For the couple of people out there who haven’t heard me yapping about it in the past year, I spent nearly three weeks in Ireland in September. Much like my visit to New York in June, I’ve been overwhelmed with the experience of my first trip to Europe. Ireland felt very much like home in that it reminded me of Kentucky. The lovely rolling hills and green pastures look a lot like where I used to live just south of Louisville. I must say, though, that the cows are much prettier in Ireland. Maybe because they’re pooping-up someone else’s yard and not mine.

 Our first two days were in Dublin. From de-boarding at the airport to first pub took maybe two hours.

First pub!

That included finding our bed and breakfast, unloading our luggage, figuring out the city bus schedule, and riding to city center. Dublin is okay, not my favorite place but alright for a jumping off spot. We toured the Guinness Storehouse, which was way too crowded and not worth the admission. The Gravity Bar on the top floor was so crowded we couldn’t get near the viewing windows, so we chugged our free pint and headed out to the evensong service at Saint Patrick’s Cathedral. The church was beautiful inside and out and the acoustics sounded nearly perfect when the choir was singing. As I was sitting there looking at the statuary and the tattered battle flags hanging from the ceiling, I got a true feeling for how ancient the culture of Ireland is. Construction began on the building in the mid-thirteenth century and took nearly forty years to complete. Throughout the trip I found myself mesmerized looking at pubs, buildings, houses, and stone walls that had been standing for hundreds of years. I couldn’t relate to the antiquity of it, I had nothing to compare it to. Even my visits years ago to the Fort Raleigh National Historic Site and the Fountain of Youth Archeological Park were of little help since Europeans first set foot on these places 300 years after the cathedral was built. On to more old stuff…we ate dinner at the Brazen Head, which is said to be the oldest continually operating pub in all of Ireland. First built as a coach house in 1198, it has hosted literary giants James Joyce and Jonathan Swift as well as Irish radical and political hero Daniel O’Connell. Now, they don’t claim that there’s any of the original walls still standing but it’s pretty amazing to think of all the stout that’s been served on that spot over the years. We had pints Guinness and bangers and mash for supper. It didn’t take long for travel exhaustion plus a long day of walking miles in wonderfully fresh air to make us sleepy.

 Saturday was an early start from the Almara B&B with our taxi driver Robbie. Sure and those Irish are talkers. In the 15 minute ride to drop our luggage in day storage we discussed the rain, American politics, our vacation, and I don’t know what all else. He took us to the top of Temple Bar and we walked our way back to Heuston Station for our train to Shannon. Did I say there was heavy rain? We managed to walk through the courtyard of Dublin Castle and a bit around the winding shop streets before we were soaked through. Can you guess what we did? Of course that’s what we did…we ducked into the next pub we saw, O’Shea’s Merchant, for our first stout of the day. I’m not saying who, but a couple in our little party did some whisky tastings, too. Before we knew it, it was time for a cab to Heuston because after beer and whisky shots, who wants to walk 2 kilometers in a rain storm? The bar tender made several calls but, due to the rain, none were available. In walks the bar manager and saves the day, or at least our feet. He offers to take us to the train station, can you imagine that? A vanload of tipsy Americans late to the train and he wouldn’t even take cash for his fuel.

That’s the Irish we met, though, always ready with a story and a helping hand.

PS. Craic is pronounced crack and means fun or good times. Another thing I learned is the term lads apparently refers to boys and girls as our bus driver Paddy referred to the group as lads almost every day.

The Star is a card of Hope and Faith in the Universe. It tells you that in spite of all your trials and tribulations, everything is as it should be, and in the end everything is going to be alright.

It encourages you to expand your horizons; to stretch out beyond your personal value systems and embrace the Universe as a whole.

It invites you to open your eyes and see the vastness of the world around you, the billions of stars in the night sky and the billions of people that make up humanity.

The Star card is associated with Aquarius as the Water Bearer archetype. It is a card of compassion, inspiration, intuition and faith.

A few years ago I suffered a traumatic emotional event. I felt like everything I had trusted was gone. What I had held as truth was a lie and the very foundation I stood on had disappeared from beneath my feet. I began having episodes of severe anxiety and depression spending most of my waking time either angry or crying. Luckily my children, my friends, and a really good therapist helped me to figure out what I wanted and needed and held my hands while I discovered the tremendous strength needed to rebuild my life.

When I was in the depths of turmoil I was reaching for anything that might give me the answers to why this had happened to me. I came upon a website that gave a free tarot reading and, as a bonus, e-mailed a specific card every couple of weeks that was supposed to help figure out my world at the time. Do I really believe the cards are seeing my future? No, but it was uncanny how much comfort and clarity the cards I received gave. I very rarely get cards any more but the Star Card landed in my inbox the other day and caused me to think about my life and the choices I’ve made the past few years.

I’m much happier than I used to be. I’m able to take what I need and not apologize for doing so. I recognize my inner strength, celebrate my independence, and mourn what was lost but realize it needed to be set free. In walking my winding road of recovery I’ve kept a bit of the broken-ness, though. When I first felt the tremendous hurt I locked away my battered and broken heart swearing to never set it free again. If I kept my soul safely tucked away I would never again feel pain, never again open myself to trusting others, and while it might be a tempered life, I would be safe.

The Star Card came along and reminds me that I’m going to be OK. I need to let my heart be open to possibilities and understand that a safe life isn’t what I want. I need to embrace the universe and move forward with a compassionate soul. I want to be inspired as well as inspire others. A full life is one with faith, in myself and the people around me. My travels the past few months have encouraged me to boldly step out into the great unknown and take a chance that something wonderful will happen.

Stay tuned for Gigi’s adventures in Ireland…lots of stories to tell.

That’s a line from a song sung by Celtic Woman. When I’m writing I usually listen to soothing music to keep my mind from jumping everywhere else other than the words I’m trying to get on the page. I’m pretty sure the song is about a penniless musician trying to get a glass of ale by playing her fiddle and she wants to convince everyone that the sun isn’t coming up, they should fill her glass, and she’ll keep playing. This line jumped out at me but I interpret it in a bit of a different way.

I haven’t posted in a while because I don’t know what to say. My heart is heavy with the events of the past couple of weeks and I’m not quite sure I can make the words come out of mouth in the right way. I grew up in a racist home. My mom was afraid of people of color. Not just Blacks; anyone of any color other than white. Once, when I was little, we were shopping at the mall and there was a group of Mariachis getting ready to play. I remember being fascinated by their hats and guitars and started to walk toward them. She jerked my arm, pulled me to her side and said, “Aren’t you afraid of those dark men?” She didn’t let go of me until we got to the car. As young as I was I didn’t understand what she was afraid of. I still don’t.  My dad had a long list of names for anyone who didn’t have white skin, particularly black people. Unfortunately, I can still recite them all, and even more unfortunately, so can my children. He never curbed his enthusiasm for letting fly his thoughts on integration and other cultures, especially in traffic in the car. I never challenged him, never asked him what caused the vehemence and anger, and never asked him to stop, either. I explained it away to my girls using the trite statements everyone uses when they don’t know how else to explain racism: he’s from a different time, a different generation, a different way of life. It felt cowardly even as I was saying the words.

When I was fifteen and a sophomore in high school, bussing started in Louisville. The Catholic schools were bursting at the seams from white parents afraid to send their children to the black public schools downtown. There was a riot on Broadway with parents blocking the busses full of children. The KKK came to town and burned crosses on Friday nights and football games were cancelled. The “N” word was used in abundance. I don’t remember any coverage of African American parents afraid to let their children get on busses for the long ride into the county. I don’t know, maybe there was and my Catholic school whiteness didn’t pay attention. I’m ashamed that I never asked anyone to explain why there was so much fear and hate. I accepted that was the way it was, and as a teenager, thought I could do nothing.

All of my adult life I never believed that white privilege was a real thing. I always said that I had never experienced privilege at any point in my life. I had worked my way through high school and college and rode the city bus to get where I wanted to go until I had saved enough cash to buy my first car. I left home at eighteen to live on my own and never asked for help from my parents. I really believed that until Alton Sterling was killed in Louisiana then Philando Castile was killed in Minnesota. Now I understand. Finally, I understand that I don’t worry about my children when they go out with friends. I’ve never been refused service or followed through stores or questioned if I make a return. I’m not frightened by police or keep my hands visible and on the steering when I get pulled over. Finally, I understand that it’s not privilege of money. It’s privilege of the color of my skin. Because of my whiteness I don’t have to be fearful.

Does this make me the worst kind of racist? The kind who says “But…I have Black friends!” and “Bur…I sent my children to integrated schools!”

My daughter, Molly, dates Dimitri. Dimitri is a young black man. Now, I worry. I worry what will happen if he’s pulled over at a traffic stop. Will he be pulled from his car? Will he be shot because he reaches for his driver’s license? He has two older brothers and they have children. How does his mother feel when they walk out the door? I hope someday we’ll meet and she and I can sit down and talk about what’s happening in the world. Maybe somehow if parents everywhere can talk about this we can figure out how to make it stop. If we make it an issue for our own families, and not somewhere else with someone else’s family we can make a difference.

I want to make a difference, I want to leave the world a better place, and now that I’ve heard the message, I will keep the music playing until all the songs are sung.

I Googled the term “New York sayings” and that’s the first phrase that popped up. Immediately I heard that subway voice saying it and repeating it over and over. On one of my subway rides several of the other riders said it along with the voice: “Stand clear of the closing doors, please. Stand clear of the closing doors.” I’d love to meet the person who belongs to that voice, it would be almost as good as meeting the person who used to tell the time when you called the Time of Day phone number.

This is Orchard Street. I love all the suitcases and racks of clothes all over the sidewalk. I found this block on my last day when I was lost, naturally, and trying to find real bagels at Russ and Daughters.

Not only did I find bagels, but also bialys, potato knishes, and chocolate babka. I bought all of that and carried it home in my Tenement Museum shopping bag. I didn’t ask the counter lady’s name, but I loved talking to her. The guy behind her complimented my tattoos, so he’s an alright guy, too.

  This is a pop-up store on the corner across from the Tenement Museum. I don’t have the slightest idea what they were selling, but I love the graphic. My fat cat Gus would never be so rude as to give me the finger but my little kit-cat, Pharaoh, does every chance he gets.

This is Jonas who works at Arancini Brothers Sicilian Rice Balls in Essex Street Market. If you’re ever near the Lower East Side, you should go see him, he’s the one who can feed you with a smile.

On my (lost) walking adventure on Saturday afternoon I stumbled upon the John Fluevog store. Yet again, just like in San Francisco, I didn’t get the pair I wanted and am full of shoe regret.

I have loved Dr.Seuss books forever and couldn’t pass up taking a picture of the street sign. A little further down, I finally reached my destination: Rubirosa Risotrante. A slice of supreme and an Italian 51 cocktail was a wonderful late lunch. The bartenders are good looking, too, which is a nice distraction if you are alone and don’t have a book to read.

Here is what I bought at the Brooklyn Flea. The potatoes were cut in big chunks and fried and served with a dip of spicy sriracha ketchup and dill aioli with diced onions. They were delicious but I could only eat a few and had to throw them in the garbage. I almost cried, they would have been a great snack along about midnight.

Here’s my venture into Central Park. On Sunday afternoon when I got lost I found myself at Bloomingdales but was too sweaty to go inside. I checked my map and walked over to the zoo area of the park. I walked a bit inside but it was getting dark and I really didn’t want to get lost in the park so I rested on these benches a while and walked straight back out the same sidewalk.

This was my fancy dinner at the Grand Central Oyster Bar. I had a fried oyster appetizer and four raw oysters with a Grand Central Stout for dinner. I stopped by the restroom and, no kidding, they had those 1970’s chairs that look like an upturned hand and two couches that were red leather lips.

Here is a shot of some of my conference friends sitting on the school steps at the Brooklyn Flea and another of shoppers taking a break. I thought I’d be clever and send this photo to my professor and tell her that I had completed my research and was ready to answer my thesis question: Do public markets serve as place makers for communities and help to define home for residents? “Yes.” World’s shortest thesis right there.

And for my parting picture, one last shot of the public library lion…

And the super-giant fresh water prawns…

Oh, I love New York.