Sint Maarten/St. Martin (Days 1-2) - The Advent of Ana Cortez & White Boys Should Wear Shirts At Beaches

In the realm of adventure, travel to a beach is not high on my list.  Nonetheless, my wife (aka Fighten Fitzgerald of Ireland Fame) and our two female progeny (Boo & Ana Cortez) really liked the idea of a beach vacation.  In my mind, a beach vacation conjures up images of watching the others play in the surf while I while away my time under a beach umbrella bored as hell.  I imagine that I share dull, sappy looks with the guy under the umbrella next to mine. 

Bro's can communicate without speaking.  We don't talk, but our imagined silent conversation is something like:

ME: I'm bored. as f*ck (edit made for my wife's sake - she will obviously still not be satisfied). 

ME:  What's the quickest thing I can get to drink that will make me pass out?

DUDE:  Uh, why are you looking at me like that?

ME:  I'm asking you a question.  What'cha drinkin?

DUDE:  Are you hitting on me?

ME:  How can you possibly mistake a look of complete and utter tedium with sexual interest? 

ME (giving him the pistol shooting motion and winking):  Oh wait, we do that all the time don't we?

DUDE turns to his wife and has an furtive "eye conversation" with her.

DUDE:  Honey, check out the freak with the shaved legs next to us.  I think he's hitting on me. 

WIFE:  Probably one of those Tour de France guys.  Ignore him.

DUDE:  He's too fat to be a Tour de France guy.

WIFE (sits up to look at me and says to DUDE):  Leave me alone.

Well, that never happened, but it was how I imagined it was going to be.  Fortunately for me, the Isle of Sint Maarten (if you are on the Dutch side) or St. Martin (if you are on the French side) was not dull at all.  A beach vacation was survived, and I think we all had a lot of fun.  That being said, our vacation started with a crime and then a delay.

June 11, 2014:

First the crime ... I have a friend at work who just retired, and he managed to get his hands on a Cuban cigar which he assured me was rolled personally by the baby-soft, cherub-like hands of communist dictator Fidel Castro.  Here's Fidel when he realized that one of his precious macanudos escaped the communist "utopia" of Cuba into my own hands:

He's really mad, right?  No big deal.  I never liked that guy anyway.  What I did like was burning up that small, precious part of Cuba, inhaling it into my lungs and letting it escape past my teeth into the Caribbean atmosphere.  Fidel, that's what you get for scaring a whole generation of Americans with your damned Soviet nuclear missiles.  I really miss the Cold War.  Living without the threat of imminent nuclear annihilation is so dull.

In packing, I managed to remove every single thing that TSA might find objectionable.  However, Fidel's cigar, Fidelito, stowed away in my backpack.  Just before going through TSA, I discovered Fidelito and made the decision that it would be an offense to Anglo-Cuban relations if I just threw him out.  The decision having been made, I threw out the small wooden humidor that kept Fidelito in its oaken embrace and pushed Fidelito into my Homer Simpson themed boxers.  These were then returned to my suitcase.  Very clever ... I know.  They search carry-ons, but nobody would think to search a bag that I've checked!  Losers ... I pulled it off.

In a case of reverse import crime I smuggled contraband from a country where these little Fidelitos are illegal to a place where they are not.  Not sure who I tricked, but it didn't matter.  I'm contrary, and that makes me happy in some infantile way.  In your face, someone?  Obama maybe?  I don't know.

Having checked Fidelito, the good folks at Delta Airlines (www.delta.com) decided that our airplane was far too small, and they needed a bigger airplane.  I'm not sure how these matters are "discovered" at the last moment rather than planned well in advance based on tickets sold.  We wait at SFO for a couple more attendants to arrive.  That made us a half-hour late.  That's a big deal when your layover at JFK in New York City is only an hour.

During the wait, I explain to the lady at the gate that Delta is laying a great dane sized turd on my vacation.  She promptly fixes the situation by moving us to the very front of ... coach.  For a minute, I thought I was going to have the satisfaction of telling Fighten Fitzgerald, Boo, and Ana Cortez all about how I used my charm and chiseled Germanic-inspired good looks to get us moved up to first class free of charge.  Alas, no.

In any event, my wife determines that the boarding passes are satisfactory (although still in coach), but that one of our children has been renamed by Delta Airlines as Ana Cortez.  I personally like that name, and she is deserving of an alter ego real or imagined.  Despite the fact that the Delta lady told the gate agent to just let us on the plane without scanning Ana's ticket, the gate agent scanned it anyway and my child officially boarded as Ana Cortez.  So our vacation crime spree continues, and I've gained a Hispanic child.  Boarding an international flight as someone else has to be a felony of some kind, right?  Ah, once again I am satisfied, and our crime spree continues.

Upon arrival at JFK, we have twenty minutes to board a shuttle, get across the airport, run all the way to the gate at the end of Delta's international terminal, and then board the plane.  Kind of reminds me of this old commercial from 1978:

 
It was very similar, except none of us is OJ Simpson ... thank God.  We made it on the plane just in time, pulled away from the gate and then waited for two hours.  That meant that they had two hours to get our luggage on that plane, right?  Alas, no.  Here is a travel tip.  If the plane has pulled away from the gate, not a chance in hell they are doing anything other than having you sit there.  My travel experience is limited, but I definitely learned that lesson.

Our flight down to Princess Juliana International Airport (SXM) in Sint Maarten was uneventful.  Nothing exciting happened like spilled pretzels, peanuts or Delta cookies.  Nope, not a thing happened.  The cool thing about landing at SXM is that the appearance is that you are going to belly flop on the ocean, but then you hit the tarmac.  Probably because from the ground at Maho Beach, it looks like this:

Pretty cool, huh.  Here's a travel tip to dealing with rental car guys at airports ... give the appearance (yeah, right) of being pathetic and they might just give you a bigger car.  We had reserved the smallest car available from Avis.  Something between a Fred Flintstone car and a tricycle.

When the rental car guy looked at the four of us with our bags, he said something like, "Hey, dumbass, how do you think you are getting all of those people and bags to your hotel in this tiny shrimp boat?"  Knowing this was part of the game where he gets me to pay for a SUV or something, I just replied that it was fine, and that "I've got it handled."  Seeing that it isn't fine and I am truly a dumbass of the cheapo variety, he upgraded the size of our car for free.  Ah yes, the law of unintended consequences for once did not bite me in the ass.  That rental car still looked like it spent some time on the streets of Baghdad but it was larger than the shrimp boat.  Mission accomplished.

Avis handed me a really basic, almost pictorial map of Sint Maarten/St. Martin and off I went to find our hotel.  As with Ireland, we basically just pointed ourselves in the right direction and started driving.  One plus is that you don't have to drive on the left-hand side of the road. 

PRUDISH AMERICANS PLEASE AVERT YOUR EYES!!!

That map would prove useful in getting from area to area, but it didn't help you at all if you get into towns like Marigot (French side) or Phillipsburg (Dutch side).  Nonetheless, I was surprised to discover a rather attractive and topless blond model in the upper left corner of the map.  She was helping all of us weary onlookers to "Pay to be Alive".  How might you pay to be alive?  You pay to attend a spa, of course.  Here's the advertisement without the text. 

Hey, look, she's alive!  Must be because she paid for that spa day.  Otherwise, she would have remained as dead as you and me.  I never went to the spa.  I still feel dead.

What shocks me about this picture is not the attractive blond. I know that what flies in other countries with regard to nudity does not fly in the Home of the Brave. In that regard, this is a minor curiousity to my American eyes. What does surprise me is that I could find the advertisement through a Google search of "pay to be alive" and "sint maarten".  Let this be a lesson.  In the land of the internet, nothing is ever erased or forgotten - not even crass advertising slogans.

Moving on.  We stayed at the Royal Palm Beach Resort, and it was very nice.  If you go to Sint Maarten, I highly recommend you stay.  These are time shares, so that means that we had a kitchen and two bedrooms with a balcony.  If you want an idea of exactly what our room looked like, just click on the link: https://www.diamondresorts.com/Rentals/royal-palm-beach-resort  What you see there is exactly what we got right down to the view out of the master bedroom and balcony.  You are also conveniently located across the street from some excellent restaurants and down the street from a grocery store.  We gobbled up some Johnny Cakes at Johnny B's and then I bought a whole bunch of Red Stripe and Heineken at the local store. 

Travel Tip:  American dollars are the currency for Sint Maarten.  In St. Martin (the French side), they take dollars or euro's.  Prices are quoted in euro's but they will give you the same price in dollars.  That means you should pay cash for everything in St. Martin in dollars if you can.  It will save you some $$$. 

June 12, 2014:

After not being provided any assurances at SXM that our luggage would actually arrive, I awoke to notice that my teeth had slipped on fuzzy slippers.  I figured it wouldn't bother me to skip a night of tooth brushing, but it did.  Not to worry, our luggage made a 9:00 a.m. appearance, and all was well.

After herding my fellow family vacationers out the door, we took off for Marigot.  I'd read that they have the best pastries and outdoor market.  The pastry notion was dead on.  Adjacent to the market (meh) was a little slice of heaven call Sarafina's.  On TripAdvisor it was made known to me that "Food amazing - don't use the bathroom."  Um ... I suspect that bathroom isn't too far from the kitchen, right?  Well, let's just check that out shall we?

WARNING!!!!  DOUCHEBAGGERY ABOUT TO OCCUR!!!!!!!

In an Unexceptional Travel Blog first, I've just posted a picture of what I ate on vacation.  Who really cares, right?  I find that generally when people post a picture of what they ate on a social media site, they want you to envy them. 

DOUCHEBAG:  Look at me, I have food! 

ME:  A first for you?  Congratulations, I guess???

Nobody cares that you ate something that looks like it is a kale flavored booger.  Let's reason this through.  Ask yourself whether you have ever had a conversation in which you discussed the food depicted on a photo which was posted by a friend on a social media site. 

No.  You haven't.  But you have had a conversation about what a douchebag that person is for having enough hubris to think we actually give a damn what he/she ate Friday night and would subsequently feed to the dog on Saturday morning. 

Yeah!  You have food!  You did it!

Have you also noticed that 99.9% of these photos show "healthy" food.  This smacks of elitism.  The poor eat fast food and you don't see a lot of "Proud Papa" pictures of Big Macs do you.  Adding something which indicates you have been suckered into the latest fad diet (hint ... paleo) just adds to the douchebaggery.  I lovingly ask you to stop for your good and ours.  However, every rule must have an exception or two.

By the photo above, you must think me a hypocrite.  Not so. I already know I'm a douchebag and so do you if you: 1) know me; or 2) have read any other entry on the Unexceptional Travel Blog.  Therefore, I know that there is nothing that can be done to impress you.  I also have no deep-seated emotional need to surprise you with a picture that causes you to question,

"Gee, that's odd.  A picture of food. I never would have known he was a douchebag". 

Nope.  You know it.  Also, this is not healthy food.  In fact, this sh*t will kill you, but you WILL die happy.  To that end, if you already know that you are a douchebag OR if you are posting a picture of something that you can consume but will slowly kill you (i.e., beer, whiskey, pastries), I offer you no malice.  Carry on in the joy of your short life.

Perhaps you have noticed that if I don't have much to say about a place I visited that I fill time with a rant.  True.  The outdoor market and adjacent areas of Marigot are very nice.  Otherwise, skip it.  Nothing else to see there except maybe the fort that overlooks the market.  Besides, that rant put me in the mood to tell you a sun burn story. 

Orient Beach looks like this:

Orient Beach is famous for the beach and the "clothing optional" Club Orient (www.cluborient.com).  I've been exposed to these feral nudist types on occasion.  It had been a year since I was exposed to the skinny, water bathing and dope smoking hippies at Lake Siskiyou.  I had read about Club Orient prior to arrival and figured that I had to drive in their driveway to hit the public side of the beach.  Well, I did that and when I made the turnaround in the parking lot, it was dong village all over the beach.  That is not something you want to see ... old, beer bellied dudes letting it all hang out.  People pay to belong to that club.  Is it really that much fun getting sand in your nether regions?  The answer is "Yes" if you get to do it with other fat dudes?

Anyway, we parked and made our way to the public part of the beach through one of several of the outdoor bars, past a "big bosomed lady with a dutch accent" and onto the beach.  If you noticed the Rod Stewart lyric from "You're In My Heart" you get a shiny, clothing optional star for your speedo!  And yes, she was big bosomed and looked dutch ... probably was considering where we were in the world.  Anyhow, I just couldn't help but work the lyric into the blog.

The ladies promptly threw all of their stuff down and got in the water.  I occupied an umbrella and started wondering what I was going to do for the next five hours.  I was going to get drunk if possible.  Anyway, Nicolas (pronounced "Nico - lah") quickly arrived and gave me a menu.  I think my wife was thinking about leaving me for Nico - lah with the French accent, but she left with me.  Not sure why. 

I know that it is now popular to take a photo of my feet resting on the lounge with the azure ocean behind said feet.  This is intended to announce to the world my state of relaxation.  I didn't take that picture because I'm a man.  That is cliche.  Instead, I put the beach goer potty cycle into effect.  Drink beer, get up, pee in ocean, return for beer and so on.  Don't judge me ... we've all done it. 

In any event, I ordered up a bucket of Carib beer and started on the drinking.  I put on the buzz early, so I can let the buzz wear off early.  The whole time I was thinking that if my buddy, Scott, was there, we'd surely tear that place up and make a mess of the thing.  Oh well, not to be.  The girls returned, drank some of my beer and ordered food.  Day pretty much over.

During this process I took off my shirt and commenced to get a raging sun burn along the left hand side of my body.  I'm not much of a shirt taker-offer since I no longer have the flat abs that are so ridiculously in style now.  In fact, mine were so "washboard" as a kid that my belly button stuck out.  I spent my whole childhood wanting to add muscle and now skinny with very little muscle is in.  I now have muscle (and some chub), but oh well.  My point is that this portion of my body has not been exposed to sun since I was probably 23 years old.  I got cooked.  Nothing screams "Tourist!" like a big ole sunburn.  Last vacation, I took my sun burn to Ireland.  I earned this on while on vacation.  Either way, its now my thing to be on vacation while sun burned.  Stupid.

In any event, the World Cup started on this day and everyone on the French side was excited to cheer for Brazil.  I know there is a proximity, but that's like me cheering for Canada for anything ... It just doesn't make sense.  On our way off the beach, we made our way through the bar and some of the local French guys told me to pull up a seat for the game.  I had to decline, but on the way out we could hear the collective lamentation of the fans over the noise of our car when Croatia scored first.  Having some hindsight now, it would have been a real treat to have been present when Germany drubbed Brazil 7-1 in the semi-final.  I would have liked to have witnessed some of this first hand:

And may be a little more of this:

Folks, this is what happens when your whole identity as a country is wrapped up in the ability of eleven of your citizens to play a game.  I guarantee you if the Germans lost, they wouldn't be crying about it.  They can fall back on their ability to make awesome cars and start world wars on a whim.  Every country has its thing I suppose.

Back to the hotel to smoke Fidelito and drink Red Stripe.

Ireland Travel Blog Day 8 - Wasn't U2 Supposed to Meet Us Here?

Day 8 (April 23, 2013) - The Emerald Isle

Waking up in Killarney, it was time to wolf down some food (black pudding avoided this time - I already checked that box) and get on the road to Dublin.  Nothing remarkable to report during the trip to Dublin except we did see a sign that said "Scooby Doo-Ley's Dog Grooming".  Way to rip off Hanna Barbera, Ireland!  Now you're getting in the spirit!

Our plan was to sneak into Dublin without getting on the M50.  The M50 is a beltway that circles the City.  The rental car company advised that if we get on the M50, we are going to go through an electronic toll booth.  This thing apparently takes a picture of your license plate.  You need to go into any gas (dammit, "petrol") station and pay your toll within 24 hours or else.  I was getting rather weary of "petrol" stations and their saw-dusty Snickers bars, so the M50 was not an option.  Good call in retrospect because you would be very hard-pressed to find a "petrol" station in Dublin.

So the battle plan was to enter from the West and, through great effort and prayer, we would arrive at the site of our pilgrimage - The Guinness Storehouse. 

After driving in a circle around and around the Storehouse, I found the parking lot.  A couple of brisk steps and we enter the world of Guinness - "Commercial Style".  That's right - take any household object, object d'art, clothing item, Scooby Doo-Ley Pet Grooming tool etc., and you will find it here for sale but with a Guinness logo slapped on it for good measure. 

That's fine, really, who doesn't need a Guinness themed deck of cards?  Apparently, we did need those cards and, like most other purchases, I haven't seen them since we arrived home.

The tour is self-guided and I'm not sure why you even pay to get in.  Nobody checks.  The purpose of your ticket stub (acquired from an ATM-like machine) is really to get you the "free" drink at the Gravity Bar - 7 storeys up.  The tour gives you some history, demonstrates how Guinness is made, and then provides you with example upon example of how Guinness has impacted the culture of the Western world through its product and advertising. Think Coca-Cola but with slovenly drunkenness

Here's how it impacted my wife:

Yeah, I'd run if that big plaster dude was chasing me too.  If you go to Dublin, you simply have to come here.  Not surprisingly, the best part of the experience is the Gravity Bar.  The walls are all glass, so you get 360 degree views of Dublin.

Here is Fighting Fitzgerald, and I have some questions:

Whose hand is that on the table?  If it belongs to my wife, then she must have six foot long arms, right?  Is it some drunk tourist hiding under our table only to rise to the surface, do a belly-roll and then swallow our precious "free" pints of Guinness in one swill?  Ah me, perspective is everything.

And speaking of perspective, why the heck isn't Fighting Fitzgerald smiling.  You would think that after dropping thousands of dollars to take her to one of the most beautiful and friendly places in the world she would at least give me a smile, right?  Didn't the woolen blanket and hurling balls satisfy the beast?  Apparently, no.  Must be the fright that large Guinness wielding plaster man gave her.

In any event, after buying stuff that complies with Shopping Rule #1 and even with proposed Shopping Rules #2 and #3, we got in the Renault with the purpose of finding Kilmainham Gaol.  Americans - the word "gaol" is old-englishy for "jail".  Driving Dublin is a lot like driving San Francisco - lots of one-way streets, places you can't turn etc.  After wrestling around with a very vague map of Dublin, I pulled over to get a closer look.  Yeah, that's right, you would think that two rational people would have good maps and wouldn't prefer to locate stuff by pointing their rental car in the general direction of a church steeple.  Not us! 

While parked and scratching my sun burned scalp, my wife looks up and says "There it is."  We lucked into it and this right after I was about to swear it off and go try to find Bono in a pub.

If you have ever toured Alcatraz, Kilmainham has the same feel.  It is cold, dark and the feeling of hopelessness is ever present.  Kilmainham was built in 1796 and was decommissioned in 1924.  This jail was built with modern theories of incarceration in mind.  The notion was that prisoners were better rehabilitated if they had separate cells and weren't incarcerated in a common room.  That's right ... before this more "modern" theory of rehabilitation took hold, murderers, rapists etc. were incarcerated with children, petty thieves, prostitutes etc. without regard to gender.  That means the serial rapist would be kept in a common room with teenage girls.  And explain to me how this would rehabilitate any inmate??? 

To the extent, Kilmainham was intended to correct the "we encourage more violence by housing you together" theory of rehabilitation, it was indeed an improvement.  Unfortunately, overcrowding at Kilmainham meant that cells intended for one prisoner were occupied by many.  For the most part men were kept in cells and the women and children were kept en masse in the cold, dark hallways outside the cell blocks.

If you came to Kilmainham and you were there for any extended time, you were going to die there of disease and/or starvation.  And yet, during the Potato Famine, people would commit crimes on purpose just so they could get a small meal at Kilmainham.  Incarceration with murderers and rapists and sleeping on stone floors in a hallway is better than dying in the streets of starvation.

One other thing, children, be aware that if mom and pops got put in jail, you are going in as well.  And they won't treat you like a kid that got a bad shake in life.  Kids got treated just like every other prisoner.  Technically, you had to be eight or older to be incarcerated at Kilmainham, but the reality is that five year olds were regularly put in Kilmainham.  Those lucky kids ... their one hour of exercise involved the boys walking in a circle around a post and the girls walking in another circle around the same post in the opposite direction.  Eyes down, no talking or else.  And here is a picture of what passed as a kiddie park in Kilmainham:

I find it a bit disconcerting to enter a building whose front door is flanked with two hanging posts.  And isn't it odd to stand at the spot where political prisoners were blindfolded and shot?  You do want to to this properly.  One of these poor Irish rebels was injured, so he couldn't stand.  Why not put him in a chair?  It isn't sporting to shoot someone lying on the ground is it ole chap?  When the poor guy couldn't sit erect in the chair, they tied him to it and then shot him.  And that is what he got for trying to get the British out of his country.

Well, that was a depressing little detour but well worth doing.  The good news is that this is how America and Australia were populated.  You want to put me on a ship and send me to a land that isn't crowded and (after some years of servitude) I'm free to go where I please?  Land of opportunity here I come!  Alternately, stay in Kilmainham and die.  Easy choice there new Americans!  By the way, America is better because our women are prettier.  True fact ...

We only had an afternoon in Dublin so it was time to drive in the general direction of our hotel which was just off the most famous street in Dublin - not surprisingly named O'Connell street (called Sniper's Row during the insurrection).  We found the hotel and went on a bit of a walking tour.  Off to Temple Bar.  Don't think "bar" as in "pub" ... think sand bar caused by the River Liffey.  You know, the river the Vikings sailed up in their long boats in order to loot, kill and pillage?  That one.

Here's a pic from the bridge over the Liffey which we took on the way to Temple Bar.  No Vikings were present other than my wife, and she is harmless:

At Temple Bar I was sure I would find the creature knows as the elusive Bonokus Dublinasaurus. 

At the Hard Rock, I found traces.  His glasses were on display, yet I know that he regularly replaces these with other goofy looking glasses/goggles and would not return for this particular pair.  I saw one of those tiny East German made cars suspended from the ceiling that was featured in a U2 video long ago, but he was not in it.  So, I bide my time and purchase some pins for my collection.  Nothing ... damn it ... nothing!  Haven't I bought all of the U2 records?  Wasted countless hours watching all the U2 videos throughout the years?  Endeavored to instill in my children a fondness for all things U2 (unsuccessfully I might add)?  I'm even listening to U2 while I write this!  No recompense for me.  I need a burger.

So, we drank beer and ate burgers at this lovely little place while watching the tourists and native bohemians wander back and forth. 

You can get through Temple Bar in an hour or so.  Right next door is Trinity College, and that is where we went.  Trinity College is the "Harvard" of Ireland, and it is beautiful.  I felt a bit out of place wandering amongst the students while clicking pictures here and there.  I now present to you a picture of the Bell Tower at Trinity College.

Established in 1592 during the time when Queen Elizabeth was extending British rule over Ireland.  The College was intended to educate the wealthy protestants to ensure a protestant elite to hold sway over the ignorant Catholic masses.  Catholics were not allowed to attend until 1793.  In a bit of "tit for tat", any Catholic who sought admission would be excommunicated.  Kind of a "Well, if you don't want us, we didn't want you first!" kind of thing. 

As an aside, this strategy worked well for me in preemptively dumping girlfriends in high school if I had the slightest hint that they might dump me first.  A fine strategy for preserving your ego and ensuring that even at 45 years of age you can still brag about never getting dumped by a girlfriend.

As a Catholic, you couldn't even teach here until 1873 and until 1970 you were still supposed to get advance permission before becoming a student.  And you think you can hold a grudge?  Here is something that might be one good reason to bear a grudge - a little known fact or perhaps a bit of Irish story-making.  One day per year, any student was permitted to climb the above-pictured bell tower and shoot any nearby Catholic with a bow and arrow.  Obviously illegal under Irish law, but it looks like Trinity College didn't care much about that.  And how the hell where you supposed to tell which ones were the Catholics?  It would not appear to me that they would call themselves out by running naked down the street yelling "I'm a papist!"

It was starting to get late and after watching some female students play cricket (for the life of me, I can't figure out the game), we wandered back across the Liffey and got ice cream.  There we sat at the foot of the statute of O'Connell with the noise and chaos of O'Connell street car and foot traffic all around us.  Soaking it all in.  Our first trip overseas after 23 years of marriage.  We sat there alone amongst hundreds.  I just marveled at the joy in it. 

I've been able to take the person I most love in the whole world to a magical place affectionately known as the Emerald Isle.  I've never been more in love. 

 

And so, patient reader, I end this blog.  Forgive me for the occasional crass comment or even the frequent mention of the religious history that has fashioned this country out of its crude rock and emerald fields.  It has been a true pleasure, and I can only hope that you got a chuckle or two out of it.  God bless.

Day 7 Ireland Travel Blog - Make it Stop!!!

Day 7: (April 22, 2013) - The Emerald Isle

After the previous days' butt flattening while driving the Ring of Kerry, it was time to flatten it even more with a jog.  For those of you that don't know, runners have about as much butt contour as an ironing board.  That is why you have to make the bubble butt by bike riding.  But if your butt is being made naturally round by the eating and drinking, then you can skip the healthy way of making a bubble butt - biking. This is why it is entirely unnecessary to carry a bicycle around with you when you travel.

What better place to jog than around the grounds of the Muckross House?  We banged around the grounds the previous afternoon right after our visit to the Torc Falls.  That visit involved dodging desperate Irish coach drivers who really, really wanted to take us on a coach ride. It also involved me jumping off of the path to avoid getting run over by the lucky few who had made the sale.  That guy was probably angry at me for not taking him up on his tenth offer to "take the pretty lady on a carriage ride." 

So, the goal was to jog Muckross House early when there was nobody but myself, my wife and the trout in the lake. If you look at the bottom picture on the far right you will notice a little bit of a forested area.  This area holds a bit of trail along the lake.  All I could hear was my nimble foot fall, my steady breathing and the lapping of the lake on the shore.  Oh yeah, my wife was there too. Ladies, I make an excellent traveling companion!

The Muckross Park Hotel & Cloisters Spa offered a free breakfast.  Most of our hotel stays did not, so it was time to take full advantage.  In general, you shouldn't offer free food and drink to a guy who grew up hungry.  That's right ... if it's free food, I'll eat until I look like that fat German kid who blew up in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.

If it is free drink, then you are probably in for the hot mess that I sometimes refer to as Gary.  Gary is the life of the party and has been known to make appearances at football parties, weddings, on linoleum kitchen floors and Tuesdays.  He also prays for world peace, enjoys romantic walks along the beach and hopes to one day "blow up" a bar mitzvah with his beer bong skills.  Gary isn't writing this blog, and he made no appearances in Ireland.  In fact, my wife hasn't had to defend herself against the brash advances of Garry for a while.  She's probably due.  As usual, I digress.

 

If you go to Ireland (you should) there are a couple of things you should order.  The first is tea.  It was during this free breakfast that I discovered "tea".  Tea is not just the beverage.  It also means frosted pastries, toast with marmalade and other assorted, sugary goodies  If you put enough of that yummy brownish sugar into your tea, you can inject it straight into your veins.  Ah, sweet sucra...

You can never go wrong with sugar, and yes, I was recently caught by a waitress while eating sugar out of a packet at Outback.  Don't judge me!  I'm not proud. 

The second is brown bread.  Get this with some chowder.  Brown bread is a heavy bread that is ... well ... its brown.  It is about as dense as a brick, and it is served cold with butter.  Warm soup and cold bread works good in most situations.  After a couple of days in the "Land of Drizzle", you'll want to keep coming back to the warm foods.  That is why the cold bread thing to me is simply inexplicable. It is what it is.  Don't complain.

One thing that you can order if you want to get a taste of some cuisine that is traditionally Irish is black pudding.

Black pudding is basically oatmeal mixed with spices, garlic, piggy meat bits and (oh, yeah) pig blood.  Ummmm ... yummy pig blood.  Look at the picture.  Now that you know the black is pig blood, doesn't the picture remind you of two moist scabs?  Fortunately, it doesn't taste too bad but the oatmeal gives it a gummy texture that wants to create a piggy oatmeal ball in the back of the throat.  Eat this once, and then turn your back on it ... forever.

Having loaded up with piggy products and tea, it was time to get an interior view of the Muckross House.  The estate is 11,000 acres by the way.  That lake you see in the picture is huge.  Killarney is kissed by a couple of lakes, and this is just one of them.  The Muckross House was built in 1843 by the Herbert family.  After extensive improvements for the visit of Queen Victoria in 1861, the Herberts had to sell the estate.  Ultimately, it was sold to a wealthy American (U.S.A.!!!) and that guy spoiled his daughter rotten by giving it to her as a wedding gift.  It is now owned by the Republic of Ireland.

So, let's pause to reflect.  These knuckleheads so want to impress the Queen that they run themselves into bankruptcy in order to do it.  The docent tried to explain this bit of foolishness as an effort to gain the grant of a better title for the Herberts.  Maybe that is meaningful to the European sensibility, but it gets a "Yeah, so what?" from me.  We can (any of us) insist that we be called "Earl", "Duke" or "Contessa" if we want to be that crazy.  I called myself "His Lordship" all day today, and it didn't make me more wealthy or pay down a debt.  It never worked out for Herbert anyway because Queen Victoria would later die with nary a thought about making right with Mr. Herbert.  Sucker!  All things work out for the best.  I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have been invited to enter Muckross House but for its ultimate ownership by the park service.

A couple of observations from the tour.  As you ascend the steps from first floor to second you notice a large pane of glass.  But the glass isn't clear, it is kind of opaque - decorated lovely but opaque.  Well, apparently, you didn't want your view ruined by the sight of a servant milling about outside or, even worse, a view of their neatly kept quarters.  Bad enough that you have to deal with the servants inside the House, but to look outside and have to observe their homes?  This is an outrage that can only be corrected by opaque glass! 

After the tour, we went to Muckross Abbey.  We discovered this during our jog when I was navigating a back way to the hotel.  It was built in 1448 and remains remarkably intact.  Apparently, one Franciscan thing was to grow a yew tree in the middle of the abbey.  I think it is a nice touch and the thing is still there even after the abbey is gone.  The friary in town retains the skull of one of the poor friars who was caught on one of the islands on the lake you see in the background of the second picture.  Well, no surprise, his head left his body with the aid of some British guys and ended up being displayed in glass box.   This marks the second head of a saint I've seen since coming to this country.

 

Anyway, it was time to go to Killarney and look about.  

I must admit that I could start to sense some kind of anxiety forming in my wife.  Something is brewing with my expert shopper.  Immediately, I diagnose the problem.  There are children at home (seven to be precise) that we have had the audacity to create (I'm that irresistible) and they must be satisfied.  Unfortunately, that meant shopping in Killarney.  

 

To shorten my rant up a bit, I spent a lot of time outside on the sidewalk trying really hard to not look really bored.  Can nothing be done about this?  Why settle for buying total crap just because we need to produce some bauble or other such foolishness to the expectant children?  I have lobbied for Travel Shopping Rule #2, and it is still being considered in committee.

 

Travel Shopping Rule #2???? - That's right.  No buying stuff just for the sake of buying stuff.  It has to be meaningful.  To date I'm a "Yea" vote for Travel Shopping Rule #2 but only if the companion bill which legislates Travel Shopping Rule #3 is likewise passed.  Travel Shopping Rule #3 ensures that all purchases must be REASONABLE IN PRICE!!!!!

 

The boys all got hurling balls.  These look like baseballs but they are lighter.  This is an acceptable purchase in that it satisfies Rule #1 - that all gifts must actually be Irish in origin.  I suspect it would fail Travel Shopping Rule #2, but (as noted above) this has not yet been made into law.

 

And yes, the boys lost their hurling balls within about five minutes.  Duh!!!  My offer to appease the collective greedy expectancy of our male children was to purchase a rugby ball.  However, I was informed that if we got the rugby ball, it was insufficient because it would constitute a "group gift" and would not satisfy the individualized greed of each child.  Fearing that my wife would be oversold on the rugby ball, I left off.  To continue would mean that I would have to buy the hurling balls AND the rugby ball.  I tried to do the whole trade thing where we swap balls simultaneously but the wife wasn't letting go of those hurling balls. 

 

*** Men, you may stop reading for a moment and make a testicle related joke quietly to yourself.

 

Oh, yeah.  Back to shopping.  You have to sense when you are digging yourself a hole and back the hell out of it.  Hurling balls it is.  We also bought them candy because my kids are always suckers for candy.  And it's Irish candy.  How exotic!

 

When I was a child, my grandparents were world travelers.  My female cousins received dolls from all around the world.  There were glass cabinets at their house that had no other purpose than to display these dolls.  My brother and I received tube socks for Christmas.  Not kidding about that.  However, I'm beginning to understand (not really - that was total bullsh*t).  I think they just couldn't strike an appropriate balance in deciding upon which ethnic sporting gear to purchase.  And that is why we got tube socks for Christmas. After all, what sporting endeavor is complete without tube socks?  I would have really loved to have a hurling ball. 

 

My dairy loving friends, Killarney offers you the world's best ice cream.  Murphy's Ice Cream http://www.murphysicecream.ie/ creates their icy dessert from the milk of the endangered Kerry Cow.  There are only about 1,000 Kerry Cows, and that makes them more rare than the Giant Panda.  That's right, its like they milked pandas and made ice cream out of it.  Here's my wife's frozen treat.

I don't know how to give this justice by description.  Start with the world's most awesome cow.  Feed that cow only sugar cubes - no exceptions - when it is about to die from being fed too much sugar, feed it one more time and milk it.  Milk that cow of every last drop (stand on the utters if you must) because it is probably going to die.  I wonder if this is why they are endangered?  Then I guess you just add the skills of some Irish dudes blah, blah, blah and you get the best ice cream I've ever had.

 

While driving about, I noticed a sign right by the "petrol" station that indicated a castle.  Ross Castle to be exact. 

 

 

Like all things Killarney, Ross Castle is right there on a lake.  A very large lake.  Not remotely like how her Viking ancestors would have, Fighting Fitzgerald climbed the battlements for a picture.  To the viewer it appears as though her arms are outstretched as a metaphor for how we've embraced Ireland.  You were thinking that, right? 

 

However, she is just trying to retain her place and not slip back down to the grass.  She struggled a bit with this.  Notice how happy she is.  This means that, for the moment, I have not annoyed her with a snarky comment about hurling balls or ball related jokes in general.

 

And this closed out our day in Killarney.  All that is left is an afternoon in Dublin and then home.  This will be followed up by another twenty three years of marriage without a trip overseas.



Ireland Travel Blog Day 6 - The Longest Drive - Ring of Kerry Style

Day 6: (April 21, 2013) - The Emerald Isle

Ah, it's good to relax.  It is a Sunday morning in Ennis.  Why not drop by for mass at the Friary right next door?  After all, I'm feeling a little bit of Catholic guilt for practically running out of the cathedral in Galway when mass started.  I suppose running away in Galway was my version of Catholic gymnastics ... offered to the Lord in lieu of standing, kneeling, standing, kneeling, standing and (oh, yeah) kneeling again.  Mass generally only takes an hour after all, and I'm due. 

I like to go to church when I travel.  As a Catholic, you can generally be anonymous by any standard in the world and won't get caught out by one of those embarrassing "Do we have any visitors in church today?" inquiries.  Last Sunday in Shingletown, this actually occurred in our church.  More remarkably, some French guy stands up and introduces his whole family!  The priests know better, but the lay people who always have 10 minutes of announcements before mass don't.  I consider last Sunday's visitor question a breach in Catholic etiquette.  There are over 1.2 billion of us in the world, and we demand to remain anonymous!  French guy, I apologize to you and your family.

As an aside, my kids sometimes complain about their weekly trip to church - they would rather play Xbox.  While I share an empathy for fun, I cop my "when I was a kid" attitude and tell them how, as a young Baptist lad, I used to enter the church at 9:30 in the a.m. and wouldn't get to jail-break until 1:00 p.m.  Also, it was a lot like school with the memorizing of bible verses, placing felt Jesus along with the felt apostles right next to the felt sheep etc.  I do love felt Jesus though, and you can never have enough felt shepherds.

To my kids' credit, no Baptist kid ever had to deal with this:



 

 
By the way, is this really a woman?  I'm not so sure. 

In any event, I've diverted from the travel part of the blog ... I'm practicing what I preach and so off to see those Franciscans in the friary next door.  After thanking the priest for trying to reform me over the course of the last hour (I need it), the wife and I hit the town looking for a pastry or other savory item.  And .... check around a couple of corners ... and ... look down a dark alleyway ... and ... check that cool pastry shop we noticed just before Martina met her untimely demise at the sure and steady beer holding hands of Fighting Fitzgerald ... 

Nothing! 

I almost launched into a child-like, sugar-deprived rant right there in the town square.  What about those pastries we saw in the window of that nice little shop on the town square?  You know, the one we swore we would visit last night?  Nothing!  All gone!!!!  No chocolate filled pastries!  No raspberry confections!  Those people are all absent, and I bet they aren't at church because I just left!

Ireland travel hint:  Use Sunday as a travel day.  You won't be shopping, browsing, eating, etc.  Why don't you ever find this stuff in the travel guides?!  This would have warded off that completely terrible Snickers I got from the gas (excuse me, "petrol") station.  Damn thing had the texture of particle board.

Having been advised by Fergal to avoid Limerick entirely (those are stupid and annoying poems anyhow), we drove right on through to Killarney and the Ring of Kerry.  By the time we got to Limerick so I could just drive right past it, I had choked down my saw dust Snickers.  Driving the Ring of Kerry will take you about 4-5 hours and that's only if you don't stop every single time you see a stunning vista.  All total, today's driving damage to my butt was 7 hours.  It was worth it. 

The first stop on the Ring of Kerry was at Jack's Bakery in Killorglin.

Jack advised that he really only opens up on Sunday mornings for a couple of friends.  Jack must be a pagan or one of those extremist protestants who wants to suck all the joy out of life in order to promote a "thrifty working class", as Scrooge put it.  The pilgrims even abolished Christmas!  Nah!  Jack's clearly a pagan - I detected no pilgrim-like joy sucking.  Killorglin is known as a place for goat head worshipping pagans (they even have a pagan party called the "Puck Faire").  Oh well, even Jack's left over pastries were some of the best I've ever had.  Those Irish have a knack for baking.  We also got some sandwiches and ate them in the car while parked overlooking one of the beaches you can find on the Dingle Bay.

The idea of getting to ride a ferry was very tempting, so we decided we would give it a shot and take the ferry to Valentia Island.  Jack's wife suggested we visit, so who am I to doubt the wife of such a fine baker.  Shortest ferry ride anywhere and it will cost you about $10 American.  I know I'm buying a bit of a life experience here (and I do not take it back).  However, the stupid thing about the ferry to Valentia Island is that there is a bridge that connects Valentia Island to the mainland about two miles down the road.  So, what is the purpose of the ferry?

That day, it's purpose was to divest me of money that could have been well spent on:

1) A drinking match with another Irishman who mistakenly believes this American boy can't make occasional good use of the "alcoholic gene" his dad warns him about on occasion; or

2) Two more saw dust Snickers; or

3) More finger puppet sized leprechauns.

What happens if my oldest daughter, Brittany, loses the finger puppet sized leprechaun I bought her?  She will fail out of Chico State, that's what!  So, Brittany, if this happens you blame the ferry at Valentia Island! 

Skip Valentia Island, everyone.  This part of Ireland looks exactly like the part of Ireland you left when you began your lengthy five minute boat ride.  However, if you really want that $10 life experience, bob away on the vast ocean between the peninsula and Valentia Island.  I'll admit it was kind of fun.

The Ring of Kerry and the Cliffs of Moher are by far the most scenic places you will find in Ireland.  That's saying a lot because the rest of the country is stunning too.  Ah, the Ring of Kerry, so beautiful:

When I first saw this particular view, I said to my wife that this would be the perfect cove to hide in if you were a pirate trying to evade the pesky Royal Navy.  I wasn't the only one who had this thought because it was indeed used by the O'Connell family for this exact purpose.  Incidentally, O'Connell was the first Catholic to be permitted to take a seat in the British Parliament.  Clear proof that politicians are an untrustworthy and unsavory sort.

As we returned close to Killarney, we visited the Torc falls.  At first blush, you think "What a nice, little mossy place", and it is. 

However, the best value here was the public bathroom.  The Ring of Kerry isn't exactly flush with bathrooms.

Irish grammar lesson coming ...

Notice I use the word "bathroom".  I've found out that this is a very American word that, on second thought, doesn't make a whole lot of sense.  As noted in an earlier blog, the Irish are rather blunt in telling you that you are using the wrong word.  You get a confused look if you ask for "gasoline".  After I asked one guy if a gas station was in his wee little town, he gave me some ridiculously vague directions to a pump that looked like it was installed in the 1930's and was surrounded by a whole bunch of broke down and rusted tractors.  As I was walking away, he stopped his gardening/digging and yelled to me that it is "petrol"!  So, in response I capitulated and would say "petrol".  In Ireland, they don't say "bathroom" or "restroom".  Most of us don't bathe in these places and we also don't "rest", as in "restroom". 

"Honey, I'm tired, perhaps we can find a bathroom to recline in for a while?"

In Ireland you call it what it is - a "toilet".  Although I wrapped my head around saying "petrol", I just couldn't bring myself to say "toilet".  It sounds so ... dirty and functional.

"May I use your toilet?"  I just couldn't do it.

By the way, there is no pretty way to clean this up.

"Excuse me, sir.  Do you have a porcelain receptacle for my poo?"

We made it to our hotel in Killarney which is located adjacent to the Muckross House.  It was rather late in the day, and I felt a longing for something American.  Hello, golden arches!  McDonalds is ubiquitous and provides you a bit of taste of home.  It also has free wifi everywhere in the world.  So, we located the golden arches, and were confronted with more of these guys:

WTF, Ireland!  Really?  Must you be the destination for all people Marxist?  More blue track suits fresh out of the wardrobe of Al Davis.  Enough with the track suit wearing tourists!  Shouldn't we just get all of them ball caps and Levis?  I wolfed down my Big Mac with cold war related thoughts of imminent nuclear annihilation swimming in my head.

My mother-in-law shamed me a bit about going to McDonalds.  She's right, but it is my purpose to support the golden arches wherever they may be located.  Also, you can sometimes find things on the menu that you can't in the U.S.  In Quebec, you can order poutine.  Poutine is french fries (tea party translation - "liberty fries") with gravy slathered all over.  I was disappointed to find nothing unique in the Irish McDonalds.  Not even a shamrock shake!  And this isn't surprising at all.  I've often heard that Irish food is bad.  How can it be?  With one exception to be noted in the next blog, it is the same as American food.  You want nachos and tacos?  They've got them in the pubs.

We ate our McDonalds and then took the lay of the land for tomorrow's visit in Killarney.  After that, it was right back to the hotel room to watch more soccer.  Thirteen channels and all you get is soccer and their version of Jerry Springer - Mr. Jeremy Kyle.  That's it.  I was expecting to see Darby O'Gill and the Little People on a repeating loop in Ireland, but nothing.

Darby, you will have to wait for another day when I can enjoy your antics with King Brian Connor of Knocknasheega.  Poor Darby, he's such confused friendly drunk, with his leprechaun friends and all:

I'm still looking for his leprechaun friend.  Little bastard keeps evading me.  Maybe better luck leprechaun hunting tomorrow in Killarney.

Lurk to Eat Just Like At In N Out

Day 5: (April 20, 2013) - The Emerald Isle

We are mid-vacation by this point, and things are starting to get a bit relaxing.  I have to admit to being pleasantly surprised to wake up, take a leisurely jog and then just walk down the street to visit the Ennis Friary. 

I should make a brief comment about the jog first.  I stepped off a curb to cross a street and almost got whacked by one of those crazy Irish drivers I have previously mentioned.  I'd love to blame the Irish, but the fault was entirely mine.  While I've grown used to driving on the left side of the road, as a pedestrian, I'm still bordering on "stupid".  We all know the drill to look both ways before you cross the street.  Same applies in Ireland, dummy. 

I was jogging about and looked left (you do that first because you expect the lane nearest to you to be filled with oncoming traffic coming from your left).  I see no oncoming traffic and (guess what) I take a step out and almost got roadkilled.  Have you ever noticed those tiny, furry spiders that can jump backwards about 10 times their body length.  I perfected this maneuver right there at Ennis.  The lady driving the car didn't even notice this awesome feat of athletic/spidery ability.  I think she was just glad she didn't have to find a cleaner that would wipe "American" off of her bumper. 

I narrowly avoided being roadkill.  Becoming roadkill in Ireland would be an outrage because there is very little roadkill in Ireland.  That is a fact.  We spent a lot of time in the car, and the only roadkill I noticed was on the largest freeway in Ireland.  The roadkill was a little snow-white lamb.  Aww!!!!  The only explanation that I have for this is that there just aren't that many animals of the "roadkill" class in Ireland.  It's an old country, and I think they've probably killed off most of the roadkill worthy animals.

Ask yourself right now how many travel blogs you have read that include an analysis of the roadkill.  None!  Here's the first.  The "roadkill" class is filled with any kind of animal you find roadkilled.  It's not hard to enter.  First, there are rodent types (i.e., squirrels, rabbits, moles).  Then perhaps the small predatory types (i.e., foxes, bobcats).  Then we have the large herbivore types (i.e., deer, vegans).  Then we have the domestic types (i.e., cats, dogs).  You might suppose that I would fall into the predatory class (subtle lawyer joke), but I'm more of the domestic type.  In any event, I was able to avoid catastrophe and used the church spire/steeple method (the Ennis Friary) to find my way back to O'Connell street in Ennis and our hotel. 

Just a five minute walk away from the hotel was this place - Ennis Friary. 

For those of you who don't know, a "friar" is not a roast chicken but a member of a mendicant religious order (i.e., the Franciscans, Dominicans). 

80's cartoon flashback, picture Porky Pig in his friar habit. 

The Friary was indeed a church, chapter house and dormitory which housed the local Franciscans.  It was built under the patronage of the O'Brien family.  Because Friars are a mendicant religious order, they rely upon alms for their support.  They don't grow crops etc.  As such, their friaries were small, and they owned no land. Not having to rely on agriculture meant they could be embedded in an urban area in order to aid the poor.  In any event, the Franciscans had the O'Brien family to thank for this beautiful friary.  The first part of it was built in the mid-13th century.  It is very likely that some of the friars who first arrived here knew St. Francis personally.  I'm very fond of St. Francis, so this fact struck me. 

Eventually, those rascally English arrived.  That meant that most property was confiscated and given to the English.  If your property was confiscated, you could get a smaller portion of it back if you apostatized.  That is a fancy word for quitting the whole Catholic thing.  The O'Briens did just that, but they didn't mean it.  There is a nice story of the O'Briens convincing the local English authorities that the friar that they kept in the dormitory at Ennis Friary was certifiably crazy.  And that story, though entirely untrue, saved the life of this poor friar who was beloved by the O'Brien family. 

Take this moment to discuss the philosophical question as to whether it is sometimes good to lie.  All done?  OK.

I'm told that if you look around Ennis you can find certain homes with a small cross above the front door.  This indicated a home that hid a friar from the English.  I took that on faith from the docent at Ennis Friary, and didn't start snooping around doorways.

Off to Bunratty Castle.  Bunratty is one of those places that fully restored a castle and then added some other touristy things around it that you can see.  For example, there was a house for just about every era in Irish history.  These all pretty much looked the same and the only difference was size and whether the floor was compacted earth or stone.  Every one of them was burning turf, so the whole place smelled like we were about to start a barbecue and drink beer.  Alas, no.  The castle itself was rather impressive.  Here is a picture of the castle.

One cool thing about Bunratty is that each of the four battlements has a tiny stairway to the top that winds around and around in a circular motion.  I got to play hero by holding my wife's hand all the way up and then down in each of the four battlements.  Apparently, she gets a bit claustrophobic and feels a bit of vertigo all at once. 

Philosphical question here:  Do I get to play hero if I'm at the same time gently mocking my wife for these things.  No?  I suppose not.  Those "old lady" comments are entirely insensitive.  I'm surprised she hasn't dumped me after 23 years of marriage.  Pays to be good looking, right guys?

Side Note:  That was a joke!  So, stop that little voice of condemnation in your head or (at the very least) that voice that says "He isn't good looking!"

On another note, I saw Nico Bellic from Grand Theft Auto IV at Bunratty:

I believe that eastern Europe, and Russia in particular, emptied all of their euro-trash into Bunratty.  The cliché of pasty skinned, track pant wearing low life degenerates made evident in Grand Theft Auto IV is realized!  The Irish couldn't do it on their own, so they've imported the Russian tourist.  These guys sulked lazily around Bunratty with their menacing glances.  I saw the track pants first and before I could tell my wife to check out Nico Bellic in Ireland, the accent confirmed my "this guy has got to be Russian" suspicion. 

Why so pissed to be in Ireland, Vlad?  In all likelihood, the Irish are probably sick of all of us.  At least we Americans don't sport the blue track paints with those sleek racing stripes cascading down the leg.  However, we are easily spotted as Americans by two things: 1) baseball caps and 2) denim (particularly Levi's 501's).  I left the ball cap behind but my 501's begged that I drag them along.  I capitulated.  My only regret is that I don't have acid wash 501's.  Then I could join Vlad in a Bunratty cold war showdown and we could menace each other on the battlements while dressed in our own ethnic dress.  It didn't happen and sometimes travel represents opportunity lost.  Mostly, it represents opportunity which brings me to our next adventure.

On our way back to Ennis, we did a bit of an "off the beaten track" thing.  Guess what????  We found another abbey/church.  This one is Quinn Abbey:

 

Now, let's just take a minute to sink this in.  You find this stuff laying around like old rags in Ireland.  This side-trip started out as a little church symbol on an exit sign and turned into this incredible abbey built in 1402.  It actually looks intact from this picture, but nobody is home.  There we were, dodging cow turds and grave sites as we circumnavigated this abbey.  We had the whole place to ourselves and this structure was also home to a castle built in 1350.  You can actually see the battlements and a portion of the 7 foot thick castle wall on the back side.  Stunning really.

Upon our return to Ennis, it was time to get our drink on once again.  This time we ended up at the Poet's Corner.

For those of you who know me well, you must realize that I pretty much hate In N' Out Burger.  The food is o.k. (though over-hyped).  What I really hate is the crowds - most of them from Oregon by the way.  Don't I sound like the worst of old codgers here?  Anyway, you sit there eating while somebody is lurking over your shoulder just waiting to get the slightest indication that you might be getting up to leave.  As soon as you move, your warmed seat is occupied by the lurker's butt.  Alternately, you get to lurk for someone to leave.  And don't you really hate that warm "stranger butt" feeling you get when you slide onto that plastic bench? 

In any event, we walked into the Poet's Corner and immediately commenced the "lurker" role.  We got some help from a waitress and slid into a table at around 8:00 p.m.  Kids can occupy a pub until about 8:00 p.m. and then they have to skeedaddle.  That means we hit it just about right.  Our table was just to the left in this picture.  Normally, upon sitting at a table in a crowded bar I would take on the role of Scooby Doo ghost and try to scare other people away from sitting at our table. 

And I generally inspire this reaction:

However, we wanted to hang out with the locals, and that is what we did.  Enter Fergal and Martina.  Martina is not a very Irish name, and I was going to ask her about it, but we were too busy engaging in the hustle and bustle of the Irish "I'm too polite to stop drinking" game.  The way it works is Fergal buys a round and then I must buy a round.  Then, of course, it would be impolite for Fergal to not buy a round, and then I buy another round.  Pretty soon you are pretty drunk, but you've been very polite.

However, Fergal did not count on my amazing ability to metabolize alcohol.  This meant that we both spent a lot more money on Guinness than either he or I intended.  Particularly when it comes to Guinness, I can drink the stuff all night with no ill effects.  Fergal held up pretty well - which meets with my stereotype of an Irish male.  However, Martina didn't fare so well.  I've noticed that the Irish men drink Guinness and Guinness only.  My love, having divested herself of the belief that she actually liked Guinness, tried a couple of near-Guinness alternatives (i.e., Smithwicks, Murphy's), and Fergal had never even had a taste of either.

I also observed that Irish women drink Guinness or chardonnay.  Yep, the ladies like the wine over there.  Anyway, the chardonnay didn't do Martina any favors because she got to the point where she couldn't string a sentence together and was "pass out with the head on the table" drunk.  In summary, I'll call Fergal v. Lord Vader a draw.  Lord Vader's Wife v. Martina is an easy win for my wife.  America "1" and Ireland "0". 

I really enjoyed the company.  You know you are comfortable with someone when that chap subtlety flips you the middle finger in response to a joke you've made.  Thanks, Fergal for that bit of obscenity, and I think we would be famous friends for life if I ever settled down in Ennis.

Well, the band of Irish minstrels went on and on.  Eventually we mutually agreed to call it quits for the evening.  I believe Fergal reluctantly waived the white flag to try to salvage his poor wife who emerged battle weary, slurry, sloppy and worn.  Fergal took his wife into his car with the disappointment that his wife is far too drunk for the love making and also the sad reality that there was going to be a bit of barf cleaning the next morning.  My love and I retired feeling happy and contented with a wonderful time had.

I love Ireland.