After a lengthy discussion with Mike from Cork about how the urinals in Ireland and indeed all over Europe are more rounded than the ones in America are, he came out with the line “Ah sure, either way, you’re a peein. (Geddit? European? Geddit? Gas…)
(Mc Laughlin, M.J. (2010) The Eagle’s Nest, Part. 1 Section. VI, Langerhouse publishing, Cork, Co. Cork. (My God, I love Cork))
As I’m pretty much settled in over here I’m struggling of things to talk about in this blog because I’ve become so used to everything here that it seems normal and mundane to me now, even though it fascinated me or confused me when I first got here. One thing I do still really enjoy my walk to college everyday which takes me about 5 minutes along Commonwealth Avenue to the entrance of BC. While I walk I’m not looking at the T when it flies by, nor am I looking at the pretty buildings all alongside the road, but I walk along the side of the street where the cemetery is. I know this sounds quite morbid, but it’s the headstones in there that fascinate me. The headstones at home are all kind of familiar, the same names popping up all the time, every so often a name will not be Martin, McEvoy or Farrell and then, sure, aren’t they a blow in? But the names are so fantastically mixed here, so much so that the names Zanik, Sheridan, O Sullivan, Dubnikov and even a Phelan all in a row. It’s something that I think we tend to ridicule about Americans, the fact that they al
l cling onto their heritage, especially in Boston where they cling to their Irish roots like a needy ex that just can’t let go. We’ve all done it, we’ve all made jokes about the A
mericans who break down their heritage into fractions like, “I’m 12.5% Italian, 20% German and 93% Irish.” Now, I’m not going to lie, I was right among those making the jokes about it, but since I’ve come here I started to really like that about America. Everybody is American, but they’re also not letting their heritage go, and if I’m honest, the Boston Irish are more Irish than the Irish. They know traditional folk songs, they know the history of Ireland and they drink Guinness, and when I say traditional songs, I don’t just mean Thin Lizzy’s version of Whiskey in the Jar. So I ask what’s wrong with Americans holding onto where their roots are? It’s honestly one of my favourite things about America, when I meet someone and they tell me that they’re Irish too, and they’re from Cork or Galway, or even one girl I met who told me that her family came from Offaly. I told her I was very sorry, but it’s good that she can admit it. It made me wonder if Americans will ever see themselves as just American, not Irish-American or Italian American or whatever- American, but I really hope they don’t.
Now, back to the issue of cultural differences and all that jazz! Ok, so I know that when you sneeze, sometimes a friend or a relation will say, “bless you” afterwards. Sometimes! Here anybody and everybody will say it to you! This isn’t a bad thing, but the people here do it with such frequency and speed, it’s sometimes more frightening than a sneeze that catches you off guard. If you sneeze in class, at least 4 people all seemingly vying to win the race to speak the magical words will shout it out to from across the room, down the length of the bus and probably over an intercom system if it was nearby. Just recently I was in the library (The actual library!) and I was sitting in what I can only describe as a wooden paneled cell where all possible stimuli is cut off. Sitting in my little box, I am surrounded by several other boxes all containing students who have confined themselves to the wooden prison in hopes of getting work done. For no apparent reason and with no warning whatsoever, a sneeze sneaks up on me and comes shooting out. Now, because I’m in the middle of several well-meaning students, I was barraged by at least 6 people calling out “bless you!” I was so taken aback by the response to my sneeze I said “bugger!” a lot louder than I intended to and fair few giggles were directed my way along with one person looking over the partition and asking me “Do you have an accent right now?” Which incidentally has become my favourite phrase here, like, it’s not just inquiring about whether or not I have a non- American accent, but rather whether I have it “right now” just incase I do have a foreign accent, but I sometimes like to leave it at home.
I don’t think that Boston has really lived up to the stereotypes as much as I thought it would, but in some respects I have felt very stereotypically American, like ordering pizza, having a beer and watching Football (and yes, I have given up calling it ‘American Football’) and I love it. It really is the little things that make a difference, and the biggest difference here is that pizza doesn’t come with garlic mayo. They may have the art of Pizza making down to an art, but when it comes to dipping crusts, or even the glory of folding a slice in half lengthways and dunking it into the garlic mayo, they are still in their infancy. On the topic of pizza, we now have a great relationship with the general manager of our local Dominos because when you order Dominos online, you can see who is making your pizza and subsequently who is delivering it. Quite regularly we were told that Tamer was making our pizza, and so we decided to write compliments to Tamer in the comments box on the Dominos site. We assumed that these comments would go into some kind of computer system and never actually be read. However, it turns out that those comments appear in the Dominos that you are ordering from, so they saw these comments were being read by Tame
r himself. So one day, we ordered a pizza and it told us that Tamer was making our Pizza. We celebrated as usual, but then we saw it change to “Tamer has left the store with your order.” We went mental. Actually mental. When we calmed down, we decided that we should write him a song and so we changed the lyrics to Jack Johnson’s Sitting, Waiting, Wishing to a song all about Tamer. Long story short, we now have a direct line to Tamer and he sorts us out with all kinds of extras.
Moral of the story: Be nice to pizza people, they can pull strings, and probably mozzerella ones.
