Mexico City - Spanish Gibberish

It's July 1, 2016, in Mexico City, and I'm thinking that I need to hit another historical site.  On our first day, I had to beat away a couple of the self-proclaimed tour guides for hire that lurk about the entrances to these historical sites just so I could peak over the barrier at the ruins of the Templo Mayor.  On this day we would run that gauntlet once again, but this time I shall enter.  There will be no tour guide.  It is well worth going, and will only cost you a few dollars.

At this juncture in the blog I can take one of two routes.  I can tell you interesting facts about the place, OR I can charm you with pictures of me located at the Templo Mayor which could resemble something like this:

In the hopes of not causing you alarm and encouraging you to keep reading, I'm going with the historical route.

For those of you who don't know, the Aztecs founded their empire on an island in the middle of a very, very large lake.  Lake Texcoco was large enough and deep enough to play host to one of Cortez's ships during the Conquest.  He had the moxie to dismantle a ship on the gulf coast and have it hauled hundreds of miles inland and assembled once again at Lake Texcoco.  I guess he had a knack for making dramatic entrances.  Probably something a bit like this:

In the sense in which rock beats scissors, scissors beats paper and so on, Cortez was at least clever enough to know that canon ball beats everything.  And if you want to really make an impact, send those cannonballs from a ship.  In any event, here is a pictorial of what the Aztec capital of Tenochtitlan (now Mexico City) looked like at the time of the Conquest.

And, yeah, I know this is a terrible picture.  Borders, borders.  Why am I so bad at this?

The Templo Mayor was the religious center for the Aztecs in Tenochtitlan.  It looked a bit like this mock up.

The Templo Mayor is the pyramid in the center with the two temples on the top.  The temples were dedicated to the rain god, Tlaloc, and the chief deity in the Aztec pantheon, Huitzilopochtli.  As you might expect a lot of this happened at the Templo Mayor.

The heart flying up to the heavens is intended to represent the sacrificial victim's assent into the heavenly realms.

You already knew this was coming, but the Spaniards tore down the Templo Mayor nearly to its base.  In the sense of "You used to worship your god here, and now you can worship our God here", the Spaniards would construct a church where the native temples were formerly located.  As if nobody would notice the difference?

Aztec:  What happened to my temple?  Where is our orderly skull rack?

Friar Juan:  Uhhh.  We have cookies and juice.

Perhaps the conquistadors forgot their tradition, which I sometimes refer to as the "holy place switcheroo", but they mistakenly built the Catedral Metropolitan right next to what remained of the Templo Mayor.  Here you can see the Cathedral in the background.  In the foreground is all that remains of the Templo Mayor.

Instead of a church, the Spaniards ultimately used the Templo Mayor premises as a trash dump.  Never fear.  Archeologists love to dig through trash and they found what remains as follows:

Notwithstanding, we lost a lot of history when the Templo Mayor was razed to the ground.  Lake Texcoco was shared by two other empires who, with Tenochtitlan, formed the Triple Alliance.  Netzahualcoyotl, the ruler of one of the other members of the Triple Alliance (Texcoco) just before the Conquest, had these sage words about the transience of life:

I, Netzahualcoyotl, ask this:
Is it true one really lives on the earth?
Not forever on earth,
only a little while here.
Though it be jade it falls apart,
though it be gold it wears away,
though it be quetzal plumage it is torn asunder.
Not forever on earth,
only a little while here.

It isn't my intention to get preachy, but I mention Netzahualcoyotl because I admire him as a sage and just ruler.  We need only apply his same logic to temples, palaces and everything else that the Aztecs built.  Most of it is gone now and proved itself to be as transient as human life.

Well, I digress.  That serpent in the foreground is a representation of the Aztec god, Quetzalcoatl.  I'm rather confused by why the conquistadors wouldn't finish the job by leaving Quetzalcoatl.  Maybe all of that killing wore them out?  Maybe they just like snakes and didn't realize that it was a representation of an Aztec deity?  Either way, I'm glad they missed it.  There are two of these images, and they both are located at the base of the Templo Mayor.

And if we can "excuse" Cortez for not smashing these images of Quaetzalcoatl to pieces, what about the few other images that were left?  Here we have a chacmool that was found at the steps of the remains of the Templo Mayor still in its place. 

The chacmool are rather common features, and that is because they served a rather common purpose.  Notice that bowl the chacmool is holding?  The purpose of that bowl would be to hold sacrificial offerings.  It could be herbs, and it could be human hearts.  Just depends on whatever the occasion called for I suppose.  Perhaps the priests would just wake up one morning feeling kind of stabby?

And here are some of those stabby things.  I learned a lot about the Aztec at UCLA, but I have no rational explanation for why the sacrificial knives looked like smiling fishies.

True fact:  The popular cracker marketed to children as "Goldfish" was modeled after these sacrificial knives.  Don't believe me?  I see a strong resemblance.

Granted, the knives don't have sunglasses, but that is clearly an embellishment added by Pepperidge Farms to hide the origin story of Finn, its sinister mascot.  I know better.

Right next door to the Templo Mayor is what remains of the meeting hall for the Eagle Knights.  This warrior class was limited to the elite.  As the lowly son of a mill worker, I would not have been permitted to apply or to even enter.  As the Eagle Knights approached this august meeting area, they would be met with this image of the god of death, Mictlantecuhtli.

I'm guessing this image would cause each Eagle Knight to ponder death - a suitable subject for a warrior.  In the Aztec religion, warriors killed in battle or sacrificed after capture went directly to Aztec heaven.  People who died of old age and all women, except those who died in childbirth, didn't fare nearly as well.  Sorry ladies.  But if the Eagle Knight had a better shot at heaven than the average fella and a heck of a lot better shot at heaven than a woman, I'm not sure this image gives one a warm and comfy feeling of well being.  Would you really want to meet him?  His liver is hanging out of his body for God's sake! 

As you know, the Christian faith promises eternal life in a welcoming heaven.  Mictlantecuhtli makes no such promises.  As for me, I would have preferred to not die and just hang on tooth and nail to my frail human existence for as long as possible just to avoid those over-sized hands and the dangly liver flopping about.

After the Temlo Mayor we went next door to the Catedral Metropolitan.  I love to walk about these old churches, especially ones when construction was commenced at the time of Cortez.  One thing that you have to prepare yourself for when you enter a "Spanish" church is that they are dark and the crucifix will be bloody in its realism.  Crucifixion is a very bloody business, and the Spanish really emphasize the point.  Frankly, its hard to look at probably because it hits close to home.  It is my faith after all.

Now, each of these churches have little "do's" and "dont's" about priceless things your aren't supposed to touch or some such.  Those rules aren't for me.  I call it my "Catholic privilege".  I'm in the club, so I can bend these little rules.  I was taking a picture of a crucifix in which the body of Jesus is painted black (or perhaps it was made out of ebony) and some docent sternly advised me to not take that picture.  Everything else was fair game for my weak brand of photo taking, but this particular crucifix is inexplicably off limits?  I wanted to explain the finer points of "Catholic privilege" to him, but you know we have a bit of a language barrier so I left off.  I also didn't want to make a scene getting pulled out of the Catedral by my ankles while screaming "Catholic privilege" in English.  Shameful.

Having toured the Catedral, we decided it was time to walk back to the hotel.  In Mexico City, you will occasionally get asked for money.  It is going to happen every time you go out, but it is never aggressive.  My wife happened upon a strategy that will get you out of these situations (if you so desire).  Simply blurt out some gibberish Spanish.  It will confuse and alarm your foe.  Upon being asked for pesos, my wife blurts out "No Que Pesos" which literally means "No, What, Pesos?"  I have often wondered why anyone would waste years in high school taking French.  Now I have the answer.  It is so you can claim ignorance of Spanish and get out of passing out pesos right and left.

Another charming miscommunication that my wife used was to respond to the Spanish speaker "No comprendes" which DOES NOT mean "I don't understand" but does mean "You don't understand."  I tried to get her to lay off on this one, but she was persistent.  Telling people they don't understand their own language is not the way to make friends and will eventually get you slapped.  I must, however, give her praise for attempting to communicate in Spanish.  When we went to Quebec, I think she spoke French about three times in total and then only to say "hello" or "thank you".  How is it she feels more comfortable with the Spanish speakers?  Easy answer - her other option is French.  If you have read the previous entries on my travel blog, I think you know how I feel about the French.  Yuck.

And with that bit of story-telling, which will surely mean that I will not be served dinner tonight, I want to make it up to my wife with this post of her "dabbing".  Apparently, that is a thing and despite my boys' protestations that she is doing it all wrong (like we care), I think she looks pretty good in the soft glow of a museum alcove with this cute little guy peaking over her shoulder.

Enjoy the remainder of your day.  I will still be going hungry.

Portland: Marathons, Hipsters and Hating On Pirates

October 3, 2014:

I had the occasion to travel to Portland, Oregon, for the Portland Marathon.  It occurs to me that people who run marathons are likely brain-damaged in some way.  I am no exception.  I wouldn't put a pet monkey through the amount of training it takes to run one of these, and I loathe monkeys.  Worst animals ever, and I put them right up there with other things I loathe, such as clowns.  Combine these two nightmares together, and you get something horrific like this:

Whoever put that picture together should be shot.  Let me go back to the marathon thing, so I can use it as a palate cleanser.  After more than 700 miles of running, it was time to run the Portland Marathon.  I will note that the first guy to run a marathon, a Greek by the name of Pheidippides, fell over dead when he ran the 26.2 miles that encompass a marathon.  A real dumb ass if you ask me.  If you are in any way curious about my prior thoughts on that example of Darwinism applied to the human race, click on this link:

http://reddingmarathon.blogspot.com/2010/09/naked-greeks-pink-floyd.html

Back to travel to Portland.  Interstate 5 has two contrasting parts.  If you travel South of Redding, California, on I-5, you will be "treated" to the nastiest sights and smells.  Dust clouds, city sprawl, and stinky cattle pens that look exactly like this:

I once spent a good hour and a half pulled over on I-5 across from one of those stinky cattle pens while I tried to dislodge my siamese cat from under the passenger seat of my car.  I had to cut some stereo wires to get her out, and she emptied her bladder all over me.  If you ever want to feel like a fancy sports car driver and get some driving gloves on the cheap, cat pee and cat hair make lovely wooly mittens for driving.  It was a good trade.  I lost my amplifier but gained some awesome wooly driving mittens.  After the thousands of hamburgers I've consumed, I have to count this one as a win for the cows.  I'm sure they enjoyed the sights and sounds of me cussing and swearing under a blistering 105 degree day. 

In contrast, however, if you travel North, you will witness the majestic views of Mt. Shasta and then the verdant green pastures of Oregon.  The only similarity with I-5 South is that these pastures are also dotted with cattle.  Unlike I-5 South, these cows are not awaiting their imminent processing into hamburgers while huddled together in a dusty lot.  They will eventually be "processed", but at least they are happy until they meet up with Ronald McDonald.  Ronald is the sole clown I do not consider scary.  Cows fear Ronald.  I do not.

A curious thing happens as you travel further North into Oregon.  The landscape is littered with "Adult Shops".  I'm a seasoned traveler, and by "seasoned" I mean that I'm forty-six (46) years old.  I know that an "Adult Shop" is a place where adults congregate for the purpose of purchasing ... you know ... marital aids.  Is that a nice way to put it? 

Anyway, I have a couple of theories as to why these shops are prevalent in Oregon.  I will only indulge in my primary theory.  My primary theory is that the amount of "Adult Shops" is directly proportionate to the amount of rainfall received.  Oregon is a rainy, rainy, rainy place.  There are many ways to ward off depression I suppose.  Need something to spice up that dreary day?  An Adult Shop is merely blocks away!  As circumstantial evidence in support of my theory, Time magazine states that Portland has the highest number of strip clubs per capita in the good ole U.S.A.  Indeed, indeed.  Anecdotally, I think that Niagara Falls, Ontario, Canada, has us beat.  Canada has to beat us at something.

http://content.time.com/time/travel/cityguide/article/0,31489,1975826_1975753_1975585,00.html

The windows of each of these "Adult Shops" are darkly tinted, and I'd be afraid to enter for fear of getting abducted and never found.  The chances of never being found would be very high.  Usually, missing persons investigations start with determining where the person was last seen.  That would be the tricky thing because I would make damn sure that nobody saw me going in there.  I'm not known for hanging around these kinds of places, so speculation (i.e., where can he typically be found?) wouldn't help at all.  As such, I did not enter any of these places despite the fact that they are conveniently located next to the interstate.  Suit yourself, dear traveler. 

I will mention as an aside that a location just North of Chico, California, once offered topless car washes.  I drove by that bit of conspicuous debauchery on the way to coaching my kid's football game in Chico.  Not the kind of pregame appropriate for a kid, so I drive on.  Just like California to one-up its neighbor to the North.

Have I also mentioned that being Catholic forbids entry into the "Adult Shop"?  Most non-Catholics think that we use confession as a crutch and excuse to commit all sorts of sins.  Not so ... it is terrifying!

This is not something I would want to confess.  I don't think I could get a word out after saying "Bless me father, for I have sinned".  I know that any seasoned priest has heard the full panoply of human stupidity, but after the sacramental equivalent of "how do you do, father?", I would be tongue tied.  In summary, being Catholic, married and a coward has kept me clear of a lot of stuff I shouldn't be involved in.  People always say to me, "Doesn't being Catholic make you have to follow a lot of rules?".  Yes, and for me it is obviously a win win situation.  Oregon "Adult Shop" crisis averted!

We arrived at one of the hotels located next to the Portland Airport.  The day basically ended with a short two mile run that took us to the airport.  That was followed up by my second hamburger of the day.  Take that cows!

October 4, 2014:

Any seasoned runner will tell you that you should eat carbohydrate and lean proteins in the days approaching a marathon.  No deep fried foods, dummy!  Well, I'm contrary.  I persist in thinking that I'm the athlete I once was (if I ever was a very good athlete) and that I can do whatever I want.  That's what I did on the day before the marathon.  The day starts with a visit to the mecca of all things doughnut - Voodoo Doughnuts (http://voodoodoughnut.com/index.php).  I've never been, and so I took my usual approach of going to extremes.  "Yay, a new experience!  Is there a way that I can do this so that it will cause me physical and psychological harm?  Yes.  OK, then, what do I need to do?"  The forty minute wait in line and the pickup game of ping pong with the wife right after gaining entry were the only healthy parts of this experience.

Notice how afraid those Voodoo Doughnuts are of me.  They drool green in fear!  So, to "carbo load" I ate one of those Voodoo Dolls and the Bacon Maple.  The peach fritter would then follow its Voodoo brethren into my belly at about 8:00 p.m. later that evening.  Is it possible to waste some 700 miles of training on a day of eating like a total pig?  Yes ... well, almost.

While munching away in my hotel on the peach fritter, I turned on the television.  If you really want to get the feel of a community, I believe you should watch a bit of their television.  I turned on the news and saw a brief bit on adopting "special needs" dogs. 

Warning flag!  Why would you do that to yourself?  I have one of those special needs dogs (the kind that pee all over your house, dig in the trash and bark constantly), and I must say that you are really doing a service to your fellow man by adopting one of these dogs.  By taking that dog out of the adoption pool, you saved that other fella from his own stupidity.  Here is a lesson in fatherhood, if your kid saves a just born pup by giving it mouth to mouth resuscitation, that is not the dog you want to allow your kids to keep.  The lack of oxygen at the very first moments of life leads to unholy consequences.

As we walked around the City taking in the sights (i.e., Saturday Portland Market), I started to notice the "hipster vibe".  The standard uniform of the Portland hipster is a light plaid shirt (not flannel - that honor must go to Seattle), some kind of sandals that only your mother would wear and a tee-shirt with a preachy logo on it.  Witness the "Think Globally, Drink Locally" logo I noticed on one of these unshaven muppets. 

What the hell is that slogan supposed to mean?  What does thinking globally have to do with getting drunk?  Most drunks struggle to look beyond the pint glass much less "think globally".  I realize that these two totally unrelated topics are supposed to sound smart and witty, but I'm at a loss.  Other potential tee-shirt slogans of the same vein but perhaps more logically related?  How about "Think narrowly, drink everything."  If you've ever spent time in a redneck bar, you know that at least there is a nexus for that slogan.  And those guys actually practice what the tee-shirt would preach.  Maybe, "Don't Think, Just Drink!"  That slogan would at least describe my particular malady.

Aside from the snarky feeling I get from seeing tee-shirts like this, I must confess that it did make me thirsty.  Why not go to the Portland Brewery (http://www.portlandbrewing.com/)?  I tried to be good.  I really tried.  My lovely bride of 25 years ordered up a sampler which gives you five (5) shorts of different ales etc.  Although she comes from a family that really knows how to drink beer, the girl came up short.  I was drinking water ... until then.  Fine influence she turned out to be!

I cannot stand when good beer is wasted.  I still punch guys when they spill beer.  Everyone knows this is the consequence of wasting beer.  My "bro code" kicked in so I polished off the last half.  Of course, if you are at a brewery, you have to take the tour.  Off we went, and then they comp you a bunch more beer.  Gulp, gulp.  My wife's cousin and I once polished off several pitchers of ale at the Sierra Nevada Brewery just before a half-marathon, and so I told myself that the same theory should apply to double that distance.  Gulp, gulp.

Well, on to the torture that was the Portland Marathon.

October 5, 2014:

Portland is a beautiful place.  The people are friendly.  What's not to love?  Just look at this picture!

Every long run should be preceded by the selection of music.  I created a 4 hour 15 minute playlist just in case I totally flamed out and took forever to finish.  Highlights with commentary where I fail to find the deeper meaning to the lyrics are as follows:

1.  Just What I Needed by The Cars - This song has the singer appreciating a woman who wastes all his time.  What makes this acceptable?  Because she has ribbons in her hair.  What the hell?????  Men are stupid.

2.  Pumped Up Kicks  by Foster the People - Have you ever listened to this song closely?  It's about some kid taking out his vengeance on other kids by shooting them.  "You better run ... faster than my bullets."  Oh, sh*t, I can't run that fast.  Whatever it was, I didn't do it!  Where are Tipper Gore and all her liberal friends to save us from the perverse effects of rock music.  Tipper????

3.  The Giving Tree by Plain White T's - Something about analogizing yourself to a tree that your woman cuts up into planks, builds into a boat and sails off.  Hey, buddy, why are you complaining?  You are still with her ... just in the shape of a boat.  Cling to her, my friend.  Cling ....

4.  Say It Ain't So by Weezer - A classic song for boys with daddy issues.  "You've cleaned up, found Jesus, things are good so I hear ... your son is drowning in the flood."  Something about adolescent rage because your parents said that you can't play Xbox I think.  Yep.  Nothing deeper than that, I'm sure.

This and a whole bunch of other tunes will keep me in form during the race.  The marathon starts and finishes down by the lawn area you see in the picture.  Thirteen thousand of us lined up to run the marathon and half marathon.  Before the start, all the participants sing the national anthem.  It was glorious.  Our voices cascaded down through the city blocks only to outlet over the quiet waters of the Willamette River.  It was so lovely that I resisted the strong urge to slap the goofy running cap off of every guy who didn't show due respect by taking off his cap.  It would have been kind of fun.  In the crush of bodies at the start, I could have easily slapped a couple off and nobody would have even known it was me.  Let's not stir things up, and get going!

The marathon route itself is mostly in industrial areas.  I was expecting a bit more with Portland being so charming.  The route was lined with bands, hefty belly dancers, and (for some strange reason) guys dressed up like pirates.  What would possess someone to dress up like a pirate and yell "Argh!!!  Ahoy, matey!" at a bunch of over-exhausted skinny people?  And this leads me to a moral dilemma.

I was chugging along, and saw the pirate guys.  Right as my head was nagging me to mutter out loud, "What the f**k?", one of these pirates starts calling out for high-fives.  I left him hanging.  I just didn't feel like high-fiving some off-balance, boozy guy who is doing the Renaissance Fair version of Pirates of the Caribbean.  Kind of like this guy:

 

I ran right on by.  The moral dilemma (and I actually thought about this as I ran by) is that I like to be friendly.  If someone is going to offer me a kindness, I want to reciprocate.  I really do.  Say what you will, but these knuckleheads took the time to come down to the race and wish us well.  In light of the effort, and despite the tailpipe inhaling induced desire to dress up like this, I just couldn't bring myself to do it.  It's just too damned weird!  Nonetheless, I tried to atone by spending the remainder of the race high-fiving every little kid who offered it up.  Kids are great.  I like kids, and they can be excused if they want to dress like a pirate a la Mr. Depp.  No excuse for a grown man though.  None whatsoever.

In any event, the marathon course is largely flat.  I felt good.  I was flying and well ahead of my desired pace.  In fact, I left the 3 hour 45 minute pace group behind.  That worked well until mile 18.  It was at mile 18 that we had just climbed up to the St. John's Bridge and turned back toward downtown Portland.  I could see the skyscrapers that hailed the finish a mere 8 miles away in the hazy morning.  It was at that point that the little Voodoo Doll, Bacon Maple and Peach Fritter kicked my hind end.  Mix in that delicious Cherry Stout from the Portland Brewery, and you have the perfect concoction to bring you a potent amount of misery.  I slowed and slowed, but if you know anything about me, I would rather die than walk.  You don't train so you can walk a marathon - not even 50 feet of it.  If I can yell at my kid because he isn't giving 100% at a football practice, you can for damned sure bet that I was heaping all sorts of abuse on myself.

At mile 23 I was feeling worn out and nauseous.  If one of those pirates were to show up, I would have spewed all over his buckler and soiled his doubloons.  Some dude right in front of me pulled off the road to barf, and I almost did the same.  It only takes one to start a good barf o' rama.  Nonetheless, you have to stop to barf and that wasn't happening.  I swallowed it down.  It was at this juncture that every motivational sign I saw (there were hundreds) was a curse.  You know how when someone tells you everything is going to be o.k. when you are feeling miserable?  "Thanks, but you're not helping."  It would not be good form to wrestle one of these things away from some well-wisher, rip it up and stomp on it.  I digress.

At mile 25 the 3 hour 45 minute pace group passed me.  Even though my main goal was to crack 4 hours, I wanted that extra 15 minutes shaved off.  Unfortunately, the girl leading that pace group was shouting encouraging slogans "Almost there!  Push it!  You've got this!"  I followed for about a half mile trying to keep pace or at least shove her off the side of the road into a planter.  I had the humiliation of watching them slowly escape me.  Ah, me.  I finished it at 3:46.  One minute off, and I will damned sure blow up 3:45 next time, and there will be a next time .... without the hamburgers ... without the beer ... without the Voodoo Doughnuts ... and without the pirates.

My bride and I hobbled the four city blocks back to our hotel.  She didn't hobble.  She felt just fine.  I showered, and fell asleep on the bed for an hour and a half.  The only thing that got me out of bed is that I wanted to meet up with some family.  That resulted in lots of barbecue ribs.  Later that night, it was Thai food.  Because I have a brain mostly composed of empty space, gears and sprockets, I haven't learned a damned thing.  It took me a day and half to shake off the niggling desire to puke.

We did manage to make it into a lovely library across from the hotel.  It was three stories tall, and it was a matter of principle to walk up and down each step.  It was worth the effort because I found a freaky book called "Outcast Samurai Dancer".  It is a picture book with explanation in Japanese.  I know freaky when I see it.  I didn't need the English translation.

The picture on the front gives you a fair enough picture of what is in the inside.  But, no, not really.  The pictures inside remind me of something out of American Horror Story.  Naked Japanese men and women in odd, twisted poses with Kabuki paint.  Looking at this book is kind of like how you can't help but look at an accident as you drive by.  Wow!  These Japanese fetishists are weirder than your standard Canadian.

OK, I've had enough of Portland.  Time to go.  Tomorrow's drive awaits and I have wounds to heal.

In summary, and putting all joking and snarkiness aside, we had a great trip.  Portland is a stunning city.  It is dotted with lovely parks and cottages.  The people are very nice.  If you have a chance to go you should.  At the very least, stop and put a hurting on one of those Voodoo Dolls.

Just look at that little guy squeal! 

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.

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.