St Patrick's Day, a whole lot late

About a hundred years ago, it was St Patrick’s day and with it brought visitors in the form of Melanie and Hippie, very good friends from the Dallas days who met me for Oktoberfest 2005 and the great journey thru Italy. But this time, they came to see me here in Dublin. I was thrilled to see them and not just because they brought me stuff. Melanie brought me a few items I couldn’t fit into my luggage at Christmas and Hippie brought me a kick ass bottle of tequila. Melanie came with me to Ireland back when I was interviewing for jobs and gearing up to move here, and since she’s been to most of the Republic of Ireland, I decided we’d stay in Dublin for a few days and then go tour Northern Ireland for a few days. Then somehow, because it follows logically, we’d fly over to England, spend a few days driving around the southeast corner and then finish off with a couple of days in London. Got all that? Seeing the pattern there with these two? They don’t come for quiet visits, they come for epic visits. At the end of the trip, I’d pulled a muscle in my thigh, visited the least Irish Irish pub ever, garnered myself the friends and family rate for hotels in London any time I go back, recovered from a hacking cough, and lost visable amounts of weight. It took me a week to recover from my vacation and in doing so, I didn’t get around to blogging the experience. So I’m making up for it, but giving you entrée to my travel journal. Photos are posted on my photo site, link at the left there. I hope you enjoy the ride, I know I did.


16 March 2007
Melanie!! As soon as I opened my eyes that’s the first thought into my head. Yeah…. Melanie!!! More of a chant really. So I dragged myself out of bed, into town an onto the Air Coach to the airport only to find the 7am flight from Chicago had arrived early and they were waiting for me in the lobby. Sigh… even when I’m on time, I’m late. They should have been at customs still! We got stuck in traffic on the way back into town, which made for an even longer ride than normal and then finally arrived at the house (after a much longer walk than I’d anticipated from the Schoolhouse. Note to self: exit at Jury’s and take a taxi with the luggage) They settled in and I puttered around the house. It’s good to see them.

After they woke up, we went to the post office to collect a package from my mother, which was the surprise hit of the festivities: shamrock sunglasses and a mini pint glass on a string of green beads. She instructed me that one measure per pub would be quite enough. We had several rounds in that little thing, I must say.

We took in Malahide Castle, which is beautiful and interesting but I’d not be too rushed to go back. I would like to be invited to dinner in the minstrels gallery though. Wonder if they’d roast venison on a spit? After that we slogged our way thru the city to St James’ Gate, the home of Guinness. I figured we’d take the tour and be in the gravity bar in time for sunset. What I hadn’t figured on was the 2.5 hour line to get into the tour. And it was 4pm, they close at 5. Not knowing what to do, we hemmed and hawed a bit and figured we’d at least take the photo in front of the sign. And then Hippie asked his genius question: can we at least go into the gift shop? Dunno… let me check. So I walked in thru the handicap and mothers with strollers entrance to ask the door guy about just seeing the gift shop and there wasn’t a door guy. The entry lead directly to the escalator, which was empty. So I walked back to the door, waved them in and we went right to the ticket queue. It was surprisingly easy and would have made Flatmate Suzie quite proud. No one even noticed us sneaking in the side door there. I’m still amazed we got away with it. So in we went, to be entertained by a Brazilian drum corp while waiting in line for the tour. They were really good and Guinness has finally decided to cash in on Paddy’s Day. All weekend long they have people playing music in the lobby, traditional bands, drums, local bands, etc… and when we finally arrived at the gravity bar for our free pint, they had a trad band entertaining the crowd. It was all very new and civilized. We listened to the band, had our pints and counted the number of times I’ve been on this tour; 6, twice with Melanie. I’m exempted from ever having to take the tour again.

We had planned on quite a day for Paddy’s day. At 10am we were going to the parade, then meeting Joe and heading to Croke Park for the Hurling finals, then grabbing a quick bite to eat and wandering back into town where Tracey, Paraic, and Miles would join us for a Temple Bar Pub Crawl. Joe’s job was to find a pub showing the Irish 6 Nations Rugby match, ring me and let me know where to meet him. He strongly advised me to be on the correct side of the parade route because there is no crossing the street once it starts. And it’s a very long parade.

So we stood on O’Connell street and waited for the parade to start. We found a reasonable spot and the parade, which is scheduled to start a noon, finally started at 12:30. But the entertainment began long before that. A group of American college students were behind us, having quite a conversation. Mel, Hip, and I, together with an Irish couple next to us kept smirking and stifiling laughter. It’s not that we were all eavesdropping, they were just so loud we had no choice but to listen to them. Poor grammar (is them starting yet?) and out and out stupidity (what is St Particks day for? Is it a religious holiday or just a Dublin thing?) followed by the ignorant (Did you know Amsterdam is in Holland? No, it’s in the Netherlands. Oh, I went there and I thought it was in Holland. Or Germany.) and the asinine (Why does your shamrock have 5 leaves? Cause it’s pot. Oh that’s cool dude.) As I was listening to them, I could only think about my niece and her best friend and some of their conversations. Yes, some of them are silly (ok, a lot of them are) but no one oculd lable them as dumb. even when they’re talking about clothes and boys and all things teenage they have a stong head about the, an articulation they parade kids simply did not possess. And after hearing that 50% of US University students believe Sodom to have Married Gamorrah… I’m of the firm belief that the schools are indeed dumbing down the education.

So there we were, awaiting the parade, a captive audience to the the strains of American Idiot. And then it started to rain. Lightly, sort of misting really. But the parade did start and it was worth seeing in spite of every fourth or fifth entry being an American marching band, one of which only seemed to know ‘Stars and Stripes Forever’. And we know this because they were stuck in front of us for three run-throughs of it. We were just down the street from the Grandstand, where the Lord Mayor, the important people of the city and the TV cameras were, so a lot of entries got stuck in front of us, waiting for previous ones to clear the grandstand. It would have been worth paying the 60 Euro for the grandstand I believe. It’s a ong and fanciful parade with lots of music and dancing. And it was much longer than we’d anticipated, so either springing for the seats or finding a pub showing the TV is defiantly the agenda next year. It’s a great parade though.

Joe rang to tell me the rugby had started and that he never managed to make it across the street, and was ensconced in the Palace (with me!) watching the match. Sigh… we had our first fight… I called him a dumb ass for breaking his own rule and I’m sure he called me some choice names for calling him a dumbass. But we managed to see the match (Ireland beat Italy) and head to the Hurling in time to see the last 5 minutes before the half. Which would have been great except that just as we were walking in, my phone rang and by the time I got to it, my brother had gone to voicemail. I was pissed. Dan called me from the Persian Gulf to wish me well and I couldn’t get to my phone in time because I don’t know how to make it ring more than twice before voicemail kicks in. Aaauuuughghghghhhhhh…. That happened onece before when I was hauling groceries home in the rain and I felt very sorry for myself and he never called back. This time, however, he did and I got to talk to him for the remaining first half. Much better use of my time, frankly. He asked what we were doing, how many Guinness we’d had already, wished he could be there. Then he told me their sad little plans. A bunch of the guys were going to go to a movie on base, then dinner and then head to the PX to buy all the green liquid Nyquil they have and drink shots. No liquor in Kuwait so cough syrup will have to do. We dedicated the rest of the pints to them.

The hurling was good, very interesting sport. It’s a cross between soccer and hockey mixed with a bit of lacrosse. Very fast paced. I think it’s something you have to be close to the pitch to really appreciate, because that ball is really tiny. From the Hurling we walked back into town and started the pub crawl. In all, I think we hit 5 pubs total. We started at Keatings, a church-cum-pub, met Tracey and Paraic there and then journeyed into the Palace to see the Lovely Liam, where poor Joe couldn’t get a seat. It was packed, as we’d figured it would be but the table next to us had all these empty seats. So Joe asked if we could have one and the girl very rudely told him no. Then she proceeded to put her bag on one, rest her feet on another, and sit on two of them. (she was large enough to require two seats) So Joe had to squat on the floor to drink his pint. Squatting and drinking Guinness in his straight guy costume out of a green plastic mini pint. We all had shots of Guinness out of Mom’s pint there. It was hysterical; definitely the biggest hit of the evening, and when poured, would form a mini head and need to settle a bit before you could drink it. Even Paraic had a shot and he hates beer!

From there we walked out the door, said good bye to the Lovely Liam, and went… where?... The Long Hall, where Miles joined us and was rather confused by the mini-pint but was a good sport about having a shot. I think that’s where Melanie crossed the jet lag/ pint ratio so we wandered into town to find a taxi home. Jet lag is deadly when you’re drinking. Besides, we had to get up early the next day and go to Northern Ireland, with me driving!!

18 March 2007
Derry, Northern Ireland
Bronchial, damp and pissed off. It is snowing and that is the least of my complaints. The hotel did not warn us that, after 10pm, for safety reasons, they lock the front and only door to the hotel like it is Fort Knox. One must find the small door bell and ring it impatiently, rudely, American-ly, in order to get the front desk guy down stairs to let one into one’s hotel. He, of course, seems to think it fine and perfectly acceptable that one ring at the door, in the snow, late at night, un-warned and quiet precariously perched on a healthy/not healthy precipice. My lungs hurt, I want a steamy shower and what I get is a trip thru a smoky bar, followed by standing outside in the snow/slush to wait for some tool to come downstairs and tell me that I should have pushed the door instead of following the directions to pull the door open, because really, who doesn’t yank and shove on doors without handles to gain admittance to a storefront of metal roll down guard doors? And after all that? A shower too hot to stand in… Delightful.



19 March 2007
We picked up the rental car and I got behind the wheel feeling not at all disoriented. Driving, not that difficult; shifting is another story. Luckily Hippie is riding shot gun and we quickly developed a system. Only once did I accidentally downshift too far. It’s weird doing it with my left hand, but at least the gears are in the same position. I didn’t do too badly, truth told. And it was a lovely drive; sunny and bright and overcast and windy and rainy and hail and snowy all the way here. They got to see some true Irish weather. By the time we arrived in Derry, it had settled on overcast and snow. Yesterday wa a cold day for sightseeing and I’m thankful Derry is as tiny a city as it is. Let’s hope we have better luck at the Giant’s Causeway.

No snow but what a wild trip! The wind was blowing so hard it stopped me in my tracks on the way down to the causeway. On the way back up it pushed me into a run. We stopped for a photo of the sea on the way there and the car was literally rocking and shaking in the wind. I drove with continual 20 degree tilt into the wind. On a cliff. A windy cliff. At one point we thought it was snowing, except that it was seafoam being blown up the cliff and over the road. At the bottom, so much was being blown free it looked to be flocks of white butterflies racing acoss the rocks only to disappear into the grass. Sea butterflies; I like that. I’ve never seen waves that wild and large before and it made me quite nervous to see Hippie and Melanie walking so far out on the rocks to the sea. Part of the causeway curves around and forms a wind shelter, so I sat and basked in the sun (with had and gloves) and watched the wicked sea crash into the cliffs across the bay. It was quiet peaceful thought not as powerful an impression as the first time I was there. Odd how people help imbue a place with meaning and atmosphere. Absolutely worth the trip though. Now we’re in Bushmills and Melanie and Hippie are on the tour. I opted out, since I was on a 3 day 10 distillery tour just a few months ago. I instructed Melanie and Hippie to raise their hands as volunteers at the end of the tour, so they get to do the tasting, which they did. I think neither of them liked many of the whiskies but one was a clear winner. It wasn’t Bushmills though. The guide took their names and then printed off a certificate for each of them as Official Tasters, which is new. Really nice certificates that will look great framed in their bar at home. As we were the last ones out the door, a man came over and introduced himself, noted that we were Americans and asked if he could interview us for a Northern Ireland Tourist board radio interview. So we got on the radio because I dragged to the North for vacation. It was surreal.

20 March 2007

What a wild night in Belfast. We arrived with no problems after a bit of construction foiled our directions, but found free parking directly in front of the hotel and then hit the streets for our Historical Pubs crawl. We started in the Crown Saloon and I’m very sorry it wasn’t earlier in the day. It is magnificent. The windows, the wood work, the ceramic tiles… It was just gorgeous. The place is lit with gaslight chandeliers still and is easily the most elegant space I’ve ever been inside. We got to sit in a snug, snap a few photos and have a round of pints. Actually, we had 2 pints, a water, and some peanuts for the rock bottom price of 12 pounds. (that’s $24) Hate Sterling! It was worth going to see and I feel better for having a pint after witnessing the many, many groups wander in, photograph and wander immediately back out. After our round, we were off to Hercules’s Pub, which neither the staff nor I can fathom why it is on the historic tour. It is simply an ordinary pub but the barman was quite chatty and funny. He told us that Belfast was quiet because of the bank holiday and that we should be careful wandering that party of the city. Great. He told us ghost stores, gave Melanie and Hippie some beer mats to take home and then walked us thru the back door to our next stop, Kelly’s Pub. Yeah… climax of oddity. We wandered into an ancient cave of a pub to see everyone staring at us. And I mean everyone. Not surreptitiously, not furtively, actively checking us out in a very uncomfortable way. We settled in and I went to the bar and heeded the previous barman’s advice: make friends with the staff right away and you’ll be fine. Good thing I did. After establishing that we were, in fact, Americans, the bar erupted in a hive of activity around us. And by us, I mean me and the drunks. As the first drunk approached, the entire watched to see how we’d react. After that, it was open season. I’ve never felt so much like meat before in my life! It was awful. The barman kept an eye on me the whole time though and when one particularly drunk drunk wouldn’t leave us alone, I nodded and he removed him, sent him home in a cab. Then the other two approached and kept asking me out, asking Hippie if it was ok they were speaking to me, what was my name, would I go out with them…. Uugh. Then Hippie got swept up by a pair of Scotsmen who spotted his Harley tee-shirt, and that was ok, but the serious drunk kept pestering me (you’re so beautiful, she’s so beautiful, will you go out with me?) so we finally had to leave. It was actually quite difficult to get away and I kept looking back to make sure no one was following us. We made it to Morning Star in time for last food orders and some soccer. It was much better, if quiet. Such a bizarre experience… It felt like a pirate movie where the captain prods something as his men huddle behind him, waiting to see what it is and be given the all clear to approach and pillage for themselves. I don’t think I’ll be back to Belfast any time soon.