St. Maarten/St. Martin (Day 4) - Where I Buy Racist Booze!

June 14, 2014:

Every vacation has to have one of these days.  The dreaded shopping day.  I recall when I was a kid my mom would drag me around for shopping.  There were many, many days when I would rather just sit in the van while my mom would spend an hour or so in a fabric shop.  That's right, I choose 110 degree heat in a parking lot over shopping.  Perhaps that will provide a bit of perspective.

On this pleasant morning, however, we packed it all up and headed to Phillipsburg.  From our hotel, Phillipsburg is a short drive over the mountain pictured in the photo below.  After wandering around a bit, I found a place to park and we walked into the "tourist" area.

This is where hordes of American tourists decamp from their cruise ships to speak loudly, wave American flags, mistake where they are located, and complain when the food and drink isn't supersized.  There is so much to love about Americans.  And, yes, I was annoyed that they don't give free drink re-fills in this country.  Some people from other countries just don't understand us.  Click on the link and Go America! 

In any event, the beach side touristy area of Phillipsburg is much nicer than the rest of the town.  Here are a couple of pictures of what it looks like in the "non-murdery" part of town:

If you travel one block to the North, you find a slightly more "stabby" street where all of the heavy lifting (i.e., shopping) takes place:

On this street, we slogged up and down for the good part of four hours.  If you have read the Ireland Travel Blog (look to the right and click on anything 2013), you will know that there are certain rules that you must abide by while shopping on vacation.  Because I'm in an Old Testament kind of mood, I state them as follows:

Rule #1: If the Lord thy God did not maketh it at thy place of vacation, thou shalt not purchase it!

Rule #2:  Thou shalt not waste thine tythe by spending thine shekels for the mere sake of spending thine shekels!

Rule #3:  Thine purchases shall be reasonable in price, lest ye make the male thou hast covenanted to adore and serve weep!

On this particular trip, my beloved violated Rule #1 by spending our shekels on one of those fancy charm bracelets from Pandora (http://www.pandora.net/en-us).  I'm happy that she is happy about the purchase, but if you are wondering, she hasn't worn that bracelet since.

To illustrate Rule #1 by means of an internet example, you can easily find Pandora bracelets by searching Google for key words such as "outrageous", "expensive" "charm" "platinum" "rube" and "sucker".  If you prefer to make Google searches with key phrases, try "Why in God's name?" "I'm going to die young from job-related stress, so she could buy that?"

As for me, of course I followed the rules.  I went to this place:

 

 And purchased this bit of local in bottle:

In an age of heightened sensitivity and racial angst, I bring you the most racist bottle of booze I could find.  This liqueur is only made on the 37 square mile island of Sint Maarten/St. Martin.  I didn't buy it because it tastes good.  It doesn't (unless you like the taste of cough syrup).  I bought it because it is unique to this part of the world.  That trumps all.  I'd bring home dirt if I had to.

In a nation that is mostly populated by the descendants of slaves, the bottle art doesn't seem to bother the good people of Sint Maarten/St. Martin.  However, if this product were sold in the U.S.A., you can be darned sure that the label would have to go.  I offer proof by means of example.

In our country, the following rogue's gallery has been eliminated from the popular consciousness:

Aunt Jemima:

 

Aunt Jemima, I miss you.  I love, love, love you and your breakfasty goodness.  I'm not sure what is going on with the garish red lip stick, but rest in peace, Aunt Jemima.

 

Next Up: Little Black Sambo.  Sambo's restaurant overlords realized that Sambo was no longer accepted in the U.S.A., and promptly replaced him with Indian Sambo (A slightly less racially insensitive purveyor of pancakes, bacon and eggs?)  

Little Black Sambo and Indian Sambo, I miss you so much.  You gave your name and image to my favorite breakfast diner franchise.  I so enjoyed your adventures as they were displayed in the menu and always hoped you would eat that damned tiger made of butter.  Both Sambos, I'm sorry you never ate the butter tiger.  He coveted your pancakes and really deserved to be eaten.  RIP, Little Black Sambo and Indian Sambo.

And, last but not least, Disney's Song of the South:

Okay, Song of the South, I don't really miss you.  That "zippidy doo dah" song really sucked.  Out of principle, I must also despise all video which has actual people appearing alongside animated characters.  There is just something grotesque about it.  In short, this is one casualty of political correctness that I can say I'm happy about.

Before I leave the subject of Phillipsburg and shopping, I have a confession to make.  I engaged in an activity of which I am mostly not proud.  Witness my shame below:

By the way, most of that hair loss was due to a pair of clippers that I deftly employed prior to this vacation.  I swear that be so.  I really do.  I am not lying about this.  No need for deception.  I have nothing to hide.  Are you convinced yet?  Shall I continue?  No.  Moving on then?

Moving on.  We returned to our hotel for more fruity drinks and perhaps a bit of sitting on a beach chair under an umbrella.  I don't know how I did it, but I convinced my lovely wife to get the drinks despite the fact that she was confident that the female bartender hated her.  However, my karma would get the best of me because as I was making my way off the beach to spare my wife from having to deal with the grumpy bartender lady, I was confronted by the Aloe Lady.

What is an Aloe Lady, you ask?  An Aloe Lady is a person who wanders around on the beach with aloe leaves in hand ever-prepared to slap some of that sticky cactus-looking crap all over your sun burned body and massage it in until you are sticky and about to cry.  This one Aloe Lady saw me coming with my sun burn, and I know she was thinking that she is going to make a sale. 

Not so fast, Aloe Lady!  Your super human powers of persuasion will not convince this cheap bastard to spend one dime on your massage.  I say "No" to the offer - this time politely waiting for her to open up the negotiation.  I learned at Orient Beach that if you tell an aloe lady that you don't want a massage in advance of allowing them to ask, they get very, very offended. 

I've learned how to dance now.  I patiently wait and then parlay with a "No, thank you."  My polite retort doesn't shake her confidence it all.  She was expecting it.  According to the link I posted above, Americans are considered annoyingly polite by people from other countries.  I didn't know that, but the Aloe Lady did.  I'm clearly at a disadvantage.

I throw her off with a bit of polite small talk about things not related to cactus based massages.  During this break in the action, I see a small glimmer of pity in her eye.  Her eyes fall to my sun burn, and she offers me a free massage on the burned areas.

This unexpected offer of generosity frightens and confuses me.  The hint of concern is clearly feigned.  I recover quickly.  I'm sure she sees lots of burned white guys.  I know that she knows that if she gets her hands on me with a free bee, I'm going to pay her a little something.  My honor and dignity would require it.  So, Aloe Lady, you have gazed into my very soul and played your trump card. 

Ah, no!!! 

I resist, thank her very much and break off before my ability to resist is worn down. 

I win!  I win ... and I retreat quickly a bit bruised.  Just before I see my bride approaching with two of those fruity drinks in hand, I pray:  "I thank you Lord for granting me the courage and strength to defeat the Aloe Lady.  You have kept me from stickiness and granted reprieve to my wallet.  Amen."

After sucking down a couple of those girly drinks, it was time to head up to the room.  On the way up, we ran into a friend we met a couple of days before.  I introduce you to Smelly Cat.  My kids are like me in some ways, and one of them is a love for pop culture.  This cat was a stray and was probably named "Molly" at one time or something mundane like that.  Not anymore, because Smelly Cat is much better.  She even has her own song.

On the first day of our arrival, Smelly Cat  followed my oldest daughter all the way into the hotel.  Not having seen Smelly Cat for a while, I thought that maybe she ended up as that delicious barbecue smell I mentioned in a previous blog.  Alas, no.  Smelly Cat was there in full ratty, skinny and stinky glory.  However, she paid no attention to my kid.  Because cats are obnoxiously independent, Smelly Cat ignored my kid in favor of some chubby son of a tourist. 

Isn't it the nature of cats to despise what loves them?  I knew some girls in high school like that too.  The way you handle those girls is to feign some interest and walk away entirely unconcerned.  By the way, it doesn't work unless you mean it!  Same goes for Smelly Cat.  I had a date with some Red Stripe ale anyway.  Thank God we were not at home.  Otherwise, I would have found Smelly Cat as an unwelcome guest at my home.

Time to rest up so we can do some snorkeling anyway.  Good Night from the front door of our room.

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.



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.

Day 1 of Getting Our Drink On!

Day 4: (April 19, 2013) - The Emerald Isle

We left Castlebar relatively early (10:00 ish) in order to get on down to Galway.  Ireland is a small country, so we were in Galway before noon.  Galway is a university town.  That means fun.  And here is downtown!

In general, college kids are poor and that means that if you can turn a euro or two, you do it.  In Galway's case, that means street music.  On the street pictured above, bunches of shaggy kids who look like they are still trying to sleep off last night's drunken revelry supply you with some of the most lovely Irish music you will hear.  Stand by, listen, give them one of those cool looking 2 euro coins and you are on your way a better man.  Here's what we saw:

One cool thing about traveling in Ireland is that if you are ever concerned about finding the city center, just look for the tallest church spire and drive toward it.  It's as simple as that.  We found the cathedral in Galway in this fashion.  My bride almost got run over by both car and pedestrian while trying to take a picture of the cathedral.  Here's the cathedral:

While we were inspecting the interior, I heard bells.  I look towards the altar and on come a priest, a couple of laypeople, altar servers etc.  I casually and smugly advised that they must be there to pray the Angelus.  That only takes about 15 minutes.  Wrong catholic smug dork!  My love and I are already getting a work out with all the catholic gymnastics of standing and kneeling by the time I realize that we just got caught up in mass.  Mass = 45 minutes to 1 hour.  A knowing look to Fighting Fitzgerald, a casual nod, and a quiet escape and we were out of there.  I'm praying, singing, standing, kneeling and then I guess I'm just too busy to stick around to the end.  I admit that I won the Catholic douchebag of the day award.  I couldn't exactly find out which pub in Galway bestowed this award, so I don't really have a picture of it to show you.  I'm sure its nice (but not as nice as Matt Molloy's Grammies).  It is probably on its way in the mail.

We left the cathedral and found ourselves in the St. Nicholas Collegiate Church.  Here's a picture.

The other thing you should know about my spider-sense is that it has another component to it which is not directly related to travel.  I walk into this church from a side-entrance and immediately my spidey-sense starts tingling.  This other component of spidey-sense tells me when things aren't exactly as they should be ... something is perhaps . ..amiss.

Here spidey-sense is telling me that maybe I'm not in a Catholic church after all.  It had a lot of the Catholic trappings which I expect.  It is named after some saint, there is an altar, a couple of statues, stained glass, and people buried here or there in the church (I know, weird huh!).  I did notice, however, that the word "collegiate" was a bit unusual.  I also noticed some battle flags and a monument to those killed in WWI.  Battle flags ... hmmm ...

What church might have such a close link between its government and its religion?  Of course, the Church of England!  Apparently, what we have here is an Anglican church.  Immediately I began to look for invading Englishmen who might want to separate my body from my head.  Oh yeah, spidey-sense was dead on. 

After nine months of being under a siege marked by death, famine and starvation, Galway surrendered to Cromwell's forces on April 12, 1652.  Despite the terms of the truce, many of the able-bodied were packaged off as slaves to Barbados.  Apparently, the English were equal opportunity slavers.  Cromwell's boys tore down six of the seven churches within the city and kept one for themselves.  They gave it a practical use by stabling horses there. 

What better way to say "f**k you" to the conquered than to have your war horses crap all over their sacred spaces.  And now let me tell you what I really think about your religion!  Oh well, the spoils of war and all that.  The English did a lovely job of returning it to its former dignity, however.

After a lovely little lunch at The Skeff (see picture below), we went to the Cliffs of Moher.

 
If you ever find yourself at the Cliffs of Moher, don't jump!  The Cliffs of Moher are 700 feet straight down to a lovely bed of jagged rocks.  Witness this lovely picture:

Apparently, cliff jumping for all the wrong reasons is rather popular at the Cliffs of Moher.  It is a bit of a bummer to read signs put up by the Samaritans that request that you kindly give a call and talk to someone before you do something stupid like jump off the Cliffs!

We caught the Cliffs of Moher on a lovely day.  Yes, we were surrounded by more Nico Bellic look alikes, but all very lovely.  Having experienced some of the most stunning views over the Dingle Bay, we loaded up and made it to Ennis.

Ennis is a nice little town that once was a bit of an island made by rivers.  The name means island.  Apparently, that helped to hold off the English (for a while).  We rolled in to Ennis in the late afternoon.  I had no idea where to go to find our hotel, but I used the aforementioned "drive towards the tall church" method, and it worked out fine.  Here's a perfect example of how we worked this at Ennis.

Drive to the pointy place at the end.  Where you find the Church, you find downtown.  Our hotel is off an alley halfway down this street.  Pretty easy, right? 

I titled this post as "Day 1 of Getting Our Drink On".  Yes, of course, there has been Guinness drinking prior to this time.  But because our hotel was right in the middle of this mess shown in the picture, I was able to consume beverages without fear of having a "hit and run" on a leprechaun after a pub visit. So, my love and I engaged in a bit of a pub crawl.  The first place we hit was Knox's.  It seemed o.k. at first.  Then I noticed that my pretty wife was one of two girls in this pub full of guys watching soccer (and I know its "football" everywhere but in the U.S.). That other girl was not a looker - black stocking with a run dragging its way up her ample thigh.  That kind of thing. In any event, we had found the Irish version of "Charlie's Lounge".  An Irish meat market if you will.  Well after my wife jiggled every male eyeball in that pub when she squeezed her way through all these guys to find the restroom, we got out of there.

Inner Dialogue In My Head At the Irish Meat Market:

1.  Hmmm.  Lot's of guys here.  If one of these guys hits on my wife, how far is too far?  Small talk is ok (I'm reasonable after all).   

What next?

2.  When I show up to rescue her, if the offending meat head treats me like I'm getting in on his action, I'm probably going to get upset. 

And now a consideration of consequences ...

3.  And how long do they keep Americans in jail in this country?  Would I have to come back for trial months down the road (too expensive) or can I just pay a fine and go?  Maybe they allow you to pay a small fine for a couple of punches thrown and a choke or two?  That must be it.

In perfect peace because I've drawn boundaries ...

4.  OK, I'm feeling better, so keep an eye out for the wife as she comes back from the restroom.

Needless to say, I couldn't relax at Knox's.  Watching sports with dudes is typically my thing, but I needed a safer haven. 

Off to "Brogans".  And we ended our evening there listening to music played by some people who filter in with their instruments over the course of an hour or so.  Eventually, we had the best seat in the music room.  I start with Irish whiskey and then "glub, glub" (sound of me drinking Guinness).  Wait for it ... there's that warm glow of the Irish pub experience.  And this isn't a concert experience.  It's much more casual.  The players play, relax, chat, drink, then the person with the violin will just start playing a couple of bars of music.  The other players set their drinks down, and off they go for 15 minutes or so.  After they've worn out, its back to repeat the process until they've had enough. 

They outlasted us, and that ended a really wonderful day!