Post Script or Swan Song?

This Saturday I graduated from law school in the United States. As luck would have it, I was honored to serve as our class's student commencement speaker! Our keynote was given by Senator George Mitchell, and I gave a speech where I did my best to connect Ireland, my law school, and Senator Mitchell. Here's a link to the local news coverage.

Believe it or not, a few people wanted to read my speech again afterwards. So here is the text. And although I didn't sleep the night before, vomited the morning of, and at the risk of being immodest, I killed.

...

I was very excited to learn that Senator George Mitchell was going to be here to speak. It was funny, one of my relatives asked me if I knew the order of the speakers on the program and I said, well I hope to God I’m not following Senator Mitchell! I mean granted, I have been learning about how to be a self-assured, confident attorney, but come on – we’re talking about the former majority leader of the US Senate, the man who helped bring peace to Ireland, and who is currently charged with finding out how Barry Bonds’ head grew three sizes in his 40s.

What I would like to do though, is extend a sincere thank you to Senator Mitchell. You see, I spent one of my law school semesters abroad at the National University of Ireland at Galway. In addition to learning about Irish law, of course, I wanted to learn about the people of whom I am a descendant. One of the best ways to do this is in Ireland’s living room: the pub. It’s the one place in the neighborhood where everyone comes, not so much for the drink, but for the sense of community; to socialize and interact. And being as the Irish are extremely friendly people, I’d often meet new people in pubs. A lot of times, after hearing me say “my name is Pat Thoa-ton,” their first question was ‘what part of the States are ye from, Paddy?’

I’d say Maine, and they’d give me a look, and I’d say, you know, noa-then New England ... up nea Canada ... couple ow-ahs noa-th a Boston ... eventually they’d get it. Usually Boston did the trick. But I don’t know, if you’re like me and you’re from Maine, you’re not all that excited about being associated with Massachusetts. Of course we’re Red Sox, Patriots, Bruins and Celtics fans, talking about Tom Brady and Theo Epstien as if we see them every morning at Espan’s for breakfast, but no, we aren’t Massachusans. Heck we even have our own curse word for them! I won’t repeat it here, but every Mainer knows it, especially after being cut off by someone from Massachusetts.

At any rate, after I’d been there a few weeks, I hit upon a better answer to ‘where’s Maine now?’ I started answering that question with a question: Do you remember a man named George Mitchell? Every single time, I got a yes, and then I’d proudly explain that he was from my home state of Maine. As you can probably imagine, that afforded me the chance to have conversations with the Irish in a completely different way than hearing ‘my cousin lives in Boyslton – isn’t that near Boston?’ So I would like to thank Senator Mitchell, for myself personally, that is, for enhancing my experience in that country, as a Mainer, for giving me something to brag about, and as an Irish-American and a Catholic for his amazing and meaningful work that resulted in the Good Friday Agreements.

In one of my early versions of this speech, I wrote something snappy about how Senator Mitchell almost literally put Maine on the map. But going through in editing, I realized that wasn’t true - most Irish still couldn’t find Maine on a map. But I suppose the point I’m getting at is something more important ... hopefully, they got some idea of the character of this place.

One of the things I did while I was in Ireland was keep a blog. It was a good way for me to keep in touch with everyone stateside all at once. An entry I wrote near the end of my time there might give you an idea of the character of that place:


I was at the pub last night when an older man came in. This is what I love about Ireland: it wasn't 15 minutes before we were trading stories and jokes. He was 83 years old, or at least that's what he claimed. Yet he didn't look a day over 60. The secret to his success? According to him, "good eating, a little drink every day, and a lot of sex whenever you can get it."

There may not be many things in the world better than trading raunchy jokes with a man in his 80s.

As the night progressed, and after my new friend had left, I noticed that the staff was nice enough not to ask me to leave. I say this not because I was being a pain, but because after closing time, the staff did ask everyone else to leave, except me and two other regulars. Much after I was sure I had worn out my welcome, I excused myself to go home. As the barman went to the door to unlock it and let me out, he said "good to see you again." As the words hit my ears I thought, nice of you to say, but it's just not so; you're happy to get rid of me more than anything else. But when I turned to say thanks, an earnest hand was pressed into mine, accompanied by a big smile and "Paddy, it was a pleasure." And although I can be a cynical American much of the time, I believed him.

As I was walking home, I was reminded of a professor I had in undergrad, Gerry Peters. He was big on Freud in particular and German in general. One day he got going on the German word that gives English the word "uncanny." I don't remember what the German word was, but his point was that we had lost the meaning that was supposed to go with 'uncanny.' In German, it meant to have both a normal and an abnormal feeling or sensation at the same time. In a way, it meant that only the familiar could really make you feel uncomfortable. So, as I crested Taylor's Hill, I had to stop and look twice at the road that I had walked down so many times. It just didn't look right. After a moment I figured it out. The mixture of a clear night, with a lot of moonshine and a red stoplight against the street surface produced an eerie purpleness on the road. At the risk of sounding effeminate, I'd say that it was quite pretty. And in that moment, I realized that I wouldn't have noticed it unless I was familiar with the road; I did get that uncanny feeling that my professor was talking about. Part of it, I think, was the idea that I have come to know certain parts of Ireland as my own, but all the same I am not from here and never will be. It was both familiar and unfamiliar at once.


I like that entry (if I do say so myself) because of what it says about Ireland, but also because it reminds me of where I really am from – Maine. I don’t think there are too many people who can say they went to elementary school and law school on the same street, but I did. I used to walk by the funny looking white building that houses the law school every day on my way home from Nathan Clifford. I’d stand at that massive intersection waiting for the crossing guard to give the signal that started my race the rest of the way home to Dartmouth Street. And now here I am, quite a few years later, about to try and give you an idea of the character of the place and of the people with whom I experienced it.

I think that, by almost any measure, this is a group of students I am very proud to be associated with. There are the objective measures – this is a class of achievers. Members of this class clerked at, and are going to work for, every firm you can name in Portland, and another whole list that you can’t. We placed people at the D.A.’s office, in clerkships for all manner of judges and courts, from the district and superior courts in Maine and Massachusetts to the Maine Supreme Court and the First Circuit. My classmates won the annual Tri-Lateral competition, and reached the round of 16 in a national competition in bankruptcy law. And there are subjective measures that are probably even more impressive. I remember before law school my friend Liz bought me the movie The Paper Chase, with John Houseman as the brilliant and standoffish Contracts professor. There’s a famous scene at the beginning depicting the first day of class, and the main character gets dressed down for not having read the first day’s assignment; at the end of class he runs to the mens room and vomits.

Granted, we don’t have a Professor Kingsfield, though Professors Petrucelli and Freidman occasionally come close, but I remember during first year wondering who would be the first one to catch a sardonic lecture from a professor. When would it happen that someone who was so ill-prepared that it would be torture to observe the awkward fumbling and mumbling. I actually got anxiety about it. There’s something terrible about having to watch someone else struggle and not be able to help out and yet not being able to avert your eyes. I waited for that moment for all of first year – and that moment never came, because we all did the work.

And one of the things that’s especially impressive about that, to me, is that as a single guy living just a town away in South Portland, I had a tough enough time getting myself ready for every day of class. Lots of the people behind me did it while having additional responsibilties of spouses and young children, or the hurdles of commuting or balancing a busy work schedule. I’m thinking in particular of Erica Fuller, who’s married with children and who commuted from Massachusetts to graduate. But theree are plenty of others who had things that demanded their attention outside of law school, and still got it done.

I know this will sound a bit corny, but it’s also true: going into that building for three years was energizing and enlightening. I honestly don’t know when I’ll again be part of a collection of so many bright, dedicated, and hardworking people.

But beyond the brain power and the work ethic, I’m proud of how this class treated one another. It may be something of an urban legend, but we often hear that at other very competitive law schools, students sabotage each other by hiding books in the library or misleading each other about what might be on the exam. However exaggerated those stories might be, my instinct is that they come from at least a grain of truth, and I find it stiking how much the opposite was the case for me here at Maine. Once I was telling a friend about giving a classmate a copy of my outline for a class, (‘outline’ is law student speak for your organized notes for the semester). The friend thought that seemed like a pretty dumb idea, since we are graded on a forced curve, and helping someone else was essentially hurting yourself. I guess that’s true, but I know that I have relied on others for different things throughout my law school career. I can remember during the first weeks of school when Heather Sanborn, whom I then hardly knew, spent 15 minutes answering my questions about option contracts. And even beyond any quid pro quo motivation, sharing an outline, or a day’s notes, just seemed like the right thing to do. And it certainly wasn’t just me – we all did it as a matter of course.

I also remember during first year that one of our classmates stopped showing up. One of the things about Maine Law you have to understand, is that for the first year, you have an assigned seat for the year. For every class. One seat. So if you’re not there, others notice. Anyway, after a few days in a row of this person missing all the classes, I turned to Carrie Wilshusen, who sat next to me, and said, what’s going on with that – do you suppose someone should say something? Carrie answered that she and Carol Copeland had talked about it and gone to talk to the dean about it the day before. I did the math. That means that after missing just two days in a row, these classmates were into the dean expressing their concern. A couple of days after that, the person, who had been overwhelmed by the stress of first year added to some personal stress, showed back up to class, graciously thanked those who showed concern, and is graduating with us. I don’t think happens everywhere.

I’m even proud of our class gift. We had a class meeting about graduation, and after we had kicked around a few ideas – some new furniture, new art, a couple other tangible things, Matt Mehalic spoke up and pointed out that one of the toughest things in law school is getting a job after first year. Law firms aren’t interested yet, and getting a job just for the summer can be tough, and those that are out there are more in the nature of waiting tables. Why don’t we fund a grant, he asked, to allow someone finishing first year to work at an unpaid legal position over the summer and really do something positive for their community, and for their resume. They could make an application, and a few members of the class could pick a winner. Prof. Khoury was there and pointed out that this was a big financial commitment, especially if we wanted it to be an annual thing; something that would be around for years to carry our names. Well I think we came to an agreement in about three minutes that we were going to make this work. And we’re not all the way there yet, but I’m happy to report that we are more than three quarters of the way to funding the Class of 2007 Grant.

Now, that being said, I’m also proud that we weren’t a class that took itself too seriously. I’m reminded of my rapport with Amy Robidas, who sat in front of me throughout first year. Amy is perhaps the most left wing person I have ever met. I like to think of myself as a bit right of center, but she’d tell you I’m some kind of right wing wacko. Actually she tells me that every chance she gets. When I got back from Ireland we hadn’t seen each other in a while and she asked me if was able to oppress any poor people or pollute any expanses of green. I think I replied that somewhere a tree was missing its hugger. But the thing is, like so many others in class, we’re completely friends. I’d do anything I could for her and I’m confident she would do the same, except vote for John McCain. I know with her passion she’s going to make a terrific advocate very soon – sooner than the rest of us, heck, she’s already graduated early and passed the bar. She was telling me though, that her first clients are giving her a hard time, not signing a retainer agreement. Apparently she’s having the toughest time getting the baby seals to hold pens in their flippers.

I’ll also remember a certain morning in Civil Procedure with Professor Petrucelli. Now, if you’ve never head the pleasure, and sometime pain, of being in Civ Pro with Petrucelli, I’ll let you know that it can be a pretty intimidating experience. Here is a guy who has been a professor of law since he was in his 20s, and starts each day by calling on someone cold and asking, “Mr. Thornton, Pennoyer v. Neff: who is suing whom for what?” On this particular morning, my friend Maggie Wood was the victim. I don’t remember the case, but I do remember Prof. Petrucelli starting one of his series of open-ended questions in rapid succession, where you’re not sure at what point to jump in, if at all. That day, it went something like this:

“Ms. Wood, why is the plaintiff here being refused recourse?
Why is the court distinguishing between equity and law?
Why should it matter if the plaintiff has phrased his question to the court wrongly?
Shouldn’t the court do the right thing?
What is the right thing?
What does it mean in court to be ‘right’?
Does it mean what is equitable?
Does it mean what is legal?
Is there a difference?
I ask you, Ms. Wood: what is equitable, and what is law?”

At this point the no one in class is making eye contact with Prof. Petrucelli. And we were all secretly thanking God that today had not been our day to be called on. And you would think this would be the moment where someone in our class would stumble. But Maggie took a breath, looked at Prof. Petrucelli and said, “I feel like I’m in the middle of a game show.” Even Prof. Petrucelli had to laugh at that. Completely disarmed, he said, “in that case, how about you tell me what the court did.” I actually think it disarmed him for the rest of semester, and we should thank Maggie for it.

I’ll remember some of the members of our class who, like me, are older than our average age of 30. I’ll miss listening to J. Kimball Hobbs, a former international bank examiner, quizzing our professors with his hypotheticals. The best part is he came up with them on the fly. I’m pretty sure he’s the only person I know who could formulate a question that would take two minutes to ask, and still hold my attention. “Ah, bear with me here, but I’m comparing this case with one we read three weeks ago in Torts, and I just can’t understand...” But our professors would always hear him out.

And I would be remiss if I didn’t say a kind word about what we learned from the faculty, or at least take this opportunity to poke fun at them.

Our first experience at law school was Professor Zarr, from whom I learned that whenever I am presented with a yes/no question, there is one correct answer: object to the question as a trick question. From Professor Ward, we learned that we were all insane for buying Poland Spring water, since the bottles cost the company 45 cents and the water costs 3 cents. That got him so fired up, he was like Phil Donahue, racing up and down the aisles of the classroom shouting at us: “you’re laughing but it’s true!”

I think most of us had Professor Maine, he’s kind of taken a beating as the favorite punching bag at the first year skits. That’s where, at the end of the first semester each year, the first years are on the hook to put together a bunch of skits to make fun of the professors and make the rest of us laugh. I’m not sure if it’s the Texas accent or the fact that we all love his classes, but Professor Maine gets impersonated every year, so I won’t hit him too hard today. But I can’t forget one day in Tax. We were talking about hobbies.

“Did y’all know you can write off hobby expenses? Says right here that you can, to the extent of hobby losses – whatever that means. Any of y’all have a hobby? No?” After no one volunteered, he said, “I have a hobby. Yes, I clog. Y’all suppose I can write off my clogs?”

And we all had Professor Wanderer for Legal Writing. This is a woman who once wrote and article with the title, and I swear I am not making this up: “Citation Excitement!” Actually I think all you need to know about Prof. Wanderer can be summed up by the skits by the class that graduated last year. They did a parody of the Survivor show, with all the professors on the island. Prof. Wanderer cares so much about other people, is so concerned with doing right by others, that in the skit they had her elect to vote herself off the island so as not to put anyone else out. Of course, she’s oh so cuddly. ... That is, until you get your grades. But, in all fairness, I can say that that is something that can be said for all the faculty – on the one hand they are the kindest and most giving I can imagine, so accessible and willing to meet and talk that you start to worry that they’re a bit lonely, but on the other hand, they worked us, hard. But, we did the work. And, that’s why we’re all here now.

...

Hopefully I’ve given you a glimpse of that place: what it’s like inside that odd white building, and of these people: the ones I journeyed through law school with.
As you can probably tell, I’m proud of us. I’m proud of what we’ve done, and of what we’re going to do. I’m proud of the character we have, and the characters that we are. I’m born in Lewiston and raised in Portland, so I know a thing or two about what Mainers are like and what they like. I have an idea of the reputation of the Maine Bar – much like that of Mainers as a whole – it’s one that’s known for being collegial, hardworking, and practical. I’m confident that those of us staying here in Maine are going to make a perfect addition to that bar. I’m also confident that all of us, wherever we go, will always carry with us a sense of this place – the law school, each other, the State of Maine. I guess what I’m saying is that these things; collegiality, work ethic, and pragmatism are the marks of a Mainer, and we can all put them to use to do amazing things, maybe on a small and local scale, or perhaps, on a broader one. Just ask Senator Mitchell.

Cheers.

And Finally...Sunday Night in Glasgow

Sorry for the delay, (very) faithful readers. As you may have gathered, I have returned from Ireland and have gotten busy with work and friends and family; you know - life.

At any rate, my Sunday night in Glasgow: if you remember (or scroll down), it was a weekend of drizzling and downpouring interspersed with periods of overcastness. After my day out and about, I regrouped at my hotel to consider my last night there. I wasn't necessarily looking to fill in a gap, but I didn't want to do nothing on my last night in Scotland. After consulting my guidebook, I ventured out in my L.L.Bean supercoat to a steady rain.

As I passed the Western Bar, just outside my hotel, I noticed it (much like the subway in Glasgow) was closed for Sunday. But, I thought to myself, that was a rinky-dink local dive bar without much character or clientele. I had a couple of pubs picked out from the guidebook that seemed to offer more. I crossed the River Kelvin, which was raging from the steady rain. I'm not sure exactly what happened, but between the rain and the nighttime and the meandering Scottish streets, I wandered and wandered without finding either of the two pubs I had hoped to find. Eventually I even had to resort to picking a direction and walking until I found a street intersection that was also on my map.

I did finally find such an intersection. I realized that I wasn't about a bit over a mile from the hotel but no closer to the pubs I sought. Standing under a storefront awning, I looked through the guidebook for an alternative destination based on one criteria: proximity. As luck would have it, around the corner were two pubs that the book gave solid reviews. And as luck would further have it, I found the first one straightaway. However, as bad luck would have it, it was closed. That made two closed pubs, and the rain had not eased. The last pub was still about five blocks away. I debated for a long while under another awning. Was it worth it to walk another half mile in the rain for a pub that might well be closed? It was still only about 8 p.m., but it was still pouring and I had to catch a flight the next day. I went back and forth for a few minutes but finally my sense of adventure won out. After all, who knows when would I next be in Glasgow? This turned out to be the best decision of the trip, other than avoiding haggis.

A few minutes later I found myself inside the cozy Uisge Beatha, which is Scots Gaelic for 'gathering of undiscovered folk talent.' I shook the water off myself and headed up to the bar. The bartender was wearing - and I am not making this up - a kilt and construction boots. And I can say this with confidence: it was not a gimmick. I was happy that there was a nice fire going, but I was a bit disappointed that there were only two or three people there. I got a pint of Tennet's and was about sit down, reserved to a lackluster night. Then I realized that there was another room off to the left. I pushed through the door and: Xanadu.



There was a collection of perhaps 30 people, most sitting at long beerhouse style tables, with a few gathered at the front of the room with instruments. I had happened upon a sort of open mic night for Scots. But they have a bit of a different take. First of all, it's a folk music deal. No amps or microphones. Just whatever you can generate on your own. Second, no one plays sets, they just take turns, one song each. And most interesting, if anyone else knows the tune, they just jump right in.

A song had just finished as I entered and after the applause died out, a man who looked very much like Don Ameche put his hands on his knees and began to sing a capella. This is how good he was: had he had accompaniment, it would have ruined it. He had a delicate unforced voice that sounded perfect but seemed effortless. He sang a pretty amusing song, too. It's called "Lookin' for a Job," and the chorus goes like this:

I'm looking for a job with a sky-high pay
A four day week and a two hour day
Maybe it's because I'm inclined that way
But I never did like being... i-dle!

Although the room was fairly large, the folk music, dark wood, candlelight and stained glass windows made it feel extraodinarily intimate. I stayed for a few hours and listened to round after round of songs - titles like Ramblin' Boy, I Guess I'll Have to Do It While I'm Here, and On the Banks of the Clyde. Don Ameche stole the show about four times. The others were all talented as well, and had D.A. not been there I still would have raved about the experience, but the others either were better at playing than singing, or a touch hesitant, or were missing something intangible that would make them great. I'll put it this was: the Don Ameche guy's demeanor was like a grandfather telling bedtimes stories to us kids.

So, at about the last possible moment, I think I found the perfect Glasgow experience.

Sorry for the Delay

I know I haven't written in a while, even after expressly promising (even to some of you personally). But I will be updating this weekend. I want to finish my story of Glasgow, talk some more about Italy, and give a few updates. Unfortunately upon my return to America life (and my golf game) have caught up with me.

Thanks for your patience!

Sunday Afternoon

I rode the tour bus back to the center of town. The rain had stopped and it even looked like we might get some sun. I got off and started meandering around downtown. It was so much less pressure to get anywhere with no rain. I had a bit of trouble finding the Lighthouse, which is not anything like your typical lighthouse. It's the former home of a Glasgow newspaper that's now defunct. But the building is in the heart of downtown and has a tower in one corner that offers 360-degree views of the city.

The rest of the building has been converted into a museum dedicated to design. I thought the displays were pretty mediocre, but the six-story spiral staircase climb to the top of the tower revealed views that made it all worth it.



After the Lighthouse I was able to find the Tobacco Merchant's House - the oldest private residence in Glasgow, and I even popped into the Museum of Contemporary Art which was right nearby. Both my guidebook and an internet site panned it, and I have to say my expectations were just about met. Apparently a lot of things that you had around the house as a kid now count for contemporary art, including slingshots made out of school supplies.

Feeling like I had earned a break, I walked a couple of blocks over to the Counting House Pub. This is a pub made out of a former bank lobby. I liked the idea, especially since one of my favorite spots at home used to be a pub and restaurant from a converted old bank, before it changed hands again and became a health food store (blech). At any rate, I wasn't too impressed with the Counting House either.

It was very bright and clean with marble floors, but it had about the same atmosphere as a bank branch still: quiet and lots of marble. Plus they had this system for ordering food where you went up to the bar, gave them the number of what you wanted from the menu, then the number of the table you were at. Then someone else delivered your food. Just seemed very machine-like to me. Therefore, I had one adult beverage and left.

Outside, it was getting warmer and although it was still overcast, it didn't seem like it was ready to pour like it did earlier. I hopped back on the next tour bus with an aim of ending my day with a visit to Glasgow Cathedral and the St. Mungo Museum of religious art on the same grounds. St. Mungo is a nickname, lest you think he wrote that oldie "Summertime." I never did find out what his given name was.


The museum was not very big, but every item it had was interesting. They had statues of Hindu gods with two dozen arms, ancient Buddhas, stuff from Mexico's Day of the Dead, not to mention crucifixes and images of Mary.

After that I headed over to the Cathedral and nosed around. It was massive and had endured all kinds of wild history. A church had apparently been on the site since the Dark Ages and had been looted twice. Different parts of the church dated from then right up to the present day. Behind the church was the Necropolis, which is the not-as-old-as-you'd-think cemetery on the hill behind the cathedral. It was filled with massive monuments to bishops and regular folks, all with great views of the city.

All in all I ended up with a pretty darn good Sunday afternoon. Turned out the night would be even better . . .

My Sunday in Glasgow

You may remember my trip to Glasgow. You can refresh your memory here and here. But I have kept meaning to get around to writing about my last full day there.

Sunday I woke up to a pouring rain that had apparently gone on all night. After my breakfast I noticed that the River Kelvin, which I had to cross to get to my tube station, was a raging river as opposed to the babbling brook it had been the day before. No worry for me though, as I had my L.L. Bean superjacket on. It features a zip out fleece lining that doesn't look like a fleece lining, an adjustable hood, big pockets, small fleece-lined pockets for your hands, and even a pocket for a flask. Or camera. Plus it's waterproof. And believe me, I tested it. Not by design, but when I crossed the river and turned to walk into my tube station, a huge iron gate was in my way. Confused, I crossed the street to go in the other way. Same story. Apparently, subway service does not run in Glasgow on Sunday. I'm trying to imagine that in NYC.

So, I debated for a moment about whether to cab it or walk it downtown. It was only a 5 minute subway ride, so I decided to walk it. This was a mistake. As much as superjacket kept me dry where it covered me, my pants and face got soaked trudging around in the windblown downpour.

I will say, however, that Kelvingrove Park, which I walked through, was a wonderful space even in the terrible weather. It's home to a statute of the great scientist Lord Kelvin, who invented the Kelvin temperature scale and lent his name to the Kelvinator brand of fridges.



I walked through the park over to Glasgow University, which my guidebook said had several interesting (and free) museums. I'm going to guess that they were interesting (and free) because they were also shuttered up (and closed). I started muttering to myself about Anglicans having to split from the Catholic church but closing everything interesting on Sunday. But in perusing my guide, I noticed that the Glasgow Tenement Museum was open on Sundays at 11am, was a short walk away, and it was 10:30am. Smashing. I had seen the NYC tenement museum, and this was the same premise: a former tenement frozen in time that one could walk through with a guide.

Problem was, the museum was close as the crow flies, but was on the other side of a highway called the Clydeside Expressway. So I walked about a mile down a steep hill, crossed over the Clydeside, then the River Clyde, then another mile up essentially the same San Franciscan (or Corkian) sized hill. Happening upon the tenement museum tired and somehow both proud and cranky with myself, I went up to the door only to find this sign: BACK AT NOON. Well, I'm interested in poverty probably more than the next guy, or at least more than Tom, Dick, and Harry, but I ain't waiting around for an hour in the rain to see a bunch of old furniture and have a pimply faced grad student explain how hard it was back then. Even if I sometimes qualify as a freckle faced grad student.

I sloshed back down the hill and ended up at the edge of the shopping district. I saw a McDonald's and went in to use the restroom and regroup for a minute. Now, I'm not one of these anti-McD's people, but it's got to be pretty bad for you to catch me in one by myself in a foreign country on vacation. I dried out as best I could (God bless air dryers, even if Glaswegians think me strange), and replotted my day, paying careful attention to when things were open and where they were in relation to each other.

When I left the McDonald's, still clutching my map, I noticed a City Tour Bus, which was still covered by my 48-hour ticket purchased the morning before. I was about to motion to him to wait and start running, but the driver looked at me and nodded. Confused me for a moment, then I realized I was carrying the bright red map that came free with the bus ticket. And, as I walked the block to the waiting bus, I noticed the rain had stopped outright. Still overcast, but no rain. Things were looking up.

To be continued.

Overheard on Political Radio Today

"These are the same people who are literally urinating on the constitution." (emphasis NOT added, they said it that way!)

It's because of statements like this that I no longer listen to politically-charged radio or television. I could go on and on about the ad hominem arguments thrown about on such shows (e.g., "these are the same right wingers who think it's fine to spend our money on foreign aid" or "these are the same liberals who clamor for accountability"). Both sides of talking heads make me sick on this point - we are a country of people, not of ideological agendas - but neither of them make me more angry as an amateur grammarian than when someone makes such a ridiculous use of the word 'literally.'

'Literally' means: not figuratively, but instead, what actually happened. 'Literally' is not a synonym for 'seriously' or 'all but' or 'not really but almost like.' And our relaxation of the literal meaning of literally is on the verge of sending 'literally' to the same fate as 'irregardless,' which is, namely, incorrect acceptance as a bastardization of our language. Seriously, are we to believe that one party actually broke into the museum, tore the Constitution from the glass case, and took a piss on it?

And if you doubt me, answer this: what's next? No distinction between its and it's? Atrocious mangling of plurals and possessives - like "Seven Item's or Less"? Acceptance of 'traveling' over 'travelling' (oops - that already happened)?

No, my brothers and sisters! Take up arms against this slack-jawed use of the language! Respond the same way you would if someone gave you the wrong change for your soup at the deli!

There Are No Bad Boys, There Are Just Bad Haircuts

Continued from the last post:

After dressing down the barrister in the first case, but agreeing to reschedule the case for Michaelmas term, the judge instructed the clerk to call the second case. This was a criminal case where the defendant was charged with possession of stolen property, to wit, a 2004 BMW 5-series.

Before calling the jury in, the court heard a motion from the defense barrister to dismiss the case. The argument was that the defendant could not be found guilty because he could not form the requisite mens rea, which is literally translated from Latin as "guilty mind." Practically it amounts to a "but I didn't mean to" defense. The defense's ground for such a claim? The defendant (allegedly) was not in his right mind at the time he obtained the stolen car; he is bipolar and was in the middle of a manic episode at the time.

The judge looked down at his paperwork. "But you do not plead 'not guilty by reason of insanity,' you plead 'not guilty.'" The judge looked at the lawyer expectantly.

The lawyer stumbled through an explanation that didn't really explain anything. Essentially, he just repeated that since he could show that the defendant was in the midst of an episode, the case should be thrown out.

I felt as though I was channeling my Civil Procedure I professor as I wrote "TITTJ!" in my notebook. He had a habit of writing acronyms on the board when the class was overlooking an easy answer. I remember the day he wrote "TITTJ!" on the board as he was asking us to pretend to be plaintiff's attorneys responding to a defense motion. "What will you say to the judge? What is your answer to their motion?" Because of his messy handwriting, I sat silent and motionless, not believing that he really wanted someone to shout out "TITTY!" either in open court or in his classroom.

Of course, the correct answer was "tell it to the jury!" As in, this is not a matter for the judge to decide beforehand; it's why we're here, to let the jury decide.

So, the judge in Irish court that day probably had no idea that anyone was thinking about titties in the middle of a proceeding about a stolen BMW, but I was. He offered to allow the defense leave to amend their plea from 'not guilty' to 'not guilty by reason of insanity,' but the defense declined.

"What you're essentially saying to me, then, is that the prosecution does not have enough evidence to carry their burden of proof, since one of the things they must prove is mens rea. As I'm sure you know, a failure-of-proof defense is a matter for the jury, not for me. If you do not wish to amend your plea, then I am denying your motion."

TITTIES! I thought.

Whereupon, the two sides huddled and asked the judge for a recess to confer with each other. I don't think it takes Kresken to guess what happened next. After about a half hour break, the parties came back to announce they had reached a plea agreement.

Whereupon, the judge called the jury in to apologize for wasting their time, but as sometimes happens, it turned out that they weren't needed. He did tell them that since they were empaneled past 11am, they were entitled to lunch on the state, so head on down to Quay Street Restaurant and tell them you were on the jury today. I did not attempt to take advantage of this ludicrously loose system for a free lunch.

Whereupon, the trial proceeded to the sentencing phase. This was pretty cool because I actually got to see testimony. The prosecution called the sergeant who investigated and arrested the defendant. Little did I know that happy-go-lucky garda who told me that court would start at half ten was the prosecution's star witness. He matter-of-factly described his investigation and his understanding of the defendant's diagnosis. Incidentally, the defendant bore a striking resemblance to Brendan Fraser, except with a much worse haircut (almost shaved on the sides but long and Elvis-like on top).

The defense's witnesses included his psychiatrist, mother, father, and boss. It really got kind of sad through that phase, as you could see that the guy really did have a serious diagnosis. The doctor had been treating him for about ten years, the defendant had been hospitalized twice for his disorder, his father suffered from the same disease, and his mother even called the police in the days before he was caught with the car, trying to begin the process of getting him committed for going off his meds.

Here is a quick memo to anyone who wishes to pursue an insanity plea: don't do anything to cover your tracks or avoid detection. To succeed with the plea, at least in Ireland, you are still bound by a burden to prove the ancient M'Naughten rule: that at the time, you did not know right from wrong. Our defendant changed the plates on his stolen beamer. This instantly (and maybe unfairly) defeats any argument that he didn't know it was wrong.

So, as the judge returned from chambers to sentence your man, I was sort of holding my breath. After hearing the whole story, and the fact that the guy has absolutely no record, a new fiancee, is holding down a job, and has the support of his family, you just felt like this wasn't a guy who belonged in prison, even considering his haircut.

The judge, however, explained that he was unconvinced that the defendant didn't know right from wrong, and even hinted that he was a bit cranky that the court even had to put up with that argument. Further, the fact that the defendant had not cooperated with the police in tracking down the person that did the actual stealing was another negative. Therefore he handed down a sentence of 18 months. But, he continued, he was not unsympathetic to the condition that the defendant suffered, and to his lack of a record. So, he suspended the sentence on the condition that the defendant repay the owner her losses not covered by insurance, continue treatment and meds, and not get into trouble for a period of three years. It may seem lame but I actually did think, the system worked in this case.

Then a sort of touching thing happened. While the family huddled for a group hug, I noticed the sergeant waiting to talk to the defendant. After the family broke, the sergeant approached the defendant, offered his hand, and said, "I wish you the best of luck with everything - and I very much mean it."

It's sort of nice, in our adversarial system of justice, to see a bit of cooperation and understanding, isn’t it?

My Day in Court

One of the things I wanted to make sure I got in before I left Ireland was to see their court system in action. As luck would have it, there is a district court right in town. I had tried to attend earlier in the semester, but I had inadvertently chosen a day when divorce and juvenile cases would be heard. Under Irish law, all such cases are sealed. Or, as they say in Ireland, there is no public gallery.

So, on one of my last days in town, I headed back to court first thing in the morning. They start bright and early - at 10am - or so I thought. Arriving a few minutes after 10, I nosed around for a bit, noticing that people were milling about but none of the courtrooms were getting underway. I noticed a garda joking and laughing with someone, so I went up and asked when court might start.

"Oh, they'll get going right at half ten."

Not even court starts on time, I thought.

"Thanks a million," I said.

As ten thirty approached, I was faced with a dilemma. There were two courtrooms of four being used. Which one would offer a more interesting morning? I noticed a young fresh-faced barrister waiting just outside one of the courtrooms. FYI, the Irish Bar (not that kind) is split between barristers, who are qualified to argue in front of a court, and the much more numerous solicitors, who are not.

"Sorry," I said (which seems to be taken as a more polite expression here than 'excuse me'), "but do you know what's happening in each courtroom today?" He gave me a quizzical look so I pressed on. "I'm a visiting law student from the United States looking to observe for the day, and I just didn't know which room might offer the better experience."

"Oh," he said, looking relieved, "definitely this one here. They'll be seating a jury and beginning a trial. The other one, it'll just be traffic stops and petty tings - stuff punishable by at most two years. Put ya ta sleep."

Inside the courtroom the walls were salmon and there were blue fabric seats. Behind the bench hung a large harp emblem. I always thought that calling an Irish person a 'harp' was derogatory. Who knows?

At any rate, the barristers wore black robes with strange white collars. When the judge entered he actually wore a powdered wig. The clerk called us to order, and the judge explained to the packed courtroom that we were about to begin the process of empanelling a jury. This was done by having the clerk pull slips of paper out of a large wooden box. Each slip bore a number and a name. As they were called, each juror took his or her place in the jury box. After 14 numbers were pulled, the clerk handed the first person a "testament" (they didn't specify which one, you'll have to guess), had them recite an oath, then pass the testament to the next juror and so on. After they were each sworn in separately, the judge sent them to the jury room to elect a foreperson and wait. This would turn out to be a fruitless endeavour.

The clerk called the first case and a pudgy barrister rose and sheepishly apologized to the court. His client's case could not be heard today because the High Court had agreed to hear his interlocutory appeal. Now, I don't know how many of you reading this are familiar with the law, so hopefully you'll indulge me as I explain 'interlocutory appeal' briefly. Very generally speaking, you can't appeal a case until there is some finality to it. There has to be a judgment, or a dismissal, or something that says, "case over." The idea is that you don't want to have to stop the proceeding for an appeal every time someone doesn't like it that their objection was overruled. But, there are exceptions to this rule. One common one is when a judge rules evidence in or out after a preliminary hearing. Again the idea is to save time; if your whole case turns on getting something in, it's better to get a high court ruling on it now rather than have to have a big do-over. These appeals that happen before the case is over are called interlocutory appeals.

Anyway, our portly friend was explaining that he just recently learned that his appeal would be heard, which trumps the lower court proceeding and puts it on hold. The judge was none too pleased.

"Exactly when did you learn of this?"

"My lord, only this Thursday last. At the end of the day." (I attended court on a Monday).

"And could you not have made contact with my clerk on Friday?"

"I tried, my lord." He looked at the floor.

"What efforts did you make?" The judge asked, looking over his half-glasses.

"M'lord, my office sent a fax on Friday, but, apparently there was some malfunction."

The judge took off his glasses and looked at the barrister for a long moment. We were all thinking the same thing. Why didn't you pick up the phone, you useless teat? "You know that I am powerless once a writ has issued from the High Court. So I must grant your stay until the appeal is finished. But I am saying to you now that this is the last time you will do this in my court without a sanction of some kind."

"Yes, m'lord. Sorry, m'lord. Thank you, m'lord." He quickly gathered up his things and hustled out of the courtroom.

. . .

More about my day in court after the holiday. Enjoy the weekend!

Why?

Just by the way, here is an annoying thing that happens while you're hosting people in a foreign country. Although I would first like to go on record about how I have strived to keep this blog rant-free, or at the very least rant-minimum. I understand that many blogs revolve around the rant. But that, for the most part, is not my personality, and not something I enjoy reading, so I consciously avoid it unless I think it is particularly funny or relevant.

But what they'll do - people, that is - is ask you questions as though you have done a survey on the country regarding every concept under God.

Example One: Dad

"I have a question for you: I was at the Kylemore Abbey Cafeteria, and I ordered a turkey sandwich. And on this cold sandwich is shredded cheddar cheese. So, as I'm eating it, the cheese all falls out! What kind of a country makes a cold sandwich with shredded cheese? It makes no sense at all!"

I was really tempted to say: perhaps Kylemore Abbey Cafeteria just sucks? Honestly, I don't have the first clue. It's not as though (1) I've noticed this as an Irish sandwich trend, nor (2)if I did would I have given much thought to it.

Example Two: Cottonheads (apologies to Great Disapprover, but I can't abandon the name now).

We're walking along and one of the Cottonheads wants to know: "Patrick, why do they put down different textured stone at the corners as opposed to the regular sidewalks?"

Why is the sky blue? Why do we park in a driveway but drive on a parkway? I think, to a certain extent, people just get so used to me being able to explain why the Irish can't swim, or why it's rude to offer tips, that they just presume that I am a fountain of information for all things Irish, or even European. But some things just are (why do men like sports and women like shopping? why do I always have to sleep on the wet spot?) and neither I nor the Angry Grammarian can explain them.

A Quick Joke that Probably Only One of You Will Find Funny

I feel a bit bad that Angry Grammarian is taking it on the chin for his dork-out comment. Although at the same time I'm pretty sure he deserves it (uncanny, no?). So anyway, a quick joke:

There are only 10 kinds of people in the world: those who understand binary systems and those who don't.

At Home in Ireland

I was at the pub last night when an older man came in. This is what I love about Ireland: it wasn't 15 minutes before we were trading stories and jokes. your man was 83 years old, at least that's what he claimed. Yet he didn't look a day over 60. The secret to his success? According to him, "good eating, a little drink every day, and a lot of sex whenever you can get it."

There may not be many things in the world better than trading sex jokes with a man in his 80s. If you have the means I highly recommend it. Although, I will say that this guy told perhaps the worst jokes I have ever heard in my life, at least those that I could understand. As an example, he told me one about a man and his wife going into the delivery room. She was quite adamant that only 'Johnny' could touch her in her 'queer place.' I swear I am not making this up. The doctor explained that they needed to shave her as part of the prep for delivery. But she would only let Johnny do it. And when he did, she had to stop him because it hurt.

"What are you doing," she asked through the pain.

"I'm trying to get the wrinkle out," says your man.

Apparently this passes for humour here. Or at least it did last night. I hope that when I am old and unfunny young bucks will have the same patience with me. He did have the endearing habit, which I have noticed among quite a few older folks here, of starting a story or joke by saying "come here," as in, "c'mere, I got one for ye." You don’t actually have to move, though. It just means listen up.

As the night progressed, I noticed that the staff was nice enough to not ask me to leave. I say this not because I was being a pain, but because after closing time, the staff did ask everyone else to leave, except me and two other regulars. Much after I was sure I had worn out my welcome I excused myself to go home. As the barman went to the door to unlock it and let me out, he said "good to see you." As the words hit my ears I thought, nice of you to say, but it's just not so; you're happy to get rid of me more than anything else. But when I turned to say thanks, an earnest hand was pressed into mine, accompanied by a big smile and "Patrick, it was a pleasure." And although I can be a cynical American much of the time, I believed him.

On a barely related note, as I was walking home, I was reminded of a professor I had in undergrad. He was big on Freud in particular and German in general. One day he got going on the German word that gives English the word "uncanny." I don't remember what the German word was, but his point was that we had lost the meaning that was supposed to go with 'uncanny.' In German, uncanny meant to have both a normal and an abnormal feeling or sensation at the same time. In a way, it meant that only the familiar could really make you feel uncomfortable. So, as I crested Taylor's Hill, I had to stop and look twice at the road that I had walked down so many times. It just didn't look right. After a drunken second I figured it out. The mixture of a clear night with a lot of moonshine and a red stoplight against the street surface produced an eerie purpleness on the road. At the risk of sounding effeminate, I'd say that it was quite pretty. And in that moment, I realized that I wouldn't have noticed this unless I was familiar with the road; I did get that uncanny feeling that my professor was talking about. Part of it, I think, was the idea that I have come to know certain parts of Ireland as my own, but all the same I am not from here and never will be. It was both familiar and unfamiliar at once.

I didn't have my camera with me, but here is a picture of a nice recent sunset here.

But These Go to Eleven

At the risk of upsetting dad, I must relate a story. He stubbornly will not admit that he needs a hearing aid. Once upon a time he struggled to hear in situations where there was background noise. Those days are long gone. Now he he struggles all the time and generally just talks too loudly. This is all part of his campaign to pretend he's still in his 30s. I was 13 years old before I realized my dad was claiming to turn 29 for about the tenth consecutive year.

As an example, when he and little brother arrived, he excitedly prodded little brother to "tell Pat what that woman on the bus said!" After several eye rolls, little brother told me how an elderly lady on the bus from the airport to town asked whether they were in Ireland on vacation ("holiday"). Yes, little brother explained, he was in town to visit his brother who was studying at the college (me). Confusing the story, the woman pointed to dad and asked, "well, isn't this your brother here?" At the end of the story dad looks at me with that urgent 'how-about-that' look. I was reminded how, oftentimes, dad will introduce me to women he fancys as his brother.

"Did she actually get a good look at you?" I chided dad.

"To be fair, she was probably blind," he admitted, in a rare moment of self-deprecation.

Anyway, the story is about our trip to O'Connell's bar on the west side of town. Dad was on a bit of a high his entire time in Ireland, usually evidenced by his responding to a bartender's 'how are you' with something like 'tremendous!' or 'excellent!' As we walked along the beach on Galway Bay, we approached an old man with a cane and an overcoat. In a voice about four degrees too loud, my father essentially shouted at the man: "EVENING!" The man's head snapped back in a way that was probably dangerous for someone his age, and he hurried along with his cane, no doubt wondering why the strange American was mad at him.

"These people aren't as friendly as everyone says," my father said disgustedly.

When we arrived at O'Connell's I was a bit disappointed as the large barroom was almost empty. Two old men were at the bar and a quiet group were at a corner table. The attraction to O'Connell's is the extensive antiques collection scattered about the bar. The walls and ceiling are covered with odd items. It's a unique place that often has music and encourages dancing - it even has sawdust on its hardwood floors.

As we entered, again in a voice that was hard to believe he could muster without actually shouting, he said, "WHY IS THERE ALL THIS CRAP EVERYWHERE? AND WHY THE HELL IS THERE SNOW ON THE FLOOR?" Everyone in the bar stopped what they were doing to see the loud Yanks making their entrance.

Matching his volume, I answered, "WHEN WE GET YOU BACK TO THE HOME I'M GOING TO INSIST THEY ADJUST YOUR HEARING AIDS."

He was pretty mad, but it was worth it for the comedy. I wonder if he'll be more mad when he reads it in print...

Exchanging Money

Generally, don’t do it. Mostly because your ATM card works overseas and probably charges half the conversion fee that the Bureau of change does. That being said, here is another reason.

I have had a $100 bill for a while. If I was smart enough to follow my own advice, I would have saved it for use at home. But I've had it for a while, and thought it would be nice not to hit the bank account. So yesterday I walked by the bank branch which I know has a "Bureau of Change" at about ten after four. I walk up to the bank's door and? Locked. I look at the sign. Monday they're open until five, but Tuesday through Friday it's four. I walk away wondering about how I will adjust to America's rush-rush-hurry-hurry. Such is life in Ireland, I muse, and skip along home, figuring I can change the bill tomorrow morning on my way into town.

So this morning, a surprisingly bright, clear and warm day, I get over to the bank, only to find it closed. I look at the sign, again. The bank opens at ten. Okay, a bit annoying, but that's probably on me. I mean, I just assumed that a bank would open at nine (or before). No matter, there is a breakfast place across the street, why not enjoy a 'full Irish' for one of the last times? Blue sky, don't worry, be happy.

Shortly after ten I re-approach the bank. I stride to the door confidently, pull on it and . . . ? You guessed it, locked. Now I am like - WTF? I look around for assistance and notice, on a piece of letterhead stuck in the upper left hand corner of the door, where you'd expect to find today's rates, a Notice to Our Customers. On Thursday mornings, they wish to inform me, they will open an hour later so that employees may get up-to-date training. And further, they are sorry for the delay but I should remember that they are only doing this, in the end, so that they may provide the best possible service to me, the customer.

Judge Learned Hand once wrote, "it would be most irksome to be ruled by a bevy of Platonic guardians, even if I knew how to choose them, which I assuredly do not." Judge Judy once shouted: "don't piss on my leg and tell me it's raining!" I think both apply here. If you want to keep your bank branch closed for an extra hour, I can't say that I like it, but fine. I'm pretty sure you could get your employees on premises an hour earlier one day, or in shifts during lunch, or whatever. But that's beside the point: above all else, for the love of God, don't tell me it's for my own good. That really is irksome, you fat bag of fat.

I was kind of stuck. I was about halfway from home and had planned to change my money and spend the day sort of studying. I say sort of because I had a final at 2:30 which I was essentially prepared for, so it would be that sort of half-hearted re-reading of notes and outlines that wouldn't help me learn anything new but also would help keep it all in there. So, I walked around the strip mall for about half an hour and then waited outside the bank door. At least I would be first in line. And you better believe I read every single sign on that storefront.

Happily, the door opened at 10:59 and I went inside. The branch has four windows: one dedicated to customer service, one dedicated to the bureau of change, and two general ones. A girl waved from a general window. I approached and said, "well, really I need the bureau of change."

"Oh," she said in that vacant way that you know does not bode well. In fact, let's be honest: it bodes very badly. She turned around to whisper with someone in a cubicle, looked at her watch, and returned. Sonova. "She won't be in until noon."

I attempted to wither her with a glare. She smiled. "Noon?" I asked. She nodded. This was officially the end of the charm of this crap. I felt like a New Yorker.

Although completely under control, I said, "okay, here's the thing, though. You're not open past four except Friday, your gold-plated sign says you open at ten, but there's a random piece of paper saying every other lunar phase you're opening an hour late. I know because I read it sixteen times while waiting for you to open today. And you know what that sign doesn't say? It doesn't say the bureau of change is on another different random schedule." She gave me a look that I would say was about halfway to horrified. Now, I've been on the front line of customer service many times, so I do empathize. I said, "look, I understand you don't make policy here, but you might pass along that the sign ought to say the hours for the bureau of change as well, you know?"

As I was saying this last part, the manager walked by. "You just want change?" He said in that shouted whisper that says 'I'll do it this once.'

"That's right," says me. He jumped behind the change desk and clumsily converted my Ben Franklin to €77.75. But, he did it. So, to Barry at the Headford Road branch of the Bank of Ireland, thank you. And yes, I apologized to the teller, although she wouldn't have any of it.

I guess I am still in love with Ireland.

Cruel Fate

In anticipation of my toughest final on Tuesday and Little Brother and Dad's arrival on Monday, I spent the entire weekend studying European Community Law. Of course, these two days turned out to be the first time we had over 60 degrees and sun since the last Ice Age. And we didn't get one day of it, we got two.

In fact, on Saturday afternoon one of the roommates knocked on my door and said, "the boys and I are gonna get a few beers, sit by the river and watch incredibly beautiful Irish girls walk by in miniskirts and bare shoulders if you want to join us." Or something like that.

But instead, I stayed in and read. One of the cases was about whether it was a protectionist practice for England to heavily tax wines but not beers, especially when England produces no wines; that is, are they in competition? The European Court of Justice held that lighter and cheaper varieties of wine were in competition with beer, which got me to thinking about girls in miniskirts walking by the river drinking Buckfast, Ireland's answer to Boone's Farm. Why couldn't I be reading a case about circuit breakers or something?

Anyway it's over now and of course the rain is back. But I do have a few days to hang out with Little Brother and Dad, who have a very different idea of seeing Ireland than the Cottonheads, or really, anyone else. First off, they cannot pass a pub without checking it out. Do you know what it's like to try and walk through downtown Galway and not passing a pub? So we ping-ponged down Shop Street and once we stumbled out the other end, Little Brother asked about the pubs I had mentioned on the other side of the river. So we saw some of those, too. Yikes.

Also, based on this post, they are fascinated with pub bathrooms. Every time they return from one they report it to me as though it's as important as a Red Sox score.

"This one's got stainless steel urinals and no trough, very nice and clean."

"Another trough here, and you have to take a step up to use it so it's like you're on stage. Still very clean."

The one that took the urinal cake, so to speak, however, was Murphy's. They actaully made me go in and look even though I didn't need to use it. In fact, they photographed it. I am not making this up. At Murphy's they have installed urinals against the wall, but they have not removed the old trough behind them. So, as dad points out, you get your own urinal but no penalty if you miss. Brilliant!

Well I have to hurry off now to do some errands, since Little Brother threatened to cut today's tour of the Aran Islands short, since "there's so much to see in Galway."

Exams Irish Style

So the first one was this morning. In a hotel ballroom. Apparently the school doesn't have the facilities to hold all the exams on campus - even though the exam period is spread out over three weeks. I guess I kind of noticed that when I downloaded my exam "timetable" a few weeks back (the very first day it was available), but it only occurred to me yesterday that I didn't know how to get to the hotel. I asked one of the roommates and he said "oh, that's over in Salthill," which is a section of town pretty much as far from my end of town as you can get.

"Do most people walk all the way out there?"

"Na, you'd be best to take a taxi. Better book it today too, to be sure."

Good thing I asked. Luckily, the cab appointment and ride went without a hitch (although you better believe I re-confirmed that this morning). However, upon alighting from the cab, I learned I owed ten (ten!) euro. Granted I'm not a math major, but since three of my exams are at the hotel and the other two are next door at "Leisure Land" (a waterpark/arcade/gym/conference center), that means 100 euro (about $125) just to get to my exams.

After the exam, which I'd put in that all-too-familiar law school category of "tough but fair," I walked out of the hotel to bright sunshine. I decided to walk it. A bit over an hour I arrived home. A bit of a pain, but doable for $12.50. No wonder I can climb mountains now.

I figure I just saved 90 euro. Wonder how many pints of Carlsberg that will buy? And you thought I was just studying over here.