RAGtime

The infamous Galway RAG week is all around, and it is:

1. Anarchy
2. Inescapable
3. Fun
4. Hell on earth?

Maybe "hell" is a bit of an exaggeration. I don't imagine there will be too much fun down there, where as here, there is still the lighthearted Irish spirit that I have come to know and love in the air-- but still, I have to say that my personal hell will feature many of things I have seen in and around my home since Sunday night... also known as the last night that I had a good night's sleep, a cup to put my tea in, and a walk to the living room that did not involve mortal fear for my life.

To those of you who don't know, RAG week is a time when all the rules fly out the window--the few that existed in the first place, that is--and Galway breaks into utter mayhem. It's a return to a simpler time, really: like before paved roads, and self-dignity. The week began as "Raise and Give" week, hence the RAG, and was intended for the University to spend a week focusing on nonprofit service work and charity...but somewhere along the line (about a decade ago, I'm guessing) it turned into RAAAAAGGGGG week: one long, messy party. The  week that we are all in the middle of, that we know and have an exquisitely confused love/hate relationship with, has been renamed "College Week" by the University in a desperate attempt to dissociate the chaos that this week evolved into from its good samaritan origins...but for all those involved, it is still known as the RAG.

Let me explain.

Last weekend, we all got an email from the management at Gort na Coiribe, politely alerting us that they expected Gort na Coiribe residents to remain "respectful" during College Week, with no loud noises or belligerent behavior to cause harm to the property. Right. I didn't pay too much attention to the email, and the weekend rolled by peacefully... on Saturday, my friends and I went to the Cliffs of Moher and gulped down world-class natural beauty by the gallon, just reveling in the sunny weather and the opportunity to be out in it. Back at the house, we played Mary Chapin Carpenter and ate real food off of clean plates, missing the guys (who had gone home for the weekend) but also enjoying the chance to be girly and relaxed. If I had known how desperately I would cling to that memory during RAG week, just in order to remind myself that there was a time when I could sit on a surface without potentially catching hepatitis, I would have taken it in more carefully; but as it goes, Sunday rolled around, and with it a bunch of students and suitcases full of alcohol...and by sundown, Gort na Coiribe had officially launched into party mode.

I had no way of anticipating just what it would be, or what people meant when they said that it was literally one straight week of madness--but in retrospect, I guess when an Irish person tells you something is crazy, they mean business. If the Irish version of "crazy" is held on a spectrum next to ours, its like comparing a bunny rabbit to a bulldozer. Not even a bunny rabbit. It's like comparing the nose on an unborn bunny fetus INSIDE the bunny rabbit to a bulldozer. My roommates arrived back at our place around 8:00 Sunday night, and proceeded to throw one hell of a dance party...and it was happy, goofy, and hilarious. People were wandering in and out of our apartment all night, and I went to bed thinking that if that was the extent of RAG week, I might just survive with all my limbs intact.

Famous last words.

The next morning, I went to Irish...and by the time I was walking back over the bridge at noon, people were milling through the streets like little ants holding cans of something or other, blasting music out of their cars. For the past few days, the weather has been completely unreal--sunny, warm, and crystal clear--so everyone has been taking full advantage of it, wearing swim trunks and t-shirts and sunglasses. It feels like summer in California, only with more drunken Irish folk rambling through the streets, and more people breaking things. Erin, Ellie, Shannon and I walked over to the green in front of Cuirt na Coiribe to be met by a mob of people--and truly, the only way I can describe what we experienced there is to say that it was like that scene out of an apocalypse movie when all the characters realize it is the end of the world, and run into Wal-Mart searching for canned goods. It was unreal. There was a lone recycling bin sitting at the center of the lawn, and before I knew what was going on, everyone started throwing bottles at it--some full, some empty--until the entire surrounding area looked like the place that Budweisers go to die. I wondered if any of the bottles had actually made it into the can, but before I could think too seriously about it, one person walked to the center of the circle, peered into the can, and fell--trash can and all--into the pile of bottles. I'm happy to report that he went down laughing, and also managed to evacuate the scene before a herd of guys thought it would be a good idea to light the can on fire. When that got too boring, they wrestled a few trees to the ground and lit those on fire as well. You know, just an average day.

It seemed like everyone and their extended family was in our house that night, but judging by the scene I saw every time I looked out our front door, we only had a fraction of the population. Every single door was wide open, the entire street was covered in litter, and it was jam-packed with bodies. At one point, I believe there were a couple people jumping on Owen's car--but luckily, unlike the car down the road, all its windows remained intact. Our living room turned into one big slippery mess of people--but by and large, they were all people I love and know really well, so I was one of the lucky ones. When I poked my head out of my window on Tuesday morning, it was bright and sunny--like a summer's day--and the lads were already down on the porch below me, drinking beer. They waved up, smiling--and it occurred to me then just how drastically far apart our two worlds are, and always will be. And you know what? That's okay with me. Let 'em have their RAG week, I'll never be able to keep up... but if anyone ever asks me to do an anthropological report on Ireland, well... I have some good mental pictures to explain.

One would have to be the random girl who wandered into our house around 1 p.m. asking for toast, and then proceeded to make out with an equally random boy in our hallway for about five minutes following. Another image would have to be the current state of our house, which besides being covered with some mysterious purple substance that I'm pretty sure is blackcurrant jam, looks like somebody chewed it up and spit it out again. Shaun wandered in looking for the remote control to his TV, which (naturally) had found its way to our living room.. and after climbing over a shattered jar of marinara sauce, he jumped down to the lawn beside our house to retrieve the coffee table that he had, apparently, thrown over the ledge sometime during the night. As the Irish would say: Jaysus. The last mental image I will take with me will be the lot of us moving our couches out to the porch yesterday afternoon and sitting in the sun, listening to classic rock all afternoon, drinking margaritas and eating tortilla chips. There's a new spray of freckles across all of our noses, and it felt like summertime.

The crucial difference between the Irish and myself, I suppose, is that the afternoon was all I wanted--by the time they were gearing up for round two, and round three, and round four, I was so overwhelmed by it all that all I wanted to do was go for a walk. I spent the sunset down by the river near the University, listening to the roar of humans across the bridge and feeling oddly not guilty for not wanting to be a part of it. If life is all about balance, then last night my balance involved me taking a raincheck from the festivities and being in bed by 11 p.m. with my book. It also involves me being here today, in Café Luna, hiding from the masses... at least for a little while... until whatever is going to happen next comes knocking on my door. Or climbing in my window.

So, to recap. RAG week is:

1. Disgusting
2. Hilarious
3. A part of life, as simple as the cobblestone roads or the old woman who sits outside AIB telling fortunes to anyone who will stop long enough to ask her.

When my Irish Studies professor walked in this morning, she took one look at the lot of us and asked: "What are you all doing here? Didn't you know it's College Week?" I guess not. I guess you can take the  girl out of Scripps, but you can't take the Scripps out of the girl. Kerry and I decided to compensate for our overachieving by leaving the lecture at the halfway break--because to us, that is living dangerously. Maybe not knock-your-tooth-out crazy (saw one of those) or slowly-pierce-your-ear-with-someone-else's-earring crazy (yep, saw that too)... but crazy nonetheless.