The Tale of Ireland, Day Five: Road Warriors

As mentioned, in light of being in Tahoe for the time being, I'm doing a throwback series to my 2009 trip to Ireland with Tom and Paul.

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3/18/2009

Along came Wednesday (We could not believe it was ONLY Wednesday at this point). Our plans for the day were to leave Cork, hit nearby Cobh and Blarney Castle, then drive halfway up the country to Galway. During our time in Cork, I’d started pushing to add a side-trip to The Burren along the way. Round Ireland with a Fridge, Frommer's and Stef all recommended it, with the first two comparing it to flowers growing out of the surface of the moon…to me, that sounded amazing.
 Since I realized Tom was a bit wary of overloading the day with extra driving, however, I made a polite request that we keep it in mind if we had time.
 


Even after a second long night, we woke up incredibly early. I don’t remember the exact time, but the sun sat low on the horizon as we drove out of Cork. The early departure came as a direct result of me being the first to use the shower and promptly breaking the mechanism while I was testing the temperature. So, unbathed, we set off for Cobh, with Tom complaining that we somehow managed to both enter and leave the city driving into the sun. 
 


Cobh (pronounced “Cove”) sits quite close to Cork, but the drive packed a lot of stunning views into a few short miles. The road ran right along the water most of the way, with little seaside castles rising from the fog in the distance. As we neared the town itself, massive shipping cranes emerged from the mist, looming over the water like they had come to drink from it.


Cobh itself was once a significant shipping port, a huge point of departure for Irish immigrants to the US, and the last port of call for the Titanic before she sank. We learned these and other facts from plaques and monuments, since we pulled into the visitor's center too early for it to be open. We even found a memorial to the first woman checked in at Ellis Island. 
 


We strolled down the shoreline, passing a seaside park and sharing the morning with a stray, surprisingly well-groomed dog with no sign of a master. High above the town to our left towered the Cathedral of St. Colman. Not only was it roughly three times as tall as any storefront, but its placement atop a hill makes it dominate the otherwise quaint skyline. 
 


We hadn’t eaten yet, so we found a little cafe serving a full Irish breakfast. We'd had Irish breakfast the day before, but it had been St. Patrick's Day then, and I had more important stories to tell, so let me say now that I LOVE an Irish Breakfast, as it hits all of the following:
 


Toast

Fried Eggs

Bacon

Blood Pudding

Rashers

Baked Beans
 


There may not be a better meal for the morning after drinking; we hung out at the cafe in Cobh for a little while, savoring the meal as it put us back together. Afterward, eager to continue our journey, we stopped at a convenience store for Red Bulls (quickly becoming a daily necessity), and hit the road again. 
 


Since Blarney Castle is about twice as far north of Cork as Cobh is south, we actually had to drive back through Cork itself to get there, which we commmemorated by shouting "Wooo, coming through again! High fives!"



Not long afterward, we pulled into the town of Blarney, found parking, and walked up to the ticket window for the castle. All three of us were prepared to be disappointed, as guidebooks call it touristy, legends abound about the locals pissing on the stone, and Nick, one of the Virginia guys from the castle hostel, had said the castle itself was underwhelming.
 


Well, sorry, Nick, but Blarney Castle was stunning. The keep jumped up out of the landscape, surrounded by watchtowers and riddled with dungeon entrances no one had bothered to close off Before even reaching the main gate (and despite my claustrophobia), the spirit of adventure found me hunched down and waddling through 4 foot by 3 foot tunnels into really tight "rooms" most of the other visitors seemed comfortable letting alone. It was deeply creepy, especially once you realize, "Hey, someone probably died in here."
 


Once in the keep, we proceeded up crazy winding stairs similar to those at the castle hostel and passed in and out of rooms labelled as the Earl's bedroom and so forth. 
Finally, we emerged on the battlements, where an astonishing view of the castle grounds and the countryside greeted us. And there, on the far side of the tower, was the stone itself, lodged at the bottom of a battlement about 7 stories. When you kiss it, you’re bending over backward over the drop, so they added metal bars to block the fall and others you use to pull yourself down to it, both welcome supplements to just trusting the guy working there to hold your legs tight enough. 



So, of course, we did it...or rather, Tom and Paul did it. I actually missed the stone and kissed the one above it because I was confused by the height and inversion. The one I kissed definitely wasn't as smooth as the one below it, so I don't even know what blessing I got. I figure it’s fine, though; it's not like I didn't already have the gift of gab already.

After returning to ground level, we’d heard the gardens were worth a look, so we meandered through the grounds, passing beneath gigantic flowering trees. We came upon a little watchtower standing in the middle of a field, so I climbed the outside of it and stood on top, wondering how a watchtower shorter than the castle itself was at all useful. Nearby stood a family mansion, similar to Kilkenny Castle, so we took a break on a bench nearby, enjoying the monstrous house and debating how we’d use all that space. Satisfied at last, we hit the road once more, done with Blarney by like 11:15...we were flying through the day, making it an easy decision to investigate The Burren that afternoon.

First, there was loads of driving to do. We stopped next in the small town of Ennis, which turned out to be a very important spot. The three of us have a college buddy named Jay Ennis who speaks in a growly, throat-clearing tone of voice that often makes normal things sound epic and hilarious. One of his gravelly catch-phrases is "I'm having a great time!", so we decided that we would raise a toast in Ennis and take a picture of us Having a Great Time!
 


Other than our personal cause, the only thing my guidebook had to offer on Ennis was to avoid drinking the tap water. That aside, once we found the center of town, Ennis was quite charming. It took us a while to find a sufficient pub (unfortunately a place called "Chaos" was closed), but we came at last to a place called Paddy Quinn's. The back bar room bustled, surprisingly busy for 12:15, but we sat in the front with just a little old couple across the way. Unlike Cork, we were not looking to mix and mingle our way into a new, authentic experience. We were just those American guys who get a round of Guinness just to take a picture with our pints. 
 


Before the photo session, though, we took a sip and immediately exchanged wild-eyed looks. Completely by accident and in an absolute blip on our route, we'd found the best pour of Guinness so far in the trip. Barely any bitterness, just cold, smooth taste. It was amazing, so I had two.
 


Guinness Count: 31 
 


Two quick Guinnesses easily overcame my Irish breakfast, so we left the pub and picked up some sandwiches to counter my midday tipsiness before blowing town. At one point, a few miles later, Tom said "Aaaaaaand Ian's drunk." When I looked at him in confusion, I realized that I’d stopped dancing...then I realized I'd been dancing in first place, specifically pumping my fists to AC/DC's "Back in Black." Ruh-roh.


Frommer's had given us the best route to take to/through The Burren, a little rural road let's call R-480 (no recollection of the actual name). The problem, though, is that no one who lives on R-480 would call it R-480. They probably call it "the road to Billy's farm" or something. Whatever the case, we couldn't find the road, ending up in the next town over, Ennistymon, having definitely passed R-480. 
 


Confused, we continued onward towards another town, Lahinch, where I saw another road on the map that could lead us the way we want to go. Once again, we wound up farther than we thought and, seeing an older fellow on a motorcycle idling in a driveway, we pulled in beside him to ask directions, leading to the following conversation. 
 


Me: "Excuse me, could you give us a hand with directions?"

Excellent Irishman on a Motorcycle: "Oh, sure."

Me: "We're looking for the Burren."

EIM: "The Burren? Hahahahaha."

Me: "Yeah, we realize we may be nowhere near it now."

EIM: "No, you're fine. What you want to do is follow this road up to Lahinch, then take the coastal road around. You'll pass the Cliffs of Moher, which are absolutely beautiful, have you been?"

Me (knowing we're skipping them because we'll be getting our fill of cliffs on the Aran Islands): "No..."

EIM: "Well, you should go, they're right on the route, and then you're going to pass through <Irish town>, which is also just lovely, and then it'll bring you all the way...where you going tonight?

Me: Galway."

EIM: "Oh, grand! So you'll come all the way around all of these lovely coastal towns and then, there you'll be in Galway." 

Me: "Oh, great, great, and...and the Burren?
"
EIM: "Oh, yes, right here at the tip of the coast, you'll get a nice little taste of the Burren."

He went on about how impressive the Burren is, including the flora living there side-by-side that don't coexist anywhere else in the world...oh, except Poland, he corrected himself, there's a similar landscape in Poland.

Thanking him profusely, we got on the road in front of him, drove into Lahinch, missed our turn again, then rerouted and followed him across the coastal road, wondering just how big a "taste" of the Burren would be.

Then, we saw the Atlantic Ocean...
 


One of my favorite parts of my junior year trip to Ireland took place on the Aran Islands, where I looked at the Atlantic from the rim of Dun Aengus (or Dun Aonghasa): so blue, so vast, so intimidating. I couldn't fathom how people ever thought, "yeah, let's cross that.” 
 


Now, here we were, driving with a constant view of the ocean on a beautiful day. At some point, we lost our biker guide, then came upon the Cliffs of Moher. Since we were right there, we contemplated going, but once we saw 25 Euro for parking, we passed.

We cruised along the coast a ways further, gasping at the scenery until we hit a crossroads. Tom thought the motorcycle guy said to stay straight, while I thought he said to hug the coast, which implied a turn. Unlike our battle in Cork, we agreed he definitely said both things. Since the turn pointed towards Doolin, we headed that way to find Stef’s greatest pub in Ireland and presumably someone to provide further directions.

Unable to find the pub we sought, we chose one at random and walked into a room empty but for the bartender. Paul and I got drinks while Tom ordered a Coke and asked for directions. The guy gave us not one, but two routes; one kept to the biker's coastal route, while the other doubled back quite a bit for a larger bit of Burren. He assured us that the coastal route was a sufficient experience of the Burren for our needs, so we decided to stick with it, especially since it was heading to Galway.

Guinness Count: 32



About 20 minutes outside of Doolin, we found the Burren, big time. The description of it as a moonscape was completely accurate, with limestone flats as far inland as the eye could see, all stunningly barren. Meanwhile, on our left, we still had uninterrupted ocean views. Eventually, we pulled over so Tom could take it in instead of navigating the road, which is when Tom realized he was traveling with two tipsy fools. Paul, upon leaving the car, looked down the road and became entranced:



Paul: DUDE, there's a COW in the ROAD back there! It's in the road!

Tom: Haha, yeah, look at tha-

Paul: Hold on!
 


At this point Paul sprinted down the road to take a picture, a picture he spent the rest of the trip showing to fellow travelers, naming it the best picture of the trip. Each time, Tom followed up by showing his audience a picture he took: the cow in the road…AND Paul at a dead sprint towards it.
 


I’m one to talk, however.  I was halfway up the rock wall beside the road, dodging cowpies where no cow should really be able to walk, eager to reach the actual flats of the Burren. When I made it to the top, I promptly went silent. There's not better way to describe it but moon-like. 



I called for Tom and the recently-returned Paul to come join me while I continued up the next ridge. Once I topped it, I could see far across the landscape, which prompted this exchange:
 


Ian: Holy crap, Tommy, it goes for miles.

Tom: I know, man.

Ian: No, dude, it goes FOR MILES.

Tom: Ian, we knew that it did...

Ian: Oh, sure, we saw it on a map, Tom, but it's up here! It goes for MILES!!!

Tom: Okay, buddy.


Once we came down from the ridge, we crossed over the road and through a small field to reach the cliffside, from which we could see back to the Cliffs of Moher and down to the ocean below (also visible FOR MILES). While Tom and Paul hung back, I got on my stomach and shimmied up to the cliff, looking over as I'd done on the Aran Islands three years before. 
 


Once we got in the car, the Burren and the ocean stayed with us for the next 45 minutes of the drive, throughout which we (that is, Paul and I) kept shouting "The Burren!" in weird faux-Scottish accents, for reasons passing understanding. Soon afterwards, I fell asleep in the car as the last two nights caught up with me (it seemed unthinkable that our big night in Cork was just two nights before). As I slept, the Burren continued on, stretching out beside us without the attention of its biggest fan. Also, from then on, Tom had only to sweep around Galway Bay into the city itself. Since my first trip to Ireland touched on only Dublin, Galway, and the Aran Islands, the next stretch would be a familiar part of the trip. 
 


Waking as we entered the city limits, though, I realized one critical difference from my previous time in Galway...last time, we didn't have a car.
 


Galway is a very young, Euro-centric, bohemian-friendly city with huge sections of town marked off as pedestrian-only, including, of course, the street our hostel sat on. I knew EXACTLY how to get to our hostel by foot, but since we couldn't exactly plow through the lively city lanes, it took us a good 30 minutes of circling our destination before we finally pulled into a parking garage within sight of the hostel sign.

As we got out of the car, the whole day hit us. We'd started the morning in Cork after two wild nights…did Cobh practically at daybreak...made Blarney Castle, THE touristy thing of Ireland, a brief stop along the way…had a great time in Ennis...got lost, got directions, and got lost again...took in the Burren…all in a single day. Small wonder that we trudged up the block towards our Barnacles hostel tired, but accomplished. We wondered aloud if we might not just go to bed as soon as we got in, though it was only about 7:30. Then we saw there was a pub called The Quays literally across the cobblestones from the Barnacles.
 


The three of us settled into a four-person room, took turns at our first showers of the day, then made our way across the street to The Quays. We sat out on the street with a pint while waiting for Paul's brother Craig and his friend Dave to come down and join us. Craig was studying in Galway for the semester (from Villanova) and Dave was at Oxford (from Notre Dame). 
 


While Paul used Tom's Blackberry to tell Craig where we were, I sat back and took in the energy of the town. I don't know if it's those pedestrian streets, the countless pubs, or just the generally young populace around us, but Galway feels like a haven for people our age. Most of my fondness for it probably held over from the prior trip, as I imagine it will for Cork in the future, but whatever the reason, it felt like my Irish home away from home. 
 


After Craig and Dave arrived, we took our drinks into the pub and back to a cool, library-like nook with big stuffed chairs. Naturally, we regaled the young'uns with tales of our trip so far and assuring them that joining us for the next three days on the Aran Islands would be worth their while. 



Guinness Count: 34
 


Finishing our drinks left only a growling hunger. Thankfully, McDonagh's, my favorite Galway fish n' chips place from last time, was on the same block as the pub and our hostel, so we simply strolled out the door, walked three storefronts down, and stepped right in. The line for take-away was long but quick, and while I waited for the guy to stop shoving chips in with my order, I was treated to the following exchange between a cashier and a clearly wasted older gentleman:
 


Cashier: "Alright, there's your fish. Thank you."

Drunk: "Where're the chips?"

Cashier: "Chips are 2.50"

Drunk (rifles through his pocket and puts down what can't be more than 50 cents Euro): "There."

Cashier: "2.50"

Drunk: "No, not 2.50. I just want some chips."

Cashier: "Chips are 2.50."

Drunk: "Oh, then I don't want them."

Cashier: "Ok."

Drunk: "But could I get some chips?"
 


We left the man behind to explain his plight to the non-believing server and went back to our hostel, which had a full kitchen for all five of us to eat in. The fish and chips were delicious, so I hadn't led everyone astray and most of the guys couldn't finish their meal. I not only killed mine but polished off Paul’s, because you just don't get cod like that everyday.
 


Once we'd finished, we returned to the streetside tables at The Quays to chat more with Craig and Dave. I'd met Craig before and liked him a lot, so we spent a lot of time getting to know Dave better; he already seemed like a great kid. 
 


After we'd had a few, Tom tapped out, tired after driving and uninterested in going out with the guys to an open mic Craig’s friends were in. After he left, the rest of us set out into the Galway evening.
 


Guinness Count: 36
 


Sufficiently buzzed at this point and trailing a temporary Galway resident, I didn't pay much attention to where we were going as we walked. Craig walked with confidence, leading us through several alleys and around quite a few turns. Imagine my surprise, therefore, when we walked into an intersection twenty minutes later and I looked down the block to see...



...Barnacles and The Quays. And I quote myself,
 
"Wait wait WAIT!"
 


Turns out Craig led us in a giant circle...pretty impressive considering we had to have CROSSED the main road to come into that intersection from the side we had entered from.
 
We tried again and, sure enough, this pub we wanted was a straight shot up the street from our place. Literally don't make any turns and you can’t miss it. (Ed. Note: Craig is still hearing about that walk today)

The open mic night was fun. Craig's friends, Paul and Phil, played good music, as did a family of young Irish folks, while two awful stand-ups performed. After their set, Paul and Phil joined us for drinks and signed the Guinness sandal. Beyond the comedians, we enjoyed the atmosphere and the chance to meet more of Craig's friends, including his girlfriend Liz. 
 


At one point, I noticed that Craig’s Guinness was slightly lower than mine, prompting the thought, “Didn't we get those at the same time? Huh, atta boy, Craig" and little else. Moments later, I realized that, whenever I took a sip, I had a reflection. That's when it hit me that Craig was actively staying ahead of me to try and finish a Guinness before I did, already tired of hearing about my penchant for it. He did, in fact, beat me to the bottom, at which point I conceded defeat and Paul announced his brother was a "naturally competitive twerp.
"

Guinness Count: 38



Craig eventually went home and Paul and I quit the bar shortly after. Then, as we walked the extremely simple path back to our hostel, Paul suggested a nightcap. With a pub across the street, it seemed like "too drunk" was quite a ways away, so a third and final time, we traipsed into the Quays. 




Guinness Count: 40
 


That's right, I went to bed in Galway on Wednesday night, just over halfway through the trip, already 4/5 of the way to my Guinness Goal.

The Tale of Ireland, Day Four : St. Patrick's Day!

As mentioned, in light of being in Tahoe for the time being, I'm doing a throwback series to my 2009 trip to Ireland with Tom and Paul. Also, having some trouble with photo uploading today, which I will try to fix later!

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3/17/2009

On Tuesday, March 17th…St. Patrick's Day…in a little hostel northeast of Cork, at the very top room of the building, three young travelers woke up...



...madly hungover. 
 


My head was empty of thoughts and full of pain, Tom could only wince as he registered our surroundings, and Paul waged objections against our leaving the room at all. Nevertheless, we took turns at showers, with the other two chattering constantly about how amazing and crazy the night before was. This included Tom and I promptly joking about the fight incident so it wouldn't become A Thing. About an hour later, having put ourselves back together for the most part, we headed out the door, planning to do some limited sight-seeing in Cork before we headed to the actual parade at midday.
 


After taking in a well-needed Irish breakfast and a televised Parliament hearing on executive pensions, we set off north looking for St. Anne's Church, at one point a sight to see because its four clock faces didn't match except for on the hour, which earned them the name The Four Liars. At this point, though, someone had fixed the clocks, so it's just pretty much a church now...topped off with The Four Boring Honest Guys. We decided to skip it, as well as the Cork Butter Museum next door. 



From there, we made our way down more crazy hills to the river to take some pictures. Our travels took us back to Oliver Plunkett Street, where we strolled around, briefly finding the English Market, another sight-to-see that was "Closed for Patty's Day, lads!" After another recuperative stop, this time at a Burger King, we situated ourselves just off the parade route in a park to await festivities. The guys were still tired, but I felt my energy coming back, so I went around snapping pictures and enjoying the scenery. Finally, the parade time was approaching and we got our positions for it.
 


Interestingly, in Cork, the St. Patrick’s Day parade is always proceeded by footraces in order to determine the Fastest Man and Woman in Cork. When the announcement started, I thought this would be some silly local's fun run, but the participants were serious runners and The Fastest Woman in Cork was definitely worth catching. 



The parade itself was fine. Apparently it was the first time in ten years or so that it didn't get rained out (our weather luck continued!). There were lots of military groups, sports groups, ethnic groups and others. The parade was apparently themed around space exploration, which meant a smattering of men dressed as famous astronomers mixed with aliens, including a army of little green men. The aliens were funny, but a little discordant following up the Ethnic Indians of Cork group just ahead of them...
 


After Tom had taken enough color-accent pictures (to isolate the greens) and I felt I had burned in the sun enough, we decided we were done with the parade and sought out a place to sit, preferably a pub.
 


We stopped in The Long Valley, another Frommer's-recommended pub, where I had a Guinness along with a delicious ham sandwich. Still on the mend, Tom and Paul stuck with just tea and bread.



Guinness Count: 22



After we ate, we decided to be lame and head back to the hostel for a nap. I diverted to take pictures up St. Patrick's Hill and hit an internet café, but soon joined the others. There we were, St. Patrick's Day...in Ireland...with revelers in the streets...napping away the afternoon. 



(It bears mentioning...barely...that we got in another, smaller fight that afternoon about the rules of Zitchdog, since Tom and Paul both got points while I was off taking pictures. I argued that I couldn't have possibly earned those points and thus it wasn't fair. There was much discussion and the ultimate determination was that a person on their own can take pictures of dogs they see for points. We thought it was an elegant solution...that no one made use of from that point forward.)

Once we'd awoken from our wee slumber, we walked back down into the city again, stopping at the same cafe we'd gone to for breakfast to some fried awesomeness in us. We still intended on making a St. Patrick's Day of it. 
 


We passed An Bodhran, but it looked packed to the windows, as were most of the places we passed. We went to another nearby place, which I believe was called An Broag, but with the intensely loud music and the drinking age at 18, it felt like being at a prom without formalwear.
 


Guinness Count: 24



We left, disappointed, and thought about calling it a night even that early just as we walked by the door for The Hi-B. I suggested we check it out, adding that it struck me as a place that the young crowd wouldn't like, because it was filled with old folks. This was, of course, why WE loved it.


Paul and Tom shrugged why not and we walked in, up the stairs, and into a pleasantly half-full Hi-B. Sadly, though, just on the back wall was John Mullins.



I say “sadly” because we actually learned something about John Mullins the night before: no one at the Hi-B actually likes him. He's just kind of a sad dude who hangs out there and sings songs no one likes. If you think about how we met, no one actually told him about Dick's party. As a result, by the end of the previous night, we'd left John's side and made all the new friends we could. 



Seeing him as we went in, our shoulders sank, while his arms went up in recognition. Tom sent me to the bar to get a round for all four of us and when I turned to do so, I saw another familiar face: Ann Marie!


After throwing her arms up (less sadly than John), she gave me a hug and introduced me to Stef, her friend and JB's wife. We talked while I waited for our drinks, and then, in the "You Only Get One" move of the trip, I asked Tom to come help with the pints, sent him back to John's table...and sat myself down with Stef and Ann Marie instead. 



The three of us talked for a while. I turned out Ann Marie's sister was studying to be an actuary, so she didn't blink at my profession as happens. Anne Marie was a Romance languages and Art nut herself, but had a bad experience working at a museum in Philly and thus ventured to Cork. She'd also done theater, so we had plenty to talk about.
 


Every time I looked at the other table, though, Tom shot me a pretty sore look, so I asked Stef and Ann Marie what they were up to later, in an effort to try and circle back to my table. They said they'd be heading to other places, so I slipped over and told Tom that we could leave with them. I also said I was sorry, to which Tom simply replied "No you're not!"
 


Eventually, John Mullins made the move to leave before the girls, asking us to join him. Tom told him we'd follow him there and we sent him out the door. It sucks, but we only had one more night in Cork and the girls seemed MUCH more fun. I feel much worse about it all these years later.



Once there was no more cause to leave, we had a few more drinks and chatted some more. Stef turned out to be exactly how the guidebook said people from Cork would be. She ripped on Dublin constantly, occasionally throwing in pretty much the rest of Ireland, everywhere except for Cork. She recommended that we put aside our plans for supposed must-sees like the Blarney Stone and instead go to Doolin, where there was a really good pub. 
 


Sometime during the conversation, Ann Marie took a picture for the three of us, and when I asked to take a picture of her, she said she doesn't like just smiling for pictures, so I would have to make her laugh. Here's where I tip my hat to Kate for passing on Lauren's "Le-a" story, because one angry parental phone call later, I had a picture of Ann Marie laughing her ass off. 



The girls finally decided to move out, but Tom and Paul decided they were done for the night. As a result, I took a 50 Euro note out of my wallet, gave the wallet to Tom and told them I'd see them later. So now I was out on the town with Stef and Ann Marie...
 


Guinness Count: 28



Instead of another pub, we stopped first for Thai food, adding wine with the meal, which was not the best idea. Next, we found a pub across the street, but instead of going in, we sat outside talking to the bouncer and another guy who had burst out of the place dressed as a leprechaun. Stef decided we needed a picture with us and leprechaun-man, so I handed my camera to a guy nearby, who handed me his cigarette while he took the picture. Thus, the picture goes Stef...leprechaun...Ann Marie...me holding a cigarette.
 


Next we went back to An Broag, the loud, young place. It was now PACKED, especially on the big dance floor, which is exactly where the girls pushed toward. I went for a drink, paid, and turned around to find myself alone.



Guinness Count: 29

Girls Count: 0



I looked around for a while, but couldn't find them. I began to wonder if I should just go. The girls were kind of the only reason I was still out, particularly Ann Marie, and I definitely didn't want to be hanging with the wee kids by myself. 



Luckily, Stef and Ann Marie found me again and we stepped out of the bigger crowd into a more open area. We danced for a while and eventually decided to move on.

From there, we head to another place called The Old Oak, where they've got this great life band with two singers, a guy and a girl. I don't remember what they sang except for "I Want You Back" by the Jackson Five, but between songs, the girl went from dancing around and falling out of her tank top to standing still and playing a flute, so I learned that Irish house bands are versatile.


Ultimately, the girls decided to head home. Sending them off, I walked back across the bridge, stopping to enjoy the bright lights on the water, then continued up the hill and to the hostel, happy to say that I was in no mood at all to start a fight.

The Tale of Ireland, Day Three: Dick O'Sullivan is Alive and Well

As mentioned, in light of being in Tahoe for the time being, I'm doing a throwback series to my 2009 trip to Ireland with Tom and Paul.

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3/16/2009

Waking up in the top room of Foulksrath Castle, Idecided to take some dawn pictures of our imposing digs. Walking the grounds, I took shots of the castle, the surrounding fields, and the occasional early birds on the castle walls. Tom soon joined me and, after an initial “hey,” we walked around silently taking pictures.


Eventually, we went back inside and packed back up. Once done, we brought our bags downstairs, where we ran into most of our new friends again. Deciding on a whim that the sandal was more than just a Guinness scoreboard, I got Liz and Alison, the Cali girls, to sign the sandal. I also gave them my contact info, since Alison would be in DC at some point and thought it'd be cool to hang out. (Ed Note: She never called)

Thus, bidding goodbye to the castle, the girls, and their car (which they'd dubbed The Nugget), we hit the road south to Kilkenny.

When we arrived at about half past nine, even the gates to the castle grounds were still closed (the castle itself being closed all day), so we decided to get some food. Paul, ever watchful for the unique sights of Ireland, had spotted a place called Blah Blah Blah Sandwiches on the drive in, so we decided to chance it on name alone.


This place was amazing. Blah Blah Blah Sandwiches is just a room, roughly the size of a large bathroom, with a counter in the middle and an older-looking Irishman behind it, manning his station without any visible place to sit. We asked if he was open and he said "Oh, absolutely," so we ordered ourselves some....I guess it would have been brunch by that point. While he made our food, he assured us that the castle grounds would, in fact, be open and also corrected my pronunciation of our next stop, the Rock of Cashel (I was saying it like caSHEL, when it's apparently like "castle").

Then, while Tom and Paul stepped outside to wait, a woman came in and I overheard the following exchange in trickling Irish dialects:


Woman: "Hey Andy, how are ya?"

Andy: "Oh, I'm so good you wouldn't believe."


This positive, helpful, devoted old sandwich-maker was just amazing and was probably our first of many Excellent Irishmen of the trip. The bartender in Dublin had been cool and all, but an Excellent Irishman kind of has to be over 40 to be truly great. It’s that well-aged charm.


Anyway, five minutes later, we were walking along the river eating three of the most delicious sandwiches we’d ever had. Paul and I both got a "Christmas Chicken," one of those turkey triumphs actually made with stuffing. Paul actually took a picture of his...seriously.


Once done, we walked back up to Kilkenny Castle and found the grounds had been opened. As soon as we went through the archway, our jaws dropped. We could see it was stately from the outside, sure, but inside, a lawn stretched out from the U-shaped castle for at least the length of two football fields. Walking across the grass, we turned and took several pictures of the castle and one another, all the while simply shooting the breeze on the grounds of an old Irish castle.


We walked around the castle to little fountain garden in the front, then doubled back to find the visitor information. It turned out the castle actually was open, but despite seeing pictures of truly beautiful rooms inside, we preferred wandering the town to paying for the tour. Thus, after all that, we bid the castle goodbye.


Crossing the street, we followed signs for the Butler house, which we thought was literally a mansion for the butlers of the castle, but it turns out it's a house for the Butler family who had once lived in the castle. Why they'd move from a gorgeous castle into a merely beautiful mansion is beyond me, but it was definitely stately in a more modern way and the gardens were peaceful.


Since our parking was almost up, we moved the car north through the small city center until we found a new spot just beneath St. Canice's Cathedral, the namesake of the city (In Gaelic, Church of Canice translates to Cil Chainnigh....which became Kilkenny). Beside the cathedral, a round tower stretched up over the rest of the cathedral (they should be called tall towers) and Tom quickly realized an older fellow leading people into it. Tom apparently shot Paul a look that communicated enough for Paul to then turn to me and say, "Ian, we're on the move” before rushing over to the doorway. We entered the base of the tower, paid the guy 3 euro, and began climbing a series of wooden steps and platforms upward.


It felt like it had to be 10 stories high once we reached the top, which itself was only like 6 feet across. In between wondering how many people that old guy thought could possibly fit up behind us, we got some sweeping views of Kilkenny and the surrounding countryside. Ultimately, though, my fear of heights, especially crowded heights, got the best of me and I went back down.


After we were done at the cathedral, we decided we'd all earned a drink so we passed our car and strolled up into the city, stopping to take pictures of the Smithwick's brewery and the Rothe house, an old merchants’ dwelling recommended by guidebook. It's a good thing we didn't stop at either, however, because we instead found Kyteler's Inn, a pub the guidebook had also recommended and which was actually older than the Rothe House. In fact it, was...wait for it...
 
...no, keep waiting...


...almost there...
 
...six hundred and fifty years old.


A PUB! A PUB was that old! And what's more, it was once owned by a woman who was accused of witchcraft and almost burned at the stake! In fact, in the basement bar, they had a dummy dressed as a witch, and after the bartender served us (without once questioning our drinking at 11:30 AM), we took pictures with the witch. It was a charming little pub to take a break and we sat contently in the beer garden, already reeling at the pace of the trip.


Smithwick's Count: 1

Guinness Count: 11



After our drinks, we decided to head on out, but not before stopping to pick up lunch in the form of fried chicken and chips (fries) for Tom and premade sandwiches for Paul and me.


Shortly after leaving town, we also stopped at our first gas station and Tom learned two things. One, in remote areas of Ireland, there's no automatic cutoff:


Tom: "Excuse me, do these cut off when the tank's full?"

Irish driver one pump over: "No, mate, just keep an eye on it."


And two, the gas cover was broken. Not the twist-on cap itself, that was fine, but the metal cover on the exterior of the car had broken off on the inside, so it really just sat in its place, connected not by a hinge but by a plastic cable from the car to the cover. When it first fell off in Tom’s hand, he looked down at it, then put it back with a shrug. It seemed to hold…for now.

Our next stop was the Rock of Cashel, which is a STUNNING castle, church and abbey combined into one complex on top of an imposing hill in the middle of the countryside. We pulled into the little town of Cashel, but before we walked up the hill to the Rock, we decided on a detour.


Guinness Count: 12

Freshly satisfied, we walked up the hill and paid our admission, at which point the cashier told us an informative video would start in a few minutes next door. Eager to learn about the site, we followed her instructions into a little room with a projector and screen.
  It was an informative video for sure, and darn it if 10% wasn't actually about the Rock of Cashel. The rest, though, seemed to cover Christianity broadly, almost advertising it. We exchanged many the puzzled stares during the showing.

Once done with our ecumenical education, we stepped out of the theatre and into the amazing ruins all around us. The castle stood proud and gorgeous, the abbey solemnly gave way to a grey sky, and the view for miles definitely made it clear why the kings of Munster (that particular region of Ireland) had made the Rock their seat.


Of course, our form of reverent appreciation was saying "Welcome to the Rock" in Sean Connery accents and taking a picture of my legs sticking out from behind a huge chunk of fallen wall. Typical Americans.


My camera, notoriously averse to working during the most beautiful parts of a trip (see The Isle of Skye in Scotland) decided that it would be a good time to crap out, so I only took handful of pictures of the place, but thankfully Paul and Tom passed along some good ones.

Once done, we walked back down to the car and took off for Cork, our destination for the next two nights and St. Patty's day...


Cork is Ireland's second biggest city (leaving out Belfast in Northern Ireland), yet there’s really not a whole lot to see there from a tourism standpoint. As a result, we had grown a little nervous about our plans to stay there Monday night, do St. Patrick's Day, and then stay another night. What if it was a bust of a place to spend so long a time?

What a foolish, foolish concern.

We pulled into Cork at sunset, which would have been gorgeous had we not been traveling west into the city, leaving us blind to most of the signs that we needed to find our hostel. Trusty navigator that I was, I hadn't mastered the transition from our big highway map to the smaller city maps in the guidebook. As a result and thanks to Ireland's penchant for switching road names with reckless abandon, we got lost and ended up at the top of St. Patrick's Hill. Speaking of which, someone should call San Francisco and tell them Cork stole one of their hills...it was MASSIVE.

We swung back to where we went wrong, went right instead of left, and found our hostel at last. Though sadly not a castle, it was a nice little row house with a really pleasant owner who led us, once more, to the top of the building (thankfully only three flights this time). Our room was tiny, only about two double beds wide, though with two bunked beds and a third all on one wall so you could pass beside them. The tight quarters were of little concern, though; hostels really only need to supply a bed and a shower, and for now, the Aaran House of Cork had done well.

Once we’d settled in, we struck out into the city. On our way back down our hill to the center of town, Paul noticed stairs leading up to a walkway over the train tracks beside us. This led to the following conversation:

Paul: "Hang on, I'm gonna go up here and take a picture"

Ian: "Oh, good call, I'll join you."

Tom: "I thought your camera was dead."

Ian: "It is, but I'd still like to see the sunset without being in a car."

Tom: "Ugh, count me out, I'll meet you guys at the pub on the corner."

It’s important to note there was neither a pub nor a corner visible from where we were standing…or at least it's important to MY side of the argument to come. Because we saw neither landmark, Paul and I took Tom's comment to mean "Yeah, I'm not coming up those stairs, have fun guys," a sentiment he chose to phrase as "I'll meet you at the pub on the corner."

Paul and I went up and got a beautiful view of Cork at sunset, then came back down the stairs.
Tom, of course, was gone.

We looked down the sidewalk in the direction we were headed, but it curved right not far along, so we couldn't see that much ahead of us. "Maybe he did walk down there," we thought, so we headed down a ways. We still didn't find Tom and ultimately decided it was impossible he could have walked as far as we did, so we turned back, muttering that Tom won the award for first person to get lost in the foreign country.

Suddenly, we heard Tom shouting down the street and sure enough, he was further along down the sidewalk, past where we'd stopped looking. So commenced an argument over whose fault it was that we got (briefly) separated. Paul and I maintained we thought he'd wait below the stairs as it only took us thirty seconds to take pictures. Tom maintained he told us exactly where he'd be; though there was no pub, he was damn sure down on the corner.

After some warm discourse, we pretty much let it drop...for now.

Both the driver and the argument belied a general hangriness, so we went on a search for food, but as I’d discovered on my first visit, Ireland can sometimes be strict about dinner. You have to have planned a meal out in advance, because restaurants just shut down, while most pubs only serve food at lunch. As a result, on our first night in Cork, after a quest down the long pedestrian roadway called Oliver Plunkett Street, we ended up sitting down to dine at a Subway. Eat Fresh.

After Subway, we once again sought out a pub recommended by the guidebook, encouraged by our brilliant time at Kyteler's Inn. It turned out we were close and soon we stepped into a pub called An Bodhran, named for the drum played in a lot of traditional Irish music. The guidebook lauded their live music, but at the time we arrived, the sound system was blaring pop music and the TVs were tuned to ESPN America. It was odd to be in a pub in Ireland watching hockey.

While the pub seemed right up our alley, the guidebook lied to us when it came to drinking in Cork. There was a little blurb in Frommer's saying that the people of Cork were very proud of their rival stouts, Beamish and Murphy's, and that if you ordered a "home and away" in Cork, you'd get a pint of Murphy's and a pint of Guinness. Encouraged by this excellent idea, we sent Tom to the bar to order three "home and aways."

The bartender had no idea what Tom was talking about. In fact, he asked Tom if the order was "some f*cking Australian thing." We found out later that "Home and Away" is an Australian soap opera. Screw you, Frommer's. Unfazed, Tom ditches the cute name and orders three Beamish and three Guinness and returns triumphant. As a short review, Beamish is quite good, but also a little sweeter than Guinness, so I don't think I could have a lot. Paul and Tom, on the other hand, switched to Beamish for pretty much our entire stay in Cork (it was also cheaper).

We stayed for a while at An Bodhran, awaiting the live music that would start at 9:30, and Tom decided to pass the time by making new friends. Actually, I think he was just taking a picture of the outside of the pub when a crazy drunk old lady asked him to take a picture of her and her male drinking buddy who looked absurdly disheveled. Then, she told Tom to send her the picture by mail. Then, she gave Tom a little St. Patrick's Day fan. Then, amused to no end, Tom came in for my sandal so she could sign it. Well, Lady O'Drinksalot not only wrote her name in HUGE letters, but also wrote the names of her children, consuming a huge chunk of sandal real estate and immortalizing Julia, Danny(?) and Colie.

After the lovely Julia moved along, Tom made a new friend, this time an older Irish gentleman with a bolo tie, a brimmed hat, and a trim white beard. The man, John Mullins by name, asked us where we're from and, hearing Tom hailed from Connecticut, told us his daughters were there as well. Then, our new mate John told us that he knew where some great live music would be playing and that we should follow him to another pub. Normally, I’d consider this shifty on the level of a stranger with candy, but the man's over 50 and drunk, so we were pretty sure we could take him if he were trying to rob us or something. With a shrug of Tom's shoulders and a pound of our last drinks, we follow John Mullins out of An Bodhran.

Guinness Count (including the one Beamish as agreed by my tripmates): 17

John led us back down Oliver Plunkett Street a few blocks and stopped in front of a narrow doorway jammed between two storefronts. The sign over the door read "The Hi-B,” which my guidebook actually mentioned as a great pub. Sadly, the sign ON the door read "Private Party." John stared at this sign for a moment, teetered a bit, then pushed through the door, leading us into an inner staircase. As we entered, two young guys up a flight of stairs hopped to their feet and asserted that tonight was indeed a private party. John made some drunken entreats that he was there all the time and knew the owner, but they remained adamant to the point that we thought we might have to lead John back out the door.

At that point, an older Irishman burst through the door they'd been watching and looked down the stairwell at us. This guy was decked out in a black dress shirt, red suspenders and the most happening pinstripe pants you've ever seen, but it was his words, not his outfit, that changed our night:

"Oh, hold on, boys, that's John Mullins! He's a regular, just charge him and let him in!"

Apparently, this endorsement also blanketed over John Mullins' three 20-something American friends, because we all filed up the stairs and handed over 5 Euro apiece, at which point our suspendered friend, whose name is Ian(!), filled us in.

"So, boys, you’ll be happy to know the money's going to the hospice, really, but here are the flyers for the party itself."

He handed us each little quartersheet fliers that look vaguely like Wanted posters. Upon closer examination, they read "Dick O'Sullivan is Alive and Well" with a picture of yet another old Irishman and the Mark Twain quote, "Reports of my death were slightly exaggerated."

It turns out that Dick O’Sullivan is the piano player of the Hi-B. Recently, the regulars of the bar saw an obituary for Dick O'Sullivan in the paper and immediately began passing the word that Dick, their Dick, had passed on. News traveled fast and their tight community became very upset until someone then ran into Dick on the street. It turned out the obituary was for another Dick O'Sullivan (which seems like something you check) and in the light of this new, jubilant information, there was only one course of action: Throw a Party! Dick's Not Dead!

So, with looks of shock at such an awesome party theme, we followed Ian and John into The Hi-B at last. The lighting was dim, but you could tell the place was tiny, smaller than some family rooms I’ve been in, though equally equipped with odd pieces of upholstered furniture. We also quickly noticed that we were the youngest people in the room by some thirty years. We shared a quick smile with one another as we passed by one delightful conversation after another.

Ultimately, we stuck with John, who took a seat on a couch next to an older man and woman. We quickly learned that the man's name was Liam McCarthy and that he's 72 years old. Next to him, though, was his MOTHER, Agnes who is 94!! These were our drinking buddies for the night.
Just beside us, at the piano, was the man himself, Dick O'Sullivan, working his own survival party! He was tinkling away when we came in, but soon stopped to ask one of the women at another table to sing a song as he accompanied her. She declined, saying, "Dick, I don't sing anymore, only in the bathroom, in the shower." Dick, not missing a beat, called back, "My dear, I'll accompany you there anytime." Alive and Well, indeed.

Dick convinced a few people to do some individual singing, including Liam, who proved that those who want to sing the least will sing the best. He sang a beautiful song called "My Old Man" about a father and son. I naturally got a little teary, which prompted this exchange:

Liam: "I'm sorry, did I upset you?"

Ian: "No, Liam, sorry, I just lost my father when I was young."

Liam: "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that...I hated my father."
Cue me laughing straight through the fresh tears.

Since Liam was a McCarthy, I asked him about our heritage and, more specifically, about our ties to County Tyrone in the north. In response to the latter, Liam barked, "We're not from Tyrone, we're from Cork! West Cork!” He  then proceeded to tell Paul that the O'Sullivans (Paul's family on his mother's side…which I suppose makes him a distance relative of Dick) were also from Cork. He then completed his history lesson by telling us the McCarthys once nearly WIPED OUT the O'Sullivans in clan disputes. Paul looked at me with drunk, shocked disapproval until something distracted us from our inherited discord...for the time being.

Even beyond Liam, everyone became our friend to some degree, from the old fella I kept talking to when I went to the bar ("Oh, an American, yeah? I suppose after that one, you'll need another Guinness in, what, three days?") to a guy gabbing with Paul about his trip to Hawaii.

Music continued and Dick began asking the three of us for songs. Naturally, we felt like picking the wrong "Irish song that Americans love" would turn our coach into a pumpkin, so Tom instead asked for "Piano Man" which Dick graciously played…only to have us forget the freaking words. At some point, though, Tom requested the Irish Rover, which is my absolute favorite Irish song.

Now is a good time to explain the concept of the “Kelly Kelly.” We defined the Kelly Kelly as the greatest possible thing that can happen to each of us while in Ireland. Its name comes from Tom's Kelly Kelly, which was to find and hook up with a girl named Kelly Kelly. Paul's Kelly Kelly was to hear one Irish person call another Irish person a "gobshite" which is something we saw in the moving picture. Mine was, quite simply, to sing Irish Rover not IN a pub, but TO a pub...like, to perform it.

Well, when Dick struck up the song, no one else started singing, so I did. I sang the entire damn thing.

In Paul's words, the whole pub was looking at me "like a man possessed," Usually, they joined me on the words "The Irish Rover" and they all fell in for the last few lines, but otherwise, I was on my own, a twenty-three-year old American singing an Irish song to a roomful of older Irish folks.

After the song, we happened upon another American! Ann Marie was a girl from Philly who had just moved to Cork and was staying with an Irish girl she had met in the US. That girl, Stef, and her husband JB frequented the Hi-B and so JB had brought Ann Marie that night.

Ann Marie proved to be a very sweet girl who loved Ireland as much as our traveling trio. As a result, despite how wonderful these surprise Irish drinking buddies were, I found myself talking to her more and more. Some time later, Liam and Agnes left (not before Liam signed my sandal), and Ann Marie told us they were heading somewhere else. With the vaguely unintelligible name of the next place in our heads, Tom, Paul, and I paid up and walked out into the streets.

During our search for this place (which we thought was called Houlihan's), Paul suddenly turned to me and said "Ian, your people slaughtered my people! I think I get to slap you!" A few beers back, I would have probably laughed him off, but at my current state, ruddy with Guinness and high from my Irish Rover karaoke, I instead said, "Fair enough, Paul,” and removed my glasses.

I didn't find this out until a few days later, because my own memory of the incident was hazy, but according to the guys, this was no stage choreography slap. Right in the middle of Cork, on the sidewalk of Oliver Plunkett Street, Paul Rinefierd of the Sullivan clan reeled back his hand and BELTED me across the face.

Whether it was post-slap clarity or the fatigue of a long day, we realized we weren't finding the pub and decided to call it a night. After all, leaving the Hi-B meant it could only be downhill from there, so we walked over the bridge to our part of town and started up the long hill to our hostel.

Unfortunately, along the way, we passed the staircase that had gotten us separated before. Naturally, the discourse resumed, but with drunken tempers amplifying the arguments. Finally, I became so frustrated with Tom's insistence that he was exactly where he said he was that I stopped him on the sidewalk, looked him in the eye, and said "Tom, alright, let's just agree that we all were mistaken, we all got something wrong, and that it worked out fine, ok?" Tom looked right back at me, waited a few seconds and then...

"Where did I say I was going to be?!"

Well, that did it. I had extended an olive branch and, in my drunken state, I really did not appreciate Tom's rejection of it, to the degree that I actually started pushing Tom. Seriously, as though I wanted to fight Tom about this stupid little incident. To Tom’s credit, he didn't do anything in response, especially when I whipped off my glasses (for the second time in about an hour) and he realized I was WAY too serious. At that point, Paul got between us, pushed us apart and we both stepped back. I turned and just walked ahead in a funk, still livid Tom was so stubborn. Some remarkable tunnel vision, really.

Luckily, we made up in the short distance to the hostel, but after such a great night at The Hi-B, we had one additional gem which would cause us all to wake up the next day and wonder "Did that really happen?"

Guinness Count: 21

The Tale of Ireland, Day Two: Crystal and Stone

As mentioned, in light of being in Tahoe for the time being, I'm doing a throwback series to my 2009 trip to Ireland with Tom and Paul

--------------------
3/15/2009

On Sunday morning, we took to the streets again, dragging our luggage back past St. Stephen's Green to the Aircoach bus stop. Since the rental car office was at the airport, we rode the bus back out of town and got dropped off right where we'd come in the day before. After some quick breakfast at an airport coffee shop, we hit the rental desk and hopped a van to the off-site parking lot. It was in that parking lot that we met our ride, a Ford Focus that would shortly be deemed The Great American Deathtrap.


From that point forward, we were off on our adventure, Tom sitting on the right with a steering wheel, while I sat on the left with nothing but a frightened expression. Paul, who always took the backseat when we went anywhere, was the only one who needed no adjustment. 


The first hour of driving taught us how the rest of the week would go. Besides an initial interstate, we were typically dealing with two lanes per direction at best. More often there was just two lanes, period, which sent cars barreling towards us on crazy country roads at 100 kph (roughly 70mph). Tom would respond by veering more to the left, at which point I'd remind him that the Irish phrase for "shoulder of the road" is "big stone wall" and he'd straighten out. Rinse, repeat. This is how the Deathtrap got her name.


Our plans for the first day were to take in the town of Waterford and the factory where the crystal was made, then driving up to Kilkenny to find our hostel. 


The drive into Waterford was gorgeous, as the only way into town is a single bridge over the river. While you cross, you near a beautiful row of buildings facing the water, with the rest of the town continuing behind them. Throughout the town, we pointed out the surrounding architecture, while following signs for the factory out the other side of town.

Tom had heard a rumor that the Waterford factory was shut down due to the recession and sadly, the rumors were true. While not fully closed, they weren't running tours; in fact, several workers were staging a sit-in. Angry signs abounded, including cafeteria menus offering a bullshit sandwich compliments of the Irish prime minister. It was a bad scene.


Instead of a tour, they sat us in some chairs in the lobby and put on, no joke, a 30-minute video about the crystal-making process, which was still enlightening. The amazing thing about Waterford crystal is that there aren't any low quality pieces. If a piece isn't perfect, absolutely perfect, then they smash it to be melted back down. 


After looking at some of the pieces they had on display, including a crystal grandfather clock, we headed out, a little sick to our stomachs from the experience. Luckily, though, we found parking in town as well as a fun pub called the Wacky Apple, where we relaxed and watched some rugby. It was then we found out that Ireland would be playing Wales the next Saturday for what's called the Grand Slam of 6 Nations League Rugby, which is beating all of the other teams. It was a huge deal, because Ireland hadn't done it in 61 years. Consider that Chekov’s rugby match.


Guinness Count: 9




We walked down to the harbor, or the quay (pronounced "key") and strolled around a waterside park until deciding to hit yet another pub.




Guinness Count: 10




Finally, we had some bad fried chicken from some weird KFC knockoff and, at long last, made our way out of town. 




It was dark by the time we got to Kilkenny, but it only really became a problem when we passed through town and began looking for our hostel, Foulksrath Castle. 




Yep, this would be our big awesome night in a castle/hostel, but unfortunately, even castles are hard to find off a pitch-black road in the middle of Ireland. We missed our turn once, doubled back and eventually found the driveway. The castle was a single, tall tower of stones, imposing even on the dark night sky. Once inside, we saw a few people chatting in an amazing dining room with stone walls, big wooden tables, and shields hanging along the sides. Across the way was a kitchen and right in front of us, a spiral stone staircase disappeared around the bed. Taking it up, we found the front desk, where it said to ring the bell for service. We spent 5 minutes looking for a little ding-ding hotel bell until I went back into the staircase and found a big, brass, clang-clang bell. After we rang, a young woman came down and checked us in, saying "Male dorm room 3, allllll the way at the top. The bathroom is off the kitchen, alllll the way at the bottom."

          

The top meant the freakin' top; five floors later, we were in our room, a big'un with six sets of bunkbeds and narrow windows that looked out into the gloom. There were already a three fellow travelers, so we introduced ourselves. Turns out they were from Virginia themselves! After exchanging pleasantries, they said they'd be trying to venture back into the city, which was tempting. On the one hand, we were tired, but it was also only 8-o'clock and there didn't seem to be much to do in the castle. Still, we told them to have fun and stuck around.


Soon after we settled in, I went down to the bathroom and, on my way back up, I was greeted by the residents of the womens' room, two girls our age from California and one older (maybe late 30s?) woman from Tennessee. We chatted for a while on the stairs and they said they too would be heading in to Kilkenny, but just to get some food. I said goodbye and went allllll the way back to our room.


Sadly, when I got there, Tom and Paul informed me that Kilkenny Castle is closed on Mondays...i.e. the next day. Seriously? MONDAY? 


Feeling like we'd soon be 0 for 2 on the sights we planned to see, we took our guidebooks and journals down to the awesome dining room and set up shop for the evening. 


Luckily, the California girls soon returned and joined us around the long dining room table, followed by the Virginia trio. We all shared traveling stories, our backgrounds, and pretty much whatever until it rounded midnight and we decided to turn in. 


So it was that, in the middle of Ireland, in a freakin' castle, stranded from the city, we actually had a pretty cool night.

The Tale of Ireland, Day One: Dulles to Dublin

To my readers, since I am in Incline Village for the duration and even I might eventually run out of wind describing Tahoe, I am going to start releasing something I've been cleaning up for a while.

In March of 2009, I was living in Herndon, VA with Tom and Paul, having been there since graduation. We three had discussed going to Ireland for the 250th anniversary of Guinness for a long time and, seeing as we were all moving closer to the city and Paul was splitting off for law school, it seemed like a good cab on our time as roommates.

It was a ten-day trip, including travel, and when I came back home, I had so many stories that I simply had to share them. What followed was a series of e-mails to my friend Meghan that, when I finally moved them to Word, went on for 47 pages. It was quite the trip.

And so, while I'm depriving myself of dining out on some of these stories (*cough* Cork *cough*), I thought it was a good opportunity to edit them a bit and share with the people following this blog. I've also been dragging my feet with it, so hopefully owing it to those reading will help curtail that. I also will be probably somewhat eccentric about pictures...you should all go to Ireland if you haven't, anyway.

With that, we begin The Tale of Ireland...


-----------------------------------------------------

Friday before the trip, I took a study day and Tom was, as usual, working from home, so we spent the day after Paul left doing nothing but being excited (and some studying). We declared it Ireland Day and had a traditional Ireland Day lunch…at Chick-Fil-A. 
 
When the time came, we split a cab to the airport, said "See you in Dublin!", then went to our separate gates. I spent my wait reading, flipping between Wuthering Heights and Round Ireland with a Fridge. The latter is a hilarious book about a British guy's trip hitchhiking around Ireland with the aforementioned appliance. It captures the hospitality and hilarity of the Irish people so well, and since all three of us read it, we looked to it as the guiding light of our own soon-to-be adventures.

Also, the fridge gets named and signed throughout its travels, which reminds me to introduce the talisman of the trip. You see, having bested 35 Guinnesses on my first week-long trip to the Emerald Isle, the boys suggested I go for an even 50 this time around. Furthermore, Tom had decided that we should mark off the pints I drink on my arm with a Sharpie to keep score. That sounded like a particularly poor plan to me, so I went on a campaign that Friday in search of something to use in my arm's stead. After much searching, I found a Guinness flip-flop my friend Sterling left in my trunk 3 years before when he visited Georgetown. It was unpaired, unclaimed, and forgotten; I declared it perfect.

I hope Sterling never comes calling for that sandal, because it's currently covered in tallymarks, as well as signatures from many of the amazing people we met along the way.
 
I had my layover in London-Heathrow airport, which is my absolute least favorite airport in the world. It's so confusingly laid out that I half-expect a minotaur to be hidden somewhere in Terminal B. 
 
Finally, I got my Aer Lingus flight to Ireland. After passing out for the entirety of the flight, I landed in Dublin at 10 AM local time. Paul met me at arrivals, having come in a few hours earlier, and once we'd had our "Dude, we're in IRELAND" moment, we stepped out to catch a bus.

As it drove us into the heart of the city, my junior year trip came back to me, as though I’d just left yesterday. Also, going down O'Connell Street with its statues of Irish patriots, I was reminded of how recent a lot of their independence history is. Even setting aside the Troubles of Northern Ireland in the latter half of last century, the Republic of Ireland itself was still fighting for independence in the 40s! There we were passing the big columns of the post office and seeing bullet holes from the 1916 Easter Rising still pockmarked across the marble.

We went on to pass Trinity College and St. Stephen's Green until we finally hopped off the bus on a completely unfamiliar street. Maps and a long walk led us to our Hilton (many thanks to Tom and his Hilton points!), where we found the room not ready. We checked our bags and walked back out into the city. It was such a nice day that Paul suggested we take in some sights before Tommy joined us. We walked the 15 minutes north back to St. Stephen's Green and strolled along the pathways, stopping to identify the busts and statues throughout.


On the other side of the park, we stopped for some sandwiches and let me just say this once, so that I don't annotate this story with constant celebrations of sandwiches...sandwiches in Ireland and the United Kingdom rule. Not only do they have awesome premade sandwiches in every convenience store, but they also just know how to make a sandwich from scratch. For instance, I never thought about how fresh onion can actually add texture as well as taste. I inhale my food and I was still able to appreciate that.


After lunch, we strolled to Merrion Square, an even smaller park, to locate the hilarious statue of Oscar Wilde, where not only is he reclining on a rock with a salacious smirk, but every part of his outfit is made of a different kind of stone, making the statue colorized (green, purple and black). Oscar Wilde never looked more like the Joker.


We then turned west past Trinity College and, as we strolled down Dame Street, I realized I'd seen something familiar. Sure enough, a few paces back, we'd crossed a mosaic in the sidewalk reading "The Stag's Head" with an arrow and a picture of the stag itself.


Remembering the pub as a highlight from my last trip, I diverted us in the direction of the arrow, down a tiny alleyway and to the very foot of the right honorable pub. The bartender inside was warm and welcoming, especially once we started following the soccer game the bar was watching. Since you don't tip the bartenders in Ireland, if a bartender’s friendly, it's just who he is.


It was there that we had our first Guinnesses of the trip. I went three pints to Paul's two before we left, hoping to head back and get into our room. On our way back south, we took Grafton Street, an exciting pedestrian avenue with bright shops and street performers.


Guinness Count: 3


Back at the hotel, we got into the room (a queen and a pullout sofa) and Paul decided to nap. Since I've always been told to power through Day One Jetlag, I let him rest and walked back up to St. Stephen's Green to read, figuring I could then make an easy walk to the bus stop to pick up Tom. After a decent time reading, I walked about and found a place by the bus stop to pass the time.


Guinness Count: 4

Once Tom arrived and dropped his things at the hotel, it was time to head out for pubs and dinner, with an ultimate return to the Stag's Head. Nothing out of the ordinary happened that first night; we simply got our first taste of Dublin and went home to rest, eager to rent our car and head out the next morning.

Guinness Count: 7

Big Blue

As is probably needless to say, Lake Tahoe is beautiful.

I arrived at about 7pm Monday night, after a long day of flying and a beautiful drive up over Mt. Rose. After I parked outside of Erik's apartment building, his girlfriend Kelly met me on the walkway, her hair already a colorful riot of yarn in anticipation of Burning Man. She welcomed me to Incline and led me up the stairs to Erik's place, where I was immediately greeted by Erik's dog Lucy and Kelly's dog Bailey. Erik emerged from the kitchen behind them and, after saying hi, let Kelly show me around the place.

The apartment is gorgeous, a spacious layout of rooms, each with the high, sloped ceiling of a chalet. Off the living room is a balcony looking out over trees and a babbling brook, with another off of the master suite, giving the place an aesthetic that is half ski lodge, half treehouse. Kelly showed me my bedroom and bathroom, both really nice digs for a substantial stay, and the loft above the living room where Erik has a desk. Then, after some catching up, we all put sweatshirts on and took the pups out for a ride.

The roads in Incline Village cut through fairly dense woods, making it hard to remember that Tahoe is nearby, but it only took a short drive south to draw back the curtain of trees and reveal the blue of the lake, already tinging with the colors of the sunset. All along the road, the high bluffs on the east side seemed to have tilted cars to the opposite shoulder so that the people inside could clamber down stacks of boulders to the water's edge. Erik chose Hidden Beach for us, leading us down a thin trail to a somewhat rocky slope. Navigating the rocks was tricky at first, certainly difficult enough without having the lake constantly demanding my attention. There is something so soothing about looking out over Tahoe, perhaps the staggering clarity that removes any question of what lies beneath. All of the refreshment of other lakes, less plant and animal life to share it with. It's a shame there's no fish to net, but it's not the worst trade-off.

Erik and I talked about the wedding weekend and the gang back home, as well as their upcoming trip to Burning Man and his work. I also learned about Kelly's studies for her MBA and her work as a civil engineer. The dogs put on quite a show as they hopped from boulder to boulder, all the while seeking out strangers for pets and investigating other dogs. I doubt that in my time here I will ever get as adept on the rocks as they are.

After the walk, we went back to the apartment. Kelly got some school reading in while I chatted with Erik as he cooked an excellent steak dinner, with grilled peppers and spinach. After the meal, we settled into the living room to watch several episodes of Breaking Bad before bed.

The next morning, Kelly headed back to Reno after breakfast for meetings and class, while Erik took me on a complete counterclockwise tour around Tahoe. We blew through the resort towns on the California side, skirted the jaw-dropping views on Emerald Bay, and made a quick stop at one of the adventure parks Erik's company built. Erik works as the Director of Design for a company that designs and builds adventure parks. Think of a ropes course plus a series of ziplines, all through the towering trees of Northern California (except that the Tahoe trees are smaller than other NorCal trees of a similar age due to short growing periods). Erik walked me beneath the various courses, showing me how the safety system worked (double clips for adults, a single locked clip for kids) and how the various events were constructed. We discussed his enjoyment of the work and his success in doing it; it's one of the purest examples I've come across of getting paid well to do what you love.

After our drive, we settled back at home for a bit, then went out for a tour of Incline Village itself as Erik did some last minute errands for Burning Man. Along the way, he pointed out the grocery stores, coffee places, and bars...all the necessities, of course. Returning home, we unpacked the supplies and Erik cooked a quick lunch of brats, cheese, and crackers, along with a breakfast scramble to bring to the burn.

As Erik cooked, I took a look at local jobs. There was a wide variety, from Social Media Intern at a local startup to an army of positions at the nearby ski lodges. Though it was nice to see options, it feels too early to make a decision and, as Erik said as I rattled off ideas, the first decision is actually whether or not I'm staying in the Tahoe area beyond September. I was still rolling that over in my head towards sunset as we piled the dogs in the car again and took them out for a swim.

The water in Tahoe is probably about as cold as Champlain, but it's been a long time since Champlain felt at all unfamiliar, so I felt more aware of the cold as I felt my way from the shoreline rocks to an island of boulders using my bare feet. Once there, Erik and I climbed out of the water and hopped from rock to rock with the dogs in tow until we came to a tall boulder standing maybe ten or fifteen feet above the water below. Erik pointed out a specific place to jump into the water, where the lake bed was sand instead of rock, then demonstrated with a leap out over the pure blue. He nailed his landing and was immediately accosted by Lucy, who swam over to him in rescue mode.

Meanwhile, I stared at the jump from up above. It was a little nerve-wracking to be jumping to a specific place, with a margin of error that mean rocks instead of sand. As I looked at it, however, I realized that I had every intention of jumping. What I was doing in my hesitation was trying to let fear run its course so that it did not induce any quick and stupid motions on the way down. Having run through the necessary processing, I leapt off and Tahoe came rushing up to greet me. I landed perfectly fine and emerged from the water to hear Bailey whining at being the only one still stuck up on the tall boulder.

While Erik coaxed Bailey down, I pulled my goggles out of my pocket and slipped them on. Seth had told me that one could open one's eyes underwater and see clearly, but I have to imagine said person wouldn't have contact lenses. With the goggles, though, my hesitance in getting from stone pile to shore evaporated. After years in the much murkier Lake Champlain, now I was in my element, and I dove under the water, pulling myself along the stony bed as though rock climbing horizontally. We all made our way to the shore and scuttled over the rocks back to the car.

Once home and changed, we made our last trip out into Incline, picking up a pizza at Mofo's and bringing it with us to Alibi Ale Works. We each got one of their self-brewed beers and Erik led me past the expanding brewing setup to a relaxed back patio where we ate our pizza and listened to the trivia game we'd walked into. After listening to the answers to a round we would have smoked, Erik mentioned that the score is cumulative by month so if we wanted to play, it would probably be a few points to start with. We came in after the first two rounds of four and actually gave our answers to round 3 in a blitz after telling the host we wanted to play. After scoring one point off the best score in round 3 (sports) and winning round 4 (Presidents), we felt we had made a decent impact. We finished with 27 points; the winning score was 45. Not bad for missing two rounds. But perhaps trivia recaps are as interesting as fishing stories.

After Alibi, it was time for Erik to go and so it was just me and the pups, winding down the day with a beer and the first few episodes of Silicon Valley. It was hard to conceive of Tuesday being my first full day in Tahoe, having crammed so much into it.

It is truly beautiful here and I understand the draw for not only Erik, but all the vacationers and seasonal residents that Tahoe plays host to. It will certainly be an inspiring place to write and a good opportunity for Erik and I to hang out outside of some sort of high-speed event. Still, I find my brain is chugging away at next steps. Though, financially, I could probably stand to spend the month focused on the book and figure out the future later, I'm learning that thinking that way causes anxiety. I don't like not knowing the next step as much as I thought I would. I had to create a daily schedule just to prove to myself that I have plenty of time to write AND figure out a plan, and thank god I did, because otherwise, I couldn't do one without feeling like I should be doing the other, in both directions.

It has helped to have some time in the place to myself, taking the dogs out for walks, doing my own shopping, and getting more stuff I need to work out of the car. I think I have a good approach to the month and, in addition to using my freedom to write, I can also use it to be picky about the path I want to take. Like the jump into the lake, I don't mind the feeling of fear, because I know I'll make my way through it, but I have to be careful in my search for a path so I don't do anything stupid (like get a job here before I know if I want to stay) out of fear. 

Back and There Again

This weekend, I celebrated the end of my marathon drive by hopping a flight back to Atlanta for the wedding of my high school friend Starla and her fiancée Kate.

My time in Atlanta began with a late evening pick-up at Atlanta-Hartsfield from Dave and Chelsea. They were kind enough to host my last four nights in Atlanta when I left at the top of the month and now, after so little time and so many adventures, they opened their home again.

Of course, it’s no longer just their home. It took me about five minutes into our catch-up conversation in the car to realize that sitting on Chelsea’s lap was their new puppy, Mac Swirsky. Mac is an adorable little Goldador (Golden and Labrador mix), who passed the ride in a confused silence, obviously a little unused to the motion of a car. Dave and Chelsea caught me up on their new puppy parenthood, regaling me with tales of Mac’s usually boundless energy and tendency to become a poison ivy patient zero.

When we arrived back at their beautiful home in Grant Park, we all collapsed onto the floor between their living room and kitchen while Mac bopped back and forth between us. I told them bits of the drive that didn’t make the blog, expounding more about the fears creeping in and the plans I have to mitigate them. They gave wedding prep updates and answered my many questions about their first few weeks with the puppy. It was a nice chance to catch up with the two people I’d have had barely any time with at all, had 2014 gone to plan.

Mac showed signs of tiring and we all weren’t much better, so we called it a night, with me retiring to my familiar bedroom, complete with Ian towel.

Friday was bit of a bonus day before the wedding and I’d be spending Saturday and Sunday Outside The Perimeter, so I made the most of my ITP time. I spent a few hours at Hodgepodge coffee blogging out Wednesday of last week and enjoying a cold brew, then Uber’d up to Smokebelly Buckhead for a birthday lunch with folks from my old job. It was strange to plug back in with the group dynamic, especially with my overgrown hair, but it was nice to know that all the great people at Towers are keeping up with my travels and staying awesome themselves. I answered more questions than I asked and kept those I asked to vacations and outside-of-work stuff; I knew I’d absorb some stress if I heard too much shoptalk. Then again, lunches like that were always a chance for everyone to unplug.

I then Uber’d to Top Golf (having my second delightful Uber driver convo along the way), where I spent a few boozy hours with Dave and some of his MBA buddies. I begged off hitting any balls after a few rounds, feeling the torque on my knee and generally liking everything about the time there except for the moments when I was swinging. My sport was much more the side-discussion about the merits of Home Alone 2 compared to the original.

After Top Golf, Dave and I returned to the house, where we eventually accumulated Matt, Britt, and Chelsea after work. If the McSwirseas are the ones I benefited the most from in the extra year, I feel like the Fishels are the ones I could have used yet another year to hang with, so we’re doing our best to hang out when we can now. They’re both ridiculously supportive of this adventure and Britt in particular was kind of the first person to hear me muse about a creative avenue and immediately send me contacts that could help with that. Exactly the sort of “ok, so do it” energy with which I need to surround myself.

We spent the night out at Tomatillo’s in East Atlanta Village, where I paid homage to their Crack Empanadas and talked out some more of my plans and listened to the others discuss work and wedding prep. The Fishels had to peel off after dinner and drinks, but back at the house, Dave, Chelsea, and I had an impromptu 90s music singalong and then went down a YouTube rabbit hole before grudgingly ending the evening.

The next morning, we ate breakfast at the house and sat on the porch while Mac played in the yard. Their porch/yard setup seems like such a gem to find in the city and has been the site of many an informal summit about education, personal growth, and relationships with family. This time was no different, save the soft, little puppy running up and down the porch stairs in between points. I think the question that gave me the most pause was asking what values do we think our parents were trying to instill in us the most and evaluating their success. We all had hard work / educational success on our lists, but the other answers were scattered. My second was that I think Mom instilled in me the importance of being trustworthy and reliable, of doing what I said I would do. I also think that being voted Most Dependable speaks to the success. Nice work, Mom.

It was then time for them to drop me at MARTA, at the end of which I joined Hanley, also in town for the wedding. Alison and Zac picked us both up and we had a delicious lunch at Adele’s in Roswell while catching up about new jobs, wedding planning, and jobless wanderings.

After lunch, we went back to Ali and Zac’s to get ready for the wedding, with me returning to the guest room and bathroom they let me stay in during the first two months after the breakup last year. While we joked a lot about me being the son coming home to Mom and Dad, the return was more genuinely emotional than I expected. First of all, I will never forget the generosity they showed in taking me in when the winds blew the hardest; everything from the smell of their house to the pattern of the comforter in my room reminded me of that hospitality.

On the other hand, the familiarity felt so different from the wild novelty of the earlier part of the week. Waking up in that bed felt like traveling back in time or even like the intervening year had been only a dream. Though those concepts might sound scary or negative, it’s actually the energy of a place that feels like home. Time seems to stop and be all one at my mom’s place as well, which means that my time with Ali and Zac, coming when it did, made a pretty strong imprint.

Others began gathering at the house to carpool to the wedding. I elected to ride in the earlier car, since I had a reading to give, which put Seth, Kristen, Hanley, and myself on the road to Rutledge. During the ride, Hanley and Kristen discussed wedding ideas while Seth and I discussed Tahoe, with the conversations blending back and forth frequently. Once we arrived at the venue, Hard Labor Creek State Park, we aggregated with the other car (Alison, Zac, Joe, and Megan), as well as Kate and Willie, down from Greenville. The site itself was a ten-minute walk down the trail, at the end of which was the group shelter for the reception and rows of chairs facing the river for the ceremony. It was a wild and beautiful place to be married, vibrating with life. Jamie Threatt, one of Starla’s bridesmaids, came out to make sure I was on the aisle for my reading and I even had a quick tete-a-tete with the officiant to make sure I knew my timing.

The ceremony itself was beautiful and so perfect for Kate and Starla. The entrance music was live, sung and whistled beautifully by two guests I never had the chance to talk to. The bridesmaids looked lovely, the brides radiant. Having gotten out my emotions in reading the
Supreme Court excerpt at MARTA earlier, I gave my reading well and quickly squeezed Starla’s hand before settling back in my seat. Then, Kate and Starla spoke their vows, expressing their love in elegant, personal words that caused not a few tears. A few binding announcements later, they were married and there was much rejoicing.

Being so close, the reception came hard on the heels of the wedding. I got a quick plate of food in before getting on the dance floor as soon as possible, partying with the gang and avoiding another bout of dance floor fisticuffs with the bride. Of course, I felt ridiculously sweaty from the outset, but I was having a blast and I have long since realized there are some unwinnable battles. I’m not going to not dance. We made some new friends throughout the nice, taking conversations back out onto the lawn and trading our best Kate and Starla stories. Jamie and I slipped away for a bit to get the wedding license signed and secured, after which the evening quickly rolled to the end, with sparklers seeing the happy couple off into the night.

We took a portion of the party back to Alison and Zac’s, collapsing around their basement and chatting over beer, wine, and champagne. It's a great afterparty spot.

Finally, it was time for people to leave, while Ali and Hanley went to bed. Zac and I threw back to a year ago and stayed up late watching a movie, although we mainly KEPT watch over the movie, as we wound up watching in shifts while the other slept.

Sunday morning meant Hanley's departure to hang with family (after a nice lazy morning chat with Alison and me), followed by brunch at Crabapple Tavern and a stop to drop the Threatts' Leaf by their new place, which was magnificent yet familiar, as though all of the best parts of their old house took steroids. Shire was visiting as well, which was a bonus catch-up I definitely didn't expect, but appreciated since I did such a crappy job hanging out with him before I left. After the tour and a decent chunk of hangouts, we headed back to the LeVasseurs. Ali and Zac went off to a concert in town, while I hung back, ordered Chinese, and watched movies. With Monday would come a return to my wild ride, so it was nice to relax and regroup in a house that had allowed me to do the same over a year before.

At last, Monday came and found me riding with Zac into Atlanta, where I'd MARTA to the airport and hang out there until my 2:15pm flight. Zac andI chatted a bit, but also had some quiet moments. In addition to the early hour, I had so much to think about regarding the days ahead and had trouble putting it off. Once we got to Peachtree Center area, we said our goodbyes and I walked through the Hyatt towards the MARTA station. As I approached the revolving door to the street, I passed a man rolling a spinner bag and holding up a tall garment bag, inside of which was an unmistakeable Captain America costume. Dragon*Con was arriving and I was leaving, an understanding that broke the stopped-time trance of the weekend and left me with mixed feelings as I descended into the Peachtree Center MARTA.

All in all, a wonderful weekend spending time with friends, vacationing in my own past, and celebrating an adorable love. I'm so glad I was able to make it and so excited for what comes next.

To that end, I am now safely arrived in Tahoe (as of last night, Monday) and will write with my initial thoughts tomorrow perhaps. As a short trailer, it's stunning here, it's been a fun half-day or so with Erik so far, and this will be a good place from which to determine next steps.