“How’s the form?”
“Good, but I have a mouth on me…”
My sister and I huddled around the computer, reading through Irish vocabulary. We scanned several pages of interesting slang, and spoke with our best Irish accents, which, by the way, were horrible.
As I looked at the foreign phrases and words, a thought occurred to me: I may not be speaking a different language, but I will definitely still be learning the strange vernacular of another country. Since I am staying with a host family, their way of speaking will be native and left unhindered. Maybe after eight weeks, I will be able to produce a better Irish accent and become indifferent to the phrase “can I bum a fag?”
Easter was this weekend so I packed my duffle, filled a garbage bag full of laundry, and drove down 64W towards Richmond. The sun warmed me and my roommate through the open sunroof and windows. Good hair days were forgotten and we ventured home happily, aided by music and laughter.
After the service that Sunday at church, my youth minister from high school approached me. Mom had told him about my adventure to Ireland for next summer. White hair covered his head, and glasses rest on his nose. He is over six tall, and throughout high school could be quite intimidating. But now I can only see him for his smiles.
“Dublin!? Oh Ireland. Need someone to carry your bags or something while you’re over there?”
I explained the internship and my plans. You could see him mentally constructing a list of tips and advice he had discovered from his trip there.
“Get the soup. I’m a picky eater, and the soup…,” he winked and gave a thumbs up. “Can’t go wrong with the soup.”
This is the kind of advice I need - something practical and easy to remember. Now every pub I eat at, I’m going to ask their soup special of the day.
A cup of chicken noodle? No. Just coffee...which, by the way,
I hear in Ireland, they drink tea. Oh dear.
“Good, but I have a mouth on me…”
My sister and I huddled around the computer, reading through Irish vocabulary. We scanned several pages of interesting slang, and spoke with our best Irish accents, which, by the way, were horrible.
As I looked at the foreign phrases and words, a thought occurred to me: I may not be speaking a different language, but I will definitely still be learning the strange vernacular of another country. Since I am staying with a host family, their way of speaking will be native and left unhindered. Maybe after eight weeks, I will be able to produce a better Irish accent and become indifferent to the phrase “can I bum a fag?”
Easter was this weekend so I packed my duffle, filled a garbage bag full of laundry, and drove down 64W towards Richmond. The sun warmed me and my roommate through the open sunroof and windows. Good hair days were forgotten and we ventured home happily, aided by music and laughter.
After the service that Sunday at church, my youth minister from high school approached me. Mom had told him about my adventure to Ireland for next summer. White hair covered his head, and glasses rest on his nose. He is over six tall, and throughout high school could be quite intimidating. But now I can only see him for his smiles.
“Dublin!? Oh Ireland. Need someone to carry your bags or something while you’re over there?”
I explained the internship and my plans. You could see him mentally constructing a list of tips and advice he had discovered from his trip there.
“Get the soup. I’m a picky eater, and the soup…,” he winked and gave a thumbs up. “Can’t go wrong with the soup.”
This is the kind of advice I need - something practical and easy to remember. Now every pub I eat at, I’m going to ask their soup special of the day.
A cup of chicken noodle? No. Just coffee...which, by the way,
I hear in Ireland, they drink tea. Oh dear.