Tuesday, October 30, 2007

Meandering down to Kilkenny

Paul and I woke up at 8:30, showered, and went to the airport to get a rental car. The plan was that Paul and I would get the car while the girls went to Mass at St. Mary's Pro-Cathedral (anyone know what makes a cathedral a "pro"?). Well, we got on a local bus (2 euro), and got to the airport in about a half an hour. While on the bus, I asked someone what time it was and he said, "8:00". I thought it was 9:00, so needless to say I was confused. It turns out that during that the night before was daylight savings. We all of the sudden had added an hour to our day.

When we got to the airport, we picked up a small 4-door Nissan, and drove away – yes, it was really that easy. It took about 10 minutes to get to downtown Dublin driving on the wrong (left) side of the road. We parked where I thought Catrina had pointed out to me on a map, but it turned out that she was pointing to the north side of the river, and we parked on the south side – so we had to walk about a half a mile up to the cathedral, but still made it in time for Mass. I came in at the point where everyone has to turn to the person next him and shake hands. The priest's accent was inaudible, so when this part came, Paul and I turned to each other and the people around us and said, "Pleased to meet you, pleased to meet you…" When Catrina and Laura found out what we had said, they explained to us that we were supposed to be saying, "Peace be with you." Again, the priest really didn't annunciate very well.

During Mass, we looked around and couldn't see the girls. When we got out, we walked around the Cathedral and still didn't spy them. A couple minutes later, they finally came around the corner. They had been eating breakfast. We asked what went wrong, and apparently they didn't know about the daylight savings change either, so when they showed up for Mass at 9 (which they thought was 10), no one was there, so they walked across town to another cathedral, which unfortunately was neither open nor catholic. So they then decided to eat breakfast in a café.

We walked the half a mile to the car and hit the road. The Irish countryside is about as beautiful as any I've ever seen – especially in the fall. Every shade of yellow, orange, and green were represented and the hills were painted in fire. We lost the main highway pretty quick (I don't know if it was because Laura got shotgun – or on purpose) and drove mainly through the back-country. We stopped in a small town and bought a CD that we hoped would be Irish. When we asked the girl at the music store to give us a CD that is by and Irish artist. She found one then we asked her, "Does it sound Irish?" She turned to her boss and said, "He's old, he'll know…. Is this music Irish-ish?" The guy looked at her with a don't-ask-me look on his face, "ish…." (meaning no). We bought it anyway and it was certainly only Irish-ish, but fun to listen to as we drove. (At least more fun than listening to all that American country music they play on their radio stations).

Paul, at some point along the way, said, "I want to stop at a farmers market." Well, when we drove through a city called Athy, there was a little farmers' market in the main plaza. I got a homemade loaf of apple bread that ended up being our lunch and we talked to some people who were standing near our car. I asked one of them, "What do you do for fun in this city?" He responded without hesitation, "Drink ourselves silly." Typical. We continued on.

As we were pulling into our destination city, Kilkenny, we witnessed an interesting phenomena that rang surprisingly familiar. Droves of people were walking all in the same direction with blankets and jackets –the young boys had a strange hybrid of lacrosse and cricket mallet. We rolled down the window and asked a passerby, "What's going on here?" and they excitedly responded, "It's the country finals! The Shamrocks verses Saint Martin's." Soccer? Rugby? Cricket? We had to know. "What sport?" "Hurling!"

Hurling? Were we going to go? Of course we were going. There was no parking, but our car was small enough to pull up onto a sidewalk (not our idea, we just did what everyone else was doing). We followed the crowds to a large stadium. We asked, "Which side do we have to sit on if we support Saint Martin's?" (I still don't know why we picked St. Martin's, but once we were there, we had become die-hard Martin's fans). The man in the ticket booth said, "Oh, you can sit anywhere, we're all friends here." True to what the man said, most people we asked said that they were neutral and didn't care who won. So, needless to say, when Paul would yell his heart out in favor of St. Martin's he got more than a few awkward stares. Of course the Shamrock's won (they were national champs last year after all), and after it was over everyone went onto the field as the captain, from the stands, lifted the shiny silver cup over his head and gave a Gaelic victory speech (It was actually English, but so hard to understand that Paul attempted to give a translation.)

After the game, we went to see the castle just as it was closing. After that we walked down the main street, over the river and to a restaurant on the corner. I got fish and chips as the TV above us reported the Shamrock's victory from earlier that day. I felt Irish just for a second. We made our way out of the restaurant and asked around until we found a hostel right in the middle of the town. When we paid, everyone pulled what was left of their money, and we had to scrape together coins from everyones pockets til we came up with the amount we owed. We were broke, happy, and heading home in the morning. Good trip.

Sunday, October 28, 2007

Iron & Wine - feelin just fine...

Laura Jane asked us, "Hey guys, what are we doing?" I answered, "Well, we're in Ireland, but that's all I can really think of." Then everyone looked at each other and said, "Oh yeah, we're going to see Iron & Wine!" What an amazing day.


It all started in my dirty, Polish hostel where I was so afraid to leave my bed the night before that I ended up sleeping for 11 hours trying not to touch anything (especially the pillow which i could only mostly cover with a spare shirt). Upon springing from bed, I threw on some clothes, packed up and went to the front desk. I asked the surprisingly clean girl at the desk what I needed to do to vacate my bed (ie. turn in sheets for cleaning), she said, "Eh, just leave." So I left with a sick taste in my mouth, scared I had already contracted TB.

I checked my email and Paul and his friends had made the flight to Dublin, so I went to our meeting spot on the Northeast corner of the O'Connell bridge. I thought they'd be there around 9 or 9:30, but they ended up getting there around 11:30. I discovered that I am absolutely intolerant to waiting. Without a cell phone and the ability to know exactly where someone is and when they will arrive, I shut down. I was pacing up and down the bridge, jumping up on the wall to sit, then jumping down again. But they eventually showed up, and it was like no time had passed at all.

Fist thing we did was walk back to my hostel to grab my bag which I had stashed in a closet. The vomit I almost stepped in the day earlier was still just stagnating outside the door. We walked to a good hostel which I already knew was full and they redirected us to some good hostels. Brown's hostel was very nice and we ended up booking for the night, however, in our quest to find new accommodations, I walked into a hostel and was surprised to be greeted by Marta, the Pollock lady who had checked me into the hostel the day before. She recognized me, and I said, "This place isn't as bad as the other one is it?" And she said, "It's not much better, but that one down the street (the one I'd stayed in) has to be the worst hostel in Ireland." (Not an exact quote - explicatives removed). So, not only was that hostel nasty by my standards and the Moroccan guy who was in the bunk next to me, but it was also admittedly the worst hostel in all of Ireland.

So we checked into Brown's, and away we went. We walked down O'Connell street, across the bridge and past Temple Bar to Trinity College. We walked around the 16th century campus and pretty much talked about how much fun we were having walking the streets of Dublin. As we went from Trinity to St. Stephen's Green, we passed the buskers and flower stands and I felt the reality of the moment. What could have been a simple suggestion, a whim even, from 3 weeks earlier had become a reality - putting us on the other side of the world, seeing things we've never seen before and learning about a people that, before this day, we knew nothing about. That wasn't the only time I felt this way during the weekend, but it was the first.

St. Stephen's Green was indeed green. Nice statues of people I've never heard about, grass and trees. By the time we had walked around Dublin for a few hours, it was lunch time. We went into a pub down the street from the hostel. I had already bought a baguette, so I sat down for a few seconds before excusing myself. As I stepped out of the booth we were sitting in, my foot got caught under the leg of the table and I slowly and awkwardly tumbled to the ground, almost landing on a woman and her daughter - "Yeep!" I got up and said, "Oi, mate!" and then just whispered some embarrassed, half discernible Irish/American/confused phrase and walked out of the pub as the guys in the booth next to us were chuckling.

We took a nap and then left for the Ambassador theatre, where Iron and Wine were performing. I remember buying my ticket online a few weeks ago. I said to myself, "Well, I'm throwing this money away." I didn't have them send me the ticket in the mail because it would have been a lot more likely that I lose them between Utah and Dublin, then if I picked it up when I got there (and when i bought them, it was more like if I get there). But I got there, and that feeling came again - it was real. In fact, standing outside the theatre minutes before the show, Paul said, "Somebody pinch me, am I really here?" I pinched him - it was real.

We walked in and a band called Johnny Flynn and the Sussex Wit played. They definitely had a strong Irish folk sound and really rocked. Go to their MySpace page http://www.myspace.com/johnnyflynn. Again, we were really in Ireland. When Iron & Wine came out, I looked around and noticed that most the guys in the audience were middle aged with beards. Is this some demographic that I didn't know I was a part of? It was awesome because Sam Beam's beard beat them all. And his hair was long and bushy. He had a soft stage presence and his voice is so distinct and clear. The music was awesome. So worth coming to Ireland (ps. They will be performing in Magna, Utah in December).

After the show, we walked out on O'Connell street again and sat down on the base of a statue of Sombody Grey and just watched people go by and laughed a lot. People were dressed in their Halloween costumes and every time a girl would walk close to us, Paul would cry out in the dirtiest Liverpool accent he could conjure, "Helloe, Lovvely!" We would all be embarrassed, but laughing our heads off at the same time.

We ended up walking back to Brown's, only a couple blocks away, and fell easily asleep. A good day in Dublin.

Friday, October 26, 2007

This Irish Life

I'm totally in Dublin right now. It's already been a jolly old time. I arrived at about 8:15 this morning. I found out that it is a holiday weekend in Ireland, so the hostels are all booked up. That kind of freaked me out because I only had plan A and plan B. Plan A was to ask a stranger if I could stay with them. Plan B was to stay in a hostel. Seeing that plan B is the "realistic" plan A, I really have no plan now. Live and learn I guess.

I went to a couple hostels from the Lonely Planet book Paul gave me and sure enough they were all booked up this weekend. So I wandered down one of the main avenues looking for other places to stay and I found one advertising relatively good prices. They had an open bed in one of their 10-bed rooms tonight, so I paid the 15 euro and signed up. The place absolutely reeks, they don't wash the bedding (I'm sure of it), and there is one dim light lighting the whole room. As I walked out of the hostel, I almost stepped in a puddle of vomit. We should definitely try to figure something different out for tomorrow night.

Other than the hostel, though, Dublin is sweet. It's in the 50's, the sky is cloudy, and it's drizzled a little today, but the people are freakin sweet. I talked to a bunch of locals and they're all so jolly and happy to talk to you. I talked to a newspaper stand guy and a bunch of his friends on a street corner. I wanted to know if there was any rugby being played in Dublin this weekend cause I'd really like to watch a math. They told me that they don't like rugby because they always kick the ball off the pitch. It was fun to talk to them. I also met a Andy and John, a couple of gardeners who were working in an elderly woman's Dalia garden. They really liked my accent, and I really liked theirs.


The coolest experience I had today, bar none, was meeting a fellow by the name of Jerry Sloey He's a folk singer/12 string guitarist who was busking down on Grafton Street. I sat there and listened to his deep smoke-scared voice and melodic strumming as I ran my tape recorder. When he was done with his first number, which was quite a dramatic song I might add, he explained to me the meaning of it. It was about the Irish workers who went over to England to dig a tunnel under the Thames and died. He then played another couple songs that he sang from the bottom of his heart. This guy had his teeth half rotten, his long hair pulled back in a pony tail and kept a half-smile the whole time he performed. I'm going to make a podcast called "This Irish Life" based on this experience.

A touching side-note to this story is the homeless kid (probably 25) who came up to Jerry and requested an old Irish song. You could tell that he loved the music that Jerry played. Before Jerry began to play, the homeless kid said, "I'm sorry, I'm homeless and I don't have any money." Jerry said, "Me too, I can't help you, sorry mate." Then the kid, surprised, responded, "No, I just don't have any money to spare that I can put in your guitar case." Jerry then looked at the kid and said, "Don't worry lad, we don't take from our own." Then Jerry played on. I could tell that for the first part of the song, the homeless kid was disturbed that he was listening without contributing to the artist. He pulled a couple 20 cent coins out of his pocket, took one, and threw it in to Jerry's box. For the rest of the song he sang to the choruses. I even joined in for the last few lines (which by that time had been sung about 5 times). It was moving.

Friday, May 04, 2007

Freedom means sleeping on a bench undisturbed

A few words about Amsterdam...
I really didn't know much about this city before arriving this morning. All I ever heard was that pot and prostitution are legal here and that people are super liberal. I once saw a thing on TV about it and a spokesperson for the city said that Amsterdam takes pride in being the "Freest city in the world." Today, however, I discovered that Amsterdam is not so free afterall.

It was early. I got of the plane in Einhoven and took a bus to the train station, then a train to Amsterdam. After a night on a bench in the Madrid airport, and all that movement when I arrived in Holland, I was tired to say the least. On the train from Eindhoven to Amsterdam there were grass-covered fields surrounded by flower-covered pastures. I was sitting there day-dreaming of laying down in the grass, then I got to the city, and it was all cobblestone and pavement. I walked from the train station to Dam Square (you heard me - 'Dam Square') and then walked as far as I could from downtown trying to find a grassy park. The best thing I could find was a bench next to a bridge by a canal in the middle on nowhere. I layed down on a bench with a book on my chest, then drifted peacefully asleep for a couple of hours.

I would have kept sleeping had I not been interrupted by someone pulling on the towel I had laid over my eyes. I slapped the hand, then it just kept pulling at my towel, so I jumped up, pulled the towel from my eyes and as soon as I realized who I was about to scream at, I decided to sit and listen. It was two police officers looking down at me. I said, "What's the problem?"

"No sleeping." the older of the two said.

"I was reading a book, " I answered.

"You were not, you were sleeping. You may not sleep. It is illegal."

I was flabberghasted. Taken abback. I sat there with my jaw open wondering how on earth it could be illegal to fall asleep under a tree next to a canal, but legal to smoke pot and buy a prostitute. But then the officer said one last thing as he walked away.

"You're making more work for me."

Aha! The root of the "free" Dutch society. Cracking down on drugs and prostitution was just too much work. It's not worth it to put forth the effort to try and stop something, so let's make it leagal in the name of "freedom!" Well, I just wish they would have decided to make a napping under a tree legal too.

Wednesday, May 02, 2007

Sleeping at the airport in Madrid

Tonight I´m going to sleep in the airport. Unfortunately I wasn´t thinking when I baught a super-cheap airplane ticket from madrid to Amsterdam. My plane leaves at 6:00AM and no busses start until after 6. So I had to make a descision... do I pay for a taxi to the airport, or do I sleep at the airport and use my metro day pass, which I.ve been using since this morning. The choice was pretty obvious.

No real point to this post, but I thought you might like to know that I.m tough.

Holy Toledo!

We took a day trip out of town to a city called, you guessed it, Toledo. You may think that Toledo is a city in Ohio (you may also think that Moskow is only a city in Idaho), but Toledo is actually the ancient capital of Spain -- and it´s beautiful. The city itself is surrounded on three sides by a rolling river in a deep gorge. It is the perfect position for a fuedel fortress. It is in Toledo that Christopher Colombus came to ask Queen Isabella for the money to go to India. If he could navagate through the windy streets of Toledo, it´s no wonder he could brave the Pacific.

Tuesday, May 01, 2007

A catholic black market... mmm

Okay, so Syndey is a Rick Steves Nazi and rely's on his advice to get around European cities. I am more of the school fo Jack Karouac, a free bird who travels one step at a time and give no thougth to the road ahead and only blog about the road behind.

Though i am reluctant to admit it, Rick Steves did lead us to a pretty nice adventure this morning. We walked into a back alley behind the Mercado Meyor, to a convent. At the convent, we buzzed the nuns on the intercom and when they answered I said "dulces" (sweets). They rang us in and said "It's 5.50 euro." We followed some signs back through the convent that led to a room with nothing but a revolving door/lazy susan. Basically, there were nuns behind the lazy susan demanding that we buy what we have in front of us for 5.50. As we stumbled to pull out the money, they kept saying "5.50!" because they couldn't see us (I can think of about 6 better ways of running their business, but that's what makes it so fun). We put the money on the table, but because they couldn't see us, and I didn't want them yelling anymore, I said, "I left your money." Then we walked out of the convent and it turns out that the "dulces" were actually pretty good.

Only in Madrid on the 29th of April

Well, I needed to go into more detail about the actual bull fight that we saw. We just happened to be at a bull fight where the Matador not only killed the bull (turns out the bull never wins... talk about a misnomber-- they should call it a bull execution), but the Matador executed the bull with such finess that grown men were in tears because they had never seen such a fight. To us, uncultured Americans, the only difference between this particular round and the others of the night was the crowd. It was like watching raja bell hit a last minute 3-pointer to beat the Clippers in overtime. Every time the bull ran through the Matador's red cape, the crowd went wild with "Ole"s. When the Matador finally ran the bull through with his sword, the crowd erupted, and trew their hands in the air, waiving white handkerchiefs and screaming. The matador recieved the bull's ears as a prize for such a good fight and then he took a vicotory lap around the ring was people threw their hats. At the end of the night he was carried out on the shoulders of his team and the crowd was again on its feet. We definately should have brought a white handkerchief.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/bullfights

La Bull Fight y The poor lady's shoulder

It's crazy. Madrid is crazy. Have you ever seen a man moved to tears as he drives his sword through the trobbing heart of a full-grown bull? Quite the intense experience. When we got off the plane, we went strait to Ventas where the bull fighting arena is and since we were a half an hour early I had a chance to talk to this old spaniard about what seats are the best. It turns out that seating prices are entirely based on whether you sit in the 'sol' (sun) or 'sombra'(shade). The tickets go for as little as 4.20, but can exceed 120 euro. We chose to sit in the half sun, half shade, on the highest level. Luckily we got to sit in the very front of the highest level, from which it feels like you are floating above the bullfighters as they perform.



As we sat watching, my little sister, Sydney, needed to go to the little sinorita's room and needed her ticket from me. As I reached for my pocket, my elbow hit the whisky vendor who was passing by. My immediate reaction was to retract my arm, but in doing so I tapped the 2 litre water bottle between me and my sister. From that point, all I could do was watch as the bottle fell from the bench to our feet, then roll from our feet, through the bars in front of us and fall about 20 surprisingly graceful feet onto an unsuspectin Signora below. We all cringed, but what a scene it caused. The old man behind us yelling, but reassuring us that it was an accident, the people below us, waterlogged and looking up to see the source of all the commotion. After about 5 minutes a couple of police officers, seeing that the lady who was hit by the water bottle was clenching her arm, came and took her off (to who knows where). The noise subsided, and people continued to watch the fight, and despite the deep feeling in my stomach that we were going to get in trouble somehow, no one from below even tried to confront us and the show went on.

Friday, April 27, 2007

Collide with Europe

Next week will in no way be like this week. This week I was working my quasi-grownup job (ie. I have to wear a collared shirt and slacks and send emails). Next week I will be watching a Matador take down a full grown bull in Madrid and prancing among the tulips of Amsterdam.

So how did all this come about? After all, it's not everyday you pack your quart-sized backpack and travel around the world. Two weeks ago I thought I'd be confined to my steaming room in Provo, studying accounting and working my somewhat-adult job before driving up to Seattle to do an internship. But my sister and Mom already had a trip to Amsterdam planned and as their departure date arrived, I started to get 'the itch', and my mind started drifting off trying to work out a way that I could be on that plane with them. In the end, of course my instincts got the best of me, I dropped all my classes for the Spring, and had bought tickets to Europe.

I have no idea what I've gotten my self into, but I live for this kind of thing. You'll probably hear from me again in Madrid.