July 14, 2010
“They’re using their bodies like gymnasiums,” Victoria said as the trapezists twisted themselves about the single bar, using their strength to move in ways that I wouldn’t even be able to do on land. The pair — a Swede and a Dubliner — had obviously done this routine many, many times but for me, it was a new experience. Victoria had suggested that we walk down to the Spanish Arch on one of our last days in Galway for one of the programs in the Arts Festival. It was a circus, she said. Visions of tigers and elephants and clowns circled in my head, but this show, though tiny, was just as enjoyable. Children sat in rows surrounding the red rope encircling the circus, as their parents stood further back. The pair was a comedy act as well as a circus feat, telling somewhat adult-themed stories that at least a few kids covered their ears or giggled at. The most laughs from the crows were when the woman twirled hula-hoops around her rear end, and then at least a dozen around the length of her body. The man kept trying to add more and more to her arms, but she would drop them as he ran to gather the rest. Luckily, Galway’s rains held off for the 45-minute show, just until the very end, when as they were saying goodbyes, the crowd pulled out coats and umbrellas before looking for cover.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Pubs & Souvenirs
July 17, 2010
I’ve started a few new collections while in Ireland, not just hundreds of photos of our adventure or postcards from every town we visit, but also items I’ve picked up a the countless pubs we’ve stopped at: coasters and pint glasses. They’re not stolen items in my mind, but souvenirs of the good times we’re having. Now I can bring a bit of Ireland’s culture home with me.
Each pub has a different set of cardboard coasters. Absolut, Bulmer’s, Carlsberg, Guinness — each coaster promotes a different beverage with clever designs and marketing. These are simple to pick up when you order a drink because they’re stacked next to the drafts or even just arrayed across the wooden bar top.
The pint glasses prove more difficult. A sense of skillfulness and --- accompanies their swipe. Last sip, eyes glance around to hope no employees or cameras lurk, and into the purse it goes. The Carlsberg one is from our last night in Killarney, a night when we hopped from pub to pub on the surprisingly crowded streets. (Though some people may not understand why I wanted a Carlsberg glass, it was the beer of Copenhagen from my second trip to Europe, and I still proudly wear my green “THE best beer in the world T-shirt.”) And like many of the other girls here, a Bulmer’s glass is also in my collection. The sweet cider of Ireland is what we all agree we may miss the most, and we’re already on a quest to find a similar version in the States. My particular glass is from a crowded night in The King’s Head in Galway, the night that Spain won the World Cup.
Four would be a good number to stop at. Of course I need a Guinness glass, but I’m not sure what the final one will be. I had hoped Murphy’s, the beer of Cork, but we’re long gone from that city and the frequentness of that draft. But I know I’ll find something.
I’ve started a few new collections while in Ireland, not just hundreds of photos of our adventure or postcards from every town we visit, but also items I’ve picked up a the countless pubs we’ve stopped at: coasters and pint glasses. They’re not stolen items in my mind, but souvenirs of the good times we’re having. Now I can bring a bit of Ireland’s culture home with me.
Each pub has a different set of cardboard coasters. Absolut, Bulmer’s, Carlsberg, Guinness — each coaster promotes a different beverage with clever designs and marketing. These are simple to pick up when you order a drink because they’re stacked next to the drafts or even just arrayed across the wooden bar top.
The pint glasses prove more difficult. A sense of skillfulness and --- accompanies their swipe. Last sip, eyes glance around to hope no employees or cameras lurk, and into the purse it goes. The Carlsberg one is from our last night in Killarney, a night when we hopped from pub to pub on the surprisingly crowded streets. (Though some people may not understand why I wanted a Carlsberg glass, it was the beer of Copenhagen from my second trip to Europe, and I still proudly wear my green “THE best beer in the world T-shirt.”) And like many of the other girls here, a Bulmer’s glass is also in my collection. The sweet cider of Ireland is what we all agree we may miss the most, and we’re already on a quest to find a similar version in the States. My particular glass is from a crowded night in The King’s Head in Galway, the night that Spain won the World Cup.
Four would be a good number to stop at. Of course I need a Guinness glass, but I’m not sure what the final one will be. I had hoped Murphy’s, the beer of Cork, but we’re long gone from that city and the frequentness of that draft. But I know I’ll find something.
Crough Patrick
July 15, 2010
The wind whips around us on the top of Croagh Patrick (pronounced croak) and we can’t see anything below because of the clouds and the fog. Every so often, the grey clears to reeal a spot of blue sky above Westport’s blue harbor dotted with islands. The wind moves the clouds so fast we don’t even have time to get our cameras out. Rain sounds like hail as it gently hits the ground and our sturdy raincoats. Soft grass covers a small patch on the side of the mountain in front of our rocky seats, but below we see rocks, rocks, and more rocks.
No one had known what to expect when we eagerly decided to climb this mountain. I had read a bit about how rocky it was and that pilgrims should rent a wooden walking stick to sturdy themselves during the climb. But besides that, we thought we were ready for anything. We were in for a surprise. “That’s nothing more than a pompous hill,” Matt had said with disdain as our small bus wound toward the mountain. All of us looked at him in disgust while contemplating the beast ahead. He soon realized that what he thought was Croagh Patrick was actually a hill blocking the real mountain. “That’s sick!” he finally said upon seeing the rocky summit ahead.
We started off with a group picture at the base, and jackets stowed in our packs, began the climb. Steps led up the side of the hill beside the ominous white St. Patrick statue and soon melded into a rocky path. They were small rocks here, mixed with water flowing down the side of the mountain. Finding the best way to get up already proved difficult as the path varied from loose gravel to wobbly shoe-sized rocks to even larger ones that were luckily secure in the ground. Even 10 minutes up, the group had already split, and I trudged along in the back. My chronic cold combined with the steepness of the climb were already getting the best of me; many people later said they thought I wouldn’t make it because of my tomato red face and heavy breathing, but I knew that I would make it. I had to.
An hour up, the path leveled onto what was called the shoulder of the mountain. We passed a grassy clearing below where climbers had spelled out words with rocks: KISS, AMORE, KUTKEY’10. From our height, they looked like small white pebbles, but I’m sure each stone was much larger. Finally, halfway meant it was time for a break. While sitting on top of more rocks along the path, the fog enveloped the mountain. One moment I could clearly see the harbor below, but the next we couldn’t even see the side of the mountain. The gray moved around us, threatening rain to end our journey, but somehow the skies knew they should hold off for us. Sheets of fog — or clouds? — hid the trek above.
Further and further we climbed, balancing our feet on the precarious rocks, hoping to not slip. There it was: the base of the final ascent loomed before us. The rocks just kept going up, looking unsteady as climbers ahead attempted to go up. Rocks jutted out from the brown dirt beside us, giving a slight handhold to pull ourselves up. Carefully and slowly I continued up. Taking short breaks to look back at the unknown grey behind and the neverending rocks ahead, I watched other climbers pass me in both directions. Down came two dogs — did they make it all the way to the top? — and a woman who has climbed 14 times. Her wooden walking stick keeps track of the dates of each conquest. A man in too-short shorts sped up past me, barely glancing down at the rocks slipping under his feet. “Just around the bend and then up,” one man told me as I huffed and puffed. “Fifteen more minutes!” another woman said.
I made it. We survive the climb of Croagh Patrick. It isn’t a spiritual pilgrimage like it is for many, especially on Reek Sunday, but it is an individual journey for each of us. A time for reflection, ambition, achievement. With congratulations to each climber, we give our weary feet a much-needed rest. But just for five minutes until the rains come, cutting short our refueling and journaling, spurring us to make the climb back down.
The rocks slide beneath us, and at one point it’s like surfing as I skid down behind a couple with walking sticks. That’s enough uneasiness for me though; I’d rather descend with deliberation and concentrate on each step. It takes time, but slowly, and after only three falls, I’m back at the shoulder. Familiar sights seem new from this opposite direction. Jellied legs are unsure if they can make it farther, but then we see the parking lot, the last stretch of the walk, the St. Patrick statue.
And yes, I bought the T-shirt. I climbed Crough Patrick.
The wind whips around us on the top of Croagh Patrick (pronounced croak) and we can’t see anything below because of the clouds and the fog. Every so often, the grey clears to reeal a spot of blue sky above Westport’s blue harbor dotted with islands. The wind moves the clouds so fast we don’t even have time to get our cameras out. Rain sounds like hail as it gently hits the ground and our sturdy raincoats. Soft grass covers a small patch on the side of the mountain in front of our rocky seats, but below we see rocks, rocks, and more rocks.
No one had known what to expect when we eagerly decided to climb this mountain. I had read a bit about how rocky it was and that pilgrims should rent a wooden walking stick to sturdy themselves during the climb. But besides that, we thought we were ready for anything. We were in for a surprise. “That’s nothing more than a pompous hill,” Matt had said with disdain as our small bus wound toward the mountain. All of us looked at him in disgust while contemplating the beast ahead. He soon realized that what he thought was Croagh Patrick was actually a hill blocking the real mountain. “That’s sick!” he finally said upon seeing the rocky summit ahead.
We started off with a group picture at the base, and jackets stowed in our packs, began the climb. Steps led up the side of the hill beside the ominous white St. Patrick statue and soon melded into a rocky path. They were small rocks here, mixed with water flowing down the side of the mountain. Finding the best way to get up already proved difficult as the path varied from loose gravel to wobbly shoe-sized rocks to even larger ones that were luckily secure in the ground. Even 10 minutes up, the group had already split, and I trudged along in the back. My chronic cold combined with the steepness of the climb were already getting the best of me; many people later said they thought I wouldn’t make it because of my tomato red face and heavy breathing, but I knew that I would make it. I had to.
An hour up, the path leveled onto what was called the shoulder of the mountain. We passed a grassy clearing below where climbers had spelled out words with rocks: KISS, AMORE, KUTKEY’10. From our height, they looked like small white pebbles, but I’m sure each stone was much larger. Finally, halfway meant it was time for a break. While sitting on top of more rocks along the path, the fog enveloped the mountain. One moment I could clearly see the harbor below, but the next we couldn’t even see the side of the mountain. The gray moved around us, threatening rain to end our journey, but somehow the skies knew they should hold off for us. Sheets of fog — or clouds? — hid the trek above.
Further and further we climbed, balancing our feet on the precarious rocks, hoping to not slip. There it was: the base of the final ascent loomed before us. The rocks just kept going up, looking unsteady as climbers ahead attempted to go up. Rocks jutted out from the brown dirt beside us, giving a slight handhold to pull ourselves up. Carefully and slowly I continued up. Taking short breaks to look back at the unknown grey behind and the neverending rocks ahead, I watched other climbers pass me in both directions. Down came two dogs — did they make it all the way to the top? — and a woman who has climbed 14 times. Her wooden walking stick keeps track of the dates of each conquest. A man in too-short shorts sped up past me, barely glancing down at the rocks slipping under his feet. “Just around the bend and then up,” one man told me as I huffed and puffed. “Fifteen more minutes!” another woman said.
I made it. We survive the climb of Croagh Patrick. It isn’t a spiritual pilgrimage like it is for many, especially on Reek Sunday, but it is an individual journey for each of us. A time for reflection, ambition, achievement. With congratulations to each climber, we give our weary feet a much-needed rest. But just for five minutes until the rains come, cutting short our refueling and journaling, spurring us to make the climb back down.
The rocks slide beneath us, and at one point it’s like surfing as I skid down behind a couple with walking sticks. That’s enough uneasiness for me though; I’d rather descend with deliberation and concentrate on each step. It takes time, but slowly, and after only three falls, I’m back at the shoulder. Familiar sights seem new from this opposite direction. Jellied legs are unsure if they can make it farther, but then we see the parking lot, the last stretch of the walk, the St. Patrick statue.
And yes, I bought the T-shirt. I climbed Crough Patrick.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Aran Islands
July 12, 2010
“This is about as high as the tower was that I wrote about,” Luke says as our noses peek over the edge of the cliff, eyes mesmerized by the drop to the water below. Our bodies inch forward, wanting to be ever closer to seeing more, but scared what happens an inch too far. “No way,” Matt says, unsure if Luke was as dauntless as a jump from this height would make him seem.
We’re within the walls of Dun Aonghasa, a circular stone fort built around 2000 B.C. Just like on the rest of the island of Inishmore, the walls are stacks of stones dug from the earth, held together by nothing but gravity. It’s a rocky climb from the point where we dropped our bikes off up to the fort — practice for Thursday’s climb up Crough Patrick.
A young man with a light blue nametag stuck to his blue sweater has been sitting on the ledge near us, listening to our conversations about how we should all become trained cliff jumpers so that if the fort was under attack, we could safely jump into the Atlantic to save our lives; Matt wants to make a movie with that plot. I look over at the man when Luke talks about his tower jump — which was from a height of about 70 feet — and the man shakes his head.
“How high is this?” I ask.
“More than 70 feet, I’ll tell you,” he replies with a laugh. “This is 300 feet up. The Cliffs of Moher are 700 feet up.” No one has died from these cliffs, he tells us, unlike at the Cliffs of Moher. “Well, people have survived the fall there,” he says, “but they die a few days after that.”
Pádraic’s summer job is to monitor the visitors to the fort and fuss at them if they do what they’re not supposed to. “You’re not allowed to be up there!” he calls to an oblivious man walking along the top of one of the outer stone walls. “Man on the moon! You can’t be up there!”
To a girl curious how long it takes a stone to hit the water: “You can’t do that,” he says with a hint of regret and apology mixed in his voice. “It’s in my contract to tell you not to… But just take a lash. I can’t see anything now.” He’s looking right at her, but she understands. She drops the stone. “Seven seconds.” Pádraic nods. “About seven or eight, yes.”
He was born on Inishmore, about 15 minutes away from the fort. Growing up was just like growing up anywhere else, he tells us, and he and Matt immediately compare video games. Now he’s a student at N.U.I.G., which is where we’re staying; he knows Corrib Village — and its gate. He frequently brings up his Polish ex-girlfriend, and even compares Matt to her after he asks too many questions. He watched part of the World Cup final last night, “but then the Guinness was going too fast.” Though a black New York Yankees hat sits on his head, he’s not really sure why he’s a fan. So many of the Irish settled up in New York and Boston, he explains. That must be why we’ve seen so many hats. But to him, baseball is the most boring sport ever invented. Hurling is a real sport.
“It’s agility, speed, sweat… bones, bodies.”
“This is about as high as the tower was that I wrote about,” Luke says as our noses peek over the edge of the cliff, eyes mesmerized by the drop to the water below. Our bodies inch forward, wanting to be ever closer to seeing more, but scared what happens an inch too far. “No way,” Matt says, unsure if Luke was as dauntless as a jump from this height would make him seem.
We’re within the walls of Dun Aonghasa, a circular stone fort built around 2000 B.C. Just like on the rest of the island of Inishmore, the walls are stacks of stones dug from the earth, held together by nothing but gravity. It’s a rocky climb from the point where we dropped our bikes off up to the fort — practice for Thursday’s climb up Crough Patrick.
A young man with a light blue nametag stuck to his blue sweater has been sitting on the ledge near us, listening to our conversations about how we should all become trained cliff jumpers so that if the fort was under attack, we could safely jump into the Atlantic to save our lives; Matt wants to make a movie with that plot. I look over at the man when Luke talks about his tower jump — which was from a height of about 70 feet — and the man shakes his head.
“How high is this?” I ask.
“More than 70 feet, I’ll tell you,” he replies with a laugh. “This is 300 feet up. The Cliffs of Moher are 700 feet up.” No one has died from these cliffs, he tells us, unlike at the Cliffs of Moher. “Well, people have survived the fall there,” he says, “but they die a few days after that.”
Pádraic’s summer job is to monitor the visitors to the fort and fuss at them if they do what they’re not supposed to. “You’re not allowed to be up there!” he calls to an oblivious man walking along the top of one of the outer stone walls. “Man on the moon! You can’t be up there!”
To a girl curious how long it takes a stone to hit the water: “You can’t do that,” he says with a hint of regret and apology mixed in his voice. “It’s in my contract to tell you not to… But just take a lash. I can’t see anything now.” He’s looking right at her, but she understands. She drops the stone. “Seven seconds.” Pádraic nods. “About seven or eight, yes.”
He was born on Inishmore, about 15 minutes away from the fort. Growing up was just like growing up anywhere else, he tells us, and he and Matt immediately compare video games. Now he’s a student at N.U.I.G., which is where we’re staying; he knows Corrib Village — and its gate. He frequently brings up his Polish ex-girlfriend, and even compares Matt to her after he asks too many questions. He watched part of the World Cup final last night, “but then the Guinness was going too fast.” Though a black New York Yankees hat sits on his head, he’s not really sure why he’s a fan. So many of the Irish settled up in New York and Boston, he explains. That must be why we’ve seen so many hats. But to him, baseball is the most boring sport ever invented. Hurling is a real sport.
“It’s agility, speed, sweat… bones, bodies.”
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Clifden
July 9, 2010
Though the plans were set the night before to meet at the gate at 7:45 a.m. so that we could catch the 8:30 a.m. bus to Clifden, early that morning Elizabeth, Luke and I changed our minds. It was too early to consider traveling and we should wait until the 11:15 bus. That made more sense to us all.
There’s a commotion outside my room. Lindsey and Ryann are wondering who keeps ringing our doorbell. My clock says 8 a.m.
No! Didn’t Luke remember our conversation…. Uh oh, that conversation was in my dream. I was late! My alarm didn’t go off! I yell out the window, but he’s already gone. Will they continue to Clifden without me? I don’t know his room number so I can’t even call him.
Facebook to the rescue. Elizabeth is online. She says they waited at the gate for me at the pre-arranged time, but then since I didn’t show up, decided to take the 11:15 bus. Just like we had decided in my dream.
Once we finally arrived in Clifden later that afternoon, I wished that we had still had those few extra hours to explore. Our trip just hit the surface of what seemed like a charming town. Since it was Friday, a market was set up in the main square. Vendors had produce beneath tents, leather boots and belts, wooden bowls and salad servers, and simple blue and green pottery. Buildings around the town were painted in the usual Irish tradition of bright colors, which to me makes the town seem alive, awake, animated. The art galleries featured paintings that I knew would look perfect in my family’s orange and art-covered kitchen — but not for the 500+ euros. My mom would have adored the sheep standing on an orange canvas, though. The jewelry store’s shelves were filled with traditional Claddagh rings, Celtic cross necklaces, Celtic knots, along with many other unique designs made by the family jewelers right in that shop.
Though the plans were set the night before to meet at the gate at 7:45 a.m. so that we could catch the 8:30 a.m. bus to Clifden, early that morning Elizabeth, Luke and I changed our minds. It was too early to consider traveling and we should wait until the 11:15 bus. That made more sense to us all.
There’s a commotion outside my room. Lindsey and Ryann are wondering who keeps ringing our doorbell. My clock says 8 a.m.
No! Didn’t Luke remember our conversation…. Uh oh, that conversation was in my dream. I was late! My alarm didn’t go off! I yell out the window, but he’s already gone. Will they continue to Clifden without me? I don’t know his room number so I can’t even call him.
Facebook to the rescue. Elizabeth is online. She says they waited at the gate for me at the pre-arranged time, but then since I didn’t show up, decided to take the 11:15 bus. Just like we had decided in my dream.
Once we finally arrived in Clifden later that afternoon, I wished that we had still had those few extra hours to explore. Our trip just hit the surface of what seemed like a charming town. Since it was Friday, a market was set up in the main square. Vendors had produce beneath tents, leather boots and belts, wooden bowls and salad servers, and simple blue and green pottery. Buildings around the town were painted in the usual Irish tradition of bright colors, which to me makes the town seem alive, awake, animated. The art galleries featured paintings that I knew would look perfect in my family’s orange and art-covered kitchen — but not for the 500+ euros. My mom would have adored the sheep standing on an orange canvas, though. The jewelry store’s shelves were filled with traditional Claddagh rings, Celtic cross necklaces, Celtic knots, along with many other unique designs made by the family jewelers right in that shop.
Galway Film Fleadh
July 6, 2010
The paparazzi stand in the corners of the theater, snapping photos of moviegoers. The writer, producers, and actors all sit in the audience for the film’s premiere. Our group of 23 fills an entire row in the surprisingly small theater in the Town Hall Theatre’s Main Auditorium.
This is the Galway Film Fleadh (pronounced flah), Ireland’s leading film festival now in its 22nd year. Since one of the classes offered during this program is a study of Irish films, the Fleadh is obviously an important part of the course; some of those students are watching up to four movies a day. But since that’s a bit much for me, I’ve only purchased four extra tickets.
The opening night as quite an experience because I’ve never been to any type of film event where the creators are present. I don’t think that it was the premiere of “My Brothers,” but the film was outstanding. Three brothers journey to recover a watch for their dying father, and along the way, they encounter emotional experiences that draw them apart but ultimately strengthen their relationship. The two young brothers had never acted before, but their inherent talent made their characters shine. It’s one of those movies that I wish I could buy.
The film was followed by a reception – but the small boathouse was so cramped that it took away from what should have been an intimate feeling. Instead we tried to balance wine glasses and heavy plates with light tapas on our raincoat-laden arms; luckily, no casualties. But overall, I’m so glad that I got to see a taste of the film festival culture.
The paparazzi stand in the corners of the theater, snapping photos of moviegoers. The writer, producers, and actors all sit in the audience for the film’s premiere. Our group of 23 fills an entire row in the surprisingly small theater in the Town Hall Theatre’s Main Auditorium.
This is the Galway Film Fleadh (pronounced flah), Ireland’s leading film festival now in its 22nd year. Since one of the classes offered during this program is a study of Irish films, the Fleadh is obviously an important part of the course; some of those students are watching up to four movies a day. But since that’s a bit much for me, I’ve only purchased four extra tickets.
The opening night as quite an experience because I’ve never been to any type of film event where the creators are present. I don’t think that it was the premiere of “My Brothers,” but the film was outstanding. Three brothers journey to recover a watch for their dying father, and along the way, they encounter emotional experiences that draw them apart but ultimately strengthen their relationship. The two young brothers had never acted before, but their inherent talent made their characters shine. It’s one of those movies that I wish I could buy.
The film was followed by a reception – but the small boathouse was so cramped that it took away from what should have been an intimate feeling. Instead we tried to balance wine glasses and heavy plates with light tapas on our raincoat-laden arms; luckily, no casualties. But overall, I’m so glad that I got to see a taste of the film festival culture.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Earls Court Guest House in Killarney
The buffet table was filled with bowls of cereals and granola, plates of scones topped with powdered sugar and various breads, bowls of fruits including prunes, pitchers of fresh squeezed orange juice and ice water, and of course, the crock pot full of porridge. I don't know how much cream it may have already been cooked with, because it was so smooth and sweet. Topped with a squeeze of honey and a splash of cream, I could have eaten that for weeks without anything else.
But of course, there was more. Earls Court House in Killarney also let guests order one item off the menu, in addition to everything we could ever want from the buffet. For each of the three mornings, I ordered something different -- unfortunately, I always forgot to bring my camera down the three flights of stairs with me, so I have no photos of these breakfasts that were so filling but that you didn't want to stop eating.
The first morning (Saturday), when the black and white clad waitresses came to take our order, I decided on an omelette filled with onions, tomatoes (pronounced the Irish way of toe-mah-toes), and cheese. The eggs were cooked to be light and fluffy, with the fillings mixed in, and then it was all folded over. Though I was already full from my favorite porridge, I knew that I probably wouldn't be eating lunch until much later (if at all) since we had a full-morning boat ride planned on the Lakes of Killarney, so I devoured as much as I could. (Not that I minded since it was so delicious!) After walking for miles that day from Ross Castle to Muckross House and back along Killarney's main road (where cyclists were ending a 112-mile ride around the Ring of Kerry), we were starved for dinner. That night, we ordered Domino's delivery; I'm never sure the best way to split the costs for things, so I went through on the menu to calculate each person's order, but then the delivery guy charged us just 34 euros. It should have been at least 59 euros for the seven of us. It was our lucky day and each person's came to just about 4 euros.
Sunday morning, I opted for the pancake option after hearing from several people the day before that they were delicious, but not like the pancakes I might be used to. At home, whenever all my relatives on my mom’s side of the family get together at our house for celebrations such as my grandparents’ 65th anniversary or our graduations, my mom makes pancakes. The recipe for “Light and Fluffy Pancakes” doesn’t require too many more steps from Bisquik or other mixes, but the outcome is a thousand times better. I’m always a little skeptical of pancakes that I order, but there was no need for concern at Earls Court House. The combination pancakes/crepes were rolled with an apple mixture inside, and came with a little pitcher of maple syrup that tasted real, not like the fake stuff you find too often. The pancakes weren’t overly sweet and had a stronger consistency, which made them fold like crepes. Along with another tiny scone and some oatmeal, this was a carb loaded start to the day. But we only had three days to eat like this, so I was going to take advantage of these lavish meals!
It was time for a real Irish breakfast on Monday morning. I was not feeling 100 percent this morning, but of course this food helped make me feel better. You might think that an Irish breakfast centers on the meat – sausages and bacon that’s more like ham than our American bacon – but there are plenty of other pieces to make the meal filling. The plate of course comes with eggs served any way you want – I chose scrambled – along with tomato slices, mushrooms, toast, and baked beans. It’s not a combination that I would ever think about putting together for a breakfast, but in Ireland, it works. Each flavor balances the others – the acidity of the tomatoes, the meatiness and earthiness of the mushrooms, and even the sweetness of the baked beans.
And now it’s back to cereal. You can never go wrong with Honey Nut Cheerios and a banana for breakfast every morning, but every once in a while, it’s good to be spoiled.
But of course, there was more. Earls Court House in Killarney also let guests order one item off the menu, in addition to everything we could ever want from the buffet. For each of the three mornings, I ordered something different -- unfortunately, I always forgot to bring my camera down the three flights of stairs with me, so I have no photos of these breakfasts that were so filling but that you didn't want to stop eating.
The first morning (Saturday), when the black and white clad waitresses came to take our order, I decided on an omelette filled with onions, tomatoes (pronounced the Irish way of toe-mah-toes), and cheese. The eggs were cooked to be light and fluffy, with the fillings mixed in, and then it was all folded over. Though I was already full from my favorite porridge, I knew that I probably wouldn't be eating lunch until much later (if at all) since we had a full-morning boat ride planned on the Lakes of Killarney, so I devoured as much as I could. (Not that I minded since it was so delicious!) After walking for miles that day from Ross Castle to Muckross House and back along Killarney's main road (where cyclists were ending a 112-mile ride around the Ring of Kerry), we were starved for dinner. That night, we ordered Domino's delivery; I'm never sure the best way to split the costs for things, so I went through on the menu to calculate each person's order, but then the delivery guy charged us just 34 euros. It should have been at least 59 euros for the seven of us. It was our lucky day and each person's came to just about 4 euros.
Sunday morning, I opted for the pancake option after hearing from several people the day before that they were delicious, but not like the pancakes I might be used to. At home, whenever all my relatives on my mom’s side of the family get together at our house for celebrations such as my grandparents’ 65th anniversary or our graduations, my mom makes pancakes. The recipe for “Light and Fluffy Pancakes” doesn’t require too many more steps from Bisquik or other mixes, but the outcome is a thousand times better. I’m always a little skeptical of pancakes that I order, but there was no need for concern at Earls Court House. The combination pancakes/crepes were rolled with an apple mixture inside, and came with a little pitcher of maple syrup that tasted real, not like the fake stuff you find too often. The pancakes weren’t overly sweet and had a stronger consistency, which made them fold like crepes. Along with another tiny scone and some oatmeal, this was a carb loaded start to the day. But we only had three days to eat like this, so I was going to take advantage of these lavish meals!
It was time for a real Irish breakfast on Monday morning. I was not feeling 100 percent this morning, but of course this food helped make me feel better. You might think that an Irish breakfast centers on the meat – sausages and bacon that’s more like ham than our American bacon – but there are plenty of other pieces to make the meal filling. The plate of course comes with eggs served any way you want – I chose scrambled – along with tomato slices, mushrooms, toast, and baked beans. It’s not a combination that I would ever think about putting together for a breakfast, but in Ireland, it works. Each flavor balances the others – the acidity of the tomatoes, the meatiness and earthiness of the mushrooms, and even the sweetness of the baked beans.
And now it’s back to cereal. You can never go wrong with Honey Nut Cheerios and a banana for breakfast every morning, but every once in a while, it’s good to be spoiled.
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Where's the Red, White and Blue?
July 4, 2010
The Fourth has gone green, and not just because we’re in the Emerald Isle. Killarney’s streets are packed with fans wearing green jerseys proclaiming allegiance to either Kerry or Limerick. Today is the big match between the two teams. Gaelic football, that is.
Walking into town this morning, I expected it to be a quiet Sunday, but it was the complete opposite. Every pub was already full, with groups of friends and families in their required jerseys loitering outside. Pints filled hands, and windows revealed more supporters eating meals. Music refused to stay within the walls of the pubs, and spread out into the streets for about two blocks. Apparently the Irish don’t really care about America’s independence today (but then again, I don’t know any Irish holidays); I can picture the block parties and fireworks that I would have attended at home and it doesn’t feel right to be missing them.
But throughout the afternoon here, the streets and pubs resembled a giant tailgate, but for the whole city, and not just in one area (campus) like I’m used to. “This is the big game,” one shopkeeper told me. Sunday’s game was the Senior Football Championship Final at Fitzgerald Stadium. According to the Irish Times, “All-Ireland champions Kerry were pushed all the way by a spirited Limerick side” until they won. The score? Kerry 1-17, Limerick 1-14. What? Like American football, it seems that points can be earned in different ways. A point is scored if the ball goes over the crossbar of the goal, either by being kicked or fisted (hitting it with a closed fist). A goal, worth three points, is earned if the ball goes is kicked below the crossbar. The score is then recorded as the goal total – point total.
Gaelic football also draws more fans than any other sport in Ireland, including hurling. The sport — a combination of soccer, rugby and basketball — is believed to date back to medieval times, but modern rules weren’t recorded until the late 1800s. It’s evident that it’s quite a hit here now, as in every gift shop and sporting store, dozens of types of jerseys hang on the walls.
The Fourth has gone green, and not just because we’re in the Emerald Isle. Killarney’s streets are packed with fans wearing green jerseys proclaiming allegiance to either Kerry or Limerick. Today is the big match between the two teams. Gaelic football, that is.
Walking into town this morning, I expected it to be a quiet Sunday, but it was the complete opposite. Every pub was already full, with groups of friends and families in their required jerseys loitering outside. Pints filled hands, and windows revealed more supporters eating meals. Music refused to stay within the walls of the pubs, and spread out into the streets for about two blocks. Apparently the Irish don’t really care about America’s independence today (but then again, I don’t know any Irish holidays); I can picture the block parties and fireworks that I would have attended at home and it doesn’t feel right to be missing them.
But throughout the afternoon here, the streets and pubs resembled a giant tailgate, but for the whole city, and not just in one area (campus) like I’m used to. “This is the big game,” one shopkeeper told me. Sunday’s game was the Senior Football Championship Final at Fitzgerald Stadium. According to the Irish Times, “All-Ireland champions Kerry were pushed all the way by a spirited Limerick side” until they won. The score? Kerry 1-17, Limerick 1-14. What? Like American football, it seems that points can be earned in different ways. A point is scored if the ball goes over the crossbar of the goal, either by being kicked or fisted (hitting it with a closed fist). A goal, worth three points, is earned if the ball goes is kicked below the crossbar. The score is then recorded as the goal total – point total.
Gaelic football also draws more fans than any other sport in Ireland, including hurling. The sport — a combination of soccer, rugby and basketball — is believed to date back to medieval times, but modern rules weren’t recorded until the late 1800s. It’s evident that it’s quite a hit here now, as in every gift shop and sporting store, dozens of types of jerseys hang on the walls.
The English Market
All of one’s senses immediately go on overload. Colorful stalls with fresh produce make your eyes glaze over, still-alive fresh fish wriggle on beds of ice, displays of all types of meat you can ever imagine fill the aisles.
This is Cork’s world famous English Market, which dates back to 1788. Everything you could ever want to cook with or taste is within the market’s walls. During our first day in Cork, Erica pointed it out as a must-see stop, so I went back the next morning, and then several more times throughout our two-week stay. I wish that I could have eaten there everyday and tasted all that the market had to offer, but being on a budget, I also ended up eating a lot of cheap bread and cheese throughout the week.
But everything that I did try from the market gave me that melt-in-your-mouth feeling where the only thing that matters in the world is how incredible that bite is. The cake, the sandwiches, the fruits, the cheese: they were all bliss.
On our last morning in Cork, I took one last trip to the market. Everyone else was either sleeping in before our afternoon journaling class or already in their film class, but I wanted to savor the last few hours in this college town. I spent at least an hour moseying through the aisles, stopping at every stall, taking photos that barely capture the essence. Though I walked through the front arches with problems from home on the forefront my mind, being in the market instantly soothed these concerns. The market’s vibe of being food-central in Cork wrapped and kept my attention so that the worries vanished: I was here and now, enjoying the food.
Eating, preparing food, and talking about food have always been important activities for all generations of my family. For example, several years ago in Michigan, my family along with an aunt and uncle even drove about two hours to taste the state’s best cherry pie. We’re always in pursuit of the best restaurants when traveling; hundreds of cookbooks probably line the bookshelves throughout our house; Food Network is constantly turned on our TV. We’re not obsessed (though it may sound like it), but food is just something that brings us all together. The kitchen really is the heart of our home.If I lived in Cork longer (and with more funds for good food and free time to spend in the market and in the kitchen), the English Market would become my main shopping point. I’d like to try everything there, from the different types of succulent olives filling wooden buckets, to the cheeses made both locally and from around the world, to each of the different types of breads filling baskets. The market is heaven for a foodie.
Before leaving, I bought one last lunch: a baguette filled with Ardsallagh Irish goat’s cheese (from a farm right outside Cork), sweet roasted tomatoes, red onion, greens, and onion jam. The goat cheese wasn’t too tart and it’s creaminess melted into the bread. The onion jam added the sweetness that I love about caramelized onions. One last walk in the market, one last luscious meal.
This is Cork’s world famous English Market, which dates back to 1788. Everything you could ever want to cook with or taste is within the market’s walls. During our first day in Cork, Erica pointed it out as a must-see stop, so I went back the next morning, and then several more times throughout our two-week stay. I wish that I could have eaten there everyday and tasted all that the market had to offer, but being on a budget, I also ended up eating a lot of cheap bread and cheese throughout the week.
But everything that I did try from the market gave me that melt-in-your-mouth feeling where the only thing that matters in the world is how incredible that bite is. The cake, the sandwiches, the fruits, the cheese: they were all bliss.
On our last morning in Cork, I took one last trip to the market. Everyone else was either sleeping in before our afternoon journaling class or already in their film class, but I wanted to savor the last few hours in this college town. I spent at least an hour moseying through the aisles, stopping at every stall, taking photos that barely capture the essence. Though I walked through the front arches with problems from home on the forefront my mind, being in the market instantly soothed these concerns. The market’s vibe of being food-central in Cork wrapped and kept my attention so that the worries vanished: I was here and now, enjoying the food.
Eating, preparing food, and talking about food have always been important activities for all generations of my family. For example, several years ago in Michigan, my family along with an aunt and uncle even drove about two hours to taste the state’s best cherry pie. We’re always in pursuit of the best restaurants when traveling; hundreds of cookbooks probably line the bookshelves throughout our house; Food Network is constantly turned on our TV. We’re not obsessed (though it may sound like it), but food is just something that brings us all together. The kitchen really is the heart of our home.If I lived in Cork longer (and with more funds for good food and free time to spend in the market and in the kitchen), the English Market would become my main shopping point. I’d like to try everything there, from the different types of succulent olives filling wooden buckets, to the cheeses made both locally and from around the world, to each of the different types of breads filling baskets. The market is heaven for a foodie.
Before leaving, I bought one last lunch: a baguette filled with Ardsallagh Irish goat’s cheese (from a farm right outside Cork), sweet roasted tomatoes, red onion, greens, and onion jam. The goat cheese wasn’t too tart and it’s creaminess melted into the bread. The onion jam added the sweetness that I love about caramelized onions. One last walk in the market, one last luscious meal.
Friday, July 2, 2010
Cork Midsummer Arts Festival
June 29, 2010
For about two weeks each summer, Cork celebrates the best in music, theater, dance and performance during the Cork Midsummer Arts Festival. Every night, venues throughout the city host events in theaters that range from a small black box to those that are full sized performance spaces.
Last week, a group of us went to see “Showstopper!”, an improv musical. Improv requires talents that don’t come naturally to me, but it’s incredible – or showstopping – to watch those that are skilled in improv. The ten or so actors did not know what the show that evening would be about until it was actually happening. The narrator led the audience through choosing a setting – Egypt, various musical themes – Sweeney Todd, Grease, Chicago, and song names. What resulted was an hour-and-a-half on-the-spot musical complete with good versus bad, a love story, tension within a family, complicated characters, and more. Throughout, the narrator would freeze the scene to get more ideas or to give the actors specific directions (“He gives an emotional monologue that brings a tear to his own eye.”). At one point, when there were several characters and back stories, he made them do a rewind and fast forward scene. The actors, who played different characters in different scenes, swapped red and black hats and scarves while whirling across the stage. I could barely keep up with what was going on, so I don’t know how the cast did it! These are the best of the best in improv, and the program named prestigious theaters and programs in each bio. A musical probably has a model that you can tweak as you go, and these actors had mastered it. Over the weekend, the Festival also featured a 26-hour soap opera drama with recaps at the beginning of each 2-hour segment. I can’t even imagine how actors from around the world prepare for such a marathon event, or how they all know what is happening in each subplot. I think it’s something that JMU’s New & Improv’d should try out?!
The second show that most of us went to was “FML.” All of us have visited the popular website where people write blurbs about an instance where their life was messed up or embarrassing. The program advertised the show as the story of 15 teenagers in Cork and how they deal with their day-to-day lives, from the happy to the sad. But the show ended up as something that I didn’t expect at all, and I left the theater depressed. It began with a classical overture playing as all the teens sat beneath the stage lights slouched in chairs or perched on chairs. They were acting throughout the show, but it wasn’t a show in a traditional sense with plot and setting. They took turns at the mics at the front of the stage telling stories or having conversations with one another. The most powerful scene was when one of the girls, Lydia, was standing at the mic alone. She stuttered and couldn’t get through her story, so one of the boys stood beside her. He at first whispered things in her ear to prompt her, but since she repeated anything he said, he soon said inappropriate things that the audience then laughed at. But to me, it wasn’t funny; it was heartbreaking to see him take advantage of Lydia. After he left, she started screaming into the mic with a thumping bass behind her: “U-G-L-Y. You ain’t got no alibi. You ugly. Yeah, yeah, you ugly.” It felt as if she was never going to stop, and her voice grew louder and more pained with each refrain, until one of the girls came to lead her away. Other stories throughout the show were more lighthearted, such as the petite gay boy who idolized Lady Gaga and showed off his own dance moves across the stage, but each scene was tied together with a theme: Life as a teenager is hard, and too many think it’s too hard and end life abruptly. One of those was Lydia. It was hard to watch the raw emotion on the stage, and throughout the show you grow to see the teens as real teens (which is why they received a standing ovation for their incredible talents). That boy could be someone in your high school class, and that girl could be your neighbor. Seeing their agony and struggles was almost too much, and it makes you think about what is going on in the lives of your peers and friends. What else is there within?
For about two weeks each summer, Cork celebrates the best in music, theater, dance and performance during the Cork Midsummer Arts Festival. Every night, venues throughout the city host events in theaters that range from a small black box to those that are full sized performance spaces.
Last week, a group of us went to see “Showstopper!”, an improv musical. Improv requires talents that don’t come naturally to me, but it’s incredible – or showstopping – to watch those that are skilled in improv. The ten or so actors did not know what the show that evening would be about until it was actually happening. The narrator led the audience through choosing a setting – Egypt, various musical themes – Sweeney Todd, Grease, Chicago, and song names. What resulted was an hour-and-a-half on-the-spot musical complete with good versus bad, a love story, tension within a family, complicated characters, and more. Throughout, the narrator would freeze the scene to get more ideas or to give the actors specific directions (“He gives an emotional monologue that brings a tear to his own eye.”). At one point, when there were several characters and back stories, he made them do a rewind and fast forward scene. The actors, who played different characters in different scenes, swapped red and black hats and scarves while whirling across the stage. I could barely keep up with what was going on, so I don’t know how the cast did it! These are the best of the best in improv, and the program named prestigious theaters and programs in each bio. A musical probably has a model that you can tweak as you go, and these actors had mastered it. Over the weekend, the Festival also featured a 26-hour soap opera drama with recaps at the beginning of each 2-hour segment. I can’t even imagine how actors from around the world prepare for such a marathon event, or how they all know what is happening in each subplot. I think it’s something that JMU’s New & Improv’d should try out?!
The second show that most of us went to was “FML.” All of us have visited the popular website where people write blurbs about an instance where their life was messed up or embarrassing. The program advertised the show as the story of 15 teenagers in Cork and how they deal with their day-to-day lives, from the happy to the sad. But the show ended up as something that I didn’t expect at all, and I left the theater depressed. It began with a classical overture playing as all the teens sat beneath the stage lights slouched in chairs or perched on chairs. They were acting throughout the show, but it wasn’t a show in a traditional sense with plot and setting. They took turns at the mics at the front of the stage telling stories or having conversations with one another. The most powerful scene was when one of the girls, Lydia, was standing at the mic alone. She stuttered and couldn’t get through her story, so one of the boys stood beside her. He at first whispered things in her ear to prompt her, but since she repeated anything he said, he soon said inappropriate things that the audience then laughed at. But to me, it wasn’t funny; it was heartbreaking to see him take advantage of Lydia. After he left, she started screaming into the mic with a thumping bass behind her: “U-G-L-Y. You ain’t got no alibi. You ugly. Yeah, yeah, you ugly.” It felt as if she was never going to stop, and her voice grew louder and more pained with each refrain, until one of the girls came to lead her away. Other stories throughout the show were more lighthearted, such as the petite gay boy who idolized Lady Gaga and showed off his own dance moves across the stage, but each scene was tied together with a theme: Life as a teenager is hard, and too many think it’s too hard and end life abruptly. One of those was Lydia. It was hard to watch the raw emotion on the stage, and throughout the show you grow to see the teens as real teens (which is why they received a standing ovation for their incredible talents). That boy could be someone in your high school class, and that girl could be your neighbor. Seeing their agony and struggles was almost too much, and it makes you think about what is going on in the lives of your peers and friends. What else is there within?
I Want to Go Hiking
July 2, 2010
The national park outside Killarney is a never-ending expanse of lush green lands, crystal blue lakes, ragged mountains, and a narrow curvy road. It’s no wonder that buses advertise scenic trips through the area to offer the average tourist the chance to see Ireland’s beauty. Even the green woods are greener than they are in America, because every rock and tree trunk is coated in a soft green moss.
But if I had my way, and enough time and energy, I would want to backpack through the whole park.
As our coach narrowly missed touching other cars around the sharp bends (do bus drivers here take advanced classes for certain routes?), I spotted several hikers with large packs along the road’s edge. I wish that my dad and my sister were here with me, because they would be ready to pack up and map a route in an instant (exploring and being outdoorsy are in the Thisdell gene, my dad says). Then we could spend days wandering the trails that wind through the ---- acre park. We could hike to the top of the Torc Waterfalls that we saw today that reminded me of the Cascade’s, find a place to camp in the middle of fields, put our feet up at roadside cafes, and take photos of everything we see. Maybe one day we’ll get to, but for now I’ll just look forward to a walk along the park’s edge tomorrow afternoon.
Crossing the Streets
June 30, 2010
“You should look the other way next time,” a man said to me today on Washington Street as my foot was about to step off the curb. A car was turning right onto the road, from behind me. That could have been close, but it wasn’t the first time I’ve had the same problem in these two weeks.
I’m programmed to look both ways when crossing the street, but my brain also tells me that the cars should be in certain lanes and driving certain directions. My brain doesn’t like this opposite world we’re in. I don’t know the history of why driving rules of Europe are incompatible with what America does. Maybe our country was just trying to do its own thing, or maybe there is a legitimate reason.
Whatever the case, I’m glad that I don’t have to drive here. As much as I would love to be able to rent a car (a few years too young unfortunately) and explore the country, you would need some serious lessons and practicing before taking off on the interstates, roundabouts, and in-town traffic (which Cork seems to have a lot of right when you’re on the bus trying to get somewhere at a certain time). You wouldn’t want to misread the speed limit or the route signs incorrectly, and you definitely wouldn’t want to end up going the opposite direction or taking wrong turns!
“You should look the other way next time,” a man said to me today on Washington Street as my foot was about to step off the curb. A car was turning right onto the road, from behind me. That could have been close, but it wasn’t the first time I’ve had the same problem in these two weeks.
I’m programmed to look both ways when crossing the street, but my brain also tells me that the cars should be in certain lanes and driving certain directions. My brain doesn’t like this opposite world we’re in. I don’t know the history of why driving rules of Europe are incompatible with what America does. Maybe our country was just trying to do its own thing, or maybe there is a legitimate reason.
Whatever the case, I’m glad that I don’t have to drive here. As much as I would love to be able to rent a car (a few years too young unfortunately) and explore the country, you would need some serious lessons and practicing before taking off on the interstates, roundabouts, and in-town traffic (which Cork seems to have a lot of right when you’re on the bus trying to get somewhere at a certain time). You wouldn’t want to misread the speed limit or the route signs incorrectly, and you definitely wouldn’t want to end up going the opposite direction or taking wrong turns!
Jameson Distillery
July 1, 2010
Three shot glasses sat on each Jameson placemat at the table for the eight volunteer tasters. In the middle was the Jameson whiskey, which our tour guide instructed us to taste first, since we were after all at the home of Ireland’s famous whiskey in Midleton. The placemat said that Jameson’s was triple distilled, matured in seasoned oak casks, with an exceptionally smooth taste with oakwood and vanilla notes. Scotch whisky, on the other hand, is double distilled with strong peaty notes. The third, American whiskey, is single distilled with sweet and perfumed notes.
As one of the tasters, I couldn’t distinguish the subtle differences. Jameson’s was the best-tasting in my opinion (and I don’t think it’s a bias because I got an official certificate saying I tasted it), because the other two had a stronger unappealing straight-liquor taste. Whiskey has never been an alcohol I knew much about, though two of my friends are obsessed with it, so maybe I wasn’t the best person to do a tasting. But learning more about the drinks is a learning experience as well, since Jameson’s (and Guinness) are an important part of the history and culture of Ireland.
B
oth of my grandfathers used to make wine, and my dad used to frequently make homebrews. As with food, drinking is a social activity for my extended family. My dad often tries to teach me the flavor variations between different types of wines and beers, though I’ve never mastered it. But tasting and discriminating flavors is an acquired skill that one afternoon at a distillery and sips of three different whiskeys can’t teach.
Three shot glasses sat on each Jameson placemat at the table for the eight volunteer tasters. In the middle was the Jameson whiskey, which our tour guide instructed us to taste first, since we were after all at the home of Ireland’s famous whiskey in Midleton. The placemat said that Jameson’s was triple distilled, matured in seasoned oak casks, with an exceptionally smooth taste with oakwood and vanilla notes. Scotch whisky, on the other hand, is double distilled with strong peaty notes. The third, American whiskey, is single distilled with sweet and perfumed notes.
As one of the tasters, I couldn’t distinguish the subtle differences. Jameson’s was the best-tasting in my opinion (and I don’t think it’s a bias because I got an official certificate saying I tasted it), because the other two had a stronger unappealing straight-liquor taste. Whiskey has never been an alcohol I knew much about, though two of my friends are obsessed with it, so maybe I wasn’t the best person to do a tasting. But learning more about the drinks is a learning experience as well, since Jameson’s (and Guinness) are an important part of the history and culture of Ireland.B
oth of my grandfathers used to make wine, and my dad used to frequently make homebrews. As with food, drinking is a social activity for my extended family. My dad often tries to teach me the flavor variations between different types of wines and beers, though I’ve never mastered it. But tasting and discriminating flavors is an acquired skill that one afternoon at a distillery and sips of three different whiskeys can’t teach.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Getting Away
Leaving home should be easy when you're about to explore one of the prettiest countries for six weeks. No phone, limited internet access, lots of new friends and neverending cities: what more could you want?
But what if something from home is hanging over your head? How do you escape? Someone e-mails me and the subject line says "Respond ASAP" and another e-mail includes a phone number that I should call at your earlies convenience. But I don't want to (and can't really). I want to enjoy Ireland and let things at home work out themselves. Is that possible in our ultra-connected high-speed world where something that happens in the furthest city can affect you anywhere in the world?
Right now I just have to let things be. There is nothing I can do about the situation at home right now.
Today is our last day in Cork, and I'm sad to say goodbye already. Time is flying much faster than I anticipated, though I knew the summer would be over before I could even realize it. This city offers so much to do and I wish I could have walked to even more places, eaten more quality cuisine, heard more stories from locals.
Three more cities to go.
But what if something from home is hanging over your head? How do you escape? Someone e-mails me and the subject line says "Respond ASAP" and another e-mail includes a phone number that I should call at your earlies convenience. But I don't want to (and can't really). I want to enjoy Ireland and let things at home work out themselves. Is that possible in our ultra-connected high-speed world where something that happens in the furthest city can affect you anywhere in the world?
Right now I just have to let things be. There is nothing I can do about the situation at home right now.
Today is our last day in Cork, and I'm sad to say goodbye already. Time is flying much faster than I anticipated, though I knew the summer would be over before I could even realize it. This city offers so much to do and I wish I could have walked to even more places, eaten more quality cuisine, heard more stories from locals.
Three more cities to go.
An Droghan
June 29, 2010
One of the signs along Oliver Plunkett Streets has taunted me during our many, many walks down the boutique and café-lined street. About one block away from the ever-popular An Brog, An Droghan is marked just by a tan hanging sign advertising traditional music. Though on Tuesday night much of the group calls it quits after the depressing “FML” show, Kelly, Tom, Luke and I decide that we’ll look for a pub off the beaten path, just for one drink. Tonight’s the night to check out An Droghan, I decide, and we make our way across the city center.
The floor space is not much bigger than Harrisonburg’s Jack Brown’s with a couple extra feet at the end where the guitarist has set up for the night. Locals of all ages flock here throughout the week, and the four of us Americans immediately stand out. With pints in hands, we press against the wall to blend in. But that’s the perfect place for people watching, and specimens fill the pub.
Sitting at the end of the bar (right in front of us) is an older man with disheveled white hair. It sticks up in poofs in the front and his wide white eyebrows stand straight above his eyes. I can feel him keep looking at us, moving his eyes up and down our group. I stare back. He continues to talk to the man beside him, who has donned a bright green shirt with silver stripes that looks like a construction worker’s vest (Are those really the colors or is it just because of the lights? Tom says it’s not our imagination.). The men look at us, look at each other, and shake hands. We’ve become the subject of a bet, it seems, and I’m dying to know the details. The bartender points to their almost empty cups and quickly brings them refills: Guinness for man number one, and Carslberg for man number two. When number one looks at me, looks back at a group of younger guys that has walked in, and then winks at me, it’s too much. I have to know their story.
He comes here every night of the week, he tells me. Monday to Friday, the bar features live music, while on the weekends it is disco. “Why do you come here?” I ask. He comes here to sit at this corner of the bar because of the music. A mix of all ages fills the room, and he says that’s typical. I picture him sitting in the same seat night after night, greeting the other regulars that walk in. Even when he leaves, no one dares take his stool in the packed bar. His friend in the green has enjoyed a few too many drinks this evening and draws out his words slowly. But because of his thick accent, low voice and the speakers for the lone guitarist hanging above our heads, I only catch pieces of what he’s trying to say. He doesn’t come here everyday like his friend does because he works. “I love Ireland,” he says. “I do too now!” I exclaim to both, but I don’t think they can here. The language and noise barrier frustrates me, though I’m yearning to hear more of their lives. As I say goodbye, I ask number one what his name is. “You’ll never forget my name because it’s the same as a famous rock and roll artist,” he says. But even after he says it four or five times I can’t understand.
The man just around the corner, in the “man cave” area of the bar where four or five middle-aged men each sit by themselves, struggles with his Guinness. He’s got a glass of what may be Red Bull alongside his pint, and for awhile he slowly alternates sips. But after the second refill of the Guinness that I saw (though he probably had had several prior), it just looked like he was forcing it down his throat. I laugh at his constant stout foam mustache that forms on his upper lip every time he takes a sip. He doesn’t notice though, so it stays. A white rosary hangs from his neck, tucked into the top of his button down striped shirt. We wonder if he’s an immigrant or what his life story is? We’ll never know though, because after Tom finishes his Murphy’s, we leave for the night to walk back down Washington Street.
One of the signs along Oliver Plunkett Streets has taunted me during our many, many walks down the boutique and café-lined street. About one block away from the ever-popular An Brog, An Droghan is marked just by a tan hanging sign advertising traditional music. Though on Tuesday night much of the group calls it quits after the depressing “FML” show, Kelly, Tom, Luke and I decide that we’ll look for a pub off the beaten path, just for one drink. Tonight’s the night to check out An Droghan, I decide, and we make our way across the city center.
The floor space is not much bigger than Harrisonburg’s Jack Brown’s with a couple extra feet at the end where the guitarist has set up for the night. Locals of all ages flock here throughout the week, and the four of us Americans immediately stand out. With pints in hands, we press against the wall to blend in. But that’s the perfect place for people watching, and specimens fill the pub.
Sitting at the end of the bar (right in front of us) is an older man with disheveled white hair. It sticks up in poofs in the front and his wide white eyebrows stand straight above his eyes. I can feel him keep looking at us, moving his eyes up and down our group. I stare back. He continues to talk to the man beside him, who has donned a bright green shirt with silver stripes that looks like a construction worker’s vest (Are those really the colors or is it just because of the lights? Tom says it’s not our imagination.). The men look at us, look at each other, and shake hands. We’ve become the subject of a bet, it seems, and I’m dying to know the details. The bartender points to their almost empty cups and quickly brings them refills: Guinness for man number one, and Carslberg for man number two. When number one looks at me, looks back at a group of younger guys that has walked in, and then winks at me, it’s too much. I have to know their story.
He comes here every night of the week, he tells me. Monday to Friday, the bar features live music, while on the weekends it is disco. “Why do you come here?” I ask. He comes here to sit at this corner of the bar because of the music. A mix of all ages fills the room, and he says that’s typical. I picture him sitting in the same seat night after night, greeting the other regulars that walk in. Even when he leaves, no one dares take his stool in the packed bar. His friend in the green has enjoyed a few too many drinks this evening and draws out his words slowly. But because of his thick accent, low voice and the speakers for the lone guitarist hanging above our heads, I only catch pieces of what he’s trying to say. He doesn’t come here everyday like his friend does because he works. “I love Ireland,” he says. “I do too now!” I exclaim to both, but I don’t think they can here. The language and noise barrier frustrates me, though I’m yearning to hear more of their lives. As I say goodbye, I ask number one what his name is. “You’ll never forget my name because it’s the same as a famous rock and roll artist,” he says. But even after he says it four or five times I can’t understand.
The man just around the corner, in the “man cave” area of the bar where four or five middle-aged men each sit by themselves, struggles with his Guinness. He’s got a glass of what may be Red Bull alongside his pint, and for awhile he slowly alternates sips. But after the second refill of the Guinness that I saw (though he probably had had several prior), it just looked like he was forcing it down his throat. I laugh at his constant stout foam mustache that forms on his upper lip every time he takes a sip. He doesn’t notice though, so it stays. A white rosary hangs from his neck, tucked into the top of his button down striped shirt. We wonder if he’s an immigrant or what his life story is? We’ll never know though, because after Tom finishes his Murphy’s, we leave for the night to walk back down Washington Street.
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