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.

The Wrath of Eyjafjallajokull

I know it looks like I passed out and bashed my head against the keyboard, but "Eyjafjallajokull" happens to be the name of that pesky Icelandic volcano. Europe is absolutely crippled by the cloud of ash that has most airports closed until the eruption ends––and no one knows when that will be. Things are especially problematic in Ireland and Britain. Being islands, there are only a few other travel options: you can take a ferry, or the Chunnel. And from what I've been reading, all ferry and Chunnel crossings are sold out.

The eruption has been anticlimactic for us so far. All I see is a clear blue sky, no ominous cloud of ash! But that will change soon. According to the an article from the Washington Post, Scottish health authorities said that this weekend we'll see the ash "wafting to the ground...producing a dusty haze and a strong sulfuric smell akin to that of rotten eggs." Sweet! My first encounter with volcanic ash.

To recap, in Ireland we have seen the worst flooding in centuries, the coldest winter in a lifetime, and now a massive volcanic eruption. As far as natural phenomenon this trip hasn't been disappointing!

***

Some of the cliffs at the entrance to the Old Head. Notice the ancient
fortification wall in the foreground.

Now for the promised report on my trip to Old Head. The work I was doing there, as predicted, was dull and I therefore won't talk about it. But the weather was perfect and the scenery beautiful.

The view from the clubhouse's patio. Not a shabby place to
play a €200 round of golf or have a €15 drink, is it?

I had to spend two work days at the Old Head Links. Not too long after I left on Monday a guy plunged to his death off of the cliffs––a very scenic suicide. This last photo was taken on Tuesday; apparently they were still looking for his body. The chopper was slowly working its way along the coastline. Anyway, it made for a neat shot with the lighthouse in view.

***

I had an interesting cab ride back from the airport on Tuesday (I had to take cabs from City Centre to the airport each day, because that's the only place where one can rent a car in Cork!). The driver and I engaged in the obligatory small talk at first--he told me that he drives a Harley, and did a two-month motorcycle trip across the United States. He also told me about the way Old Head used to be before it was colonized by the upper-bourgeois. "'Twas a very wild place, Old Head. I used to go out there with me shotgun and blast away at the sea gulls. 'Twas cruel of me, yes, but I like to think they would have done the same if they had shotguns."

This is where the conversation turned from harmless to serious. Referring to the recent bank bailouts (see previous entries), my driver made it clear he was disgusted by the €54 billion hole Ireland dug itself. "For a small country, for a country with only one million full-time employees, 'tis a grave." He then told me his big plans: "I think it's time for some assassinations, starting at the top and working down the line. Somebody needs to take out these politicians."

"Still have the old shotgun?" I asked.

"Oh yes, I have plenty of guns. But a shotgun would be too good for them. The person that takes them out will be a hero to the people. I'm an old man [he was about 70] that has nothing to lose, so it looks like it will have to be me. They don't hang people anymore, so what are they going to do? Throw me in jail for the rest of my life?" He laughed at the prospect.

We arrived at my apartment. "I'm a real Cork man, a true rebel, and I'll shoot them all," he concluded. By this point he was also referring to the "foreign" cab drivers who undercut Irish cabbies, robbing the latter of business. All I could think to say was "Well, good luck with that. Your secret is safe with me."

Beerfest

I hope everyone had a good Easter, even if it didn't mean a three-day weekend (which is what it always means here). Our visit to the Franciscan Well's Easter Beerfest was excellent. Their beer garden was lined with stalls representing different Irish microbreweries––my favorite was Molly's Chocolate Truffle Stout. I have seen Molly's beers in the States, you come across them once in a while. Keep an eye out for this particular brew!

I got my pay stub for the week of our trip to Edinburgh. I only worked two days that week, so the pay should have been a small one. But I was surprised to see that they gave me a full week's wage. My conscience (and Katherine) dictated that I talk to my boss about this overpayment. As it turns out, they didn't make a mistake: I was given vacation days. Talk about something that would never happen in the US! Work a temporary position––even a part-time one––in Ireland and you accumulate paid vacation based on the number of hours you put in. One vacation day for every hundred hours in my case.

Tomorrow I get to go on my first and probably last business trip for warehouse work. The company shipped a thousand or so embroidered shirts to Old Head Golf Club in Kinsale, only for the Old Head folks to complain that they weren't correctly tagged. Therefore I get to hire a car and drive to the club and fix the tags. Mindless work, maybe. But at least I'll get to see one of the most beautiful courses in the world. Check it out:

(Sorry, couldn't find a better picture that would fit. Just check out the link I posted above). The Old Head peninsula used to be open to the public until the Celtic Tiger days of the '90s. As the Irish describe it, that's when "rich people" bought up the land and made it one of the most exclusive private clubs in the country.

Stuff like the Old Head controversy doesn't help the average Irish person's view of golf as a solidly elitist activity. I'll put such scandal aside in my mind as I walk around to enjoy the view.

My Warehouse Twilight

Warehousing and––as of late––another PhD thesis to edit have been cramping Éire Apparent's style. Not to fear, for I will be out of work again soon. The third week of April is the swan song of my career as a stock counter. So be prepared for the return of Brandon the mega-blogger.

As I write, my employment prospects are as bleak as before the warehousing stint. There's still nothing on the horizon other than restauranting and bar tending, and I didn't have much luck in those industries (the whole lack of "experience" thing). If I can manage to procure a nice flow of PhD theses to edit I will be fine––professional editing pays pretty well as it turns out!

***

Happy Easter! to those who observe it. Katherine, always the good Catholic, had us go to Easter Mass this morning. Since we slept in we had to go to the noon mass, which turned out to be the traditional Latin Rite. Aye carumba! I now completely understand why Vatican II was necessary. I've never seen priests do so much kneeling and standing and incense (Katherine said maybe the traditional mass was thought up as an exercise routine for the clergy). And there was the slight problem of the incoherently mumbled Latin.

To celebrate Christ's Resurrection Katherine and I are going to an Easter beer festival at the Franciscan Well, something that would make Him proud I'm sure.

***

We have joined in with the British/Irish tradition of "Easter Eggs," which are large chocolate....eggs. This is their standard Easter morning treat. Our friend Gemma's family gave us ours: I had a hollow egg that came with some Maltesers, and Katherine had the Cadbury (Kraft) "Flake" version. Good stuff.

My boss as the warehouse, Laurence, had a Jedward Eastern Egg. If you want a vision of the Antichrist, run a Google search for "Jedward." They're a corporate pop duo, and thanks to them we are now being tortured by a resurrection of Vanilla Ice in Ireland. Didn't think bringing back Vanilla Ice was possible? Yeah, I didn't either. Can't wait for the Second Coming of Milli Vanilli!!

If you purchase a Jedward Easter Egg you have a chance at a "golden ticket," which wins you a chance to meet them in person. This is why Laurence chose this egg. Laurence and I are on the same page when it comes to the disaster that is Irish pop radio––he told me that if he had the pleasure to meet Jedward, maybe he would have a chance to take out at least one of them. "Maybe that would kill the magic," he mused. But he didn't get the ticket. And, alas, the problem we face with pop music in Ireland is bigger than Jedward, anyway.

***

Anyway, to close I will do my spot for the Scottish Ministry of Tourism. Go to Edinburgh! It's wonderful. And with sterling being weak at the moment, it's downright affordable.