Mackenzie's List of All Things Irish
In honor of Saint Patrick's Day, I thought I would tell you all a little bit about the reality of living in Ireland. Most of this is tongue-in-cheek, but it's also a fairly realistic depiction of my day to day life. And so, without further ado, I present you with Mackenzie's List of All Things Irish.
1. I greatly despise having to say my name here.
Generally speaking, I love my name. I love that the "K" is lowercase and that it can create a plethora of nicknames. I love that my middle name is after my grandmother, and that it rhymes with my last. I love all the jokes that can stem from the pronunciation of my last name, whether it be silly future first names for my brothers' children (Anita, anyone?) or clever hashtags (my favorite: #mahoncrushmonday). Despite the fact that I'm no where near marriage, I've already started planning out how to keep my full name while adopting my future husband's as well. I don't think I'll ever be quite ready to part with it.
Here, though, I have to force my name out of my lips. First of all, Mahon is an Irish name, but since I don't say it with the Irish lilt they always tell me I pronounce it incorrectly. I've started using their pronunciation when on the phone, because at least they will then know how to spell it.
My last name is the least of my worries, though. Generally speaking, people will introduce themselves and I'll respond with, "Hi! I'm Mackenzie." These people, still pumping my hand up and down, will then frown at me. "Mackenzie?" they ask. "Is that your real name?"
Yes, I will sigh in response. Yes, I know that it's a surname here, but in the States, it's a perfectly common first name. They'll still frown, shake their head to themselves, and say, "Okay." Then they proceed to call me by some other name, since obviously Mackenzie must be my last name.
I'm fairly certain this conversation happens at least once a week, and it's not regulated to Ireland. Someone said this to me, basically word for word, in Copenhagen last weekend.
2. If it's sunny, the windows are open. If it's slightly dreary, they're probably open then, too.
Anyone who knows me at all knows that I tend to run about 10 degrees colder than everyone else in the room. I spent all of last summer in Maine rocking a knitted cap /sweatshirt/long johns/North Face layered style, while my coworkers galavanted around the archery range in shorts. Normally I can deal with it, but Ireland is been a test of my capacity to concentrate while cold. Heating systems and insulation aren't as extensive here as they are in the States, and the cost of heating means that many places (like my house!) only turn on the heat for a couple hours a day. Again, I got used to that: I just stick on more layers, wear the same hat day in and out, and stay under blankets when possible.
In class, though, I can't escape. Several of my professors have this belief that if there are more than three people in a room with a window, it becomes too stuffy to have said window shut--even if it's raining. I can't tell you how many times I've sat shivering through an Irish language class, hope leaping into my chest as my professor walks towards one of the open windows.... Only to unlatch the one next to it.
3. 'Cheers!' is my new favorite phrase.
Like any place around the world, Ireland has its own sayings and phrases. The most distinct one is "craic", pronounced "crack." Don't worry, Mom, nothing illegal is happening if you're "having the craic," it just means you had a ton of fun. Everyone uses it, from professors to students to my friend's lovely house mom, who often recommends we do things by telling us that it's "loads of craic." They'll say that things are "gas" when they're funny and that people are "sound" when--well--they're not crazy.
My favorite phrase, though, as the above point delineates, is "cheers." It often gets used here instead of thanks. Waiters will set your plates down with a smile and a "cheers"; professors will sign their emails with it. I've started to say it to bus drivers as I hop off, and I hope that I can bring that home with me.
4. Rain gear doesn't exist.
Strangely and miraculously enough, it hasn't rained in Galway for a whole week. I don't know how that happened, but I am not complaining and not taking it for granted. As I've oft mentioned before, though, for the first two months that I was here it rained every. single. day. for at least an hour. This was no PNW drizzle, either; it would often dump buckets for hours with thirty mile-per-hour winds, meaning that no matter how nice your clothing is, you're probably still wet.
Ironically enough, though, I feel like rain gear isn't a common purchase. Many Irish people simply don't wear it -- they perhaps have a semi-waterproof jacket, but galoshes or rain pants are not in their (impeccable) daily wardrobe. Living in Wentachee and Bozeman meant that I didn't own rainboots; plus, having read on the Internet that no Irish person would be caught dead in Wellies and wanting to blend in, I figured I didn't need them. Wrong assumption. My first weekend in Galway I trekked all over attempting to find decent boots. It was practically impossible. If I didn't want hiking boots, there were none. I eventually stumbled across some semi-waterproof dress boots that I've lived in since then. The vinyl has already worn off and I had to superglue part of them back together, so let's pray that the era of awful storms has passed.
5. The Irish live up to their friendly stereotypes.
On one of the first weekends here, my friend Sarah and I went to Dublin. We were holding a map in the middle of the Trinity College campus planning out the best route of attack when a middle-aged man stopped and asked if we needed directions. We didn't, but he exemplified the type of kindness often found in this country.
It's something I didn't quite appreciate until I left Ireland. I took a trip to Brussels early in March, where water at a restaurant cost €3 and the waiter served us rudely though I thought we had been respectful. After a weekend of trying to navigate train systems with only my rusty French skills to help, it was a treat to return to Ireland. The customs official chitchatted about my studies. I showed up at the bus stop at the Dublin airport, hoping to get on the bus departing in ten minutes even though my PDF ticket wouldn't open and the ticket itself was for a bus one hour later. Rather than ask me questions, the bus driver just smiled, took down my initials, gave me a free water bottle and waved me back to the plush seats in the land of free WiFi. Ah, Ireland, I sighed. It was good to be home.
6. Biscuits are the best.
I haven't been to London yet, but I'm assuming the habit of tea and biscuits that exists here is similar to that in the UK. Friends. Biscuits are the best. I can get sleeves of any kind of cookie imaginable (and a few beyond imagination) at my favorite grocery store, Aldi, for €0.45. It's a bargain deal to which I often succumb. The strangest one, in my opinion? Jaffa Cakes. The closest thing I can compare them to are Fig Newtons, but that doesn't do them justice. I still can't tell if I actually like them or not. When I went to visit a Wenatchee friend in Copenhagen, I brought Jaffa Cakes for his host family; watching the teenage Danish kids try them was the funniest thing ever.
I once described my love of biscuits to an elderly woman I was sitting next to in a pub, telling her that I wasn't leaving for months but I already missed the biscuits. "Oh, but you can't eat those," she told me. I didn't understand why and told her such. "You'll get fat," she said. When I stared at her with wide eyes, she held her hand out in front of her and slowly moved them apart, mimicking how wide I'll apparently be getting from all these biscuits.
Whatever, lady. I'm still going to pack 15 sleeves of them in my suitcase when I go home.
7. Sizes are different.
One of my Irish friends was saying last night that he wanted to visit America again, but that he's honestly afraid of Texas because "Things were already so big in California, and if everything is bigger in Texas I just don't know how I'll handle it." Another friend was telling me about how she went to the States and couldn't believe how unbelievably huge the malls are. Lo and behold, as she started to describe her experience I realized that she had, in fact, stumbled in to the Mall of America.
Some things are bigger in the US, it's true. The only one I really notice, though, is the refrigerators. I'm daydreaming about being a grown-up and getting to actually put more than one item in the freezer at a time, because when you share with four other people and your freezer is this small, that's about as much space as we can all have.
8. Pubs are great.
Let's get this straight: I'm not a proponent for getting drunk, by any means. I've seen too many people make poor decisions when under the influence of alcohol and I've watched too many people struggle with alcoholism for me to ever want to get drunk.
I do quite enjoy, however, nursing my one drink of the night in the all too common Irish pubs. People linger and chat and listen to music and compliment my accent. It's still a tradition here to buy a round, and it's definitely nice to be sit around the table (preferably an old Singer sewing machine) with an Irish couple, listening to their stories and drinking the Guinness that they so kindly purchased, while the group of elderly men across the room wrap their arms around each others' shoulders and loudly sing along to the best band in all of Galway. It's moments like those that I realize I truly do live in Ireland.
9. Ireland's expression of its culture is very different than American expectation of Irish culture.
I'm taking a course called "Ireland in a Global Context," which looks at the way that the nation of Ireland transformed between the years 1922 and 2002. Because of this, I ended up writing a paper about how Irish culture globalised in the '80s and '90s (answer: U2. Without U2 there is basically no paper) the same week that I celebrated St. Patrick's Day in Ireland. The result? I realized how much stock America places in our "Irish roots" and how very false many of those traditions are. Many Irish people don't like the Riverdance show and think leprechauns are offensive. Corned beef and cabbage isn't an actual thing: most Irish people, according to my friend's house mother, eat bacon and cabbage if they eat it at all. Many of my Irish friends skipped the St. Patrick's parade yesterday and didn't wear green, though they got mighty upset if you referred to the festivities as St. Patty's Day (while they don't particularly like the abbreviation to begin with, if it is done it needs to be St. Paddy's Day, as it's based on the Ghaeilge spelling of Patrick, Padraig).
And no, we didn't dye the beer or river green. Honestly? We went to the only café open after 6pm and ate Nutella crepes and banana splits. And you know what? It was perfect.
Well, folks, that's it for the first round of "what's everyday life like in Ireland?" Mackenzie Standing will return to its normally broadcasted posts of thoughtfulness and moments full of God soon, but a little bit of levity never hurt anyone. Slán go fóill!
For your weekend viewing pleasure: Two cultures collide. I often walk by kids dancing at the stage in the mall, but the combination of dance and this song made me stop a couple weeks ago.
1. I greatly despise having to say my name here.
Generally speaking, I love my name. I love that the "K" is lowercase and that it can create a plethora of nicknames. I love that my middle name is after my grandmother, and that it rhymes with my last. I love all the jokes that can stem from the pronunciation of my last name, whether it be silly future first names for my brothers' children (Anita, anyone?) or clever hashtags (my favorite: #mahoncrushmonday). Despite the fact that I'm no where near marriage, I've already started planning out how to keep my full name while adopting my future husband's as well. I don't think I'll ever be quite ready to part with it.
Here, though, I have to force my name out of my lips. First of all, Mahon is an Irish name, but since I don't say it with the Irish lilt they always tell me I pronounce it incorrectly. I've started using their pronunciation when on the phone, because at least they will then know how to spell it.
My last name is the least of my worries, though. Generally speaking, people will introduce themselves and I'll respond with, "Hi! I'm Mackenzie." These people, still pumping my hand up and down, will then frown at me. "Mackenzie?" they ask. "Is that your real name?"
Yes, I will sigh in response. Yes, I know that it's a surname here, but in the States, it's a perfectly common first name. They'll still frown, shake their head to themselves, and say, "Okay." Then they proceed to call me by some other name, since obviously Mackenzie must be my last name.
I'm fairly certain this conversation happens at least once a week, and it's not regulated to Ireland. Someone said this to me, basically word for word, in Copenhagen last weekend.
 |
| The cemetery director and I talked for half an hour one day-- I'm pretty sure I was the first person he'd seen in a long time that was actually happy to be there. After I determined that he was, in fact, an employee and not a serial killer, I introduced myself. He then proceeded to show me all the tombstones with my last name on it. |
Anyone who knows me at all knows that I tend to run about 10 degrees colder than everyone else in the room. I spent all of last summer in Maine rocking a knitted cap /sweatshirt/long johns/North Face layered style, while my coworkers galavanted around the archery range in shorts. Normally I can deal with it, but Ireland is been a test of my capacity to concentrate while cold. Heating systems and insulation aren't as extensive here as they are in the States, and the cost of heating means that many places (like my house!) only turn on the heat for a couple hours a day. Again, I got used to that: I just stick on more layers, wear the same hat day in and out, and stay under blankets when possible.
In class, though, I can't escape. Several of my professors have this belief that if there are more than three people in a room with a window, it becomes too stuffy to have said window shut--even if it's raining. I can't tell you how many times I've sat shivering through an Irish language class, hope leaping into my chest as my professor walks towards one of the open windows.... Only to unlatch the one next to it.
 |
| I'm wearing this exact same outfit in almost all of my photographs, regardless of the day or location. Moral of the story: Pack more hats. |
Like any place around the world, Ireland has its own sayings and phrases. The most distinct one is "craic", pronounced "crack." Don't worry, Mom, nothing illegal is happening if you're "having the craic," it just means you had a ton of fun. Everyone uses it, from professors to students to my friend's lovely house mom, who often recommends we do things by telling us that it's "loads of craic." They'll say that things are "gas" when they're funny and that people are "sound" when--well--they're not crazy.
My favorite phrase, though, as the above point delineates, is "cheers." It often gets used here instead of thanks. Waiters will set your plates down with a smile and a "cheers"; professors will sign their emails with it. I've started to say it to bus drivers as I hop off, and I hope that I can bring that home with me.
 |
| I don't have a photo illustrating the sentiment behind "Cheers!", but I do walk by this café with clever signs often. |
Strangely and miraculously enough, it hasn't rained in Galway for a whole week. I don't know how that happened, but I am not complaining and not taking it for granted. As I've oft mentioned before, though, for the first two months that I was here it rained every. single. day. for at least an hour. This was no PNW drizzle, either; it would often dump buckets for hours with thirty mile-per-hour winds, meaning that no matter how nice your clothing is, you're probably still wet.
Ironically enough, though, I feel like rain gear isn't a common purchase. Many Irish people simply don't wear it -- they perhaps have a semi-waterproof jacket, but galoshes or rain pants are not in their (impeccable) daily wardrobe. Living in Wentachee and Bozeman meant that I didn't own rainboots; plus, having read on the Internet that no Irish person would be caught dead in Wellies and wanting to blend in, I figured I didn't need them. Wrong assumption. My first weekend in Galway I trekked all over attempting to find decent boots. It was practically impossible. If I didn't want hiking boots, there were none. I eventually stumbled across some semi-waterproof dress boots that I've lived in since then. The vinyl has already worn off and I had to superglue part of them back together, so let's pray that the era of awful storms has passed.
 |
| My trusty shoes, one week after their purchase, before they got scuffed and torn apart. This attempt at a hipster photo was taken on the cobblestones outside the Guinness Storehouse. |
On one of the first weekends here, my friend Sarah and I went to Dublin. We were holding a map in the middle of the Trinity College campus planning out the best route of attack when a middle-aged man stopped and asked if we needed directions. We didn't, but he exemplified the type of kindness often found in this country.
It's something I didn't quite appreciate until I left Ireland. I took a trip to Brussels early in March, where water at a restaurant cost €3 and the waiter served us rudely though I thought we had been respectful. After a weekend of trying to navigate train systems with only my rusty French skills to help, it was a treat to return to Ireland. The customs official chitchatted about my studies. I showed up at the bus stop at the Dublin airport, hoping to get on the bus departing in ten minutes even though my PDF ticket wouldn't open and the ticket itself was for a bus one hour later. Rather than ask me questions, the bus driver just smiled, took down my initials, gave me a free water bottle and waved me back to the plush seats in the land of free WiFi. Ah, Ireland, I sighed. It was good to be home.
 |
| I can't even describe how much I appreciated this free water. Thanks, Citylink bus service. |
I haven't been to London yet, but I'm assuming the habit of tea and biscuits that exists here is similar to that in the UK. Friends. Biscuits are the best. I can get sleeves of any kind of cookie imaginable (and a few beyond imagination) at my favorite grocery store, Aldi, for €0.45. It's a bargain deal to which I often succumb. The strangest one, in my opinion? Jaffa Cakes. The closest thing I can compare them to are Fig Newtons, but that doesn't do them justice. I still can't tell if I actually like them or not. When I went to visit a Wenatchee friend in Copenhagen, I brought Jaffa Cakes for his host family; watching the teenage Danish kids try them was the funniest thing ever.
I once described my love of biscuits to an elderly woman I was sitting next to in a pub, telling her that I wasn't leaving for months but I already missed the biscuits. "Oh, but you can't eat those," she told me. I didn't understand why and told her such. "You'll get fat," she said. When I stared at her with wide eyes, she held her hand out in front of her and slowly moved them apart, mimicking how wide I'll apparently be getting from all these biscuits.
Whatever, lady. I'm still going to pack 15 sleeves of them in my suitcase when I go home.
 |
| Are they delicious? Are they inedible? I still can't decide. Image taken from Google. |
7. Sizes are different.
 |
| I'm standing straight up against our fridge for size. Please remember that I am 5'2" and note how wide the refrigerator is. |
Some things are bigger in the US, it's true. The only one I really notice, though, is the refrigerators. I'm daydreaming about being a grown-up and getting to actually put more than one item in the freezer at a time, because when you share with four other people and your freezer is this small, that's about as much space as we can all have.
 |
| How do you fit 5 people's food into a European refrigerator? With care. |
8. Pubs are great.
Let's get this straight: I'm not a proponent for getting drunk, by any means. I've seen too many people make poor decisions when under the influence of alcohol and I've watched too many people struggle with alcoholism for me to ever want to get drunk.
I do quite enjoy, however, nursing my one drink of the night in the all too common Irish pubs. People linger and chat and listen to music and compliment my accent. It's still a tradition here to buy a round, and it's definitely nice to be sit around the table (preferably an old Singer sewing machine) with an Irish couple, listening to their stories and drinking the Guinness that they so kindly purchased, while the group of elderly men across the room wrap their arms around each others' shoulders and loudly sing along to the best band in all of Galway. It's moments like those that I realize I truly do live in Ireland.
 |
| Dublin's Temple Bar area. |
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| My favorite musicians at my favorite local pub: O'Connor's. |
I'm taking a course called "Ireland in a Global Context," which looks at the way that the nation of Ireland transformed between the years 1922 and 2002. Because of this, I ended up writing a paper about how Irish culture globalised in the '80s and '90s (answer: U2. Without U2 there is basically no paper) the same week that I celebrated St. Patrick's Day in Ireland. The result? I realized how much stock America places in our "Irish roots" and how very false many of those traditions are. Many Irish people don't like the Riverdance show and think leprechauns are offensive. Corned beef and cabbage isn't an actual thing: most Irish people, according to my friend's house mother, eat bacon and cabbage if they eat it at all. Many of my Irish friends skipped the St. Patrick's parade yesterday and didn't wear green, though they got mighty upset if you referred to the festivities as St. Patty's Day (while they don't particularly like the abbreviation to begin with, if it is done it needs to be St. Paddy's Day, as it's based on the Ghaeilge spelling of Patrick, Padraig).
And no, we didn't dye the beer or river green. Honestly? We went to the only café open after 6pm and ate Nutella crepes and banana splits. And you know what? It was perfect.
 |
| I didn't try to look like a local on St. Patrick's Day. |
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| Lots of little kids had beards on yesterday and it was so. cute. |
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| How many people can you fit on Shop Street? Answer: Too many. |
Wonderful post. You have a lovely blog.
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