Cassandra Lewis

Drew and I first heard this expression together last year during a historical lecture in San Francisco about the Mission District’s Irish population in the 1950s. The audience was discussing what the young people do today instead of speaking Irish to each other and dancing at the old Knights of the Red Branch. An Irish woman stood up and said, “Well everyone knows [they still say] what’s the craic?”

Drew and I couldn’t help bursting into laughter when we looked at each other in confusion because we didn’t know what she was talking about. The only kind of craic we knew about was the crack the junkies below our window are in search of while they pace around like zombies.

But today, I rediscovered the phrase. The residential assistant to my apartment here in Dublin was apprising us of the mandatory list of rules, like: “don’t invite home people from the pub” and “always lock the door.” He told us not to have parties and warned us that the Irish enjoy parties immensely and are known to knock on people’s doors “looking for good craic.” While this may be innocent most of the time, he said, you never know.

Sadly, Drew wasn’t here to exchange an enlightened glance and giggle with. But at that moment it suddenly occurred to me that craic doesn’t mean crack. It means fun–a kind of fun that doesn’t necessarily involve smoking illicit substances. “What’s the craic?” means “Where’s the fun?” I think. So, now we have to live up to what that Irish woman said a year ago about how young people still use this term.

One of my new linguistic resolutions this month is to exchange my obnoxious “no worries,” mantra for “craic,” preferably “What’s the craic?” but “That was some good craic” might be acceptable too. Spread the craic, people!

My dad was in San Francisco just for twenty-four hours on business. He picked me up at five in the morning even though his flight to DC left more than an hour later than mine. I don’t know of any other fathers who would go out of their way at such an absurd hour of the morning. We met again later that day in baggage claim at Dulles.

On my way to baggage claim I witnessed San Francisco’s District Attorney Kamala Harris get hit on by an obnoxious doctor. He asked her if she was in town for his physician’s conference because she “looks so familiar.”

She graciously shooed him away by explaining she’s the District Attorney. Still, he continued to pursue her, his foot sinking lower into the quicksand of his mouth, for the entire shuttle ride. At one point he told her he’d seen her on TV and he thought she was quite “articulate for a politician.” When the shuttle arrived at baggage claim, I gestured for the District Attorney to exit before me and said: “After you, Dr. Harris.” She laughed and sauntered away.

My little brother was dressed like a mariachi when I arrived at home, a costume my folks brought back for him from their trip to Mexico. I’m not sure what happened to that picture, but here he is as a cowboy:

He’s an aspiring actor and writer. His imagination is boundless.

On Saturday I watched him play soccer. He was awesome! Look how cute he is:

Then later that night the fam and I went camping. Gabriel’s pool has a big camp out each year where hundreds of wee ones and their families put up tents and sleep between the lake and the pool. Sounds terrifying, doesn’t it?

My dad is an Eagle Scout, but Pamela deserves a merit badge for roughing it two years in a row. Last year she had to go alone with the kiddies and I think it was her first time camping. She’s a city girl (she’s the one who explained the New York subway to me, among other indispensable wisdom). Lucky for us our tent neighbors helped us set up the tent, but here’s what it looked like before they intervened:

Here’s the tent after intervention:

Dad and I found these NASCAR chairs to get into character:

The weather was cool and breezy, which went well with our hard work and cold beers until it was time to go to bed. Then the temperature dropped insanely low. Climate Change is real a hassle when you’re camping. The only person who got any sleep that night was Gabriel.

And here he is all dressed up for the Tony Awards and dinner Sunday, the day after our camping excursion:

Since my flight to Dublin left from Philadelphia, my dad took off the entire day just to drive me there. We stopped at MomMom’s house in Delaware for lunch. She makes the greatest BLT anyone’s ever imagined. I made the unfortunate decision to become a vegetarian six months ago and luckily she can also make a mean egg and cheese sandwich too. It was awesome to see her before the big flight. Here she is:

My flight left at 9:15 at night. There were some Irish folks, an elderly English couple and a bunch of embarrassing Americans: underage frat boys chant to each other instead of converse and large women wearing shamrocks across their behinds—I’m actually not kidding. I was flattered when the flight attendant thought I was Irish (it came up when he was passing out the customs forms).

The first song I heard on Irish radio during the taxi ride to my hotel was “Sunday Girl” by Blondie. As Drew knows too well, I’m a serious Debbie Harry fan and took this as a good omen. The first restaurant I saw was a Chinese restaurant, out in a suburb called Adshel, between the airport and downtown Dublin.

I splurged on a hotel for two nights instead of a hostel because I’ll be crammed in a small apartment with three other women, even sharing a bedroom, for six weeks. The George Frederic Handel Hotel in Temple Bar is where Handel first performed “Messiah.” From my window you can see part of the River Liffey, which divides the city in half:

After I checked in I did what I always enjoy doing in a new city—I got terribly lost, mostly around the Temple Bar area.

It’s a hip, artsy part of the city. Among the pubs are art galleries, coffee shops, restaurants that offer a real international selection, the Olympia Theatre, the National Photographic Archive and a really cool place called the Irish Film Institute, where student and professional films are screened.

At one point I ended up lost on the Irish Castle grounds:

Here’s a close up of the River Liffey:

The River was a great marker for finding my way. During the next week I hope to cross the Liffey and explore Parnell Square, the General Post Office-the site of the Easter Uprising in 1916. I read that there are still bullet holes in the walls. There’s so much to see in this great city!

I’m moving into the apartment on Leeson Street today. More soon!

I’m almost there. First I’m flying to DC to spend the weekend with my folks and little brother Gabriel for the weekend before I get to Dublin on Monday.

I managed to squeeze my life and thirty books into three bags. Lifting them is a whole different story, but we’ll see what happens when I have to leave for the airport at 5:00 in the morning. Maybe I’ll be stronger then.

I can’t believe I’ll be away from Drew for so long. He’s been so supportive and wonderful. Look how he takes care of my orchids, which he gave to me for my birthday two years ago:

I’m humbled. Over the past couple of weeks my friends have spoiled me, cooked or taken me out for dinner and/or contributed to my drunkenness. You might think I’ve been sentenced to prison or about to move to Dublin forever. I’m very lucky to have such awesome friends who always find a reason to celebrate.

Jenny, Kevin and Kari even joined Drew and I to see the A.C.T. production of Caryl Churchill’s play A Number a couple of Saturdays ago. I wish I’d taken pictures of those guys, but Drew has some great ones on his Flickr page and I hope to snap some more of them after I return.

Here are some pictures of some other friends who helped me get in shape by raising my alcohol tolerance:

See how blurry they are? But if you think they’re blurry, check out Dennis and Sanjay:

Ginger and Raul must have anchored the blurriness out of this picture:

Here’s one of my friend Christine and I. Christine is the one who gave me this awesome digital camera:

Thanks, everyone, for reminding me of what I’ll be missing while I’m away.