kronka

Coming out of my cage...

and I’ve been doing just fine.
Gotta, gotta be down,
because I want it all…

The night is warm, and we don’t know why. Standing outside, under the lonely courtyard tree, under the hazy lights, under the bugs. (Do you think they’re mosquitoes? Are there even mosquitoes in Ireland?) We listen to the dripping of an afternoon shower’s leftovers. We talk about the end, about the beginning. School, work, life. Ladies and gentlemen.

Have you seen the Polish girls? Is dinner ready? Chicken takes a while to bake, you know. A stream of curses. Yes, yes, that will speed things up.

I’m going to miss this.

Hey man, they’re playing a drinking game with a song, and every time Sting says “Roxanne,” they drink. Uh, dude, that’s not a drinking game anymore, that’s just drinking while listening to the Police. And no, I don’t want to go.

For once, it feels like a summer night. Funny how that is, and it’s the last night many of you have here. Tomorrow it’s buses, trains and planes.

Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go! Are you getting a taxi? We’ll catch up. Where are we even going, again?

On a Wednesday night, dancing to MGMT, to Timbaland, to Kanye, to Usher and Lil Jon and Ludacris. The club is full of young people, eager to find someone under the smoke machines, to find themselves. You are not so different.

The Killers suddenly blast on, loud and full over the dance floor.

You pull him a little closer.

‘Cause I just can’t look,
it’s killing me,
and taking control…

We make faces, we shrug. We stare over the sweaty heads. We make idle chat on a dance floor, avoiding the corner in the corner of our eyes. But it turns out you’re not the only ones, lost in the quiet awkwardness of a noisy room.

And in the end, it’s not quite the same, after.

But it’s just the price I pay,
destiny is calling me.
Open up my eager eyes,
‘cause I’m Mr. Brightside…

Food in Ireland

Because I wrote one about Switzerland. I might as well, right? Note: This is not so much a definitive guide to what to eat in Ireland, as it is a guide to what I ate in Ireland. Ireland is not cheap. Is it cheaper than Switzerland? Well, sometimes. Portion sizes at restaurants are respectable. But with the exchange rate, it’s hard to say. In any case. First, there’s the breakfast. A full Irish breakfast averages about 7 or 8 euros, and is more than filling. Usually comes with tea or coffee. (I prefer tea.) And, thankfully, it’s usually served all day, at any pub. Speaking of pubs, there’s something quite enjoyable about enjoying a hearty meal in a cozy pub. The food is oily and fattening, but it’s also not expensive. The people are friendly and the music is fun. It’s very relaxing, very comforting. Hard to explain. Then there’s the kebabs. Of course. Kebabs are irresistably delicious. Chinese and Indian restaurants are plentiful. They’re generally decent. (I haven’t, however, seen any Chinese restaurants that try to be authentic; just the usual mediocre takeaway fare.) And yes, we ate at a Subway once. Also, supermarkets and convenience stores all carry prepackaged, premade sandwiches; they’re expensive for what they are, but usually tasty nonetheless. Traditional Irish food usually involves potatoes (who knew), pork, beef, seafood, and vegetables (cabbage and leeks and the like). I live in a seaside town, so the fish and chips are tasty. There’s soups (potato and leek, for example), and stews (the coddle), and pies (Shepherd’s). Again, strangely, Irish food is comforting: I associate warm feelings with Irish food. Probably because it is so cold and wet outside. In the middle of summer. It must be said, however, that we didn’t eat out too often. We had the distinct advantage of being able to cook for ourselves. And oh, what an adventure that was. Walking to the grocery store with a backpack, shopping for groceries, carrying everything back home. (They have a tax on plastic bags here, you have to buy them. And we’re cheap. So.) Chopping things up with the horribly dull knives that came with the apartment. Fiddling with strange ovens. In the end, I’d say we did pretty well. There was steak, stuffed bell peppers, homemade alfredo, hand-wrapped dumplings. We stuck to the tried-and-true, we experimented, we shared. Roommates taught me French and Indian and Polish dishes — the dishes they’d eat at home, not the supposed representative samples in restaurants. There are some interesting oddities about living and eating in Ireland, compared to the States. Chicken is one of the more expensive meats, for example, so we stayed away from that. Bacon can be any of countless cuts of pork, not just that disgustingly dripping, fatty slice of belly. Eggs are not refrigerated, they just sit on a shelf, with a warning to “Refrigerate after purchase.” The cheese section is large, as with the butter. Fresh herbs are surprisingly cheap and easy to find; on many occasions I brought home fresh basil, rosemary, parsley. Blackcurrant is common, but I think that is more a European thing than Irish. Yogurt, jam, tea, syrup. Why is it not popular in America? Oh yes, the wine. Karan, Sonya, and I tried to explore and taste all types from all over. There was only one rule: no American. Well, that, and it couldn’t be too expensive. Somehow, the majority ended up being reds. Sometimes even when we ate chicken and seafood. Yeah, that’s right. Most wines were successes. Several were memorable for being good, only a few were for being bad. Only one we never finished.