The Year Elsewhere

The second edition brings you…The Belfry Café, or, as their sign proclaims, “the belfry café.” I know, I ignored my rule of bypassing any store that demonstrates a lack of punctuation or spelling, but I made an exception. I decided to get over myself and have a life, plus they had tables in the sun (but I will NEVER use the misguided “Kampus Kopy” in the Students’ Union).

This particular coffee shop, I now know, is a seat-yourself restaurant. You sit, you get situated, and the server pounces on you to see what she can get you. Or you can be like me and order at the counter when you walk in, and have them tell you to take a seat first. I’m so glad that France was first in the order of travels so that I’m used to being a fool at this point. At least now I’m a fool with a vocabulary and grasp of grammar beyond that of kindergartners. Although, at times, there’s still a language barrier. I asked for a scone, and the woman asked if I wanted “plen, frit, or chehreh” in rapid-fire. I had to ask her to repeat twice before I understood. I told her I wanted “froot.”

I chose a seat by the window and wrote and read while I sipped my coffee and ate the scone. I’m liking this place; anyplace that puts up with my American antics deserves a repeat, I think. Plus, the table was in the sun, and that never hurts. Once again, I paid at the register when I was ready to leave. I’m still getting used to that.

Plus…right next door to “the belfry café” is “the belfry deli,” which sells gourmet cheeses and bread and jams…and coffee. When I’m out of coffee, I’m going there to get the perfect grind for my new best bud. View image

We spend a lot of time together. See, I’m making friends here…

Picture courtesy of www.bodum.co.uk

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In an interesting twist of fate, I am meeting more French students than I’d ever hoped to. A spectacular facet that we’ve discovered: many of them don’t like France or French people (ESPECIALLY Parisians). They say they’re too cold and impervious to life.

"Live!" as Nicolas so graciously shouted it while rattling an imaginary Parisian shopkeeper in his hands. And as Jean-Mari so bluntly said, “I hate French people,” complete with a flat voice and dull expression.

So Ireland is full of enlightenments.

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Today I bring you: the first edition of the Coffee Shop Log.

Yes, I’ve decided, here in the land of coffee and scones*, that every Saturday I will visit a coffee shop and note what makes it worthwhile, what detracts, and whether I’ll be revisiting.

First up is Lily D’s. A corner shop that faces Bibi’s Shoe Boutique. When walking past the first time, I didn’t know which one to examine more closely, the shoes or the coffee. I decided to check out the shoes then and check out the coffee on Saturday.

When I walked up to the shop on Saturday, I thought it was closed. It was dark, and no one was seated. Luckily, an older man just in front of me peeked in and entered, so I gathered that it was open. It turns out he was a regular (I think – people here tend to just start a conversation as if in the middle, so he and the barista might have been speaking for the first time, and I wouldn’t be the wiser), and they chatted it up for a bit before the barista, who looked to be in her mid-thirties turned to me. I ordered a coffee and a wheaten scone, and she told me to take a seat and she’d bring it to me. I chose a small seat by the window and looked around.

Even on the inside, the shop was dark. One light shone on the pastry case that was half-filled, and the walls were painted black. Although this contrasted nicely with the white orchids placed in old diner-style salt shakers on each table, it still left the room a bit cold. I took out my book and started reading and thanked the barista when she brought my coffee and scone.

The coffee was served in a tall glass, which fit the mood, as far as I could sense it. Unfortunately, the drink was a bit…acrid, if I may, and the scone could have done with a bit of toasting, or at least warming. It didn’t stop me from finishing everything, but I had to leave when the hand that was holding the book became numb from the cold.

I liked the payment system, however, in that I went to the register when finished to pay. I like little honor system things like that. In addition, it seems to be populated by regulars, as several older people came in during my time, and greeted everyone inside with familiar cries.

Will I go again? Not given how many bustling shops I passed in order to reach Lily D’s. However, I think the place would be a much wiser choice during the warmer summer months. Given the other man’s hesitation to enter, I think maybe the shop is usually a bit livelier, but given my limited amount of time here (and the precedent set by Dublin), I’ll seek elsewhere this Saturday.

*It’s true: what used to be the land of tea and crumpets, according to the British Coffee Association, is “now a nation of coffee drinkers…In some regions…coffee has already become the most frequently consumed beverage, consumed almost twice as frequently as tea.” Of course, this is also the organization that dismisses as myth the dehydrating and addictive effects of coffee, so I don’t know how well-informed they might be. Check it out at http://www.britishcoffeeassociation.org.

In any case, I haven’t seen crumpets for sale anywhere.

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One of the excuses that I had for taking another decadent semester to explore Ireland and Northern Ireland was for the purpose of culture shock. I mean , the real reason is that I really wanted to visit Ireland, and doing it for a semester while getting some of my credits out of the way seemed like a good, if not entirely traditional, way of doing it. But then I had to justify it not only to the school, but to myself. So I came up with seemingly flimsy excuses in the vein of “Well, I can study English there, because they have a really strong literary tradition, and studying it in its original context will help me understand it better.” Well, that certainly turned out o be true, although I certainly didn’t know it at the time. Becketts, Yeats, Wilde, Woolf… they’re all Irish. It just didn’t really occur to me because they all scatter from Ireland, trying to compensate for their savage Irish roots by getting the heck away from there, preferably a city that oozes sophistication and culture. Like Paris, evidently, where it seems the majority ended up dying. What is it with Paris and writers? How do they write in English when they live there? I started losing my sophisticated English within the second month of my stay in France. How do they continue to turn out their stylish prose?

Which sort of flows into my reason for my second justification for coming to Ireland. This one I saved for myself, not including it in my application essays. I thought that Ireland would lessen the culture shock of returning home. France, in theory, was Europe penultimate. America is…American. Ireland is Europe, but not continental. They speak English, but they still have narrow streets and townhomes with brightly painted doors. It’s a compromise, right?

Wrong.

I think that coming directly from America to Ireland would not have been an extraordinarily traumatic transition. A few surprises here and there, like cars that continually surprise you from the other side, but not like France, where a strange French woman jabbers at you to eat more cheese that she left in the pantry for the past two nights.

But coming to Ireland from France, is stranger story altogether. Strangers smile at me on the street. People say without fail, “That’s lovely,” when I give them the correct change. There are so many coffee shops that I don’t know what to do to myself. I have never seen a dispute. I heard a belligerent horn today, and when I looked up, a man was gesturing furiously to the trash pickupmen (trashmen? What do you call them? trash guys?) who were blocking the lane. I looked at the lead man, and he was waving hugely at the motorist. “Aye, Harol’, b’gone, ye big rascal!” he shouted, and then they pointed and laughed at each other. And then he noticed me on the sidewalk waiting to get by, and he moved the trash bin out of my way and stepped to one side, saying to “pass roi’ troo.” So I did, trying to decide whether Coleraine is a small town, or if Northern Ireland is a small country. The Borough of Coleraine has 57000 residents, but I still can’t shake the mentality of infinite time and patience. And that, I believe, is the biggest shock, coming from France. As a foreigner, I’m treated with smiles and respect, rather than with the impersonality of protocol.

Number 1 shock: View image

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So I’m here. It was a long, convoluted journey of planes (four airports in one day), shuttles, a car, and buses, both (inter)national (depending on who you talk to) and local. And if I could just say: double-deckers are awesome, as are their drivers, who remembered where we needed off and gave a shout-out to us and then pointed us in the direction of our hostel.

I’m getting way ahead of myself, and I recognize that, but I don’t think that I can ever catch up on everything since that last post. And I don’t even want to. It’s a secret/ too lackluster to merit attention. Like a seven-hour layover that requires a transfer to another airport. Don’t tell me Heathrow isn’t flying to Dublin today. I don’t buy it.

But all of that is history, and now I’m sitting in my dorm at the University of Ulster at Coleraine, Northern Ireland, trying to stay engaged in the world, as I watch the sun setting behind the woods outside my windows. It’s 4:17pm. I’ve been awake for a little over three hours. Just trying to get through these two weeks, until the rest of the students get through with their exams. It’s really hard to make friends during exams week.

And now: pictures. Well, really, just two. I found my future home.
View image

And here’s the view from it. Why I’m going to own it.
View image

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