These times really are a-changin’. At this moment next week, my time as a pseudo-Dubliner will be up, and I’ll be back in the great state of Massachusetts once again. I’m looking forward to seeing familiar faces, snow and the guy who dresses as a dirty Santa every December in Downtown Crossing. Yet after getting used to life on the Emerald Isle, I’m a little nervous about going back to life on Commonwealth Avenue.
The first thing I’m skeptical about is going back to the old world of travel. During the time I spent here in Dublin, I’ve had the opportunities to travel to Italy, Switzerland and Amsterdam. Each destination was only about two hours and $30 away thanks to Ryan Air. With a quick click on my laptop, I had pasta in Venice, wine in Tuscany, chocolate in Switzerland and, um, fun in Amsterdam.
For the same price and time at home, I can get a smelly seat on the Fung Wah next to 12 chickens and a dog with fleas.
Then there is city transportation. I certainly won’t miss the terrible traffic here during each morning commute to my internship. However, I will miss the double-decker buses. These buses drive so close to the cars in front of them that if you sit in the front seat on the second level and look down, it always looks at red lights as if the bus is driving over the car ahead of it. Taking fun in this may be a little brutal and immature, but it’s the little joys in morning commutes that make all the difference.
Next, there is the issue of time. I’m hesitant about getting back into the American way of life, in which you’re expected to actually arrive places on time. I remember a Boston University professor once told me, “If you’re 15 minutes early for class, you’re on time. If you’re on time, you’re late.” First of all, that makes no sense. Secondly, I couldn’t stand the guy to begin with. Now that I’m used to the Irish time rules — on time is pointless, and late is on time — this man is even more unbearable than before. Not to mention the late fees I’ll be racking up at the library.
Next up are the differences between student-professor dynamics here and back in Beantown. The lecturers we’ve had in Dublin have been more like really smart friends than teachers to us. From day one, they asked us to call them only by their first names. They laughed nervously or told us to shut up if we accidentally added “professor” or “doctor” before their names, even though these titles applied to them. One of our lecturers even attended our Thanksgiving party, walking in with about eight bottles of champagne. Needless to say, he won over some young, broke American hearts.
Back home, I’m used to getting a dirty look or a passive-aggressive throat clearing from professors if I don’t address them with “sir,” “doctor” or, in some cases, “Savior of the Literary World.” Any title is OK as long as it has enough pretentious kick to it. What if, out of habit, I “accidentally” call my professor Ted instead of Dr. Ted next semester? The consequences are burning my soul even as I type.
Our upcoming return to the states also highlights the food and drink factor. When we first arrived in Ireland, the food was much different than expected. In all honestly, but with all due respect, the Irish aren’t exactly masters of cuisine. They sure do know how to make a scone, though. The milk and butter and everything else that’s involved in creating one of these things are so fresh, I swear that there’s a cow doing all the work in the back of each kitchen. It’s quite a different experience than biting into the rocks that Campus Convenience not-so-conveniently labels as pastries.
Also, after living in a pub-loving country and turning 21 over here, I can’t leave out the subject of the alcohol adjustment. It’s pretty nice ordering a drink that comes straight from the Guinness or Jameson factories. In Boston, it’s going to be great being able to finally go to clubs and bars with my legal friends and not have to get a huge under-21 “X” tattooed onto my hand by the permanent-marker holding bouncer. However, at the end of a long day, I just think that the idea of drinks straight from the factory sounds a lot better than a warm Natty Ice in a friend of a friend’s apartment.
The last thing I’m worried about is just being one of the regulars again. The Boston accent is foreign and interesting to most of the Irish people I’ve met. Just because I say “wicked” and “hahd,” they think I’m in the mafia back home because of “The Departed.” I like being considered gangster material. In Boston, I’m just another Masshole who can’t pronounce an “r” to save her life.
At the same time, people always say that there’s no place like home. For a girl who, up until August, had never left her state for more than a couple of weeks, I guess it’s time to finally find this out for myself.
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].