(Poelker) The Black Sheep

Across the Liffy from Trinity, a few blocks to west and a few more blocks north on Capel Street, surrounded by Asian fast food kitchens and around the corner from a chimney store (yes, a store specializing in fireplaces and chimneys) stands The Black Sheep. The flat grey exterior and a clever sign advertising “Crafty Beers,” drew my attention to the  menu posted outside which, featuring interesting combinations, vegetarian options and a €10 price range, had my friend and me through the door with little deliberation.

Contrary to what the name might suggest, once inside I felt pretty much at home. Some customers relaxed in leather couches near the window, larger groups of Dublin locals shared appetizers, and a few beardy fellows hunched over the bar enjoying one of The Black Sheep’s 23 available draught beers or one of the 110 craft beers in house. We took a table in the corner and as I struggled with the mixture of pride and nervousness that comes with being the only American tourist in the room (besides my friend) I noticed the hip but unassuming décor. On the wall to my left was a large picture of a bookcase which brought a sense not of cheap imitation but jovial irony. The wall near the bar had a group well framed portraits, a posh detail offset by a series of cheeky posters for the restaurant, the most notable of which read, “Join us on Facebook or Twitter …It’s Modern.” A smiling waitress brought over the menus which were smoothly printed in black and white and attached to clipboards, a detail that seemed to give the choices some metaphorical weight. Overall, the atmosphere was just cool enough without crossing the line into petty coyness or pompous ass-hole-ry.

A short wait brought the bartender (kind enough to leave his post) round to our table. I asked if they had any specialty beers on tap (a silly question) to which he responded with friendly surprise, “Eh, where d’you want me to start, I mean… we’ve got loads!” Without letting him go on too long naming beers that I wish I had the tolerance to have tried all of, I chose 5am Saint, a red ale by a relatively new UK brewery called BrewDog which was founded in 2007. The 5am Ale is an amber ale with a modest alcohol content of 5%. Since its brewed with 7 different kinds of hops it actually tastes more like an IPA, which I enjoyed; the hoppy flavour was less of a punch in the face and more of a gentle slap. (Beer lovers will also enjoy The Black Sheep’s tasting special which you to try a reasonable portion of three different draught beers for only €6.)

When it came time to choose among the many intriguing food options, I was disappointed that they were out of the sweet potato, spinach, and ricotta lasagne which the waitress informed us with regret was “Sooo good.” That being said, I ended up choosing a 100% Irish beef burger with chips (that’s French fries to the American reader) over the vegetarian couscous and sweet potato burger. While I like to be adventurous with food, the flavour of the beer had put me more in the mood for a protein feast then a vegetable patty, not to mention local food has its own advantages in taste and on the consciounse. Still, as I bit into the elegantly presented bap (meaning bun) I was surprised not only by the prefect tenderness and subtle flavours of the meat, but the quality of dressing. The meat was quite small for the bun, making it rather difficult to eat, but the lettuce and tomato that filled the rest of the sandwich was so fresh that I ended up eating it off of the plate with a knife and fork. As for the chips, which I’ve come to understand have quite a reputation, I was also surprised. I received what looked like a whole potato, sliced into 8 pieces and stacked like a game of Jenga next to my burger. While it was more like eating a potato than fast-food fries, the consistency was perfect and whatever they cook them in added a light, crisp flavour that needed no salt and very little ketchup. The portions were perfect and as washed down the last fry with the rest of my pint, I was satisfied without being stuffed.

The Black Sheep provides a friendly informed atmosphere, great food, and an incredible beer selection. I’d fully recommend it and or perhaps one of its two sister pubs in Dublin, Wexford Street’s Against the Grain and Amiens Street’s The Brew Dock. What’s more, I'm planning to go back for  some of that sweet potato, spinach, and ricotta lasagne.

(Bates) Comfort Food

Irish comfort food—that’s the style of Trinity Bar & Venue. It had been a long day of classes and shopping, and even longer since I’d eaten a dinner that wasn’t a frozen meal from the local market. So when my roommate Dominique and I struck out onto Dame Street, a street that runs parallel to Temple Bar in the heart of Dublin, I was ready to sit down in any establishment that promised hot food not served in a plastic tray. We initially passed Trinity Bar & Venue, which is located a couple of blocks up Dame Street from Trinity College and is part of the Dublin Citi Hotel. From the outside it looks like an insignificant black building with standard gold lettering displaying its name. But finding no other place to our liking, we passed Trinity Bar & Venue on our way back, and liking the low prices, decided to give it a try.

As its name suggests, a bar takes up the majority of the first floor and is the first thing you see when you walk inside. There are some high tables and stools relegated to the corners of the room, but the majority of the dining seating is accessible via a spiral staircase to the second floor. The interior contains dark chestnut-colored wood and is dimly lit, but during the day, the windows provide more than enough light. There are also several TVs in the bar area.

The menu, as I said earlier, is a list of comfort food, though it’s not very friendly to vegetarians. Bangers (sausage), rib-eye, steaks, stew, and a fish of the day all figure on the list. I had the fish, which that day was fried cod served with chips (what Americans would call French fries) and a small salad. I enjoyed the lightly battered cod and chips. One important thing to note about eating in Ireland is that Irish food contains much less salt in than American food, particularly in their chips. I consider this a plus, but some people may find them bland.

For dessert I had the hot chocolate pudding, but what they served me was actually a small chocolate cake with frosting and chocolate ice cream. It was delicious, if rich, even though the name was misleading. The dessert menu also included an apple crumble and rubard crumble.

Overall, I would give Trinity Bar & Venue a three to four star rating. The service was helpful and relatively quick, and for prices only a little over ten dollars, the food was excellent. 

Hildebrand- Running with Giant's

I couldn't help but run a little down the slopes leading to Giant's Causeway. The air was fresher than any I'd breathed and the sun was high in the sky, free of clouds and bearing down on me and my cumbersome sweatshirt. "You'r very lucky for the weather," multiple Causeway workers told me. For the first time in the longest time I desired to climb; I was a little kid with no fear and no knowledge of my lack of grace, yet. Without a thought, I was off and running over the volcanic formations towards the sea. It was like connecting with a past life, a part of myself I'd not yet connected with. I navigated the uneven terrain with ease and sprang about like a se nymph (well, I felt like a nymph, let's not say I looked like one.)The saltiness of the sea reached my nose and I stooped to touch the water; it wasn't as cold as I expected, but the seaweed was as slimy and clingy as I guessed.


My eyes found the next adventure, the hexagonal rock formation built by the giant Finn MacCool. I figured I'd pay my dues to MacCool and explore his hard work a little further. I battled children and old ladies to the top, slightly more hesitant on the smooth rocks. My shoe had no traction and I found my hands extraordinarily useful in the climb. The view was earth shattering, I felt like I was seeing the Ireland the songs are written about.  The grass on the hills excelled a hundred shades of green and the water was both terrifying with its dark blue, crashing waves. The brief desire for cliff diving entered my mind, but I spotted the roped off sections of the cliffs and I knew I wasn't the first. The climb back up to civilization was a sad one, it was difficult to leave behind the natural beauty in favor of the bleak city of Belfast. The sweltering sun wasn't very encouraging, either. As I entered the tour building, I noticed the tiled floor was the same hexagonal pattern as the natural formation I'd just been exploring. I wondered if the designer had used this pattern in other projects, as well.

(Little) Batman in Belfast

Image courtesy Robert Benn/Getty Images

My friends and family offered me one resounding piece of advice before I traveled to Ireland: to get lost. I was told to immerse myself, to disconnect from the reality of my home in an effort to fully take advantage of my time abroad. I followed this advice steadfastly for the first two and a half weeks of my trip. I went on long walks, indulged by eating out often and buying myself petty trinkets. In a matter of days I constructed for myself an ideal reality where I could put my phone and laptop away and opt to read peacefully by the Liffey, as if my home in America would greet me warmly when I got back, in the same condition I left it.

Image courtesy Warner Bros.

Friday afternoon I arrived in Belfast. Friday night I attended the 8:05 showing of The Dark Knight Rises. News of the Aurora shootings quietly broke my heart on Saturday morning. A matter of hours before James Holmes opened fire on dozens of innocent people, I sat in my comfortable chair and chomped on overpriced candy. A vicious madman prepared to commit the biggest mass murder in recent US history as I excitedly discussed Anne Hathaway's performance with friends. Before the previews even hit the screen in Aurora, I was lost in deep sleep.

Saturday morning I woke up twice: both from the eight hours of sleep I had gotten the night before and from the coma of my own imagined reality. That morning I stopped living in a dream. I looked out my window at the streets of Belfast with bleak indifference. The spirit of adventure escaped my clutches and I forgot to care about immersing myself in a foreign city. A black, tragic sadness engulfed me and I showed no signs of resistance.

Image courtesy metnews.org

I couldn't look at Belfast on Saturday the same way I had on Friday. Everywhere I looked British flags and Diamond Jubilee banners reminded me that I was thousands of miles away from home, on a luxurious trip to Ireland, completely alienated from the profound suffering of fellow Americans. Shortly after news of the shooting was released, President Obama addressed the public, urging citizens to "come together as one American family." Although I have been fortunate enough to enjoy almost three weeks of blissful travel in Ireland, I eagerly await the day I will go home to my American family.

DeBold- Restaurant Review

Photocred:Tumblr

     The weekend trip in Belfast was miserable and I am ecstatic to be back in Dublin. Throughout the trip I needed to consciously discern between what I can eat and what would bring about inevitable food poisoning. I did not have the opportunity to splurge on a good meal in Belfast and so, fast food from shoddy restaurants was all I ate.
             We pull up to the side of Trinity college and exit the Bus. I stretch my legs, for the first time in hours, and my stomach begins to growl. Now that I am back in Dublin, I know that I need a decent meal.M. J O’Neill’s is just down the street from Trinity College’s front gate. Up a block from Dame Street and onto Suffolk Street. We had visited the pub at one point during our Literary Pub crawl. We only had twenty minutes to slam down a pint so I opted out of eating there. In those twenty minutes however, I remember staring at the food bar and peoples plates; everything looked delicious. As my stomach’s noises become increasingly louder, that exact food I had seen at M.J O’Neill’s is on my mind.

I dodge a double decker bus turning at the corner and pull the door open into O’Neills. I am sure I have entered through the gates of Heaven as my nose immediately fills with the scent of steak, potatoes and Guinness. I beeline for the food bar and wait impatiently behind a line of irritating old Italian women with cameras.  The walls are covered with vintage metal signs and advertisements. “Drink Guinness it's Good for you!” one says with a pint of smiling froth.  People are scattered all over the bar, sitting on high chair tables and at small corner booths.  I see a Woman’s plate stacked full with mashed potatoes, Wicklow lamb shepherd’s pie and mushy peas. My cravings start to get the best of me and I decide to just splurge a little. Most of the menu is over 10euro in the hot food aisle while sandwiches vary from 2-7 euro. 

The food options are vast and each looks freaking delicious. I literally cannot decide which meal to get- I wish I could have one of each. All I can think about is a never-ending spiel of all of O’Neil’s fresh cooked food, and then about going back to their sandwich bar for desert. A cute ginger guy with a chef’s hat cuts slices of steaming corned beef. Could I marry him? Would he give me free corned beef if I offer? I decide against it and opt for the breaded stuffed chicken smothered in Irish red cheddar with a pineapple slice on top. The serving size surpasses my fist’s size but I still want to ask for that salmon dressed in white cream sauce and lemon. Rather, I get some rosemary potatoes with soft cooked carrots and a lot of gravy. A Scottish woman cuts the line and gets to walk off with her food before me; I am pissed but let it go as soon as I get to the register. After ordering a Carlsberg, the total is just over 15euro luckily the meal looks like it will be completely worth it. I find a seat at a small high table facing a large screen showing a hurling game.

google images

I heard later on that Dublin won a big game that day but I couldn’t tell you if it is the one I saw on that projector- I am way to consumed by my meal at O’Neill’s. The food is so good that despite hitting satisfaction around halfway through, I force myself to nearly clean my plate. The chicken is incredibly savory while the potatoes are rich with flavor. The Irish cheddar is a nice addition to the crunchy breaded chicken and dried cranberries are imbedded within the stuffing. I drench my potatoes and carrots in a dark thick gravy which adds a bit of a sweet flavoring.  I feel nostolgic for a thanksgiving turkey feast but if anything, I wouldn't mind having this meal on holiday instead.  O’Neill’s is a special treat and my stomach feels redeemed following the shoddy food in Belfast. 

(Ryckman) Giant's Causeway

Before we arrived in Belfast, we took a detour to Giant's Causeway, up by Bushmills on the North coast of Northern Ireland. Although I begrudgingly accepted my blue handheld audio guide, I skipped all the information and indoor facility-area that people pass through on their way to the trails as I had no interest in anything built by humans, especially when juxtaposed with a natural wonder such as Giant's Causeway. Its history dates back to 65 million years ago (that number almost seems cliché now) when insane tectonic shifts and fragmenting supercontinents made room for volcanic spillways that in turn formed these curious pillars, all organized like a clever puzzle. Some of them were cylindrical, while others had sharper angles and resembled octagons or hexagons. But the actual causeway is only a small part of the larger and grander site.

The visitor centre; courtesy of Insideireland.ie

I walked along a footpath that took me downhill with steep inclines on either side. The view to the left hand side looked out upon a lush, green valley enclosed by the cliffs I walked on. Tourists walked all around the designated paths, evading shuttle buses that drove the less mobile visitors to a desired destination and holding blue Gameboy-sized devices up to their ears as an Irish voice educated them on the history and myth of the natural wonder, but I noticed that this valley was completely tourist-free. I assumed, at first, that it must be off limits. The jagged rocks must be too dangerous to allow people to wander upon, and there are no dirt paths like the rest of the area. As I reached the bottom of the hill, I saw multiple uniformed officials mingling with tourists and presiding over the roped-off miniature mountain that I'm sure many people have tried to climb. I assumed, then, that they also guarded passage to the valley, as administration had determined that no man could trespass that area. I noticed a lack of rope over the path leading into the valley and took this as an invitation to explore.

AerPhoto credit: Bernd Biege via about.com

I walked down the mild slope, the dirt under my feet became grass and I felt, for a few moments secluded from the business and reputation that had developed around the Giant's Causeway. The area felt still. I felt no rushes of wind that dominated the higher points on the trails, and the lack of human movement gave the place a quiet ambience. No conversation to be heard, no digital voices from blue machines. But the blue machine still hung around my neck, a reminder that technology and business are never far, and I had an impulse to hurl the thing into the sea or bash it against the rocks and vanquish my technological overlords. But I resisted, and focused instead on the crashing of waves on the rocks and mounds of grass that had grown over itself along the path so that it was literally grass upon grass upon grass, no dirt to be found. I bid farewell to the valley, my own little paradise, and rejoined the human part of Giant's causeway.

(Crider) Mother Reilly's

   An extended walk to Dartry Park in Dublin’s suburb of Milltown had caused me to postpone dinner well into the night, and at 9 p.m. my stomach began to violently protest the decision.  A meal was long overdue.   On my way back to campus I crossed a restaurant that had earlier intrigued me with its full menu and red neon “FOOD” sign beckoning clientele from the front window.  At first glance, Mother Reilly's Bar & Restaurant looked like a red shack protruding from a line of brick buildings, a blood blister jutting out of the elegant Uppercross Hotel on Upper Rathmines Road.  Looking inside I examined the interior for a setting conducive to my growing appetite, having spotted the specials menu in front of the door and being intrigued by the beefsteak and kidney pie, a meal that would have Leopold Bloom salivating in moments.  Several middle-aged men sat drinking at the bar in silence, and behind them only a couple feet stood between the bar stools and the hind wall.  Because of a glare on the window obstructing my view further into the bar, I was certain that this small room would account for a majority of the establishment.  I am partial to smaller pubs, anyway, so I walked around the side and entered past a patron smoking on the walkway.  We exchanged some muttered “heys” and I was through the door. 

   The men at the bar nodded their heads in greeting as I ventured down a narrow hall that exposed me to a much larger establishment than was expected.  A chain of small, candle-lit rooms extended before me in a manner characteristic of a mineshaft with oak beams supporting the ceiling.  Aside from the six or so men near the entrance, the rest of the bar was empty, and this vacancy greatly accentuated the anachronistic feel that emanated from the yellow walls with varnished wood wainscoting.  Furniture consisted of ancient wooden stools placed around wooden tables standing but two feet from the flagstone floors.  Before sitting down to order, I perused the dark hallways, half expecting to find a blacksmith shop or stables at the back.  On the northern side of the bar a brighter room offered contrast to the dim chambers adjacent, and at its rear a doorway opened restrooms and a stairwell led to a beer garden and further to a higher level of the restaurant, complete with a second bar.  Now acquainted with the setting, I returned to the first level and sat beside a charred fireplace, a Dutch oven hanging inside it.  Above my head a television broadcasted the 2012 Match Play darts championships on mute.

   Only a few minutes after sitting at the table, lower than my knees, an attractive waitress with black hair took my order of the Bloomesque special, chips, and peas, to be washed down by a pint of Guinness.  Less than half an hour later my food was before me, the smell of stewed beef rising from a small casserole dish beneath a flaky puff pastry.  Other ingredients within the pie included carrots, mushrooms, onions, and chunks of kidney.  Contrary to carnivorous Bloom, the latter of these did not appeal to my personal taste, but its delicious counterparts made up for the peculiarity.  Overall the meal was a delectable example of down home Irish cooking, and though it cost upwards of €12 and required me to keel over to reach the plate, I was satisfied.     

(Rochon) Captain Morgan Anyone?

Provided by Google

Participating in the Dublin City Pub Crawl has its advantages.  One of those perks is finding a good place to eat.  O'Neill's Bar & Restaurant is located on 2 Suffolk Street Dublin 2 (roughly a five minute walk from Trinity College) and is the second stop in the Dublin City Pub Crawl.  I highly recommend visitors to visit O'Neill's because it definitely aims to fill their customers' empty bellies.  The serving sizes are American sized: HUGE.  By huge I mean a roughly seven and half inches in diameter plate covered in the main course you order, a scoop of bread crumb stuffing, two scoops of mash or roasted potatoes, a scoop of vegetables, a salad, and a few different sauces to coat your food.  After looking over the menu for the fifth time, I ordered the Singapore Styled Chicken accompanied with egg noodles mixed with zucchini, mash potatoes, bread stuffing, and three tiny stalks of broccoli.  Singapore styled chicken at O'Neill's is similar to consuming sweet and sour chicken at P.F. Chang's or Five Happiness, except slightly more spicy.  The egg noodles are cut thin and are mixed in the chicken's sauce and zucchini.  I am not a lover of mashed potatoes, but the mashed potatoes at O'Neill's were heavenly.  They are whipped smoothly and completely, leaving no annoyingly hard chunks to chew on, and had a perfect buttery taste that gave it body.  Whatever else the chefs put in it them, kicks out the dull flavor I taste ninety-five percent of the time at home and in other restaurants.

Provided by Google

 In the midst of consuming the food I'd gladly order for the rest of my life, I got up to order a drink.  The bartender poured me a glass of water, and used another glass of the same height (about six inches) to pour out a shot of Captain Morgan.  Unwilling to waste any good drink, he gave me the glass he used that contained a few drops of rum that did not fit into the shot glass.  Not wanting to carry three glasses, I simply picked up the glass with the spare droplets of rum and drank it down.  The woman sitting next to me let out a loud gasp at this; which caused me to stop drinking midway.
"What?!" I asked; very surprised anyone would react to me just taking a drink.
"You just drank it straight! Without anything..." she replied.
"Yeah... Less glasses to carry," I said, as I finished the last few drops.
"Oh..." she seemed slightly taken aback. Then asked "What is it called?"
I set my empty glass down, and responded "Captain Morgan."
I bade her good bye and returned to my sit with my shot of Morgan and glass of water.  This time, in contrast to traditionally drinking a shot whole, I drank my rum modestly (one sip at a time) to savour the taste.  Thus, fulfilling one of my bucket list objectives; to drink a shoot of Captain Morgan straight.  A satisfying way to end the evening.

(Rochon) Into the Depths...

"I'll never let go, Jack. I promise." -Rose from Titanic (1997), before she let go of Jack's hand.


Approaching the Titanic Museum was like approaching a giant jagged iceberg protruding from the cement ground.  This iceberg is split into four quadrants by a slightly taller tinted crystal.  There is also a Brass cutout of the word "Titanic" in front of the iceberg.  Bravely, I opened the gateway into this massive formation and proceeded into its depts.  The interior of the iceberg is very wide and spacious, containing a gift shop and an elevator to access the various floors of the museum.  Every floor is unique and had different interactive displays.  One of these exhibits is one that offers a look at the blueprints of the entire ship. It occupies six to eight feet of one wall and 


roughly fourteen feet of the floor directly in front of the wall.  The wall display is activated by stepping on one of the electronically generated arrows on the floor section.  Each floor activation causes the floor screen to shift to a blueprint of one the Titanic's decks.  This in turn, makes the wall screen produce information about certain sections of the floor screen's current blueprints.  For entertainment, I pressed the arrows as many times as could; even beating some of the children eager to activate them.  I travelled towards a long line of people destined for a small ride that reveals the construction of the Titanic through the eyes of its workers.  I tucked myself into the little car held by a hook attached to a ceiling belt (much like a ski lift) to see how the Titanic was built.  The small journey revealed the vast amounts of materials used for the ship and the long grueling process the workers went through.  I continued my adventure to the theatre that shows footage of divers discovering the deep sea ruins of the Titanic.  The divers called our attention to small objects like shoes, shovels, and an ancient lantern that once belonged to the passengers and crew members.  Below this floor, I located another section that revealed a different perspective of the Titanic's ruins.  Little rectangles clustered together on a small section of the floor formed a window into the murky depths of the Atlantic, where the recked bough and stern of the mighty lay silently rusting.  I immediately felt submerged in those icy waters gazing from inside a mini sub using my lights to find my way around the bottom of the seafloor.  After getting a good look at the wreckage, I emerged from the Atlantic and the iceberg, and returned to the surface of Belfast; satisfied by my exploration of the Titanic Museum.

(Bates) Giant's Causeway--Courtesy of Finn McCool

 “You’re taking pictures of people taking pictures of the rocks,” one of my travel mates commented.

Such is the price you pay for sun, a rare sight in County Antrim, a county along Ireland’s Northern coast.

Giant’s Causeway protruded out before us into the Irish Sea. Considerd a World Heritage Site for its folklore and unique rock formations, it was originally formed by a volcanic eruption sixty million years ago. Its rock formations look much like thousands of pentagonal and hexagonal tree stumps lumped together. Some of these stumps rose to form little hills, while others were compacted into large boulders. The tops of the rock pillars sported circular water stains that looked up at you as you stepped on their eye.

I stopped climbing long enough to pick up the blue cell-phone-like audio guide the visitor center had given me earlier, which had fallen out of my pocket again just as the giant’s wife was donning a bonnet on him.

Of course, the giant Finn McCool hadn’t built the Causeway for people as tiny as me, or any of the other visitors dwarfed by the pillars. Finn had dropped one rock after another into the sea until he created a bridge connecting Ireland and Scotland. The bridge presented an invitation to the Scottish giant Benandonner, whom Finn wished to challenge to the death. Yet when Finn caught sight of Benandonner’s size as he crossed the land bridge, he went running to his wife, the giantess Oonagh, for help, knowing that he could never defeat such a large opponent. Oonagh then dressed Finn as baby, complete with the bonnet and baby blanket, and went to greet Benandonner herself. When Benandonner sees the “baby” in the corner, he grows worried about the size of the father and flees back to Scotland, destroying the land bridge to keep Finn from coming after him.

There are many different versions of this story, yet the basic plot remains the same. Whether interested in the geology, folklore, or both, Giant’s Causeway provides ample opportunity to experience a piece culture and history.

(Poelker) The Colony of Ulster

I looked up from my book and out the window of the tour bus to see, flying over the green fields of Ireland, the Union Jack. “We must be in Ulster,” I thought and the reality of this colony set in. With no warning we had crossed the imaginary line into Northern Ireland and the British Empire, where my Euros were useless and I imagined, naively, that half of the people were running around shouting “God save the queen” and the other half were cursing her name.

When I got a chance to wander around a little bit the next afternoon, I got a much different picture of the city. Sure there was the odd British flag, but most of the imagery had to do with corporations. After the probably the most authentic Cuban sandwich of my life (made by an immigrant from a different colonized island, conquered by another empire) I stepped out of the Belfast market in search of my friends. They were not, as expected, at the pub next door which gave me the opportunity to explore the city centre at my own pace. Since I wasn’t in the mood for a shopping trip to the Gap or H&M, or any of the other international corporations who’ve put down their feet in industry hub that makes Belfast so valuable to the UK, I started looking for a quiet place to enjoy a pint of the black or a cup of coffee--any dark liquid to take the edge off of the weary afternoon.

On one of Belfast’s busiest streets, I almost didn’t notice one small indication of unrest in the midst of the corporate mecca that the “powers that be” would have its people believe that Belfast has become.  On the side of bus-stop awning an advert depicting a fried chicken “SNACK BOX” claimed that this greasy fare was the choice of the so-called “STR££T WISE.” But the clever substitution of the symbol for the pound was subverted by black-and-white flyer slapped across the restaurant logo asking, “Can the dictatorship be defeated?” A meeting of the Socialist Party would take place at 2pm that afternoon in which a “Hong Kong socialist” would preach revolution against oppressive rulers and their imposition of will in a speech called “CHINESE WORKERS STRIKE BACK.”

It’s been said that the violence in Belfast has receded in part because people have more money. People don’t want to bomb each other if they have enough to eat, etc. But perhaps for the militant protestor depicted on this poster, for whoever had the guts to print it out and post in on that wall, and for those who showed up at the meeting, there is a new oppressor: capital. I don’t know the full effect of British colonization in Hong Kong, or what it’s like to work in Belfast, but I can understand how the need to rebel will never disappear. Some people are always going to get fucked over by the system, and some of those people are inevitably going to get mad.