I definitely need to get out of here. Updates later from a non-insane place. Holy God…
Archive for the 'mwt' Category
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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…
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.
I’ve been at chez Karavias for a few days now. It is perfect. You know how, with most houses, there’s always that little something that you don’t like, the one bush that’s sort of shaggy and doesn’t look right, the off-kilter towel on the rack in the bathroom, maybe you don’t quite approve of the color scheme in the living room. It might be very subtle, you may not know that you’re doing it, but everyone does. I never noticed until I got here because that part of my head that decided what it didn’t like, what didn’t look right, feel right in some way, was completely silent. Everything was absolutely comfortable, beautiful, most things in an intricate sort of way, but done in a livable manner. It doesn’t feel like a musuem house, where everything is beautiful and arranged and nice, just don’t touch anything. Form follows function, here, and the living experience it creates is an intensely pleasurable one. When you add that to the fact that Nadia’s mom is an excellent cook (just now nice smells I can’t even recognize are wafting through the house), the whole family is funny, witty, and full of warm conversation, as well as the presence of a 50-inch Pioneer plasma tv, I really don’t want to leave. I think Nadia’s starting to get annoyed with me, as I’ve been saying ‘Thank you, again, by the way,’ about every five minutes. I don’t care, really. After Nice, and before the controlled, amazing chaos that is sure to be the rest of this trip, not only is this place perfect objectively, it’s perfect for me.
One of the biggest, greatest cities in the world, and I can’t really decide what to do. I went and saw Blade II, which was pretty cool, and it was really refreshing to be around huge sound and a decent sized screen after the blah-ness of Nice. Now I’m again at Trafalgar Square, which is a beautiful place if you discount the pigeons. Internet access, at least here, at EasyInternetCafe (a sister company of EasyJet—we so need these people in America) is extremely cheap, in comparison to what I’ve been used to these last few months: 1� an hour. Easy. That’s like a buck fifty, and, when compared to my cable modem at home, is still extortion, but the economics at home are much, much different. I’ve resigned myself to that, now. Ah well. Going to stay with Nadia tomorrow for a few days, so I think I can update from there, maybe. Much love.
If Providence broke out all the stops to keep me there, Nice was happy to see me go. Don’t let the door smack you on your way out. It was spitting down rain, making things generally pretty miserable. The hot water was once again protesting, as any self-respecting French appliance should, work before 10 in the morning. The only thinga I will truly miss in Nice are the people I met there, and most of those will be gone by the end of this month, anyway.
What could have happened—I need a place to stay, mate.—Meter’s running, he said, pointing.—I can see that, thanks.—Meter’s running, I mean, he said, as if he had somehow been in error the first time.—Ok, I need a place to stay, sir, do you have any suggestions?—You can’t stay with me, the meter’s running.—Ok, thanks, have a nice day, I said, opening the door.
I don’t care whose luck it is…
We all know I’m, well, a dumbass. Many times I just do things without really thinking about what is actually being done. Absent minded, as we, the absent minded, refer to ourselves. This absent-mindedness sometimes results in striking, horrifying realizations. Like today, for example, when I took of my sunglasses at the Thomas Cooke Bureau de Change where I do what you do at those places. I left them there on the bloody counter, which, by the way, is behind two security deboarding checks as well as customs. It took a small hole that opened up in the trademark gray London sky. It was a bit harsh and I moved to get my sunglasses. Startling, horrifying realization. Luckily, the lady at the info desk was extremely helpful (one can only imagine and shudder at what the situation would have been if this woman were French) and called around for me. A cleaning lady with a right tackle looking guy of a security escort came out to bring them to me. When I was effusive in thanking them all, the cleaning lady turned around and said ‘Well, you know, thank you for letting me do my nice deed for the day,’ then walked away. I love the English. It’s so good to be here.
London Town
My hotel is crap, and, given that I’m in the second most expensive metropolis in the world, I’m paying 40� a night for 2 nights for it. I don’t have a bathroom, the entire floor I’m on smells strongly of urine, the bed sinks to the point it looks like that couch in the Reebok commercial, except that it’s also tiny (I know the British in general are not, well, a large people, but this is a little ridiculous. My feet actually do stick off the end. I immediately thought of Road to Wigan Pier’s first chapter, where he describes the conditions of the house he’s investigating. Nowhere near as bad as it was in 1930, obviously, the place would be out of business otherwise, but the bed leans more that way than anything made after 1950.). The location of this hotel, though, is the entirety of its goodness, so to speak. The window looks out onto a small, intricate garden and a terrasse where people have afternoon tea (yea, they actually do that). Birds sing, and air lightly scented with flowers (a more talented and worldy writer would tell you what flowers, but sorry I’ve no such horticultural distinction) washes away, at least temporarily, the ever-present scent of urine. Down the street-literally, it’s less than a block away-is the British Museum. It’s rather cool to know that you’re a block from one of the greatest collections of knowledge on Earth. I had never been there, before, so that was the first thing I did today.
The Rosetta Stone
What a cool experience. I figured it to be bigger, somehow. I also always thought of it, though, as having been written with the express purpose of relating the language of formal hieroglyphics. It was really rather ordinary, though, but much has been inferred from it. It was a decree that established, of all things, a formal cult in Egypt. It’s odd to look at something so small, a gateway through which so much knowledge has been gained. It’s something visible through which one feels the connections that connect everything and everybody on the planet.
One of my friends got me thinking: they asked me if this had been a good experience, this whole Nice trip. Images that flashed in my head immediately were of Ross getting robbed at gunpoint, the guy on the moto snagging that lady’s bag on the Promenade des Anglais, paying 9EU for a mediocre spaghetti bolagnaise, seeing things raised in price steadily every day for 2 weeks as tourist season approached. These were not good experiences, things that did not reflect well on my time here. Seeing my hesitation, my friend offered ‘Valuable experience, perhaps?’ Perhaps.
My french has improved drastically; I have met absolute quality people; my understanding of French civilization has changed a bit (and no, despite my complaining, it’s not all negative); I’ve had time to read inordinate amounts of books that I had always meant to read; I’ve seen Venice and San Remo and crossed northern Italy by train; I’ve been in 3 countries in under a week, when at home if I’m in 3 states in a week, that’s a record; I was here for an election that very well might change the nature of the French Republic. These have been valuable, positive experiences, in fact magnified and put in perspective by the previously mentioned negative ones. I am a better, more interesting person for having been through them, and that was the whole goal of this trip.
But I’d still prefer it if all my clothes didn’t smell like smoke.
Two Minds
I’ve been of two minds lately. The one mind is unbelievably psyched for the next phase of this trip, and with good reason. I don’t know if I’ll be able to see everything I want to see (Italy itself might have to wait for the dedicated trip it deserves), but the trip itself will, undoubtedly, be well worth the trouble. The other mind, which has been gaining ground in my internal civil war, is the one that intensely misses home. I’m hesitant to even write about it because it depresses me, but I’ll be with friends in a few minutes, my mood inevitably lightened. This second mind, called to the fore at the most random moments, like when it’s just rained (as it just did) and there’s this pure bit of mingling white light in the clouds that takes me instantly to Kaitlin’s eyes last summer (oh how things have changed), makes me want to just say ‘screw it to the whole rest of the trip and go home and be around people I love again. That’s really what it is, what it always is, the ongoing war between emotion and rational thought. Heart and mind. My mind knows, objectively, that this is one of the greatest opportunities i’m ever going to have, and not only that but few otehr people, comparitively, are as blessed as I am in this and many regards. Logically, that should be the end of it. Emotionally, all I’m able to imagine is little league games down at Fargnoli, my sister singing constantly through the house, Mom gardening with Clancy always at her side. My mind counters with images of O’Connell St., the spires of Prague, buzzing diesel engines around the Colisseum in Rome. I have an intellectual attachment to these things, but I have an emotional attachment to home and its people. This trans-Atlantic, intra-corps battle is with me every waking moment. No rest for the bless-ed.