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.

A Week in the Life Of

An average week in the life of Rebekah goes like this:

Monday

The moment I crack open my eyes, I reach out and fumble for my pink mobile, which I keep on the dresser beside me. If I’m really lucky, the glowing numbers on the screen say 7.00 or 7.30, which means I can roll over and go back to sleep. If I’m unlucky, the numbers glow 8.30 or 8.40—which means I might as well get up and start the day.

My first class of the morning is anthropology, and I’m almost always fifteen or twenty minutes early. This is fine with me; I like to sit and read a bit before class. Some weeks I read socialist propaganda, which I have to draw on more and more as the semester wears on; sometimes I feel as if my anthropology classes are a war of political agendas. Other weeks I read reports on the Bluestockings, or skim over that week’s reading on Barcelona fertility clinics or illegitimate children. At about five minutes to nine, my friend Katie appears, and we share reports about our weekends, about the homework for this class, plans for the afternoon.

At promptly nine, the doors to the lecture hall open, and a flood of maths students pile out. I press myself against the wall and wait until the coast is clear. Once there are no more people inside, Katie and I tromp down to our preferred seats, about five rows from the front. I like this row because I’m close enough to hear the professor, but far enough back that I don’t break my neck trying to read the powerpoints. I am also directly out of the line of fire, which all students in their right minds try to avoid. Still, as the semester draws to a close, I find I’m more comfortable shouting out answers—few people actually raise their hands in this setting.

Anthropology lately has been a summarization of Bolivian tin miners, but in the weeks before we skipped around and talked about illegitimate children, egg donation, and feminism. Before that we focused on African tribes and a terrible book that nobody understood a word of. The overarching theme of the class is kinship, and frequently we related kinship back to marriage, class, and the economy. The economy is what starts our newest professor, Gordon Ramsay, on his socialistic bends.

After class is done, Katie and I pack up and have lunch together. Earlier in the semester, when the weather was still warm, we sat outside on the benches. One week we went to Starbucks; usually we just go to the Student Union and talk, now that the weather has gotten colder. She asks me about my essays, which are always on wild and rather inappropriate topics (I don’t know any more if I choose them or if they choose me), and then I try and encourage her to talk about her archaeology classes. Katie is studying at Queen’s for three years—that’s the plan, anyway—and she wants to be an archaeologist. She’s hoping to work in Egypt one day. Since this is the field I would want to work in were I not a writing nut, I never get tired of listening to her talk about her class field trips to museums and field sites. This Monday she started talking about the differences in accidental mummies and purposeful mummies, and how the Egyptians, Peruvians, and Chinese got the mummies they have.

After lunch, I hang out under an arch in the Lanyon Building, waiting for Hannah. At one we have our 18^th Century Literature lecture in a classroom that reminds us of something out of Dead Poet’s Society. When Hannah appears we share details about the day. Sometimes Tuesday comes and talks to us, sharing anecdotes about the Northern Irish life or her week or the assigned reading. At one we climb up the stairs as the maths students are being let out, and sit down three rows from the front. It’s more important to sit close to the lecturers in this class as the microphone is rubbish, and often gives out. Sometimes the lectures are good. Sometimes they are bad. By three, when we are released, I feel like a soda pop bottle that’s been shaken; I’m about to explode.

After classes are over, the day can branch into different places. Hannah and I usually stop at the Spar to buy groceries; sometimes we do our laundry. When there is no laundry, we return to our rooms to muck about on the internet and pretend to do homework. Dinner is usually an event, as all of the Northern Irish students have returned from the weekend and are talkative and energetic.

TUESDAY

Tuesdays are brilliant days because I get to sleep in. I wake up and read over my Creative Writing homework one more time (it is the only class I regularly and routinely do my homework and assigned reading for) and then head out to meet Hannah at noon for lunch on Stranmilis Road. A Presbyterian church offers us a free lunch, but it comes at a high cost: there is no room to sit, and once you have eaten you are shuffled out of the way so others can eat. There is no place for friendships or discussion. I eat my pitiful meal of half a sausage roll, all that I am allotted, and sip at my tea, and in under half an hour we are released back onto the Belfast streets.

Hannah has a morning class, but at noon she is free. I have class at three, and I am loath to walk back to Elms only to pack up and walk back at 2.30. In the first weeks of the semester I wandered through every secondhand book shop on Botanic Avenue, but now that the semester is nearing its end, and I had problems with money and the bank, I tend to hole up in a corner in the library and write, or read. At 2.30 I am sick to death of the library and walk over to my Creative Writing class, where I am a half hour early. I take a seat on the stairs and continue to read or write; sometimes I stare at the ceiling and the door and think about home, about the future, about parallel universes.

Aaron is the first person to show up for Creative Writing besides me, and I try and engage him in conversation until the others arrive. Aaron is like a wee Oscar Wilde; his hair flows the same way, and he is a poet—or he could be, one day. I like everyone in my Creative Writing class, from kind India, talkative and grown-up Ann-Marie, German Aleks, who makes his own cigarettes, shy and sweet Rebecca, fiery Georgia, and vivacious and amazingly talented Shannon.

When everyone is assembled we file into the little box of a classroom and are held at the mercy of Ciaran Carson for two hours, who sometimes thinks out loud, and others makes an effort to drill lessons into our heads. I’m always sorry to go, but Ciaran usually gives me a good idea of what to do after his class; there are almost always poetry readings or book launches to attend when class gets out. This week Aleks took initiative and invited us all out to the Parlour, and so five of us went and discussed books and movies for two hours, which was absolutely brilliant.

Tuesday is also iCafe day, and at 7.30 Hannah and I meet Victoria, our American friend, in the Treehouse before walking down to Crescent Church. iCafe is a constant in my life; we have gone to every single once since arriving in Belfast. They were the most helpful people we met the first week, and every week since then they have done their best to make us smile, whilst teaching us lessons about Belfast and God. This week they brought in Scottish dancers, and we all danced together. Hannah and Victoria tried haggis afterwards. I stuck to sugar cookies.

WEDNESDAY

On Wednesday I have no classes, and I have nowhere to be. Some Wednesdays I go on amazing adventures, to the Mountains of Mourne or City Centre or any number of things. Others I stay in my room and work on papers and do homework. Hannah and I usually watch a movie on our laptops, or Victoria invites us out to do something.

THURSDAY

On Thursday again I have no classes, but Hannah gets out of class at eleven, and I always go and meet her in front of the McClay library. Usually we go inside and read, or I run through the shelves searching for a tome on sensibility or gothic literature or the Bluestockings. At noon we go to Fisherwick and have the best lunch of the week, which is a sausage, an apple, a cup of tea, a cup of water, a chocolate-caramel sweet, and, for Hannah, soup. Fisherwick is a larger church than the one on Stranmilis, and Hannah and I can take our time. Some weeks we sit with the British Rebekah; one week we sat with Tom, and others we sit with an Australian boy. Several Americans also come and check up on us. Lately they’ve been asking how our Thanksgiving went.

After lunch I usually walk Hannah to class. Some weeks Victoria and I catch Hannah when she gets out at three, and we walk to City Centre, but other weeks I stay in my room and fiddle around on the internet and do homework and read. By eight, the music has started upstairs. Party night has begun in Belfast. It usually doesn’t stop until three.

FRIDAY

Friday is probably the day I like most, which is absolutely ridiculous, because it is the day where the most happens. Again I wake up and reach out for my pink phone and then get up, but already I find an impediment to my daily routine: It is cleaning day, and I have to skirt cleaning ladies as I try to use the single bathroom, the single shower, and the kitchenette. After much debate with myself, I have given up on Friday breakfasts, if only to spare the cleaning ladies, but I still must fight for the shower and bathroom. Once I’m clean, I eat bread in my room and wait until 10.30 to walk to class.

I am again fifteen minutes early to Anthropology, and again sit in the stairwell and listen to the other people in my class talk. Sometimes they talk about our professors. Today they talked about my tutor, Bree, and how they do not like her. From what I can gather as an anthropologist—for I am already trying to get into the mindset of my class—the teaching methods of Irish and non-Irish tutors differ dramatically, and because Bree teaches like an American (the reason I like her), the Northern Irish students find her hard to work with.

Gordon Ramsay pops around, early on Friday, and waits for the mad rush of students to get out of class. Katie appears, and we talk about what’s been going on with us this week. I remind her about movie night, and she nods. At eleven the doors open and the class piles out. I say hello to one of the girls I know, Sophie, who is in that class, and then Katie and I file inside and sit in our usual seat. Gordon turns on blaring music—he is an ethnomusicologist, which means he studies the anthropological origins, effects, and designs of music—and shouts, “Handouts, get yer handouts!” in his ridiculous blend of English, American, and Australian.

After class on Friday, I dash off to my tutorial in House 13. Bad luck, I always say to myself cheerfully as I push open the pink door. There is usually a line up in front of our class; the room is, more often than not, locked. Bree runs to get the key, and then we file into the cold classroom. Tucked into the right corner is a bunch of what might be stage props, or ethnomusicology instruments. Bree smiles at us and gets us started on our presentations.

Most weeks presentations are two students standing in front of the class and reading off of a sheet or two of paper. Everything is handwritten; these are not formal essays. They are instead the line by line interpretations of the article we read for homework, cut off without a conclusion, and left without original thought. Bree struggles to make the presenters conclude their presentations and put in their personal opinions, and so when my turn comes to bat, I decide to show my classmates how Americans do presentations.

Last week I gave my presentation on a Barcelona clinic that specialises in egg donations. Our article talked about twenty-five women donating eggs, and why they were doing it. My job was to both analyze, project, and put in my own opinions about egg donations. So when the day came, I put up a powerpoint, colourful and vivid, and without the use of notes, started off by talking about Queen’s University Belfast, which has just lately announced it has found a way to negate male infertility. From that starting point, I elaborated on the article, and then moved into ethical boundaries. Egg donation is actually illegal in many European countries, whilst sperm donation is legal. Is this because sperm donations is easier, bringing to mind images of men alone in a room with a cup and a magazine, while egg donation involves anesthetics and minor surgery, or is this a question of ethics?

As per always, whenever I get an explosive, embarrassing, taboo subject, I took things too far, and ended up polling my entire flat, asking if they would consider donating their eggs. In the end, only one person said that they would consider donating their eggs. What was the reason? I asked my class. First, there was possession—they’re MY eggs, you can’t have them—but the second was religion.

This, of course, got us onto a discussion of orthodox Judaism compared to Catholicism and In Vitro Fertilisation, but I consider this a job well done. Bree was ecstatic, and the Northern Irish students rather unimpressed. We finished the class up, as we always do, relating everything back to the States, which, while great for me, probably annoys everyone else to distraction.

At 1.05, I am late to my next class, and run down the street to House 2. House 2 is not my final destination, however; I spend three minutes winding around a maze until I come out at the end at the Seamus Heany Centre. Luckily for me, everyone else, including our tutor, has class before this, and so I am usually just on time or about a hair late. Originally, our tutor for 18^th Century Literature was a Dutch girl named Rebecka, who I associated with Regina George, but now we have a British boy with nice eyes called Joe Lines, who basically lets us do whatever the heck we want. His voice never gets very loud, and he never judges us the way Rebecka did. This is both nice and boring, and now we all sit and stare at him when he says things. This is partially because A) Nobody knows what he wants from us, and B) I spend too much time enjoying his accent to really bother to listen to him. Half of the class has started playing truant, and so I have taken over as his right-hand woman; Richard (AKA Catboy) is his right-hand man. I make sure everyone stays on track, and Richard answers when the rest of us look as if we would rather be anywhere in the world but there. Catboy is basically invaluable to the class. I don’t know if our tutorial would survive without him.

At 2.05 we are released back into the world. I am full of a pervading sense of peace. All is right with the world. I have survived another week in a Northern Irish university, and I am well pleased with how I am doing. I walk back to Elms, grab a snack, and sometimes go into the kitchen to see Chelsea and Hannah. Then it is homework until dinner at six; at 7.30, we go to the Treehouse and we have movie night with some of the most amazing people you will ever meet: Jennifer, Rebekah, and Sophie. We watch a movie, share snacks, and then talk until late. When I go to sleep, I am usually happier than I have been all week—not to say that I am unhappy during the week, but that I am almost angelically peaceful.

SATURDAY

What? Wait. No. You canNOT be serious. How much homework do I have left? But how much homework have I done already? None of it? Are you kidding me? Aggh!

On the days that homework does not prevail and take over my soul, I go on day trips to Zoos, to Dublin, to City Centre…but always homework. Because apparently I was on the internet all week instead of doing something productive.

Where is everyone?

Oh. Right. They’re at home.

Where the heck is the couch? It’s been missing since Thurs—ohh…

SUNDAY

Mass is at 10.30 sharp. Hannah and I are usually there twenty to thirty minutes early. I sit and pray, and then try and pay attention to the priests, who are dry as dust. After mass, I have the happiness of knowing we are going to Saint George’s Market with Victoria.

And then, of course, more homework—or, if I’m lucky, a movie night.

I'm Coming Back

When I woke up this morning, I had no idea that in two hours I would be scrambling up a muddy mountain and dodging cyclists. Nothing went as planned today, but unexpected as it was, today was definitely the second best day I have had in Belfast, and a brilliant birthday weekend.

Today we were supposed to go down to Dublin for some Christmas shopping with the Weekenders Club, which is the only club I go to weekly. I attend the Weekenders Club on an almost religious basis, because it means that every Friday night I can wind down watching a brilliant movie with my two American friends here, Hannah and Victoria, and three amazing British girls, Jennifer, Sophie, and Rebekah. Sophie and I just celebrated our 20^th birthdays on November 22, and Rebekah and I—if you haven’t already guessed—share the same name. I don’t get to see them often enough, because with Queen’s being as big as it is, sometimes I only see the people I like most once a week. This is an absolute travesty, and so when I heard we were all going to Dublin today, I was bloody excited. I got up at the unheard of hour of eight in the morning (don’t judge me, I’m a uni student), dressed in my favourite top, scarf, and the necklace Hannah gave me for my birthday, and went off to meet Hannah, Sophie, and Rebekah to pack Oreo cupcakes. In the interests of money—as in, we all have pounds, but not euros—we had decided to pack a lunch and charge all of our presents to our credit cards, and therefore, we would have a picnic lunch.

We arrived in the Treehouse right on time. Victoria was already there, and we chatted for a bit, worrying about where Jennifer was. Jennifer is the only one of us who does not live in Elms, but by the Chaplaincies across the street from the Lanyon Building, and so instead of walking thirty seconds to the Treehouse, she had to walk ten minutes. But she made it, albeit a little bit late, but this was not unduly concerning, because the rest of the Treehouse was just lounging. Waiting. Nicola, the RA in charge of this operation, kept popping in and out and making sure we were all for Dublin, and then popping off again. The RAs are brilliant at this. So the six of us gossiped in the corner, and I kept sneaking peeks at the British boy from our last major outing, to the Zoo.

After the time for our departure had come and gone, Nicola finally gathered us all around and said, “I’m very sorry, but today’s trip has been cancelled, because I can’t find a bus driver.”

The RAs here seem to have a huge problem with this. You would think that when fifty people sign up for a bus trip to Dublin you would find a bus driver to get them there in one piece. Apparently not.

“But we will reschedule. How about next Saturday?”

There were calls of dissent. Apparently next Saturday was full.

“Then the Saturday after next?” cries of assent. “All right. It’s settled. But I will personally drive any of you who want to do something today anywhere in Belfast—for free. So have a think. Maybe the Continental Market? Saint George’s? Have a natter.”

We six of us sat down, slightly surprised, and thought. I didn’t want to go to City Centre, as I’ve been to the Continental Market twice now, and because my cheque still has not cleared. (The bank said it would come in on Friday. The bank lied. THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOUR BANK MERGES WITH A SWEEDISH BANK, AMERICA.) The others were vaguely in agreement about this.

“Well, we don’t want to do nothing,” everyone said.

“I walked all the way here,” Jennifer said.

“Titanic Museum?” someone said.

“We’ve already been,” Hannah and I said.

“I’m going with a friend next week,” Rebekah said.

“I’m going with my parents,” Victoria said.

We sat there, thinking. And then I had an idea.

I do not get ideas often—not social ideas, anyway—but when I do get an idea, I will run with it to the ends of the Earth and back (which is why I’m in Northern Ireland right now). And when I have an idea…it tends to be rather unconventional.

Lately I have been thinking that I have three weeks left of my stay here in Belfast, and so I think back on when I first arrived, and the things that stood out to me the most. I’m happy to say I’ve done almost everything I’ve wanted to do, except visit Downpatrick and Cork, and walk across the obligatory Rope Bridge of Northern Ireland. But there was one thing I hadn’t done yet, something that I had wanted to do since I had first arrived in Northern Ireland and travelled across the countryside in a bus, tired and sore and amazed: I wanted to climb Cave Hill, the mountain that I have taken so many pictures of with my camera, the one I threatened to climb when I was at the Zoo, the one I have thought about again and again in my thoughts.

So I said, “What about Belfast Castle?”

Lo and behold, I’d had a good idea, because everyone agreed with me—and two others, Maltese boys named Manuel and Mark, thought it was such a good idea they went with us.

Nicola was a good tour guide, because she stopped and explained what was going on honestly. Every single time we reached an interface she would point it out. An interface here is where Catholic territory faces Protestant territory, and this is where most of the skirmishes occur. Catholic territory had spray-painted FREE SO-AND-SO signs put up in strange places, and Nicola explained that we were in North Belfast, where the treaty lines are uneven. Education is poor in North Belfast. Girls tend to get pregnant and drop out early. International students are fine, but GB students would do well to stay away. I suddenly had the odd sensation of feeling rather safe and rather uncomfortable—I was a Catholic, but I was American, which negated my religion, and I was travelling with three British girls, whom I did not want to be in any danger because I’d had the fool idea to travel through. Jennifer distracted me though by saying, “My parents got married here, but I can’t find the church,” and we started trying to find it.

Anyway, we were soon dropped off at Belfast Castle, and started taking pictures. This is probably the best time to describe the layout of Belfast Castle for you.

One of the first things you will see upon arriving in Belfast is the Zoo, and Cave Hill, and then the harbour. The Zoo is built beneath Cave Hill, and Belfast Castle is sort of built a little higher than the Zoo, but still on sea level. What I am trying to say here is that the harbour is visible from certain parts of the Castle, which is directly underneath Cave Hill, which is near to the Zoo. I suppose that’s all rather confusing, but it must be explained. 

 At the Castle, we dove into the gardens, which had a feline theme. There were nine cats hidden in the garden, and we ran around looking for them all. Once we had found them we went inside of the Castle and climbed up a spiral staircase to look through three rooms open to the public. We had good craic there, using a spy camera to watch people wandering through the gardens, and we picked up a map. The map told us that there was a playground, which as mature 20 and 21 year olds sounded like fun, and also a maze, which we wanted to visit too. So we went down to the playground, and I was amazed to see that the entire thing was gated, the top bits covered with barbed wire, and that the inside was large, and decorated like a miniature castle.

“Why is there barbed wire?” One of us—probably me—asked.

Manuel laughed. “So the kids can get used to their future!”

I figure, if I’m going to be a jailbird I might as well associate good memories with barbed wire, and followed an energetic Jennifer to the doors of the playground, only to learn that you have to be 14 or younger to play there, and besides the insurmountable age difference, you had to cough up £2.50 to be allowed inside.

Thus we started following Rebekah, who was looking at the map, to the maze. The woman at the playground had no idea where it was at, but the map gave a pretty clear picture. We went through some very scenic hiking trails by a little stream, and were almost there when a man in a yellow fluorescent jacket stopped us because we were on a bike trail, and there was to be a mountain biking event on that day, which meant if we proceeded any further we might get run over by a bike and die.

The man explained to Rebekah how to turn around and try a different trail, whilst the rest of us—Jennifer and myself, at any rate—seriously considered leaping a fallen tree to get to where we wanted to go. Eventually the reason of Rebekah and Hannah turned us around, and quite by accident we found the maze.

Which stunk.

For one thing, the maze was built so that the walls were easily jumped, and we could see where we were going; and if you simply follow the maze it will lead you out. You make no choices. There is no game of wits with the creator of the game, no skill involved. It was a meditational maze, Jennifer said, who is familiar with mazes of all sorts and told me about some of them as we walked. For a maze like this, you simply meditate, and by following the path, it will lead you to the center, and then out. It was a strange experience, and we felt rather flat afterward; we had been expecting something, as Mark said, out of “Alice in Wonderland.”

At this point, Jennifer wanted to go to the Zoo and see the Malaysian Tapirs (what is with the British and the Tapir?) but I wanted to climb Cave Hill, and so did most of the others. We kept trying to find trails up the mountain, but there was invariably a man in a fluorescent jacket saying, This path is reserved for the cyclists. Please try another path.

Eventually we did find a path, and it was rather muddy. We had barely gone five minutes when we had to do a vote, do we go to the Zoo, or do we continue on, and the vote was in my favour, so we continued to climb.

Just after the vote, we had to climb up a steep, narrow, muddy pathway that bikers kept flying down. Trees grew closer on either side. This was rather dangerous, and if we weren’t careful we would slip and fall. In the end Rebekah and Sophie wanted us to go one by one, so that it would be both safer and easier on the narrow path, and I shouted back, “Everyone: Duck formation!”

To my credit, most of them understood and went into single file. Jennifer started to hum what would be the third nursery rhyme I’d learnt that day:

Oh, wasn’t it a bit of luck

That I was born a baby duck

With yellow socks and yellow shoes

So I may go wherever I choose

Quack, quack, quack, quack…

“Rebekah,” Hannah panted from behind, “I am going to kill you.”

We got to the top of that little hill without any damage, although our trainers were rather muddy. Then it was a bit more level, and when the call “Bike!” came, we could dive to the side of the road, onto the grass.

The bikes would roll by, usually in twos or threes, and the forerunner was usually kind enough to say “Cheers!” or “There’s three others behind me,” so we’d be on the lookout. Some said nothing, but splashed mud at us as we went by. One tried to show off by riding along on one wheel for a few seconds.

It was all rather dangerous, and Hannah confessed there was one call of “Bike!” that she didn’t think she’d make. Most of us would trip, some would fall, and there were several complicated maneouvers that we enacted. I started to pretend that we were in World War I.

About halfway up the mountain we were in the clear, and were able to cross a flat patch of grass, and then head up on a wide, flat road made of stones with a lot less mud. This made it easier to talk, and we started talking a bit about Malta, where Manuel and Mark are from, and they asked us questions about America in return. I made a comment about the American education system, a rather negative one, and Mark looked surprised.

“I have never heard an American speak ill of their country,” he said.

Immediately I thought I had made a boo-boo, and Hannah and I were quick to explain. We love America, of course we do, how could we not? But there were problems with America, and we weren’t going to deny them. Was it unusual?

“Unusual,” Mark said, “but honest.”

He seemed rather surprised, and spent a few minutes thinking about this.

While the path was nice and even, and there were no longer any cyclists, tractors kept passing us by with loads of cyclists and their bikes on the back. “The race starts at 2,” some warned us. It was half past. We were almost up the mountain.

The last half of the trek up was the easiest, and within twenty minutes I was standing at the top of Cave Hill with all of the rest, feeling invincible.

The view from the top was incredible. We could see the bay, a Stena Liner ferry safe in the dock, Samson and Goliath, resting in retirement, and the rest of Belfast laid out before us. Jennifer thought she could see Queen’s.

From left to right, Hannah, Sophie, Rebekah, Victoria, Manuel, Mark, and Rebekah

We broke for lunch at the top. A huge group of cyclists were gathered at one end of the cliff, and we stayed by ourselves, eating our packed lunch. Everyone donated something. Rebekah had her cupcakes, Jennifer had made sandwiches, Hannah brought carrots, Sophie hard boiled eggs, and Mark gave us some chocolate things flavoured with orange. As we ate, a little yellow dog came up and ate our eggshells and let us pet him.

I got bored sitting there, and entertained myself by edging down the cliff and then chasing puppies. “Stay where we can see you!” Hannah called.

“Okay, mum!” I yelled back.

After we had eaten and restored our spirits by listening to Queen’s Greatest Hits Album, we went down a steep path I had found going down the mountain that would A) Get us out of the way of the bikers, as it was really steep and really narrow, and too dangerous even for cyclists, and B) it would be faster. The light would start to fade soon, at about four, and it would be best to get down the mountain as soon as we could.

Getting down was just as dangerous as going up. Hannah slipped three times, and Jennifer decided to go on a dangerous slope that she basically had to slide down. At one point I got trapped on gravel that slid under my feet, and I almost fell down an incline. 

Jennifer scrambling down the hill

 And then Sophie and Rebekah, who were travelling in front, called: “There’s a cave on Cave Hill!”

We dashed over, as soon as we could—it is best, as I learned on the Mountains of Mourne, not to run down a mountain, no matter how sorely you are tempted—and stood in front of the cave. It was about eight feet off of the ground, on a little rock face, and Sophie, Rebekah, and I decided we were going to climb it. With the help of people on the ground telling me where footholds were, I scrambled up the rock face. 

Me!

The two Rebekahs in the cave

Climbing was actually the highlight of the cave, for once I had gotten inside I found it was rather small and damp and graffitied. It was probably the size of my living room, and not at all what I had been hoping for, which was an epic spelunking adventure. But I had climbed the side of a rock that was taller than I was, which is something I have always wanted to do. The Mountains of Mourne had made me worry that I was not cut out to climb mountains. Cave Hill changed my mind.

Sophie and Rebekah climbed up as well, and Manuel joined us. Just as we climbed up so had a boy, who was someone who, I thought, climbed rocks fairly regularly. He was joined with the little yellow dog from before—Sparky, I learned his name was. 

On the way down the dad of another group helped us figure out how to get down. This was handy, as not everyone had as long legs as I did—I was the tallest of our group who climbed—and as Sophie had fallen about four feet up the rock face. We didn’t want anyone else to fall. The entire adventure was made more difficult because Sparky kept climbing over me as I was going down. But we all made it down safe, and then got to the bottom relatively easily. 

Jennifer helps me down

By the time we were on level ground we had started to sing The Twelve Days of Christmas in a high soprano. We were singing this just as we passed a group of bikers, and they all of them looked at us as if we were mad.

“How many days of Christmas are there?” Mark complained to Manuel.

“Only twelve,” Manuel said.

But that one song sent us on a Christmas singing spree, and we sang carols through Belfast Castle and for the twenty minutes we waited for Nicola to come and pick us up. We would have sung them in the car as well, if Mark hadn’t turned the music in the car up to drown us out.

“They talked all day,” he complained to Nicola. “They didn’t stop. And then they started to sing—”

We fell silent then, exhausted. I watched the red sky. Red sky in morning, sailors, take warning. Red sky in evening, sailor’s delight. I said this out loud, and Jennifer corrected me: “It’s shepherds.”

“It’s Lord of the Rings,” Victoria said. “The sun is red. Blood has been spilt this night. Legolas said it.”

Then Jennifer tried to get us to sing Christmas carols again, and we tried to sing, “O Little Town of  Bethlehem,” but they sing it differently than we do in America, and that fizzled out quickly.

When we let the boys and Jennifer off at the Chaplaincy, Mark ran off, and Jennifer, tired, left. But Manuel held the door open for a moment and said, “Don’t let anybody stop you from singing. You’ve got me in the Christmas spirit already. I wasn’t before. Don’t let anyone stop you!”

We then went back to Elms, and I went to pick up post, and saw that my lovely Aunt Diane sent me a beautiful black scarf, which is wonderful because I’ve wanted more scarves, and the one she sent me is actually really popular over here right now. I was very surprised, because I hadn’t expected any presents from home at all.

It was dark when I made it back to Holly 4. I had my scarf in my hands. Patrick was waiting for me in the room. I slipped my shoes off before entering, and laughed—because I have done everything I wanted to do in Belfast, and now I am ready to come home gracefully. Besides, as I told Sophie in the car, “Don’t worry [about us leaving]; I’m coming back.”

I am coming back. I’m not quite sure how to explain it, but I love the United Kingdom. I love Northern Ireland, and I love Scotland, and I’m looking forward to exploring more of England than just London Heathrow. I’ve learned so much here, and it’s so hard to believe I go home in three weeks. I am so excited to go home, because I have all of these ideas of what I want to do when I return, ideas that I didn’t have before. I have a clearer idea of who I am and what I want out of life, and I know that I will come back to the U.K. in the near future.

But for now, I am content to be going back to the States.

Songs Jennifer and Sophie taught me today:

The sun has got his hat on
Hip-hip-hip-hooray!
The sun has got his hat on,
He's coming out to play!

Johnny was a Paratrooper in the RAF,
Johnny was a Paratrooper in the RAF,
Johnny was a Paratrooper in the RAF,
And he ain't gonna jump no more!

Glory, glory what a terrible way to die

Trapped inside your braces in the middle of the sky
Glory, Glory, what a terrible way to die,
And he ain't gonna jump no more!

He landed on the runway like a blob of strawberry jam

He landed on the runway like a blob of strawberry jam

He landed on the runway like a blob of strawberry jam,
And he ain't gonna jump no more!

Glory, glory what a terrible way to die

Trapped inside your braces in the middle of the sky
Glory, Glory, what a terrible way to die,
And he ain't gonna jump no more!

They put him in a matchbox and they sent him home to mum

They put him in a matchbox and they sent him home to mum

They put him in a matchbox and they sent him home to mum

And he ain't gonna jump no more!

Glory, glory what a terrible way to die

Trapped inside your braces in the middle of the sky
Glory, Glory, what a terrible way to die,
And he ain't gonna jump no more!

She put him on the mantlepiece for everyone to see,
She put him on the mantlepiece for everyone to see,
She put him on the mantlepiece for everyone to see,
And he ain't gonna jump no more!

Glory, glory what a terrible way to die

Trapped inside your braces in the middle of the sky
Glory, Glory, what a terrible way to die,
And he ain't gonna jump no more!

And now they all have strawberry jam with their Sunday tea

And now they all have strawberry jam with their Sunday tea

And now they all have strawberry jam with their Sunday tea

And he ain't gonna jump no more!