Reflections from Ireland

After a seven-hour flight that felt like thirty, our plane landed in Dublin, Ireland, where we are kicking off our study abroad trip with a three-week stay at beautiful old Trinity College. Dublin is a large and busy, dreary but cosmopolitan city.
The skyline is dominated by cranes and modern skyscrapers, as Ireland continues to experience an economic boom. The result of its expansion is an increasingly diverse population.
Walking down the street you will see Premier League soccer jerseys, American fashions and sport apparel (apparently Major League Baseball hats are "cool" to the European equivalent of the people in the States that think soccer jerseys are "cool"); fashionable, "European"-looking pedestrians; and plenty of facial piercings. If you're as lucky as I have been, you may even see men in tuxedos and chef's hats selling discounted bread, or a small, impromptu procession of people in flower child garb playing hand drums and singing.
But Dublin also has a strong sense of tradition, and is rich in history. Walk through just about any part of town and you will see a towering, lavish church surrounded by old buildings of varying architectural styles. Every sign in the city is printed in both English and Gaelic, and every once in a while you can hear a nearby conversation being held in the traditional tongue.
The country's favorite sport is not soccer, like most of Europe, and not even rugby. Instead, the Irish eschew modern favorites for hurling, an old Gaelic game that escapes description, but could best be explained as a cross between lacrosse and field hockey.
Even though the streets of Dublin are packed with plenty of teenage punk wannabes, European backpackers, American tourists, and busy corporate types, they still hint that underneath it all is a backbone of national traditions.
Since Dublin is such as cultural crossroads, it's only fitting that my favorite experience so far has involved thousands of singing locals, a handful of Swedes, and plenty of conversation about American politics.
Excited to see a European football (soccer) game, I found the pro team in Dublin that was playing soonest. That team happened to be St. Patrick's Athletic, who were playing Swedish team Elfsborg in the UEFA Cup. The UEFA Cup is essentially a large European tournament consisting of some of the best pro teams from each country in Europe. This particular game happened to be the biggest game in the history of St. Patrick's. I was not aware of this.
Before you go to any football game (in Europe anyway), it is absolutely crucial to your experience to precede the game with a trip to a pub full of the team's cheering fans. When I entered McDowell's pub, so close to the home of St. Patrick's it actually blocks Richmond Park from view, there were seven young professional-looking fans seated quietly in the corner, and five late teenagers seated in front of a projection screen playing a football news show. These five, decked out in St. Pat's scarves and jerseys, created enough adolescent noise to fill the pub, with songs about players I had never heard of, renditions of songs being played over the pub's speakers, and, most importantly, "Oh When the Saints Go Marching In." Not caring to join in the revelry and still undecided on which team to support, my two travel companions and I sat quietly in the corner.
Slowly, more and more red-clad St Pat's fans filed in, gradually joining in the cheering. This continued on until the pub was so thick with fans, you could barely walk, let alone safely carry a full pint back to your seat. Just as I was beginning to decipher some of the more cryptic chants, mysterious visitors dressed in yellow and black stripes like bumblebees came through the door to playful chants of "Who are ya?" from the projection screen crowd. The interlopers humored the teenagers and walked across the pub to sit down next to me. They probably assumed that I was Swedish (blond hair and a lack of red clothing could have easily deceived them). I talked for some time with a Swedish man who told me about his trip from Sweden, informed me why I should root for Elfsborg ("Americans always root for the underdog"), and enlightened me on the merits of Swedish women (which was preceeded by hearing about the shortcomings of Swedish men from an interested party within earshot).
I was feeling very good about the Swedes, as the Elfsborg fans made a strong case for my affection. However, in the interest of fairness, I slid over next to a nearby St. Pat's fan (Danny), introduced myself, and inquired about the merits of his club. In addition to telling me about the home team's American star and the "U-S-A! U-S-A!" cheer that follows all of his goals, Danny and I talked at great length about the state of Irish football. He, however, seemed more interested in discussing the upcoming American presidential election and baseball, which he was introduced to during three consecutive summer school trips to the States. Glowing from my lengthy discussion with a local, I went looking for my new Swedish friend (whose name I never gleaned), but was disappointed to discover that he was more interested in coordinating confusing Swedish cheers with the few Elfsborg fans present than with persuading a humble American neutral to join in those very same cheers when it mattered most. And thus, I made up my mind and joined in a rousing chorus of "Oh When the Saints Go Marching In." I would sing that song even more excitedly after St. Pat's scored twice in the final three minutes to come from behind and win the biggest game in their history, 2-1.