Welcome back to fall semester after what I hope was a relaxing Thanksgiving break. I hope you had the chance to take a quick break, make yourself a Tupperware container of leftover turkey and stuffing, grab a bottle of wine and let the tryptophan kick in.
Away from home, my break was somewhat less conventional. Spending Thanksgiving in Ireland helped me realize that I am, amongst other things, a pilgrim.
Did I leave Boston because of local persecution for my religious beliefs? No. I just heard that life actually existed beyond Route 128 and I wanted to find it out on my own.
Do I wear a funny hat with a big gold buckle or a napkin thing wrapped around my head? No. Well, with the exception of some especially late nights, of course.
The truth is, I’d never really given much thought to the pilgrims up until an Irish lad asked me if Thanksgiving “is a Jewish thing or something.” A brief explanation of the Thanksgiving story to this guy — completely based on elementary-school lessons and coloring books — got my brain churning.
So the Pilgrims hopped on the good ship Mayflower and journeyed together to the U.S. of A. to find a new place to live for a while. Because of bad weather, terrible directions or the need for a better story to tell young children, the Mayflower hit American soil later than expected.
Like the Pilgrims, we students traveled to Ireland in search of an adventure and a change. A little gold and cute accents wouldn’t be too bad, either, we reasoned. The Aer Lingus plane was like our flying Mayflower. Because of an airline strike, though, we arrived in Dublin much later than scheduled. Coincidence? I think not.
Upon the Pilgrims’ arrival, the Native Americans (yes, I chose the politically correct route) quickly greeted them, and both parties were skeptical but intrigued by each other. The Native Americans already knew how things went down on their land. They knew the best places to hang out by a fire, where to grow corn and how to meet some sweet local buffalo.
The Pilgrims wanted in on this life, but didn’t know how to dance with the native groove. Even though their languages were similar, the groups couldn’t always understand each other. Miscommunications were more popular than a high school kid with an empty house and over-21 brother on prom night. The Pilgrims wondered if they’d survive the season.
When we arrived in late summer, we were quickly thrown into the Irish lifestyle. It was much different than I expected. We went everywhere in a huge group like all nerdy tourists do.
I couldn’t understand many of the Irish students here at first, and responded to phrases I didn’t know with phrases they weren’t familiar with, causing only more confusion. Sometimes the clearest ways of communication between the locals and ourselves, especially on late night bus rides back from the city, were smiles or the middle finger.
Naturally, because the Irish run this place, they knew the best pubs to go to, the best places to explore and where to find the cheapest drinks and fun people. We had no idea about this stuff. After getting lost on the bus a few times and getting sick of not fitting in, some of us wondered if this semester would do us any good.
Historically, Thanksgiving marks the day that the Pilgrims and Native Americans finally said, “Let’s cut this cultural difference crap and cut some turkey, too.” The natives not only showed the Pilgrims where to grow some food and set up shop, but they also went with them. The two groups sat around the table in the middle of the woods, eating, drinking and laughing, then boogied ’til the break of day.
For the abroad crew, spending time with locals in classes and internships helped us finally kick the shyness factor to the curb, and we started hanging out with the Irish folk. Phone numbers were exchanged, language barriers dwindled and we hung out as one group. They brought us to their favorite clubs, made us try black pudding, and never failed to make us feel at home.
Thanksgiving in Dublin definitely had a foreign feeling to it. I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t wonder what my family and friends back home were up to while I was sitting at work on Thursday afternoon. I figured my grandfather was loosening his belt another notch with the completion of each plate of food, my grandmother was yelling at him to stop being disgusting and my parents spent the whole time fearing that they’d be doing the same thing in 25 years.
But we didn’t miss out on Turkey Day festivities altogether; we made Thanksgiving dinner on Friday. Tension grew between the good cooks and the not-so-experienced helpers in the kitchen that morning, and I looked on and laughed as catfights and arguments exploded. Everything felt right.
At the end of the day, we had tons of food and plenty of Irish friends in our apartment for a Dublin-style Thanksgiving. We showed them what homemade macaroni and cheese is all about, and they gave us a place to call home for a few months.
It may not have been exactly like the original Thanksgiving dinner, and we may not have brought along new diseases to this place or taken over the land, but it still felt cool to be a modern-day pilgrim.
Megan Murphy, a junior in the School of Education who is studying in Dublin this semester, is a weekly columnist for The Daily Free Press. She can be reached at [email protected].