You can’t write something more poetic than these pictures.
Archive for the 'ireland' Category
Booked my ticket to Brussels, tomorrow. Short train ride (1.5 hours or so, I believe) from there to Amsterdam. If I have time, I�m going to have lunch with a friend of mine from Nice who lives in Waterford, Ireland. It�s been raining since last night, here, and it�s starting to really annoy me. Especially since it�s so inconsistent: It�ll be pouring down rain, then the next minute the clouds will open up and everything will be bathed in perfect sunshine. Then another ten minutes passes and it starts to drizzle, proceeding quickly to yet another downpour. It�s maddening.
Cork
…actually reminds me of Providence, minus the tall buildings. Ok, minus the tall buildings and anything done to it in the last 15 years. Yea, maybe Providence with no high rises in the dark ages of the 1980’s. There’s a nice looking river, about the breadth of the Providence River, running through the middle of town. To the east, a hill a bit smaller than College Hill, but with the same sort of sloping and plenty of antique looking houses. To the north, rather than a valley like we have in Providence, the hill curves around. Imagine elevating Pawtucket a few hunded feet and you’d achieve roughly the same effect.
When I wrote this down, the road I was on also sort of reminded me of Jeremy’s ‘funcut’ off 146 near his house. The bus driver’s driving like Jer, too, so, therefore, I feared for my life.
The municipal buses in Cork are the exact same as the ones in Sydney. Different upholstery, of course, and ad placements, but basically the same.
Blarney
Yea, I kissed the stone. Wasn’t quite what I envisioned. A lot smaller, for one, and the position you have to get yourself in is insane. I had these anglo-american tourist girls take my picture. I’ll try and upload it from Amsterdam or Berlin. There’s not really a whole lot to say other than I’m thankful I didn’t wreck my digital camera in the rain. That and more places should take American Express. Wow, was this my least inspired update yet, or what? 
Much love, guys.
I took the train this morning to Galway. I honestly just wanted to see something other than another big city, so Galway was it. It’s extremely small and (searching for the bon mot) rustic, perhaps. I did the touristy thing, which is rare right now since tourist season doesn’t start for another two months, which was to take the tour bus. Was pretty cool, actually.
The whole area of the west is one of the last remaining bastions of native Irish-speakers, so we passed numerous schools were everything was taught solely in Irish (something I didn’t know still existed) as well as numerous local shop-windows or pubs that advertised solely in Irish. Most notably in this regard, there is an election coming up I believe next monday. The political parties here are canvassing everything everywhere in an attempt to swing it (the same in every other country). The difference is that in Galway, as opposed to Dublin, all the signs are completely Irish.
Revelation
I wear my claddagh ring always. I always knew the story behind it, but one element baffled me: the crown on top. Why the hell would the Irish, of all people, honor the crown in something that has become sort of a national symbol? Must be loyalist trickery, I always supposed, that the Irish put up with because it was too old to change, sort of like the orange on the flag. Today, though, there was a revelation. It is meant to symbolize loyalty, but I had the kings wrong. Apparently, the little village of Claddagh was extremely against the Norman invasion. So much so that the Normans built the walls of old Galway city so as to keep well out of their way. The people of Claddagh recognized their own king, king of the village of Claddagh. Thus when Joyce, the talented silver worker, set out to perfect his design on the ring, he put the crown on there as a symbol of his loyalty to his village king. Apparently there is still a king of Claddagh, though it’s only ceremonial. They elect a new one every three years.
One downside
I finally discovered one thing I can’t stand about some Irishmen: they don’t shut the hell up. This guy in Galway today was so keen on getting his sentence out, no matter what it had to do with, that he’d cut you off in midsentence if the thought occured to him. Sometimes it’d be such a non-sequitor that the rest of the people round the table would stop and stare. He didn’t mind, he’d just keep talking. Extremely nice guy, this one, so I didn’t mind all that much, and he seemed decently intelligent, but about the fourth time he cut me off I just started laughing with the Australian guy across the table from me. Oi…
Guestbook
Sign the guestbook. Tell me you’re here, reading, etc. Makes me feel good. Link at right.
Ugh, what a wasted day. I felt horrible last night when I went to bed, my stomach bothered my all night, and when I finally slept, I slept, in typical Brian fashion, through everything. I woke up at 1:00PM, really pissed at myself. Completely wasted day. Even if I could have gotten a train then to Galway or Cork, I would have had to turn right around and come back as soon as I got there. Grr… so now I’m faced with a tough decision: Decide between Cork or Galway for tomorrow (a tough decision in its own right) or stay an extra day. If I’m reading the Irish Ferries web site correctly, then I might have to stay another day, anyway. I’ll find out when I go to Hueston Station tonight.
Also, I’ve been reading about the trip I’m going to have to take to get to Amsterdam. Ouch. Looking at something like a 26hr+ trip. At least 2 hours to Connaght, then, and this is where my stomach starts turning, an 18 hour boat ride to Cherbourg. Then it’s Cherbourg to Paris, Paris to Amsterdam. Ouch. Ouch.
a flash
lights on the liffey, swaying people on o’connell st., a left, a right, a left, no ey’s not down, ey’s restin’, lost but happy, silent streets with echoes of ‘summer dreams’ from Grease, somehow leads to thinking of ‘It’s the End of the World as we know it,’ alone with everybody, turn back ‘round, cross ha’penny bridge, deep eyes on the homeless girl ‘spare a Euro or two, sir?’ would you sink, would you sink? guy in front bumps into an old woman, seems like he did it just so he could say ‘excuse me.’ is that the definition of loneliness? What if every day and every night were like this? ‘I’ll give you a Euro if you talk to me,’ he whispered. It’s a long night for some, every night an eternity for others…
I feel like crap. I’m going back to the hostel to chill. I’m going to Cork to kiss the Blarney Stone tomorrow morning. Need some sleep.
1) The Kitchen closed down indefinitely one week ago today. I had been hoping to go there since this trip started. Ouch.
2) I now understand, have internalized, what Richard Ashcroft meant when he titled his album Alone with Everybody. Here I am in a big city, and I know no one. It’s odd. For basically the entirety of my natural life, I could count on walking in somewhere and knowing at least one person. It’s something I’ve come to socially rely on. In Dublin, the only people I really know are the members of U2. And they do not know me. I’m just another of their billions of fans, to them. This relates definitively to Fight Club, and Jack’s Single Serving Friends. The friends I meet on this trip, with the exceptions of the friends I met through extended contact (Nice people), are single serving friends. I meet them, use them or their time up like the little sugar packets on airline flights, then they’re gone. In a trash bin, or their next destination, or enviably home to loved ones.
After an excellent night on the town in London last night that got us home at close to 4AM, I woke up at a reasonable hour and got my stuff together. Mild issues because of how much I’ve taken out of my bag. I planned to send it home via Royal Mail (british post office) but the timing just did not work out. So I carried two plastic bags worth of spare clothing across London to get to Stanstead Airport. I missed my first plane and had to pay 40� to transfer the ticket. God bless Capitalism. It worked out, and I sat across the row from an extremely cute and curious little kid. His father slept the whole way so I kept him occupied. Funny as hell. I wish I were a kid again. Wouldn’t it be great if you could occupy an hour just playing with and admiring one claddagh ring? Think of all the movies you wouldn’t have to see. I could at least forget I ever saw Daylight with Stallone.
I also met some girls from Chicago on the plane. We’re gonna go to the Kitchen which is a club owned by U2. It’s in the basement of their hotel, the Clarence. Should be a good time.
The International Youth Hostel, where I’m staying, is sort of in the ghetto. I hesitate to put this here because I know my mom’s going to start subtly flipping out, but I thought I would anyway. (Yes, I know that makes you ask all sorts of questions about what I write here and what I don’t, my thoughts on audience, etc. but just deal with it, ok? It’s sort of an essential irony of this site) It’s to the north of the Liffey River, but not all that far off O’Connell Street, which is sort of the main north-south thoroughfare here in Dublin. It’s like Guinness: the further away from Dublin you go, the worse it is. Same for O’Connell St.: the further away you go, the worse it is. My hostel is the pail. The last bastion of buildings that look like they should be standing before slums take over. A little unnerving, especially since I’m going to have to walk home probably pretty late tonight. Tempted to taxi it, but that depends on rates.
I hope everyone’s doing well. Much love.
Preceding entry should have been posted last night, but due to technical difficulties was not. Sorry for any confusion.