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?
Thursday, October 30, 2008
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.
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