Finding the sentimental journey

It’s been quite a while since my last column. Of course not more than the usual two weeks, but more than usual has happened to me since then. I sit writing on a train somewhere between Paris and Amsterdam.

I wish I could say that I grew to love the city of Dublin and that the high school students that I’ve been teaching stopped annoying me and started to inspire me. I can’t say that exactly, but I did start to venture out of Temple Bar, and in the end found a few students to believe in.

I had a very distinct sense of satisfaction at the final screening. I sat in the dark among the students and a handful of parents, watching what these kids created projected up onto a large screen. Surprised, I found all of their movies better than I imagined. I wondered for the first time if they, perhaps, did have a vision. Maybe they knew and cared more than they had led me to believe over the very intense past few weeks. Or perhaps, I thought, it was sheer luck.

I found my way through Dublin, going out with some of the locals who showed me the non-touristy places to eat and drink. I explored more on my own and found a few restaurants that I actually enjoyed, a park bench with a fantastic view of Trinity College and a bagel shop nearby my apartment, which I frequented daily.

I ventured out of Dublin on some of my days off and saw a bit of the countryside that I’d heard so much about. On one particular trip, I rode the train past large rolling hills as green as the pictures. I passed beautiful beaches, rocky coasts and ate a fantastic lunch in a quaint little town south of Dublin.

Back in my apartment, I re-read my last column and decided that it was a bit dramatic. I guess you’ll have that sometimes. It’s good to know that perspectives on things change.

The first half of the program was deceptively easy. The hours were short and the student exercises were simple. At the program’s halfway point, the students were assigned their final projects.

Each student would create his or her own five-minute film. They would write, direct and edit their film in six days. I was to be in charge of four of their films, and I would be with my four students for 12 hours a day. In the blink of an eye, there were no more days off, no more chances to take tours and it was all but impossible to sneak away, even for a moment.

It was a scheduling nightmare. All of the students wanted to shoot on the same days. They all wanted to cast older actors, shoot in locations far away from each other and were constantly changing and re-writing their scripts.

When it came time to shoot, they were unprepared, not really understanding what it takes to make a movie. The circles under my eyes felt like they multiplied daily, at times hourly. They didn’t seem to care, and were more interested in having me show them how to do something, than try it for themselves.

We shot and reshot the movies seemingly to death. I was often unable to stifle the urge to set up a shot myself. And as these clips flashed up on the projected screen, I felt a twinge of guilt.

After the screening, we all went out to dinner at a nice Italian place around the corner from the classrooms. Looking around the room, I knew that it would be unlikely that I ever saw any of the students again. I wondered how much they had learned from me, how much I had learned from them and whether or not I would ever find myself in the role of teacher again. It was not out of the question, I decided.

I wondered what they would end up doing with their lives, what they thought of the whole experience and, as I said goodbye to them, there was an odd sentimental feeling in the pit of my stomach.

I wished them all good luck and meant it.

The next day, I packed a backpack for Paris and Amsterdam, locked my room in Dublin and set off for the next leg of my European adventure.