Ireland
by Lainey Nichols '09

Ireland is a blur. Last night,  we arrived in Cork — the cleanest airport in both hemispheres. Thank goodness for hygiene and soapy smells, because a few of us were behind a real, live hurling team from Ireland just prior to boarding the plane ... and all that entails. It is not my intent to be hypercritical or judgemental, but these hurlers seemed so stereotypically meat-headed that they should have had their own Saturday Night Live skit — oh wait, that's been done by Mike Myers and his sketch on head-butting hooligans. These jocular jocks were each outgoing, toothless (with the exception of one thick-necked looker and fake-baker ... Irish boys aren't tan), and would have been thoroughly enjoyable to talk to had they not expelled flatulence, thus thwarting our initial ambition to make fun conversation. Hurling must be hard-core.  

Tickled with the fresh accent that surrounded us, Dre, Big Cat and I rolled our luggage up to our new hotel that abutted the airport. We communally determined that an inclusion of a "grrrr" and a "bounce" was all that was necessary to pull off the Irish sounds, and proceeded to chant "Cork International Airport Hotel" in a Wizard of Oz, "Lions and Tigers and Bears, oh my" rhythm, having a grand old time. As if we were in a movie, the gaiety was suddenly hushed when we looked onward towards our new lodging. With four malnourished palm trees and faded neon sign to put on airs, the Cork International Airport Hotel seemed a sad, dilapidated state of affairs.

But, once inside, it was an Austin Powers meets Sprockets wonderland. Apparently, with some crazy German designer at the helm, a theatrical nightclub setting peaked our interest and the entire evening was spent in exploration. This hotel was ridiculous. We all joked that it had tromped our previous five-star hotel with an imposing eight. Ten languages were spoken here by the employees and our rooms were incredible. Huge flat screens, clean lines met by monochromatic whites and wood grains ... high quality TEA — shew — it  was a night in Disney World. Alas, we only spent  our last night there, but we made a very interesting friend whose characteristics would be just as frequently imitated as Cappen Daive's.

        "Za nem iss Chobby. Zet's C-s-a-b-b-i, Chobby."

Chobby was from Berlin and was the human embodiment if Himelick from the Pixar classic, A Bug's Life. He thought us quirky, little American sprites — oblivious to world politics and idiotic — and although we were having fun with him and did nothing to counter his assumption, Chobby's pretense would have been humbled to nothing had he sat-in on a few of our classes at home. He had lived in Los Angeles for a while with a family who drank "ziss dizgustengg be-ah called Milla Loght." His host family of Miller Light imbibers were clearly Philistines in Chobby's book, hence his funny yet patronizing quips to us. The man loved him some   "Family Guy " though, and we had to ask him three times to repeat himself  during a hang-out session in the hotel lobby.

Chobby in the Lobby: "Ohh! Hat yoh evah seen zat Family Guy when zey stell zeh caush froum Stewie?!! Aha! So hilardious!!!

Translation: Have you all ever seen that Family Guy when they steal the couch from Stewie? Oh! That was so funny!!!

All in all, old Chobbs was a lovely fellow who seemed to be just as enchanted with us as we were with him.

Bean and I had a spectacular view, AGAIN, of a well-manicured garden and the lights from Cork. And even if the heated bathroom floors, space-age hand dryers and modern art weren't in the picture, exposure to Ireland and all its inhabitants will still have been an unbelievable experience.