I am unable to tweet and chronicle my adventures.
Because I'm a writer and feel the need to blab about
my trip immediately, enjoy this series of blog entries.
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Prologue-Chapter 2
*some names have been changed to protect the identities of those I've met on this trip*
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Chapter 3
I sipped the last bit of apple juice from what seemed to be an ounce-sized glass - though the Irish use the metric system - and headed to the bus with two minutes to spare. "Oh look, he made it," one of the tourist shouted out as I lurked down the aisle to my assigned seat. I'd forgotten that my sister referred to me as late all the time. Again, our not seeing each other for ten years prior began to rub me. "You almost had to sing a song," another yelled. Again, I recalled a tidbit Joe the tour guide said from the introductory meeting: "And if you're late to the bus, you have dance. ...maybe sing a song for us." I hoped it wouldn't become a running joke, but I felt the inevitable coming.
I decided to leave my headphones in my back pocket during the trip, expecting Joe to have valuable information to share while we rode to whatever our destination might be. For party conversation's sake, he did. Apparently, around 60% of Ireland's population was currently under 32. That meant either a lot of babies were having babies, the older generation died out/left Ireland, or the baby bomb was real in Ireland. Either way, I considered my chances for finding my ginger prince higher.
Ireland possessed small armed forces - so small they only had an air core, not an air force. Additionally, they faced an economic crisis not unlike the States'. The writer I was thought of an insurgency seeking to exploit these weaknesses in order to gain control of the island and bring true peace and happiness to its inhabitants. Before I could think of a proper plot twist to deepen the storyline, I spotted a highway sign in two languages. As if reading my mind, Joe's voice hissed through the intercom, "Ireland is in fact a bilingual country. Gaelic, the country's national language, and English. We make sure to write Gaelic on all our signs and to speak it to uphold our history and heritage." It'd be cool if the States had signs written in the prominent language of Native Americans, but the casinos would do as heritage preservation enough.
"Now, Irishmen are notorious gamblers. If it rains, they'll bet to see which raindrop will fall down a windshield to hit the bottom first." Joe's hamming began to wear me down as I chuckled. He continued to tell us about horse racing, year long horse racing with two seasons: flat (regular, circular, chase the mechanical bunny racing) and hunt (a mix of everything else, including obstacles). Shortly after the explanation, the bus pulled into a parking lot. I peered out the window at a sign: Irish National Stud & Japanese Gardens.
Chapter 4
"You're very welcome to the Irish National Stud Farm. I'll be your tour guide Natasha today; now won't you follow me this way?"
I attempted to snap a picture of Natasha in front of the beautiful lake as two swans swam behind her, but alas, my camera still experienced an "lens error." I hoped all the horses ugly creatures with crooked legs. No beauty of Ireland deserved to escape my shutter.
To my dismay, they were all beauties. When you have horses that have placed first in multiple races not only in Ireland but abroad as well and use them to inseminate meres during a four-six month period, you can't not expect majestic creatures. It did strike me as odd that these horses were essentially pimped out to create strong ponies that would mature into winning horses like their papas. Given the common male mentality that "more sex, the better" - and these horses were getting laid - everyone in the group seemed to except the ranch, perhaps even envy the horses. I supposed as long as the horses weren't required to hand over their sugar cubes and apples all was fine. However, you have to wonder how much money went into the care after each hefty cost to mate with it.
Invisible Spirit, their most prized and fertile horse, was insured for close to a million, if not more. Having sex with three to four different mere a day for four to six months at around 100k a session (pending on the successful insemination of the mere), that great stud pulled in revenue. Apparently, he and the other stud know what hot shit they are. They each had their own grazing land to reduce the chance of confrontation with each other. To say my imagination did not drift to an all out horse brawl would be a lie.
The studs weren't the only attraction the Asian couples captured on film. Meres and their children also inhabited the ranch. Each mere and pony pair actually approached the gate and began the feeding process, making for a wonder photo-op I'm sure they were trained for. At least the old folks were getting their money's worth. While teet-sucking engrossed them, I turned my attention to the mini-horses fenced in across the dirt path. Initially I noticed five scampering along their low to the ground bodies. That was until I counted four hooves. The mini-horses were fairly well hung... for their size.
Throughout the tour, I took the opportunity to properly assess the group. While being a majority of Caucasian and Asian senior citizens, I took note of a few anomalies: two couples in their forties/fifties, two families (one of six with a son and daughter, the other of four with two sons), two young females about my age. Each family had a son who seemed college-aged, but I was unable to get a good read on them without feeling like a creep.
Once the tour of studs finished, we were invited to tour the Japanese Garden at our leisure for photo opportunities. I tried my camera to see if the lens error had corrected itself; it hadn't. With no other options, I walked around the garden as my sister snapped photos of me with her overly fancy camera. While posing in ways my sister found annoying and not-aesthetically pleasing, I came across a sign that read "#3 - The Path of Confusion" that pointed into a dark cave. I figured it was part of collection of sign insinuating the Path of Life and immediately followed. Through many twists, paths, and bridges, I found my ways to different signs and interesting pieces to be photographed in front of. And though I didn't come across the signs in numerical order - I didn't even find them all - it was okay, because the true path of life has many options. There's a poem in there some where.
Chapter 5
On the ride returning from the Stud Ranch, the tour group faced a difficult choice: The Guinness Brewery or Jameson Distillery. The bus would stop at each location to drop off whomever wished to hop off. Truly, I wished to see both; and it was even an option. We just would have needed to find our own on way there, as we already need to find transport back to the hotel. And though I am mostly a man of liquor, the Guinness factory spoke to me as we pulled up to it. Mostly because I had just woken up from a nap and more than half the bus filed off.
The first floor was showered in indigo lighting that accompanied the small waterfall to the right of the room. 'Lex and I followed the arrows around to the left of the room were we found a large vat of bailey to play with. I resisted the urge to make a bailey angel, but the room was crowded and I didn't wish to inconvenience the other patrons. We passed glass cases of "hops!"before walking up a staircase circling the waterfall. My dysfunctional camera pained me so during this opportunity and rare photo-op. I'm not even certain if my sister captured a good shot of it.
To say I clearly recall the Guinness would be a lie, because they would never release their entire formula. Instead, I received a view into their bottling, packing, and shipping process. Barrels can be such a joy to look at. There was an opportunity to wait in line for a tasting, but my sister and I decided to skip the long line and head up the next escalator. Had I been with a bigger group, though, I could have waited half an hour for that roller coaster of a stout.
Twenty minutes later, we found ourselves back in the gift shop, though I sneaked up to the less crowded, smaller 2nd floor to buy trivial things for my house and roommates (lower in cost to the gifts I brought my mother earlier in the day). I waited by the down escalator while 'Lex dealt with the longer "mainstream" checkout line.
Before exiting the premises, I took note of the map on the wall showcasing pubs in the surrounding areas. I recognized one of the streets as the location of the Nepalese restaurant from the night prior and planned a route home. Outside, my sister stood at the bus stop. I realized I had forgotten my bus voucher, but I always wanted to see more of Dublin.
"Hey, 'Lex, let's walk back to the hotel."
"No, Greg. My feet are tired."
"But the city. The sights!"
"I've got enough of 'em."
"It's not even that long a walk. Like, half an hour tops." I proceeded to persist, but she had none of it. "Fine, I'll meet you back at the hotel."
"You're not walking back alone with all those bags looking like a tourist. Mom would kill me."
"Yeah, you're right." I continued to edge towards the corner.
"Fine, let's go." I had wore her done.
"Ok, cool. Let me just check that map one more time."
Soon we were on our way down the same street that change names three times before returning to Dame Street. "Ah, I recognize this place," my sister said as she dragged behind, refusing to walk faster. Along the way we stopped into a cigar and whiskey store, primarily to buy her husband the Irish whiskey he so badly desired. Browsing the wall of whiskey, I found one that spoke to my soul: Writer's Tears. It was too perfect a name for me to pass up. "Really?" my sister gave me a cock-eyed look. "Writer's Tears? I don't need you to be any sadder, little brother." I shrugged and asked the clerk to fetch it for me anyway,
Whiskey added to our many bags, we walked pass Mama's Revenge. "We should probably put our bags back in the room before we go there, huh?" But my sister didn't want to go, as she reminded me that her feet ached and that I'd be eating lunch alone. I chalked it up as my time away from her the Dallas to London flight stole from me.
Bags back in the room, I sped walked back to Mama's Revenge. When I ordered a sweet-chili beef chalkboard, they asked me if I had my student ID on me. I was honored the little Hispanic women thought I could be an Irish university student. Receiving smiles from the ladies, I sat down with my 7Up can, received my burrito, and properly went to town on it. The chili really rounded out the flavor of the burrito. To trying new things.
Chapter 6
As fast as lunch passed through me, the bus heading towards a dinner destination arrived. The marvelous Taylor's Three Rock cabaret, one of the highest ranking tourist attractions in Dublin. During the two hours of down time, I googled a quick fix for my camera. Apparently all I needed to do was tap the extended lens softly with a pen. The lens error vanished and all was right in the world. I snapped a picture of the venue but decided to restrain myself from photography during dinner and the performance. No one like a flash in their eye as they forget their table manners on holiday.
The venue was packed with ten touring groups, one each to an a table, which were set up in an Oktoberfest manner. Not that I've ever been to Oktoberfest, but it's how I imagined it. My sister sat to my right, senior citizens to my left and across from me. She sat next to one of the college-aged guys and his family. During discussion, led by my sister and eavesdropped on by me, we found that his family were also from Jersey. You couldn't really hear an accent from any of them, though his father had a strong presence about him that commanded a room in a lightheaded way - much like dads on ABC comedies during the late 90s and early 00s.
At this time it should be addressed that the UK and southern Ireland refers to the 00s as the noughties. I suggest we Americans hijack the term as our own because it is brilliant and better than having nothing better to call that decade than the double O's.
The midwestern couple sitting next to me periodically struck up conversations with me that I would tear myself away from eavesdropping for. We exchanged pleasantries and jokes with the older couples sitting across from us. The man that sat across from me had a very decent voice. It wasn't all-american or blurry sounded like the other senior citizen males. The sound of his voice was soft and creaky - almost as if he wanted to lure you into his white van with candy - but there was a wit unmatched whispering beneath it. Though he shared many one liners, nothing he said intrigued me more than his voice.
By this time I was well into my pint of Smithwick's, a smooth pale beer that I would rank slightly above Coors and the American beers like it. With the starter (Irish term for appetizer) just arriving, I was feeling social but not social enough to yell across the table. The rest of the meal was slow to churn out as well. When my sister was done with her dinner roll, she stole the college kid's bread when the addition piece she asked for didn't come out. She promised to pay him back for it.
During the meal, his dad brought up the idea of heading out to a pub after the show. "We walked in their earlier this afternoon, made nice with the bartenders. Nice guy. Said the joint closes as 11:30, but we'll be able to stay a little after." The suggestion seemed aimed at his 20 year old son and my sister until he turned to me and invited me as well. I smiled and said sure. Making friends isn't so hard when you have a talkative sister. Once the meal was done and the dessert plates were being whisked away, I ordered a Guinness and prepared for the show as the lights began to dim.
The show opened with the three lady steppers: two blonde, one brunette. One blonde had that smirk across her face as if she knew she was prettier than the others, drawing my hatred for her immediately. Soon they were replaced with three male dancers. The man to the right had a dark, slim, and mysterious look to him. The middle dancer was the obviously the leader and jokester, sporting a wide Irish grin I could help but admire. But the young man to the left, he looked fresh faced, as if he hadn't been on the job long. His dirty blond hair and boyish charm drew my gaze. I regretted my no photos policy already. My sister turned around to point him out to me. I pretended to watch the jokester. As if reading my mind, she snapped multiple pictures of the young lad. I wish she had snapped pictures of the jokester, too, though.
The dancing was interspersed with subpar singing from a male and female soloist accompanied by a violinist and flute player to either side of the stage. Danny Boy and other Irish classics were sung; no tears were shed during the Bing Crosby medley. The main attraction came in the form of an aged Irish comedian advertised to us by Joe Laverly as a leprechaun. Having served 50 years in the industry and serving up self-deprecating jokes, he might as well have been. His speciality were simple, corny Irish jokes you could retell at your water cooler. I promised myself I would remember a few for my corny joker lover back in the states, but alas, damn that blonde in the black dress of a beer.
Chapter 7
Once the bus pulled up to the Davenport Hotel, the 20 year old, his dad, 'Lex and I immediately walked over to Kennedy's pub across the street and a stone skip away. We walked in to find a couple in a corner chatting and a small group in another. Two or so locals sat at the bar. With four empty stools at the bar, the kid and his father took the middle two. Walking behind 'Lex, she took the first seat next to the kid leaving me to walk over and sit next to his dad. Not a bad seat since he placed me in front of the beers on tap. "Go head and order. First rounds on me," the dad said. We thanked him, though I wasn't surprised. My freshman at Loyola had taught me that white males enjoy buying rounds of drinks for friends. It's a bonding experience, invites conversation, and not partaking in such a thing is frowned upon.
I gazed upon the brews on draft. One circular red tab that read O'HARA'S IRISH RED appealed to me. I watched at the short, capped bartender poured my drink. He seemed like a man you would find behind many an Irish pub, and I appreciated that about him. Retrieving a coaster, we placed my beer in front of me. I took a fine sip of the beer and was immediately transported to a Baltimore bar that brews their own recipes: Brewer's Art. The taste reminded me of their Resurrection. Similar, yet different and still delicious. I decided I had a new favorite beer."You should try the Crean's beer next," The kid yelled down to me. "I think I just fell in love." I chuckled. I soon discovered he was a history and education major at a college in Scranton. I admired his passion, the words dripping of pride as the left his mouth. His father a hard worker who deserved a holiday. Eventually the topic turn to child raising, though I'm not sure how. I was absorbed into the fineness of my brew.
Towards the end of the conversation, you decided to be social. "I'm sorry, guys. I just realized I don't even know your names." Being seats two chairs away served as a great excuse for always forgetting peoples names.
"I'm Frank, and this is my son Sam. It's nice to meet you, Charles."
Introductions aside, I decide to order another beer. Another O'Hara's, but this time their IPA. It wasn't until I had the glass in front of me I realized the tab read IRISH PALE ALE and not INDIAN PALE ALE. I braced myself for something different and was meet with a taste I was again familiar with. No clear Baltimorean counterpart, but without a doubt the best IPA to grace my taste buds. "Is this a local beer?" I asked the bartender. He assured me it was, saying it was in a few bars in the south of Ireland. There would be no more beer tasting for the duration of my trip. The search for other O'Hara's flavors was on.
Through the night, I was proud I made conversation with the bartender. Granted I was drunk and had no idea what to say to 40-something Frank, but proud nonetheless. Halfway into my IPA, Sam seemed impressed with something. "1850. Wow, is that how long this bar has been here?" I looked up to the framed shirt he was staring at. I asked the bartender the same question.
"Yeah, it's been here since."
"I wouldn't have guessed this place older than the 70s." The bartender wasn't sure whether I meant it as compliment or not. Neither was I.
"Yeah, a bar down the street has been here since the 1600's. Soldiers used to meet in the pub and discuss plans." I wasn't sure if the bartender was gassing up we drunk tourists or not by that point, but I took it as fact for the time being.
Soon after a short walk around the pub, Sam's mom entered the pub to join the fun. I couldn't read rather Sam and his father were pleased with her arrival, but 'Lex chatted her up for a while anyway. I chatted with Sam for a bit until our drinks were done and yawns started to replace words. It was a shame we wouldn't have a chance to return to Kennedy's tomorrow, for our tour of southern Ireland continued in the morn.
Word.
Chapters 8-13 (coming soon)
