I'd count sheep, but I would always be sleeping

So far I have encountered two exceptions to the "everyone in Dublin is ten minutes late" rule. The first being theatre - and even in this case, the employees were unusually prepared for our tardiness. I went with some friends to the Abbey Theatre (the theatre established by Yeats, Lady Gregory and Synge in 1904 to provide an outlet for Irish theatre - until this point it had been almost entirely British theatre traveling through Dublin so this was a big turning point for them) to see Oscar Wilde's An Ideal Husband. Not yet aware that you do actually have to be on time for a few things in Ireland, we showed up seven minutes after eight and were escorted to the "latecomers lobby." There, we each received a letter welcoming us to The Abbey and expressing their regret that we were delayed in our arrival and summarizing the events of the first scene while we waited for the first applause break to sneak in. I'm pretty sure that when that happens in the U.S., they either lock you out for the whole first act or make you climb awkwardly over perturbed row-mates. And despite the missing scene, or maybe because of the warm, undeserved welcome we got in place of it, the play was Wildely (haha) enjoyable.

My other experience with "time malfunctions" was catching the train this weekend to Killarney. Apparently, the train stations work as inefficiently as possible here. First of all, it's twice as expensive to buy your ticket at the station as it is to pre-book online and -- if you have the misfortune of being ripped off by them in person, you have the duel misfortune of learning that, despite that fact that you just purchased a ticket, they have the ability to shut the gate whenever the people in neon outfits decide the train is "full" (not actually full, but too full for you). So I watched as my friends who had wisely prebooked their tickets departed for Killarney and I studied the ins and outs of the Dublin Heuston train station for the next hour and a half until I could follow them to western Ireland.

On a brighter note, the trip to Killarney, around the ring of Kerry and then to a Bed & Breakfast in a town (a "town," but not big enough to make it on the map) called Kells on the west coast was incredibly scenic and peaceful. We finally had a few homecooked meals by people other than ourselves and we walked along the coast with Agnes's cows, chicken, dog and sheep. Photos coming soon. Actually sheep seem to be one of those Irish stereotypes that really are as common as you think (kind of like potatoes and Guinness - and not at all like red hair and leprechauns, although I won't be around for St. Pat's Day so who knows). On the train ride back to Dublin we passed a golf course in the countryside on which the golfers were out numbered by the sheep. We looked quizzically out the window and the Irishman next to us said something along the lines of "oh yes, the golf courses here aren't all closed and private like in America. They're open to the public." So apparently "the public" here includes sheep.

Above is a stop along the ring of Kerry and below is the view from our second B&B in Kells.

Also, I went to hear Sir George Martin, the man who produced the Beatles, speak last week on campus (this is actually the reason I missed the train). For those ninety minutes in the train station and the following three hour train ride I kept telling myself it was okay because I got to hear stories about young Paul McCartney and John Lennon. Really, though, it was fascinating to hear the story of the Beatles from his perspective and how close they came to not happening at all. The Literary & Historical Society hosts some pretty cool events it seems, I feel like that's a club we could use in the states. Oh I was reading my forward to A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man the other day and apparently Joyce was in the L&H himself when he was at UCD (although back then it was called the Royal University). So that made me feel connected to both the L and the H, even if the moderator probably didn't start sessions with a list of things younger than John McCain in his day (Barbie, Israel, the wheel, etc.).

Now I should probably get some sleep because tomorrow is the last possible day I can register with the Garda and let the Irish po-po know that I have immigrated here, even though I will immigrate back in a matter of months and plan on voting in the US election like any other American. Also, Ireland has never really dealt with immigrants until recently with the economic boom, so this process is supposedly about as chaotic as the sidewalks.

I'll bid you farewell with our busdriver's version of the Irish blessing:
"May the road rise to meet you
May the dew fall soft upon your head
And may you be in heaven
Half an hour before the devil knows you're dead"