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?
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Highlights of Dublin Trip
Sorry I've been very busy with school over the last week, so I haven't updated in a long time...
My Week End!
Prison:
We visited a famous prison in Dublin, where most the Nationalists and Revolutionist died by old age and execution.
Guinness Factory:
While most students sat through longwinded professor’s lectures, crammed for a tests, and pushed through homework we went to the Guinness Factory.
A group of us searched the streets of Dublin for the factory using our noses guides. With every step toward the factory the strong scent of hops attacked our nostrils. The streets filled with 18-year-olds moving in unison also steered us in the right direction. The litter infested cold damp streets with abandoned rail tracks intersecting everywhere and neglected warehouses wearing shattered windows reminded me of the old industrial area off University Ave. I started to be doubtful about the second most visited site in Ireland after taking in the scenery encompassing it.
While waiting in line Kevin said it best, “This is gonna be like Willy Wanka’s Chocolate Factory for men.” I took my golden ticket which cost €11 and pushed through the turnstile with high expectations. The museum doubled as one big advertisement for Guinness. Instead of Wanka’s chocolate flowing through, falls of purified natural spring water used in the brewing process from a local mountain streamed through the first floor. Around the gushing water replicas of hops grew on the wall with information about its importance in brewing Guinness. The walls explained the significance of yeast and barely to grand beer.
On the second floor, free samples of Guinness laid out for the taking with a man instructing me how to properly test it. The shot of Guinness teased my taste buds and left me feeling incomplete. After the tease, the transportation of the beer since its existence and the construction of casks were explained. I stumbled up the stairs to see more.
Being a management major who’s interested in marketing and international business the third floor fit me like a glove. Better than the one in OJ’s trial—if that’s possible. (Heard they finally locked him away with that other case this week). The history of Guinness advertising screamed “Pure Genius!” The lovable mascots, poetic slogans, and humorous sketches brought a smile to my face.
At the end of Willy Wanka’s Guinness Factory up the stairs on the top floor 100s of people jammed into a circular glass enclosure perched on the roof which overlooked the whole city. With my ticket stub I redeemed a complimentary Guinness. I’m not sure if it’s because I’d just learned about the beer or what, but it was the best beer I’ve ever drank. I tasted the roasted barely more than in any other Guinness. It almost gave off a chocolate/coffee taste.
After the letting the alcohol run through my vanes I stumbled down to the gift shop. The slogans of Guinness were branded on clothes, magnets, posters, hats, pint glasses, clocks, and more.
Hill of Tara:
On this site Saint Patrick confronted a king about the rules of lighting fires on the hill tops of his kingdom. Saint Patrick impressed the king with his courage and strong devotion to Christianity converting the king. Initially the place bored me, because my poor imagination couldn’t fathom how a hilly pasture of grass stained with sheep shit drew so many people. Not only was there no castle, but not even ruins of it.
Then I looked in the distance and noticed the little beasts that’d stained the ground I walked. Kevin and I slowly approached the sheep, but they jumped up, urinated in unison, and trotted off. Our walking eased into a slow jog; we separated, and surrounded them. These little beasts picked up speed at this point and hauled off deep into the field for refuge. I felt like a shepherd… My beard really fit the mood.
Brazen Head:
The oldest pub in Ireland rests in the heart of Dublin. As I sat down on a short bar stool sipping my Smithwicks the sound of laughter, Gaelic tongue, and fast English competed with the whistle of bag pipers playing in the background.
Burrdock’s Fish and Chips:
The best fish and chips place on earth supposedly resides in Dublin. Burrdock’s fish attract celebrities from around the world who fill the wall of fame list posted in the tiny place. Locals told us people line up out the door for a bag of fish and chips. The closet of a restaurant holds no tables or chairs to sit down at and only 3 people fit in the line. Meaning “lines out the door” doesn’t say much. Huge vats of boiling grease fogged the window s, cooked the fish and chips, and heated the room. Within seconds after I’d ordered the two employees took my money, dropped the battered fish into the tubs of bubbling grease, and fished it out slipping it into a brown bag stuffed with fries. It tasted like a salty cod enclosed by mini donut batter dripping with liquid lard. The fish burnt the roof of my mouth and slipped down my throat satisfying my hunger. After inhaling the bag of fish and chips lathered in grease I felt sick to my stomach. Go figure? I doubt it’s the best in the world, but it tasted grand minus the belly ache afterwords.
Monastic Community:
A brisk breeze with a calm whistle from over the waters and through the trees coupled with the rays of sun sneaking through the crisp clouds brought a sort of peacefulness to me. I slowly wandered through rows of moss encrusted tomb stones shaped as Celtic crosses. Over the centuries, the elements ate away the edges of rock leaving a graveyard of smooth mossy stone. The weathered stones and ruins of a church in the backdrop tell the story of a strong faith continually being challenged by invasion. Both Vikings and Irishmen alike raided, ransacked, burned, and killed the rich monastic community.
Mother Nature began to heal the lands of war by filling in its wounds with lush glowing green grass. She patched its scares up with spots of deep green moss. As I strolled through the old monastic graveyard I snapped pictures from all angles and slowed down to digest the landscape and my thoughts.
These are two videos... of one my cottage and another of my weekend in Dublin...
My Week End!
Prison:
We visited a famous prison in Dublin, where most the Nationalists and Revolutionist died by old age and execution.
Guinness Factory:
While most students sat through longwinded professor’s lectures, crammed for a tests, and pushed through homework we went to the Guinness Factory.
A group of us searched the streets of Dublin for the factory using our noses guides. With every step toward the factory the strong scent of hops attacked our nostrils. The streets filled with 18-year-olds moving in unison also steered us in the right direction. The litter infested cold damp streets with abandoned rail tracks intersecting everywhere and neglected warehouses wearing shattered windows reminded me of the old industrial area off University Ave. I started to be doubtful about the second most visited site in Ireland after taking in the scenery encompassing it.
While waiting in line Kevin said it best, “This is gonna be like Willy Wanka’s Chocolate Factory for men.” I took my golden ticket which cost €11 and pushed through the turnstile with high expectations. The museum doubled as one big advertisement for Guinness. Instead of Wanka’s chocolate flowing through, falls of purified natural spring water used in the brewing process from a local mountain streamed through the first floor. Around the gushing water replicas of hops grew on the wall with information about its importance in brewing Guinness. The walls explained the significance of yeast and barely to grand beer.
On the second floor, free samples of Guinness laid out for the taking with a man instructing me how to properly test it. The shot of Guinness teased my taste buds and left me feeling incomplete. After the tease, the transportation of the beer since its existence and the construction of casks were explained. I stumbled up the stairs to see more.
Being a management major who’s interested in marketing and international business the third floor fit me like a glove. Better than the one in OJ’s trial—if that’s possible. (Heard they finally locked him away with that other case this week). The history of Guinness advertising screamed “Pure Genius!” The lovable mascots, poetic slogans, and humorous sketches brought a smile to my face.
At the end of Willy Wanka’s Guinness Factory up the stairs on the top floor 100s of people jammed into a circular glass enclosure perched on the roof which overlooked the whole city. With my ticket stub I redeemed a complimentary Guinness. I’m not sure if it’s because I’d just learned about the beer or what, but it was the best beer I’ve ever drank. I tasted the roasted barely more than in any other Guinness. It almost gave off a chocolate/coffee taste.
After the letting the alcohol run through my vanes I stumbled down to the gift shop. The slogans of Guinness were branded on clothes, magnets, posters, hats, pint glasses, clocks, and more.
Hill of Tara:
On this site Saint Patrick confronted a king about the rules of lighting fires on the hill tops of his kingdom. Saint Patrick impressed the king with his courage and strong devotion to Christianity converting the king. Initially the place bored me, because my poor imagination couldn’t fathom how a hilly pasture of grass stained with sheep shit drew so many people. Not only was there no castle, but not even ruins of it.
Then I looked in the distance and noticed the little beasts that’d stained the ground I walked. Kevin and I slowly approached the sheep, but they jumped up, urinated in unison, and trotted off. Our walking eased into a slow jog; we separated, and surrounded them. These little beasts picked up speed at this point and hauled off deep into the field for refuge. I felt like a shepherd… My beard really fit the mood.
Brazen Head:
The oldest pub in Ireland rests in the heart of Dublin. As I sat down on a short bar stool sipping my Smithwicks the sound of laughter, Gaelic tongue, and fast English competed with the whistle of bag pipers playing in the background.
Burrdock’s Fish and Chips:
The best fish and chips place on earth supposedly resides in Dublin. Burrdock’s fish attract celebrities from around the world who fill the wall of fame list posted in the tiny place. Locals told us people line up out the door for a bag of fish and chips. The closet of a restaurant holds no tables or chairs to sit down at and only 3 people fit in the line. Meaning “lines out the door” doesn’t say much. Huge vats of boiling grease fogged the window s, cooked the fish and chips, and heated the room. Within seconds after I’d ordered the two employees took my money, dropped the battered fish into the tubs of bubbling grease, and fished it out slipping it into a brown bag stuffed with fries. It tasted like a salty cod enclosed by mini donut batter dripping with liquid lard. The fish burnt the roof of my mouth and slipped down my throat satisfying my hunger. After inhaling the bag of fish and chips lathered in grease I felt sick to my stomach. Go figure? I doubt it’s the best in the world, but it tasted grand minus the belly ache afterwords.
Monastic Community:
A brisk breeze with a calm whistle from over the waters and through the trees coupled with the rays of sun sneaking through the crisp clouds brought a sort of peacefulness to me. I slowly wandered through rows of moss encrusted tomb stones shaped as Celtic crosses. Over the centuries, the elements ate away the edges of rock leaving a graveyard of smooth mossy stone. The weathered stones and ruins of a church in the backdrop tell the story of a strong faith continually being challenged by invasion. Both Vikings and Irishmen alike raided, ransacked, burned, and killed the rich monastic community.
Mother Nature began to heal the lands of war by filling in its wounds with lush glowing green grass. She patched its scares up with spots of deep green moss. As I strolled through the old monastic graveyard I snapped pictures from all angles and slowed down to digest the landscape and my thoughts.
These are two videos... of one my cottage and another of my weekend in Dublin...
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Oct 8
First off... I talked to Caroline and Ryan... I'm so excited about being an uncle in no time!
Once again I learned the Irish love spontaneity and jump on any opportunity for some giggles.
The projector in class malfunctioned meaning our prof, Jackie, couldn’t function. She vetoed class altogether and called for an archeological walk into Spiddal to learn about the Gaelic Catholic church. We bounced out of our seats with excitement and trucked it down the road into town. Jackie led the pack. We halted at the first intersection into town, because she noticed a sign notifying her of a commentary down the road, and hung a right for a detour.
Emily and I walked ahead of the group with Jackie cracking jokes and learning about Irish culture. She looked at Emily and me and threatened to pull a quick one on the group. We joked about tricking everyone into thinking a cinder block on the side of the road held archeological significance to Spiddal. The second we stopped laughing she stopped the group, opened the gate to a random cow pasture, and guided us through a jungle of grassland peppered with cow pie landmines disguised as mud. After dodging some manure and slipping on the waterlogged grass we slid over to a small rock formation which doubled as an island in the sea of lush grass, mud, and cow dung to listen to her lecture. Emily and I turned red and almost burst into tears of laughter, but managed to get a hold of ourselves when Jackie shot us a look. She posed the question, “Does anyone know what we’re standing on right now?” Alex proudly piped up, “A megalithic tomb!” She happily said, “Yes, what kind of tomb?” Nick explained, “A court tomb.” She said, “Yes, how’d you know?” He admitted it was a guess. Like everyone else I let out some laughter, but for a different reason than Nick’s smart remark. The prof kept a straight face and said, “Grand, does anyone know what the court in the tomb is for?” A couple people spurted out, “it’s the place inside the tomb the community holds a feast to celebrate the life of the dead.” She continued, “Grand, Now where’s the court of this tomb?” Alex proudly pointed to flat ground at the base of the “tomb” exclaiming, “Right there.” The smirk on my face became wider with every confident comment by Alex. She asked, “So where’s the entrance?” I couldn’t hold it in anymore. Before Alex could answer, the smirk on my face exploded into a loud giggle. Then Emily cracked and began to chuckle.
Our prof smirked and let everyone in on the joke. We all let out a laugh, tiptoed around the cow poop, and took refuge on the clean and dry pathway. As we walked away I zoomed out and laughed once again noticing thousands of nearly identical rock formations shaping the landscape.
On our way back a couple of us holding up the tail ran into a local “cowboy” as he called himself (not a farmer like I assumingly called him). The old man supported thinning white hair and an intriguingly thick accent. I pulled a Joe Lais and we exchanged our life stories. Meanwhile the majority of the group made their way down the road. Us few stragglers looked around and found ourselves alone. The others made their way into Spiddal. I voted to go back to class banking that if they went to Spiddal I’d already missed the lecture anyways. If they didn’t, I’d be back in the classroom like everyone else. I scurried back to the cottage classroom to find myself alone. Yikes, I successfully ditched my first class. Turns out the class continued on to Spiddal.
I finished my homework and started to get nervous about missing class. Eventually, everyone started to trickle back home and question where I went. They assured me the prof never noticed my absence.
For supper my cottage was invited to eat at the prof’s place. We all changed into different pants and fancy shirts and made our way to their cottage with the gift of red wine. (Yes, we definitely regifted the wine J.P. gave me). The food hit the spot. As I used to say to mom, it was a “real meal”. The wine took the edge off and the awkwardness we all expected evolved into a flowing conversation.
As we walked out I mentioned how the night was much funnier and less awkward than I’d expected. Joey replied by saying, “Ya, I enjoyed myself too, especially, as we were leaving, when I noticed your fly was down the whole night.” I looked down at my fly, zipped it, and punched him on the shoulder. We all laughed.
After supper I finished my paper late and snoozed.
Once again I learned the Irish love spontaneity and jump on any opportunity for some giggles.
The projector in class malfunctioned meaning our prof, Jackie, couldn’t function. She vetoed class altogether and called for an archeological walk into Spiddal to learn about the Gaelic Catholic church. We bounced out of our seats with excitement and trucked it down the road into town. Jackie led the pack. We halted at the first intersection into town, because she noticed a sign notifying her of a commentary down the road, and hung a right for a detour.
Emily and I walked ahead of the group with Jackie cracking jokes and learning about Irish culture. She looked at Emily and me and threatened to pull a quick one on the group. We joked about tricking everyone into thinking a cinder block on the side of the road held archeological significance to Spiddal. The second we stopped laughing she stopped the group, opened the gate to a random cow pasture, and guided us through a jungle of grassland peppered with cow pie landmines disguised as mud. After dodging some manure and slipping on the waterlogged grass we slid over to a small rock formation which doubled as an island in the sea of lush grass, mud, and cow dung to listen to her lecture. Emily and I turned red and almost burst into tears of laughter, but managed to get a hold of ourselves when Jackie shot us a look. She posed the question, “Does anyone know what we’re standing on right now?” Alex proudly piped up, “A megalithic tomb!” She happily said, “Yes, what kind of tomb?” Nick explained, “A court tomb.” She said, “Yes, how’d you know?” He admitted it was a guess. Like everyone else I let out some laughter, but for a different reason than Nick’s smart remark. The prof kept a straight face and said, “Grand, does anyone know what the court in the tomb is for?” A couple people spurted out, “it’s the place inside the tomb the community holds a feast to celebrate the life of the dead.” She continued, “Grand, Now where’s the court of this tomb?” Alex proudly pointed to flat ground at the base of the “tomb” exclaiming, “Right there.” The smirk on my face became wider with every confident comment by Alex. She asked, “So where’s the entrance?” I couldn’t hold it in anymore. Before Alex could answer, the smirk on my face exploded into a loud giggle. Then Emily cracked and began to chuckle.
Our prof smirked and let everyone in on the joke. We all let out a laugh, tiptoed around the cow poop, and took refuge on the clean and dry pathway. As we walked away I zoomed out and laughed once again noticing thousands of nearly identical rock formations shaping the landscape.
On our way back a couple of us holding up the tail ran into a local “cowboy” as he called himself (not a farmer like I assumingly called him). The old man supported thinning white hair and an intriguingly thick accent. I pulled a Joe Lais and we exchanged our life stories. Meanwhile the majority of the group made their way down the road. Us few stragglers looked around and found ourselves alone. The others made their way into Spiddal. I voted to go back to class banking that if they went to Spiddal I’d already missed the lecture anyways. If they didn’t, I’d be back in the classroom like everyone else. I scurried back to the cottage classroom to find myself alone. Yikes, I successfully ditched my first class. Turns out the class continued on to Spiddal.
I finished my homework and started to get nervous about missing class. Eventually, everyone started to trickle back home and question where I went. They assured me the prof never noticed my absence.
For supper my cottage was invited to eat at the prof’s place. We all changed into different pants and fancy shirts and made our way to their cottage with the gift of red wine. (Yes, we definitely regifted the wine J.P. gave me). The food hit the spot. As I used to say to mom, it was a “real meal”. The wine took the edge off and the awkwardness we all expected evolved into a flowing conversation.
As we walked out I mentioned how the night was much funnier and less awkward than I’d expected. Joey replied by saying, “Ya, I enjoyed myself too, especially, as we were leaving, when I noticed your fly was down the whole night.” I looked down at my fly, zipped it, and punched him on the shoulder. We all laughed.
After supper I finished my paper late and snoozed.
Monday, October 6, 2008
Ireland Slide Show Movie
Some of the better pictures I've taken put to some grand Irish pub music!
This was an experiment, so some of the pictures appear twice... Oops
Beard Time
Upon arriving in Ireland most of the guys on trip decided to grow beards... I pressured them into growing one with me, because if you're gonna look dumb you might as well look dumb with someone else . I figured we're all away from our girlfriends (and the uglier we are the less likely another girls lookin' at us anyways, so they should be happy for the built in hideous cheating protection), our parents don't need to be embarrassed by being with us in public, and we blend in with the accessorized Europeans.
Week 2
Week 3: My friend Adam from SJU commented on this picture on Facebook and said it best, "Lais... you look like an Irish terrorist."
I will try to update this on a weekly basis from this point on..
Week 1: I looked like a 9th grader trying to pretend his voice changed, but knew it didn't, so grew a spotty beard to compensate.
Week 2
Week 3: My friend Adam from SJU commented on this picture on Facebook and said it best, "Lais... you look like an Irish terrorist."I will try to update this on a weekly basis from this point on..
Sunday, October 5, 2008
Oct 5th
Today we toured all of Kilkenny by foot passing the Smithwhick’s brewery, multiple churches, various pubs, and the residence of Lady Alice Kettell. In 1325, the Church convicted Alice of Witchcraft. Alice lent money to people and collected interest, which the church frowned upon in those times. To secure her money and guarantee future business she successfully married the four bankers in Kilkenny. One after the other, they mysteriously died and she remarried. Turns out, likely she poisoned them with arsenic and never practiced Witchcraft at all. Researchers believe this because all the victim’s hair and nails fell off before they croaked. If McCain’s or Dr. Phil’s nails fall off we know what happened –Witchcraft.
Next we toured the Butler’s Norman style Kilkenny Castle. The castle looked like straight out of the movies. In front of the Castle a group of Irish dancing middle aged men dressed in green with bells attached to them danced to the beat of banjos, guitars, and drums. I decided to ask the dancers for a picture while a crowd watched my face turn red in embarrassment. I covered my embarrassment with a smirk and got a chuckle out of most people. Unfortunately, only a few of the dancers posed with me.
Wish I toured these castles in grade school, because my Lego castles would’ve dominated, instead of getting demolished by Mark’s spaceships. The glorious Kilkenny Castle tops the list for the best castle I’ve seen so far.
During the tour we learned the boys of royalty and rich wore dresses and make up until around 7-years of age. I started to understand why the little boys who grew up to take the Crown enforced such crazy rules. I mean, I’d be pretty messed up too if I grew up as a cross dresser. (Oh wait, until I was 7-years-old my siblings played “farm”, called me a cow, and kicked me. On top of that, I wore pink snow pants hand-me-downs from Kelli to save money). Hope everything works out for me… The little boys wore dresses to blend in with the girls, protecting them from being kidnapped by enemies interested in killing the heir to the throne.
After the castle the group drove to Dunbar cave. We raced down 350 steps into the cave and looked at all the stalactites and stalagmites. The guide told us how the people of the village hid in the depths of the cave while enemies burned the town to the ground. The enemies refused to go into the cave, because it was thought to be an entrance to hell. The Vikings knew better and held no belief in hell allowing them to take over the village and enslave to people.
We bought groceries and drove back to the cottages after Dunbar Cave. I took meat orders for tomorrow, blogged, and tried to call people (Skype isn’t working right now for some reason), and hit the hay.
Next we toured the Butler’s Norman style Kilkenny Castle. The castle looked like straight out of the movies. In front of the Castle a group of Irish dancing middle aged men dressed in green with bells attached to them danced to the beat of banjos, guitars, and drums. I decided to ask the dancers for a picture while a crowd watched my face turn red in embarrassment. I covered my embarrassment with a smirk and got a chuckle out of most people. Unfortunately, only a few of the dancers posed with me.
Wish I toured these castles in grade school, because my Lego castles would’ve dominated, instead of getting demolished by Mark’s spaceships. The glorious Kilkenny Castle tops the list for the best castle I’ve seen so far.
During the tour we learned the boys of royalty and rich wore dresses and make up until around 7-years of age. I started to understand why the little boys who grew up to take the Crown enforced such crazy rules. I mean, I’d be pretty messed up too if I grew up as a cross dresser. (Oh wait, until I was 7-years-old my siblings played “farm”, called me a cow, and kicked me. On top of that, I wore pink snow pants hand-me-downs from Kelli to save money). Hope everything works out for me… The little boys wore dresses to blend in with the girls, protecting them from being kidnapped by enemies interested in killing the heir to the throne.
After the castle the group drove to Dunbar cave. We raced down 350 steps into the cave and looked at all the stalactites and stalagmites. The guide told us how the people of the village hid in the depths of the cave while enemies burned the town to the ground. The enemies refused to go into the cave, because it was thought to be an entrance to hell. The Vikings knew better and held no belief in hell allowing them to take over the village and enslave to people.
We bought groceries and drove back to the cottages after Dunbar Cave. I took meat orders for tomorrow, blogged, and tried to call people (Skype isn’t working right now for some reason), and hit the hay.
Oct 4th
This morning the group departed and hauled to Cahir and Butler Castle for tours. Butler Castle formly was occupied by a (oddly) Catholic Norman family, surrendered to the hated Oliver Cromwell saving the complex from destruction.
Around 5:30pm we settled in at our hostel in Kilkenny. I immediately inquired about the church situation. The woman in charge of the hostel pointed me to the 13th century Black Abbey Dominican Church down an eerie side street.
I informed everyone and we marched over to the church to check on times. The parking lot overflowed with Euro cars as we walked passed it. We looked at our watches which read 6:07 and almost turned around assuming mass started at 6:00 or earlier. We confronted the sign to see if a later mass time was available and saw mass is held miraculously at 6:10 on Saturdays.
FYI, it’s called the “Black” Abbey church because the Monks who celebrated mass there wore black and white robes back in the day. Also, the church used to be shaped like a cross, but no other than Cromwell destroyed half of the structure leaving only an “L” shape. Outside the church, coffins of Norman Knights (which date back further than our country’s history) line the parking lot doubling as curbs.
After mass the group of us church goers checked out a local pizzeria, sat down, opened up the menus, spotted the prices, and awkwardly slipped out of the place. We downgraded to Uncle Sam’s Pizza, saving us a couple Euro, but giving us a little more cholesterol to line our arteries.
The group of us ventured to a local pub for a quick pint before calling it a night. I sat down and held my 5 Euro out waiting for the bar tender to notice me. Joe thankfully approached me before the bar tender and notified me a pint cost €4.80! A couple others and I passed on the pint and returned to the hostel to attempt to watch the VP debate. In the room with WiFi, a Canadian student in her 20s and an Italian man in his 30s captured our attention leaving Palin and boring Biden unwatched.
We fumbled around in Spanglish with the Italian and chatted in English with the Canadian. The weird thing was I understood the Italian more. What I mean is the Canadian lady couldn’t really relate to us. The girl told us nobody cares about politics in Canada and the ones who do waste their time, because nothing will change anyways. She thought Hilary was on her way to being the president in the U.S. and needed me to tell her about Canada’s form of government. I tried to let her redeem herself by asking if she thought Canada should form two separate countries with a French speaking/cultural area and an English speaking/cultural area. She laughed at me and mockingly, but also seriously, told me she’d talked to her friends from France and they didn’t want the land back. I tried not to burst into tears of laughter and politely asked her if the English wanted to reclaim the rest of Canada and the 13 Colonies? A confused look formed on her face. She continued by saying, “It’s ridiculous that some of the dumb French Canadians want their own country…”, and mockingly questioned, “Is reading a sign in English with small words in French underneath really that offensive to them that they need to separate?” I looked at her with a fake confused look and asked, “Huh, I thought they wanted to restore and maintain their culture…much like the Irish do here in the English speaking Ireland?” Then I said, “My girlfriend’s mom is French Canadian, grew up speaking French, moved to the States, learned to speak English, and recently became a citizen. I wonder what she’d say about the ‘dumb’ French Canadians who want to separate.” (After hearing this she might change her mind about it.) Oops, I said too much and rudely killed the conversation before she spewed anymore ignorance… I couldn’t play along anymore. She’d gone from humorous to offensive.
At that point an awkward silenced filled the air between us. Dang, I’d done this so many times before, provoked someone, played dumb, then waited until they offended me, and mocked them to the point of shutting them up. With the silence, I decided to take the opportunity to call Jinette on Skype, but about 5 minutes in to our conversation the woman running the hostel told me the fireside lounge (with the only internet access) closed in a minute. I cut Jinette off, packed my laptop, and made my way to bed.
Around 5:30pm we settled in at our hostel in Kilkenny. I immediately inquired about the church situation. The woman in charge of the hostel pointed me to the 13th century Black Abbey Dominican Church down an eerie side street.
I informed everyone and we marched over to the church to check on times. The parking lot overflowed with Euro cars as we walked passed it. We looked at our watches which read 6:07 and almost turned around assuming mass started at 6:00 or earlier. We confronted the sign to see if a later mass time was available and saw mass is held miraculously at 6:10 on Saturdays.
FYI, it’s called the “Black” Abbey church because the Monks who celebrated mass there wore black and white robes back in the day. Also, the church used to be shaped like a cross, but no other than Cromwell destroyed half of the structure leaving only an “L” shape. Outside the church, coffins of Norman Knights (which date back further than our country’s history) line the parking lot doubling as curbs.
After mass the group of us church goers checked out a local pizzeria, sat down, opened up the menus, spotted the prices, and awkwardly slipped out of the place. We downgraded to Uncle Sam’s Pizza, saving us a couple Euro, but giving us a little more cholesterol to line our arteries.
The group of us ventured to a local pub for a quick pint before calling it a night. I sat down and held my 5 Euro out waiting for the bar tender to notice me. Joe thankfully approached me before the bar tender and notified me a pint cost €4.80! A couple others and I passed on the pint and returned to the hostel to attempt to watch the VP debate. In the room with WiFi, a Canadian student in her 20s and an Italian man in his 30s captured our attention leaving Palin and boring Biden unwatched.
We fumbled around in Spanglish with the Italian and chatted in English with the Canadian. The weird thing was I understood the Italian more. What I mean is the Canadian lady couldn’t really relate to us. The girl told us nobody cares about politics in Canada and the ones who do waste their time, because nothing will change anyways. She thought Hilary was on her way to being the president in the U.S. and needed me to tell her about Canada’s form of government. I tried to let her redeem herself by asking if she thought Canada should form two separate countries with a French speaking/cultural area and an English speaking/cultural area. She laughed at me and mockingly, but also seriously, told me she’d talked to her friends from France and they didn’t want the land back. I tried not to burst into tears of laughter and politely asked her if the English wanted to reclaim the rest of Canada and the 13 Colonies? A confused look formed on her face. She continued by saying, “It’s ridiculous that some of the dumb French Canadians want their own country…”, and mockingly questioned, “Is reading a sign in English with small words in French underneath really that offensive to them that they need to separate?” I looked at her with a fake confused look and asked, “Huh, I thought they wanted to restore and maintain their culture…much like the Irish do here in the English speaking Ireland?” Then I said, “My girlfriend’s mom is French Canadian, grew up speaking French, moved to the States, learned to speak English, and recently became a citizen. I wonder what she’d say about the ‘dumb’ French Canadians who want to separate.” (After hearing this she might change her mind about it.) Oops, I said too much and rudely killed the conversation before she spewed anymore ignorance… I couldn’t play along anymore. She’d gone from humorous to offensive.
At that point an awkward silenced filled the air between us. Dang, I’d done this so many times before, provoked someone, played dumb, then waited until they offended me, and mocked them to the point of shutting them up. With the silence, I decided to take the opportunity to call Jinette on Skype, but about 5 minutes in to our conversation the woman running the hostel told me the fireside lounge (with the only internet access) closed in a minute. I cut Jinette off, packed my laptop, and made my way to bed.
Oct 3rd
I paid the price for all my wages and woke up with a desert dry mouth and a splitting headache. (So, don't worry mom this isn't gonna become habit any time soon). I nursed a cup of water and washed the dishes while I sobered up. The phone rang and I stumbled over, picked it up, and heard a cheerful Irish tongue screeching from the speaker. It was my new boss—J.P. He needed help and wanted some solid work for his liquid wages.
We set up 100 chairs, moved tables, laughed a little, and BSed a lot more. My boss spoke the same language as Brother Martel—mumbling nonsense, so I felt right at home. J.P.’s less intimidating, but just as humorous.
After setting up for an event we took a lunch break. We slowly stepped down the stairs towards the kitchen. I’d wondered what was down the staircase. With every step my curiosity lessened and mental map filled in. J.P.’s sister prepared lunch for us as he tossed me a plate, knife, and fork and introduced me to his mother. The German pork sausage, fried bacon, poached eggs, fresh buttered bread, and sugar with a little coffee went down easy. His family drilled me with questions as I boringly responded by spitting out words of a tired gibberish.
After I put his family to sleep with my lullaby of words, J.P. and I shuffled up the stairs, out the door, to the pub. We swept, vacuumed, and mopped the sticky, shattered glass covered, stale beer smelling, tile floor. Then I scrubbed up a pile of vomit with sanitizer, restocked the shelves, moved out the cashed kegs, replaced the gas tanks, cleaned the lines, dollied new kegs in, tapped the kegs, bleached the counter tops, and wiped the sweat from my forehead.
After cleaning the pub out, J.P. smiled and thanked me. The thanks, food, and knowledge gained about tapping kegs, cleaning lines, and replacing lager and stout gas tanks fully satisfied me. As I walked out of the pub he threw me a €20 bill, a bottle of red wine, and my dignity from a hard day’s work. J.P. informed me that next week the tile roof needed to be repainted if I was interested in being a master painter.
Walking into my cottage with a full stomach, some cash, and a bottle of wine felt grand. I rubbed it in to Joe, because last week when I talked about asking J.P. for a job he laughed in my face.
After gloating to my cottagemates I took a nap. Then cottage 4 hosted an all-cottage potluck with free bottomless wine. I opted out of the wine. I lived up to my knick name given to me in grade school – faithful pooch. Faithful pooch, because in social environments I operate like a puppy. While wagging my tail, I approach everyone, sniff ‘em out and quickly move on to the next circle of people to steal some attention.
After a long day of work, socializing, and drinking water I gave Jinette a jingle and followed that up with some shut eye.
We set up 100 chairs, moved tables, laughed a little, and BSed a lot more. My boss spoke the same language as Brother Martel—mumbling nonsense, so I felt right at home. J.P.’s less intimidating, but just as humorous.
After setting up for an event we took a lunch break. We slowly stepped down the stairs towards the kitchen. I’d wondered what was down the staircase. With every step my curiosity lessened and mental map filled in. J.P.’s sister prepared lunch for us as he tossed me a plate, knife, and fork and introduced me to his mother. The German pork sausage, fried bacon, poached eggs, fresh buttered bread, and sugar with a little coffee went down easy. His family drilled me with questions as I boringly responded by spitting out words of a tired gibberish.
After I put his family to sleep with my lullaby of words, J.P. and I shuffled up the stairs, out the door, to the pub. We swept, vacuumed, and mopped the sticky, shattered glass covered, stale beer smelling, tile floor. Then I scrubbed up a pile of vomit with sanitizer, restocked the shelves, moved out the cashed kegs, replaced the gas tanks, cleaned the lines, dollied new kegs in, tapped the kegs, bleached the counter tops, and wiped the sweat from my forehead.
After cleaning the pub out, J.P. smiled and thanked me. The thanks, food, and knowledge gained about tapping kegs, cleaning lines, and replacing lager and stout gas tanks fully satisfied me. As I walked out of the pub he threw me a €20 bill, a bottle of red wine, and my dignity from a hard day’s work. J.P. informed me that next week the tile roof needed to be repainted if I was interested in being a master painter.
Walking into my cottage with a full stomach, some cash, and a bottle of wine felt grand. I rubbed it in to Joe, because last week when I talked about asking J.P. for a job he laughed in my face.
After gloating to my cottagemates I took a nap. Then cottage 4 hosted an all-cottage potluck with free bottomless wine. I opted out of the wine. I lived up to my knick name given to me in grade school – faithful pooch. Faithful pooch, because in social environments I operate like a puppy. While wagging my tail, I approach everyone, sniff ‘em out and quickly move on to the next circle of people to steal some attention.
After a long day of work, socializing, and drinking water I gave Jinette a jingle and followed that up with some shut eye.
Oct 2nd
Today, we had class until 10:15 a.m. and then caught a bus to Galway. As I hopped off the bus the airwaves filled with rain pounding against the walks and a mob of protesters chanting the phrase “G-M-I-T WE DON’T NEED No F****** FEE!” I was drawn to the crowd. The intensity and decibels grew with every step toward the masses. The hippy looking crowd brought back memories of the protesters outside Macalister after G-Dubs took office in 2004. As the people became angrier gardas (cops) surrounded the city center, Eire Square. I quickly snapped some pictures and dipped before anything got out of control. I started to move quickly with my back to people and ran to the mall. Immediately after snapping the picture, as I was running, I heard three or four guys yell at me, “hey you.” Before turning around to acknowledge them, I almost wet myself in fear. Did I offend a group of angry college activists by taking pictures? Was I gonna get tossed by the neighborhood activists Barack’s been babbling about?
I turned around to face my fears and my eyes met with a group of college students. They wanted my attention because I dropped my sun glasses. They tossed me the glasses. I thanked them and played it off like nothing happened, walking away from the situation with a fake tough look on my face. I mean, I did grow up in the hood off Summit Ave, STP, so of course I wasn’t scared.
After the protester run-in we bought groceries at AlDis and some beer at Dunnes Off License. As I waited for the bus to pick me up, the rain drenched my bags sending groceries and booze everywhere.
After my adventurous day I took an hour nap and then made myself a ham and cheese pita sandwich with a pint of Smithwhicks.
We all decided to hit up the pub after dark. I told J.P., the owner of the hotel, I wanted to work for him. I needed something to do other than read for class, cook, and think about Jinette. I told him I didn’t even need money, just something to spice up the routine a little. I explained to him, I liked to think I’m hard working and I stopped being able to convince myself after sitting too long. He laughed, poured me a wee bit too many pints on the house and told me, “Well new employee, it’s pay day today and today’s currency comes in liquid form, including: Guinness, Smithwhicks, Coke, and Paddy’s Irish Whiskey…” I laughed a lot, not because it was anything was terribly funny, but because I felt a wee bit intoxicated.
I turned around to face my fears and my eyes met with a group of college students. They wanted my attention because I dropped my sun glasses. They tossed me the glasses. I thanked them and played it off like nothing happened, walking away from the situation with a fake tough look on my face. I mean, I did grow up in the hood off Summit Ave, STP, so of course I wasn’t scared.
After the protester run-in we bought groceries at AlDis and some beer at Dunnes Off License. As I waited for the bus to pick me up, the rain drenched my bags sending groceries and booze everywhere.
After my adventurous day I took an hour nap and then made myself a ham and cheese pita sandwich with a pint of Smithwhicks.
We all decided to hit up the pub after dark. I told J.P., the owner of the hotel, I wanted to work for him. I needed something to do other than read for class, cook, and think about Jinette. I told him I didn’t even need money, just something to spice up the routine a little. I explained to him, I liked to think I’m hard working and I stopped being able to convince myself after sitting too long. He laughed, poured me a wee bit too many pints on the house and told me, “Well new employee, it’s pay day today and today’s currency comes in liquid form, including: Guinness, Smithwhicks, Coke, and Paddy’s Irish Whiskey…” I laughed a lot, not because it was anything was terribly funny, but because I felt a wee bit intoxicated.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Sept 29 and 30th
After class today I teamed up with my buddy Alex Schafer and expanded my meat business to milk, eggs, and produce of all varieties. Schafe and I pranced around and knocked door to door like a bunch of little girl scouts taking orders for Thin Mints, Samoas, Tagalongs, and Do-si-dos... Too bad we were ordering raw ground beef, chicken, bananas, and potatoes instead!
Meat orders:
Cottage 1: 2lbs minced beef, 10 chicken fillets
Cottage 2: 4lbs. of minced beef, 11 chicken fillets
Cottage 3: 5lbs minced meat, 6 chicken fillets
Cottage 4: 5lbs of minced meat, 6 chicken fillets
Cottage 5: No Meat… Their loss
Cottage 6: Not Meat… Sounds like a personal problem
Cottage 7: 2 chicken fillets
Totals: 35 chicken fillets and 16 lbs minced meat
Delivery: Tomorrow Evening
We marched into Spiddal and talked business the whole 25min walk. Alex bragged about his grandpa who started a butcher shop as a young man and expanded to 2 grocery stores and a handful of gas stations. I bragged about grandpa’s hard work and achievements too. We both agreed that business ran deep in our family roots. I gloated about my family’s business and mentioned Jinette’s family's business too. Our world views seemed to be one of the same. We wore our pride on our shoulders and made our way to the produce shop.
The owner of the produce store looked glum as we approached her. She sadly informed us her shop was going out of business and she couldn’t be of any help. I asked her if she knew anyone else we could get produce through. She smiled and pointed out the entrance way to a big black truck across the road with the words "Clada Fruits and Veggies" branded on the doors. Mike, of Clada Fruits and Veggies, who apparently supplied to her store, all the restaurants in the area, and the grocery stores around town was magically making his rounds. Alex and I had just gotten a hell of a break. If we pulled this off we’d be getting grocers rates, delivered direct, and better quality produce.
Mike was inside a local restaurant in Spiddal discussing business with a client. Alex waited outside while I walked to the end of the block and met with Sean the butcher. I asked his assistant for the price sheet I requested last week. The guy handed me the bulk rate prices and current sales. I shook my head and explained that Sean and I had arranged a better price because of the large quantities of meat I’ve been ordering. The assistant walked to the back room and discussed with Sean and informed me he’d be at the counter in a couple minutes with the revised price sheet. Sean slowly waddled to the counter and on the normal bulk rate sheet scribbled my rate next to the bulk rate.
I placed my order, paid up, arranged a delivery time, and ran out the door to meet Schafer.
Schafer was still waiting for Mike to close a deal with the restaurateur. After a good amount of time Mike finished his transaction and we intercepted him on his way back to the truck. Schafer and I pigeonholed him before he jumped in his truck. We explained our situation, but he didn’t respond, but instead looked confused. The look painted on his face and the lack of speaking helped us to recognize that he didn’t speak a lick of English. We slowed down our foreign tongue and spoke his language: fruit, vegetables, and money. The confused look left his face and we finally broke through to him that we wanted to make a deal. In a thick, thick Gaelic accent he agreed to deliver us a wide variety of produce at the wholesale prices every Monday.
I just completed another international business deal and the first with a language barrier. I’m considering expanding the meat portion to the U.S., so let Mr. Rick Bartusch know I’m not letting anything get in my way…
Schafe and I walked away with a deal, a smile, and a dangerous amount of pride for a couple of 20-year-olds.
Fast forward one day, Sean dropped the meat off at 6p.m. at my back door. I pulled a Joe Lais and created an Excel spread sheet to total the orders for each cabin automatically. Here’s an example:
I added a 5 cent fee to each lb./unit of meat. My total earnings for this week were €8.9 with a €1 tip. I turned a profit, provided a useful service, and saved my customers money.
I told Sean yesterday that I'd push to expand the meat to more products in his butcher shop, like eggs, milk, and basic condiments and dressings. I told him, "I'm gonna make you rich this semester..." Sean put an extra 5lbs. of ground beef and 11 extra chicken fillets in my order for this week as a heck of a thank you...
So I did alright today...
Not only that, but I recieved a mound of mail, a phone call from Kelli, a phone call from Jinette, and a SJU Homecoming T-Shirt from Jinette in these last two days!
Sometimes everything seems to be going too right and that puts a smirk on my face... I better stop bragging and start reading and taking notes on my history book so I can watch the Twins rock the Sox. The game starts at 1a.m. Ireland time, so it's gonna be a long night. We've been catching the last few games via MLB TV the internet. The guy who purchased the subscription is actually from Chicago and a Sox fan, so that makes it interesting. Once the regular season is over the subscription expires, so I'm gonna organize a collection from a bunch of us to get the Post Season...
Meat orders:
Cottage 1: 2lbs minced beef, 10 chicken fillets
Cottage 2: 4lbs. of minced beef, 11 chicken fillets
Cottage 3: 5lbs minced meat, 6 chicken fillets
Cottage 4: 5lbs of minced meat, 6 chicken fillets
Cottage 5: No Meat… Their loss
Cottage 6: Not Meat… Sounds like a personal problem
Cottage 7: 2 chicken fillets
Totals: 35 chicken fillets and 16 lbs minced meat
Delivery: Tomorrow Evening
We marched into Spiddal and talked business the whole 25min walk. Alex bragged about his grandpa who started a butcher shop as a young man and expanded to 2 grocery stores and a handful of gas stations. I bragged about grandpa’s hard work and achievements too. We both agreed that business ran deep in our family roots. I gloated about my family’s business and mentioned Jinette’s family's business too. Our world views seemed to be one of the same. We wore our pride on our shoulders and made our way to the produce shop.
The owner of the produce store looked glum as we approached her. She sadly informed us her shop was going out of business and she couldn’t be of any help. I asked her if she knew anyone else we could get produce through. She smiled and pointed out the entrance way to a big black truck across the road with the words "Clada Fruits and Veggies" branded on the doors. Mike, of Clada Fruits and Veggies, who apparently supplied to her store, all the restaurants in the area, and the grocery stores around town was magically making his rounds. Alex and I had just gotten a hell of a break. If we pulled this off we’d be getting grocers rates, delivered direct, and better quality produce.
Mike was inside a local restaurant in Spiddal discussing business with a client. Alex waited outside while I walked to the end of the block and met with Sean the butcher. I asked his assistant for the price sheet I requested last week. The guy handed me the bulk rate prices and current sales. I shook my head and explained that Sean and I had arranged a better price because of the large quantities of meat I’ve been ordering. The assistant walked to the back room and discussed with Sean and informed me he’d be at the counter in a couple minutes with the revised price sheet. Sean slowly waddled to the counter and on the normal bulk rate sheet scribbled my rate next to the bulk rate.
I placed my order, paid up, arranged a delivery time, and ran out the door to meet Schafer.
Schafer was still waiting for Mike to close a deal with the restaurateur. After a good amount of time Mike finished his transaction and we intercepted him on his way back to the truck. Schafer and I pigeonholed him before he jumped in his truck. We explained our situation, but he didn’t respond, but instead looked confused. The look painted on his face and the lack of speaking helped us to recognize that he didn’t speak a lick of English. We slowed down our foreign tongue and spoke his language: fruit, vegetables, and money. The confused look left his face and we finally broke through to him that we wanted to make a deal. In a thick, thick Gaelic accent he agreed to deliver us a wide variety of produce at the wholesale prices every Monday.
I just completed another international business deal and the first with a language barrier. I’m considering expanding the meat portion to the U.S., so let Mr. Rick Bartusch know I’m not letting anything get in my way…
Schafe and I walked away with a deal, a smile, and a dangerous amount of pride for a couple of 20-year-olds.
Fast forward one day, Sean dropped the meat off at 6p.m. at my back door. I pulled a Joe Lais and created an Excel spread sheet to total the orders for each cabin automatically. Here’s an example:
I added a 5 cent fee to each lb./unit of meat. My total earnings for this week were €8.9 with a €1 tip. I turned a profit, provided a useful service, and saved my customers money.
I told Sean yesterday that I'd push to expand the meat to more products in his butcher shop, like eggs, milk, and basic condiments and dressings. I told him, "I'm gonna make you rich this semester..." Sean put an extra 5lbs. of ground beef and 11 extra chicken fillets in my order for this week as a heck of a thank you...
So I did alright today...
Not only that, but I recieved a mound of mail, a phone call from Kelli, a phone call from Jinette, and a SJU Homecoming T-Shirt from Jinette in these last two days!
Sometimes everything seems to be going too right and that puts a smirk on my face... I better stop bragging and start reading and taking notes on my history book so I can watch the Twins rock the Sox. The game starts at 1a.m. Ireland time, so it's gonna be a long night. We've been catching the last few games via MLB TV the internet. The guy who purchased the subscription is actually from Chicago and a Sox fan, so that makes it interesting. Once the regular season is over the subscription expires, so I'm gonna organize a collection from a bunch of us to get the Post Season...
GO TWINS!
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Sept 25th - 28th
*If you read this post you must complete the whole weekend to understand the point of the long post.
Thursday
Woke up and threw everything together for an adventurous weekend. We drove to Strokestown Estate and Famine Museum for a tour and to learn a little bit about the hard times. We ate lunch and hit the road for Belfast. As my head hit the seats I fell asleep on the bus to the steady beat of Johnny Cash echoing the putter of the coach’s engine and the bumps of the road. Before my eyes started to glaze over, the images of hectares of green meadows with frolicking sheepish looking white blurs in the distance and moss covered green rock formations were stained in my mind. Suddenly, the music stopped, the putter of the engine died, I awoke, and the image of beauty dissolved away turning into the ugly bustling city of Belfast. The meadows turned to hectares of sidewalks, road, litter, and an occasional weed that had pushed through to see the light and breathe the polluted air.
The bus door automatically slid open and the cabin filled with the smell of sewage and rotting garbage choking us all out. The retched smell crept up my nose as I evacuated. The group unpacked and hit the streets of Belfast for a night on the town. It was warmer than the countryside. The body heat and the smokestacks pumping out pollution must have caused a little global warming. I took off my sweater and with pride revealed my “Johnnies” T-Shirt to the city of Belfast.
It was late at night and the Gothics were out at full force. As I passed by the people they shot me evil glares and walked away from me in disgust. I should have shot them evil glares… After all they were the ones dressing like freaks of nature.
Goths dipped in tattoo ink with enough piercings to be a supplier for Claires replaced the happy Catholics of the south who smiled and greeted you with a wave while pushing their smiling baby’s stroller around the town. It was like I’d fallen asleep at Saint Bens and woken up in Mcalister on Halloween. The ones who weren’t Goths had more accessories than available at the MOA. The men accessorized like the women in the states and the women thought it was 1980 again.
We ate at a pizza joint called Spice World and visited The Kitchen Bar to end the night. The angry people made a grand first impressive for Belfast.
Friday
I woke up the next day and got a tour of the war torn city and the murals tagged on the walls of buildings reminding you that the underlying hatred of the Nationalists and the Loyalists is still here in Belfast. We discussed the paintings, looked at monuments, and learnt about the blue painted fences and colored curbs of the neighborhoods. Fittingly, my camera died as I snapped shots of the divisive murals depicting the Nationalists as terrorists and the Loyalists as evil oppressive government puppet.
We also toured and learned about the area that the Titanic was built.
After the informative tour I went to Castle Court shopping mall to grab a bite with some of the guys. The shopping mall was packed with people making the air warm. For this reason, I wore my Johnnies T-Shirt once again with pride. I picked up a box of Chinese food and inhaled it. As I was eating a girl across the way was staring at me. I made eye contact and instantly knew why she was giving me the eyes. She and I were the only normal looking people in a nine mile radius. She was a cute blonde girl who hadn’t fallen in an ink well or been sprayed by a piercing gun. I shot her a smile from across the food court. To my surprise she gave me a disgusted look, got up from her seat and pranced off. I decided I hated this city at this point and booked it back to my hostel to hibernate until we drove to Derry.
The guys didn’t like that idea and convinced me to go to the Pete Molinari Coors Lite Open House Folk Festival concert at the Black Box Theater and Pub for the night. We walked there on the brisk night; hence I concealed my Johnny pride and put on my sweater. I dropped 14 pounds there and weighed the same when I walked out the door.
We arrived unfashionable early to the concert, snatched a front table, and watched as the crowd trickled in. The crowd consisted of middle aged men and women who dressed conservatively and weren’t supporting the nose rings. The guys all expressed their concerns about the older crowd and prayed it wouldn’t be lame. I told them I was comforted by the middle aged crowd, because the older generations grew up listening to quality music like Dylan, Cash, and Zeppelin instead of Fitty Cent, Eminem, and the Hanson Brothers. I was right. The concert was spectacular and everyone agreed. The Irish folk and Guinness beer complimented each other. The people were fun, unlike everyone else I’d met in Belfast. They didn’t look like the devil possessed them due to faces expressing anger. I started to enjoy the city and my opinion of the place became more moderate.
Saturday
The next morning we visited Giant’s Causeway as we made our trek to Derry. The Earth’s handy work created a natural masterpiece at this landmark. At the picturesque attraction my buddy confronted me about my T-shirt that read, “Johnnies” in big letters. The T-shirt I’d been wearing around all of Belfast except at the grand concert. He looked me in the eye and in a concerned tone asked me, “Do you know what that means?” I mockingly said, “I have no idea, maybe that I’m a Johnny, Ya know that place we go to school.” Turns out the creped out girl at Castle Court, the angry Goths, and hateful people on the streets of Belfast knew what my shirt meant. In the U.K. Johnnies is slang for condoms or someone who visits a prostitute frequently. I’d be repulsed too if some creeper glared and smirked at me who wore a shirt that said in big bold letters, “I VISIT PROSTITUTES FREQUENTLY ” or “CONDOMS”!!!
I covered my Johnnies T-shirt with a chuckle and a hoody and was received by the people of Derry much better. We got there and waited for our tour guide to come, but the clock ticked and no one was to be found. A random guy who stopped by the hostel asked if he could be of service. Chuck our Prof told him the situation. The guy offered to give us a tour of the city himself. Chuck hesitated, but the 30 of us students were already down the block listening to the guys lecture before he could say no thanks.
The tour guide who we picked off the street happened to be a former guide and very educated on his town’s past. He brought us to the true blue Protestant side of town and gave us his biased opinion about the Loyalists, and then marched us over to the Bogside of town where the Catholics and he reside. He poured out his emotions and told us stories about him going to bed hungry at night and Nationalist’s like Bobby Sands starving to death in the prisons. He told us about his dad spending time in prison and getting beaten. He proudly continued by telling us his dad was elected as the city mayor a few years ago. The people who beat his dad in prison years ago were now opening his door to a limo to get to work every day. The guides moving tour made me realize how real the spoils of war are…
I rushed over to church for Saturday Night mass with a couple others and digested what the tour guide had said. The mass went quick with the fast talking preacher. The church was about 4 times the size of Nativity and jammed packed full. I stood in the back and looked over the sea of people in awe. I swear the whole city was at mass.
After mass, we churchgoers grabbed a bite at a local restaurant.
I took the night easy and rested while the others hit up the pubs. I called Mom, Mark, and Jinette to catch up a bit. This brought a smile to my face, yet made me slightly homesick. I hung up on Jinette as the loud drunks trickled in to our 12 man room. Joey tried to give me a little more time by fighting them off, but after a while they stumbled in the room with their loud voices and beer breathe.
Sunday
Woke up today and checked my email before heading out the door to our journey home. Jinette left me a message that put a smile on my face and made me forget for a second that the drunks kept me up all night. After reading a selective number of emails I slammed the laptop shut and hurried to the bus.
We drove back to Galway, stopped at Tesco for groceries, dropped €50, and pushed on to the cottage. Joey made some noodles lathered in butter for supper. I caught up on my blog and reading.
Now I’m gonna make some calls and hit the hay.
Gnight
Thursday
Woke up and threw everything together for an adventurous weekend. We drove to Strokestown Estate and Famine Museum for a tour and to learn a little bit about the hard times. We ate lunch and hit the road for Belfast. As my head hit the seats I fell asleep on the bus to the steady beat of Johnny Cash echoing the putter of the coach’s engine and the bumps of the road. Before my eyes started to glaze over, the images of hectares of green meadows with frolicking sheepish looking white blurs in the distance and moss covered green rock formations were stained in my mind. Suddenly, the music stopped, the putter of the engine died, I awoke, and the image of beauty dissolved away turning into the ugly bustling city of Belfast. The meadows turned to hectares of sidewalks, road, litter, and an occasional weed that had pushed through to see the light and breathe the polluted air.
The bus door automatically slid open and the cabin filled with the smell of sewage and rotting garbage choking us all out. The retched smell crept up my nose as I evacuated. The group unpacked and hit the streets of Belfast for a night on the town. It was warmer than the countryside. The body heat and the smokestacks pumping out pollution must have caused a little global warming. I took off my sweater and with pride revealed my “Johnnies” T-Shirt to the city of Belfast.
It was late at night and the Gothics were out at full force. As I passed by the people they shot me evil glares and walked away from me in disgust. I should have shot them evil glares… After all they were the ones dressing like freaks of nature.
Goths dipped in tattoo ink with enough piercings to be a supplier for Claires replaced the happy Catholics of the south who smiled and greeted you with a wave while pushing their smiling baby’s stroller around the town. It was like I’d fallen asleep at Saint Bens and woken up in Mcalister on Halloween. The ones who weren’t Goths had more accessories than available at the MOA. The men accessorized like the women in the states and the women thought it was 1980 again.
We ate at a pizza joint called Spice World and visited The Kitchen Bar to end the night. The angry people made a grand first impressive for Belfast.
Friday
I woke up the next day and got a tour of the war torn city and the murals tagged on the walls of buildings reminding you that the underlying hatred of the Nationalists and the Loyalists is still here in Belfast. We discussed the paintings, looked at monuments, and learnt about the blue painted fences and colored curbs of the neighborhoods. Fittingly, my camera died as I snapped shots of the divisive murals depicting the Nationalists as terrorists and the Loyalists as evil oppressive government puppet.
We also toured and learned about the area that the Titanic was built.
After the informative tour I went to Castle Court shopping mall to grab a bite with some of the guys. The shopping mall was packed with people making the air warm. For this reason, I wore my Johnnies T-Shirt once again with pride. I picked up a box of Chinese food and inhaled it. As I was eating a girl across the way was staring at me. I made eye contact and instantly knew why she was giving me the eyes. She and I were the only normal looking people in a nine mile radius. She was a cute blonde girl who hadn’t fallen in an ink well or been sprayed by a piercing gun. I shot her a smile from across the food court. To my surprise she gave me a disgusted look, got up from her seat and pranced off. I decided I hated this city at this point and booked it back to my hostel to hibernate until we drove to Derry.
The guys didn’t like that idea and convinced me to go to the Pete Molinari Coors Lite Open House Folk Festival concert at the Black Box Theater and Pub for the night. We walked there on the brisk night; hence I concealed my Johnny pride and put on my sweater. I dropped 14 pounds there and weighed the same when I walked out the door.
We arrived unfashionable early to the concert, snatched a front table, and watched as the crowd trickled in. The crowd consisted of middle aged men and women who dressed conservatively and weren’t supporting the nose rings. The guys all expressed their concerns about the older crowd and prayed it wouldn’t be lame. I told them I was comforted by the middle aged crowd, because the older generations grew up listening to quality music like Dylan, Cash, and Zeppelin instead of Fitty Cent, Eminem, and the Hanson Brothers. I was right. The concert was spectacular and everyone agreed. The Irish folk and Guinness beer complimented each other. The people were fun, unlike everyone else I’d met in Belfast. They didn’t look like the devil possessed them due to faces expressing anger. I started to enjoy the city and my opinion of the place became more moderate.
Saturday
The next morning we visited Giant’s Causeway as we made our trek to Derry. The Earth’s handy work created a natural masterpiece at this landmark. At the picturesque attraction my buddy confronted me about my T-shirt that read, “Johnnies” in big letters. The T-shirt I’d been wearing around all of Belfast except at the grand concert. He looked me in the eye and in a concerned tone asked me, “Do you know what that means?” I mockingly said, “I have no idea, maybe that I’m a Johnny, Ya know that place we go to school.” Turns out the creped out girl at Castle Court, the angry Goths, and hateful people on the streets of Belfast knew what my shirt meant. In the U.K. Johnnies is slang for condoms or someone who visits a prostitute frequently. I’d be repulsed too if some creeper glared and smirked at me who wore a shirt that said in big bold letters, “I VISIT PROSTITUTES FREQUENTLY ” or “CONDOMS”!!!
I covered my Johnnies T-shirt with a chuckle and a hoody and was received by the people of Derry much better. We got there and waited for our tour guide to come, but the clock ticked and no one was to be found. A random guy who stopped by the hostel asked if he could be of service. Chuck our Prof told him the situation. The guy offered to give us a tour of the city himself. Chuck hesitated, but the 30 of us students were already down the block listening to the guys lecture before he could say no thanks.
The tour guide who we picked off the street happened to be a former guide and very educated on his town’s past. He brought us to the true blue Protestant side of town and gave us his biased opinion about the Loyalists, and then marched us over to the Bogside of town where the Catholics and he reside. He poured out his emotions and told us stories about him going to bed hungry at night and Nationalist’s like Bobby Sands starving to death in the prisons. He told us about his dad spending time in prison and getting beaten. He proudly continued by telling us his dad was elected as the city mayor a few years ago. The people who beat his dad in prison years ago were now opening his door to a limo to get to work every day. The guides moving tour made me realize how real the spoils of war are…
I rushed over to church for Saturday Night mass with a couple others and digested what the tour guide had said. The mass went quick with the fast talking preacher. The church was about 4 times the size of Nativity and jammed packed full. I stood in the back and looked over the sea of people in awe. I swear the whole city was at mass.
After mass, we churchgoers grabbed a bite at a local restaurant.
I took the night easy and rested while the others hit up the pubs. I called Mom, Mark, and Jinette to catch up a bit. This brought a smile to my face, yet made me slightly homesick. I hung up on Jinette as the loud drunks trickled in to our 12 man room. Joey tried to give me a little more time by fighting them off, but after a while they stumbled in the room with their loud voices and beer breathe.
Sunday
Woke up today and checked my email before heading out the door to our journey home. Jinette left me a message that put a smile on my face and made me forget for a second that the drunks kept me up all night. After reading a selective number of emails I slammed the laptop shut and hurried to the bus.
We drove back to Galway, stopped at Tesco for groceries, dropped €50, and pushed on to the cottage. Joey made some noodles lathered in butter for supper. I caught up on my blog and reading.
Now I’m gonna make some calls and hit the hay.
Gnight
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Sept 23rd
Woke up today and wrote 2 paragraphs for homework and then hobbled over to Senior Seminar class. We discussed a case study about killing a (likely soon to die) baby to donate its organs and to save others lives. It was an intense discussion with some heated debating. I felt charged after the debate and the energy stayed with me the rest of the day. After Senior Seminar I had Archeology class from 11:15 until 2:15. Class went fast and was pretty interesting. Our Prof is hilarious. She explained that people from Derry (her hometown) have a sense of humor. People from Derry and the North lived through dark times, so to deal with them they learned to laugh.
In class our Prof said something that helped me to understand a situation I came across in Tralee last Thursday night. While telling my dining story with the elites in Tralee I left a part out, so mom could sleep at night. Halfway through supper I used the restroom. While sitting in the stall, two men walked in and started to talk about crack very casually. My image of the innocent, devoutly Catholic Irish who were victims of the past was shattered in an instance as I relieved myself. The conversation surprised the crap out of me. I started to see that maybe Ireland was just like every other place in the world. I thought about how the green moss, Virgin Mary shrines, and crucifixes that dotted the landscape helped to conceal a very ugly place. I thought a drug deal was about to go down so I made sure to not make a sound. The one lad said, “How was the crack last night?” The other old man casually announced, “Tralee has the best crack in Ireland.” My imagination ran wild. I thought about how the rich old men in the dining room were probably wealthy mobsters or maybe just retired crack dealers. I heard the men walk out of the bathroom and slowly crept out trying to go unnoticed.
So, today in class our Prof asked how Tralee went this weekend. She said something about Tralee having the best crack. I woke from my coma of boredom and listened to what she was mumbling about in front of class. She said “Tralee has some of the best crack… It’s a real grand town—it’s lots of fun.” My jaw dropped in awe of how casual she spoke of her times with having fun with crack. I started to grasp how serious of a problem it must be in this country. I guess the quaint towns of Ireland aren’t meth ridden like back home, but crack infested instead.
My hand jolted up and I asked in a disgusted tone, “Crack– Is it a real problem in Tralee? She gave a roar of a laugh. Everyone looked at her like she was a crack head, because no one knew why she was laughing. She explained that in Tralee and other parts of Ireland people commonly greet others by saying, “How’s the craic?” (Spelled ‘craic’, but pronounced crack) She explained it means, “How are you doing?” or “Anything fun/exciting happening?” We all laughed and I shared my story about the supposed crack dealers in the bathroom of the fancy dining room. Turns out they were innocently saying, “Did you have fun last night?” and the other man responded by saying, “Yes, Tralee is the one of most fun places in Ireland.” I’m happy to hear this, because now my image of Ireland and its perfection has been restored.
After class I checked the mail and got giddy with excitement when I saw a letter from Jinette. Once again, I blocked out the world around me and read her letter to myself smiling to the world, laughing out loud, and feeling loved. I rushed through the letter with excitement, but held on to each sentence putting it near to my heart, as I joyfully read through it. Emily was sitting in the room and noticed me glowing. She couldn't help but notice the energy pouring out of me and my facial expressions silently screaming with delight. Emily turned to me and said, “Wow, look at you, you must really like this girl…”
Off to reading about the innocent history of the clean, non crack addicted, Irish.
In class our Prof said something that helped me to understand a situation I came across in Tralee last Thursday night. While telling my dining story with the elites in Tralee I left a part out, so mom could sleep at night. Halfway through supper I used the restroom. While sitting in the stall, two men walked in and started to talk about crack very casually. My image of the innocent, devoutly Catholic Irish who were victims of the past was shattered in an instance as I relieved myself. The conversation surprised the crap out of me. I started to see that maybe Ireland was just like every other place in the world. I thought about how the green moss, Virgin Mary shrines, and crucifixes that dotted the landscape helped to conceal a very ugly place. I thought a drug deal was about to go down so I made sure to not make a sound. The one lad said, “How was the crack last night?” The other old man casually announced, “Tralee has the best crack in Ireland.” My imagination ran wild. I thought about how the rich old men in the dining room were probably wealthy mobsters or maybe just retired crack dealers. I heard the men walk out of the bathroom and slowly crept out trying to go unnoticed.
So, today in class our Prof asked how Tralee went this weekend. She said something about Tralee having the best crack. I woke from my coma of boredom and listened to what she was mumbling about in front of class. She said “Tralee has some of the best crack… It’s a real grand town—it’s lots of fun.” My jaw dropped in awe of how casual she spoke of her times with having fun with crack. I started to grasp how serious of a problem it must be in this country. I guess the quaint towns of Ireland aren’t meth ridden like back home, but crack infested instead.
My hand jolted up and I asked in a disgusted tone, “Crack– Is it a real problem in Tralee? She gave a roar of a laugh. Everyone looked at her like she was a crack head, because no one knew why she was laughing. She explained that in Tralee and other parts of Ireland people commonly greet others by saying, “How’s the craic?” (Spelled ‘craic’, but pronounced crack) She explained it means, “How are you doing?” or “Anything fun/exciting happening?” We all laughed and I shared my story about the supposed crack dealers in the bathroom of the fancy dining room. Turns out they were innocently saying, “Did you have fun last night?” and the other man responded by saying, “Yes, Tralee is the one of most fun places in Ireland.” I’m happy to hear this, because now my image of Ireland and its perfection has been restored.
After class I checked the mail and got giddy with excitement when I saw a letter from Jinette. Once again, I blocked out the world around me and read her letter to myself smiling to the world, laughing out loud, and feeling loved. I rushed through the letter with excitement, but held on to each sentence putting it near to my heart, as I joyfully read through it. Emily was sitting in the room and noticed me glowing. She couldn't help but notice the energy pouring out of me and my facial expressions silently screaming with delight. Emily turned to me and said, “Wow, look at you, you must really like this girl…”
Off to reading about the innocent history of the clean, non crack addicted, Irish.
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