Venturing to the "North"

Finally, at the ebb of our time in Ireland, Katherine and I made it to the fabled land of Northern Ireland. If talked about at all in Cork, Ulster is usually mentioned along with a raised-eyebrows; an unspoken understanding that something's not quite right up there. Turns out that belief is not at all unfounded.

Katherine's sister Elizabeth was with us for ten days and for the first four days of that stretch we explored the capital of Protestant Ireland: Belfast. I learned much about the history of the Troubles and Catholic/Protestant violence in general, and I won't bore you with all of nuances. I'll just say that the Troubles were worse than you thought they were and, no, they're not exactly over. Well the shooting is (mostly) over, although even in 2010 an occasional British soldier is murdered and your odd car bomb goes off. But what remains is a startlingly segregated society.

From the American point-of-view one can't help but think of the Jim Crow South. Indeed, replace the word "black" with "Catholic," and you're on your way to understanding how Belfast and Ulster operate. Catholics are now allowed to serve in the police force (they now constitute nearly 30% of the officers) and they've even had Catholic Sinn Féin Lord Mayors. But it was unbelievable to hear, on a tour of West Belfast, that in all of Northern Ireland "there are now sixty integrated schools. It's not much, but it's a good start."

In the middle ground, the main "Peace Wall" in West Belfast between Catholic Falls and Protestant Shankill.

Going a bit farther than the American South are the so-called "Peace Walls" erected in Belfast and throughout the North. These are thirty and forty-foot tall barriers separating Catholic and Protestant neighborhoods, and the oldest ones have been up for nearly forty years. The homes next to the walls have protective barriers to deflect petrol bombs and other explosives that could be hurled over from the other side. And far from being just a holdover from the Troubles, they are actually still building Peace Walls in volatile neighborhoods throughout the North.

As you can tell, for me the main attraction of the city was its politics, past and present. We hit up the famous political murals, an obligatory exercise for any first-time Belfast experience. But there was more than the Troubles. There was the Crown Liquor Saloon, the most visually stimulating bar I've ever set foot in. It's like drinking in a work of art: from the Italian-made painted tin ceiling, to the hand-carved and luxuriously decorated drinking booths, to the beautiful painted ceramic tiles covering almost every surface, you actually enjoy looking around more than the very good Guinness they sell. And it's right across the street from the Europa, "the most bombed hotel in the world."

Probably the most famous mural, this painting on the Sinn Féin HQ depicts Bobby Sands, the first of ten IRA men to die on a hunger strike in British prison in the early 1980s.


This charming number greets you while you're walking down toward Queens University. The Loyalist murals are almost always more militaristic and, well, terrifying.

Other worthy sights are Queens University and the magnificent Botanic Gardens. The Ulster Museum––located conveniently in the Gardens––is world-class.

A flower in one of the Botanic Gardens glass houses.

The sisters in the opulent city hall of Belfast. This rebuilt room actually suffered a direct hit from a Luftwaffe bomb during the Battle of Britain.

Elizabeth left for the States today, leaving Katherine and I about a week to prepare for our final foray into the Continent. We're visiting Switzerland after many suggestions to do so from Katherine's grandparents––just as important, though, is meeting up with Swiss friends we made during our honeymoon last year. Within days of our return to Ireland we'll be packing up and leaving Cork for good.

The Final Weeks

In a few short weeks we'll be waving goodbye to Cork from the back window of a Dublin-bound bus. It will be at least a little somber: Cork is the first place we've lived where Katherine and I feel "at home". Williamsburg, Va., always felt like the temporary trial it was; we never integrated into the community. Maybe that's because half of the community honestly thought they were living in the late-eighteenth century. Anyway, we feel welcome and plugged-in here in southern Ireland––naturally, it's always with a tinge of regret that one leaves such a welcoming environment.

On the other hand, our exit seems to be blessed with good timing. I am still out of work and there's really no hope for finding any at this point. I've been a drain on our finances for weeks now, eating and using electricity but not bringing home any dough. I try to do the laundry and go grocery-shopping to make up for this.

Furthermore, our section of town––Oliver Plunkett Street––seems to be turning against us. Ever since late-June there has been almost incessant road work, masonry work on the building next to us, painting, grinding, and jackhammering. It's a rare, very rare, day when there's any quiet. And the nights....well the nights have been loud too. I have the uncharacteristically good summer weather to thank: warm, clear evenings mean droves of revelers walk around the city at all hours creating all sorts of noise. Sometimes they like to camp out right in front of our building and sing loudly. At 3:00 a.m. Lovely. Last night seemed to be one of those uncommon respites. That is, until 12:30 a.m., when a neighbor's small dog started barking hysterically for several hours.

It's like the city is trying to tell us "'Tis time to go".

***

As for our European travels? Honestly I thought we were done after the Germany trip. Not so: we are, inexplicably, going to go to Switzerland for five days in early September. Katherine's late grandfather highly recommended la Suisse to us (Basel in particular), and we figured that actually going is a good way to honor him. It seems crazy but the tickets are booked and there's no backing out now. We'll get back to Cork with four days left on our lease.

A Long, Dismal Absence

I know, I know. I've neglected my responsibilities. But in a way I have been saving you all from exceedingly dull reading––nothing much has happened! As with the past few entries, employment prospects are, well, nonexistent. Also working against me is my ever-shortening timetable: we're in Cork for only another six weeks. So I would either have to lie to a potential employer about the permanence of my residency, or tell the truth and not be hired.

So as you call can imagine, I'm planning on no more work in Ireland. I gave it my best shot! And grumble though I did, the warehouse gig saved us. Without that there would have been a much earlier departure for the USA.

Another factor working against my blogging proclivity is, simply, cultural acclimation. After nearly a year in Ireland the glossy novelty has worn off. Our way of life, the sights, the food, the accents, driving on the left side of the road, all of this seems more or less normal. I don't even give it a second thought anymore.

That's not to say that we're not trying to explore anymore. Here's some photographic proof of what I've been up to recently:

The around-the-world Clipper race made it's annual stop in Cork harbour in early July. The clippers are sponsored by cities, countries, and other types of localities from all over the world.

California's clipper was the lone USA representative that I saw in Cork. The crew was, charmingly, singing "Born in the USA."

July 15: My birthday. The big 2-5. Katherine got me a cappuccino cake from the Natural Foods Bakery. Best cake money can buy.

Also in mid-July: my little sister Caitlin came to visit us. After my birthday we went to Cape Clear Island for a couple of days. Clear Island is the most southerly point in the Republic of Ireland (and thus has the southernmost authentic Irish pub in the world). As seen here, the scenery on the ferry ride to the island was pleasing.

We were joined by our friend Meredith, on the left. The views on Clear Island were generally beautiful, like this shot of the South Harbour. Even though it rained for the entirety of our stay we still managed to hike around and enjoy the sights.

It's hard to believe that in six weeks we'll be bidding adieu to Cork. For the latter half of September we are cruising around the island with Katherine's mother and grandmother, and then we depart for the States on September 30. I will keep up with Éire Apparent while I'm still in residence, so be sure to keep popping in!

Missin' June

The word on the street is that May and June were the best months we'll see in Cork this year. And fine they were, lots of sunshine and hardly any rain to speak of. July is unfolding a little differently: the past three days have seen constant rain, heavy at times. But most of the time it's what some here call "swirling rain," precipitation that's almost lighter than air. The droplets don't really fall according the laws of gravity. Instead they swirl around on invisible air currents, enabling them to find you no matter where you're hiding. Under an umbrella, in a doorway, under an awning...you get wet.

The precipitation only adds to the fun when I'm pacing around the city streets looking for help-wanted signs. No luck thus far (by now it's a familiar story on this page). Nowadays there are even less opportunities than the winter and spring, mostly because college is out for the summer and the part-time market is clogged with university students.

So I remain on the hunt in Cork, but part of my attention is now on the American scene once again. Sadly, in a couple of short months we'll be leaving Munster. Recently I have been spending more time scanning the classifieds in the States––do me a favor and don't ask me what I'm going to be doing. Let's just say that I'm keeping my options open.

A Corkonian friend of ours recently referred to his joblessness as being "funemployed". It seems I have uncritically adopted this philosophy: we have wave after wave of visitors staying with us throughout the summer, and a lack of an income isn't stopping me from pubbing with them and taking trips out west. It might be the epitome of financial irresponsibility, but what about this whole experience hasn't been?

When my cousin Nick was with us last week, we took a road trip to the Beara Peninsula in West Cork for a couple of days. The scenery might well be incomparable as far as Ireland goes:

Katherine and I near the old mining village of Allihies

On Dursey Island, accessible only by cable car, we found dramatic scenery––here Dursey Head extends out toward a small island called "The Calf".

There was also a castle ruin called Martello Tower.

Sea cliffs on Dursey provide stiff competition for the Cliffs of Moher.

Naturally, sheep were ubiquitous on the trip.

My sister is our next guest, arriving next week. We liked what we saw in West Cork so much we are planning a second excursion. Hopefully the weather cooperates.

***

Since I'm in Europe, it seems appropriate for a couple of words on the World Cup. I have been following the tournament as closely as one can without a telly. While we were in Allihies we caught the Uruguay-Ghana quaterfinals match; incredible! The most exciting match I've seen. Anyway, we're down to two teams. Spain and Holland. Interesting historical rivalry, Spain being the former oppressor of the Low Countries. As much as my heart wants the Dutch to pull off an upset, my brain tells me that Spain should win. Therefore I'll go with the Iberians, 3-1.

Long Days in Cork

The return from Germany melted into working full-time at, yes, the warehouse. My current phase of manual labor in Blackpool ends with the month of June, but, as my boss has confirmed, there could always be a July or August "guest appearance." By July or August the money will seem quite attractive, I'm sure.

Offering our place to friends and family who want to visit Ireland has resulted in a flood of visitors––a cousin of mine comes in tomorrow, and a friend of Katherine's is showing up (with a friend) in the first week of July. The more the merrier, really, because visitors give us convenient excuses to visit some pubs and chippers, and to take road trips to the west of the country.

As for Irish current events––a topic I've neglected for some time––instead of focusing on the extremely repetitive glum economic news the country is in a highly positive mood thanks to some wonderful early summer weather. June has been just about perfect: clear sunny skies, highs in the 80s (or about 90 at the hottest), and long, long days. Seriously long days...I've never seen anything like it. But then again, I've never been this far north around the summer solstice. Consider last Saturday, when I was out until 4:30 a.m. Sunday morning. At 11:15 p.m. I glanced at my watch and noticed that it was still twilight some lingering sunlight still visible in the west. When I turned in for the "evening" at 4:30, the first rays of sunshine were visible in the east. Only about four hours of full darkness!

It is quite agreeable all around. Even if you work full-time, when you get home you still have four or five hours of time to soak up some rays. The only (slight) problem with the situation is you don't get as much sleep as usual. But that's where the Irish winter comes in handy, when you only have six or seven hours of daylight.

Anyway, the country is loving the weather. We've been told that June 2010 has had more sunshine than the entire summer of 2009. Just add this to the list of extreme weather we've encountered during our stay.

S is for Schnitzel

We returned safely from Germany on Wednesday, no ash cloud interference in sight. Our week away was very enjoyable––we spent most of it in southern Bavaria at the beginning of the Alps, which rise suddenly and impossibly out of gently rolling wheat fields and cow pastures. Those mountains are truly awesome, we had never seen anything like them.

If you’re Alp-bound, check out the Bavarian town of Füssen. It is a favorite vacation spot of Germans, and it’s easy to understand why. The outdoor activities are top-notch. But for foreigners it’s probably best known as the home of Schloss Neuschwanstein, King Ludwig II’s “fairy tale” castle that supposedly inspired the Disney World castle. But something tells me that Ludwig’s is a little more impressive, if anything because it is perched up on an Alpine hill with stunning views of the countryside. That and it’s not made out of fiberglass. As long as you don’t mind being crammed into small rooms with eighty other sweaty tourists, Neuschwanstein’s worth a stop.

From the front steps of Neuschwanstein

We biked around the reservoir Forgenßee

From Füssen we went to Rothenburg ob der Tauber, a great example of a German medieval walled town. It’s extremely touristy. Worth it, though, for the photos of traditional German architecture, giant snails, and a local pastry called a Schneeball.

Tilman Reimenschnieder altarpieces alone were worth the trip to Rothenburg

Germany has large snails

Love the architecture

Lastly we wound up in Frankfurt am Main, Germany’s financial capital. Frankfurt has a nice big-city buzz about it, and some great food too. German friends of ours took us out for some Frankfurt apfelwein (apple wine) and food––I got something called the Schlachtplatte. Literally translated as the “slaughter plate,” it was a mound of blood sausages, ham, and sauerkraut. It was magnificent, the best German food we had for the whole trip.

Frankfurt am Main

Two stereotypes were confirmed. Firstly, Germany is all about pork. You find every type of pork preparation imaginable. It’s actually tough to find beef or chicken on a menu. (If you’re a vegetarian, maybe go to Spain on a holiday instead.) Second, the beer was second-to-none. Sorry Ireland, you’re a close second. The sheer number of brews available in Germany is overwhelming, but I tried to make a small dent. Every kind I had was nearly flawless. Even types of beer I’m not too crazy about––weiss beers and pilsners, for example––I have to give two thumbs up. (If you don’t like beer, maybe go to Italy on a holiday instead.)

One more observation: my God, the Germans are into the World Cup. Maybe their enthusiasm was dampened by their recent loss to Serbia, but I doubt it. While in Rothenburg we watched Germany beat up Australia 4–0. Locals then proceeded to drive around the town in a circle, probably a hundred times until 11:30 at night, honking their horns, singing, and blowing into bugles. This was a preliminary match…I don’t know what they’ll do if Germany wins the cup.

***

Much to my horror June is already drawing to a close, as is our time in Ireland. I’m going to be upfront with my loyal readers: Katherine and I might not be staying in Ireland for the full twelve months of our visas. A combination of factors has us thinking about heading home in late September, but I won’t bore you with them. The easy explanation is that we’ll run out of money.

I am currently limping along at the warehouse, that place won’t let me go. (One of my bosses joked that he originally came to the company sixteen years ago as a deliveryman trying to drop off a box. At least I think it’s a joke.) Nonetheless they won’t have any work for me after June, and the job market in Cork is, well, unchanged.

Right now our preliminary plan for the rest of our time is to enjoy summer in Ireland the best we can. We are seriously considering doing a month or five-week stint at an intensive language school on the Continent at the end of the summer. When are we ever again going to be living in Europe, sans career and other responsibilities? Might as well try to pick up a language, or at least jumpstart the learning process. If we commit to this then we commit to our finances being taxed beyond repair––thus the early return to the ol’ USA.

Note: I have no idea why this post is having formatting problems. I don't know enough about HTML to fix them. Sorry!

June Already?

May came and went nearly unnoticed in Cork. Between our interesting trip to Italy and France and the visit of Katherine's brothers there was little time to sit out in the sunshine and smell the roses. It will be more of the same in the coming weeks, of course. We head to Germany on Tuesday: we're flying into Munich and start a week of exploring around Bavaria. And there is still a slate of friends and relatives planning to visit this month and next.

Cork is fully awake for summer. Today I saw two parades, of sorts. The first was a rather large march in protest of Israel's actions this past week. In case you didn't watch the news, Israeli commandos stormed an aid ship bound for Gaza, killing nine crew members and humanitarian workers in the process. Today we learn from the news that another ship––this one Irish-owned––has been seized by Israel while on the same course.

As with any other situation involving Israel, folks are riled up about the seizure of the aid ships. So what I saw today was a rather large (by Cork standards) demonstration against Israel's aggressive actions. The second "parade" I witnessed was a raucous procession by the Cork LGBT community (Google it if you don't know what I mean). There was a massive flotilla of dancing people surrounded by rainbow balloons while the Pussycat Dolls was blasted for the whole city to hear. Again a reminder of how much Ireland has changed.

The derelict building next to ours has started to literally crumble into the street below, a spectacle that offered some entertainment last night. The fire brigade noisily arrived to assess the situation. To examine the building closely, they of course had to use a cherry-picker.


But the biggest hazard turned out to be not the unstable building, but advertising banners:


But they're professionals. They managed to get past this hiccup and focus on the task at hand:


The whole fiasco went well into the night––I think it was around midnight before the hubbub died down.

Firemen working away into the evening.

The solution? They ended up gating off the sidewalk and street around the crumbling building. We'll see what happens next...

***

I just finished my first week back at the warehouse, and it's like I never left. They want me back when we return from Germany too, so I don't know where exactly this is heading. On-and-off work throughout the summer? Who knows?

On the economic front, more of the same. I have been fascinated by the slow collapse of the European economy for the past couple of months, and it seems like talk about a break-up of the euro is more common by the day. While no country that I know of has officially endorsed a revision of the common currency, it might be a matter of time. Markets plunged again yesterday as Hungary has admitted it has a Greek-style debt problem. Things will get really interesting if Spain or Italy eventually require bailouts, a situation that would compel the stronger economies (France and Germany) to abandon the currency.

But for the time being the union is holding together. We're going to take advantage by spending some euros in Germany. I'll report upon our return, of course.

A Triumphant Return

At last entry Katherine's brothers were visiting from the States, and playing hosts kept us busy for much of the last week. They departed over the weekend and it's back to the work week...a work week that holds some surprises? Read on.

But first, I would like to report that we finally made a visit to the fabled Fota Wildlife Park, a Cork institution. It's about a hundred acres of exotic animals, some of which you can get very up close and personal with.

These guanacos were hanging out on the footpath. Kevin (in the yellow hat) got too close and one of them tried to stomp on his foot.

Brother Matt with some ring-tailed lemurs.

Fota is good craic, and the park's attractions are very informative. And I got to see an ostrich chase off––at a full run––not one, but two giraffes simultaneously. That alone was worth the money.

***

Throughout last week I kept my eye on help-wanted ads. And as I last reported, things are slow. Being unemployed has its benefits, of course: while Katherine was at work (before her brothers came) I was cranking out a good amount of writing. Currently I'm working on an article-length piece––it needs a lot of work before I think about submitting it to someone, but I like how it has taken shape thus far.

This week was meant to be the same way––that is, until I got a phone call on Friday. It was from my former boss at the warehouse in Blackpool. They need me back for another temporary stint! This one for two or three weeks! Call me the Brett Favre of warehousing. So instead of lounging around and working on my article this week, I have fallen back into the familiar routine of walking three miles to Blackpool in the morning and three miles back in the evening. Fun stuff.

A Close Shave

My brothers-in-law are visiting us in Cork this week––young lads both of them, but they're finally over the legal pub age. So naturally seeing some watering holes has been an integral part of their trip. Yesterday we were walking around the North Side and, as tends to happen on a warm day, we got thirsty. A pub called Mo Chuisle caught our eye and we wandered in for some Murphy's. It was a nice place, complete with pool table. But only a few hours after our visit Mo Chuisle was the scene of some American-esque drama:

From the Irish Independent: ARMED gardai last night dramatically foiled an apparent murder bid after shooting a young man who had threatened staff and customers with a shotgun in a busy pub.

The man – who is in his 20s – was fighting for his life after he was shot by Cork-based members of the Garda Regional Support Unit (RSU).

He was shot after he had repeatedly ignored shouted warnings from RSU officers to drop his firearm and surrender to gardai.

It is the first time RSU officers have been involved in such a shooting, with their only previous armed intervention being the use of a Taser stun gun in Limerick.

The drama unfolded after the armed man walked into the Mo Chuisle Pub on Cork’s Blarney Street at 6.40pm. He was carrying a shotgun and asked for an individual by name. The individual was not on the premises at the time – but the man then proceeded to threaten customers and staff, demanding to know the whereabouts of the named man.

A passerby spotted what had happened and alerted Gurranabraher garda station.

An RSU team was already in the vicinity and they arrived within minutes of the alarm being raised.

Several armed officers entered the pub and demanded that the man drop the shotgun and surrender.

However, the man ignored the orders and turned, apparently sweeping the shotgun towards pub customers.

One garda source said the man’s action was deemed to represent a serious threat to both pub patrons and the RSU officers so he was shot in an effort to incapacitate him.

A number of shots were discharged and the young man was hit at least once in the stomach.

An ambulance was called and he was transferred to Cork University Hospital (CUH), where he was undergoing emergency surgery last night.

The young man’s condition is understood to be critical.

Gardai immediately sealed off the scene and assisted the traumatised customers and staff out of the pub. Detectives were investigating whether the incident may be linked to the tragic death of Anthony Hennessy (41) outside the Mo Chuisle pub in March 2008.

Good thing we wound up at Costigan's to finish the evening! The article goes on to say that Mo Chuisle has had other armed encounters in recent years. Take a look if you're in the neighborhood around midday, but stay away in the evenings.

Muy Bien

Cork’s only Mexican restaurant, Café Mexicana, caught my eye as soon as we arrived in this fair city six months ago. I am quite fond of Mexican food. From the time we were of legal driving age, my group of friends would seek out new “authentic” Mexican joints to sample––which, on the Eastern Shore of Maryland, amounted to about three different locations.

Nonetheless, I consider myself rather experienced with the cuisine. In fact, Mexican is the one culinary territory where Europeans will concede that I know more than them. Regarding French, Italian, or even Indian food, I am a sorely uneducated American. But with Mexican (in addition to anything that involves maple) I achieve expert status. This is, of course, because as an American I live closer to Mexico than the Europeans, and we all know that being in close proximity to something results in expertise.

Nevermind that my Mexican-food street-cred is laughable compared to a southern Californian’s, or––God forbid the comparison––an actual Mexican’s. It didn’t matter for the first six months we were here because we avoided that lone Mexican restaurant. We’re in Europe after all, let’s indulge in the fancy European things that don’t exist in the States. And indulge we have: I have many pints of stout and many chipper visits under my belt. But deep down I always knew that one day I would have to confront Café Mexicana.

That day was today. I donned my Expert of Mexican Food cap and we headed in for lunch (their lunch menu is considerably more affordable than the regular offering). The décor, I must say, is spot-on. Brightly colored chairs and tables, and the obligatory pictures of Zapata gracing the walls. Good music too.

Your man Zapata.

The first hitch was the appetizer offerings. They were all labeled as “nachos”. Not a huge problem, but it’s debatable whether or not they can be considered authentic Mexican. And the practice of heaping everything under the sun on top of a pile of corn chips and broiling it is a delicious, yes, but purely gringo invention.

I quickly recovered from this and was considering the beef enchilada when I noticed it. The smell. A familiar aroma––smoky and pleasing…oh God, they’re roasting potatoes. A quick scan over the menu confirmed my suspicions: an appetizer of potato skins.

And so I ate my enchilada not enjoying the scent of cilantro (none to be see in the place!), but of potatoes. I really mean it because my dear wife, Katherine, ordered the potatoes and ate them right in front of me. I can’t pretend to be too amazed by this, we’re in Ireland after all. It’s mainly the deficit of cilantro that’s tough to wrap my mind around.

Based on the Mexican food you can get in the States, Café Mexicana earns a five out of ten. It’s a good start, but there are some gaping holes that purists will find tough to ignore. But it’s only fair to have a separate grading scale for Mexican food available in Ireland––and with that rubric Café Mexicana earns a nine. It’s the only game in town!

She Says...about Italy and France

For the first time in my life, I saw planning ahead bite Brandon in the butt. We were meant to leave for our grand tour of Italy on Wednesday, 5 May. Brandon, always the one who plans ahead in our relationship, bought train tickets online to get us from Pisa to Lucca on Friday, 7 May. But that volcano in Iceland is still erupting and the changing winds and weather patterns mean that flights over Ireland (and Europe) will continue to be canceled whenever winds blow in an unfavorable direction.

Our flight to Pisa was canceled, and our train tickets were null and void. So I think from now on, Brandon will probably start to plan ahead at the last possible minute. This cancelation ended up being for the best though, really, because we got to see Venice. We were able to rebook our tickets for Friday morning; the only catch was that we had to fly into either Rome or Venice. We chose the latter because we thought it would be more manageable with the limited time we had there.

You’d think getting to Venice would be easy, right? We’re already in Europe. All we have to do is hop on a plane and fly there. Not so.

Oh, what a journey it was! Brandon and I woke up at 6:30 a.m. on Thursday, May 6. I worked a full day and we caught the last train from Cork to Dublin. There were even complications the night before we flew out. News reports late in the day on Thursday were saying wind conditions might change over night and early morning flights could very possibly be affected.

When would the Irish Aviation Authority issue a statement on that possibility? At 8:30 p.m. of course: the same time as the last train to Dublin. Dublin doesn’t have any 24-hour internet cafes (somehow Cork does, though), so we stopped into a hostel to find out if they knew the flight situation. We heard that all was good to go, and decided we would head to the airport. The time was now roughly 12:30 a.m. We caught a bus and got there a little after 1 a.m.

We did our best to sleep in the airport. We settled in a spot downstairs that was quiet for about 40 minutes, until a woman sitting near us started speaking very loudly in another language on her mobile. It wasn’t a short phone call either. So we got up and desperately looked for another seat. We eventually found one. The time was now about 2 a.m. We dozed off and on for about two hours before the cricks in our neck and the early morning buzz of travelers checking in woke us up. It was now 3:30 a.m., we wearily got up, ate a breakfast we had packed, and checked in for our flight.

Almost as soon as we were up in the air, Brandon asked me, “Do you mind if I sleep on your lap?”

“No,” I responded, “Go ahead.” And go ahead he did, he did a diagonal, across-the-airplane-armrest face plant and woke up two hours later with the imprint of my jeans on his face. To be fair to Brandon, he did wake up half way through the flight and asked me if I wanted to sleep on his lap. It didn’t exactly look comfortable, so I said I was fine and continued to try to sleep sitting up.

I mention all this because, by the time we got to Venice, I could barely lift my backpack up and put one foot in front of the other. And somehow Brandon’s two hours of sleep had refreshed him completely. He even went so far as to say, “I feel great,” at some point that morning.

As you will read in Brandon’s entry, things didn’t go so well from that point on. You’ll have to read his take on this trip for the full story with all the juicy details. But basically, we got off at the wrong bus stop. I asked Brandon, “Should I go ask the bus driver which stop is for Marghera?”

“Sure?” He responded, and with that the bus came to a halt and Brandon got up. I assumed he was going to walk to the front of the bus to talk to the driver, but no, he walked straight off the bus. I just about got off after him, the doors closed and the bus drove away. It was not the correct stop, and we ended up walking three to four miles through Venice’s deserted, ugly, somewhat frightening industrial park to get to our hotel.

***

Once I finally did get a few hours of solid sleep though, I felt a million times better, and we both completely and thoroughly enjoyed Venice. The Rough Guides series says one of the best things you can do in Venice is get lost, and that is exactly what we did. Brandon and I wandered around the islands of the city for about five hours, occasionally ducking into churches to look at the incredible extravagance, until 9:30 that night. At one point, Brandon told me he thought he should give me a big hug and kiss on a bridge over one of the canals, and he did just that. There were even church bells ringing. It was beautiful.

St. Mark's Square

We spent the next morning in Venice too, and then left for Lucca. (If you want to say it like a true Italian, make it a long “u” so that it sounds like “Looo-ka.”) We had one full day in Lucca, and that was really about all we needed. It was enough to go to the top of the Guinigi Tower, eat gelato, see all the churches (that were not quite as impressive as the churches in Venice), and walk around the medieval walls of the city.

Atop the Guinigi Tower

From Lucca, we went to Corniglia, a small town on the Cinque Terre. This trip turned out to be an adventure full of twists and turns. We planned this trip to Italy so that we could do some hiking on the Cinque Terre trails. And when we got there, we found out that the trails were closed. We were both a little bummed, but I embraced this change. After all, our flight to Pisa being canceled ended up being the best thing that happened on the trip.

We made a split second decision to cancel our reservation at the hostel for the second night, and move to Nice a day early. This, too, ended up being the right move, because the hostel in Corniglia was a prison-style hostel. Seriously. It was the strictest hostel we have stayed in yet. The man at the front desk had the biggest case of seriousitis I have ever seen. That man did not smile. At all. We were really nice to him, tried to speak in Italian, always gave him a big hello. You’d think he’d at least smile. But he was the most serious person I’ve ever met. And he really didn’t have to be: he works at a hostel in a tiny town of maybe a few hundred people that looks out over the Mediterranean Sea.

This hostel had rules like: “Check out time before or ABSOLUTELY by 10 a.m.,” “Excessive alcohol consumption will NOT be tolerated. Guests who violate this rule will be thrown out on the spot.” There was video surveillance, and you also were not allowed to hold onto the key to your room. You had to leave the key at the front desk with the man that did not smile every time you went out of the hostel. I’m guessing that he used the video surveillance to see which guests were coming in and out, because he always had our two keys ready and a complete stone-faced stare on his face every time we came back in. Oh, and if you lost the key somewhere in the five feet between your room and the front desk, they charged you €5.

Corniglia was beautiful, though. You could see most of the town in under twenty minutes. But we found our way down to the marina, and sat out on the docks with our feet dipped into the sea for about forty minutes. We also found a pretty cool waterfall. And the terraced olive orchards, the mountains, and the little villages nestled into the hillside just added to the charm and the beauty.

It took about seven hours by train to get to Nice, all said and done. Nice was our last port of call, and we were happy to be done with public transit for this trip. We didn’t realize this when we booked our trip, but we arrived in Nice right before Grand Prix weekend in Monaco. And the Cannes Film Festival started while we were there. There was a good energy in the city, everything seemed very much alive and happy. We enjoyed just sitting by the beach, walking around the old town, and relaxing a little bit.

Nice water in Nice, but a rocky beach. Different strokes for different folks, I guess.

There were two South African men staying in our hostel, both in their mid-forties or early fifties, who were there for Grand Prix weekend. Over several hours of wine and whiskey, they told us all about South Africa, and invited us down. We exchanged e-mails and we may take them up on it some day. That remains to be seen.

***

Thankfully, the ash cloud didn’t interfere with our flight back to Ireland. We made it back, tired, but happy. Life on the Continent seems to be a little bit more private and reserved; the South Africans picked up on this too. I was happy to get back to Ireland, where life is quite the opposite. People always go out to meet in the pub, everyone is always up for a laugh, and life in general is just a little more social.

We both found it amazing how quickly our minds adapted to another language. In the four to five days we were in Italy we both started picking up Italian very quickly. Nevertheless, after a week in a foreign country, the English language is one of the most beautiful sounds you will ever hear.

He Says...about Italy and France

Getting to Italy was supposed to be simple: we were going to arrive in Pisa at 11:55 p.m., head immediately to our booked room, and get a good night’s sleep for the days ahead. Instead, after rebooking thanks to that damn volcano, we had to catch a plane in Dublin for Venice. At six in the morning.

Katherine didn’t get off of work until late in the afternoon, and we scrambled to catch a train to Dublin at 8:30 in the evening. We got to the capital city at midnight; figuring it wasn’t worth the money for a room to get only three or so hours of sleep, we had to camp out in the Dublin airport. I only have one thing to say about that: don’t try to sleep in the Dublin airport. It sucks.

So we landed in Venice nearly comatose with fatigue. The next adventure was finding a bus to the hotel room I hastily booked twelve hours before. We get on a bus. It says “Venezia” on it, a good sign. The first stop was at the Mestre train station outside of Venice––our hotel is also outside of Venice, but we figure it’s probably easier to ride into the city, then catch another bus out of it. My synapses were no longer firing by the time we go the Venice depot. We got on a bus––the number six––that someone says is going to Marghera, the town on the mainland where our hotel resides. Sounds good to me.

I had a crude black-and-white map of Venice and Marghera with me that I printed off of the internet. A quick judgement of distance told me that Marghera should be one of the first stops. Sure enough, someone dinged the bell and the bus stopped once on the mainland. I told Katherine that we should get out here, my worst fear being that the bus goes too far inland.

The bus took off, and then I realized that I had a new worst fear. I had no idea where we were. We were dropped off in the median of a four-lane highway. The stop was called Righi, which was cute.

See?

We darted to the side of the highway and I consulted my map. I figured we got off too early, and we were still in the industrial port area that skirts Marghera. Trying to project confidence for Katherine (who was fading fast at this point), I gestured to the north and said, “We need to go that way. Marghera should only be a few minute’s walk.”

Another bit of advice, if you’re ever heading into the industrial port area around Marghera, Italy: it is much, much bigger than it looks on a map. And much scarier. Into it we headed, and most of it looked like it was never rebuilt after World War II. Decrepit old factories and warehouses as far as the eye can see, and occasionally a dodgy character is present to stare at you. We walked for about an hour. At this point––how should I put this?––Katherine was…not happy. She was being quite vocal about how we were hopelessly lost, and that we’d never find Marghera or a bed. In her most desperate moment, she wailed (and I’m not joking), “I hate Italy and I hate Italians! Italy is nothing but a bunch of freaking lies!!!” Long story short: not an ideal start to our visit to Venice.

At the very least my sense of direction was correct. After about three miles of hot, sweaty walking through the industrial wasteland from hell, we got into the heart of Marghera. Just in time to see the number six bus driving by our hotel.

Oh, and the Mestre train station I mentioned earlier? That was a five-minute stroll from our room.

***

Thankfully, everything went much smoother after this. We had about twenty-four hours in Venice, more than enough time to get lost in its magical maze of streets and canals. It’s truly a stunning city, I can’t recommend it enough. Sure, there are literally more tourists than residents. And English is the default language, which does much to kill the exoticism. But the beauty of it all more than makes up for the shortcomings. The city is sinking into the sea as we speak, so you better go soon!


From there we went to Lucca, an small old fortified city north of Pisa. I finally got to ride one of Europe’s fancy high-speed trains––it’s a pretty sweet way to travel. Lucca is not as stunning as Venice, but manageable in size with a tiny fraction of the Venice’s crush of tourists. Fewer people speak English, so at least we got the chance to stumble through some Italian.

Outside of Lucca I found something I never thought I would be happy to see: an American-style big-box store. After two days of eating sausage and cheese from convenience stores (now that’s budget travelling), Lucca’s Esselunga Superstore was a joy to behold. We did rather well: one shopping trip there totalling €37 got us enough food for five meals, for two people. That’s €3.70 per meal, per person. Not bad!

***

Italy had one more disappointment in store for us. After Lucca we went to the Cinque Terre, a national park south of Genoa in Liguria. The park is famous for its hiking––notably the “blue route,” a path along the sea cliffs that links five small picturesque villages. The blue route was the impetus for the whole Italy trip in the first place. Well, we arrived in Corniglia (one of the villages) to find the hiking trails closed. If they get a few days of rain on the Cinque Terre the paths are apparently prone to earthslides.


Corniglia and its environs are beautiful, but without the hiking there wasn’t much to keep us there. Not a terrible thing, because the Cinque Terre towns are geared entirely toward fleecing tourists. And boy, do the tourists come in force. In Corniglia we heard English, German, French, and more English being spoken, but very little Italian. Such is the price of beauty.

Italy made me aware of how ubiquitous English has become. It’s the twenty-first century verion of Latin. Numerous times Katherine and I walked into shops, museums, or restaurants to have the Italian employees greet us in English before we even opened our mouths. Either I just look like an English speaker, or the assumption is as follows: regardless of where this tourist is from, he most likely will understand some English.

At least the French are holding out against the Anglicization of European languages. Even if they know English (and most of them seem to) it’s tough to get it out of them. My rudimentary knowledge of their language thus came in handy when we showed up in Nice, our final stop. In a nutshell Nice is like Miami, Florida, but in southern France. A Miami where the women sunbathe topless.

***

Coming through customs once back in Dublin, we were reminded of the difference between Ireland and the Continent. In the mainland airports we’ve been in, the custom officials pay only enough attention to you to determine if you’re the person pictured in your passport. They don’t say hello, they don’t smile. They generally seem miserable. But airport officials in Ireland have always been chatty, and this time was no different. The man we got this time asked us about our luck finding work, and then lapsed into a very Irish lecture of “This country is going downhill very quickly, lads. Things are getting very bad––you’ll be heading back to the States just in time.” Depressing, yes, but better than the chat I had with the customs official at Shannon Airport in County Limerick: after telling him that we have visas and live in Cork he said, “Well someone has to, I guess.”

Back to the Classifieds

After another long absence (thanks to another Euro-trip), I am back. Katherine and I were in northern Italy and southern France for a week, pursuing an extremely ambitious itinerary that nearly killed us. As mentioned in my previous entry, the holiday started off with a canceled flight. That turned out to be only the first unexpected hiccup of several more to come.

Either later today, or possibly tomorrow, keep an eye out for a deluxe, rarely seen double-entry describing our journey. Along with yours truly (of course), Katherine will co-author a "He said, She Said"-style article, complete with pictures.

***

What awaited me when we got back to Ireland was unemployment, a situation I have been trying to improve today. The online Irish job banks made it easy by having absolutely nothing helpful. I guess it's back to working the pavement.

In recent weeks we have been watching the death spiral of the Euro. At first it seemed like an overreaction on the part of the Greeks, who eagerly resort to street riots even at the best of times. But now European markets from Madrid to London are in a near free-fall, as is the value of the currency. Americans have no doubt noticed the effect on Wall Street too.

Now I'm not qualified enough to translate the trials of high-finance to scarcity of part-time jobs in Cork, but I know the connection is there. When markets plummet and folks are worried that the Great Recession is regaining momentum, small businesses hide the "Help Wanted" signs and refrain from posting positions online. At the moment it's a nice sunny day, so I'll go looking nonetheless.

The Wrath of Eyjafjallajokull, Part II

We all thought this volcano business was behind us. I did at least. Well, it's not––our flight to Pisa was canceled yesterday. Canceled flights aren't cheap, we were unfortunate enough to discover. We lost the deposits we made for accommodations, as well as what I spent on some pre-booked––and non-refundable––train tickets. Oh, not to mention the €8 or so it cost me to sit on hold while I waited to speak to someone in the RyanAir reservation office. C'est la vie...volcanoes happen.

So here I still sit in Cork, waiting for plan b to unfold: we should be heading to Venice early tomorrow morning (flight departs at 6:05...aarggh), and from there we'll make our way to the Cinque Terre in the Liguria region.

***

Katherine and I have been lucky enough to see floods, an epic winter, and volcanoes, so why not the collapse of Europe's single currency? Quite a year, if you ask me. Unless you hide from the news, you've heard that Greece is "on the edge of the abyss" thanks to violent reaction over the country's near-default and subsequent bailout. The murmurs are that if the Greek bailout fails, then the future of the euro becomes highly uncertain.

The value of the currency has already plummeted in recent days. I would like to look at this from a selfish angle for a moment: Friggin' wonderful. When we bought euros so we could come to Europe, the dollar was weak and the currency conversion cost us dearly. Now when we head back to the States and need to sell our euros for greenbacks, we'll be taken deep again. How's that for timing? I guess this creates an incentive to spend all of our euros while in Europe (if the currency survives).

***

Meanwhile, Cork is losing a landmark. A couple of days ago I noticed the dismemberment of the old Beamish brewery on the Lee, closed by Heineken over a year ago after almost 300 years of operation (also see this). Sure, the place has sat idle for fourteen months now, and there has been preliminary demolition work going on for some time. But it was still a shock seeing the tanks ripped up:

Bye-bye, Beamish. Wonder where they're taking the tanks?
Cashing them in for scrap?

Some locals looked on while they took the wrecking ball to the old girl.


After buying the historic Beamish & Crawford brewing company, Heineken
made a half-assed effort at getting rid of the "Crawford" (for some unknown reason).

The last photo is of the famous Beamish "counting house," a protected structure. Rumor has it that the building will be turned into condos, apartments, or some similar sort of abomination. (Another historic, and even more beautiful, building being turned into flats is the old Our Lady's Hospital––formerly Eglinton Mental Hospital––found just outside of the city. Now called "Atkins Hall".)

I bemoan all of this not because of some emotional attachment to Beamish. I prefer Murphy's anyway. Specifically I'm disturbed by the endless coalescing of international corporations we see in the food and drink industries. Guinness, which owns most Irish beers, is part of Diageo, a particuarly evil-sounding company (and also the largest beer and spirits company in the world). Beamish––and Murphy's too!––are owned by Heineken. That covers the famous Irish stouts. Another recent example is Cadbury's takeover by Kraft. How perverse things must be when people mourn the sale of Cadbury––a multi-billion-pound international operation––as the loss of another small independent operation.

To be fair, Beamish is still brewed in Cork, only about a half-mile away from the old location. It's made in the same facility as its former competitor, Murphy's. It still tastes the same. But it just feels dirty.

Some Spring Traveling

To my few faithful readers who haven't lost patience with me: thanks for checking back. For various reasons I haven't been able to write much in the past two weeks, but primarily because of work and our mothers coming to visit.

Yes, the mothers finally made their much-anticipated trip to Ireland. Missing the volcanic flight disruption by only a day, they landed last Friday morning. Last weekend was devoted to Cork City––we strolled the city centre and hit all of the obligatory stops (the English Market and the Idaho Cafe). At night pubs were the destinations, and I'm happy to say that my mother also finds Murphy's to be the superior stout.

But the best part of the past week was our three-day whirlwind tour of western Ireland. First stop was Inisheer, one of the Aran Islands off of the coast of County Clare.

This photo sums up the island: stone walls everywhere. The island is only a little over two hundred acres in area, but has thousands of miles of stone walls. We thought this was some unique holdover from ancient Irish farmers until a local told us the real reason: not that long ago (early twentieth century?) the government offered grants to farmers so that they could build stone walls as "land improvement". The more stone walls they built, the more money they got. And since the Aran Islands are so remote, no bureaucrats ever stopped by to see if all of those walls were actually necessary. Well, you get the picture.

Inisheer, and the Aran Islands in general, are a treasure-trove of ancient sites. This castle was fun to romp around.

As were the medieval churches. One of them still has this wonderful carving on the altar, as well as the body of the patron saint of Inisheer buried a few feet away.

I can't recommend the Aran Islands enough. They are beautiful, ringed by rocky coasts, some sandy beaches, and Carribean-blue water. There is a slow pace of life, with the local population depending on ferry loads of supplies and tourists from the mainland. And it was fascinating to be in a Gaeltacht (or Irish-speaking area) for the first time, to hear the country's native tongue. Our first encounter with spoken Irish was in a pub next to our hostel, where we encountered several severely inebriated locals––at 1 p.m. After asking all of the females in our group if they were married, the merrymakers sang a traditional Irish song. One drooling fellow even played air guitar for us.

Our ferry ride back to Co. Clare from Inisheer was on rough seas, so after landing we made a nauseous stop at the Cliffs of Moher. Here's the group with some guy standing behind us:

Even in heavy rain and severe wind the Cliffs were wonderful. They definitely live up to the hype. Of course, I had to get a very close look:

To wrap up the western tour, we stayed for a day on the Dingle peninsula (another Gaeltacht, as it turns out). The town of Dingle is another tourist magnet that completely lives up the reputation. The town's setting is magnificent, ringed by spectacular mountains, lush valleys, and a nice harbor that has a friendly dolphin named Fungi.

A short drive around the the peninsula yielded the best scenery I've yet seen in Ireland, and––honest to God––we even got stuck behind a shepherd herding his flock along the road. It was good to see that "postcard Ireland," as we called it, still exists.

The peninsula also has several places named after St. Brandon, who is famous for being able to cure cancer. I didn't even know I was named after a Saint.

The best part was seeing my name in Irish. This is the sign that greets you coming into the village of Brandon. (As you might notice with the two signs, "Brandon" has a couple of spellings in Irish. I have noticed with with other place names in the country as well).

We all went to Dublin to conclude our mothers' visit. Heavy rain and fatigue prevented extensive sight-seeing, but all was well: we had a fantastic dinner at Shebeen Chic, an Irish-cuisine restaurant in city centre. If you're ever in town, do yourself a favor and stop by for a meal. It seems to be patronized mostly by the young and trendy; some of the customers were downright Greenwich Village-esque. But most importantly, the food was top notch.

***

Sightseeing aside, Katherine and I are working––I have yet another thesis to edit––and preparing for more trips and visitors. We head off for Italy on Wednesday, and when we return there are several waves of siblings, friends, and relatives coming to stay with us. Spring will quickly melt into summer.