared two.

First was the time a young defense attorney I know was learning the ropes at her first job out of law school. She was assisting a senior attorney, who was, and is, very overweight (don't worry, it becomes relevant). Their client had done some pretty atrocious things. Without getting too graphic, he raped and beat an elderly woman, essentially leaving her for dead. Bad stuff. Miraculously, she survived and even attended the trial. Anyway, he gets convicted and gets a pretty big sentence. Decades. Now apparently this guy, throughout his interaction with his lawyer, had been proactively involved in his defense almost to the point of hyperactivity. I suppose, having prior convictions he knew this one would be the hammer. So after the sentence, he excitedly turns to his attorney and says:

"Mr. Big, what happens now? I mean, we get an appeal together, or make a motion now? Do we meet and think it over first? Tomorrow? What's our next step? What happens now?"

The attorney clicked his briefcase closed, and maneuvering his belly out from behind the table, said "well, right now, I'm going to lunch, and you're going to jail."

The other one, which I stole from Blonde Justice, was about a drug addict who had been convicted of possession many times, but never dealing. Why not? Because, the guy says, "a monkey can't sell bananas."

Well, these stories seemed good at the time, but they unleashed a torrent of stories from my uncle that could keep me writing for the next 10 years. He was the psychologist at the state prison for 20 years, plus he now sees clients with OCD or PTSD from Vietnam, plus by his own admission he "hangs with a bar room crowd." He's even run into guys at bars who used to be in prison for murder. And they remember the old times like they were co-workers. Like I said, he's eccentric.

What's that? You want a story from him? Ok, just one as I'm saving the rest for some sort of book. This one guy, who never put in a card to see the shrink the entire time he's been at the prison, and he's been in and out most of his adult life, suddenly wants to talk. So they talk around for quite a while, and Uncle can see the guy's agitated. Come to find out the guy's son is now serving time, at the same prison. You'd think this would settle the guy down rather than amp him up, but the son's more distant now than he's ever been. Finally the guy turns to my Uncle and says, "you know, doc, it's real hard raising your son in prison."

I will say that 95% of his stories were great, but at the same time they were just non-stop. But I'm sure it's the kind of memory that I'll treasure. In fact, I already do.

Near the end of the ride I also snapped this prize winner of Kylemore Abbey:



Alright, yesterday was my big day with three classes. I think I'll enjoy EC Law, probably because it will be challenging. I had Entertainment Law and Irish Constitutional Law II as well, and those seem to be getting off to a slow start. Although I do remember from Orientation that the Irish style differs from American in that they expect to accelerate through the semester as opposed to the American "hit the ground running" style. So we'll see.

Orientation ad nauseum

One week ago today was the day-long orientation program for visiting students. About 3/4 of them were undergraduates visiting from the USA. True to "Irish Time," we started about quarter after the supposed starting time of 9am. This was the first day for the campus to be open, and they hadn't turned on the heat yet. So there were about 400 of us huddled together in the gym trying to understand Irish accents, keep from shivering, and keep from falling asleep. In a sense it was a good combination because shivering staves off sleep.

I think the highlight of the day, and I am backed up on this choice by the fact that the group next to me stopped playing hangman for a bit, was the Religious Provision of the program. That's right, if you were wondering where the Catholic, Methodist, Baptist or Jewish services, we'll tell you. Not only that, we've invited each to speak to you. I'm thinking that wouldn't fly in the USA, but that's just me.

The Catholic priest's advice was to fall in love early in the term, because he's found that these things among visiting students last about 8 weeks, and by doing it early you leave yourself plenty of time to recover and still study for exams. Also, he said, don't be cowboys, taking a seige mentality in Ireland; get out and meet the Irish people and interact with them.

When he was done, the Baptist guy, wearing a suit with pink tie and matching pocket square, bounded up to the podium and launched into a boisterous and barely intelligible speech, from which I could only glean the following: falling in love is grand, so do it whenever you can, semester be damned; and, cowboys are smashing because they take charge of life and shoot the heck out of whatever they don't like.

On a more mundane front, over the last 24 hours I was finally able to add minutes to the mobile phone I bought, which in turn enabled me to contact the girl who went on exchange to my school a couple of semesters back. We were able to meet up briefly and she said she's indebted to everyone in the USA because they were so friendly and helpful, therefore I should let her know any way she could help out. So I got that going for me.

Weather today: about 45, windy, light rain, aka "pissy." Same as yesterday. And the day before. And before that. Ad nauseum.

Operation Beachhead: An Unqualified Success

Well who would've believed it, but I'm here in Ireland, registered for classes and sitting in my tiny but clean apartment/dorm room. Rather than try to update an entire week all at once, I'll write about something from today and from a week ago. One week ago today we arrived early in the morning Irish time, essentially taking the red-eye from Boston to Shannon. As an unexpected bonus, we were seated in first class. I guess they only sell one grade of ticket and if you are in the first few rows, you're in.

The drive from Shannon to Galway was uneventful, but I will say it takes a day or two to get used to Irish driving, even though I've done it before. Driving on the wrong side is tough enough, but there are several other factors that add up to make it downright frightening at times:
-all the rentals are stick, and the stick is on your lefthand side.
-the standard intersection is a rotary/roundabout, not a traffic light.
-passing on two-lane roads is commonplace, and to do so another car will typically tailgate until they can get by.
-the roads are MUCH narrower than at home. There are rarely breakdown lanes, and usually the edge of the road is a hedgerow, so there is nowhere to go in the event of trouble, and the lanes themselves are more narrow. You really haven't lived until you've sped down an Irish road at night, let me tell you.

We checked into our B&B and checked out the campus, which was essentially closed. I did get this nice pic of the Quadrangle:



Today I woke up early after having crashed early last night. I'm looking forward to two classes in the late afternoon. I emailed the professor for European Community Law II. I was concerned that taking a "part II" class might be tough. He said he'd send me a pdf that would give me a good overview and then we could see if it would be something I'd like to try, since it definitely would be more work than just taking EC I. The pdf is 125 pages. So I have work to do.