The Gifts of Moher: The West of Ireland

The west of Ireland has a lot in common with my senior years of both university and high school. I’m at the point in my life now where I’m right on the edge of my final days of college, where I have to dive into the vast sea of adulthood, and have to endure other painful nautical metaphors of “sink or swim,” finding the “plenty of fish in the sea,” and so on. My senior year at Alemany High School was a time when I dreamt and planned of a life beyond hot, sweaty afternoons spent in the San Fernando Valley to go to a place of higher learning and frat parties. Those periods of my life seem like their own mini microcosm, with its own language. “APs, loitering, 4.0 grade scale,” for my high school years and “RDS Building, GRE, EAP, and EngSoc” for my year at UCD. The only other people who fit into your mini-world are those who sympathize with your confusion, I suppose. Both years were marked by a culture focused around leaving for the next thing. Everyone is right on the edge, collectively holding their breath before they go to the great unknown. And that’s what I did when I reached the Cliffs of Moher, I held my breath.

Hundreds of tourists pile into buses to trek the narrow roads threaded through the rolling green hills of Count Clare. They’re going to something great, so they’ve been told. They don’t know what is so great about some cliffs, yet they have their Canon A1s ready to snap at the first sheep that looks their way. I didn’t know what to think. Lonely Planet and Frommers just told me to go there, because that’s what you do in Ireland. I had put it off long enough. I dragged my Irish boyfriend, who had put it off even longer, to the west of Ireland. He knew it was something he had to see, but like me, didn’t know what to expect from it.

It’s quite staggering to see what 702 feet looks like above sea level. And to have the entire Atlantic Ocean, stretched out in front of you, waiting to be be sucked in by your digital camera— well, you almost feel sheepish (that comparison was intended, considering the west of Ireland appears to have more sheep than people) taking a picture because it is so imposing, and seems a bit pointless to try and capture. There were only three colors that view: the green of the rolling hills and the mossy cliffs, the blue backdrop of the ocean, and the grey of the castle perched on top of one of the cliffs. My eyes needed more time to adjust, my jaw needed to be picked up from the floor. (more…)

Oh its my shillelagh you’re laughing at?

This is the first of what I hope many, many captivating blogs will be published here on the Daily Nexog. I’m currently writing to you from Dublin, Ireland. For me, this is not just a travel-blog. I set off with three ships, La Nina, La Pinta, and La Santa Maria, in search of a continent that millions of people have already discovered. I hoped to trade and make friends with the locals to get their spices. And I hope to pass on my findings to you!

Ah yes, the Land of Eire, the Big Green, The Land of Rain and Bog. All miserable nicknames aside, I’ve been having the absolute best time of my young life living here for the past seven months. I only hope that more Santa Barbarians decide to step out of their sun-shiny comfort zone and take a chance on this place.

I came to Ireland like all Americans with fair skin-coloring and a valid passport: to get in touch with my roots, to live where my ancestors lived, to experience idyllic Ireland, and so on and so forth. Like almost all Americans, I can claim some uncle on my mother’s side twice removed to have lived somewhere in County Clare or something, so Ireland was the only place in the world I could see myself living abroad. On a more serious note, my mom lived in Ireland 30 years ago when she was a young-one like I was, and I was eager to share in her experience. (more…)