Ireland Archives | In Lieu of Postcards

Kenmare, Ireland’s Hidden Charms

This summer marked my fifth trip to Ireland. Why, when there are so many places to go, do I continue to choose the Emerald Isle? For one, traveling to Ireland has been a formative experience for me. It was the first country I ever visited outside of North America, and the place where I spent a semester studying abroad 20 years ago. At this point in my Irish travels, there aren’t many major sites I haven’t seen. But in this place where I feel so many memories and connections, I tend to take pleasure in the mundane – walks to take, places to eat and drink, gardens and shops and inviting quaint streets. Sure, there are things I haven’t seen: despite living in Dublin for six months, I never went to the Guinness Storehouse, and I have never been to the EPIC Immigration Museum. I’d prefer instead to stand on the street in front of Kehoe’s with a pint in my hand, or to lounge on St. Stephen’s Green to watch Dubliners of every stripe intersect. Or, maybe head down to County Kerry for a slow amble through Kenmare.

The Must-Be Philosophy

I suppose I can sum this up as such: instead of “must-sees”, I gravitate toward a philosophy of “must-bes”: I must be back there. I must be in a moss-covered forest; I must be in the back of an Irish taxi with a witty driver; I must be sat at a table in front of the perfect toasted special; I must be in a pub where a fiddle is harmonizing with a concertina; I must be surrounded by slate-gray stone walls and ungainly bleating sheep and muddy crying skies. For this trip, these must-bes were converged in the small town of Kenmare, co. Kerry.

Kenmare, just off the Ring of Kerry with a population of around 2,500, is not exceptional among Irish towns, but it has long retained something of a mythical glow in my mind. It was one of the first places I visited on my first trip abroad at age 18. While my family only stayed in Kenmare for two nights, using it as a base to Killarney National Park, it was the first Irish small town I experienced, and it left such an indelible impression that I returned twice – for just one night in 2016, and then this summer for a whole week. I wrote a bit about Kenmare previously when discussing Kerry through Stephen Rynne’s cheeky book All Ireland, but after my third and longest visit, I wanted to delve more deeply into what makes this town such a delightful base for exploring one of Ireland’s most beautiful counties.

Escape from Killarney

As I wrote in my previous discussion of Kenmare, insofar as it is mentioned to tourists, it is usually as a more “cosmopolitan” alternative to neighboring Killarney, which has gone all-out in pursuit of American tourist dollars. In 2001, we stayed in a bed-and-breakfast called The Brass Lantern that I do remember as being quite elegant. It was run by a French woman named Colette, the showers were skylit and waterfall-like and the breakfast was a health-conscious platter of fruit and yogurt. This time, though, we acquiesced to modern convenience and stayed in an Airbnb (and a walk past the Brass Lantern suggests that though it is still ostensibly functional, is it not actually Xanadu), which was very close to the town center and let us explore Kenmare thoroughly in a week’s time.

Though the town has clearly grown since 2001, it retains its low-key charm, managing a nice balance with tourism that doesn’t impose on daily life. Is it boring? A little. But that’s the point. Tourists often say they want to live like the locals, but they don’t really mean it. In Kenmare, ordinariness – and straightforward, non-pandering Irishness – is the attraction.

Take, for example, the walk to town from our accommodations: we pass a field with a few grazing, wooly sheep, then walk along a river guarded by a stone wall and lush green trees. I run my hand along the wall, touching moss as soft as a shag carpet, feeling the ridges where stones were stacked, diligently, sometime in the distant past. (On one walk I managed to drop my scarf on the path; when I returned it was waiting for me, casually draped over a low shrub by a thoughtful passerby.) We spy a lone donkey eating languidly on an adjacent hill. A flower-adorned coffee shack, The Bean and Batch, beckons us across the street, and we perch on brightly colored chairs with flat whites and pain au chocolat (it’s Kenmare’s singular bastion of hipsterdom, but the clientele of sixty-somethings and young families are hardly intimidating). Just past this, the town begins: there’s a square and park that’s bustling with citizens and Kerry Way hikers making a pit stop. From there, two central streets branch out with shops, pubs and restaurants painted bright “Tidy Towns” colors, café tables spilling optimistically into the streets on the chance of a sunny day. Just a 10-minute walk and there, already, so much Irish charm.

Things to “Do” in Kenmare

You might be thinking that colorful buildings, mossy stone walls, and relaxed animals are all well and good, but what does one actually DO in Kenmare, aside from drive away to Killarney National Park, or other stops on the celebrated Ring of Kerry?

Attractions

First there’s the Bronze-Age Stone Circle, which I wrote about previously. The circle is probably Kenmare’s biggest tourist attraction, notable for being one of the few stone circles located in a town, rather than down some long and winding road in the middle of nowhere. The only issue is that while these circles are traditionally placed for their view, someone decided to plant trees in a ring around it, perhaps to set it off and protect it from the road. The result is an incredibly tranquil experience though one that isn’t exactly true to the intentions of its creators. There is also a souvenir stand, manned by an eager teenage boy selling plush sheep and Guinness knick-knacks aplenty, if that’s your cup of tea. But visit late in the day, with the crowds gone and the stand shut, and you can feel the hushed, almost mystical vibe of the place.

From the center of town, you can see the spire of a church rising just off the main square. This is Holy Cross Catholic Church, the most visually striking of the town’s churches, consecrated in 1864. In Ireland, there are interesting churches everywhere, and while this one is not particularly old or architecturally notable, it sits next to the former Poor Clare’s Convent founded by one of the town’s most famous residents, “The Nun of Kenmare,” Otherwise known as Sister Frances Clare (otherwise known as Margaret Anna Cusack). She was a prolific and especially intellectual nun: scholar and Irish nationalist, she established the convent and proceeded to write an impressive 35 books in the 1860s-80s.

A fairy fort in Reenagross Woodland Park, Kenmare.

You can learn more about this super-nun in the homespun and delightful Kenmare Tourist Information Office, which doubles as a history museum, chronicling the town’s industry, notable figures and daily life. I love small museums like this one that tell the stories of ordinary people (Nun of Kenmare aside) in ordinary towns. It might seem boring in the abstract, but its street-level humanity fosters a more intimate connection with a place.

Nature

Reenagross Woodland Park is the best nature one can see in Kenmare without a car. Like many beautiful Irish parks, this one is attached to a property designed for the wealthy, the 5-star Victorian-era Kenmare Park Hotel. Behind the grand stone structure are manicured gardens that dissolve almost imperceptibly into forest. Knobby trees perch over ferns and moss-covered stones, and gravel paths run along the edge of Kenmare Bay. While it’s no match for the spectacular views as on the Beara Peninsula or Ring of Kerry, it feels like a fairy-tale forest just a short walk from the bustling town center.

It’s these natural, magical edges of Kenmare that I found myself drawn to the most during our stay. Walk through the town center, take a left at the pizza place and proceed up the hill, and you’ll cross the River Finnerty, the tiny river that gives Kenmare a large part of its charm. Further up the road you’ll find Cromwell’s Bridge, an improbably steep structure that was built in the 1800s (though there was a similar structure here as far back as the 11th century). The bridge is unfortunately named for Oliver Cromwell, the English politician who led a bloody conquest of Ireland in the mid-1600s resulting in mass killings, land theft and forced servitude. The naming of the bridge is a mystery; Cromwell’s war did not even enter Kerry. The historical marker hopefully suggests that the name of this bridge was simply a mistake – the Irish-language word for “moustache,” alluding to the bridge’s rainbow-like shape, sounds like “Cromwell.” Name aside, if you’re a sucker for dry stones covered in moss, you’ll find it as enchanting as I did. Nestled on a small green surrounded by wildflowers, it’s the kind of place you can imagine reclining on a lazy afternoon.

Near Cromwell’s bridge is another of those especially Irish attractions: a shrine to the Virgin Mary, settled against a stone wall and tall hedge. This was one of Ireland’s “holy wells,” a site of folk religion during the period of anti-Catholic penal laws in the late 1600s-1900s. This well’s origin is not known; it may have begun as a site of pagan worship, then was blessed and turned into a Christian site. For pilgrims or simply curious onlookers, it’s another pocket of Kenmare enchantment.

Eating and Drinking

Lamb stew and Guinness at Coachman's — Lamb stew and Guinness at Coachman’s in Kenmare

As illustrated by these examples, life in Kenmare is not lived fast. It is a town for wandering, without expectations, and seeing what you’ll find. But while I may be making it sound like the humblest backwater, it should be known that the “cosmopolitan” label isn’t all spin. The town has quite a few fine pubs, restaurants and shops for its size; unlike other places I’ve visited in Ireland, its choices for dining and drinking are fairly numerous and high-quality. The Horseshoe, the town’s best-reviewed mid-priced restaurant, offers delicious food in cozy, candlelit surroundings. For a more ebullient dining experience, the touristy-looking O’Donnabhain’s was better than expected, offering a huge menu of well-executed Irish classics by similarly precarious candlelight (Kenmare is really not worried about people setting their hair on fire). Here the setting is a bustling pub environment soundtracked, at least when we were there, by a hipster college student alternating between affecting folk songs and improbable covers of “Dancing Queen” and other radio hits. Another standout, The Coachman’s, lacked in as much atmosphere but served an amazing Irish stew.

Atlantic Bar, a no-frills institution with a blue façade on the town square, became our go-to pub for lunch. With its perfectly presented toasted special (a hot ham sandwich with aged cheddar cheese and onion on robust buttery toast, served with golden chips), delectably fluffy Guinness, and cheerful proprietor, it was the platonic ideal of the Irish pub. Each time we visited, local workers of various professions laughed together and mingled with a few tourists enjoying a slower meal. On our second visit, we sat next to two friends on holiday from the UK, who engaged us in conversation on issues ranging from Paul McCartney to British and U.S. elections.

Traditional music session at Crowley's Bar — Trad session at Crowley’s

At night, the pubs come alive, and many try to offer live music, at least in the summer when tourists are around. This is highly variable; “live music” could mean a true Irish session, a solo accordionist, or an earnest young man playing “Wonderwall.” (Granted, the latter style can still be appealing; my husband and I did enjoy a pint in front of P.F. McCarthy’s as the band inside played a fine cover of Neil Young’s “Harvest Moon.”) Crowley’s Bar is known as the place for “real” trad sessions, though Kenmare is not celebrated for its music scene like Dingle or Doolin. But the crowd packs in, and the festive atmosphere accompanied by lively fiddle, guitar and mandolin is irresistible. Elderly tourists holding iPads aloft seem to come out of the woodwork for a trad session, but a pervasive atmosphere of good cheer envelopes everyone anyway. During our visit, an Irishman visiting from another county treated the audience to a beautiful Sean-nós performance of the traditional tune “Little Saro.” His clear voice rang out in the hushed room, stopping for a moment the extroverted environment of the pub and turning inward – an old song and a new emotion.

Embrace the Boring

We made quite a few day trips from Kenmare, to beautiful and impressive surroundings (recommendations below). But when traveling anywhere, I’ve learned not to take for granted the ordinary experiences that aren’t on anyone’s bucket list. Next time you’re staying in a humble town, even one that’s never been labeled “cosmopolitan” or “colorful,” I recommend plunging yourself into the mundane, the boring, the every day. These are the things that make the essence of a place, and these are the things – as evidenced by my 23-year-pining for Kenmare – that you’ll remember.

Things to see near Kenmare

Gleninchaquin Park & Uragh Stone Circle: This breathtaking private park and neighboring stone circle on the Beara Peninsula is like something out of a dream. It’s a long drive on an incredibly narrow road, but worth it.
Kissane Sheep Farm: For animal lovers, a sheepdog herding demonstration on this picturesque farm is a delightful way to spend a morning.
Killarney National Park: This one’s obvious, but a hike in KNP is a must-do if you’re nearby. Tourists tend to flock to Muckross House and Castle, but the trails are peaceful and wooded. Arthur Young’s Walk was our choice; a lovely trail along the lake.
The Ring of Kerry: Another obvious one. There’s a lot to do on the Ring, but I’d recommend choosing a place and staying a night or two, rather than driving the whole thing in one day. See my previous post for discussion of Cahersiveen and its surroundings.

“Dublin” on My Heart: In the Drizzly City of Contrasts

My third visit to Dublin began with—of all things—a discussion of the city’s tram system, Luas. Chatting with our taxi driver on our way into the city from the airport, my husband and I recalled the chaotic Luis-related construction we encountered during our most recent visit in 2016. This came as a surprise as we assumed it would be done—way back in 2004 when we were studying at University College Dublin, the project was already beginning operation. So what happened? All told, our driver explained, the project took a turbulent 13 years (it’s finally finished): first city government decided on two separate city centre lines; then they decided to join them; next they realized the tracks were two different sizes and needed to be redone; and eventually the 2010 recession stalled the whole endeavor. Hence the 2017 completion date.

Our new friend from the north side put it like this: “In this city, we prefer to do something wrong the first time, and then spend ages fixing it.”

This little motto seemed even more apt days later, when we stopped in at the National Gallery of Ireland. Upon our last visit to Dublin, the museum was in the midst of a laborious, drawn-out renovation that pushed some of its most celebrated art into storage. But when we returned these three years later hoping to finally see the beautiful (supposedly complete) new wings, we found them shut down once again, for “essential maintenance.” Those Jack Yeats paintings will have to wait until our next visit, I suppose.

Dublin: City of Frustration?

I’ve spent more time in Dublin than perhaps your average tourist—around 7 months or so total—but I can’t claim to know it, of course, like people who live there. And yet the great thing about being a repeat visitor to any destination is the ability to see different sides of it: you observe its changes over time, but you also can’t help but change your own perspective on it. This time, I feel like I’ve I’ve shaken the stars from my eyes a bit and started to see what the locals see—that in some ways, Dublin is a frustrating place.

George's Street, Dublin, Ireland — George’s Street, Dublin

As countless poets, novelists and songwriters have observed over the years, Dublin spends much of its time being gray, drizzly and smelling of exhaust, the traffic is a nightmare and stalled building projects seem to glare from every corner. Like many other 21st-century metropoles, the city of Dublin has a problem with poverty, homelessness and drug addiction, and gentrification and skyrocketing housing costs haven’t helped. Perusing local independent paper the Dublin Inquirer, I read stories on rising noise levels in the city, the housing crisis and other myriad city problems. Being a Dubliner, never easy, seems to be getting even harder. So why do I, why do many of us, love this city so incredibly much?

“Dublin” on Our Hearts

James Joyce allegedly once stated that when he died, they’d find the name “Dublin” written on his heart. It’s a sentiment you’re likely to hear from others who have spent any amount of time in the city, even (perhaps especially) those given to griping over daily annoyances. I think perhaps what makes the city near and dear to so many are in fact its contrasts; this juxtaposition of the frustrating and the inspiring.

There’s the way those gray, rainy mornings can open up into sunshiny, optimistic afternoons—the kind that call post-work crowds to sunbathe on St. Stephen’s Green or congregate chattily in front of pubs with friends and pints in their hands.

And maybe it’s that feeling when you enter Merrion Square, and the shocking green of the vegetation seems to throw the city into technicolor, and its statue of Oscar Wilde, artfully slouching on his rock, half-smiles as if to say not too bad, is it?

Or those times when you enter a crowded, cozy pub, with its snugs and panels of beaten wood, and just when the barman has topped up your Guinness a few generous lads get up and leave you the perfect table.

The Winding Stair Bookshop, Dublin, Ireland

Perhaps also it’s the seemingly endless number of great bookshops to duck into, swearing you’re just going to browse until you encounter the carefully curated tables piled with enchanting works and the shopkeeper from central casting with the owl-eyed glasses (and 100 euro later you stagger out with a stack and a tote bag and a new lease on life).

And it’s noisy, yes, but in such a way that heightens one’s appreciation of the quiet places, like the medieval sanctuary at St. Audeon’s Church, the dignified stacks in the 18th-century Marsh’s Library, the dusky elegance of the Central Hotel’s upstairs Library Bar.

St. Audeon's Church, Dublin, Ireland — St. Audeon’s Church

Library Bar, Dublin, Ireland — Library Bar

Finally then there’s the way the noise seems to fall away on a Grafton Street Sunday morning, when the street’s occasionally tacky cover-song buskers make way for a singer-songwriter with startling talent, and people crowd around and listen as though they were in church.

David Owens on Grafton Street, Dublin, Ireland

Postscript from a Smitten Tourist

There’s a lot I could say to you about Dublin, about the ways I like to walk the city, its hidden charms and jagged edges, the off-the-beaten-path attractions, the food, the pints, the wit and wisdom of its people. But these few points of description really say it all. Dublin is a city of frustration, grit, poverty, occasional violence. But it’s also a city of tender moments, of beauty and softness, of light breaking through heavy clouds and bright colors on Georgian doors, of a group of friends and a song and a pint in your hand on a summer evening.

Ha'Penny Bridge on the River Liffey, Dublin, Ireland — Ha’Penny Bridge on the River Liffey, Dublin

Dublin Recommendations

Books:

Books Upstairs, 17 D’Olier Street, Dublin 2
The Winding Stair Bookshop, 40 Lower Ormond Quay, N. City, Dublin 1
Ulysses Rare Books, 10 Duke Street, Dublin 2
Hodges Figgis, 56-58 Dawson Street, Dublin 2

Pubs:

Library Bar at the Central Hotel, Exchequer Street, Dublin 2 – Go up 1 floor for the bar. This is a great place to have a pint by yourself with a book, though I’d recommend going before 5 p.m. to get a good spot.
The Long Hall, 51 South Great George’s Street, Dublin 2 – Classic Victorian Pub that’s small but always seems to have room for you. It’s faded Dublin elegance at its best.
Palace Bar, 21 Fleet Street, Dublin 2 – Another Victorian bar with a cozy skylit room and outdoor street tables. Midcentury meeting place for journalists from the Irish Times.
Mulligan’s, 8 Poolbeg Street, Dublin 2 – Storied 18th-century pub frequented by James Joyce and Irish poet Seamus Heaney, nicely hidden near Trinity College.
Bruxelles, 8 Harry Street, Dublin 2 – A Dublin institution frequented by musicians and featuring a statue outside of Thin Lizzy’s Phil Lynott, one of Ireland’s biggest rock stars. Go downstairs and you’ll have your choice between a cocktail lounge (the Zodiac Bar) and the Flanders Bar, a pub for aging punks and what Bruxelles’ website calls “rock heads.” I’d highly recommend the latter.
Kehoe’s, 9 Anne Street South, Dublin 2 – Traditional pub that draws large post-work crowds. Stand outside on charming Anne Street for a view of beautiful St. Ann’s Church.
Whelan’s, 25 Wexford Street, Portobello, Dublin 2 – Dublin’s best music venue, with a pub in the front and a club in the back.

On Losing Yourself: Preparing for a Trip Abroad

After a long hiatus, I’m excited to resume my writing about travel! As much as I enjoy writing about travel all times of the year, I’ve gotten out of practice due to work, other creative projects and various life events (including having to unexpectedly move), not to mention the fact that I haven’t done much Traveling with a capital “T.” But my husband is teaching a study abroad course in Italy this summer and attending a conference in Dublin beforehand, with me along for the ride. (He noted that he did not even tell me he applied to such a conference until he received his acceptance because, apparently, I tend to get unduly excited about such prospects.) So I currently find myself, for the first time since my spring semester abroad 15 years ago (yes, I am now OLD), preparing to spend a substantial amount of time (two months) abroad. It’s pretty cool, and I feel incredibly lucky that we (barely) have the money and the flexibility to pull it off. But I do have one small worry: that my anticipation, high expectations and tendency to over-plan juuuuust might be my downfall.

Born to Itinerary

The thing is, I am a great planner. I love planning a trip, something I didn’t realize until I planned my first, our honeymoon to Dublin (where we met) in 2016. I was drunk on the freedom of deciding where we would go and what we would do, thrilled by the ability to put together pieces on how we could get to each place and move smoothly from one thing to the next. The truth is, I was probably born to be a travel agent (but not really, because the idea of dealing regularly with airlines makes my palms sweat). But this tendency doesn’t necessary help one enjoy travel; in fact, it can have the opposite effect. While I strive to take a slower pace and avoid the marathon sightseeing of the stereotypical tourist, I have to admit that the kind of planning I do – writing down in a notebook everything I’d like to do, reading restaurant and coffeeshop reviews and the best hive-mind recommendations – is not exactly a recipe for the more romantic and immersive aspects of travel I claim to love.

The Beauty of Being a Know-Nothing

When I think about the experiences that solidified my love of travel, after all, they were not those that I had written beforehand in a mini-notebook or booked through Trip Advisor. During my semester abroad in Dublin, for example, I pretty much knew nothing about anything, bouncing around to whatever bars and clubs that I heard about from my peers (quite a few of them trendy hell-holes), wandering the streets not knowing where or what the historical, cultural or other tourist attraction were, but rather learning as I came across them. (My brother loves to tell the story about visiting me a few weeks into my study abroad experience and having to point out the Spire of Dublin to me, which I had never noticed despite standing right next to it.)

When I returned to Dublin (and I will again this summer), it was with a mind of correcting that behavior a bit, learning more history and culture and trying to go to “good,” “authentic” and “historical” places. Did I see interesting things and eat good food? Yes, of course. But was it more impactful and enriching than the first experience? Absolutely not. Sometimes to really immerse in a culture, you have to try losing yourself, ignoring that pesky controlling voice within. Sometimes, I suppose, you’ve just got to go to some trendy hell-holes to see the light.

Yet with our two-month European adventure – to Ireland, England, The Netherlands and Italy – just a few days away, I’ve already written way too much in my little notebook (and the impulse remains to write more). The travel agent in my head wonders if it isn’t a good idea to look up a few more London restaurant recommendations, to pour over my Dublin map and find out what route I might take on a meander (yes, I’d still prefer to call it that) through the city. You really should review a map of Venice, it says, despite the fact that I’m not even going there until July, and I’ll have my laptop and phone with me the entire trip.

Thus, I’m attempting to push that little travel agent within aside. Instead of building my anticipation and sheer delight at the thought of the summer ahead (and that delight is a big reason travel planning is such an addiction), I’ve decided to turn my attention to why I really enjoy travel. I’ve written in the past about things I like to do when traveling, the places I love, and why travel is important, but in my cloud of precision-planning, I don’t want to lose my own reasons for travel, its mental and emotional impact.

Focusing on the Why

So, why is it that I like to travel? This may seem like a strange question, as generally in our society long-distance travel, even for work, is something about which we’re expected to be excited. When I happen to share the news that I’m embarking upon a two-month trip to Europe, the standard responses include “That’s so exciting!” “You must be so excited!” “I’m jealous!” etc., etc. I’m sure that, in part, this has to do with my tone and countenance; if I sighed heavily and explained that I *had* to travel all summer because my husband was dragging me all sorts of places, perhaps they’d react differently. (Though they’d probably think I was at best odd and at worst a potentially miserable person.) But what is it about going somewhere with a different culture (even one that’s only slightly different in the grand scheme of things) that feels so thrilling?

Lost and Found

There are many schools of thought on travel, and it’s honestly a subject that’s been written to death by backpacker types on every blog and website imaginable (insert photo here of girl in anorak standing on edge of mountain). Two perspectives seem to come up again and again: 1) that travel helps you find yourself and 2) that it helps you lose yourself. I’ve personally vacillated between these. I think of the times, when I was a kind simple traveling to my grandparents’ house in eastern Pennsylvania from Illinois, how I felt blissful at the opportunity to be away from home, and how it stoked my imagination with dreams of being somebody different. I think of the delight I feel still in being anonymous on a foreign city street, in a market, on a bus or train, willing myself to fall into a new city’s complex choreography. These sensations fit pretty snugly in category two.

But I also think of the more enriching moments of travel, the negotiations and interactions, the attempts to explain myself and to find out about others. I think of the things I’ve seen and the things I’ve learned, and how I must wedge them into my formed conception of the world, how I’ve turned them over in my mind and processed them through my experiences. I think of the experience of a semester abroad, and how what at first felt disappointing and disorienting became a time of personal evolution, of coming of age and developing a sense of myself.

It’s this last thing that really gets to the heart of it. The fact is, travel can be about both losing yourself and finding yourself. If I really dig deep to suss out the appeal of travel, to me, is the way it combines a feeling of hyperawareness of oneself with a sort of forced reset. Thrust yourself into a foreign country, with all its attendant communication issues and challenges, and you’re forced to confront the person you truly are: how you relate to others, how you respond to challenges, what aspects of culture you are drawn to, which ones you misunderstand or fear. You are removed from the familiar surroundings that sometimes obscure these aspects of your identity, and thus they come into sharp relief.

But you lose yourself in some ways, too. Trying to forge relationships with those from other cultures can be challenging; because you lack a cultural shorthand and perhaps also have a language barrier, it can be difficult to show them who you really are. It can be frustrating to compare these encounters to those with friends at home, and wish the people you met abroad could know you in that same way. But isn’t it thrilling to be someone ever-so-slightly different, to figure out how to present yourself in a new context? To navigate new situations like this can make us feel foolish and uninteresting (in Italian my conversation is basically limited to asking a person how they are, and then naming different types of food, clothing and animals) but it also shakes you out of complacency, and forces you to answer for your beliefs and attitude in ways you never have before.

Coping Mechanisms for Losing Yourself

When I’ve led study abroad classes in the past, I’ve at times had to check my frustration when students become absorbed in Instagram during sightseeing expeditions, meals or meetings, or when they ignore the tour guide’s insights in favor of discussions about the minutiae of life back home. Think about where you are! I want to remind them. You may not be here again! And yet, I also realize that these behaviors are not a sign of apathy or disinterest per se: they are in fact a natural response to the unmooring sensation of travel. The students are out of their cultural context – many for the first time – and it can feel alien and dangerous; not only in the sense of physical, walking-down-an-unfamiliar-street-at-night danger, but in the sense of losing the context within which we feel defined and unique. Some of us turn to social media and to banal discussions of fraternity parties to continue to grasp a firm identity, to make sure we still understand ourselves.

And some of us, we plan.

It’s a natural reaction and, whether or not you give in, travel will change you.

I know that this summer will not be as life-changing as a first trip abroad, but I also know that if I let go a little, these two months will have something to teach me. Here’s hoping I can stay committed to write a bit about the amazing places I will visit. Stay tuned!

For St. Patrick’s Day: Thoughts of Kerry, Ireland

Reflections and recommendations on experiencing the magical Kerry.

“A point comes on the fabulous Ring of Kerry when one earnestly wishes the scenery would flatten out and shut up. But it does nothing of the kind. . . Apart from the heady excitement of the big scenic shows, a succession of charming cameos keep the eye busy: stone walls running and wiggling up mountain slopes; turf-cutting scenes to left and right; near an ordinary and unornamental cottage, arum lilies growing in such abundance that they are practically wilding; farther along the roadside, children cheer and wave at the sight of a yellow bus. There is no rest in County Kerry from sights that are both lovely and interesting.”

– Stephen Rynne, from All Ireland, 1956

“Being born a Kerryman, in my opinion, is the greatest gift that God can bestow on any man. When you belong to Kerry, you know you have a head start on the other fellow. . . In belonging to Kerry, you belong to the elements. You belong to the spheres spinning in the heavens.”

– John B. Keane, in Voices of Kerry by Jimmy Woulfe, 1994

St. Patrick’s Day is just around the corner, which prompted me to do a little #TBT post on one of my very favorite places to travel: Ireland, specifically the magical County Kerry.

The breathtaking Ladies' View at Killarney National Park — The breathtaking Ladies’ View at Killarney National Park

To a person who has spent any amount of time in Ireland, St. Patrick’s Day in the U.S. can be a particularly dreary affair – every bar suddenly decides it’s a pub, bud light gets dyed a sickening shade of emerald, and green hats and leprechaun jokes abound. Sure, as someone who has experienced St. Patrick’s Day in Dublin, I can attest that there is a lot of green and just as many boorish drunks (though they are boorish in a slightly different – and to this American, more amusing – way). But nothing about American St. Patrick’s Day celebrates the Irish culture in any meaningful way, and it always feels like a missed opportunity.

Kenmare, Not Killarney

Still, I typically do find myself reflecting this time of year of my love for the Emerald Isle. There are beautiful spots all over the country I could talk about, but as many tourists know, Country Kerry is always a good place to start. When I first visited Ireland back in 2001 with my family (my brother was concluding a study abroad semester in Cork), one of our first stops was in Kerry. We visited the breathtaking Killarney National Park and stayed in Kenmare, one of Ireland’s more cosmopolitan small towns.

Kenmare is a recommended first stop on the Ring of Kerry, which is one of those things that every tourist to Ireland seems to have on his/her agenda. But why not? As the droll mid-century Irish writer Stephen Rynne (I wholeheartedly recommend All Ireland to any Irelandophile who can get their hands on a copy) points out in the excerpt above, it is jaw-droppingly, excruciatingly beautiful. The photos accompanying this blog are those I took upon my third visit to Kerry, in 2016. My husband and I went to Kenmare from Dublin and then on to Caherciveen (and eventually to Skellig Michael, which is a bigger subject for another post).

If you visit Kerry and you’re not, say, the type of person who enjoys browsing in Carrolls Irish Gifts, I’d recommend spending little time Killarney. I’ve been to Killarney thrice now, as it’s the transportation hub within Kerry, and each time its more crowded with tourists and tourist attractions than the last. Killarney National Park is incredibly beautiful and certainly worth a visit. But once you’ve seen it (and it can be lovely to hike, if that’s your jam), it’s best to set out for one of Kerry’s many other intriguing towns.

Kenmare's busy main drag — Kenmare’s busy main drag

Any Irish tourist knows that one of the best sources of news and views is your taxi driver, and I can confirm that the town of Kenmare, a mere 30-minute drive from Killarney, has the Irish taxi driver seal of approval. When we told our Dublin taxi driver we were taking the DART to Kerry, he got right to the point. “Don’t go to Killarney,” he warned making a disapproving face in the rearview mirror. “It’s full of tourists.” Feeling pleased that we must look like the “right” kind of tourists, we assured him that we were in fact headed to Kenmare. He brightened. “Kenmare is lovely!” He enthused. Thirty minutes makes a big difference.

One reason Kenmare remains lovely is that the DART doesn’t go there. The train goes to Killarney, and you find your way from there. We ended up calling a taxi number posted to a dusty bulletin board in the train station, and soon we were riding with Dermot, who not only drove us through Killarney National Park but insisted upon stopping at Ladies’ View so we could take photos. Dermot told us he had never even been to Dublin. He was born in Kerry and in Kerry he stays. Looking around, who could argue with him?

Kenmare is indeed a beautiful town with a number of charming B&Bs (the two I’ve stayed in – both stellar – are the Brass Lantern and Ashfield). The town has your usual host of pubs, seafood restaurants and knitwear shops, but its most interesting historical attraction is the Bronze Age Stone Circle just at the edge of town. Inside the circle, it’s incredibly peaceful. I felt like I could stay for hours.

The awesomely still Stone Circle (with my husband Robert in the background).

Kenmare is an excellent first stop before really embarking on the Ring of Kerry, as it’s a fairly happening town. You get your fix of civilization before preparing to go further out. Many tourists do “The Ring” in the same way: they take a tour bus or drive, hitting all the main towns in a day. But I don’t usually go in for that kind of fast-paced tourism and besides, we had a Skellig Michael adventure planned that necessitated us making our way to the coast. So we headed to Caherciveen, one of the western-most towns on the ring. We rode the (surprisingly prompt) Bus Éireann through some of the most awe-inspiring landscapes there are, and made our way to the tiny western village.

The sleepy town of Cahersiveen — The sleepy town of Caherciveen

Caherciveen, Where “the People Are as Clever as Pet Foxes”

In All Ireland, Stephen Rynne doesn’t spill too much ink on Caherciveen, except to say: “It is an end-of-the-world town with an excellent hotel, and of course all the people are as clever as pet foxes” (102). It remains a pretty accurate description from what we gathered. At first, we marveled at the seeming emptiness of the town. The only people we seemed to spot around were groups of Spanish students, upon whose rowdiness any Irish proprietor we met seemed to comment disapprovingly. No one explained what they were doing there (on holiday?) but they lent an air of youthfulness to an otherwise quite elderly town, and seemed perfectly pleasant to us.

One of the best, simplest meals I've ever had. Kerry crab on brown bread in Caherciveen. — One of the best, simplest meals I’ve ever had. Kerry crab on brown bread in Caherciveen.

On our last night in town, however, we saw Caherciveen come to life: we stopped into what was supposedly the town’s best restaurant, an elegant seafood bistro. We were surprised to see the place filled up over the course of the night with cosmopolitan-looking people of various ages, many of whom seemed to know one another, drinking wine and laughing and talking and having a great old time. The little town wasn’t so quiet after all.

The outskirts of Cahersiveen — The outskirts of Caherciveen. No. Filter.

Caherciveen (which we learned, after listening closely to a number of taxi drivers, is pronounced “CAR-siv-een”) is a town of a few blocks that dissolves into some of the most beautiful country I’ve ever seen. Water, mountains, wildflowers, and big, fluffy clouds – it’s all there.

One of Ireland’s many incredible old castles, Ballycarbery, is within about a 45-minute walk to the village. We lucked out with beautiful weather and made the journey (see the top image for full effect).

Ballycarbery Castle near Cahersiveen — Ballycarbery Castle near Caherciveen

This is the problem with writing a blog – it’s got to come to a close sometime, but there are certain subjects about which one feels inclined to go on and on. Kerry is one of those. If you’re taking a trip to Ireland, visit this beautiful place. But I’d recommend avoiding the typical hop-on-the-bus, see-a-town-for-10-minutes method. I personally have been to Kerry three times now, and I still haven’t even seen all towns on the ring. But I know this: each and every town has its own special quirks and surprises. So why not just pick one and go?

There are two tiny memories that come to my mind when I think of Kerry: one I saw from the window of the bus Éireann on my last visit, as we rolled through one of the northern towns – either Glenbeigh or Killorgan. It was a lazy Sunday, and I watched a white-haired man emerge from a shop with a newspaper in hand. As he walked down the street, he was greeted by passers-by – clapped on the shoulder, waved to, chatted with. It was a slow, sunny, cool day in Kerry, and nothing could seem more perfect.

The other memory didn’t even take place in County Kerry. I was on a ferry heading to Clare Island in County Mayo as I watched a little boy bend to pet a handsome Irish Setter. “He’s lovely,” the boy said to the dog’s elderly master. “What’s his name?”

“Kerry,” the man said.

The little boy looked up, surprised. “I was born in Kerry,” he said.

The older man smiled at the boy. “So was I.”

I’ll leave you with some more from Stephen Rynne:

“In the nineteenth century, Kerry was already fashionable; in the twentieth century it is almost riotously popular. The ink nearly dries on my pen at the thought of how it is over-written, over-romanticized and now almost overrun. The tens of thousands who have admired its scenery imagine that they know Kerry; so they do—from the outside. There remain the people. ‘Kerry brains’ are proverbial and, if anything, the people of this country outmatch their scenery in the variety and unexpectedness of their intellectual gifts” (107).

The road back to Cahersiveen — The road back to Caherciveen

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Flâneuse by Lauren Elkin & the Joys of Wandering

Does the simple act of walking facilitate the best travel experiences?

A Flâneuse, as defined by Lauren Elkin in her book of the same name, is the “feminine form of flâneur [flanne-euhr], an idler, a dawdling observer, usually found in cities” (pg. 7). As a scholar of French literature, Elkin was struck by the fact that men have historically been the ones depicted as walkers, wanders and ponderers – so much so that a word was created for them. But women flâneurs exist, too, and Elkin’s book weaves together the stories of famous flâneuses – Jean Rhys, George Sand, Martha Gellhorn and Agnès Varda, to name a few – as well as chronicle her own history of traveling and wandering.

Flâneuse: Women Walk the City in Paris, New York, Tokyo, Venice, and London is not your typical travel book. It’s not a travelogue, nor does it aim to get inside a particular place. Yet Elkin writes with such insight about the ways we experience place that it will likely appeal most to lovers of travel and travel literature.

A photo of New York City at night, taken while flâneuse-ing. — A (blurry) photo I took of New York City at night while flâneuse-ing.

The Joy of Wandering

I was excited to read Flâneuse when it came out last year, because the concept of the flâneuse gets to the heart of what I find so exhilarating about travel. Walking the streets of a city, particularly in a foreign country, is when I feel the most moved by and connected to a new place. I feel myself become one in a crowd, watching people and storefronts, experiencing a day in the life of a place half a world away from where I usually spend my days. I remember loving this feeling even as a child, when I would leave my small town and go with my parents to Chicago or New York. Walking with them on the streets, I would feel the energy of the city, and long to break off on my own and become a part of it.

Elkin puts this feeling into words regarding her first extended stay in Paris:

In those six months, the streets were transformed from places in   between home and wherever I was going into a great passion. I drifted wherever they looked interesting, lured by the sight of a decaying wall, or colorful window boxes, or something intriguing down at the other end, which might be as pedestrian as a perpendicular street. Anything, any detail that suddenly loosened itself, would draw me towards it. Every turn I made was a reminder that the day was mine and I didn't have to be anywhere I didn't want to be.[pg. 6]

Since those days as a child and teenager longing to amble through a city on my own, I’ve tried to take the time to do just that anywhere new I’ve visited. In recent years I’ve been traveling to Italy, a country that rewards flâneuse-ing almost as much as Paris, with its piazzas and hidden archways, its food and clothing markets, and its vibrant public life, even in smaller towns.

Piazza San't Agostino, Arezzo — Piazza San’t Agostino in Arezzo, Italy, at dusk.

Environments that “Inhabit Us”

Elkin’s book covers a lot of ground (and spends perhaps more time than I would have liked on close readings of works of literature and film). She discusses the debt that the modern flâneuse owes to feminist pioneers, who made it possible for women to walk the streets alone in many parts of the world. And in the memoir sections especially, she writes of the glorious feeling of independence such an action can bring. But she also talks about the struggles of being in a new place, and the difficult journey of figuring out who you are and what you want while also being far from home. It’s a sentiment any ex-patriate or nomad will relate to strongly. In one of the most affecting passages, she writes,

'Environments inhabit us,' Varda said. These places that we take into ourselves and make part of us, so that we are made of all the places we've loved, or of all the places where we've changed. We pick up bits and pieces from each of them, and hold them all in ourselves.

And sometimes we hold on with both hands to things we really want to release. 

This is a hard thing to admit. How do we know what to keep, and what is just an old idea we had about ourselves? [pg. 240–41]

This is a thought-provoking question, particularly for those of us that travel. We are often prompted to change and adapt quickly, to revise our assumptions about both ourselves and others. We are thrust into new situations with new people that cause us to rethink our positions and the way we envision ourselves and our lives. And then there’s the leaving – the sometimes painful process of leaving a place for somewhere new. And the struggle to reserve a piece of your heart for that place while still moving on. But we wouldn’t want it any other way, would we?

Dublin Castle, photographed while flaneuse-ing.

Flâneuse-ing Favorite: Dublin, Ireland

While reading Elkin’s book, I couldn’t help but think of Dublin, the only non-American city I can say I’ve actually “lived” in (I spent six-plus months there on study abroad in 2004). It was the first place in which I really practiced flâneuse-ing for the first time on my own, and I recognized immediately how much it suited me.

When I think of my time in Dublin now, I remember myself hopping on the bus to the city center and ambling around, sometimes with friends and sometimes alone, strolling past shops or over the Ha’penny bridge or through St. Stephen’s Green. I’d hear snippets of conversation, smell sizzling fish and chips or sticky cider and cigarette smoke wafting out of bars, spot graffiti and murals on walls and sidewalk panels. I remember the riotous fun of St. Patrick’s Day, leaving the dorm at 11 a.m. and wandering around all day with this companion and that, meeting friends and acquaintances old and new, and returning at 5 a.m. the next morning with a new zeal for the city in which I found myself and the life I was living.

James Joyce graffiti in Dublin, Ireland — James Joyce mural in Dublin, Ireland

Dublin is a great city for flaneuse-ing, but not for photographing. It’s perpetually dark and cloudy, and the last time I visited in 2016 (when these photos were taken), the city was swallowed whole by construction. It’s not classically beautiful in the way of Paris, Venice, Barcelona or other romantic cities I could name. And yet it’s an incredible city to walk around. It’s almost certainly in part my own nostalgia – I’ll never be able to separate this place from my own journey, as cheesy as it sounds, into adulthood. But there’s something else about it, too. It has a unique, haunted beauty all its own.

When I’m being a flâneuse in Dublin, I often think of Louis MacNeice’s 1939 poem, simply called “Dublin.” The entire poem captures the essence of roaming around the city, though the second stanza speaks to me most:

This never was my town,
I was not born or bred
Nor schooled here and she will not
Have me alive or dead
But yet she holds my mind
With her seedy elegance,
With her gentle veils of rain
And all her ghosts that walk
And all that hide behind
Her Georgian facades –
The catcalls and the pain,
The glamour of her squalor,
The bravado of her talk.

I’ll leave it there for now. For all you flâneurs and flâneuses out there, may you never tire of exploring. I know I won’t.

Top image: Harcourt Street in Dublin, photographed while flaneuse-ing.

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A Love of Travel…and Where It Comes From

There is something about travel that quenches some essential human thirst — to understand the lives of others, to see the earth that we live in and exploit, to experience the truly novel, to feel uncomfortable and awed and like the most rock-solid version of oneself.

A Childhood of Road Trips

I’ve had a love of travel for as long as I can remember. I think one reason for this is that I’ve always felt I’ve had multiple homes. My father is a professor, and with the academic life comes uprootedness: my parents, both from eastern Pennsylvania, moved to a small town in Illinois before I was born and, despite initial misgivings, remain there to this day. For me as a child, this meant lots of road trips “back east.” Every summer (and some winter holidays), we would load up in the car for the one-and-half-day’s drive to Mountain Top, PA, the tiny town near Scranton where my maternal grandparents lived, tucked away up a steep road in the Appalachian mountains. I loved these trips, and the regular contact with relatives far away made me feel not-quite-midwestern, but not-quite-northeastern, either. Though my home was in Illinois, I never remember feeling completely owned by it, always aware of the fact that it is possible have roots all over.

These early road trips meant a lot to me. I loved the chance to go to a different place — to breathe different air, see new landscapes, and be someone just a little bit different. But I also loved the journey itself. My family became pros at the road trip: we would compile bags full of travel games, books, and magazines, load up a cooler with a picnic lunch (bologna and cheese with a mustard happy face, please), and crank up the oldies radio. We’d play wiffle ball at rest stops and splash in the hotel pool — no matter how rinky-dink. Though my brother and I would have our occasional backseat squabbles, and certainly, things went wrong, I can’t remember much of that now. My memories focus on the bliss of being on the road.

One of the things I loved best about traveling was what one might call roadside Americana: truck stops and rest areas; motels, hotels, and lodges; the people, signs, and oddities that flew by the window. When I was only six years old, we took the quintessential Americana road trip, a journey across the western U.S., taking in the Badlands, Mount Rushmore, the Corn Palace, Yellowstone National Park, and a multitude of other things I can’t specifically remember, but which left an impression on me. I recall a big horn sheep perched on the edge of a mountain, aisles of glorious kitsch at Wall Drug, the unfamiliar and thrilling sights, sounds, and smells.

The degree of adventure, however, was beside the point: We went a number of exciting places, like Walt Disney World and New York City, but I never lost my love for that familiar summer road trip, through the flat plains of Indiana to the Cross Country Inn in Toledo, Ohio to the quirky Appalachia of my parents’ hometowns. The trappings of the road were everywhere, and they were enough to satisfy me.

The Magic of Study Abroad

Photo from my semester in Ireland, 2004, which contributed to my love of travel. — One of the few non-blurry photos from my semester in Ireland, 2004. This was taken on Inis Mór, in the Aran Islands.

If those summer road trips were the first way travel changed my life, then the second was the semester I spent in Dublin, Ireland as a junior in college. I had been to Ireland once previously to visit my brother on his study abroad, and briefly to France on a class trip, but that had been the extent of my international travel. My semester in Dublin was a revelation. Difficult at first (and I should note that I wrote a whole essay about this experience for proFmagazine.com), the semester turned into the best of my life. I grew up that semester, came into my own, fell in love with my now-husband, and fell in love with both Ireland and Europe. After a period of poverty and graduate school (don’t they always go hand-in-hand), I was able to go back, and have since been lucky enough to travel more in Europe — particularly Italy.

I realize that my stories are not unique. There is something about travel, whether it’s a simple day trip or an international adventure, that quenches some essential human thirst — to understand the lives of others, to see the earth that we live in and exploit, to experience the truly novel, to feel uncomfortable and awed and like the most rock-solid version of oneself.

Why Write a Blog?

As a writer, I’d never before thought about writing a “travel blog” — one reason for this is that I never considered myself that much of a traveler. Sure, I traveled more than most people, but constricted as I was by a full-time job, I couldn’t be constantly on-the-go, nor could I spent long periods of time away from home. But in 2016, I realized it was time for a change, and transitioned from my full-time university job to a life of freelancing and teaching (more thoughts on that here). My husband is an Art History professor with summers free and many opportunities for travel, and we decided the small hit to our income was worth it for the sheer flexibility of my new career. And it has been 100% worth it, not least because I’ve made travel a central component of my life, and I haven’t looked back, traveling for work (teaching study abroad students), to visit friends and to simply see as much of the world as I can on my limited budget.

I share my love of travel today with college students, leading study abroad trips in Italy. — With our study abroad group in Napoli, learning about the mafia, 2017.

In Lieu of Postcards won’t necessarily be your typical travel blog, however. While I do travel frequently, my husband and I don’t live the #vanlife that’s so popular these days, that nomadic existence of life constantly on the road. We are middle-class people with jobs and responsibilities, after all. I see this blog as an outlet for my writing, not simply to document the places I’ve been and the experiences I’ve had there (though it will certainly be that). I’d like to explore travel and wanderlust more deeply, as states of mind. I plan to supplement the travelogue model (went here, did that) with investigations of the quirks of places I visit, their history, and the attendant pop cultural and literary associations that whirl around in my thoughts. I’m not a mountain climber, a gear-head, or much of a foodie (though like any traveler worth her salt, I appreciate good cuisine — and good puns), and you won’t see me striking meticulously glamorous poses or doing yoga on the edge of a cliff (spoiler alert: I fear cliff-edges). To summarize: I hope to write a blog that’s not just navel-gazing but thought-provoking, not aspirational (did I mention I don’t have much money?) but simply interesting — and perhaps occasionally inspirational — to readers out there who also love travel, whether it’s just a few hours or half a world away.

Did I scare you away with my long-winded thoughts? If not, I hope you’ll consider visiting me here from time to time, whenever that wanderlust mood strikes.

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