A Happy Christmas from Belfast!

Advent has begun, and today in mass the altar servers lit the first candle that begins, for the Catholics, the countdown to the new liturgical year. Back home, at Saint Patrick’s, Father Bob used to have a little ceremony for the candle, and he would light it himself, reminding everyone in the church that Christmas is coming. Sitting there at mass I was astounded by how little pomp the lighting of the first advent candle was given, and thought longingly about what Saint Patrick’s would look like now—only to realise that I did not know. This summer our parish welcomed a new priest, as the Archdiocese of Detroit has started to change the way we do things. Father Bob was moved far Up North, and Father John was reassigned to us. Now the church wants us to change our parish name, which has been Saint Patrick’s since ribbon farms scattered the Monroe area and Detroit was still pronounced with a French accent. Home is not the same as it was when I left it. Who knows what is happening in my little church down the street, or even what the Madonna chapel looks like now?

The countdown to home is now officially two weeks, and I’ve noticed that my thoughts return more and more to home. I miss my uni, my friends, and my family, but at the same time, I know I’m going to miss Belfast horribly. It’s going to be a hard adjustment to go back to things like taxes (What do you mean it’s a $1.06? The sticker says $1, eejit! Don’t you factor the tax into the sticker price?), not using u’s or s’s but z’s (and pronouncing it zee, and not zed!), and—I will admit it right now—the 21 drinking age (not that I have been drinking!!! Much.).

In my musings of home, I have also realised one terrible thing: I still have lots and lots of Christmas shopping to do.

Now that my cheque finally cleared, after an entire month of waiting and starving myself (I will not miss you, Danske Bank), I find that I am unexpectedly rich. And after spending a month gazing longingly at all of the beautiful things for sale in the City Centre, today Hannah, Victoria, and I went down to Saint George’s Market so I could finally spend money. And spend I did.

Saint George’s Market, in case I have never properly explained it before, is a large almost warehouse like building behind City Hall, and on Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays, craftsmen and women from all over the city come and set up little stalls inside. Victoria likes to go on Fridays and Saturdays, but Hannah and I usually can only make it on Sundays. After mass, we eat a quick lunch and then hurry off towards Saint George’s Market, where we are immediately greeted by the smell of fish, smoking meat, and spices. Some weeks there are live music bands, playing old favourites like “Galway Girl” and “I’ll Tell Me Ma (Belle of Belfast City)”. This week there was American music, and all three of us danced down the aisles, singing under our breath. Victoria bought her mum and dad recycled wine bottles, now dressed up as beautiful champagne glasses, and we wandered through the stationary stalls, the steampunk stall, and the Earth-friendly stalls, full of incense and rocks and African art. I fingered the scarves, made of wool, of Himalayan fabric, Indian weave, silk, and admired the metalworking’s of men who can take old spoons and make them into rings. Now that it’s Christmas, most of the stalls have ornaments and Christmas-themed trinkets, and I take a moment to appreciate them, too. But my favourite stall, the stall I have been waiting for, is KawaiiCandy Couture, and for the first time all semester I spend lots of money on jewellery from her stand.

Kawaii Candy Couture is the best jewellery store in Saint George’s Market. Taryn, the owner, is a talented artist, and every week she brings new and innovative designs to show. Most of her designs are based in popular nerd culture, and so she creates Harry Potter themed necklaces, earrings, and bracelets, along with Lord of the Rings and Hunger Games jewellery. Like most people in Northern Ireland, she also has a passion for Alice in Wonderland, and every week brings a lot of Alice broaches and designs as well. Sometimes she has Pokemon jewellery, and other times videogame or movie items, such as Jaws, Walking Dead, or The Avengers. My personal favourite are her Disney Princess themed necklaces, and her pocket watches, which I have been waiting a very long time to afford.

“You guys are too good to me,” Taryn, the owner of the stall, said, as I handed over my items to be individually wrapped. Taryn remembers us from week to week, along with her other patrons, and always has great deals. For my purchases today, I got a free necklace and a free pair of Harry Potter earrings.

“No,” I replied, “You’re too good to us.”

Now sporting much longed-for bling (and a few little presents for the weeuns back home), I returned my attention to the rest of the market. Hannah bought a few prints of Belfast to take home and hang on the wall, and the Lebanese House offered us free samples of some unidentified meat which tasted very nice. We plotted future purchases at Suki Tea, the best loose leaf tea in Belfast, and looked at a few other jewellery stalls before we realised that the stalls were starting to pack up. Saint George’s was closing.

“I think I’d better head back,” Victoria said.

We walked Victoria back to the turn-off home, and then Hannah and I went to the Continental Market in front of City Hall. It’s much smaller than Saint George’s Market, but it’s very similar, except that the vendors are—true to the name—not usually from Belfast, but from the Continent. All of the stalls are made of wood, so that they look like little German houses. Christmas lights are strung up everywhere, and on all of the windows of City Hall are blue stars and other designs, and the large banner HAPPY CHRISTMAS, BELFAST. Best of all is the large tree in the centre of the square, which looms above us all.

One stall is made up entirely of life-like woodwork. There are large hippos the size of a dog, little owls, nativity scenes, and one large, very realistic cobra, its mouth open, little teeth showing, which scared Hannah when I pointed it out to her. Another is made up of little religious icons made by an Orthodox nunnery somewhere by Russia. Everywhere is food. There are candy vendors, Italian vendors who call out, “Does the pretty lady want a sample?” before shouting in Italian. Lavery’s, a local bar, has an entire tent, too close for my liking to Santa’s Grotto, in front of which line up scores of little children, anxious to tell Santa what they want for Christmas. On the weekends, the entire place is packed; I was in there for only a few seconds today before I started to feel claustrophobic, as if I were drowning. But I was on a mission: I wanted presents for home, and I wanted churros.

Hannah bought presents for people back home, and I fought my way to different stalls and made the purchases I’d wanted to make. At the end of this, I decided that I would come back and buy food another day, when I could actually place an order without being swept away, but Hannah really wanted to try some German mulled wine, which Tom, our Northern Irish political friend, had recommended as especially tasty. We fought our way there, and Hannah bought a small glass. She stood there, next to Santa’s Grotto, taking small sips.

“Is it any good?” I asked.

She handed it to me. “Here. Try some.”

I took it, being careful not to drop it. I was wearing gloves, and simple manoeuvres become more difficult when wearing them. “Is it hot?”

“Not really. I didn’t burn my tongue. You should be fine.”

I took a cautious sip. It wasn’t that hot; it was just warm. In my mouth it tasted like warm apple cider back home, but darker and deeper. Maybe it was the spices. I swallowed, and was hit abruptly with the taste of alcohol, sharp and chalky. I coughed, and stuck my tongue out a few times, like a snake, trying to get rid of the taste. The vender standing behind Hannah gave me a look of disgust, ashamed of the twenty-year-old unable to swallow mulled wine with elegance.

“Didn’t like it?”

“It was actually really good,” I said, remembering the taste of it in my mouth. “Second favourite alcohol, after WKD.”

“Aw, look at you, trying new things!”

We moved away from Santa’s grotto to a little stand nearby, with tables for people to put down their food or drink. There were no seats, however. My fingers and toes felt cold, and my nose was running. Hannah and I talked about Dan’s youtube videos, about a present I had bought for my sister, presents she had bought for her own sisters. She kept taking sips of her wine, but when she set it down I realised that, ten minutes after she had bought it, she had barely cracked 10% of the drink. I realise, ignorant about alcohol as I am, that you do not chug alcohol the way that I chug pepsi products, but this seemed odd, and I pointed it out to her.

“It’s really, really good,” she said, her eyebrows furrowing, “At least, it is when I hold it in my mouth...but when it hits my throat, it tastes...weird. I’m sorry, this doesn’t make any sense at all, does it?”

“It makes perfect sense to me,” I said, “it tasted like chalk on the way down.”

“It does not taste like chalk. Want some more?”

“I’m okay, thanks.”

She drank a little more, and then we looped our way back around. “Wait,” she said, “I want to drink some more.”

We stood there. Hannah offered me some more, and I took another sip, holding it in my mouth for a moment before swallowing. “This really is a drink for a long winter’s evening,” Hannah said. “Don’t let me get it again.”

I took a few more sips—Hannah applauded me for taking such a big step in taking real sips, and not fake sips—and then we headed off, still carrying the mulled wine. This is technically illegal and Hannah kept trying to finish her drink, walk, and find a rubbish bin. In the end she gave up and threw it away, reminding me again that I should never allow her to order mulled wine unless we are in for a long night at some pub.

The crowds got smaller as we left City Centre and made our way back to the Queen’s Quarter. The Student Union had put up more Christmas lights, so that they fell from the windows in a parody of icicles. The bare trees gleamed with blue bulbs, and in front of Whitla Hall stood a Christmas tree. All the way home I kept stopping Hannah in the middle of her sentences, and saying, “Look! It’s a Christmas tree!” and we would peer in some person’s house, where their tree would stand glowing behind a window.

Even though they didn’t hear, I wished the families the trees belonged to a Happy Christmas before moving on.