...In A Fiat

Le Chateau de Rouen
(Joan of Arc Imprisoned Here)

I had no idea when I arrived here that I would be taking a road trip through France.  My sweet ride was a pocket-sized Fiat, which I'm sure ran much more on puppy power than horse power.  Despite her resistance to inclines and accelerating, we still managed to have some grand adventures... and misadventures.

To start, tolls here are expensive.  Really expensive.  These tolls became a primary source of anxiety for me, as I managed to screw them up nearly every time.  I first discovered the differences between the toll lanes by choosing the lane meant for those with permanent toll cards.  This was not super delightful, as I ultimately had to back all the way out, pitifully trying to explain my mistake to the toll operator and everyone behind me.  I can just imagine what they were thinking of the bozo American, "Why the hell is she so pink??"  When I finally made my way into the appropriate lane, I was chagrined to learn that the toll wouldn't accept an American credit card.  ANY American credit card.  Cash only, s'il vous plait.  Fortunately, I had barely enough to get through, but enough all the same.  Unfortunately the machine wouldn't consistently accept my cash.  Not even my coins.  At this point, a kind woman behind me got out to try to help, and we managed to shove enough in to get me and my increasingly irritable bowels out of there.

Cathedrale Notre Dame de Bayeux

I knew I needed to find more cash, because what in the world would I do in the same situation the next time?  I made my way into the nearest town, and spoke with another kindly French woman who directed me to the nearest ATM.  Fresh euros in hand, my frazzled nerves began to settle when I realized I had gotten through by speaking French.  Or maybe more importantly, understanding enough to figure things out.  I tried to be intentional about recognizing the opportunity to pat myself on the back instead of berating myself for making all the mistakes in the first place, which is my tendency.  Sigh.

Annnnd, another castle, Rest Stop

Over the course of my days with Fiat, I covered some serious distance, including mountain ranges, historical sites, and even a dormant volcano.  There's no shortage of things to see, as there are even prehistoric dolmens at rest stops in France.  I was intentional about disconnecting the GPS  every so often, as I maintain getting lost is often the best way to learn a new place.  I tend to think we find the most worthwhile little nooks and people and places when we're not looking for them, and usually, on the less-travelled path.

Le Mont St.Michel

In my pursuit of these hidden places I inevitably became disoriented multiple times, drove in circles around fields of sunflowers, and even managed to get beeped at by an otherwise oh-so-placid Frenchmen.  At the end of my trip, I realized it was exactly these experiences, the getting lost, and asking for help, and ruffling feathers that were of most value and taught me the most.  Joseph Campbell said,  "People say that what we are all seeking is meaning for life.  I don’t think this is what we’re really seeking.  I think what we’re seeking is an experience of being alive."  I couldn't agree more.

... Back In Time

Utah Beach

"They fight not for the lust of conquest. They fight to end conquest. They fight to liberate." -- President Franklin D. Roosevelt

German Gun on German Bunker

I grew up with some stellar teachers back in York, teachers I'm forever indebted to.  Even prior to that though, I was fortunate enough to grow up under the influence and tutelage of our aunt and uncle, Jack and Mary Alice.  Jack and Mary raised us to deeply appreciate our history, all the way from local to global.  We were raised on the battlefields of Gettysburg, and the museums of DC, and invariably, in our local library.  Jack and Mary never allowed me to accept what I was learning at face value, but compelled me to take the extra steps to discover the context of what I was learning.  I did it begrudgingly at the time, but I now believe it to be one of the most invaluable gifts they've given me; the gift of asking questions, and pursuing answers whatever the cost.

I knew when I came to France that I would have to do Normandy.  It wasn't easily accessible, or on the backpacker circuit, but it was a priority, as much to honor how much I love Jack and Mary as anything.  Normandy is beautiful, and proud, and has a deep, rich history that goes back thousands of years.  It's also a great place to practice my dusty language skills, being a bit removed from the primary tourist circuit.  It wasn't easy to decide on an itinerary in a region so loaded with culture and history, but I ultimately decided on Utah Beach, Omaha Beach, and the American Cemetery.

2 Stranded Ships, Not As Far As They Look, Left

Utah Beach was a bit more west than Omaha, and a lot more deserted.  A few kilometers off the main road through what remained of the picturesque town of Sainte Marie-du-Mont, I drove through pastures of horses before arriving at the beach.  While both beaches are open to the public, I found very few sunbathers here, as compared to Omaha.  It was beautifully designed, and incredibly moving.  At Utah Beach, there remain 2 American landing boats not far from shore, which I honestly didn't know until I arrived.  I tripped over residual concrete fortifications in the sand, and actually felt a little dizzy, standing as I was on such hallowed ground.  I imagined the troops, wearing their 70 pound packs in gnarly weather, running through sprays of bullets up the soggy, bloody beach strewn with their dying friends, and faltered a bit.  It defied even my most active imagination.

US Navy Monument on German Bunker

I settled into the space, as the enormity of where I was just demanded the extra time.  I sat under the dunes and watched children run on the beach, and tractors pull sailboats over the sand bars.  Initially, I was surprised that people holiday here, but then I thought about running around on the battlefields of Gettysburg as a kid, and I sort of understood.  There was something a little redemptive, not irreverent about their giggles, and soccer balls, and picnic lunches.  After all, I'm sure many of them were local, and had families who survived (or didn't) the German invasion followed by the Allied invasion of this very town.  Perhaps this rollicking was exactly part of the freedom that so many of our troops fought and died for.  And I realized, their youthful playfulness was probably one of the most important legacies of that fateful day in 1944, of the entire war altogether.  Somehow the squeals of those jaunty little kids under the shadow of the flags brought it home for me, personalized a war that's always seemed inconceivable.  Humbled once again I gave thanks, and continued on my way.

... To Not Falling In Love

La Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Paris

I know Paris is the city of love, but zut alors, not for me.  I arrived heavy-hearted from my Irish goodbye, and in need of a solid night of sleep.  I willed my deep brain to remember enough French to attempt functionality, and prayed to meet some fast friends.  In short, I was weary, and fading fast.  So while I did get to spend a solid 24 hours with an extremely effusive and warm southern woman named Elizabeth, I quickly realized that Paris was going to be an uphill battle for me, mostly against myself.

Marie Antoinette's Garden, Versailles

Les Catacombes

I think Paris is where the past month of solo travel began to truly catch up with me.  I missed my family, and my friends, and my personal space.  I missed my girl clothes, and doing my hair.  Because let me tell you, I was never more aware of my "dirty hiker" look than sitting at a cafe in the middle of Paris.  I missed snuggling my dog, and my fridge full of fresh produce that I could prepare for myself in a clean, private kitchen.  I missed roommate nights of pink wine and deep conversation.  I missed snort-worthy laughter with my work girls.  I missed sleeping through the night, alone in my room.  And so, in effort to not fall entirely to pieces, I did.  It.  All.

Eating Some Feelings

With the help of Elizabeth, I figured out the train system.  I mastered my confident stride through the hordes of tourists, and perfected my stone cold response to the unwanted advances of some seriously aggressive hommes parisiens.  I biked Versailles, hiked for hours through the monuments, and determinedly appreciated the beauty, architecture, and culture of the city.  Admittedly, I know more about the intricacies of how croissants are made than I do French history, but I was able to appreciate that too (Merci, Monsieur Hugo).  And finally, I ate.  I mean, unashamedly, guiltlessly got down.  I even made a point to go out in the evenings when I felt like it least, as I was determined to not let melancholy keep me from being present in this most glamorous of cities.  

Le bon Samaritain, Jardin des Tuileries

So while I remained as thick as they are thin, and as frumpy as they are chic, I came out on the other side.  Not less lonely necessarily, but a little more of some other things.  I'm more curious about the dynamics of  different cultures and immigrants converging on the city.  I'm more enamored with the language that I just can't seem to live near.  I'm more grateful to Chicago for teaching me to navigate public transportation.  And finally, I'm more gracious with myself.  Because I was sad, and frustrated, and sleep-deprived, but I did Paris.  Or at least, I scratched the surface.  And it was delicious.

... To A Whirlwind Goodbye

Glendalough

I've spent my last few days in this country at the mercy of some serious neurotransmitter action.  I arrived Friday afternoon to spend the following 24 hours on the back of a motorcycle receiving a personalized tour of what I'm sure was half of the eastern seaboard.  We covered the mountains of Wicklow, Glendalough, the entirety of both Dublin city and county, and even a hidden BMX park.  It was invigorating, and beautiful, and wholly terrifying.  

My last full day was spent at the GAA All Ireland hurling semi final, a gift from my newly found cousin Lisa.  The winner of Tipperary (GO TIPP!) vs. Galway would determine the team to play for the title.  Between my nationality and my ambivalence about professional sporting events, I knew I didn't deserve to be there, but was excited nonetheless.  Little did I know however, how much this particular 70 minutes would convince me of the power of being a sport spectator... I stand corrected!  Hurling is tremendously quick, leaving no room for even a 5 minute loo break.  Multiple generations come from all over the country to cheer their respective team to victory.  Parents pass out picnic lunches and run downstairs for tea during halftime, as everyone's far too interested in the game to be pounding beers.

Croke Park, Dublin

The game was a nail biter, literally.  What paltry fingernails I had remaining were ceremoniously ripped off, almost without my knowing.  Stress!!  Most unfortunately for those of us supporting Tipp, our rivals scored the winning point in the last 8 seconds of the game.  The last 8 seconds of the game.  There was plenty of heartbreak and even some tears, as our rivals attempted to comfort with hugs and handshakes.  It was for me, the perfect ending to this most magical of trips.  To participate in the hard-earned solidarity of nearly 59,000 proud Irish was an experience I won't soon forget.

I'll Be Seeing You

I do not feel ready to say goodbye, but I know it’s time.  Ireland for me has been many things, not the least of which is the kindness, hospitality, and humor of the people.  I am filing away some of my most favorite people and adventures, so that I can return anytime I like in my heart.  That is of course, until I return fo' reals, with some siblings in tow (Seriously Damian, we promise Donegal!!)  So I move forward, a backpack full of James Joyce, a belly full of Irish cheese and relish, and a heart full of knowing that you can in fact, go home again.  It was, as they say here, a grand craic.

... To Finding The Pirate Queen

Clare Island Lighthouse

Gráinne Mhaol's Castle

Prior to arriving to this country, I had never in my life heard of Ireland's pirate queen, Gráinne Mhaol (Grace O'Malley in English).  Gráinne Mhaol was born in the early 16th century, the only child of Gaelic aristocrats who made their living from both land and sea.  Her story, as I've tried to piece it together, is worth reading.  A woman who dismissed rules and regulations handed to her by family, culture, and establishment to become one of the most powerful leaders in an emerging Ireland.  A woman who had a reputation for ferocity and grit, who defied even Queen Elizabeth I during their singular meeting, refusing to bow and acknowledge her as Ireland's monarch.  A woman who led battalions of men, acquired tremendous wealth, and altogether changed the course of history.  A wife to two husbands and a mother to three children.  An example to women nearly 500 years later, as we continue fight to find our voices, and be heard above the din of thousands of years of patriarchy.

Needless to say, I knew I had to go where she'd been, see where she'd lived.  I arrived on Clare Island, where she lived and possibly died, with intentions to stay the night, and ended up leaving nearly a week later.  I just couldn't bare to leave what felt like perhaps the most haunting, spiritual place I've been.  Home to 170 full-time islanders, located off the coast of Mayo, it's just far enough away to feel like another world.  The islanders take care of their own as there are no police, but are also gifted at taking care of those of us just visiting, luckily for me.  

Abbey Where She's Likely Buried

It was a week of reflection and introversion, of really trying to absorb the spirit of the island.  I spent the days hiking for hours without encountering another human soul, exploring old ruins, and even sleeping on rocks, in nooks above the sea.  Evenings were spent with the locals, over traditional music and tasty pints.  I thought a lot about Gráinne, and all she went through, all she accomplished in her time.  

More than that though, I thought of the pirate queens who've come since, both recorded and not, as we all know it's still very much a written history.  I thought of the pirate queens in my life today, and was filled up.  Filled with gratefulness that I have so many strong, capable, tenderhearted women in my life.  Filled too with grief for all we have yet to do on behalf of our baby girls, and nieces, and mothers, and neighbors.  

In the midst of my musing, I read an Arab proverb, “If you expect to see the final results of your work, you have simply not asked a big enough question."  Gráinne Mhaol never stopped asking the questions, never accepted the patented, hollow responses of her day, and maybe that's her legacy to us.  Here's to the men and women everywhere asking the questions, and pushing back against systems of degradation and misogyny that continue to disable women and girls from living full lives the world over.  Here's to the pirate queen in us all.



.

...Up The Holy Mountain

Croagh Patrick

Croagh Patrick (Patrick’s Stack), has been considered Ireland’s Holy Mountain since 3000 BC, when the Celtic pagans used it as a site to celebrate the onset of harvest season.  It transitioned to more of a Christian pilgrimage in honor of St.Patrick, who is believed to have fasted for 40 days on the summit back in 441 AD.  It’s also where he allegedly banished all snakes from Ireland, thank you very much.

Seriously

Unfortunately however, the path has become increasingly perilous, as the ever-increasing numbers making the trek have caused significant erosion, made evident by the dozens of rescues each year.  Currently the county council is lobbying for a loan to repair the trail, and effectively maintain its integrity and safety for future pilgrims.

I knew exactly none of this.  What I did know though, was that it is considered the holiest mountain of this most holy country, and that I just had to do it.  I think it was more of a response to some kind of prompting than an actual decision. 

The day was the most beautiful I’ve had since I’ve arrived.  I was in the company of my new friend Jenny, the cousin of one of my Chicago besties, KatieLynch, and a rockstar in her own right.  Jenny is funny as hell, refreshingly authentic, and incredibly generous.  Of note for this particular day, she's also a remarkable athlete.  Her legs are about twice the length of mine, but she never got too far ahead of me, though I’m quite sure she easily could have.  A gem,  that girl.

Prayers

There weren’t tons of deep thoughts floating around my head during our ascent, as everything in me was working towards the next step; I think my active body was my prayer.  I experienced one episode of wooziness, but whether it was adjusting to the ascent, nerves, or a bit of the chub factor, I’ll never know.

The second half became completely vertical and treacherously slippery, the path made entirely of loose rocks and sand.  I began to wonder if it was considered a pilgrimage simply because it generated so many versions of holy expletives from those I was near enough to hear. 

Clew Bay

When we finally made the summit, the grueling ascent somehow made perfect sense.  The views of Clew Bay, the crystalline Atlantic, the islands, and the mountains of Mayo were simply phenomenal.  Pillars of stone surrounded the chapel, penance of pilgrims who’d come before.  Lay some rocks down, Miss Katie.  We donned our extra shirts, as the temperature at 2,500 ft was in fact much colder than the base, and spent a few moments taking it all in.

Penance

We made our way down an alternate path, as we were both convinced that the eroded primary path could do us in.  The descent was also vertical, and with the exception of tiny patches of heather, entirely loose rock.  I seriously don’t know how the sheep do it.  I took a mighty fall that involved rolling down rocks and clawing my way onto something, anything to defy gravity and my imminent death.  This quickly became reason for insane laughter between us, once we both realized that my limbs and I remained attached.  I’ve actually had multiple flashbacks of it since, and it gets me every time.  I daresay the descent was as difficult as the ascent, and no easier on my screaming knees.  

Dreamy

We finally made it all the way down in one piece, hallelujah.  I have wild bruises in places I’m too much of a lady to share, and once again, am sore to my bones.  I think it’ll be an experience that I process in pieces, but for today, I’m grateful.  Grateful to Jenny for her company and patience and laughter.  Grateful to those who’ve gone before and infused me with their chutzpah to get to the top, and to the bottom for that matter.  And finally, grateful to my trusty blue friend, Aleve.  Amen.

... To Finding My Roots

FUH-reaking Out

My great-aunt Mary Basil was a baller.  A nun of the highest order who spoke multiple languages, lived all over the world, and had a heart to serve.  She was diminutive in stature, but enormous in presence, and I remember her well.  She was also a meticulous note-taker, leaving pages of details related to her mother's family tree here in Ireland.  I have been carrying these notes around with me for more than 20 years, waiting for the day I could find our family.  This week, I had my day.

I arrived in Cashel, knowing it was centrally located to the different towns in my notes.  I had put out feelers for months prior to departing the states, without much response.  I knew I was going to be dependent on divine intervention through the help of others if I was going to actually make contact, particularly because nearly everyone has the same 3 surnames, or at least it seems that way.  Where to start??

Old Family Home

Enter PJ, my current hostelier here in Cashel.  PJ's the guy who's done everything, knows everyone, and you can tell, is a always a good time.  Within minutes of checking in to his lovely (and quiet, thank you Jesus) establishment, he was on the phone with no fewer than 6 people, including a man he calls "The grandfather of Tipperary", an elderly fellow who taught for over 50 years, loves genealogy, and knows everyone in the area.  He directed PJ to a particular shopkeeper the next town up, to which PJ said simply "I'll drive you up tomorrow, we'll see who we can find".

The next morning, after actually sleeping through the night (again, thank you Jesus), we hopped in his car and headed to Eddie's store, a town away.  We found Eddie in the back of his shop, who was instantly convinced that we are in fact cousins when he found his name at the top of my aunt's list!  He was as tickled as I was, introducing me to his beautiful wife Helen, and the young Sinead working the register, who happened to be another cousin a few more branches down our tree.  He then generously began to plan the rest of our time together.

Sweet Eddie, Lovely Joan

Eddie drove me past generations of our family's homes, assuring me over and over that I have "So many cousins here, so so many Katie, you wouldn't even believe it".  Later in the evening, he drove me to the birthplace of our great-grandmothers, which was simultaneously powerful and haunting, enhanced by the misty waning daylight and red fox darting through the fields.

We ended the evening at the pub of yet another cousin, in a town known for hurling.  It was a cozy well-run place, full of local hurlers and regulars alike.  Lovely cousin Joan was running the show, in addition to 2 of her boys and her husband Larry.  I assured her son that I am in fact not a gypsy, despite wearing hoops (little did he know I was trying to distract from the fact that my clothes were dirrrrty).  I did my best to keep up with the Guinness they so liberally poured, and the conversation of so many lost years.  I channelled the spirits of my grandmother, and my dad, and my crazy favorite aunt Mary Alice, who has lovingly bossed me into doing this for my entire life, despite how she may deny it.  How I miss them.

Grand Finale... And Only Just Getting Started

My time here was capped by a spontaneous reunion of several more generations of fantastic women I am honored to call family.  I believe I was afforded the opportunity to meet these remarkable relatives as much for my family as for myself.  I've never been more grateful for the mysterious way this country transcends space and time, enabling me to clearly discern each one of my relatives with me, despite the miles and oceans and lifetimes between us.  I'm quite sure I even heard Aunt Mary Basil laughing among us tonight, delighted at finding us finally reunited.  An extraordinary legacy, for an extraordinary woman.

... To Being Schooled by a National Park

Purple Mountain (I think?) Killarney National Park

Tourists don’t know where they’ve been, travelers don’t know where they’re going.

Paul Theroux

Torc Waterfall

I awoke this morning worn out from the past few days of hitching and walking.  My fatigue was further enhanced by only about 17 minutes of sleep last night, under the bunk of a German who sounded like a horse riding a lawnmower.  I felt grouchy for the first time since I've arrived, and knew enough to know that anything active and outside is usually my best medicine.  Doing so would also prevent me from losing my ish on some poor unsuspecting college student.

I decided the best cure for all of this would be to hire a cycle (this is how they say rent a bike) and head out into Killarney National Park.  Knew it would be a solid workout, and would help me to stay in the solitude and silence that I'm craving so much right now.  And it was.  At first.

Secret Garden

I made it to Muckross Abbey, the Torc Waterfall, and to the Meeting of the Waters.  I was well aware of how sore and tired my body was before I started, and felt it even more acutely as I went.  I mean, my armpits were sore.  My hips were sore.  My tramp stamp was sore, for goodness' sake.  But onward I rode, as I'm pretty determined on this trip to move forward and not back, metaphorically and otherwise.

There were more pedestrians than cyclists, and even some who traversed the park via horse-drawn wagon.  The mountains, the lakes, the trees, everything was beautiful.  And then my self started to drown out the beauty that was around me.  I was so very sore, and fatigued, and of course hungry, and realizing I was only getting further from the end.  I think I rode approximately a bazillion kilometers, interspersed with a few intermittent off-trail hikes.  Despite the beauty, my mood was quickly deteriorating.  I was even cursing the fuzzy horses in my head, especially when I had to drive through the mud to avoid being squashed.  Not my finest hour.

Future Tattoo?

Thankfully though, the lowest point of this 6+ hour not-joyride ended up giving me the check I needed.  I arrived to a point where the only way to go was straight up.  Like, so vertical we cyclists had to carry/push/pull our bikes, as there was no way the 6-inch wide, 80 degree incline was possible, up or down (props to Gregg for doing this as a hobby back home... Crazy man!).  This followed at least 4 hours of riding up and down hills and valleys and twists and turns, both of the park and of my mind.  But somehow, when I started to push that damn bike up that wicked, beautiful mountain, I remembered where I was, and how very glad I am to be here, aching body aside.  So I said some quick prayers (I'm sorry, help!), and got 'er done.  Smiling.  Kind of.

...To Becoming Super Cool, Part 2

Travel is the best way we have of rescuing the humanity of places, and saving them from abstraction and ideology.                      -Pico Iyer, “Why We Travel”

Renae and I headed up the main road out of town carrying our packs (still way too flippin heavy, sadly), grateful for the clear weather.  We had learned from our friends, Irish and foreign alike, that hitchhiking is still practiced here with some regularity.  Per some of the older locals, it used to be done far more back in the 60s and 70s, but wasn't everything?  I've always had such romantic notions, thanks to so many literary heroes of my youth; Steinbeck, and Kerouac, and Tom Sawyer to name a few.  I think I've always been waiting for an excuse to make a go of it.

Provisions

It must be said, it was much easier for me to choose courage in this situation with Renae as my partner in crime (*though not a crime here!).  She is one of those girls who is effortlessly beautiful even when she's exhausted, lights up a room and everyone in it without even realizing she's doing it, and bursts into the most random but appropriate songs at just the right time.  She has a depth and character that belies her actual age, and was such a blessing for me to connect with.  She also has a mean sense of humor, which made the day super funny.

We first walked several kilometers to an organic farm, where they loaded us up with fresh beets and carrots before we continued on our merry way.  Our first goal was getting to the ferry, about 50km south.  Once on the other side, we would have to part ways, as I had another 80km to cover to get to my final destination.

She is seriously always this cute

There is loads written about hitchhiking, so I won't belabor the details, but I will say this: BOOYAH!  Our first ride was from Pat the foxy farmer, who took us to the next village, though not half as far as we needed go.  This went on for another 3 rides and about as many hours before we reached the ferry.  We walked (and walked, and walked) between each ride, hammering our food in the middle of nowhere, and questioning the integrity of my old knees under my blasted pack.  We met elderly gentlemen, a beautiful mother with even more beautiful daughters who were totally fascinated with us, and even a salty old British ex-pat who just couldn't stand the influx of immigrants into his homeland.  Yikes.

When we finally got off the ferry, the evening was starting to really trump the afternoon, and I was exhausted.  Stupid exhausted (this would not be the last time).  We walked several more kilometers into the nearest town, where we parted ways with lots of love and good mojo.  Renae, my badass Aussie friend made her way to another organic farm, while I treated myself to the most charming B&B, as I couldn't bear the thought of another 80km before bed.

Haven

In the morning, the weather was colder and stormier, because this is Ireland.  Thankfully, I had slept in a real bed, in an actual quiet house, but I was still pretty damn worn out.  Bernadette the hostess made me a proper Irish breakfast loaded with a wide variety of pork products, a fresh pot of french pressed coffee, and an entire basket of white toast and homemade brown bread.  She even packed me a little bag lunch, as I'm sure I looked even more bedraggled than I felt, and she had a generous mother's heart for sure.  My brief time with her was pretty magical, and totally worth the splurge.

I made my way back out into the blustery rain and out of town before I caught my first ride with a nice woman from Romania, who drove like a maniac.  The clench was on, that's for sure.  She took me about halfway, before unloading me onto what amounted to a highway.  Gulp.  Play it cool Katie, play it cool.  I was reminded of Thoreau's quote, "I have learned that the swiftest traveller is he that goes afoot".  I still don't totally know what he meant, but I think that's exactly what I was experiencing.

I had to walk several kilometers before I caught my second solo ride by 2 sweet college boys who turned around to come back for me.  When I finally made it to the outskirts of town, I felt like a rockstar.  Like a rockstar after a whirlwind world tour.  I hiked to my musty little hostel, peeled my cold, wet, filthy clothes off my cold, wet, filthy self, and passed out.