Sept 14th

My alarm buzzed at 8 o'clock, but I hit the snooze and quickly faded away. Around 8:45 I woke up to the sound of rain pounding down on my ear drums. The rain violently crashed down on our sun porch glass roof and a cold draft moved through the cottage. The sun porch hasn’t seen the sun in some time now. It was the wettest August for Ireland on record in the last 173 years. I bounced out of bed remembering that it was my turn to flip the electric water heater on for the shower. I flipped the switch and laid down to rest my eyes. Ten minutes later a roommate woke me up concerned about the bathing situation. I informed him the heater was on and that I’d jump in to clean up for church in a couple minutes. I showered Navy Style once again and began to shiver when the "heated" water sent a chill down my spine. I brushed my teeth, grabbed a banana for on the go and hit the bus. Not surprisingly the bus came 15 minutes late leaving me and all the other church goers cold and soaked.

I had been shivering since I hopped out of the shower and that didn’t stop when I got into church. The Galway Cathedral was a mammoth cold and damp feeling grey stone church. Fr. O’Flaherty gave the mass to an all-White middle class parish. Usually when I go to a different church and I feel like I stick out, but the group of us blended in amazingly well. It was a more traditional mass, none of this interpretive dance junk like at St. Luke's a couple months back.

The priest seemed like any old priest back home, but he sounded like a tape player with the fast forward button jammed. The words roared out of his mouth at turbo speed. At Nativity I find myself speeding ahead of everyone while saying the prayers. In Galway, I spit out the Creed as fast as I could and found myself lagging behind. I was consistently outpaced and off beat with the rest of the parish.

During communion everyone scattered and scurried around in the front of the church. There was no rhyme or reason to receiving Communion. Everyone all at once rushed to the front and knelt down at the communion rail with their hands or tongue out and took Communion.
I grabbed a bulletin before heading out of mass. It has become habit for me to grab one for my mom. Turns out she never read them anyways, but just wanted to ensure I went to church and not to breakfast. I picked one up for you this Sunday so you could read it mom and prove to you I went to mass. Or at least you know that $32,000 of tuition later I am smart enough to know how to pick one up in the back of church and then go to breakfast.



We hit up the bookstore for a class text, but it was sold out. Then we trotted over to the grocery store to stock up on milk, butter, cheese, mixed vegetables, dish soap, and fruit. Then we boarded the bus and headed back to the cottage for some down time.

Tonight at supper we all ate some 2.50 Euro stir fry. My taste buds knew it was only 2.50 Euro after the cheap rice and rubbery pork put them into shock. I consulted the receipt after my body informed me of the gross flavor and clarified its 2.50 Euro quality. (Note to self: 2.50 Euro quality food divided by 5 people = cheap and sick grub.)

James had another shining moment today at the supper table. We all called him out on a small fib about the power outlets in the sunless sun porch. He admitted that he plugged a power strip into the one socket and it made a POP(!) sound, so he moved on to the next outlet. Strangely enough the next outlet he targeted went POP too and he fried that one too. At this point he admitted to seeing a pattern, but needed to make sure it was the power strip frying our outlets and not some sort of spontaneous combustion deal going on or divine intervention. Jame's next victim was the outlet to our TV. HE HEARD A POP AGAIN AND KNEW THAT IT WAS THE POWER STRIP! We all laughed, but deep down knew that the next POP would be followed by another POP to his face to knock some sense into him.


A side note... the other day I was in Galway and heard a familiar tune coming from the streets while I was shopping. I heard an Irish version of Bob Dylan from a street performer. I threw the guy a Euro, chatted with him about the Minnesota legend, and recorded his performance for my friend Bob Galligan. He told me his old girlfriend lived in Saint Paul. He said near Ramsey. I thought he meant Ramsey High School and told him I live a block away. Then I slapped my head and said "duh" to myself when he said County Ramsey is gorgeous.

So here's some Dylan for everyone:



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