A Lighter, Brighter JP

The Burren: Land of Stone


I like leaving my car with a view.


The B&B I stayed at last night had a scale in the bathroom. I was very curious to see what I've done to myself in the past couple months between Commencement activities and this whole Ireland thing. I got on. Then got off and spent the next minute doing the difficult mental math required to convery kilos to pounds. Listen, multiplying something by 2.2 is hard if you haven't done much math without a calculator in the past 4 years. Turns out, I've lost a good bit of weight. That doesn't mean I'm wasting away. I'm pretty sure it can be attributed to muscle atrophy. While my buns might be as tight as ever from the hiking I've been doing, the rest has start to get a little soft. And let's say I wanted to gain weight. I flat out don't make enough money to cover a diet like that. Looking on the bright side...I've got nothing. I'm gonna go eat fried food and have a Guinness.

Today, I went to some caves. It was a tourist trap. Another stone thing made by aliens was over-touristed. I kind of laughed when I saw tons of tourists from all over Europe converging on this tiny stone structure in the middle of nowhere to then later disperse and reconvene at the next famous stone that leans a certain way and looks a little like Queen Elizabeth if you squint.


Tonight is a championship hurling match for a tournament that's been going on. If you're not keen on what hurling is...do some research. The primary sports of Ireland are: hurling, Gaelic football, soccer, rugby, golf. I think all of these sports are far older than baseball, basketball, or American football. 3 of the 5 are also rougher than the popular American sports. Excellent. I think I'd like to try my hand at hurling some time.

I don't have too much to say here, but I did want to point out something about the food. I feel like I'm repeating myself, but whatever. You can stop reading any time you want. I can't stop writing. It's like a cancer (the most overused inappropriate analogy these days--which makes it less biting and thus more appropriate?). Anyway, Irish cuisine cannot even attempt to match anything coming from the States or France or Italy. However, it bests British food. That's not a big feat. The problem is that the standard fare is bland here. They don't use any spices. That can be a good thing, though. The ingredients are all very fresh and always 100% Irish. Good fresh fish and meat and veggies and bread.

I need to do work. I'm sitting in Lisdoonvarna, which is famous for its annual matchmaking fair. Too bad it's not going on right now. I could use me a big 40 year-old Irish lady.

The beard gives me a few years, no?


Day: 22
Guinness: 31

The Evil Irish Weather...and Luxury

I jinxed myself when I rejoiced at the sunny skies and warmer weather. Today I got drenched, soaked to the bone. Cold, hard rain all day exposed the fact that I have clothes prepared only for mild or brief rainy periods. As I shivered in my wet clothing with no shelter I stared desirously at the sailors with their suits of warm, waterproof apparel and the tourists with cars picking them up to go to their hotel rooms. Actually, just as dangerous as the cold rain was the ferry ride in stormy weather. As I waited to board my ferry, others disembarked looking a little uneasy. One girl was crying and holding a bag of vomit. This did not bode well. I’d rather be cold and wet than nauseated. I survived, looking death by hypothermia and severe sea-sickness in the eye and saying, at first timidly then more confidently, “NO! I will not go quietly into that cold night.”

Right now I am doing a little more than merely surviving. Agreeing with myself that dire conditions called for extreme reward, I now find myself luxuriating in the most exquisite B&B I’ve ever graced with my presence. You will laugh at these pictures. I’m staying in this massive room that appears to be for a honeymooning couple. I don’t care; it is awesome no matter how frilly it may be. It’s called the Green Room. It has a green theme. I sipped tea while watching a TV documentary on the Caribbean ecosystem. Never mind that it cost me an entire day’s salary—today, it’s worth it. I just need to do laundry tomorrow. Desperately.


While I was still on the Aran Islands, I took a few photos, as you know I am wont to do. I added the appropriate ones to the last blog, but I am especially fond of this one:


Roosters! I could have waited around and taken a million shots to get the perfect postcard-quality image, but I’m rather pleased with the memory of a bunch of roosters running around cock-a-doodle-dooing in front of a vacant pub.

For those with a childish sense of humor—as I was stuck in Galway traffic today, I saw a sign that had been doctored. It originally said “End of Hard Shoulder.” Shoulder had been crossed out and replaced with “Dick.” Yes, traffic jams have been known to sap the mojo right out of you.

Day:21
Guinness: 29

Like a (Happy) Rolling Stone

A castle on a hill!


Cape Cod? Nope. Inisheer.

First of all, I’d like the clear up that most of my last blog was written in jest. I wrote that instead of actually getting angry or depressed or bitter. Got it? Good. That doesn’t mean I won’t make fun of editors, those sassy-ass, smooth-livin, self-righteous sons-of-bitches.

Yesterday wasn’t exactly difficult, but it did test my ability to walk long distances on very little food. I managed to survive and had such a fantastic time I didn’t really notice my growling belly that much. I was on the smallest of the Aran Islands. It can be walked up and down in a few hours. That’s what I did after walking around one of the other islands for a while. I got there and took off. I saw a nice castle that Cromwell destroyed like he did so many beautiful things in Ireland. Then I went walking to this lighthouse. It looked like New England all of a sudden…except that I couldn’t stop staring at the beauty of the Cliffs of Moher across the water. I didn’t know I’d have such an incredible view of this famous landmark. The best part was that while all the tiny ant-like tourists were crawling all over the cliffs, I was completely, utterly alone with a view of the entire length of the cliffs. It was one of those fantastic moments where you feel like you’re in on a secret that no one else knows. I walked along the rocky water’s edge and enjoyed the sunny weather—yes, strong winds decided to blow the nasty rain and clouds away for the day. Everything came together. I also think it’s the most alone I’ve probably ever been other than driving down certain stretches of road. There were only about 300 people on the island and they were all on the other side.


And of course we all do weird stuff when we know nobody else is watching. I decided to sing a view songs to myself and even did a little happy dance. No shame. On the way back I was exhausted. There’s this sweet wrecked ship on the rocks. I didn’t go down and get a closeup, but I did gaze at the ghostly scene from afar.


At the hostel I stayed at the other night, I hung out with some cool guys from Canada. We got to talking and I found out that they were using the Ireland Let’s Go book. Some girls from New Jersey piped in and said that they were using it, too. Needless to say, they revered me as a god when I told them I was writing for that very book. Good times. We had a nice breakfast together figuring out the toaster and talking about rich people at Harvard.

I also decided to listen to my ipod while walking. I haven’t used it at all really. Well, I decided to listen to some Bob Dylan and then got a little touched when Like a Rolling Stone played because the lyrics kind of hit a few notes for me out here alone after graduating:
How does it feel? How does it feel?
To be on your own, with no direction home.
Like a complete unknown.
Like a rolling stone.

Day: 20
Guinness: 29

The Bitter Blog

Yeah, it's time. I have decided to be disgruntled tonight. First of all, I'm in a cool hostel with some fun people, but ohhhh wait, I have to do work. Wah wah, I know. I'm in Ireland, enjoy it, right? Well you better be damn sure I'm enjoying it. It's the little things, though. Like just when I find a sweet place to stay or somewhere I want to hike, the ole chain yanks me back to the laptop. I love writing. That's why I've written so many entries for this blog. I probably write these faster than most people read them. The work for the book is boring as hell, though. Anyway, that's not the big issue. Here's the deal. I needed to send in my 3rd cobybatch tonight (I'm halfway done!). Well, this hostel is awesome enough to have wireless internet. I'm going along just fine, but in windows, Internet explorer just decided to not let me send any attachments through gmail. Wtf. So instead of getting on top of my work or having a pint at the pub next door or watching a movie with people downstairs, I play with the stupid technical difficulties. Screw you, Microsoft.

Then, my bathroom smells like piss. No matter, I forgot to bring my towel to the Aran Islands. I won't be showering today anyway. I'll have to stay in a B&B tomorrow where they give you towels...and breakfast.

There's a giant spider chillin in the top corner of my room right now. He hasn't moved in a while, but I know he's plotting my destruction as we speak. As soon as I fall asleep, he's going to come down from his safe hiding place and dance all over my face. Then lay eggs in my mouth. I know guys don't lay eggs, but I'm too lazy to go back and change the "he"s to "she"s, so just pretend. I thinking I'll just confront the thing and do battle with it face to face so it can't sneak attack me later. I'm not afraid of spiders...just the evils they plot against lonely travelers with imaginations.

Then there are all the damn editors in Cambridge. They've got perfect weather. I've got gloom and rain every day. They just chill out in their air-conditioned office and screw around all day. RWs are out here busting our asses. Editors make a shitload of money. We're lucky if we break even. They have crazy parties at night. They even have "staff meetings" to discuss said parties when they should all be working like I am out here. At night I write...sometimes I drink Guinness and then write. Stick it to the man. The bottom line--RWs need to unionize and demand higher wages and that the editors do some damn work. I am a fine Harvard-trained employee that needs gentle massaging. You can't replace me with minimum-wage laborers.

I tried to save money today. I bought a frozen pizza for dinner. It was delicious but small. I was immediately hungry afterward. I proceeded to eat a whole package of cookies. They were delicious as well, but my stomach hates me. Back in Cambridge, the editors are eating fine dinners of steak and lobster every night and sipping port and smoking cigars. I go to sleep hungry and poor and have to get up early to get to work again. The editors can go to the office whenever they feel like it, and they are most certainly not required to spend more than 40 hrs a week in there.

Also, I never had any time to relax after I graduated. I got my diploma, packed my bags, said by to the loves of my life, and hopped across the pond to start work.
I had to freakin pay to climb a hill and look at the rocks. That is not fair.
One more...I lost my receipt from the petro station. That means I don't get reimbursed the 34 euro I paid so that I can drive around here and do my job.
My bathroom still smells like piss. There are strange banging coming from in there, too.
Apu thinks he might leave me.

Damn straight I'm bitter. Actually, I think I do a horrible bitter spiel. I'll stick to talking about things like my nice bike ride around Inishmore Island and the weird/awesome bird that made crazy noises and stared at me until I realized that I was dangerously close to her very tiny hatchlings. The Aran Islands are a great place for bird watchers.

Here's a pretty picture. Where there are famous sites, there are lots of tourists. People have fallen off these cliffs. I edged up pretty close but didn't really risk it.
Oh wait, photos won't upload. Maybe later. Here we are.


Day: 18
Guinness: 28 (maybe I'm angry because I'm in withdrawal)

Taking a day off?

For a little bit I was in a town called Cong. I don't particularly like the place. The old John Wayne film, The Quiet Man, was filmed there and they still are going crazy about it. I got out, but not without thinking of the Kong and its famous Scorpion Bowls. Reminds me of a joke this drunk guy told me the other night (if you like Jesus a lot, don't continue reading):
So God was trying to find a nice place to stay in the solar system and consulted some of his angels. One angle says, "how about Venus?" God says, "It's too damn hot!" Another angel puts forth, "What about Jupiter?" "Too stormy!" Finally, one angel says, "Earth would be nice!" God then replies, "Hell no! I got some girl pregnant there 2000 years ago and they're still talking about it!" I don't even think that's funny the second time around. Oh well.

Cong and the Kong...both famous for reasons rather unappealing to me. You may feel differently.

You may have heard of Ashford Castle before. It's a really really fancy castle where all the famous people stay when they come to Ireland. For the cost of my entire summer budget I could get maybe 3 or 4 nights in that place. Believe you me, I thought about it. Then I realized that that would be a lot of Guinness and Irish breakfasts I would be missing out on. However, I walked around the grounds for a while and seriously considered treating myself to a lesson in falconry. Yes, falconry. For a heft sum you can actually hold the hunting birds and learn how to launch them after prey. For a little more money you can go on an a fake hunting trip. I thought that was a little dumb because I would want my falcon to actually bring me back a bloody rabbit, not some stuffed animal.


I'm taking a little time off in Galway right now before I go to the Aran Islands. I've been lulled into the rural Irish way of life. I got into Galway and all of a sudden I was in a city! Tons of people, cars, noise. Sure, people don't say hi to do and it costs of shitload just to park my car, but it's nice change I suppose. There are actually some attractive people here. I honestly was losing faith in the Irish people. It's ok, you're not all mingers. The drinking water here is evidently not safe. I'm not up on the news because my radio reception sucks in my car, but at my hostel I'm staying at tonight they told me not to drink the water. That's enough for me. Bottled water it is. And Guinness. It's good for your health you know.

Once again, I run into the Belgian guy, except this time he's in stone that was sculpted 5 centuries ago. A paradox.

Day: 17
Guinness: 28

Too much Guinness is a good thing.

First of all, I took a couple hours to hike for a bit. I revisited a couple places I’d been when I was here a few years ago. One was a castle turned super expensive hotel. I found this in the parking lot:


And this in the woods around the castle:


Next, I went to a trail to see St. Patrick oratory, one of a couple places St. Patrick allegedly banished the snakes from Ireland. This is where I previously found the army of giant mutant slugs. They were nowhere to be found this time around. How peculiar. How could a mass of unique slugs so large and disgusting disappear? I figured they were on the move and probably watching me, so I got my wits about me and continued moving. The path I was on connects to Ireland’s longest and most spectacular hiking route. I saw it trail off into the distant mountains and yearned for the time, equipment and proper hiking companion to set off on this lonely path through the glorious west. Alas, I walked along it for a while and then turned back. If you ever want to take on the hiking trails of Ireland in the future, let me know. If you look at the picture, you can see the thin dirt trail on the left-middle going off into the distance. That's the Western Way.


So last night…
I set a personal record for the most Guinness consumed in a night. You can look at my tallies and guesstimate the math. It’s all because of Sarah. Sorry, not you, Smoran, though you were most definitely part a lot of my drinking over the past year. This Sarah (I’m probably spelling it wrong—who ever knows if the H is there or not?) is a fantastic girl from Switzerland who was staying in my hostel for the night (yeah, lots of Swiss people traveling around here). The hostel allows you to pay a deposit to get a late key if you’re staying out past midnight. I didn’t get one, but then I ran into Sarah at a bar. It soon passed midnight, which meant I had to stay with her because she was my only way back to my bed for the night. Long story short, she’s really fun and drinks a lot. We found one bar where all the old local people were getting trashed. Wasted old men! It was hilarious. This one old guy who was really funny kept making fun of me because I was wearing flip-flops and he expects Texans to wear the whole cowboy getup of boots, hat, belt buckle, etc. Also, I decided to give Molly, my LG editor, a phone call. Sarah talked to her for a bit in her funny broken English. This is going to embarrass her, but I’m telling the story anyway. Earlier in the day, Sarah wanted a light for her cigarette (yeah, that shit will kill you, but Europeans haven’t caught on to the anti-smoking thing yet), so she asked this guy for “fire.” He was confused, but eventually got her some logs to make a fire with.

Also, perhaps I’ll bring it up later, but there are considerably more immigrants in Ireland than there were last time I was here. This whole thriving economy and the EU has attracted a lot of Easter Europeans and even a bunch of French people. The Irish aren’t used to multiculturalism like we are.

There are sheep outside my window.

Oh, and I can’t speak or read Gaelic any better than I could 2 weeks ago. I hope I didn’t miss anything important:


I also realized I'm spending a bit more than I'm making. Everything is so expensive! Whatever, it'll count as a graduation present to myself.

Day: 16
Guinness: 28 (it's detox time)

Horses!

Beautiful Clifden.

Remember the Belgian dude from the hostel in the last entry? Well I ran into him in Clifden. He was chillin at a café before heading deeper into Connemara. What a true dude. I made about 50 circles around the small town before I felt like I was done with my work. Then I went out to find some of the cool spots around the area. I managed to run into the same Irish guy walking around about 3 or 4 times. He was really nice and we chatted about my trip and he asked me the best points to get nice views in the area. I found a couple. One got me this picture of Clifden with some of the Twelve Bens/Pins in the background. At that spot, I met some friendly wild horses. I was wary at first because they were paired off with mother and child. I moved slowly and walked by the first pair. Then the second pair, a white horse and a little scraggly boy, came trotting up to me. I let them check me out, and then I started petting them on their noses. The big white lady minded her own business and started eating a bunch, but the little one followed me around and rubbed up against me, making sure I gave him some attention. It was really sweet. Birds sang, flowers bloomed, the sun shone, rainbows stretched across the sky, and all was well in Ireland.


It’s my sister’s birthday today. It’s 25, isn’t it? You’re getting old. Because she loves horses so much, I find my experiences today more than fitting.

Day: 14 (2 weeks!)
Guinness: 20 (it’s a grueling pace, but I’m still standing)

The Greatest Night Yet: Adventures in Hippie Heaven!

sorry it's sideways. it's fitting, though. read on.


The most exciting part of this entry regards last night. It was a night of drinking and revelry with a bunch of French and Belgian hippies and some delightful Swiss girls all in the most incredible accommodation/hippie shanty ever conceived. That will come at the end.

First, my exciting nature excursion of the day. I went to Connemara National Park. It’s a whole lot of bog and some pretty mountains. There is a trail that leads up to the summit of one mountain. It was a difficult climb, kinda of like getting to Quincy’s 6th floor when the elevator is broken. Super stairmaster time. It was unusually warm and sunny when I started the trail. I didn’t need my jacket. Well, Murphy’s Law smacked me in the face. As I climbed higher and higher, the view became more and more spectacular. However, at a certain point, I was able to see to the other side of the mountain, which afforded a much grander view than previous sections of the climb. It also afforded me a view of heavy rain in the distance. Of course, I was already near the top, so I might as well get there and then try to run down the mountain and beat the rain. The rain came fast. Right as I reached the glorious summit, hard rain, horizontal from extremely high winds, started pelting me mercilessly. I huddled on one side of a large rock for some cover, but realized it wasn’t going to protect me enough to justify sitting at the top of a mountain as a storm rolled in. So, I started moving. I got wet, but luckily the wind was worse than the rain. In the intense battle with nature, I managed to click a couple photos, but wasn’t able to truly enjoy the environment. Here is one photo while I was getting wet:



That evening I go to the place I planned on staying for the night. At first, it looked like a pile of junk with a few doors. Aluminum roof, random sofas sitting outside, bikes, foosball table, plants, dusty old trinkets. As this French dude about my age showed me my room and gave me a quick tour, I realized that I had come upon the gem of all hostels in the world. I have no idea how to describe this place to you, but I’ll try. The few pictures I have will give you a sample of how each and every corner of this palace was filled with classic memorabilia and intriguing artifacts. Filling the hallways are photos of jazz icons and odd signs and posters from all kinds of places. Each room (which houses 4-8 people in bunks) had its own name on its door. One was “Church.” Another was “Acapulco.” Some rooms had beads in their doorways—automatic hippie status. One of my favorite posters was a vintage Australian piece of propaganda to get Aboriginals to use condoms. It had a comic book drawing of an Aboriginal man in a superhero outfit with the title “Condoman.” In his word bubble, he said something to the effect of “Don’t be shame, get your game.”

The basement had all sorts of treasures: collections of dusty books, skulls of various animals, pots and pans, bottles, records, instruments, and so on. So at night, they have a bar in the hostel that they open up. I’ll try to describe it. It is below-ground, but open-air, underneath the aluminum awning. It’s like a square pit with ground level acting as a balcony encircling it from above. Around the upper balcony area were three chill-out areas, replete with couches, cool oriental curtains, a Guinea pig, a couple cats, and a dog. Down below in the sweet pit-bar was nothing short of the perfect hanging out place in the world. Again, filled to the brim with all kinds of dusty old shushkas and tchotchkes (you can look those up at dictionary.com). I sat on a stool with the staff and other boarders for the entire night drinking Guinness, eating vegetable soup, doing card tricks, and talking deeply about life and American vs. European society. The whole time, an incredible soundtrack of folk music from the 60s played prominently. Strangely enough, I was the only person from America or Ireland. Everyone I was hanging out with spoke French fluently. There were 2 French guys (I’ll get to Alain later), 1 French girl, an awesome 60-year-old Belgian hippie dude, a Belgian girl, and 2 Swiss girls. Others came in and out, but that was our main group for the night. The Swiss girls, Vanessa and Eileen (I’m sure I just butchered those), were really cool. We talked a lot and Vanessa tried to translate for me every time the others started chattering away in French. The Belgian dude was seriously The Dude. There is no other way to describe him than being The Dude from the The Big Lebowski. Watch that movie and then imagine him chillin in this hippie heaven talking about how he runs a pub in Belgium, but comes here every time he wants to clear his head. He comes a lot. He’s going to retire and buy this scuba diving place nearby along Killary Harbour. Oh, also, there was this bell hanging over the middle of the bar surrounded by old books. On it was inscribed “Titanic 1912.” After I prodded one of the Swiss ladies into ringing it, we quickly found out that ringing the bell means you’re buying a round for everyone. The Swiss girls were really fun, so if you’re reading this, Vanessa and Eileen (sorry for the spelling again), you’re now sort of famous. Apu was going to stay behind and party with them, but as I started driving away, he came running and joined me once again. You’re a true friend, Apu.

Alain, the French guy who helps run the place, was hilarious. He drank a lot and then started doing these card tricks for us. He was amazing. He did some tricks that I couldn’t begin to understand and others that I could begin to understand but still couldn’t grasp. So the two French guys and the Belgian dude drank Pastisse the whole time. It’s like absinthe. It louches. Louching is something I learned about by reading my trusty bartender’s handbook, but I’d never actually seen it. Basically, when mixed with cold water, it becomes cloudy and starts to form a sediment. Whatever, look louche up on Wikipedia. I’m not as fancy as Pablo, who makes all these fancy links that facilitate his brilliant allusions to things elsewhere on the web. I type this stuff on my laptop then run to an Internet café and upload everything as quickly as possible.

I also think I parked illegally. There’s a sticker on my car. I think I owe money. I don’t know what else to do. I’m in a parking spot, but I don’t have the necessary tags/permits to park in Clifden evidently. Ok, I think that is enough. I had a fancy multi-course dinner tonight. In the room were a mom and dad with two young girls. The dad was feeding one soup by putting it in his mouth, spitting it back onto a spoon, and then feeding it to the girl. Bird-style. I guess that’s the new trend.

Day: 13
Guinness: 19

People/things in my hostel

people/sheep/midges, we're all the same. it's circular.


So, I’m starting my wilderness trek. I’m in a very large hostel with a great variety of people. Let’s see if I can list a few:

1) crazy 60-year-old lady who was stuck in Ireland without money for a year. Now she’s trying to write and paint and get something published and make money before going back to San Francisco. I helped her a lot with her computer because she’s not too techno savvy. Then we talked about life, science, religion, the history of man, Native Americans, and Battlestar Galactica. I’m going to go ahead and shamelessly endorse that TV show. I don’t watch much TV because I don’t like much TV. BSG is the greatest show ever made. It’s the only show for which I’ve ever watched every episode. That’s right. Shameless nerdiness. Anyway, she was big into rambling to me without actually saying much. Lots of making circles with her hands and saying it’s all circular. She was also trying to tell me how some Native American tribes got Anglo features and some Romania-esque language from Europeans who beat the Vikings over to North America.

2) A busload of kids, probably ages 13-15. They are running all over the place, watching TV, yelling. They’re actually not that bad. I think it’s a school trip, so the supervisors/teachers chilled out with us adults for a little bit. One kid ate some old meatballs and got violently ill, puking nonstop. Good thing it was in his own bathroom. Largely unrelated, but relevant nonetheless…the water in this place is kind of yellow…really yellow. I do not want to drink it or put it in my mouth (that’s what she said…or he said), but I had to brush my teeth. Showering will have to wait. Hopefully all of Connemara isn’t like this.

3) Swedish dude/my roommate for the night and French girl/receptionist for the hostel. They are getting along quite well. They’ve been talking all night. Maybe I’ll have another roommate. Or sleep alone. I’m hoping for the latter more than the former.

4) Me.

5) Midges. Not to be mistaken with midgets. If Connemara were filled with swarms of midgets, I would feel much safer (I think) than fending off midges.. Midges are basically tiny mosquitoes. The worst part is that they move in swarms instead of going it solo. Like mosquitoes, they saw your skin open, injecting you with saliva to stop your blood from clotting, and then suck your sweet lifeblood. (inside joke from the Trolff wall: it’s like our lifeblood)

Moral of the story: don’t eat old meat (that’s what she said…ok I’m done).

Day: 12
Guinness: 14

Don't be a Tourist, Be a Traveler

First of all, the internet connection I have right now isn't letting me upload any pictures. There aren't really any good ones to post anyway. If the weather is nice tomorrow, I should have a handful of pretty shots.

Before I get to the juicy meat of my deep argument of the day, a couple notes of interest:
I'm in a hostel in beautiful Connemara. There are lots of Swedes and Germans and Frenchies here.
It's raining a ton, so I can't have fun nature time outside.
My shoes, socks, and feet smell horrible thanks to my encounter with bog water.
This webpage for my blog is coming up in German right now. I am utterly confused. It's pretty funny, but I don't know enough German to navigate the menus and change language options if there are any. And by not enough German, I mean that I don't know any whatsoever.
I'm loving the emails and facebook messages people are sending me. Although the Swedish dude I'll be sharing a room with tonight looks pretty cuddly, these bits of love are enough of an emotional teddy bear to keep me from resorting to extreme measures.

Here's my rant I wrote last night:
A week or so before Commencement and my departure for this trip, I drank a fateful bottle of Magic Hat #9. As many of you know, Magic Hat bottle caps have little proverbs on their bottom sides. Some are meaningful; others are goofy rhymes that are absolutely inane. Well, this particular bottle had a phrase that I thought was more than fitting:

“Don’t be a tourist. Be a traveler.”

I think that is the perfect motto not just for people doing my job but also for any intrepid young individual in a foreign place (i.e. Pablo on his Asian trip--God save his soul). Essentially, the tourist is the shamelessly loud one clicking the shutter on his camera as fast he can. He sees local people, places, and customs as specimens to be examined and gawked at. A traveler tries best he can to not simply enjoy a culture but to participate in it. My journey so far has taken me to a variety of towns and regions of natural beauty. Some are clearly for tourists, others for travelers. Let’s try to dissect this dichotomy.

First, places that are touristy generally attract visitors for a reason. They are famous landmarks or places with pleasant establishments at which to dine and stay. There’s nothing inherently wrong with that. However, it is the addition of tourists that then detracts from the initial attraction’s attractiveness. Logical enough. We’ve all been frustrated at seeing the Eiffel Tower or Athens or Venice, etc. Those places are awesome, but would be much better if you were the only foreigner visiting so you could appreciate them in their natural context without an environment of non-locals. “Hey Betty! BETTY!!! Get the kids together and I’ll take a picture of you in front of the cute leprechaun! Oh my God! Sorry! You’re not a leprechaun?!? But you sound just like one! Ok, family, let’s go find a four-leafed clover and kiss the Blarney Stone! HA! Can you believe they call freedom fries 'chips' here?!?” The importance of genuine environments elevates other, less absolutely impressive, areas to be just as, if not more, enjoyable than the popular draws. There’s something special about being one of only a few people taking in the special essence of a place.

Behavior is highly significant in this tourist/traveler distinction. I can’t do anything about my physical traits. Irish people can look at me and be pretty confident that I am not of Irish heritage. With the clothing that I brought, my tan complexion, and my stubble, I might be mistaken for Spanish or Eastern or Southern European, but not Irish. My Irish accent is pretty good for short exchanges, so I’ve fooled a couple people, but if I have a conversation with someone they will quickly know that I’m from the States. Basically, I stick out like a sore thumb in such a homogenous society. Trust me, there are few areas in the world as homogenous as western Ireland. That being said, a good traveler will walk into the local pub (not the shiny one smack in the middle of town), ask for a pint, and either mind his own business or chat with whomever is there. Tourists stick out more than I ever could because they form a little bubble around themselves. They do not subtly ease into local haunts; they bust in, stare around, take an hour to figure out what they want to drink, talk only to each other, and have this giddy expression like they can’t believe they’re mingling with REAL Irish people. They’ve come to see the spectacle of Ireland, not participate in it.

Anyway, that’s all fairly logical. I just felt I’d bring it up because I was in a famous pub the other night and there were more 60- and 70-year-old Americans than Irish citizens. They were being loud and obnoxious. I downed my Guinness and went next door and watched a soccer game on TV with a bunch of local guys my age. It was much better. And the thing is that residents, no matter where you go, all appreciate the traveler and universally despise the tourist (unless they’re making money off the tourists). The guys I was with loved the fact that I was an American who decided to unobtrusively slide in with them at the bar and care about a soccer game. Of course, it’s easier when you’re alone like me. Sizes of groups make a difference. I’m already drawing a blank on my psychology terms...heuristics! One or two people equal traveler status. The more that are in a group, the more they are pigeonholed into tourist status. Think about Harvard--huge group of Asians with cameras around their necks. Asians and cameras are not uncommon at Harvard, but the fact that they are all huddled together at the John Harvard statue tips us off that they don’t belong there. Also, who eats dinner at John Harvard’s or Bartley’s? Tourists, that’s who. I’ve gone off on a tangent because I don’t want to work on editing maps for this week. I should have stopped a long time ago.

Moral of the story:
Statistics. If you drink a lot of Magic Hat #9 or eat a lot of fortune cookies or read your horoscope everyday, you will eventually get a message that means something to you.

Day: 11
Guinness: 13

Black and White Pudding

Hey, remember when I described what black and white pudding are? You know, the innards of a pig mashed into sausage form and fried? The blackness comes from blood? Well I had some this morning. I closed my eyes and put it in my mouth (that's what she said). It wasn't too bad. I didn't vomit, but I'm not going to make a habit of eating it.

Grand Things like The Meaning of Life

Achill Head and the Atlantic.


Keem Bay.

At Achill Island, I encountered the grandest place I’ve ever been in my life. That is no hyperbole. Keem Bay has one of those remote beaches with beautiful water (although it’s too cold to swim in) and cliffs and mountains surrounding it. I decided I’d hike up to the top of the highest cliff for a look-see. The big mountain nearby is unhikeable unless you’re an expert and want to spend several more hours than my quick but very rigorous flight up to my lookout point. The pictures don’t really do it justice. They look like postcards, but being there was awe-inspiring. Being alone up there looking around at these sheer cliffs (about 600m+ drop to the Atlantic Ocean below), perfect beach, massive mountain, some old ruins…it was a feeling I’d never experienced before. I’d like to make some huge statement like, “it changed my perspective on life,” or something, but it didn’t. It just was. I had a very Zen moment and appreciated it, realizing that I won’t be back to that spot any time soon.

In fact, I thought I’d have a lot of deep existential moments on this trip, pondering my life and whatnot. Well I haven’t. Not yet—I’ve still got over 4 weeks left, so there’s plenty of time to delve into who I am and my purpose in life stuff. For now, I’m just like a 15-year-old boy looking at porn—staring intently at everything I see, but nothing’s really going on upstairs.

Ok, something else. Please correct me if you know more about this than I do because I haven’t figured it out yet. Curry is a relatively common surname in Ireland. However, that does not explain why curry (the spices) is used in traditional Irish cooking. There must be some history between Ireland and South Asia or the Middle East that I don’t know about. Sure, there are plenty of Indian restaurants here—I ate at an overpriced one for dinner several nights ago—but those curries you see in Indian food pop up in Irish restaurants, i.e. curried lamb or curried potatoes. I’ll do some sleuthing perhaps.

Also, let’s talk about friendly people are here. It’s true. When you’re walking down the street, people say hello to each other as they pass. When you’re driving around a small town, drivers wave at each other. Everybody greets and leaves others with hardy salutations. I had a couple nice exchanges with hikers at Keem Strand. As I was coming down, this older guy was slowly making his way up. He said hi and I asked him how he was doing. He looked at me and answered honestly in a brilliant Irish accent, “weary.” We chuckled and I told him it was well worth it at the top. He said he was hoping coming down would be easier. That wasn’t the best example, but I laugh when I think about the guy saying “weary.” It’s a great word to say in an Irish accent. Anyway, people are nice here. If everyone in the world had a community that promoted this sort of friendliness and hospitality…well we’d all be drunken socialists, but we’d be happy and that’s all that matters. Maybe that’s my existential discovery thus far. Fame and fortune are means to happiness, but they are not the only ways to achieve it. We heard these lessons from a lot of different famous people during Commencement week, and we’ll all disregard them soon enough, but it’s true. There is no need to judge ourselves by society’s prevailing standards if those standards are misguided. Over here in rural Ireland, I haven’t seen any rich people other than tourists, but I have seen a lot of happy people.

Other news in brief…the only good looking girls I’ve seen are attached to good-looking men. I was chatting with a guy about my age at a pub tonight; he said all the beautiful girls were in Galway. Thank you Let’s Go for not putting that grand city on my itinerary. I heard a great radio debate over the new best-selling book, God is NOT Great. I can’t wait to read it when I get home. I’m in a B&B above a pub. Sweet. I stayed in a fancier place last night, so for breakfast this morning I had scrambled eggs and smoked salmon as opposed to the usual Irish breakfast of sausage, bacon, and egg. I’m not expecting to make any money doing this job, so I might as well spend everything I get, right? The new coalition government is causing a big rue. I’m sure you can find out more than I can tell you by just going to CNN.com. I’m back in Cambridge on the 22nd/23rd. My sister will become Lindsay Waters on July 28th.

Day: 9
Guinness: 12
Thanks to the Westport pubs. I watched an incredible soccer match with the local folk.

A note about Guinness...and the world

First, the world. I am in the most remote area of Ireland, the area around the Mullet Peninsula (yes, please laugh). Speaking of mullets, I thought about going to a barber and getting one of these speak mohawkish mullets that's popular around here, but I figure I'll stick with my long, flowing locks for the time being. Anyway, I am in the most remote area of Ireland. No cell phone service...but there's broadband internet. I'm chillin here doing some work after a huge dinner in this hostel/lodge. The only other person staying tonight is this middle-aged German guy named Axel (I think that's what he said). He's really nice and we had a delightful dinner together. He's been coming to this very place for 11 years to get away from things and hike some long distance trails around here. This area of Ireland is dominated by peat bog stuff. It's not as gross as it sounds. There's a whole science to it that I learned about today, but long story short, people use the bog as fuel for fires. The fire going next to me has peat logs instead of wood logs. They're basically burning dried ground. It has a distinctive smell that not exactly bad. Kind of like toast and smoked sausage. It also does a great job of preserving stuff like tools, wood, and human bodies.

Now to Guinness. You can look it up on Wikipedia if you so desire (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Guinness). I'll cover a few things that aren't made explicit. It's delicious. Like a smoothie, but beer. There is truly a difference in how it is tapped. If tapped incorrectly, it is simply not as good. So, first you must tilt the glass and open the tap. Fill the glass until there is about 1-2 cm left at the top. Set the glass to the side and watch the beautiful waterfall of the settling process (due to the nitrogen in the tap instead of carbon dioxide). Once settled, take the glass back to the tap and push the tap backward to top it off with the perfect white head arching over the rim of the glass. Let it settle once again and then drink. You know its good if the foam sticks to the glass as you drink the pint. The inside of the glass should be white by the end. Also, a good Guinness is creamy and smooth. A bad one is watery and acidic. That's about all I know so far.

Guinness is only 198 calories per pint and costs an average of 3.60 euros at a pub. Let's do some math. Pretend I continue at my current pace and have about 50 pints before I go back to the States. That's 9900 calories of pure satisfaction. That is also 180 euro--about $260--well spent. That's also enough alcohol to get everybody who reads this blog drunk...unless Matthew is reading because he's got the tolerance of, well, a seasoned Irishman.

When I got here, I was a little creeped out. There are spiders and webs everywhere, but I think they're better than the ubiquitous midges that suck human blood. I'll tell you about midges some other time. No snakes, bear, wolves, crocodiles, or other other man-eating beasts--just lots of spiders, flies, and midges...and sheep.

Here's a picture of Downpatrick Head. It was really windy, cold, and rainy today. I didn't want to get too close to the edge. These are some serious cliffs.



Still day 7; no Guinness out here in the middle of nowhere.

Aliens, slugs, and gout

A pretty picture unrelated to anything I wrote in this entry.


Pretty much the funniest picture I've taken.


Ancient Irish tomb, or alien experimentation pod?

So there are a lot of pictures I find necessary to post here at this time. First, I think that after Aliens built Stonehenge over on that other island next door, they came and stopped for Guinness in Ireland and made a few relics for us to wonder about. They say they’ve extracted human bone material from these little (and big) graves. Exactly. The aliens were experimenting on them and then killing them. Case closed.

Second, I found one of the mutant slugs. Last time I was in Ireland, I only saw these things at St. Patrick’s oratory. There, they were en masse. Now they have begun to conquer the countryside. I think I found their scout. Sorry Rachel, I’m sure that I will find more in Connemara so I can spell things out with their bodies for you.

Mom, don’t worry about me—I’m eating well, too well. In fact, I’ll need to get my cholesterol checked when I get back. I also think I might develop gout. I salute you, Ford Madox Ford. It takes a great deal of work to get gout, but I’ll try my best. Nobody here eats what is known as the “traditional Irish breakfast,” which includes good things like eggs, sausage, bacon (Irish bacon, not those wimpy thin strips we get), and kinda gross things like black and white pudding. In case you don’t know, white pudding is basically the innards of a pig ground up into sausage form. It looks white. What, then, is black pudding? It is the same as white, but with the pig’s blood added. Everybody here has eaten it at some point, but no one makes a habit of it. I haven’t tried the not-quite-a-delicacy, but knowing me, I probably will.

I went to a really chic bar last night and stayed forever because this rock band was going to play. They didn’t start til midnight, but the place was cool enough for me to chill. The manager of the band (Autopilot) came over and chatted with me for a bit. After I got over his super thick accent and his lazy eye, we had a lovely talk about the differences in weather between here (currently cold and stormy) and Texas (sunny and dry). Then a whole load of schoolies (18-20 yr olds) came in and got rowdy. The band wasn’t half bad, though.

Day: 7 (I made it a week!)
Guinness: 9

Random Jibberish

left: me
right: Apu

So I won’t see many big cities from here on out. I made the most of my last night in Sligo. Well, as much as you can for a Tuesday night. If there’s such thing as a slow night for drinking in Ireland, it would be Tuesday. Nevertheless, I had a great time. I went to one pub and started chatting with the friendly bartender and found out that he’d been to Boston like 6 times. He went to the South End to see familiy each time, which he said has a couple legit Irish bars—the South End, not his family, that is. If the bartender of a great pub in Ireland says that, then hey, that’s about as good as it gets. The very next pub I went to, I found out that the bartender lived in Davis Square in Somerville for a few years. I was like, “no way!” and she was like, “yeah way!” and then I was like, “that’s crazy! I have a totally rad friend who lives right there and I’ve been around Davis myself a few times!” then she was like “wow!” It was, like, such a coincidence, ya know. I decided I had no better way to tell that story than in valley girl style. Of course, I’m the only person who’s hearing it said that way in my head.

Things I’ve learned so far:
1) Irish people are really friendly.
2) Things aren’t “great” or “good” or “cool.” They are “grand” or “brilliant.”
3) You don’t tip here. Value Added Tax, VAT, is included. I just had a thought of a big vat of chocolate. I’d jump in like that fat kid in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory did.
4) They use this crazy currency called the "euro." I can no longer just throw my change on the floor because some coins are worse 1 or 2 of these euro things.

I think I’m going insane already…but that’s a good sign because when you’re actually insane, you don’t think you’re insane anymore. Today I was working on my laptop and the last song I played was Psycho Killer by the Talking Heads. Classic song. The very next song I hear when wandering around town is a cover of Psycho Killer playing at a petro station. I didn’t even know anyone covered that song. Then the very next song I heard…this morning I went downstairs to get breakfast (I stayed in a lovely B&B) and the owner was in the kitchen listening to And She Was by the Talking Heads. Well I thought it was crazy at the time. Now it just sounds like jibber-jabber. I’ve also started talking to myself already. Oh, and I found a friend who’s going to be traveling with me. His name is Apu. He’s the on the right in the picture. I’ll have more pretty pictures uploaded onto facebook in a few days.

Day: 6
Guinness: 6

Adventure!

top: Far away from the tip of Ben Bulben
bottom: Ben Bulben from far away

I climbed Benbulben. It’s pretty and pretty big. I parked my car, unloaded unnecessary things from my pack, filled my mini-Nalgene with water, filled my pocket with some stale bread from the day before (body warmth made it soft again—stale Irish bread still tastes more delicious than Wonder bread ever will), and started up the trail. About 50 steps from my car, I was already huffing and puffing. I mean, I’m getting over a cold, but that’s no excuse. Regretting I hadn’t spent any time on the stairmaster in the past four years, I told myself to sack up and hike the fucking mountain. I didn’t have to do it. I was there because I wanted to be. I wanted some physical exercise and some beautiful views and I was going to get both, and not simply by doing pushups in a hostel and buying a postcard in a gift shop. Alright, so after a few more minutes of hiking I got warmed up and actually didn’t have a very hard time. There weren’t really any trails to follow, though. I just clambered up through tall grass, trying to find the best way to get from point A to point B.

This is a good time to talk about the Irish sheep. They are not your cute little curly-haired friends you see in children’s books. The lambs look cute enough, but the adults are hefty, shaggy beasts that could kick my ass if they tried. Good thing is that evolution made them afraid of everything. There are no natural predators of sheep in Ireland (except me, of course—mmm, lamb chop), but they still bolt. Point for Darwin. However, the fact that they wouldn’t stick around for a fight made them rather enjoyable. They would baa at me then run away and baa some more. The running away part consisted of them deftly hopping up and down parts of the mountain that I tried to avoid. They’re like that annoying little kid in grade school who runs circles around the big, clumsy guy, all the while yelling “na-na na-na boo-boo!”

The view was incredible. If you want more pictures, go to my facebook album that I will eventually create. There was a group of six people picnicking at the edge of the cliff when I arrived at the summit. We exchanged pleasantries, but I didn’t really have any company or anything more than crumbs and a few drops of water for lunch, so I took a few photos, took in the majesty, then started back.

On my way down I realized that I totally missed the trails. I basically thought there weren’t any other than a few goatpaths and went up the thing the hard way. Whatever, I had fun exerting myself. Then I smelled bad.

The next night I stayed in a pretty nice place, but I couldn’t for the life of me find it. I don’t know if I mentioned this before, but Ireland has no street signs. Actually, streets sometimes don’t even have names. Long story short, I spent quite a while on the phone with this girl working at the hostel while I was doing circles in my Nissan Micra with people tailgating me. Obviously, I found the place. The girl is from Hungary. She’s kinda cute. We had a good laugh about how difficult it is to get around. Then I went out for dinner. It was sunny when I left. When I finished dinner, it was raining. Pouring. If I didn’t have my laptop with me, I wouldn’t have minded getting wet, but I did have my laptop and my bag I had with me was not waterproof. With a huge meal and a pint o’ Guinness in my stomach, I ran through the rain in flipflops about a mile from one end of town to the other. The girl at the hostel had another good laugh at my expense. They’re supposed to have free wireless internet here, but it’s down so I’m sitting on a couch across from a goofy German dude and a Russian girl who “needs computer help.” They’re hitting it off quite well.

Day: 4
Guinness count: 2 (I need to catch up! I think if the weather cooperates tonight, I'll hit up a bunch of bars)

update before i don't see the internet again for a while:
Day: still 4
Guinness: 5

Hitting the Ground Running

Lough Key (means Lake Key, pronounced Lock Key—funny, right?)


The first day in Ireland. It could have been spent resting from the red-eye flight that put me down in Dublin at 7:30am after only 3 hours of sleep. Instead, I hit the road. However, I almost couldn’t get on the road. My piece of plastic evidently has a limit on daily purchasing, so I couldn’t rent the car I reserved. Luckily, I was flying with one of the other RWs, Kyle Dalton, and she bailed me out. It was about 3am Cambridge time, so I wouldn’t have been able to otherwise get help for many more hours. First disaster averted.

So I get on the road for a couple hour drive to the northwestern counties. The weather was perfect—sunny and upper 70s. Following highway signs and driving on the left side was not as difficult as I expected. Soon I was rocking out to some Irish newstalk radio about everything from immigrant representation in the Senate to inflation to John Barry’s movie soundtracks to Ireland’s attempt at forming a legit cricket team. Dublin doesn’t have very beautiful scenery, but when I got out a little way, all of a sudden I come around a bend and this gorgeous lake is staring at me. I had the “I’m in freakin Ireland” moment. Then people got angry cause I was driving too slowly. It feels funny to look at the speedometer when the needle is at 120.

Ok, of few other quick things that were funny:

There were all these signs on the road that said “Warning! Plant Crossing!” Watch out! Plants tend to bolt across the highway at any moment over here on the Emerald Isle.

The old tourist lady in the small town I’m staying in flirted with me. We made out then she gave me some free pamphlets.

Two really nice B&B owners chatted with me, found out I’m from Texas, and laughed at Bush with me.

I ate dinner at a pub. It was pretty, but there was a short playlist of female top 40 pop songs on loop (Think “Since you been gone” over and over again).

I am absolutely exhausted. I need some sleep. It feels like I’ve been awake for two days. Sure, hostels are cheap, but I’m staying at a B&B tonight and getting a home-cooked breakfast in the morning. This is going to be a lot of work, but also a little fun. I’ll also be writing blogs and then posting them a day or two later because I will only have Internet access when I hit up cafes or libraries, so pardon if I write in the present tense about things that happened days ago. Over and out.

The next morning…
At breakfast this morning (it was enormous—food coma time), I chatted with a couple from Dublin doing a little golf vacationing. They really liked hearing me ramble on about America. Then the nice owner of the house was trying to let me connect to her wireless Internet. I feel bad that it was such a trouble for her, but she eventually found the right password. So thank her for this post. Time to go see nature.

Sappy, Sappy and More Sappy

I feel like this inside. With tears in my eyes, I leave the greatest place I've ever called home. Harvard, fair Quincy, I will miss thee. More important than the place, I hugged away the the greatest people I've ever called friends. Of course, most of us will see each other again. That promise, however true it may be, does not make it any easier to deal with the loss. I'm definitely going to have a little identity crisis without Quincy. It was just such a huge part of me. Ok, I'm getting a little weepy thinking about it and writing this. Man tears. Whew. I can guarantee you that I will break down on this trip in the next week. I actually think it will be great to have a little reflection time wandering around alone in Ireland. Maybe on a mountain trail overlooking a beautiful lake. Maybe in my car. Maybe at the local pub. Wherever it is--don't fear--I will let it you hear all about it. For those looking for adventure in this blog, well don't give up on me yet. I haven't even left Boston yet. Too bad Ireland doesn't have bears or snakes or anything dangerous because I would go wrestle whatever poisonous, sharp-toothed thing out there. Ok, time to board.

Beard

I've decided to go caveman style while I'm in Ireland. I'm shaving for Commencement (tomorrow) and then letting myself get shaggy. I think the proper term is "uber-sexy." This is what I may look like when I return to the States. I can only hope to be as happy.

Every New Beginning...

is another beginning's end. I'll be trekking (actually driving, biking, and hiking) through the beautiful and sparsely populated western coast of Ireland from June 8-July 22. My only companion will be a backpack full of nothing more than the bare necessities of life such as a bottle opener, a handgun, a rusty syringe, and duct tape. Oh, and a few nudie magazines. Come here to find the unofficial version of my experiences research-writing for Let's Go Publications.

I've been warned that I will likely run the gamut of human emotions out on the road alone. I am prepared. Along with the important items mentioned above, I am bringing: 1) a picture of an ex-girlfriend to burn in rage; 2) a soft, cuddly puppy; 3) voodoo dolls of my roommates; 4) my blankie; 5) more nudie magazines.

I've been to Ireland once before. I took lots of pictures, but because I will be uploading plenty new ones from this coming summer, I will only post a single photo from my previous trip. Most photos will probably prominently feauture my beautiful smiling face as I roll around in the grass by myself. A few photos might be of actual things I'm doing and places I'm going.

It will be a little odd graduating then immediately hopping on a plane to madly rush around Ireland, but as soon as I get my feet under me and my senses readjusted, I will post regularly. Please respond to my posts or email me at jamesparkersharp@gmail.com. I will indeed get lonely and the more contact of any sort that I get, the more likely it is that I will not resort to using the aforementioned voodoo dolls.