How To Dress Like An Irish [L]ass- With Pictures!

 As a follow-up to my last post, I’ve composed this description of how I think I would dress if I were Irish, or trying to look like it. This is based off my month-long observation of what ‘kids these days’ are wearing. All pictures are from 'New Look', a popular chain shop.

Head to Toe

Hair: I would buy one of those freaky hair sponges they sell everywhere and use it to create the ‘perfect’ bun. Then I would shake my head around until I had whiplash to create the perfect ‘messy’ look.

Scarf: You can’t be European without the scarf. Any color or fabric will do as long as you never allow your neck to be fully exposed for more than 30 seconds. This will save you from vampires.

Top: Something filmy and flowing and what you would see in the dictionary if you looked up the word ‘diaphanous.’ Probably covered in precious flowers or little birds. Completely irrelevant in chilly weather.

Sweater: A thickly knitted sweater in bleak shades of grays or blues or black. Can be removed when you want to show your shoulders to the boys. Can be put back on when you realize it’s 40 degrees outside.

Shorts/Tights: I’ve got to group these together, since they are always worn together.

            Step 1: Choose a pair of tights in your color of choice—green, purple, grey, black, maroon, etc.

            Step 2: Choose a pair of shorts that are completely inappropriate for the time of year.

            Step 3: Combine.

Viola! You’re legs are completely covered but still frozen.

Shoes: Lace up a pair of Converse sneakers, preferably a color that directly clashes with your tights.

Complete the look with a ton of what we in the States call ‘Hooker Make-up’ and way too much self-tanner and you’re good to go!

Now you either look:

1. Acceptable for your age (if you are 16 or under)
2. Like a Fashion Victim that got dressed in the dark.

Next Blog: Why Irish People Must Be Horrible At Geometry (Coming Soon!)

The Pants Situation

    I've lived in big cities for a while now. I understand that trends come and go, and in major metropolitan areas they are often readily on display amongst the masses. After a brief fling with fashion at a younger age, I now find I have neither the time, nor the money, nor the attention span, to follow fashion trends and adjust my wardrobe accordingly. When the grunge-rocker-chic look got big a couple years ago I bought up what I could and keep it going in my own style, regardless of what Vogue says. I do this because I like it, because it fits my personality and my body type, and because I can't get a new wardrobe every season, or even every couple of seasons. So, because I like people watching, and live in a big city, I'm usually aware of current trends, even if I don't follow them.

    Now, the most important thing to remember about trends is that they don't look good on everyone. And, they don't look good on everyone. Also, they don't look good on everyone. In this notion, I think perhaps some of the lovely ladies of Dublin might need a refresher.

    Let's start with an overview of Dublin Female Fashion, or at least the impression that I've gathered over the past few weeks. Firstly, women in Dublin tend to dress more sophisticatedly than women in Boston. Sorry ladies, it's the truth. Boston is notoriously one of the worst dressed cities in the world. Remember The Departed? Pretty sure no one in Southie actually dresses as well as DiCaprio did. Not everyone in Boston is poorly dressed (ahem, I live there) but on the overall, we can do better. So my initial impression of Dublin was that everyone dresses very well. However, the more time I spend here, particularly outside of City Centre (it really is spelled that way), I realize this is wrong. They don't necessarily dress better, just different.

Here's how-

Break It Down:
Heels: Dublin ladies love them some high heels. The latest trend in heels apparently is the platform, which means that not only are you wearing a five-inch stiletto heel; you also have an additional two inches beneath your toes. Because it wasn't hard enough to walk already.

Make-Up: Dublin females and she-males by far wear more make-up than Bostonians. Not just out and about on the town on a Tuesday night (yeah, that's weird, right? Maybe another post discussing nights of the week later). For class, Dublin ladies coat on the mascara, eyeliner, and lipstick. For 10 am classes. For someone who goes to a school where you're lucky if half your class had enough energy to put on real pants and shoes, not pajamas and flip-flops, let alone lip-gloss, this is surprising.

Skirts: This one is tricky. I'm not a prude, and I say if you got it, flaunt it. But if you can't bend over to pick up something without the world seeing what you ate for breakfast, maybe your skirt is too short. Also, sometimes it's cold out. Isn't the risk of hypothermia more pressing than looking cool at a club? No, probably not.

Shorts: See above.

Leather shorts: What are you thinking? I hope you have diaper rash ointment, and nowhere to go in the morning.

Leggings: Not pants. At least wear a shirt that covers your bum.

Pants: Now this is where I really have some contention with the Irish. This pants situation that I've noticed definitely happens in the U.S. but not nearly to the extent as I've seen it here.

    The current big trend is bright colored pants. Okay, not for me, but if you like it, go for it. But also tight bright colored pants. This looks really great when seen in a fashion show and it's on a giraffe stomping down a runway. But in the place I live, the real world, say it with me…. they don't look good on everyone. Ladies, if you wear a fashion trend that does not suit your body type, not only does it look unflattering, it makes you look silly. It makes you look like you have no self-respect and no individual style. Because you look desperate to fit in.

    Guys, if you wear tight, bright-colored pants…you are on your own.

    There are, of course, some very well dressed people in Dublin who, combined with their European good looks, put me in my boot-cut jeans and motorcycle jacket to chocolate binging shame. Then there was the lass on the bus in the shredded tights and short-shorts with a bad bleach job who made me feel a little better. Every city has its fashion extremes, Dublin and Boston included. So while a large number of ladies don their heels and make-up and skirts and head to the clubs, I keep my jeans and flats to go to the pub and hope I can meet other people who agree that leggings are not pants and that maybe leather shorts are a bad idea.

American Hunting

            Let me preface this story with an explanation about what I like to think of as social hunting. Imagine the social scene as something of a safari where everyone is a predator (not in the Stone Phillips kind of way) hunting for something. Some use decoys and camouflage to get what they want; others directly hunt it down. A common type of this activity is what I like to call ‘Husband Hunting.’ A young eligible lass goes looking for an eligible man (age irrelevant) to sink her hooks into—er, marry for security, money, social status, etc. Her lip-gloss is her shotgun, her high heels like daggers, and her eye of the tiger is on the prize. Players may play, but they have nothing on a determined Husband Hunter.

            On the second day of classes here in Dublin, while waiting for lecture to start, I was privy to something I’m pretty sure I wasn’t supposed to hear. The conversation took place between two Irish lads sitting behind me…I’m guessing they didn’t think I was American, or else didn’t care. For the sake of being offensive, I’ve given these lads the monikers Seamus and Connor.

Seamus: “Those were some beautes, eh?”

Connor: “What’s that?”

Seamus: “American girls.”

Connor: “Oh yeah. They liked you.”

Seamus: “Yeah, and they’re all looking for a nice Irish fella’.”

Connor: “All of them?”

Seamus: “Yeah, that’s what they’re looking for. You have to play up the stereotypes, though.”

Connor: “Make the accent heavy.”

Seamus: “Yeah, and tell them you like Irish music. They think we all listen to traditional music all the time.”

Connor: “But that’s what they like.”

Seamus: “Oh yeah.”

            Okay. So they’re not wrong. American girls like Irish boys. Be it the accent, the circuitous yet charming way of talking, or the foreignness, the whole un-American novelty, ladies love the Irish lads. Apparently it goes both ways.

            And thus it gives rise to what may be a decades-old sport here at DCU, a never-ending match in which countless contestants play out the same scenarios year after year—naïve American girls come to study, enlightened Irish boys take advantage of the situation. Although, given the subtle offensive tactics of social hunting, who’s taking advantage of who?

CALL THE BANK...wait...

I made a rather disarming discovery today. Apparently, in my mind, Ireland is Massachusetts with a different accent.

            I realized that my brain was of this opinion upon examining my bank statement. On Sunday I withdrew $80 from an ATM. Today when I opened the statement, the history showed an ATM withdrawal of $105. Red flag number one. The first thing I thought was, “That’s one hell of a service charge.” Then I thought of my pre-departure phone call to the bank when I was assured I would not be charged any additional fees for using my card abroad. Red flag number two. I distinctly remembered withdrawing S80 from the ATM. Then I thought, “Did I accidentally withdraw $100?” No, I couldn’t have. Did I drop a $20? No, I’m always careful with my money. Did I lose my card? No, it was still in my wallet, and besides, if someone had stolen it, there would have been charges to it on the statement. The where the hell did my $25 go?

            I was at a loss. I couldn’t call my bank from here; the roaming charge on my local phone would be astronomical. So then I turned to the one person every college student turns to when things get scary—Mom. I whipped open a new email and was halfway through asking her to call the bank and figure out what was going on, was there some kind of charge or fee, when the part of my brain that had not fully evolved to human-level intelligence finally caught up. Oh. OH. Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

            That’s right. My brain, which has now had a full week to recover from jet lag, still forgot that the money I withdrew from the ATM [in Dublin] was in Euros, and my statement [from my bank in Connecticut] was in American dollars. And the two were not equivalent.

            Maybe it was just one of the speed bumps of culture shock, forgetting about the currency change. Maybe it happens to many an inexperienced traveler.

            Or maybe it has to do with the fact that Dublin actually does have a lot in common with Boston. They both hate the British, for example. They’re both major cities that combine a rich historical heritage with modernity—historic landmark buildings sit next to contemporary office buildings. Tourists abound; buses rumble past and always get way too close to the curb; taxis honk their horns at unnecessary times. Pubs down winding cobblestone alleys play local sports and serve up pints. Nearly everyone speaks English, though sometimes it’s with an unintelligible accent of elongated vowels and dropped consonants. But Boston and Dublin are 3,000 miles apart (don’t ask me how many kilometers that is because I don’t know and I don’t care) and are in two different countries with different histories and cultures. And, as I was forcefully reminded, with two different currencies.

            So although it’s a different country, being abroad in Ireland is not the same as I imagine it would be to be in a vastly different place, such as Egypt or South Africa, where reminders that you are in a different culture are everywhere. Once again I have to compensate because my perceptions don’t match reality.

            However, there is a Dublin tradition I also discovered today that I have not witnessed before. New blog post coming soon: American Hunting.

Auto-Polite: Use With Caution

Over the years, I’ve come to notice that I’ve developed a sort of automatic default in unfamiliar situations to be extra polite. Smile when someone is talking to you. Laugh when they make a joke. Don’t make any weird faces, stand up straight, and try to avoid saying anything horrendously inappropriate/offensive.

For Example:

An Interaction with a hypothetical Irish person (HIP) on Auto-Polite:

HIP: Hello, Beth.

Me: Hello, HIP.

HIP: How are you doing?

Me: I’m well. How are you?

HIP: Settling in all right? Getting along with everyone?

Me: Yes, everyone is very nice so far.

HIP: Good, good, wouldn’t want you stuck with a bunch of (insert colorful Irish saying).

Me: [High-pitched laugh with plastered grin] No, no, they’re all very nice.

HIP: That’s grand. See you later, then, take care.

Me: Yes, you too.

Problems:

First of all, it drives me bananas when you ask people how they are and they don’t answer. I know it’s become a sort of polite placeholder in conversation, but what’s the point in asking if you’re not going to answer.

Second, I am obviously being very fake. In a normal conversation, I would not laugh unless the other person said something very funny. However, I have found that laughter is a sort of neutralizer and makes people feel safer—i.e. if I laugh at your joke I’m not likely to murder you. I automatically resort to laughter whilst in Auto-Polite to keep things relaxed. However, it makes it seem that I have absolutely no sense of humor because I think everything is funny.

Now, let’s look at what happens without this nifty social tool.

An Interaction with HIP off Auto-Polite:

HIP: Hey.

Me: Hey.

HIP: How’s it going?

Me: Eh, you know.

HIP: So a bunch of us are going into city centre tonight to a club. Do you want to come?

Me: Um. [Insert sneer]. I don’t really feel like going clubbing. I’m kind of over that whole “clubbing” scene. Like, I did it a lot when I was younger and needed a lot of attention, but I’ve kind of outgrown it.

HIP: Oh.

Me: Plus it’s really expensive to go clubbing in Europe.

HIP: I guess.

Me: But you guys have a good time.

HIP: Um, thanks.

Problems:
Well, you can see.

While Auto-Polite can be great at first, it should be used with care. If you’re too polite initially and laugh too much, people will think you’re crazy. They will also expect you to remain polite so that when the façade eventually falls (and it will) and the real you comes out, you will seem like an enormous, insensitive bitch.

Where the fook am I?

So in case you were wondering, it turns out they do have shampoo in Ireland...and it's exactly the same as it is in America.
And other than every sign being written in both Irish and English, so are a lot of other things.
I think I didn't quite know what to expect from Ireland (another planet, maybe), having never been out of my own country before, but it's more similar than I imagined. On the bus ride from the airport to the campus while I was struck by these similarities (Dublin's massive Ikea, for example), I had to remind myself that I couldn't possibly have expected Ireland to have blue trees and purple grass, so what was the big deal? Ikea is, after all, a European company, so why the hell is it a surprise to find it in Ireland?
I also couldn't possibly have expected Dublin to be filled with thatched roofs and sheep and drunk old men in wool jumpers. This is 21st century Europe, the home base of swank and trends, not 17th century Europe (the home base of plague and pestilence). So the fact that downtown Dublin is so metropolitan really shouldn't come as a surprise. But somehow it does.
Which leads me to yet another unplanned revelation: Am I just another ignorant American (again), hell-bent on defining the unexplored world by common stereotypes and preconceived notions? Yes, yes I am.
After a frozen rooftop bus tour of the city where my camera was nearly frozen to my hands, I have decided to embrace my tourist status full-on. Evidently an Irish person can spot an American from at least twenty paces; that plus the accent means I won't be blending in any time soon. Instead of worrying about being conspicuous, I plan to enjoy the time I have here, even if it means being a big neon sign of Americana.