The Concert, the Trip, and the Dinner

On the night before I left for Ireland (see below), I attended an Arcade Fire concert, which normally would be an awesome thing in and of itself. Except I got in for free. And helped build hospitals and care for sick children in Haiti (indirectly). And got a free shirt. And met the band after the show. Let me back up a bit.

Scott had found out, through a series of events, that the band needed volunteers to stand at the entrance to the venue and collect donations for Partners in Health, an organization that does a lot of great things in the realm of sustainable health care in impoverished nations. So we showed up at the Heineken Concert Hall a few hours before curtain time and wandered the entrance area with collection boxes, repeating variations on a spiel in several accents of English. I quickly learned the imperative tactic, which is to maintain eye contact with a single person until they stopped to listen, at which point a small crowd would generally form around them. We collected quite a lot of money, mostly from the 20-somethings—the (surprisingly numerous) middle-aged couples tended to brush past while pretending not to hear—and the single complaint I got was from a man who found me to be "too enthusiastic." At that point I had been standing for two hours with a decorated tupperware box full of heavy Euro coins hanging from my neck like a cigarette girl of old, so I can only assume this man has a very low threshold for enthusiasm.

Then we went in to see the concert, which was amazing and high-energy and musically awesome. The Arcade Fire is a band that includes two violinists, two brass players, and a concert bassist who rotates among about four other instruments. Also they have an organ. Like, a pipe organ. The stage is full of band members (8 or 10) and arbitrary instruments (accordian, something I want to call a zyther but probably isn't, several miscellaneous drums) and manic movement.

The crowd was full of people smoking, something that I should have forseen but came as a chokey, unpleasant surprise. Between the smokers and the intermittant fog coming from backstage, it was a hazy affair. Through the smoke I kept seeing a mysterious red light bobbing through the crowd, at a little higher than head level. When it came closer I realized why I didn't recognize it from any of the US-based concerts I've been to: it was a portable beer dispenser, strapped like a backpack to a guy who was of course not checking any IDs, because they don't do that here. What they do do here, apparently, is beer delivery.

After the show we hung out with the band, who are, according to the volunteer coordinator, 'compared to other rock bands, more like a church choir.' That explains the No Crowd Surfing signs in the concert hall, and the fact that when we walked through the stage area a couple hours before the show everyone was playing pickup basketball. Really polite basketball.

So we hung out with the band, who poured us beer from champagne bottles and were amazingly patient and nice.

We all matched:
The one in the green shirt is Win, the lead singer. As you can see, he is very tall.

The next day I went to Ireland, the land of pretty Celtic churchyards,

Pretty Celtic public works elements,

And unused designated graffiti areas

(Unless you assume that the label itself is graffiti, in which case: the land of very subtle vandals).

Ireland is also the land of Aoife, and as it turned out that Kilkenny is not quite the town of vast interest, I headed over to Galway a half day early. We made my awesome risotto recipe and some amazing spicy green beans [If you are in my family I should clarify: I like green beans now! I think they're great and actually purchase and cook them for myself now. If you are not in my family, I should clarify: until very recently, I harbored a violent dislike for all vegetables.] and watched a movie and went to an art opening in a tiny gallery and in general had a Good Time. Then we got fresh doughnuts in the rain, and organic falafel, and I tricked a guy into revealing his name to Aoife.

On the bus to Dublin, I finished my socks:
The heels look funny here, but they fit perfectly.

In Dublin, I forgot to take any pictures, and therefore I have no proof that Aoife was with me, or that we saw a cringingly bad remake of The Playboy of the Western World, or that we stayed at Aoife's really cool friend's apartment and trashed the play; I'd forgotten how much I missed theater people.

In the morning I paid a much-needed visit to the Queen of Tarts for sundry muffins and scones, and then Aoife and I went on a mission of cranberry proportions. A fancy Irish specialty-food store had us waving the "mission accomplished" banner in no time, and I found a can of pumpkin pie mix as well. I only had a carry-on bag with me, since Aer Lingus now charges per checked bag (seriously!), so I began rehearsing my explanations to the security check guards:

guard: is this your bag?
me: yes.
guard, taking out and holding up 16-oz can of pumpkin puree: what's this then?
me: pumpkin pie mix. but don't worry - it's not a liquid or a gel.
guard: it appears to be a pas-
me: it's not a paste! it's a solid. you see, you have to add eggs and milk to get it liquidey. it says that right here on the wrapper.
guard: ma'am, the x-ray shows that this is definitely a paste. if this can exploded in mid-flight, there would be pumpkin all over the inside of the overhead bin. and we just can't have that, can we?
me: but - the wrapper - it's not a - if i don't make a pumpkin pie for thanksgiving kasia is going to kill me.
guard: i'm going to take this away from you. and also your knitting needles, which are tiny and made of flimsy bamboo. and also your hand lotion, which is under 100ml but you forgot to put in the plastic bag with your other liquids.

I was prepared for this conversation, thinking about when would be the optimal time to burst into tears, wondering whether I'd have a better chance with a male guard whom I could flatter, or a woman who might be a fellow knitter/baker. But I didn't need any preparation at all, because no one asked me anything at all. I walzed through security like it was 1999. Which, to be honest, leaves me with conflicted feelings about Dublin Airport.

But it also left me able to produce these little fellows:
And to provide a one-day-late Thanksgiving dinner to these lovely people: from left, roommate Ernst, former roommate and current Utrect resident Dusty, classmate and fellow knitter/cat lover/cafe frequenter Kasia, boyfriend of Heike and guy who has done everything Scott, classmate and debate/football enthusiast Ricardo, and fellow international student (but not classmate) Heike.
I set up the normal dining room table with the coffee table as the overflow kids' table, but the latter was so popular we all ended up sitting on the floor.

I had to specially order the turkey from a "game and fowl" butcher (which, to my surprise, I was able to do in Dutch), and it cost 9,50 per kilo; I can only assume that our bird was hand-fed the choicest grain and provided with tiny gold nuggets instead of the gravel that most birds use to help digestion. But although dinner was costly in terms of money, I saved on potentially huge embarassment by avoiding making any of the other blunders that have become legend in my family: leaving the giblets inside the turkey; baking sugarless pies; baking twice-sugared pies. I also avoided overcooking the turkey (despite not having a meat thermometer) and baked two pies, the turkey, and the stuffing in one day despite having a single-rack oven that is just a hair smaller than the amazing turkey pan that Kasia found for me, in an illustration of what it means to be clutch.

Speaking of definitions, Free Rice is great both as an excuse for learning (or if you are most of my friends: bragging about your vocabulary skillz) and as a means of possibly helping the UN fight world hunger. And with that, I'm out, and when I come back it'll be with shorter, more rollicking posts now that all this news has been dispensed with.