Werewolves of London

Here is a picture of my kitchen. It is quaint and filled with character, just as the rest of my house. It is filled with its own certain charms. The toilet clogs, lights don’t work, and the heat has mysteriously vanished. But it all adds to its mystique. My thirteen roommates and I seem to be getting along quite well and the house had become a place of enjoyment for all. The house seems to be populated mostly by Germans, which is working out quite nicely for me. I am learning a new phrase in German each day and in return I correct their English. So far, they have been more useful to me than I to them.

So much has happened in the last week during my “technical difficulties” that I am overwhelmed with information. There was my trip into the city center of Belfast – a harrowing tale involving a rampant search for an alarm clock and some friendly Spaniards – which proved to be more confusing and frightening than useful, then the Celli – a traditional Irish festivity, and my first pub visit – complete with live band and drunken patrons. I will spare you the details of the trip to the city center; it is really not that exciting. All you need to know is that 1) I am clearly not suited for city life, and 2) don’t naturally assume that people in Ireland are Irish. The Celli, however, is filled with many fun facts. For instance, being a vegetarian in Ireland is considerably harder than I expected. (Not in the sense that I can’t find anything to eat – there are many vegetarian options available, it is the general disgust among the locals at my food preference that makes me almost ashamed to say the “v-word”. ) A Celli is a wonderful gathering which involves traditional Irish stew and followed by even more traditional Irish dancing. Upon arrival to the venue, I was rushed toward the food by various faculty members. The staff members handing out steaming bowls of Irish stew were jolly and clearly enjoying watching people of various cultures attempt to participate in the Irish dancing. Warily, I explained my anti-meat preference. In a novel I would have described the scene with musicians screeching their music to a halt and various waiters dropping glasses in shock. If crickets could have chirped I am sure they would have. I was diverted to a much smaller table across the dance floor where one sour looking woman was dishing out the vegetarian option to some students; eyeing them as though they may give her some sort of toxic disease in which she would die by carrot attack. Not to be deterred, I sauntered over to the depressing booth to get my food. I politely asked for a bowl and she looked me over head to toe and then suspiciously said, “This is the no meat option. You do know that, don’t you love?” It took me a few minutes to assure her that I was in the right food line. After all that hard work, I was finally able to enjoy a bowl of (almost) traditional Irish stew. 

Then came the dancing. I am going to assume that everyone, if anyone, reading this blog is an acquaintance of mine. Therefore, you are all aware of my relationship with gravity. Now add Irish dancing to that mix. It was something I am glad that no one was able to see. I had a wonderful time – without a clue as to what I was doing. There was lots of jumping and kicking and clapping in some sort of Irish line dancing, with a ¾ beat (although I never really did catch up to the infamous meter) and some serious twirling. The twirling was made interesting by all of the Irish stew we had enjoyed previous to the jumping and kicking and twirling. I think the band had as much fun watching us dance as we did listening to them and trying to figure out when to move. I nearly injured my partner multiple times and very frequently ended up facing the completely wrong direction. But, fun was had by all. Except possibly that poor boy I wounded during the stomp, kick portion of the dance. 

After the Celli a few of us headed over to the “Egg”, a local pub just down the street of our house, for a drink. I fear I must say that I am a very responsible person and was not one to fall to the peer pressure to imbibe more than I thought necessary. But I did indulge. And had a blast. The live band provided much entertainment, as they played a wide selection of American songs. In fact, I believe they were all American songs. They started with Sweet Home Alabama. I am not kidding. I did not know how to react. It is not every day that you get to hear Sweet Home Alabama sung with an Irish twist. I was also confused at first because, as you may know, the tune to Sweet Home Alabama is identical to Werewolves of London. I thought surely that the band would play Werewolves of London and was then thoroughly disappointed that it was not the case. But the rest of the bar was enthused by the choice. They rose from their seats and, beers in hand, began a drunken sing along to Sweet Home Alabama. It is sight I will never forget.

Wish me luck!