I am in the really bad habit of never checking the weather before I go out. Here in Ireland this usually works out thanks to the magic of layers. I always dress as if it will be cloudy and probably raining, and on the off‐chance that it is not, I take it as a welcome surprise and shed a layer or two. Early March offered the first challenge to this foolproof blissful ignorance with the arrival of the “beast from the east.” Properly called Storm Emma (or Stoirm Emma as Gaeilge), this storm’s arrival luckily coincided with my Irish language class learning the vocabulary to discuss the weather. Our teacher used it as a lesson in intensifying adjectives, chiding us for describing the upcoming weather as merely “bad” instead of “really bad” or “terrible.” As the storm’s dramatic nickname indicates, this was more than a simple snowstorm, but the beginning of a veritable nationwide freak‐out.
The storm gave me my first taste of homegrown Irish memes. Twitter and Facebook were flooded with jokes about how Tesco (and every other major supermarket) had their shelves absolutely cleared of bread by panicked citizenry. Not only did lines form, but people were recorded snatching loaves from the delivery trucks before the bread even made it to the shelves. However in hindsight, this was an excellent illustration of the wisdom of “when in Rome, do as the Romans do.” When in Cork, scurry to the supermarket when everyone else does, or risk finding out every single grocery had closed by noon, hours before even one snowflake touched the ground, and staples foods like eggs and bread could not be found anywhere in town for about five days. As it was, I survived on emergency rations from a nearby convenience store, which cemented its place as my favorite by faithfully remaining open.
Perhaps I would have been more prepared in other circumstances, but the arrogant New Englander in me did not view the predicted storm as a major threat. Only about six to eight inches were expected, space out over a few days. However, perceptions of weather (like every other aspect of culture, I suppose) are all relative. I was mystified to learn that apparently the last time Ireland had been hit with as much snow was during the notorious Big Snow of 1982. It became evident in short order that the weather was not so much the real problem, as the lack of appropriate infrastructure to deal with it. The eastern cost of the country was hit harder than Cork, snuffing out power in rural areas, and causing €100 million or more in damages. In a smaller example, I found it odd that sand, rather than salt, was sprinkled over the streets of Cork. Though I assume there are fewer ill environmental effects than using chemical salt, I could only envision this ending with piles of mud in such a rainy climate. I was right.
Similarly, the vast majority of flights out the country were massively delayed or cancelled. In some cases, travelers spent hours in the airport waiting for updates before learning their flights would be cancelled. I personally had planned on flying to Brussels that weekend. As the storm approached, I settled on staying home, realizing that even if my flight were not cancelled, there would be a good chance of ending up stranded at some point during my late night bus trip to Dublin to make my flight. Ryanair allowed me to recoup some, but not all, of my losses. I do not feel especially posed to complain, as there were plenty of silver linings in the snowy storm clouds.
Having dreaded trekking to campus to submit my paper on that icy Thursday, I deeply appreciated the History department graciously extending all essay deadlines to the following Tuesday. Classes were ultimately cancelled from Wednesday afternoon to Friday, blessing everyone with an unexpected five day weekend just as midterms were reaching their crescendo. Despite the panic which preceded it, an air of celebration manifested in a variety of ways. Snowmen popped up everywhere, in all manner of creative garb, though at least one was mysteriously murdered in the courtyard of my building. An impromptu snowball fight broke out in that same courtyard, as the college kids suddenly had nothing better to be doing. Beyond our apartment complex full of overjoyed college students, schoolchildren, parents, and almost everyone took to the streets to celebrate. I am lucky to live not far from one the city’s steepest hills. Though ordinarily I appreciate it for the fantastic view of the city it offers, that weekend it was an incredible site for sledding. Few people had proper sleds, but plastic bags, roasting pans, random planks of wood, and stolen (borrowed) wet floor signs were all seen in use as alternatives.
Record‐breaking or not, the storm eventually came to an end. In irony which made laugh out loud, on Sunday evening it began to rain, quickly melting all the remaining snow, and the traces that it even been there. Regardless of how much it did or did not snow in comparison to large storms back home, like the Boston’s Snowpocalypse of recent memory, Storm Emma was an adventure and a source of many fun stories. However, I quickly made plans to be away the following weekend once rumors of an approaching “pest from the west” starting swirling around.
