A few weeks ago Steve, Emily, Kevin, Joe, Stacey and myself went to London for a long weekend.
Travel and Day 1:
At 10p.m. Wednesday night we shoved our backpacks in Rory’s Eurovan and drove into Galway. My excited hands shook with the jitter of the engine echoing its energy. Seeing my motherland in Ireland helped me understand a lot about my culture and home town. Maybe the evil step mother empire who birthed the 13 colonies could help me understand my homeland too.
Before hitting the midnight bus to the Dublin Airport we hit up Super Macs for a quick gut rotting bite to eat.
Then we hauled it to the bus stop and started on our journey. Within seconds into our adventure everything almost crumbled apart in front of us. The bus driver told us our tickets were valid for the next day. Stacey looked at him and argued about how it was tomorrow. I guy told us the system won’t accept them. WHAT!?! In one second all six of us almost jumped this guy and hi-jacked the bus. Then he told us, “Well, just because you have the wrong date… Did you think I’d strand you here? Sit down and I’ll ring you up in a couple minutes when the clock switches over.”
Here we sat expecting a 4hr. bus ride. Turns out it takes less than 3hrs. in the middle of the night with no traffic or stops.
At 3a.m. we sat in the airport watching the wall pretending it was a clock.
I special ordered a cold milk at the coffee shop. I experienced my fist ice cold skimmed milk since September 7th when I left! I knew this was a good sign. I also walked passed my first drinking fountain in Ireland while moving through the airport. I wondered if they had showers with hot water and kitchens with dish washing machines. Maybe the local McDonalds had free refills. No, I wasn’t in America, just in an airport.
After boarding the plane I looked outside, waved goodbye to the land of saints and scholars (and sinners more recently added by a bus-driver commenting on the gangs in Cork and Limerick). I shut my eyes before takeoff to catch some Zs and angrily woke up to a bumpy start, but soon my anger turned into happiness when I realized the bumps were signs of a landing. I slept through the takeoff and turbulence to awake to a rough landing.
Before even getting out the door of the airport our trip got thrilling. We walked off the plane and started walking towards customs when Stacey noticed her passport was missing. She figured she left it on the plane. While she started freaking out I tried to be rational and scurried back to the place to ask a flight attendant. By the time I got back to the plane everyone already left.
We decided to confront the customs official. He pushed Kevin, Steve, Emily, Joe, and me through customs and left Stacey on the other side. Due to pre-organized agreements between Britain and Ireland no passport is needed to get into the country. So we waited on the other side of security for Stacey. We waited. Then we waited more. After that we waited again a little more. After almost a whole hour we started getting frustrated and worried. We went to the airline’s lost and found office and asked security to call her name over the loud speaker. So the name Stacey Jessen rang over the PA throughout the airport.
After a couple minutes of waiting for her to come to the info desk like directed over the loud speaker she showed up with an Aer Lingus employee and her face down and tears falling. She said with tears and emotion, “I thought you left without me.?!?!” We all wanted to be like well usually you check the last place you left the group of people before you assume that… Then again who could expect her to find us if she can’t find her own passport.
After two hours of fretting we hit up the mass transit for a 20£ journey on a train from Gatwick Airport into the inner city London. From there we transferred onto the Tube (the subway) and took the District Line from the Victoria stop to the Stamford Brook stop. There we finally settled into our hostel at the Globetrotters Inn after hours of buses, planes, trains, and walking.
After getting a quick hour nap we hit the streets of London for some excitement. Turns out the pubs in London don’t compare to the Irish ones. Three main differences: the service was much better, the food much worse, and the people less talkative. I played it safe and order a chicken sandwich with bacon, lettuce, and tomato. The first bite was reassuring. The seasoned meat, fresh lettuce, and crispy bacon smothered in mayonnaise went down easy. Then I bit a little closer to the center and realized it needed a couple more minutes in the microwave on defrost. Maybe my comment about how exciting ice was to see in my water glass inspired them to keep the chicken frozen in the middle of my sandwich. To me it was like a warhead candy. It lures you in with sweetness and then tricks you with disgustingness.
After our meal we hit up the Tube, got off in the theater area, and went on the prowl for Wicked tickets. Steve, like a real tourist, went to the first shop in sight and let a salesman instill fear in this soul. Steve frantically explained to us how the tickets available might not be there if we don’t act now and the discount ticket booth wouldn’t go any lower than 26£! His excitement made me nervous and I asked him to calm down. Joe and I bickered with him that there will be more booths outside of the Tube station for us to buy tickets from. With every fighting word out of my mouth Steve got sicker to his stomach. Then he started to tell Joe and me, if he passes this up because of us it’s our fault. We told him to buy the ticket then and Joe and I would hold out. Steve convinced Stacey to buy one with him and the rest of us held out.
With Steve’s tickets in hand, he (and the rest of us) walked up the stairs out of the Tube station on onto the street littered with booths bragging “Half Price Theater Tickets” and “Discount Theater Tickets Starting at 15£” and “The Lowest Priced Theater Tickets Around”, etc. The more booths I saw the more the feeling of victory pumped through my veins.
After approaching a couple booths and haggling them DOWN to 26£ I got a little less cocky and started to think to myself what I should do with my free night in London.
Steve and Stacey split and started their trek to the theater. The rest of us shopped around and realized the price wasn’t getting any lower than 26£.
Being stubborn Joe and I refused to buy a ticket at that price and convinced everyone the price was too high and better prices were out there. We headed towards the theater ourselves and banked on the official ticket booth having lower prices.
Before you know it I entered the play with the feeling of a 20£ ticket in one hand, the 6£s I saved in the other, and the cushion of victory patting my ass as I sat down. Suddenly, I noticed Steve and Stacey 6 rows behind us and gave them a wave and shout out.
Spending all my energy on proving someone wrong I fell asleep multiple times during the play. Don’t get me wrong, it was the most magical performance I’ve ever seen. The smoke, the sound effects, the stage, the costumes, and the singing blew my mind. I started to get the impression movie theaters didn’t last too long here.
Half asleep, but with a buzzed feeling from the performance, we Tubed it back to the hostel and passed out for the night.
Monday, December 8, 2008
Monday, November 10, 2008
Indications of ‘Hope’ and ‘Change’ Post Election Day
I figure my last few posts were pretty angry so we'll spice it up and add a movie...
After the elections I decided that I needed to embrace the ‘Hope and Change’. So I did the unthinkable and took a razor to my beard. Below are the horrifying pictures of my ‘Change’. Warning: This footage may haunt you. (Also, the opinion of this film does not reflect the parent company, Lais Properties, but only the Ryan Lais subsidiary).
After the elections I decided that I needed to embrace the ‘Hope and Change’. So I did the unthinkable and took a razor to my beard. Below are the horrifying pictures of my ‘Change’. Warning: This footage may haunt you. (Also, the opinion of this film does not reflect the parent company, Lais Properties, but only the Ryan Lais subsidiary).
Viewer discretion advised.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Why I Liked When Clinton Reformed Welfare
Two hours later: I manned up and drank the water… my face didn’t turn crazy colors so if I keep typing you know I’m ok.
My water issues rinsed away quickly as the rest of my day unfolded. Virtually unannounced Kevin’s long haired bearded friend welcomed himself into our cottage. He arrived baring gifts: a half drunken bottle of German beer and a stench twice as potent as the smelly kid in 4th grade who just went through puberty and didn’t know it, but for some stinky reason everyone else does . He instantly made himself to home and sat at our supper table for a bite to eat. He ate through our bag of cheesy poofs like we’d laced them with cocaine. While trying to avoid gagging from the smell I listened to him arrogantly tell us about his times in Europe.
He started out telling us how he hitchhiked here. I laughed knowing that it’s pretty damn hard to hitchhike to an island. When he didn’t laugh I felt a little uncomfortable and let him speak his mind.
Matt grew up in a middle class family and went to high school with Kevin at a private Catholic high school. For two years after getting his diploma he tried his luck at the University of Minnesota and decided he “needed to spend a semester in Europe to find himself”. For under $1,300 he managed a full Euro trip with all transportation, food, and shelter provided. But how?
For less than a grand he took off from MSP and landed in Dublin, Ireland a little more than 2 months ago. For $37 he took Ryan Air to Brussels. Wow. So two months on less than $300 in Europe where the McDonalds costs and arm and leg. How’d he do it? I wanted to know… I picked his brain, because I’m a penny pincher, but seriously the supply and demand for that half drunken double pint beer in his hand sets him back at least €6 alone.
Turns out he’s a professional freeloader. Not like the guy who used to eat every bodies food at the lunch table in high school… That’s amateur compared to this guy. He connected with various truckers who mostly didn’t speak a lick of English and slowly hitchhiked his way through Europe mooching rides, sleeping on the streets, “in bushes”, and in “squatting houses” for free.
“Squatting houses are better than some hostels.” What the heck’s a squatting house I asked him? (Wiki article on squatting houses.) Turns out its vacant lots or semi abandon buildings where the landlord owns the property, but doesn’t use it. So drifters take it over and live their inviting others for “free”. He “slept next to more heroin addicts than” he knew existed. The freeloader explained how he helped tear down a wall in one squatting house in Barcelona, but the cops came and arrested them because the site hadn’t been considered legally “squatting settled” yet. I nodded my headed and showed my deep concerns with a pitying facial expression while thinking to myself ()@#*$()&*)(&@$#! (use your imagination). For food he “went around restaurants begging for left overs” and when this failed he “dug through garbage”!
Don’t feel too bad folks, a little beer chased the taste of trash. In most of Europe costumers buy a bottle of beer and walk out on their merry way, drink their beer, and discard the glass bottle. Or if they feel up to it they can return their glass bottle and receive an X% refund. So our freeloader collected glass bottles around the cities and drank beer to stimulate his mind. The conversation went on for about 30mins about his time in Europe while I cooked us up a feast. I planned on cooking noodles with meat sauce, but our beggar was a chooser too and informed us he didn’t eat meat, so I switched it to tacos, with beef for us, and rice, beans, and potatoes to “meat” his needs. (WHAT, BEGGARS CAN’T BE CHOOSERS I THOUGHT? So he’s a vegetarian who eats from the garbage, but worries about the affects of red meat?)
While in awe Schafer asked, “What’s the biggest thing you learned on your journey?”
Between inhaling the food I bought and cooked, sitting in the warm cottage I helped to pay heat he says with a smirk, “I learned I can live for free.” (WHAT THE HELL!!! FREE? Somebody paid for that!!!)
Then our freeloading friend watched us all do the dishes while he watched the electric meter spin and the computer screen refresh while surfing the World Wide Web for the first time in a while. I guess he had a couple thousand electronic mail messages to check.
He says he found that college isn’t for him, because he likes to live more simple and doesn’t need a high paying job anymore…
This guy now lies in front of the fireplace with full stomach and a blanket to cover the smell and keep his rancid feet from getting too cold. (Thank goodness that draft I’ve been complaining about helps to keep the air circulating or I’d not be able to sleep).
I grow more and more frustrated as he rests with his stomach full, warm, and cozy for a good night sleep for “free”!
His way of life represents everything wrong in this world. People like him give the poor a bad name. He's making a mockery out of every actual poor person.
Thank goodness Bill Clinton reformed welfare.
My water issues rinsed away quickly as the rest of my day unfolded. Virtually unannounced Kevin’s long haired bearded friend welcomed himself into our cottage. He arrived baring gifts: a half drunken bottle of German beer and a stench twice as potent as the smelly kid in 4th grade who just went through puberty and didn’t know it, but for some stinky reason everyone else does . He instantly made himself to home and sat at our supper table for a bite to eat. He ate through our bag of cheesy poofs like we’d laced them with cocaine. While trying to avoid gagging from the smell I listened to him arrogantly tell us about his times in Europe.
He started out telling us how he hitchhiked here. I laughed knowing that it’s pretty damn hard to hitchhike to an island. When he didn’t laugh I felt a little uncomfortable and let him speak his mind.
Matt grew up in a middle class family and went to high school with Kevin at a private Catholic high school. For two years after getting his diploma he tried his luck at the University of Minnesota and decided he “needed to spend a semester in Europe to find himself”. For under $1,300 he managed a full Euro trip with all transportation, food, and shelter provided. But how?
For less than a grand he took off from MSP and landed in Dublin, Ireland a little more than 2 months ago. For $37 he took Ryan Air to Brussels. Wow. So two months on less than $300 in Europe where the McDonalds costs and arm and leg. How’d he do it? I wanted to know… I picked his brain, because I’m a penny pincher, but seriously the supply and demand for that half drunken double pint beer in his hand sets him back at least €6 alone.
Turns out he’s a professional freeloader. Not like the guy who used to eat every bodies food at the lunch table in high school… That’s amateur compared to this guy. He connected with various truckers who mostly didn’t speak a lick of English and slowly hitchhiked his way through Europe mooching rides, sleeping on the streets, “in bushes”, and in “squatting houses” for free.
“Squatting houses are better than some hostels.” What the heck’s a squatting house I asked him? (Wiki article on squatting houses.) Turns out its vacant lots or semi abandon buildings where the landlord owns the property, but doesn’t use it. So drifters take it over and live their inviting others for “free”. He “slept next to more heroin addicts than” he knew existed. The freeloader explained how he helped tear down a wall in one squatting house in Barcelona, but the cops came and arrested them because the site hadn’t been considered legally “squatting settled” yet. I nodded my headed and showed my deep concerns with a pitying facial expression while thinking to myself ()@#*$()&*)(&@$#! (use your imagination). For food he “went around restaurants begging for left overs” and when this failed he “dug through garbage”!
Don’t feel too bad folks, a little beer chased the taste of trash. In most of Europe costumers buy a bottle of beer and walk out on their merry way, drink their beer, and discard the glass bottle. Or if they feel up to it they can return their glass bottle and receive an X% refund. So our freeloader collected glass bottles around the cities and drank beer to stimulate his mind. The conversation went on for about 30mins about his time in Europe while I cooked us up a feast. I planned on cooking noodles with meat sauce, but our beggar was a chooser too and informed us he didn’t eat meat, so I switched it to tacos, with beef for us, and rice, beans, and potatoes to “meat” his needs. (WHAT, BEGGARS CAN’T BE CHOOSERS I THOUGHT? So he’s a vegetarian who eats from the garbage, but worries about the affects of red meat?)
While in awe Schafer asked, “What’s the biggest thing you learned on your journey?”
Between inhaling the food I bought and cooked, sitting in the warm cottage I helped to pay heat he says with a smirk, “I learned I can live for free.” (WHAT THE HELL!!! FREE? Somebody paid for that!!!)
Then our freeloading friend watched us all do the dishes while he watched the electric meter spin and the computer screen refresh while surfing the World Wide Web for the first time in a while. I guess he had a couple thousand electronic mail messages to check.
He says he found that college isn’t for him, because he likes to live more simple and doesn’t need a high paying job anymore…
This guy now lies in front of the fireplace with full stomach and a blanket to cover the smell and keep his rancid feet from getting too cold. (Thank goodness that draft I’ve been complaining about helps to keep the air circulating or I’d not be able to sleep).
I grow more and more frustrated as he rests with his stomach full, warm, and cozy for a good night sleep for “free”!
His way of life represents everything wrong in this world. People like him give the poor a bad name. He's making a mockery out of every actual poor person.
Thank goodness Bill Clinton reformed welfare.
Gloom and Doom
The world looks gloomy today. Here I sit with my laptop defrosting my thighs as my feet dangle from a foot rest in front of the gas burning fire. The gas fire breathes louder singeing my cotton socks as the drafts billow through the cottage. Chatter of rain hitting our roof repeatedly turns angry and violent throughout the day. Outside for the last 3 days gusts of wind continuously slingshot the tree canopies back and forth while the rain pours down on them. The concrete jungle outside turned into a lake of continuously rippling murky water.
As I take refuge from the vicious skies and abundance of water building up around me I feel calm and dehydrated. With the excessive amount of rain a water main burst right in front of our cottage. So for almost 72 hours my cottagemates and I look outside at fresh water falling from the skies and switch our faucets on to see a strong flow of sediment and insect infested yellowish brown water.
Mom’s famous words in Mexico, “Don’t Drink the Water!” speak to me while I reside in the European Union. In Egypt and Mexico I drank the water and not surprisingly saw a strong flow of sediment and insect infested yellowish brown looking water too. I learned my lesson, but with no milk left, our bottled water reserves exhausted, and only a bottle of dehydrating repulsive Stroh’s Austrian hard liquor and a diuretic Smithwhicks Irish beer remaining I’m starting to wonder if maybe I should just drink the water. I mean over the last 5 hours the water looks clear and the small sand, dirt, and bug particles only jump out at you when the water sits still in a glass and the particles keep swirling around.
I take water, like my family, friends, and Jinette, for granted until it’s not available. I mean thankfully the toilet still flushes even though it looks contaminated before I use it. Other than that though, my teeth caked with plaque, dry throat, and body coated with grime reiterate how important water is to my basic survival.
Unless the water runs clean in the next couple hours I’m going to need to pay for a cab into Spiddal with my rancid teeth, strong body odor, and dirty clothes to get bottles of water. I’m going to go do that before I run dry, literally.
As I take refuge from the vicious skies and abundance of water building up around me I feel calm and dehydrated. With the excessive amount of rain a water main burst right in front of our cottage. So for almost 72 hours my cottagemates and I look outside at fresh water falling from the skies and switch our faucets on to see a strong flow of sediment and insect infested yellowish brown water.
Mom’s famous words in Mexico, “Don’t Drink the Water!” speak to me while I reside in the European Union. In Egypt and Mexico I drank the water and not surprisingly saw a strong flow of sediment and insect infested yellowish brown looking water too. I learned my lesson, but with no milk left, our bottled water reserves exhausted, and only a bottle of dehydrating repulsive Stroh’s Austrian hard liquor and a diuretic Smithwhicks Irish beer remaining I’m starting to wonder if maybe I should just drink the water. I mean over the last 5 hours the water looks clear and the small sand, dirt, and bug particles only jump out at you when the water sits still in a glass and the particles keep swirling around.
I take water, like my family, friends, and Jinette, for granted until it’s not available. I mean thankfully the toilet still flushes even though it looks contaminated before I use it. Other than that though, my teeth caked with plaque, dry throat, and body coated with grime reiterate how important water is to my basic survival.
Unless the water runs clean in the next couple hours I’m going to need to pay for a cab into Spiddal with my rancid teeth, strong body odor, and dirty clothes to get bottles of water. I’m going to go do that before I run dry, literally.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Drunken Mornings
I asked J.P. Friday night if I was gonna work for him Saturday and he told me he'd need help Saturday night. Turns out he meant Sunday morning...
At 8:30p.m. Saturday night I began working for him. Myself, J.P., 2 middle aged woman, and a middle aged man served food, bar tended, bussed tables, and facilitated a party for 80 which turned into one for 150...
I started by taking drink orders for tables and delivering trays of pints, mixed drinks, pops, and hard ciders. I pushed through the crowd dodging youngsters running around below me and drunk adults stumbling around above. I nervously transported the trays through the sea of people. The cost of liquor with their high taxes in Ireland made it seem as if I was moving trays of liquid gold only I didn't have the security of a Brink Truck.
After delivering their first round I collected empty glasses. Meanwhile the Irish party goers bought more booze, then after that bought more, and more, and then even more, then it slowed down so they danced, sang, and bought even more. After that they bought even more! I bet each person averaged 6 drinks... From ages 18-90 they all drank and they all could handle their liquor. Live music filled the airwaves and put a beat to the pounding of their beers. The musician played Irish music and American folk like Dylan and Cash. The drunk older generation showed off their dance moves while the younger generation looked in amazement. I didn't know old people could move that quick... I guess while I was virtually moving with Nintendo video games my parents and grandparents generation were working and actually dancing. I guess if you don't play Dance Dance Revolution you need to learn the real deal...
In between songs the elderly athletic dances quenched their thirst with pints of Guinness. Meanwhile my generation nursed their drinks and only wished they could dance. At midnight the live music left and the DJ moved in. Slowly the elderly exited the dance floor for a drinking break and the young guns loaded with liquor took their shot at the dance floor. The music turned into classics like the Village People, Simon and Garfunkel, Neil Diamond, Don McLean, and Grease...
Eventually the whole party consumed the dance floor and drunkenly moved to the music...
Meanwhile I continuously bussed the tables taking stacks and stacks of empty pint glasses, and mixed drink glasses back to the bar to be washed and redistributed. In between taking stacks of glassware back I cleared the tables of empty glass bottles and filled the recycling bin. I filled 3 trash cans full of bottles over the course of the night! And replenished the ice pails mounted on each corner of the pub multiple times.
Numerous times throughout the night/early morning drunken Irish stopped me to comment on my work ethic. One stopped me and said, "You know how I know you're not Irish...? Cuz we don't work that fast here, you need to slow down, you're making us look bad..." or the other bar tender looked at me and called me over to him and joked by asking, "Have you seen your passport lately?" I looked at him in a confused manner and he continued, "You better hold on tight to it cuz if J.P. finds it he might burn it and keep you hostage here as his worker." (I decided to omit the excessive F bombs embedded in the quotes so they didn't distract from the point of the statement.)
Around 2a.m. the bar closed and a metal sliding gate fell from the ceiling and rested on the bar table top. As J.P. dropped the gate a drunk guy literally slipped his hand in the way and slid it back up and demanded another beer.
Around 3a.m. the drinks were emptied, the toilets filled with urine and throw up and the dancing started to dwindle. J.P. turned off the music, turned on the lights, opened the doors, began stacking the chairs, and started fan ventilation to freeze out the remaining 50 or so drunks.
The lack of music led them to making their own jingles. Multiple groups of people gathered around separate informal entertainers who told folk stories, sang their national anthem, and sang folk songs. I listened in amazement to the witty folk songs... Then I heard our national anthem and laughed with J.P. It was a sorry attempt, but it put a smile on my face.
Finally at 4a.m with 5 kegs cashed, 3 bins of empty bottles filled, trays upon trays of food eaten, and a cold draft blowing through the building the last of the drunks hit up a taxi and left.
J.P. and I bundled up all the table clothes, stacked the tables, finished stacking the chairs, and locked up. I walked out the door around 5a.m.
I fell asleep with the sun peaking through the blinds of my window...
At 8:30p.m. Saturday night I began working for him. Myself, J.P., 2 middle aged woman, and a middle aged man served food, bar tended, bussed tables, and facilitated a party for 80 which turned into one for 150...
I started by taking drink orders for tables and delivering trays of pints, mixed drinks, pops, and hard ciders. I pushed through the crowd dodging youngsters running around below me and drunk adults stumbling around above. I nervously transported the trays through the sea of people. The cost of liquor with their high taxes in Ireland made it seem as if I was moving trays of liquid gold only I didn't have the security of a Brink Truck.
After delivering their first round I collected empty glasses. Meanwhile the Irish party goers bought more booze, then after that bought more, and more, and then even more, then it slowed down so they danced, sang, and bought even more. After that they bought even more! I bet each person averaged 6 drinks... From ages 18-90 they all drank and they all could handle their liquor. Live music filled the airwaves and put a beat to the pounding of their beers. The musician played Irish music and American folk like Dylan and Cash. The drunk older generation showed off their dance moves while the younger generation looked in amazement. I didn't know old people could move that quick... I guess while I was virtually moving with Nintendo video games my parents and grandparents generation were working and actually dancing. I guess if you don't play Dance Dance Revolution you need to learn the real deal...
In between songs the elderly athletic dances quenched their thirst with pints of Guinness. Meanwhile my generation nursed their drinks and only wished they could dance. At midnight the live music left and the DJ moved in. Slowly the elderly exited the dance floor for a drinking break and the young guns loaded with liquor took their shot at the dance floor. The music turned into classics like the Village People, Simon and Garfunkel, Neil Diamond, Don McLean, and Grease...
Eventually the whole party consumed the dance floor and drunkenly moved to the music...
Meanwhile I continuously bussed the tables taking stacks and stacks of empty pint glasses, and mixed drink glasses back to the bar to be washed and redistributed. In between taking stacks of glassware back I cleared the tables of empty glass bottles and filled the recycling bin. I filled 3 trash cans full of bottles over the course of the night! And replenished the ice pails mounted on each corner of the pub multiple times.
Numerous times throughout the night/early morning drunken Irish stopped me to comment on my work ethic. One stopped me and said, "You know how I know you're not Irish...? Cuz we don't work that fast here, you need to slow down, you're making us look bad..." or the other bar tender looked at me and called me over to him and joked by asking, "Have you seen your passport lately?" I looked at him in a confused manner and he continued, "You better hold on tight to it cuz if J.P. finds it he might burn it and keep you hostage here as his worker." (I decided to omit the excessive F bombs embedded in the quotes so they didn't distract from the point of the statement.)
Around 2a.m. the bar closed and a metal sliding gate fell from the ceiling and rested on the bar table top. As J.P. dropped the gate a drunk guy literally slipped his hand in the way and slid it back up and demanded another beer.
Around 3a.m. the drinks were emptied, the toilets filled with urine and throw up and the dancing started to dwindle. J.P. turned off the music, turned on the lights, opened the doors, began stacking the chairs, and started fan ventilation to freeze out the remaining 50 or so drunks.
The lack of music led them to making their own jingles. Multiple groups of people gathered around separate informal entertainers who told folk stories, sang their national anthem, and sang folk songs. I listened in amazement to the witty folk songs... Then I heard our national anthem and laughed with J.P. It was a sorry attempt, but it put a smile on my face.
Finally at 4a.m with 5 kegs cashed, 3 bins of empty bottles filled, trays upon trays of food eaten, and a cold draft blowing through the building the last of the drunks hit up a taxi and left.
J.P. and I bundled up all the table clothes, stacked the tables, finished stacking the chairs, and locked up. I walked out the door around 5a.m.
I fell asleep with the sun peaking through the blinds of my window...
Saturday, November 1, 2008
Saddening All Saints Day
I rubbed the crust out my eyes, brushed, flossed, smeared on my deodorant and started a 30min adventure to town. A group of 7 of us wandered down the road with church as our destination. As the speed of our watches caught up to us we picked up the pace. The clock ticked 11:00a.m. and the church bells rang out. Thankfully, church is as on time as our buses--late.
The group us unshowered, unshaven, English speaking, jean panted Americans met eyes with a church of angry looking, sad, extremely conservatively dressed Gaelic speakers. It felt as out of place as when I wore my Johnnies (Condom) shirt around Belfast. But why? Maybe they thought we we're British?
The church was still, silent, and serious. A cold eerie draft pushed us through the door as we moved in. All the parishioners were dressed in depressing dark clothes. We invaded the back pew and shuffled in as a bell rang notifying us mass begun. It being a holy day of obligation the place was a full house.
Over the rows and sea of people Joe noticed the front row of men in tuxes. Then he noticed the casket and pointed it out to all of us. All at once we stood up and attempted to leave mass, but Kevin sat his ground. Sitting at the end of the row he held all the power. We awkwardly stood up then Kevin denied us access and we sat down and sunk in our seats. (Kevin never really explained why he wouldn't budge).
So there we sat surrounded by a full house of depressed Gaelic speakers. I felt sorry for the people, but because of the language barrier never figured out who died or what the circumstances were... I'd been to enough funerals in the last year I really didn't want to go through another. It put me in a depressed mood...
Even though I wanted to leave I figured leaving halfway through would be even more disrespectful than sitting through it.
As I put my hands out for Communion the Eucharistic minister's eyes ate my soul. She looked at me like I was the most repulsive, disgusting, piece of scum to ever walk the earth. I cannot tell you how horrible I felt. I've never wanted to not take Communion like I did at that moment.
We looked up the mass time for Holy Days, so our mistake was innocent... but not unnoticed.
The group us unshowered, unshaven, English speaking, jean panted Americans met eyes with a church of angry looking, sad, extremely conservatively dressed Gaelic speakers. It felt as out of place as when I wore my Johnnies (Condom) shirt around Belfast. But why? Maybe they thought we we're British?
The church was still, silent, and serious. A cold eerie draft pushed us through the door as we moved in. All the parishioners were dressed in depressing dark clothes. We invaded the back pew and shuffled in as a bell rang notifying us mass begun. It being a holy day of obligation the place was a full house.
Over the rows and sea of people Joe noticed the front row of men in tuxes. Then he noticed the casket and pointed it out to all of us. All at once we stood up and attempted to leave mass, but Kevin sat his ground. Sitting at the end of the row he held all the power. We awkwardly stood up then Kevin denied us access and we sat down and sunk in our seats. (Kevin never really explained why he wouldn't budge).
So there we sat surrounded by a full house of depressed Gaelic speakers. I felt sorry for the people, but because of the language barrier never figured out who died or what the circumstances were... I'd been to enough funerals in the last year I really didn't want to go through another. It put me in a depressed mood...
Even though I wanted to leave I figured leaving halfway through would be even more disrespectful than sitting through it.
As I put my hands out for Communion the Eucharistic minister's eyes ate my soul. She looked at me like I was the most repulsive, disgusting, piece of scum to ever walk the earth. I cannot tell you how horrible I felt. I've never wanted to not take Communion like I did at that moment.
We looked up the mass time for Holy Days, so our mistake was innocent... but not unnoticed.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Oct 27 - Birthday
I woke up to the sound of Happy Birthday after sleep walking to class this morning. Hearing the words of that song always put a smile on my face. As the words filtered through my ears I asked myself, who’s celebrating a birthday? I started to mutter the lullaby, but woke from my sleep walk when I realize the whole class had their eyes on me. Was my fly down again? Nope, it was my birthday! My face turned red, I became completely awake, and a smile grew out of my bearded face. It must’ve looked like a slightly embarrassed smiling caveman who’d been in the cave for one too many days. Maybe Geico needs another actor?
Letters from Grandma Lais, Jinette, Mom, Dad, my immediate family, and Emmy, and Lise and Joel (Jinette’s parents) made me laugh in French, bleed MN Wild Hockey, be thankful of my family, and have a very happy happy birthday.
Not only the physical mail, but all the electronic mail made me happy as well. The facebook posts, and emails flooded in as the day went on. (In fact they trickled into the next day…)
Thanks everyone.
Also, my non-identical twin sister turned 21 today. Happy birthday Sara. All my life those three minutes meant you were older. For three minutes you could smoke, chew, drive, vote, drink, gamble, marry, and call yourself an adult before me. The tables are turning… You need to face the real world, pay house bills, get wrinkled skin, turn 30, apply for the AARP, watch your hair turn gray, and gain weight with every year, three minutes before me. Ha.
I guess you get to collect Social Security three minutes before me too. If they run out in those three minutes could you let the money trickle down to your favorite twin brother?
Letters from Grandma Lais, Jinette, Mom, Dad, my immediate family, and Emmy, and Lise and Joel (Jinette’s parents) made me laugh in French, bleed MN Wild Hockey, be thankful of my family, and have a very happy happy birthday.
Not only the physical mail, but all the electronic mail made me happy as well. The facebook posts, and emails flooded in as the day went on. (In fact they trickled into the next day…)
Thanks everyone.
Also, my non-identical twin sister turned 21 today. Happy birthday Sara. All my life those three minutes meant you were older. For three minutes you could smoke, chew, drive, vote, drink, gamble, marry, and call yourself an adult before me. The tables are turning… You need to face the real world, pay house bills, get wrinkled skin, turn 30, apply for the AARP, watch your hair turn gray, and gain weight with every year, three minutes before me. Ha.
I guess you get to collect Social Security three minutes before me too. If they run out in those three minutes could you let the money trickle down to your favorite twin brother?
The Tail End of the Rents Visit
Oct 22 Day 7, My Wisdom at the Age of 20
Today we toured the Strokestown Famine Museum and Estate. We all read through a long stretch of rooms filled with information on the famine. I stumbled across some information on the famine and free trade. Of course I felt obligated to tell the lady at the front desk that the information they presented was misleading. I mean, being a 20-year-old "Yank" with a long red beard, and a full understanding of the world and everything in it I needed to enlighten his elderly woman who'd experienced nothing and had no understanding of her country's history--or not. She had little time for my complaints and didn't even respond to my concerns. Her silence spoke loud and clear... I wined to Mom, Dad, and Emmy about it instead…
(She's still wrong though, and I'm still stubborn, so don't worry I'll be the same man when I get back...)
After my complaints the tour started. Turns out the lady I complained to gave us the tour and we four were the only ones in it. Awkward.
After the tour we drove as far as we could as the sun set in the distance. Emmy gave a B&B, in the book Ma bought, a jingle and with detailed directions we headed to our resting place. On one of our last steps on the path to relaxation and rest we ran into a flooded area. An road on top of a hill (yes on top of a hill) was totally flooded. The lady drove the long way around the hill and guided us to her home. She really knew how to talk. The words flowed from her mouth like the rain from the sky here.
She the talkative lady kindly guided us to a restaurant after we unloaded our bags at her rambler. She drove 1 step ahead of us and we followed her tail lights into the land of wet darkness.
Somehow Ma remembered every turn and we made it back safe after eating…
Oct 23, Day 8 - Crystal Clear (and a political rant, just to warn you... feel free to comment)
We woke up from our sleep and ate breakfast at our B&B. Emmy found bugs crawling around in her cereal and the bread. I didn't notice and got my protein for the day earlier than usual. The woman appealed to Ma, Dad, and Emmy probably because she talked on and on about how my generation is stupid with our money. I feel like this lecture is getting little redundant. I hear it all the time and I really hope they are wrong, but tend to think they’re right. (Then again my generation has to pay some high bills for the expenses the lecturers racked up over the years. Correct me if I’m wrong, but the middle aged lecturing Uncle Sam himself is in debt right now too. Go figure. I know… let’s socialize medicine, that’ll fix our problems. It’s strange we’re trying to hand our healthcare over to the same people who brought us poor education, horrible disaster relief in Katrina, and the neglected treatment of war veterans in their hospitals. Hey, but I know I want these same people to raise my taxes, underpay my doctors, buy generic drugs for me, and to decide which patients have priority over others… Uncle Sam knows best…).
After our protein we hauled down to Waterford and toured the crystal factory. The grandmums and grandpas all around us concerned me. Turns out the old people listen to better music, dance better, and know where to go for an entertaining factory tour too.
The almost emptied crystal plant employed a few old white union workers who managed to hold on to their jobs. Loud noises, heat, flame torches, and burly old men with working class hands manned the crystal forming, carving, and cleaning stations. The craftsmanship of the handmade crystal blew my mind as I watched them blow the crystal into vases. These guys were true artists.
Not surprisingly, the gift shop seemed to be 2 times the size of the factory and staffed by a larger sales force than all the factory workers combined.
After the factory we drove all the way back to Spiddal for dinner and rest.
Oct 24, Day 8 - Raining and Mass
We poured into Galway as the rain drove droplets onto our car windows and hindered our visibility.
The shops of Galway called our names and we went shop hopping and felt the rain drench our coats and soak through our pant legs. We spent more time shopping for gifts for Sara, Mark, Kelli, Caroline (and Ryan and the baby to be) than we spent touring castles, eating and in whole cities. Parking alone cost us €13.20.
The Galway Museum closed in 10mins, but Dad and I grew tired of shopping and scurried through the exhibits.
After shopping and rushing through the museum we drove to the Galway Cathedral to pray for forgiveness for the curse words we muttered under our breath as the rain crawled down our backs in-between running from shop to shop. Emmy and I hit up confession and sat down for mass.
Thirty-two minutes later the priest closed the scriptures, opened his wing span and quickly spat out the words, "This mass is ended go in peace and serve the Lord". Last Sunday at mass the middle-aged Irish woman next to Ma explained that they shorten the masses, because if they ran any longer people wouldn’t tolerate it. They’d leave mass and skip in the future.
As the day turned to night we all headed over to the pub where J.P. informed us of Irish dancing, singing, and drinking.
I brought my laptop and we laughed our way through all 926 pictures dad took over the last 9 days. It made me realize how much we packed into 9 days. Dad and I drank beer while Ma and Emmy drank Coke.
The females went to bed and we made small talk with a 60-year-old guy who was celebrating his birthday. Turns out the music and dancing were for his surprise birthday party. As the kegs emptied and dance floor filled Dad and I were told to join them. With a little liquid courage I busted out my best dance moves and made a fool out of myself Irish style. Everyone joined hands in one big circle and moved in and out to the flow of the music while the gentleman celebrating his birthday and his wife danced in the center. Their birthday parties are almost as fun as the funerals…
After a little dancing I went to the bathroom and gulped a glass of water. After that I lost my dancing shoes. I must’ve lost ‘em somewhere along the way from the urinal and the dance floor.
I packed up my dancing act and hit the hay.
Oct 25, Day 9 – A picture into the passed
I heard the sounds of “knock, knock, knock” pounding on my head and in my ears upon waking the next day. Mom gently tapped the glass of my room window to notify me I needed to get up and get ready to see the day. Strangely, mom stopped pounding, but the pounding feeling never left my head.
I yawned repeatedly as dad twisted town the tiny tangling roads of Connemara. After 45minutes of being half asleep while riding in the car we arrived. My Dad wanted to visit the place his ancestors called home before risking their lives by making the trek to the New World for a better life. We took a photo shoot on the shoreline of a busted down building with roosters hopping around it.
My ancestor Coleman Conroy resided in the Rosmuc area of Connemara. After generations of suffering he took refuge from the famished British controlled area leaving his native lands in 1846. The famine coupled with the British oppression drove many Irish to America and Australia. The Rosmuc area consisted of a docking area, a convenience store, a graveyard with ruins, and a church. The church felt a little dismal with its rotted doors, dusty pews, pink painted walls, and cold air. Also, by the looks of it the church only sat there for 30 years. We were looking for a 165-year-old+ church. At the cemetery we found our ancient church over grown with vegetation, roofless, and crumbling. The tombstones and Celtic crosses ringing the ruins went from ancient to modern as the distance from the crumbling church grew. Near to the church we found the whole Conroy clan. The gated, highest cross, in the most prominent area celebrated the life of Mrs. Patrick Conroy. To the side of this were around 15 other tombstones with the name Conroy. Not only in that area, but other tombstones with the name sprang up all around the graveyard.
Today we toured the Strokestown Famine Museum and Estate. We all read through a long stretch of rooms filled with information on the famine. I stumbled across some information on the famine and free trade. Of course I felt obligated to tell the lady at the front desk that the information they presented was misleading. I mean, being a 20-year-old "Yank" with a long red beard, and a full understanding of the world and everything in it I needed to enlighten his elderly woman who'd experienced nothing and had no understanding of her country's history--or not. She had little time for my complaints and didn't even respond to my concerns. Her silence spoke loud and clear... I wined to Mom, Dad, and Emmy about it instead…
(She's still wrong though, and I'm still stubborn, so don't worry I'll be the same man when I get back...)
After my complaints the tour started. Turns out the lady I complained to gave us the tour and we four were the only ones in it. Awkward.
After the tour we drove as far as we could as the sun set in the distance. Emmy gave a B&B, in the book Ma bought, a jingle and with detailed directions we headed to our resting place. On one of our last steps on the path to relaxation and rest we ran into a flooded area. An road on top of a hill (yes on top of a hill) was totally flooded. The lady drove the long way around the hill and guided us to her home. She really knew how to talk. The words flowed from her mouth like the rain from the sky here.
She the talkative lady kindly guided us to a restaurant after we unloaded our bags at her rambler. She drove 1 step ahead of us and we followed her tail lights into the land of wet darkness.
Somehow Ma remembered every turn and we made it back safe after eating…
Oct 23, Day 8 - Crystal Clear (and a political rant, just to warn you... feel free to comment)
We woke up from our sleep and ate breakfast at our B&B. Emmy found bugs crawling around in her cereal and the bread. I didn't notice and got my protein for the day earlier than usual. The woman appealed to Ma, Dad, and Emmy probably because she talked on and on about how my generation is stupid with our money. I feel like this lecture is getting little redundant. I hear it all the time and I really hope they are wrong, but tend to think they’re right. (Then again my generation has to pay some high bills for the expenses the lecturers racked up over the years. Correct me if I’m wrong, but the middle aged lecturing Uncle Sam himself is in debt right now too. Go figure. I know… let’s socialize medicine, that’ll fix our problems. It’s strange we’re trying to hand our healthcare over to the same people who brought us poor education, horrible disaster relief in Katrina, and the neglected treatment of war veterans in their hospitals. Hey, but I know I want these same people to raise my taxes, underpay my doctors, buy generic drugs for me, and to decide which patients have priority over others… Uncle Sam knows best…).
After our protein we hauled down to Waterford and toured the crystal factory. The grandmums and grandpas all around us concerned me. Turns out the old people listen to better music, dance better, and know where to go for an entertaining factory tour too.
The almost emptied crystal plant employed a few old white union workers who managed to hold on to their jobs. Loud noises, heat, flame torches, and burly old men with working class hands manned the crystal forming, carving, and cleaning stations. The craftsmanship of the handmade crystal blew my mind as I watched them blow the crystal into vases. These guys were true artists.
Not surprisingly, the gift shop seemed to be 2 times the size of the factory and staffed by a larger sales force than all the factory workers combined.
After the factory we drove all the way back to Spiddal for dinner and rest.
Oct 24, Day 8 - Raining and Mass
We poured into Galway as the rain drove droplets onto our car windows and hindered our visibility.
The shops of Galway called our names and we went shop hopping and felt the rain drench our coats and soak through our pant legs. We spent more time shopping for gifts for Sara, Mark, Kelli, Caroline (and Ryan and the baby to be) than we spent touring castles, eating and in whole cities. Parking alone cost us €13.20.
The Galway Museum closed in 10mins, but Dad and I grew tired of shopping and scurried through the exhibits.
After shopping and rushing through the museum we drove to the Galway Cathedral to pray for forgiveness for the curse words we muttered under our breath as the rain crawled down our backs in-between running from shop to shop. Emmy and I hit up confession and sat down for mass.
Thirty-two minutes later the priest closed the scriptures, opened his wing span and quickly spat out the words, "This mass is ended go in peace and serve the Lord". Last Sunday at mass the middle-aged Irish woman next to Ma explained that they shorten the masses, because if they ran any longer people wouldn’t tolerate it. They’d leave mass and skip in the future.
As the day turned to night we all headed over to the pub where J.P. informed us of Irish dancing, singing, and drinking.
I brought my laptop and we laughed our way through all 926 pictures dad took over the last 9 days. It made me realize how much we packed into 9 days. Dad and I drank beer while Ma and Emmy drank Coke.
The females went to bed and we made small talk with a 60-year-old guy who was celebrating his birthday. Turns out the music and dancing were for his surprise birthday party. As the kegs emptied and dance floor filled Dad and I were told to join them. With a little liquid courage I busted out my best dance moves and made a fool out of myself Irish style. Everyone joined hands in one big circle and moved in and out to the flow of the music while the gentleman celebrating his birthday and his wife danced in the center. Their birthday parties are almost as fun as the funerals…
After a little dancing I went to the bathroom and gulped a glass of water. After that I lost my dancing shoes. I must’ve lost ‘em somewhere along the way from the urinal and the dance floor.
I packed up my dancing act and hit the hay.
Oct 25, Day 9 – A picture into the passed
I heard the sounds of “knock, knock, knock” pounding on my head and in my ears upon waking the next day. Mom gently tapped the glass of my room window to notify me I needed to get up and get ready to see the day. Strangely, mom stopped pounding, but the pounding feeling never left my head.
I yawned repeatedly as dad twisted town the tiny tangling roads of Connemara. After 45minutes of being half asleep while riding in the car we arrived. My Dad wanted to visit the place his ancestors called home before risking their lives by making the trek to the New World for a better life. We took a photo shoot on the shoreline of a busted down building with roosters hopping around it.
My ancestor Coleman Conroy resided in the Rosmuc area of Connemara. After generations of suffering he took refuge from the famished British controlled area leaving his native lands in 1846. The famine coupled with the British oppression drove many Irish to America and Australia. The Rosmuc area consisted of a docking area, a convenience store, a graveyard with ruins, and a church. The church felt a little dismal with its rotted doors, dusty pews, pink painted walls, and cold air. Also, by the looks of it the church only sat there for 30 years. We were looking for a 165-year-old+ church. At the cemetery we found our ancient church over grown with vegetation, roofless, and crumbling. The tombstones and Celtic crosses ringing the ruins went from ancient to modern as the distance from the crumbling church grew. Near to the church we found the whole Conroy clan. The gated, highest cross, in the most prominent area celebrated the life of Mrs. Patrick Conroy. To the side of this were around 15 other tombstones with the name Conroy. Not only in that area, but other tombstones with the name sprang up all around the graveyard.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
10 Days, 3 Parents, and 1 Heck of a Time
(This is still a work in Progress... I'll keep adding, but need more time to write the last couple days...)
Oct 16 - Day 1, Waiting, Arriving, and Ireland Driving
Woke up today, showered, shaved my neard, and cleaned the cottage out with Kevin to get ready for the parentals and Emmy. Kevin’s parents and aunt and uncle took the same flight over and also rented a car. His family charged in the door with their overflowing luggage, jet lagged faces, and excited energy. While they all caught up I waited. Kevin’s dad told me he thought my family was driving right behind him. I shot him a confused look, because he’s never seen my family… and muttered, “Really?” He informed me, “Well yeah, they were the other ones driving too slow, hugging the shoulders, and kissing the curbs…But all the sudden we looked back and they turned off and were gone.”
After waiting a half an hour more I started to get a little concerned. I channeled my anxiety into some business dealings and negotiated a cheaper price for their hotel rooms. Normally it’s €70 a room per night, but J.P. gave me a deal and got me two rooms overlooking the Galway Bay with breakfast for €100.
I started to get paranoid when two hours later they were nowhere to be found. I called Dad’s cell phone via Skype and listened to Mom explain with some frustration in her voice they were lost. I tried to guide them to my cottage with Google maps in front of me, but no such luck. Ma told me to call back when I knew something, because the phone call cost too much. I called back and fumbled around with my words trying to tell them to drive towards the water and to the west. About 5 minutes later they rolled up in their rental car jammed with baggage and some tension. They emptied the car and released the built up tension. After a quick tour of my cottage they rested for an hour.
After rubbing the sleep from their eyes we hopped in the car and rolled down to Spiddal for a tour. We stopped at the pharmacy for distilled water for Dad’s Darth Vader snore machine. The jug of water in the states at Walmart sets my dad back $0.60. The pharmacist handed me the jug, I tossed over €6, and Mom almost tossed her cookies after computing the price in USD. (6x 1.3405=$8.04, Ouch!) Always Low Prices. Always. Walmart and I have a love-hate relationship.
A local restaurant tempted us and we sat down for an early supper. Dad ordered Irish stew w/ lamb, I ate roast lamb and potatoes, and Ma and Emmy chose the Cod fish and chips. Ma expressed her disgust for lamb, but tried mine and scavenged our plates for more. I think the Irish changed her mind on lamb. We ordered Smithwicks and a Bulmers for everyone to taste test. Ma sipped the Smithwicks, set the glass down, and expressed her satisfaction for it. Dad and I shook our heads in amazement and looked dumbfounded. Ma laughed and said she hates beer. We smirked and from that point on I knew this was gonna be an adventure. The Irish like to joke around like that, so maybe we’ll all fit right in.
After this we drove back, put liners in our coats, slipped our cameras in our pockets and hobbled on the rocky shorelines posing for pictures while the sun set over the waters.
Oct 17 Day 2, Dangerous Travels
Woke up today and took a hot shower at my mom and dad’s hotel room in the building adjacent to my cottage. The heated water gave me a little kick and ensured me today was gonna be filled with excitement.
We packed our junk and hit the roads for an adventure I’ll never forget. After 20mins of driving on a whim dad took a left after reading a sign for airplane rides to the Aran Islands. We’d wanted to go anyways, so checking the prices couldn’t hurt.
At €37 a pop we sped down the runway with our hearts racing and the propellers buzzing in our ears. The quick 8 mile fly went rather smooth and in no time at all we landed on the quaint island and loaded into a van for a tour of the island. The first stop lasted 2 hours. Ma, dad, and Emmy and I tripped our way up a rocky hill to the fort on the top of a cliff overlooking the Atlantic Ocean.
Ma, dad, and Emmy seemed thoroughly impressed by the scenery. This came as a sigh of relief for me, because I talked up the Aran Islands for too long for it to flop.
After climbing to the fort, we rummaged through the small wool sweater shops and made small talk with the locals. After a little shopping we inhaled some soup and sandwich at the restaurant across the way. The food filled us up and jumped in the van for the remainder of the tour. A graveyard and a couple churches highlighted the last part.
We all scoured the shops for some more wool clothes and scurried in the van to get back to the small airport only to wait for the next flight. Once I boarded and looked at the rain clouds overhead my adrenaline started pumping. The poor visibility contrasted the clear skies on the way to the island. Emmy informed me of her fears of smaller planes before we took off to get to the island and I talked tough and pretended like it didn’t faze me. On the way back my true fears came out. I guess the rapid fidgeting of my foot might have given it away. The plane landed and we all walked out of the single runway airport in one piece.
The clock read around 5p.m., so we decided to head toward a B&B a little ways outside of the quaint town of Leenane tucked way back near the base of the mountains. The town overlooks a natural fiord in the Delphi Valley.
The roads shrank, twisted, turned, split, and grew rougher as we puttered along down the road. The tension rose as the sun began to set. Emmy proudly said out loud something about how well everything had worked out for us. Being in the middle of nowhere surrounded by mountains, trickling streams, rainbows, pastures dotted with sheep, and rays of the setting sun felt so right.
Suddenly we hit a pothole and heard a, thud… thud… sound coming from our car. The car started to shake like my nervous hands and we pulled over to assess the damages. I opened my door and looked at the front tire rapidly deflating. At the same Emmy opened the back door and assessed the situation. We both looked up at once and showed our concerns. I couldn’t believe it. The tires both popped! So there we sit on a windy road with 2 tires flat and the picturesque sun setting in the backdrop over the mountainside, and little idea of how our ideal situation deteriorated so quickly.
Emmy and I walked up the road to find a sign of civilization, but only saw a closed down sweater shop a ways down. Not even a car passed us… And the phone faded in and out of 1 to no bars. The Verizon World phone Dad bought seemed pretty useless. I guess a little sleep over in the car never hurt anyone. Well, maybe it’d hurt the wheel…
I called the B&B with almost no signal and cried for help. Her strong accent and my weak signal made this challenging. I told her the car brand, year, and that we needed 2 tires. After 10mins of repeating myself she assured me something about a “carriage” being on the way. All I could picture was a horse and buggy pulling our Toyota down the road. The repair man took forever to arrive. (Maybe more like 20mins.) The mechanic named Brendan wrenched on two doughnuts in no time and asked us to follow him to replace the doughnuts with the right tires. The twenty minutes Brendan took to get to us seemed like nothing. After 45mins of dodging sheep and potholes while driving the maze of roads guided by Brendan’s tail lights we arrived at the garage. (Not the “carriage”) Three hundred Euros later the tires looked brand new. In fact, they looked too new for a rental car. (Hopefully Avis will never know).
Finally, we pulled up to a cute house tucked away in the hillsides. For €35 a head we slept, ate breakfast, and backed our bags for another day.
Oct 18, Day 3 - Cars, Bars, and Gardeners
After your car troubles yesterday I was a little tense sitting in the front seat. Emmy took a ride for an adventure instead. I literally got a headache, because it stressed me out so much… I guess the feeling of thinking deaths around the corner makes most people tense. It made me a little crabby unfortunately for Ma, Dad, and Emmy.
We visited the picturesque Kylemore Abbey today. The miniature castle originally was a gift for a rich Englishman’s wife in the first half of the 19th century. His wife died at a young age from a disease contracted in Cairo. He lived as a widow for the rest of his life. After his death the Castle became an abbey when an order of Benedictine Sisters fled from Belgium and took refuge.
The place felt like Disneyland with a religious horticultural twist and no lines. On a good day 1,200 tourists trampled through the estate, but today during the off season the place was all to us.
Behind the castle a huge walled garden filled with rows of lush dwarfed, medium, and large sized hedges outlining pathways throughout the gardens. The meticulously maintained gardens were decorated with a variety of well groomed flowers. I bumped into one of the guys pushing a wheel barrel down the crushed rock path cushioned with green moss and picked his brain about the amount of work to keep this place up. Apparently it took him all of June, July, and August to trim the hedges of one part of the garden alone. I told him I work outside in gardens all summer but “I’m not a gardener at all, I’m a professional weed picker.” The guy laughed, but his worn hands peppered with calluses maybe didn’t think it was too funny. The laborer informed me they use no chemicals for weeding either. With the amount of rain here though, he said, “You pick one and see the next one popping up in its place.”
After a fabulous time at the Abbey we drove into Westport for the night. A jar of Nutella, peanut butter, prepackaged processed ham, Wheat Thins, and a glass of tap water was a fine meal. After our money saving meal we walked into town for a sip at a local pub. The Porter House served me a pint of Smithwicks, Dad a Guinness, Emmy a Coke, and Mum a Bailey’s on ice to start the evening. With our cheap meal plan, the stimulus check Uncle Sam sent us last year and a Euro laying on the ground almost gave us enough money to buy another round.
I went over to the crowded bar and struggled to get the attention of the tender. A local helped me wave him down and I ordered the second round. While waiting, I made small talk with a tipsy older guy and a buzzed 40 year old looking man.
After 10 minutes of small talk it evolved into large talk. Turns out the 40-year-old looking man served 13 years in prison and is a proud card carrying member of the IRA. The two Irish Catholic Nationalists intrigued me especially after they bought me a couple more Vodkas and Red Bulls. (Look at the trouble I get into when I go to the bar with my parents…)
Oct 19, Day 4 - Smooth Roads and Rough Ice Cream
Today went much smoother on the road. Driving out of Westport the first couple left turns went easy. On our first right turn we drove into oncoming traffic and a speedy Irishman almost clipped us on my side, but thank goodness he veered out of the way in a split second. As our adventure went on the roads widened and the beat of my heart slowed down. We trucked it into Sligo for a bite to eat.
Unfortunately, our waiter moved a little slower than the Irishman who veered out of the way. Emmy, Ma, and I ordered soup, sandwich, a baked potato smothered in fake chili (which tasted like Taco Bell meat with sloppy joe mix), a couple of drinks, and a milkshake. Meanwhile Dad took a nap in the car. Ma’s soup arrived in about the time it takes to hit the soup button on the microwave. Emmy’s potato took quite a bit longer. They must have handpicked them in the back garden, scrubbed it clean, then baked it and slopped some sloppyjoe over it. My chicken club sandwich took even longer. I guess it takes much longer to butcher a chicken than harvest a potato. Apparently, to whip the cream and let it freeze and sit takes even longer. It seems the cream they used sat out on the table while they cooked up my chicken, because the shake gave a little kick to the taste buds and later to the gut. The “World Famous Ice Cream” they sold tasted like spoiled ice cream melted into cup. He said that’s how it’s supposed to taste, but I told him I’d drank plenty of shakes here and none shook my gut so much. After a longtime of waiting we walked around the mall for a minute or two and took a bathroom break before buying dad lunch and hitting the road.
We decided on a different place to buy Dad a bite just for time sake alone. Sadly, the next café in the mall, as we found out, also moved at snail speed.
Off to Donegal we went. After a couple days of fumbling my way around the Ireland map my confidence as a navigator plummeted. Today on our way out of Sligo the GPS glitched and started making a crazy knotted mess for us as a route and thought our car was off the road when we clearly were driving down one of the largest ones in the country. It was beast of a road. HUGE! It grew so wide at some points that a truck and a car might be able to drive side by side. This was a mammoth 2 lane road! Snelling Avenue size only with roundabouts, a 66mph speed limit, and a zigzagged pattern.
Emmy took over the navigation role and guided us to safety when my map reading abilities failed and my life line (the GPS) went crazy.
Oct 20, Day 5 - Faith and Good Works
The town of (London)Derry takes tension from the Irish Republicans and British Loyalists swirls everything together and creates a rich cultural and historical experience. The curbs, buildings, and flagpoles tagged with True Blue and the colors of the Crown indicate the Loyal Protestant communities who bleed orange. The murals expressing freedom, independence, civil rights, and the oppressive occupation of the British in Ireland scream that the Catholic Republican ideology rules the territory.
The four of us drove into Derry ready for a little relaxation and break from navigating the roundabouts and rugged roads. With a little luck and a lot of backtracking, U-turns, and high blood pressure we safely parked near St. Colum Cathedral. We stretched our legs and walked over to tour the church. The highly decorated building and large stain glass windows made me assume it was a Catholic Church. Once I stepped in and saw no signs of the Virgin Mary, the Stations of the Cross, or worn out kneelers I knew it was not a Catholic church, but Protestant instead. Clocks, a giftshopesque entrance way, and pictures of Royalty should’ve been a dead giveaway as well. The tour guide joyfully let dad and I tag team him with questions, pick his brain, and listen to ourselves talk. The clock above us was ticking away time and Mom gestured us to pick up the pace.
After listening and defending his faith the guide walked us all the way to the Tourist Info Center through the mall, up the hill, down the hill, and across the street. For a guy who thinks you get to heaven on faith alone and not good works he really went beyond the call of duty.
While dad and I babbled away time with the Anglican the last walking tours and bus tours started. A personal taxi tour from the “Free Derry Taxi” fleet was our only option left for the day. Hue our driver picked us up 5mins later and we saw the political history of the town through the half fogged, rain drenched windows of a taxi. Periodically Hue stopped the car, we all hopped out and he told the personal stories of his experience as a Catholic on the Bogside as a 17-year-old freedom fighter. He painted a picture of the bloody, poor, violent past of Derry in the 60s and 70s. At the Bloody Sunday Memorial he told us of his personal experience there. The emotion filled tour ended with a B&B suggestion, food suggestion, and a feeling of satisfaction and respect for Hue.
The hostel—I mean B&B lacked sheets, towels, and overall space, but connected us to the World Wide Web. Mom called everybody via Skype. The excitement in her voice speaks volumes about how much she cares about everybody back home. Maybe just the idea of calling home for 2cents a minute over the internet blew Mom’s mind. Who knows…
While Mom talked Emmy diligently typed emails.
I talked with Mark and Jinette which brighten my night. My giddy mood carried into the next day.
Oct 21, Day 6 - Muslim Bitc***
We woke up and ate our standard eggs, bacon, sausages, and toast. Tea and OJ washed down the bacon fat lodged in our throats. The server told us to “take the Giants Causeway Route to the Muslim Temple and the beautiful bitches… You can walk all over the bitches by the Muslim Temple.” We all looked at the guy in shock, but soon realized he meant, “beaches” and smirked every time he mentioned the nice “bitches”.
After cracking that code I still couldn’t wrap my head around the fact that the devoutly Christian island of Ireland contained a Muslim Temple worth looking at… I threw out my pride and asked about the Mosque. He informed us the Mussenden Temple on the Bishop’s estate and a Muslim temple isn’t one in the same. Go figure?
We jammed Mom and Dad’s 6 suitcases into the trunk with my backpack and Emmy’s bag and hit the road to see all the nice bitches around the Muslim Temple.
The gorgeous backdrop with cliffs, green turf, lazy sheep, and the angry sea highlighted the already amazing looking temple. I chased the sheep a little, but Dad ended my excitement by calling me out on it… I guess it’s not appropriate behavior for an almost 21-year-old man to chase innocent animals around?!
The Bushmills distillery marked the next point interest on the map. As we hopped out of the car the air around us changed. The smell of distilling whiskey pinched our nostrils. Not only that, but the proper personality pinched me the wrong way too as we entered British territory. The poor farmland covered with shattered rock, hills, and Catholic cattle country transformed into flatter land with richer soils and more prosperous Protestant grazing lands.
We missed our tour by 15mins and the lady at the ticket booth made it seem like we’d shot a man. The next tour to join was a half an hour later. We browsed the gift shop and scurried back to ensure the ticket lady who treated us like noddy grade school kids didn’t put soap in out mouths.
Our guide walked us through the distilling process and the factory jammed with moving productive machinery and lagging workers. To end the tour we all sampled their line of quality aged whiskies. Back home my drink of choice (other than a beer) is whiskey mixed with Dr. Pepper. The idea of drinking a smoother better quality whiskey turned me on about as much as it turn mom off.
As the whiskey burned mom’s tongue and stung here esophagus she quivered in disgust. We all followed and reacted the same. I couldn’t understand why I could take a pull of Jim Beam, but Bushmill’s nauseated me. With a little ice I managed the taste much more and stopped gauging when the alcohol hit my lips, but still thought it tasted repulsive.
After the tour we high tailed it to the Giant’s Causeway. We hauled to the site, parked, and walked down to the magnificent geological phenomenon. Mom, Emmy, and I climbed the rock formation while dad snapped pictures of our every move. Dad makes me feel famous sometimes. I know what having a paparazzi feels like now.
After the Causeway we hit the roads and ran back to Irish lands. The expensive British Pound and proper personalities had us running for the more casual easy going Irish Republic hills.
Oct 16 - Day 1, Waiting, Arriving, and Ireland Driving
Woke up today, showered, shaved my neard, and cleaned the cottage out with Kevin to get ready for the parentals and Emmy. Kevin’s parents and aunt and uncle took the same flight over and also rented a car. His family charged in the door with their overflowing luggage, jet lagged faces, and excited energy. While they all caught up I waited. Kevin’s dad told me he thought my family was driving right behind him. I shot him a confused look, because he’s never seen my family… and muttered, “Really?” He informed me, “Well yeah, they were the other ones driving too slow, hugging the shoulders, and kissing the curbs…But all the sudden we looked back and they turned off and were gone.”
After waiting a half an hour more I started to get a little concerned. I channeled my anxiety into some business dealings and negotiated a cheaper price for their hotel rooms. Normally it’s €70 a room per night, but J.P. gave me a deal and got me two rooms overlooking the Galway Bay with breakfast for €100.
I started to get paranoid when two hours later they were nowhere to be found. I called Dad’s cell phone via Skype and listened to Mom explain with some frustration in her voice they were lost. I tried to guide them to my cottage with Google maps in front of me, but no such luck. Ma told me to call back when I knew something, because the phone call cost too much. I called back and fumbled around with my words trying to tell them to drive towards the water and to the west. About 5 minutes later they rolled up in their rental car jammed with baggage and some tension. They emptied the car and released the built up tension. After a quick tour of my cottage they rested for an hour.
After rubbing the sleep from their eyes we hopped in the car and rolled down to Spiddal for a tour. We stopped at the pharmacy for distilled water for Dad’s Darth Vader snore machine. The jug of water in the states at Walmart sets my dad back $0.60. The pharmacist handed me the jug, I tossed over €6, and Mom almost tossed her cookies after computing the price in USD. (6x 1.3405=$8.04, Ouch!) Always Low Prices. Always. Walmart and I have a love-hate relationship.
A local restaurant tempted us and we sat down for an early supper. Dad ordered Irish stew w/ lamb, I ate roast lamb and potatoes, and Ma and Emmy chose the Cod fish and chips. Ma expressed her disgust for lamb, but tried mine and scavenged our plates for more. I think the Irish changed her mind on lamb. We ordered Smithwicks and a Bulmers for everyone to taste test. Ma sipped the Smithwicks, set the glass down, and expressed her satisfaction for it. Dad and I shook our heads in amazement and looked dumbfounded. Ma laughed and said she hates beer. We smirked and from that point on I knew this was gonna be an adventure. The Irish like to joke around like that, so maybe we’ll all fit right in.
After this we drove back, put liners in our coats, slipped our cameras in our pockets and hobbled on the rocky shorelines posing for pictures while the sun set over the waters.
Oct 17 Day 2, Dangerous Travels
Woke up today and took a hot shower at my mom and dad’s hotel room in the building adjacent to my cottage. The heated water gave me a little kick and ensured me today was gonna be filled with excitement.
We packed our junk and hit the roads for an adventure I’ll never forget. After 20mins of driving on a whim dad took a left after reading a sign for airplane rides to the Aran Islands. We’d wanted to go anyways, so checking the prices couldn’t hurt.
At €37 a pop we sped down the runway with our hearts racing and the propellers buzzing in our ears. The quick 8 mile fly went rather smooth and in no time at all we landed on the quaint island and loaded into a van for a tour of the island. The first stop lasted 2 hours. Ma, dad, and Emmy and I tripped our way up a rocky hill to the fort on the top of a cliff overlooking the Atlantic Ocean.
Ma, dad, and Emmy seemed thoroughly impressed by the scenery. This came as a sigh of relief for me, because I talked up the Aran Islands for too long for it to flop.
After climbing to the fort, we rummaged through the small wool sweater shops and made small talk with the locals. After a little shopping we inhaled some soup and sandwich at the restaurant across the way. The food filled us up and jumped in the van for the remainder of the tour. A graveyard and a couple churches highlighted the last part.
We all scoured the shops for some more wool clothes and scurried in the van to get back to the small airport only to wait for the next flight. Once I boarded and looked at the rain clouds overhead my adrenaline started pumping. The poor visibility contrasted the clear skies on the way to the island. Emmy informed me of her fears of smaller planes before we took off to get to the island and I talked tough and pretended like it didn’t faze me. On the way back my true fears came out. I guess the rapid fidgeting of my foot might have given it away. The plane landed and we all walked out of the single runway airport in one piece.
The clock read around 5p.m., so we decided to head toward a B&B a little ways outside of the quaint town of Leenane tucked way back near the base of the mountains. The town overlooks a natural fiord in the Delphi Valley.
The roads shrank, twisted, turned, split, and grew rougher as we puttered along down the road. The tension rose as the sun began to set. Emmy proudly said out loud something about how well everything had worked out for us. Being in the middle of nowhere surrounded by mountains, trickling streams, rainbows, pastures dotted with sheep, and rays of the setting sun felt so right.
Suddenly we hit a pothole and heard a, thud… thud… sound coming from our car. The car started to shake like my nervous hands and we pulled over to assess the damages. I opened my door and looked at the front tire rapidly deflating. At the same Emmy opened the back door and assessed the situation. We both looked up at once and showed our concerns. I couldn’t believe it. The tires both popped! So there we sit on a windy road with 2 tires flat and the picturesque sun setting in the backdrop over the mountainside, and little idea of how our ideal situation deteriorated so quickly.
Emmy and I walked up the road to find a sign of civilization, but only saw a closed down sweater shop a ways down. Not even a car passed us… And the phone faded in and out of 1 to no bars. The Verizon World phone Dad bought seemed pretty useless. I guess a little sleep over in the car never hurt anyone. Well, maybe it’d hurt the wheel…
I called the B&B with almost no signal and cried for help. Her strong accent and my weak signal made this challenging. I told her the car brand, year, and that we needed 2 tires. After 10mins of repeating myself she assured me something about a “carriage” being on the way. All I could picture was a horse and buggy pulling our Toyota down the road. The repair man took forever to arrive. (Maybe more like 20mins.) The mechanic named Brendan wrenched on two doughnuts in no time and asked us to follow him to replace the doughnuts with the right tires. The twenty minutes Brendan took to get to us seemed like nothing. After 45mins of dodging sheep and potholes while driving the maze of roads guided by Brendan’s tail lights we arrived at the garage. (Not the “carriage”) Three hundred Euros later the tires looked brand new. In fact, they looked too new for a rental car. (Hopefully Avis will never know).
Finally, we pulled up to a cute house tucked away in the hillsides. For €35 a head we slept, ate breakfast, and backed our bags for another day.
Oct 18, Day 3 - Cars, Bars, and Gardeners
After your car troubles yesterday I was a little tense sitting in the front seat. Emmy took a ride for an adventure instead. I literally got a headache, because it stressed me out so much… I guess the feeling of thinking deaths around the corner makes most people tense. It made me a little crabby unfortunately for Ma, Dad, and Emmy.
We visited the picturesque Kylemore Abbey today. The miniature castle originally was a gift for a rich Englishman’s wife in the first half of the 19th century. His wife died at a young age from a disease contracted in Cairo. He lived as a widow for the rest of his life. After his death the Castle became an abbey when an order of Benedictine Sisters fled from Belgium and took refuge.
The place felt like Disneyland with a religious horticultural twist and no lines. On a good day 1,200 tourists trampled through the estate, but today during the off season the place was all to us.
Behind the castle a huge walled garden filled with rows of lush dwarfed, medium, and large sized hedges outlining pathways throughout the gardens. The meticulously maintained gardens were decorated with a variety of well groomed flowers. I bumped into one of the guys pushing a wheel barrel down the crushed rock path cushioned with green moss and picked his brain about the amount of work to keep this place up. Apparently it took him all of June, July, and August to trim the hedges of one part of the garden alone. I told him I work outside in gardens all summer but “I’m not a gardener at all, I’m a professional weed picker.” The guy laughed, but his worn hands peppered with calluses maybe didn’t think it was too funny. The laborer informed me they use no chemicals for weeding either. With the amount of rain here though, he said, “You pick one and see the next one popping up in its place.”
After a fabulous time at the Abbey we drove into Westport for the night. A jar of Nutella, peanut butter, prepackaged processed ham, Wheat Thins, and a glass of tap water was a fine meal. After our money saving meal we walked into town for a sip at a local pub. The Porter House served me a pint of Smithwicks, Dad a Guinness, Emmy a Coke, and Mum a Bailey’s on ice to start the evening. With our cheap meal plan, the stimulus check Uncle Sam sent us last year and a Euro laying on the ground almost gave us enough money to buy another round.
I went over to the crowded bar and struggled to get the attention of the tender. A local helped me wave him down and I ordered the second round. While waiting, I made small talk with a tipsy older guy and a buzzed 40 year old looking man.
After 10 minutes of small talk it evolved into large talk. Turns out the 40-year-old looking man served 13 years in prison and is a proud card carrying member of the IRA. The two Irish Catholic Nationalists intrigued me especially after they bought me a couple more Vodkas and Red Bulls. (Look at the trouble I get into when I go to the bar with my parents…)
Oct 19, Day 4 - Smooth Roads and Rough Ice Cream
Today went much smoother on the road. Driving out of Westport the first couple left turns went easy. On our first right turn we drove into oncoming traffic and a speedy Irishman almost clipped us on my side, but thank goodness he veered out of the way in a split second. As our adventure went on the roads widened and the beat of my heart slowed down. We trucked it into Sligo for a bite to eat.
Unfortunately, our waiter moved a little slower than the Irishman who veered out of the way. Emmy, Ma, and I ordered soup, sandwich, a baked potato smothered in fake chili (which tasted like Taco Bell meat with sloppy joe mix), a couple of drinks, and a milkshake. Meanwhile Dad took a nap in the car. Ma’s soup arrived in about the time it takes to hit the soup button on the microwave. Emmy’s potato took quite a bit longer. They must have handpicked them in the back garden, scrubbed it clean, then baked it and slopped some sloppyjoe over it. My chicken club sandwich took even longer. I guess it takes much longer to butcher a chicken than harvest a potato. Apparently, to whip the cream and let it freeze and sit takes even longer. It seems the cream they used sat out on the table while they cooked up my chicken, because the shake gave a little kick to the taste buds and later to the gut. The “World Famous Ice Cream” they sold tasted like spoiled ice cream melted into cup. He said that’s how it’s supposed to taste, but I told him I’d drank plenty of shakes here and none shook my gut so much. After a longtime of waiting we walked around the mall for a minute or two and took a bathroom break before buying dad lunch and hitting the road.
We decided on a different place to buy Dad a bite just for time sake alone. Sadly, the next café in the mall, as we found out, also moved at snail speed.
Off to Donegal we went. After a couple days of fumbling my way around the Ireland map my confidence as a navigator plummeted. Today on our way out of Sligo the GPS glitched and started making a crazy knotted mess for us as a route and thought our car was off the road when we clearly were driving down one of the largest ones in the country. It was beast of a road. HUGE! It grew so wide at some points that a truck and a car might be able to drive side by side. This was a mammoth 2 lane road! Snelling Avenue size only with roundabouts, a 66mph speed limit, and a zigzagged pattern.
Emmy took over the navigation role and guided us to safety when my map reading abilities failed and my life line (the GPS) went crazy.
Oct 20, Day 5 - Faith and Good Works
The town of (London)Derry takes tension from the Irish Republicans and British Loyalists swirls everything together and creates a rich cultural and historical experience. The curbs, buildings, and flagpoles tagged with True Blue and the colors of the Crown indicate the Loyal Protestant communities who bleed orange. The murals expressing freedom, independence, civil rights, and the oppressive occupation of the British in Ireland scream that the Catholic Republican ideology rules the territory.
The four of us drove into Derry ready for a little relaxation and break from navigating the roundabouts and rugged roads. With a little luck and a lot of backtracking, U-turns, and high blood pressure we safely parked near St. Colum Cathedral. We stretched our legs and walked over to tour the church. The highly decorated building and large stain glass windows made me assume it was a Catholic Church. Once I stepped in and saw no signs of the Virgin Mary, the Stations of the Cross, or worn out kneelers I knew it was not a Catholic church, but Protestant instead. Clocks, a giftshopesque entrance way, and pictures of Royalty should’ve been a dead giveaway as well. The tour guide joyfully let dad and I tag team him with questions, pick his brain, and listen to ourselves talk. The clock above us was ticking away time and Mom gestured us to pick up the pace.
After listening and defending his faith the guide walked us all the way to the Tourist Info Center through the mall, up the hill, down the hill, and across the street. For a guy who thinks you get to heaven on faith alone and not good works he really went beyond the call of duty.
While dad and I babbled away time with the Anglican the last walking tours and bus tours started. A personal taxi tour from the “Free Derry Taxi” fleet was our only option left for the day. Hue our driver picked us up 5mins later and we saw the political history of the town through the half fogged, rain drenched windows of a taxi. Periodically Hue stopped the car, we all hopped out and he told the personal stories of his experience as a Catholic on the Bogside as a 17-year-old freedom fighter. He painted a picture of the bloody, poor, violent past of Derry in the 60s and 70s. At the Bloody Sunday Memorial he told us of his personal experience there. The emotion filled tour ended with a B&B suggestion, food suggestion, and a feeling of satisfaction and respect for Hue.
The hostel—I mean B&B lacked sheets, towels, and overall space, but connected us to the World Wide Web. Mom called everybody via Skype. The excitement in her voice speaks volumes about how much she cares about everybody back home. Maybe just the idea of calling home for 2cents a minute over the internet blew Mom’s mind. Who knows…
While Mom talked Emmy diligently typed emails.
I talked with Mark and Jinette which brighten my night. My giddy mood carried into the next day.
Oct 21, Day 6 - Muslim Bitc***
We woke up and ate our standard eggs, bacon, sausages, and toast. Tea and OJ washed down the bacon fat lodged in our throats. The server told us to “take the Giants Causeway Route to the Muslim Temple and the beautiful bitches… You can walk all over the bitches by the Muslim Temple.” We all looked at the guy in shock, but soon realized he meant, “beaches” and smirked every time he mentioned the nice “bitches”.
After cracking that code I still couldn’t wrap my head around the fact that the devoutly Christian island of Ireland contained a Muslim Temple worth looking at… I threw out my pride and asked about the Mosque. He informed us the Mussenden Temple on the Bishop’s estate and a Muslim temple isn’t one in the same. Go figure?
We jammed Mom and Dad’s 6 suitcases into the trunk with my backpack and Emmy’s bag and hit the road to see all the nice bitches around the Muslim Temple.
The gorgeous backdrop with cliffs, green turf, lazy sheep, and the angry sea highlighted the already amazing looking temple. I chased the sheep a little, but Dad ended my excitement by calling me out on it… I guess it’s not appropriate behavior for an almost 21-year-old man to chase innocent animals around?!
The Bushmills distillery marked the next point interest on the map. As we hopped out of the car the air around us changed. The smell of distilling whiskey pinched our nostrils. Not only that, but the proper personality pinched me the wrong way too as we entered British territory. The poor farmland covered with shattered rock, hills, and Catholic cattle country transformed into flatter land with richer soils and more prosperous Protestant grazing lands.
We missed our tour by 15mins and the lady at the ticket booth made it seem like we’d shot a man. The next tour to join was a half an hour later. We browsed the gift shop and scurried back to ensure the ticket lady who treated us like noddy grade school kids didn’t put soap in out mouths.
Our guide walked us through the distilling process and the factory jammed with moving productive machinery and lagging workers. To end the tour we all sampled their line of quality aged whiskies. Back home my drink of choice (other than a beer) is whiskey mixed with Dr. Pepper. The idea of drinking a smoother better quality whiskey turned me on about as much as it turn mom off.
As the whiskey burned mom’s tongue and stung here esophagus she quivered in disgust. We all followed and reacted the same. I couldn’t understand why I could take a pull of Jim Beam, but Bushmill’s nauseated me. With a little ice I managed the taste much more and stopped gauging when the alcohol hit my lips, but still thought it tasted repulsive.
After the tour we high tailed it to the Giant’s Causeway. We hauled to the site, parked, and walked down to the magnificent geological phenomenon. Mom, Emmy, and I climbed the rock formation while dad snapped pictures of our every move. Dad makes me feel famous sometimes. I know what having a paparazzi feels like now.
After the Causeway we hit the roads and ran back to Irish lands. The expensive British Pound and proper personalities had us running for the more casual easy going Irish Republic hills.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Oct 15
Random Fact About Guinness:
Today I'm waiting for Mom, Dad, and Emmy to get here, so I can share the Irish experience with them... I'm a little concerned about them driving here, but if Dad chugs some Red Bull and Mom sleep for the ride over here they'll be fine. Dad will get used to the tiny roads, no shoulders, high speeds, roundabouts and driving on the opposite side of the road by the time he arrives in Spiddal. I'm excited to hear about their 2hr. ride of a lifetime from Shannon Airport.
Today I'd ask if everyone reading this could write a comment and let me know what's going on in their lives... Anything new going on? Any funny stories, news, politics or interesting updates in your life you'd like to share I'd appreciate it. Sometimes I feel like this is a one-way street blog relationship and it's not intended to be that way. Blogs are supposed to be more of an open dialogue with a diverse number of writers. I planned on using this to keep in touch, but it seems to keep me more distant in a way. I understand not everyone has the time to comment, because I don't have the time to respond to separate emails, which is why I'm using a blog to get the word out.
Also, let me know if there's anything you want me to write about specifically. Or if you want me to do some genealogy research for you? Any random questions you want me to ask a local about like: customs, politics, history, business, folk stories, music, the economy, Cromwell, the Irish ties with Minnesota, beer and pubs, Catholicism, or the famine... A question-answer blog might help to diversify my thoughts and help us to all benefit.
In general, I need feedback other than "love the blog"... Do me a favor and tell me what's boring, frustrating, getting old and what would you'd like to see more of in future posts?
"Guinness has been dispensed in hospitals, correct?
Yes. In England, post-operative patients used to be given Guinness, as were blood donors. Sadly, this is no longer the case in England. In Ireland, Guinness is still made available to blood donors and stomach and intestinal post-operative patients. Guinness is known to be high in iron content."
Above information and more interesting facts on Guinness and your health [Click Here]
Today I'm waiting for Mom, Dad, and Emmy to get here, so I can share the Irish experience with them... I'm a little concerned about them driving here, but if Dad chugs some Red Bull and Mom sleep for the ride over here they'll be fine. Dad will get used to the tiny roads, no shoulders, high speeds, roundabouts and driving on the opposite side of the road by the time he arrives in Spiddal. I'm excited to hear about their 2hr. ride of a lifetime from Shannon Airport.
Today I'd ask if everyone reading this could write a comment and let me know what's going on in their lives... Anything new going on? Any funny stories, news, politics or interesting updates in your life you'd like to share I'd appreciate it. Sometimes I feel like this is a one-way street blog relationship and it's not intended to be that way. Blogs are supposed to be more of an open dialogue with a diverse number of writers. I planned on using this to keep in touch, but it seems to keep me more distant in a way. I understand not everyone has the time to comment, because I don't have the time to respond to separate emails, which is why I'm using a blog to get the word out.
Also, let me know if there's anything you want me to write about specifically. Or if you want me to do some genealogy research for you? Any random questions you want me to ask a local about like: customs, politics, history, business, folk stories, music, the economy, Cromwell, the Irish ties with Minnesota, beer and pubs, Catholicism, or the famine... A question-answer blog might help to diversify my thoughts and help us to all benefit.
In general, I need feedback other than "love the blog"... Do me a favor and tell me what's boring, frustrating, getting old and what would you'd like to see more of in future posts?
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