Stop and Think

I'll pick up more on my Sunday in Scotland soon, which was absolutely charming, but I wanted to post quickly about something before going on the piss to celebrate the end of classes. Twice today I was struck by something where I actually had to stop and think as to the last time it happened.

First, I was complaining to the roommates that I had had it with the cancelling of classes without notice. I know this is my American sensibility clashing with Irish style, but I really don't see why an email can't be sent out saying - sorry, your Constitutional Law lecture is cancelled today. Three times this week I showed up to lectures that didn't happen. My roommate's response to why this seemed to be happening with increasing frequency? "Well, near the end of the term, soomtimes they get ahead of shed-ule and cancel class." I had to stop and think (unsuccessfully it turned out) of the last time a class at any level finished ahead of the syllabus.

Second, as I was walking home from class today, the sun was shining bright and there was a big blue sky above. Certainly, there were clouds, but above was a great expanse of blue. I had to stop and think - when was the last time I'd seen a big blue sky? I concluded that it had been in Ireland but I was at a loss as to when it was. Perhaps the first time I'd actually longed for home since being here.

Not even the lack of Fritos had inspired that.

On Saturday I was up early to grab my full Scottish breakfast on the way to the first tour bus of the morning. The 'full Scottish' is quite similar to the 'full Irish,' except you don't get a white or black pudding (darn) and you do get a heaping portion of beans (double darn). Yes, beans for breakfast. I don't really mind beans but it just throws me off. Bacon, egg, toast, sausage, scone, cereal, juice, and . . . beans. Anyway, it was definitely a fill-you-up breakfast, plus it's all you can eat. The more I think about it the more I wonder why people stay in hotels at all. Resorts I can understand, but if you're touring a place where you want to get out and see the sights, why bother with a hotel? You'd pay in around €85 to stay in a hotel, while the B&B was €49, plus none of this 'continental breakfast' foolishness. You get a real meal.

I got myself downtown and hopped on the city tour bus. Although it was pretty cold and overcast, I sat up top so as to get better pictures, like this one of Glasgow University's ventilated spire.
I have to repeat that the tour was one of a few really great deals in Glasgow - I paid £6.25 for a student ticket, which gave you a guided tour of the city with great unobstructed views in about an hour and a half, plus the hop-on hop-off anywhere you like in the city feature - for the next 48 hours! Not to mention the free headphones for listening to the tour, which you get to keep.

After a full loop on the bus I hopped off at The People's Palace, a museum on far eastern side of town. It's dedicated to the people of Glasgow and the history of the city. And here I found out about another Glasgow deal: all its museums are free. One of the cool features here was that they use a lot of recordings of actual residents telling their memories. Also, the temporary exhibit was a showing of photographs from the Glasgow Camera Club's survey of the city in 1955. I especially liked the picture of some tenement kids playing make believe with three empty boxes. In the middle of the exhibit, there was a place to leave comments if you could remember 1955, and one man had written, and I paraphrase, "we shared whatever we had to play with throughout the building. Looking back I suppose we never really had much, but the truth is we wanted for nothing."

After the Palace, I walked through the massive Glasgow Green, stopping to check out the Clydesdales grazing at outside the police station. At the other end of the Green I grazed through the Barras, which is Glasgow's enormous weekend flea market. Like most flea markets there was a lot more stuff on the cheap DVDs end of the spectrum than on the unusual antique end, but I suppose that's part of the fun. My guide book says there are thousands of booths, but I'm going to say it was more like 200 or so.

I hopped back on the bus to get to downtown and the shopping district, which is mind-blowingly large. The tour says it is second only London for its shopping. What I liked was down some of the side streets you could find some of the more quaint and unusual shops, like an old fashioned magic shop, a store that sold just models, stuff like that. After hiking around there and not buying much I took the bus over to the beginning of my self-directed pub crawl. On the bus, I sat behind a couple that caught my attention. She was so very in love with her hubby it could almost give you a headache. He would turn to point something out to her, she would cuddle up to him. He had trouble working out his headphones, she giggled. He put on his fleece cap, she gives him a dopey-eyed look and giggles more because he just looks oh-so-cute. Thing is, they were in their 50s. I couldn't decide if that made it sweet or mildly insane.

I started at the Scotia Bar, which is allegedly the oldest pub in Glasgow. It was very cool inside - dimly lit, low ceilings with exposed beams and very dark wood everywhere.
There was a big football match for one of the Scotland teams that day, and an 8 x 11 piece of paper on the door announced: NO FOOTBALL COLOURS. It was there I overheard this conversation between a guy at the bar and another man who looked old enough to be his grandfather (including tweed jacket and cigar).

Young guy: "Yu want anootha Beck's?"

Granddad: "No, aem ulrighte."

Young guy: "A Guinness, then?"

Granddad: "Ooo kee, a Beck's."

Next up was Babbity Bowster's. The interior here was the opposite of the Scotia. Bright and clean white walls, with very high ceilings. Here, about 12 people gathered in one corner and played folk music. There were guitars, violins, flutes and other traditional instruments. It had the feel of an open-mic gathering, as there was no stage, players filtered in and out, and they all had a drink in front of them.

At Blackfriar's I learned that Lisa Loeb has a clone. She cheerfully works the bar there and entertains the regulars, who seem to love the slot machine more than her. Dummies. I had planned to eat there, but the kitchen was closed. Oh well.

I made it over to Rab Ha's just before they closed their kitchen and got a great meal of Haddock and Chips (and peas).

A couple pints at the Western Bar closed it out and I was off to bed tired but happy.

From Glasgow with Peas

Now this is a city. More than one person, upon hearing I was going to Glasgow for the weekend, remarked that it was too bad I hadn't chosen Edinburgh, as it was the much better city. Although I have not been to Edinburgh, I just cannot see how this is possible (the truth is I didn't choose Glasgow as much as it was the city I could get a flight to for cheap). Here is what Glasgow can offer you: if you like architecture, pubs, art, clubbing, or especially shopping, Glasgow has it in spades.

I arrived on Friday via no-frills airline Ryan Air on a flight which took half as long as the bus ride from my house to the airport: about 45 minutes. How no-frills is Ryan Air? There are no seat assignments. That's right, general admission. We were up and down before you knew it, so I didn't mind getting a seat in the middle of the row at the back of the plane.

From Prestwick airport, it's a 45 minute train ride to city center, 5 minute walk to the subway, 10 more minutes on the subway and then a meandering walk around town until I finally find my hotel. The hotel was on Alexander Terrace, which, where I'm from, just means a short street in a new subdivision. In Scotland, it was quite literal. Above a set of storefronts, set in the side of a hill, was a wide walkway and a row of four story buildings including my hotel.

I checked in and headed back downtown. After all the running around, it was almost 4pm. I had landed at noon. Oh well. I hustled to George's Square in an attempt to make the last open top tour bus. I missed it by a few minutes, but this actually turned out to be a lucky break - the next day I got a ticket first thing in the morning and learned it was good for 48 hours, hop on and off anywhere in the city. So I walked around the square and took in a few of the statues and incredible buildings surrounding it.



I tried to walk to a couple of minor attractions after that, but things were closing up. Next, the weather turned terrible. It had been windy and cold since I arrived, but it started to rain and quickly turned into a downpour. Plus I was starving and thirsting for a wee drop. I followed my excellent guidebook's suggestion (Footprint Glasgow) as to the best pub in town: The Horse Shoe.

This pub has the largest island bar I have ever seen, with plenty of friendly staff jumping about to serve everyone. It was the right kind of crowded when I arrived - a bustling, happy to be out of work crowd for a nice Friday, but I was still able to find a nice spot to sit near the fire. You don't usually think of pub décor to be visually appealing, but at The Horse Shoe, it was.

At the bar, I was reminded of the old Saturday Night Live skit that goes - no pepsi, coke. You want coke. I went up and asked if they had a Carlsberg.

"No Carlsberg. Tennet's?" She offered, directing me to the local brew.

"Um, do you have a Miller?" Don't ask me why, but Miller Genuine Draft is a huge seller in Ireland. Even though you can't find a Miller Lite to save your life.

"No Miller. I have Tennet's." She looked at me expectantly.

"Tennet's it is." When in Rome . . .

I sat by the fire and realized not all the smokiness was coming from it. A gentleman came in with a load of shopping bags smoking a cigar. I cleared a space at the bench I had covered with my stuff.

"No reason for me to take up two spots."

"Ooo great, sew long as ya don't mind me smoke. Gut to get in me last few puffs."

My benchmate soon explained that Scotland's ban on smoking was to go into effect on Sunday. It was strange to be back in a bar with smoke. It does give the atmosphere that I expect in a bar, but of course it's so much nicer without it. I talked a bit, drank a bit, and generally just tried to dry out and soak in The Horse Shoe.

Consulting my guidebook, the weather, and my general mood, I realized that it would be silly to try and tour the city at 6pm on a Friday. I picked out a spot to eat and one to drink, and headed out.

At The Maltman, I had a typical Scottish meal: the smothered chicken breast. Take a cooked chicken breast, pour barbecue sauce on it (do not marinate or cook it with the sauce - this is wrong), top it with Canadian bacon and melted cheddar. Serve with fries and peas. Yes peas. Welcome to Scotland. Here is where I experienced something I never have in Ireland, and it would recur throughout the weekend. Scottish people couldn't understand my accent. Even my trick of talking slowly and over enunciating did no good. Eventually, I risked being seen as condescending and imitated their accent to the best of my ability. This did work.

I stopped quickly at The Pot Still, a nice pub with a strange name. There was a big sign outside explaining where the name came from, but in the pouring rain I didn't have the patience to read the seven paragraph explanation. The staff was friendly here, chatting away with me, as much as they struggled to understand. The Pot Still has over 500 types of Scottish Whisky to choose from, and they're displayed on shelves that reach to the ceiling - they even have one of those ladders on rails like you'll see at a library or bookstore to reach them all. One thing I noticed was becoming a pattern was that there are no stools up at the bar. Over the course of my research, I found that about three of four Scottish pubs do not have stools at the bar. This would be fine if I was travelling with a group, but where it's just me I feel a bit strange taking up a whole table, especially when it's crowded like it was at The Pot Still.

Heeding the "when in Rome" tenet, I asked the bartender to recommend a whisky for me, keeping in mind that I almost never drink it. He brought me a fine Glen-Fiddle-Macka-Something. It was good with my Guinness, but I'd have to admit when pressed that it tasted like Dewar's to me.

After that I caught the subway home. Just at my corner, however, I noticed The Western Bar. I peeked in and noticed Miller on tap, a nice fire and stools at the bar. Apparently God does have a plan for me. Inside, the big screen telly showed early 80s videos. When I sat down with my beer, they were playing "Say Hello Wave Goodbye" by Soft Cell. Did you know Soft Cell had a second song? I sure didn't. It was so very 80s I almost couldn't keep from laughing - these guys made Boy George look like Hulk Hogan. Now, before you start to think this was Xanadu, I should tell you that Drunk Girl was there. And try as I might to avoid her, she just had to talk to everyone. At least it was a misery shared with my fellow drinkers. Two beers and half an hour later I trudged up the terrace and into bed.

Your Man

If I said to you, "I saw your man last night. We were out at the club and your man had his shirt off and was dancing on a table," what would you think?

If you have a significant other that's male, you probably think of him first. If you don't, you're thinking one of your good buddies, and the storyteller's being coy, wanting you to guess, or else you know it's the one person you know who's drunk enough or wild enough to try a stunt like that, right? The word 'your' has meaning - it indicates some sort of relationship, either real or comic. Not so in Ireland. 'Your man' simply stands in for 'some random but noteworthy guy.'

Confused the hell out of me the first couple of times. I mean, the subset of people I know in Ireland is pretty darn small, so if someone here is telling me a story about 'my man,' I feel like it should be almost instantly apparent. As an example, roommate [D] from the Wednesday Night Saga told me this one:

"I was standin outside the Supermac's there after the club closed Tursday night watchin a few birds. I got an ice cream. So I'm standin there, and your man comes up to me and says [deep dumb guy voice], 'hey, man give me some of your ice cream.' So I look at em and I sez, 'go on now, yer drunk - I'm not givin ye any of it.' And yer man, he's swayin side to side, an he sez, 'don't be a wanker, now, just a taste.'

"I look at em an I go, 'feck. off. Now go.' An I put my hand on his chest, ye know, ta turn im away. Then all of a sudden your man has four friends - 'don't be touchin our feckin friend!'

"So I looked at all of em and I pointed at your man, and I sez [deep voice now] 'you listen here. I'm an off-duty cop and I'm watchin out fer trouble here. Do your friend a favor an get im home to bed.' And they hustle im off - 'sorry sorry, good man there, thanks.'"

. . .

Ok off to Glasgow early tomorrow for the weekend. So no posts until Tuesday. Try and go about your regular routine with your man there and I'll be back before you know it.

County Cork and a How-to with Tools

One thing I know I will miss after leaving Ireland will be the very low tool factor at bars here. At home, I am immediately defensive when a new person, especially one who is alone and male, strikes up a conversation at a bar. This is not homophobia, as it is not the potential for being hit on which bothers me. It is not tool-phobia, either, since the fear is rational. The fact of the matter is that a fair percentage (a third?) of the people who would initiate conversation without reason at home are either hammered or unable to socialize well. They are tools. I presume this is absent here because pubs are such an integral part of the culture. It's not just a gathering spot for drunken youths, or even drunks at all. Sure there are bars here that cater to that set, but your typical Irish pub will have a range of people from 25 to 75, sober and drunk, male and female, single and in groups. If someone starts up a conversation it gives you no indication as to their tool factor. It's refreshing. I suspect it also has a lot to do with why Ireland strikes most Americans as such a friendly place.

Unfortunately I was reminded of this by an exception to the Irish rule. The weekend before St. Me Day I went down to County Cork to see Cork City and the Town of Cobh. My goals had been simple: I wanted to see the Cork City Gaol, a 19th century prison, Cobh's Queenstown Experience, which tells the story of Irish Emigrants at their last port of call, and hopefully, a couple pubs.

In short, I was successful in those goals. I walked around both of these municipalities, and if you plan to follow in my footsteps, be ready for a workout. Both these seaside spots are hilly on the order of San Francisco.
The prison sits on the crest of one of these hills. The Cork City Gaol was a very cool experience, perhaps enhanced by my own interest in prisons and punishment. For six euro, I got to tour a prison erected at the turn of the 19th century. The upside was the ability to roam freely, even in and out of cells; downside was that only two wings were open on two floors out of six wings on three floors. Included in the entry fee was a set of headphones to guide you along and impart information; a nice touch. Plus both the headphones and the prison itself had sound effects to add to the atmosphere.

My one confirmed communist reader will probably not be surprised to learn that the vast majority of prisoners were the poor and unemployed. The prison logs are filled with petty offenses like theft of sundries, unpaid debts, and public drunkenness. There were a few especially poignant stories: the youngest prisoner, a nine year old sentenced to two weeks jail time and twice-daily whippings for thieving brass fittings. A man with over thirty public drunkenness convictions; each time he would serve a few weeks to a few months only to get re-arrested a few days after release. A pregnant woman convicted of stealing cloth for her fledging seamstress business - they commuted the last month of her sentence so she could give birth. One looks at today's mandatory minimums for drug users and wonders if we've learned anything. Especially troubling is the fact that a former Irish High Court Justice Fergus Flood was on the radio during my trip down, opining that Ireland ought to introduce mandatory minimums and a lowering of the burden of proof for drug crimes.

At the risk of being a public drunk myself, I stopped into The Avenue Bar on my way back down the hill to town. Here is where I noticed the Cork accent. It is almost sing-songy. If I had been in a more touristy spot I would have been convinced it was fake. But this was the type of place where eight men and four women all sat against one wall of the pub, facing the one telly watching Ireland pummel Wales in the Six Nations Rugby Tournament. If you'll forgive me a far-flung reference, the Cork accent reminds me of that part in Trading Places, when Jamie Lee Curtis' character pretends to be Inga from Sweden - "please be helping me with my rucksack?" It's like the long vowels are held out for three beats. Very cool.

On my way to my B&B, I found the Hibernia Bar (aka the Hi-B), recommended by Frommer's as "a real insider's place." And boy was it. It was on the second floor above a pharmacy, about the size of your living room and similarly furnished. For some reason it had the faint odor of talcum powder. I only had time for a quick pint before getting to the B&B - last check in at 8pm, plus I was catching the early train to Cobh the next day. But I promised to come back. As I sat at the bar chatting and drinking, four French tourists came in with packs and settled onto one of the beaten leather couches. The one who seemed to have the best command of English came up and ordered four cups of coffee. The bartender looked at the clock, then said, "no. It is much too early for that."

The Frenchman waited, then asked, "are you serious?"

"Yaa. I'm noot pootin oon coffee at half six. Ya want soometin else?"

. . .

My quick review of Cobh and the Queenstown Experience goes like this: love the town, but the Experience was a bit overrated. I don't regret it, because just walking around town was worth it, but I just found the Experience to be little more than reading plaques. Oh well. I had a great walk around town, a superb bowl of chowder at Trade Winds, and after a debate, a pint at The Marisitania over either The Lusitania or The Titanic (the latter two both having their last port of call in Cobh).

Once back in Cork, I hustled over to the Hi-B and enjoyed a few pints. Unfortunately the exception to the tool rule was there. It started off well enough. I had showed the bartender that they made the Frommer's guide, and it got passed around and made me a bit of an insider myself. The guy next to me, who reeked of cigarette smoke and had gray hair growing on every visible part of his body, asked what I was doing in Ireland. Hearing law, he started to quote the Irish Constitution to me. Thinking I'd impress him, I quoted it back. This seemed to upset him. He didn't like the fact that the government had "abandoned" the Catholic spirit of the constitution. Then he gave me a diatribe about how professors read all the wrong books. He also seemed disgusted that I refused his offer of snuff (tobacco up my nose? I'll pass). It was getting obvious that he was drunk, and an angry one at that.

Trying to change the subject, I asked what he did for a living. He was a former teacher who was now a writer and a poet. He then railed about how he had written thousands of poems and was a better writer than Joyce and better poet than Yeats. Okay, pal. This is where I would have gotten rid of him by walking to another part of the bar, or to other friends. Not possible here. So I took a page out of little brother's book. I bought him a double shot of Jameson's whiskey. In about twenty minutes his head started bobbing and he stumbled for the door. Sweet.

Send 'Em Off!

I've heard a couple people have had a hard time making out the bottom two pictures from yesterday's entry. The middle one is of a pom-pom squad and tin whistle elementary school band. I probably should have used this picture, which is a bit brighter (but no real pom-pom sqaud to be seen).



The picture at the bottom of yesterday's entry is a pint of Carlsberg late at night backlit by a candle. Someone thought it was a red streetlight. Honestly, when have I ever written about a streetlight?

Here's another one I like from the parade:



Ok, I'm off to make sure my little cabbages get on the right bus to the airport, then to the library for some nerd time.

Happy Saint Me Day

On Thursday the ladies went off on a bus tour for the day. I was scheduled to have three classes. The professor for the morning class cancelled it the week before, which was nice since it allowed me to head out late Wednesday on a stress-reliever. Then the afternoon class got cancelled on Wednesday when the substitute lecturer (yes substitutes in college, I don't get it) said she wouldn't be able to make it. So I did head into campus in the late afternoon for my last class with a plan to meet the ladies for dinner.

To make a long story short, the lecturer never showed. And no notice either. It's hard, too, on Irish time, to know when to give up. This was the same professor who once breezed in at twenty after the hour apologizing for being late. So how long does one hang around and wait for her? Apparently the consensus was about 25 minutes. So I left campus around half five and called down to the B&B; the ladies were supposed to be returning at 5:15. I got one of the B&B ladies on the phone. Our conversation went something like this:

"Hello this is E's son Pat, could I speak with her please."

"Hello?"

"Yes hi. Is E there please."

"Who is this?"

"This is her son, Pat."

"Who's Pat?"

"What?"

"Who's Pat?"

"Wait. Is this the bed and breakfast?"

"Oh yes it is, how can I help?"

"Okay, there is a woman staying there. Her name is E. This is her son. Is she there?"

"Who are you?"

"Her son Pat."

"Oh Pat! Hello there!" Like we're best friends. "They haven't come back from their bus trip yet."

"Okay, thanks."

I continue to check back at the B&B every half hour or so while having pints downtown. That's right, plural: pints. I was going to walk home and wait, but since I live in the other direction, it didn't seem to make sense. I kept thinking that as soon as I got home I'd get the call that they were ready meet for dinner. I finally get them on the phone at 7:15. Apparently the bus driver was a chatter. Of course they have to get changed and brush their teeth. At 8 they arrive at the pub. We walk a block away and enjoy a fabulous dinner and dessert at O'Deah's. My role consists of translating the ladies' Maine accents to our Eastern European waitress and back again. A bit after 10 we're back on the street. The ladies are tired after a long day and I send them on their way.

It is at this point in the week I begin living a double life. Not as a secret agent though. As a tour guide by day and pub closer at night. It started innocently enough. Walking home I realize I would really like a nightcap. I stop at Freeney's in the middle of downtown but it is packed. People are kicking off their St. Patrick's Day weekend with a bang. Coming out the door I see a fellow American exchange student I know. I pull a page out of middle brother's playbook on living alone in a faraway city. To wit, I invite myself along with them to a pub on the other side of the river where it is quieter. He's out with his brother and friend visiting from home. Upstairs at the Crane I buy the first round and we enjoy some traditional Irish music. I end up chatting with the couple next to me who are out enjoying their 26th wedding anniversary. They learn I am from Maine and comment that Maine is famous for its humor. Yes it is, I say, and turn my attention to the music.

That gets a good laugh. Feeling sharp I tell the joke about the man looking for Vinalhaven. He keeps passing a man in a rocking chair on a porch but doesn't get out of the car to ask for directions till he passes him a third time. Admitting he's lost, he goes up to the man and asks, "which way to Vinalhaven?"

Old man looks up and says, "don'tcha move a goddamn inch."

They love that one so I go ahead with the one where the two Mainers win the raffle at the county fair for a balloon ride. Only problem is they have to pilot it themselves. They get blown out over the ocean, get worried, but then get blown back over land. They're hopelessly lost. They see a farmer plowing in his field and holler out to him: "Where are we?"

Farmer stops plowing, looks up and shouts: "Yer in a balloon ya damn fools!"

Here is the kind of thing you can't make up: the couple I have told the joke to are president and secretary of the Galway Ballooning Society. For real. So of course from that point on we are best friends.

The Crane closes at half twelve, and one of my fellow Americans says we ought to hit a late bar (one that has a license to stay open until 2). So of course we do. I get home around 3, still wearing the backpack for classes that never happened.

. . .

The next day is St. Me Day, and I get up and out in the late morning to meet the ladies for the parade. It was one of those experiences I'm glad I got; to see a St. Patrick's Day parade in Ireland, but beyond that I can't say it was anything very special, unless you really like elementary school bands playing Irish whistles.

After the parade we walk into town but it is a mad house. We try to hang out in the beachhead pub for a bit, but I can see the ladies are not enjoying the loud, crowded, and boisterous atmosphere. I ask what they want to do since all the pubs in town will be this way. Surprisingly, they say they will head to the B&B, stopping at shops along the way - that I should stay and enjoy myself (there are a couple people I know in the pub). I almost feel guilty about it, but I agree. They wouldn't enjoy what I'd be doing, and I wouldn't enjoy what they were doing, right?

So I stay at the pub for a bit and end up talking to some of the people that work there, especially those who are off duty. There are two Galway county clubs in the All-Ireland Finals of hurling and Gaelic football. Both teams win and the crowd is even more celebratory. I end up trading bartending stories with some of the staff and we're getting along great. But I can tell I am falling victim to what my cousin calls "the shampoo theory," which says that drinking the day after is like re-lathering your hair with shampoo. It only takes a little bit and you are fully sudsy. I make a bold decision to try the Triple Lindy of drinking: the Buzz-Debuzz-Rebuzz. This is not for you rookies. It consists of taking a few hours off, preferably with a nap and a meal, then returning to the front.

I leave the pub around 6, stop at the Irish version of McDonald's - SuperMac's - and hit the hay around 7. I wake up at 10 and get back to the pub about 10:30. I dreamed the impossible dream. And accomplished it. The only thing left was the easiest part: rebuzz. And fortunately for me the people I knew and the ones I had met had hardly moved. I don't think I paid for another pint. As it got towards 2, the bartenders and a few of us (dare I say regulars?) were talking and one guy says, are you ready to head out. Sure I say, thinking the night has ended and it's time to go.

Incorrect. My new friends just assumed I was coming with them - one of them had the keys to his uncle's pub a few blocks over where we could all be on the drinking side of the bar. As we were heading in the door there, I heard some raised voices and scuffling. Pushing and shoving, the staff sent two people out onto the sidewalk and slammed the door shut.

"Those feckin assholes!" They said as they looked through the peepholes of the front doors. "The police will be here soon for sure!"

"Quick!" The nephew with the keys said, "everyone upstairs to the function room and don't make a sound!"

We hustled up the stairs, into what was essentially another level of the pub. Guys and girls hurried around the room pulling shades, then got everyone a pint. We posted a sentry at the door to watch the police come and remove the offending pugilists. For about 15 minutes I had the surreal experience of enjoying an ice cold pint on the second floor of a pub in the middle of Ireland on St. Me Day - in complete silence. Then the sentry came up and gave us the all clear. The police had made their arrests and headed off none the wiser!



From then on we loudly enjoyed our drinks and company, even playing a quick rugby match with Shane's shoe. I think I got home around 5. Ah, good times, good times.

Cottonhead Tour '06

Ok quickly, because (1) It is quite late, and (2) I've had quite a few pints. The Cottonheads have arrived. That is, my mother and her two elderly friends. I hate to use "elderly," even though it is technically accurate, but that word seems to me to have gone the way of "mongoloid" and "colored," as in, not necessarily hateful in and of themselves, but unfortunately tainted or passé.

I met them at the bus station with the intention of escorting them to their B&B and back to town for a bus tour of the city. They were quick to tell me that their bus tickets were fouled up. If you believe their story, the ticket agent printed two tickets for the three of them with one of the printed tickets being good for two admissions. I'll let you decide whether that seems likely. Of course, the bus driver was having none of it. He waited outside Shannon Airport (God bless the Irish attitude) while they walked back inside and reworked their tickets.

In front of the bank machine, my mother questioned me about the ATMs here.

"What will we do after we get our money?"

"We'll head over to your B&B."

"Well shouldn't we go to the Bureau of Change first?"

"What? No. You get your money and we're off."

"But how will we get Euros?"

Me: "are you kidding? That's what we're at the ATM for." It just wasn't connecting.

"But I'm using my American ATM card, so I'll get dollars, not Euros." (why is it you only get frustrated with your own mother and everyone else's is charming?)

"Ma! This is the AIB - it stands for All Ireland Bank - who the (stifle) is going around Ireland filling the ATMs with Ben Franklins? Do you think the ATMs in the USA have the currencies of the world stored in them?"

"Harumph."

Eventually, she gets her dough but is upset that she can only withdraw 250 euro. The B&B said they want cash, and she wants to pay them for the week. I told her, just pay some now and some later, the B&B won't give you a hard time about it - it's probably a result of the $200 cap your card has at home. Oh yes you're probably right she says, and while reading her receipt she hustles off to tell the others about the cap. Bam. She goes down like a sack of (Irish) potatoes, tripped up by the uneven stairs leading to the AIB ATM. Gets a big bruise on the top of her knee. Several minutes later she's recovered but my stress level is not.

Eventually, feeling like a mother goose with her goslings, I get them loaded into a cab and down to their B&B. We agree to drop their things and then head intown so that they might catch the bus tour. Or so I thought. Half an hour later my best friend's mom and I are sitting in the common room wondering what is up with the other two. We go up to check on them. My mother can't find her toothbrush, and her friend is working on her fanny pack. Apparently either or both of these events are cause enough to hold us up for the better part of an hour.

Later in the evening I meet them at my beachhead and we have some dinner. Best friend's mom orders a margarita from the owner working the bar. He gives her a blank look. I say, geez, I thought you were waiting to order a real Irish coffee? Oh yes, I'd love that, she says. The owner says, "now that's my area of expertise," and heads off as I give him a wink.

After dinner I send them home and go get smashed with the roomies at the club. Same feeling as a long week at work.

Timing is Everything

***WARNING: TODAY'S ENTRY IS AT LEAST R-RATED. IF YOU ARE UNDER 18, OR ARE UPSET BY COARSE LANGUAGE OR SEXUAL SITUATIONS, COME BACK ANOTHER DAY. ***

Okay, I've been saving this one for a while, about the way they throw around the f- and c-words here, plus the raunchy state of TV. But today my mother arrives from home. This means she will not read the blog for over a week. Hopefully this post will slide down and she'll never see it. Or, if she does, I won't see her until late May so maybe she'll forget.

First of all, I have to report one of the major differences here is the type of language that passes as regular conversation. To be blunt, 'fuck,' and to a lesser exent, 'cunt' are just regular words to be used whenever. And it's not just the guys. I think that is what surprised me most. To my American ear, 'fuck' comes off more as 'feck' or 'fook,' but still: it is rampant. I remember when I was home some of my classmates were appalled that a partner in a large firm had used the word 'shit' several times in an interview. Now certainly there is a difference between a job interview and talking with your drunken eejit friends, but I am certain that 'fuck' is thrown around every office in Ireland with regularity.

For example, 'fuck off' has taken the place of 'get outta here,' as in:

'You musta went straight home after I saw ya, you were in a sorry state.'

'No I was pure sound. I hit three more poobs after I saw ya.'

'Fuck off, really? Did ya remember em or did someone else fill ya in?'

As far as 'cunt' goes, I've yet to hear it from a girl, but guys use it in the presence of girls all the time without any protest. Where I come from, you don't say it where any female can hear it at any time, period. Although I will say it doesn't carry quite the harsh meaning it does at home. As in:

Roommate: 'Didya hear that bird in the back row talkin all through class?'

Me: 'Yeah. God she's got an annoying voice - you can hear it everywhere - just piercing. You know her?'

Roommate: 'Ya, she's a cunt.'

Me (wide-eyed): 'Wow, what'd she do?'

Roommate: 'Well she's sound for the most part, but ya know when she starts talkin it's always about herself, ya know? Bit of a cunt.'

. . .

Television is something else altogether. Language that you wouldn't hear on basic cable back home, you'll hear on the regular free channels here. Mostly at night, but not always. But it goes way beyond the language. There is this show about a budding escape artist. It's a reality show. One of his stunts goes like this: His assistant chains and handcuffs him to a dolly inside an elevator in the top floor of a building. Plus he's wearing that headgear that puts a ball in his mouth, like in Pulp Fiction. The headgear also has a camera attached. Then the assistant presses the button for the ground floor. The idea is that he has to get out of the chains and whatnot before he gets to the lobby. But, for extra pressure, check out what this nut does. He has arranged for his family and friends to be in the lobby waiting for the elevator, completely unawares - they think the stunt will start later when they get to the top floor. Oh, and the kicker: he is completely stark naked. So if he can't get free and stop the elevator, his family and friends will see him chained up naked.

Not such a big deal, you're thinking, right? Well, the station does not blur out anything. At all. So you have this pasty white naked punchy guy flailing around trying to get free, with big jim and the twins flopping everywhere. And don't forget the headcam view. Repulsed yet unable to turn away, I watch this show. The floors count down, I think he started on 20. By 12, he hasn't made any progress. At eight, he's able to get one hand from behind his back but it's still handcuffed. He screams and pulls and tugs and it pops free at three. He starts to work on the other hand, two. It's popped out of the handcuff, one. The doors open. He doesn't make it. Doesn't even come close. You can imagine the family and friend's faces.

Then there was the sitcom about the wife with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. She's a neat freak. To make the point, the show has a scene where she is giving her husband a hand job. They don't actually show it, just her with her rubber gloves and him enjoying it. When he's about to finish, she hollers, 'Wait!!' spreads out a plastic cover with her free hand, and then tells him 'now.' What they do show, however, is (presumably) fake ejaculate hitting the plastic. Nice.

Last but not least, there is a reality show about the porn industry. They follow the stars and the producers around documenting their everyday lives, including their workday. And while actual scenes of penetration are blurred out, nothing else is. So for a decent portion of the show, you're watching a porno except you can see the cameraman and there's no cheesy music. Strangely, this one I am able to turn off. Who knew the music was so integral?

Mailbag

More mail! This time, a reader from Mooselookmeguntic, Maine writes in:

Dear Pat,

The wife and I are planning a trip to the Emerald Isle. We're going to rent a car to drive on the roads there you, and my priss panties are all bunched up in knots over it! Mon Dieu it sounds tres dangerous. I understand one drives on the other side of the road and also drives the car from the opposite side. I'm wondering, are the pedals set up the same?

Merci Buttercups,
Reader

Ah, driving in Ireland. Here is my response:

Dear Reader,

First of all, let me say that this is a rational bunching of panties. So far this year, this tiny island is averaging one road death every 24 hours. The vast majority of these occur at night, so my first advice to you is: get where you want to get during the daylight hours. It's significantly safer, both because you can see the unfamiliar road, but also because the "drink drivers," as there called here, have not left the pub yet.

Yes, you drive on the opposite side (left) and the driver is seated on the opposite side (right) too. In a way though, these two things combine to make it a bit easier. If you can just remember to keep your body to the middle of the road, just like at home (presuming they have roads in Mooselookmeguntic), you'll be fine.
Alternatively you could let your lovely spouse drive and you could sit in the lefthand seat just like at home. Maybe you could even bring one of those toy steering wheels like Maggie uses in the beginning of the Simpsons.

At any rate, the pedals are set up in the same order as at home, but the stick will be on your left. Not that stick. The manual gearshift. I mention this because the default when renting a car in the USA is automatic transmission; in Ireland it's manual. Trying to learn to drive stick here is not advised. I hear tell that you can request automatic if you need it. FYI, the "H" set up is the same (first gear in the upper left, etc.).

For what it's worth, as a way to see Ireland, driving yourself is highly recommended. It removes that lacquer that exists with a bus tour. Plus they only stop at touristy caricatures of what the country is really like. Almost essential for driving yourself is Ireland's Best-Loved Driving Tours, by the same people who do the Frommer's guides. It gives interesting detail about everything you pass, along with a rudimentary map. It's a great way to make sure you keep from getting lost, and you still feel like you got the guided tour without sitting in a bus full of people fighting for window seats.

Driving in Ireland is an experience you really should try if you have the fortitude. Like they say, try everything once, except incest and line dancing.

Good luck and bienvenue,
Pat

Don't forget readers, you too can email me at: dirtyoldtownblog (at) gmail (dot) com.

Alcoholism

So the roommates and I were lounging around the common room a couple of days ago watching TV. One of them, the business major, was telling how he saw in a magazine seven possible signs of alcoholism. You were supposed to answer yes or no as to whether you had any of the seven habits listed, and three or more yeses meant you had a problem. He sheepishly admitted he answered yes to six.

"But half of em were shyte, if you ask me," he said. Such as?

"One of em was, do ya suffer from hangovers. Well who doesn't get hangovers?" The rest of us nodded in agreement.

"Another one was - when you go to the poob do you hafta have more than two or three drinks. Well Christ, who goes to the poob and doesn't have at least six or eight pints? I don't see any point in goin less I have a dozen or so." The other two nodded while I furrowed my brow.

"Then, do ya binge drink more than once a month - and a "binge" was somethin like four drinks." I was back on board with that one. Four drinks does not seem like a binge to me. But the Environmental Scientist-to-be disagreed.

ES: "No, I tink it's eight drinks for a binge."

Business: "Are ya sure?"

ES: "Yeah, eight for a man and six for a woman. That's what it is."

Business: "Well I'm still toppin that when I go out anyway. Oh, that reminds me of the other one - do ya have more than so many drinks in a week. I can't remember how many it was . . . somethin like . . ."

"Forty two?" Ventured the environmental scientist. We all busted up laughing. Forty two? In a week? But he kept a straight face; he was quite serious.

ES: "Well ya figure seven days a week times six drinks, that'd be no binging for a week, why not?"

Business: "Well since you said it's eight for a binge, why not seven times seven for 49?"

ES: "I didn't want to push it."

. . .

Oh, and the one he didn't answer yes to? Do you feel the need for a drink within a couple hours of waking up.

Confession

Ok, I've done something a bit rash. Although, it's something I hoped to plan while here. It's just that I went from idea to completion within a couple of hours. I was looking over my calendar and realized that while I'm over halfway through my classes here, I have yet to plan a single trip in or out of Ireland. This is not to mention the fact that my mum is visiting next week, middle brother and best friend are coming in late April, and dad and little brother are coming in May. I realized that if I wanted to go anywhere, I better get to booking.

As luck would have it, there was a big sale at Ryan Air. This intra-Europe discount airline actually advertises some fares as "free" excluding taxes and fees (read a news story about them here - thanks coz!). Included in this bunch was Shannon (Ireland's major west coast airport) to Glasgow for 7 euro. I'll buy that baby. So I did. In late March I'll swing over for a quick weekend. Total price with taxes and fees 38 euro (about $45) round trip.

Then I started trolling for bigger fish. I could get in a 5-7 day drip after classes ended. I noticed Rome was on the list. Alas, there were no similar super deals to get there. Looked like 110 euro each way was the cheapest. After kicking the idea around a bit via IM and email with cousin and best friend, I was turned onto the idea of trying to get to Florence instead. Noticeably cheaper, too, at about 50 euro each way. But I was torn; I wanted to see Rome, even though my aforementioned contacts, who had been to both, had said Rome was touristy and could be done in well less than 7 days. Then it hit me - why not both? So check this out: just after Easter I'll be flying out to Florence, spending 4 days there, then taking the train to Rome for 2 days, then flying back to Ireland. Total price was sure more than the original "free" that was advertised, coming in at about 230 euro (about $280). But the "glass is half full" way to see this is: I'm going to see three European cities, including lodging, for about half a grand. Drinks EXcluded, of course. Still, that is a steal.

Now for the last bit: when middle brother and best friend get here, we'll be renting a car and exploring the Northwest of Ireland. But one sight I realized would go unseen in my two trips to Ireland was the Queenstown Experience down south in Cobh, County Cork. This is where the vast majority of Irish-Americans emigrated from. It was also the last port of call for the Titanic and Lusitania. My understanding is that they recreate what it would be like to be an emigrant at the time of the potato famine. And as luck would have it, Msr. French Professor will be travelling to EU headquarters this coming weekend and has cancelled EU Law II, my only Monday class. So to round out my travel plans, I'll be taking the five hour bus ride down to Cobh Sunday afternoon, staying in a B&B there and then hitting the museum first thing in the morning. Maybe if I get lucky I'll fit something else in down there, too.

. . .

One quick aside about my French professor. Like I said before he's got a pretty good sense of humor, but it got tested in class yesterday. He was nice enough to cancel class last Thursday for RAG week, although one wonders if that was because he was being nice or just realized he'd be lecturing to an empty theatre. Well, yesterday, being the first day back from RAG week, the theatre looked like Gold's Gym on January 2nd. New resolution - no more skipping class. I would think that typically we get around 50 students for this class. I'm going to guess that we had over 80 yesterday. Filled almost every seat. And half of them were sick. The reason I knew this was because they were coughing and sniffling (yes I'm taking my vitamins). And the other half were reconnecting with others they hadn't seen. The reason I knew this was because they were whispering to each other. Which of course made for a room where it was really tough to lecture or listen in.

You could tell Msr. French professor was getting irritated, but he was sort of trapped. He did pause a couple of times and say he had lost his train of thought or was distracted, and also said we needed to take better care of ourselves during RAG week. But he could hardly tell everyone to stop coughing. Then four students came in around 20 after the hour. I think even this would have gone unnoticed except for the fact that they were loudly chatting and laughing as they entered. That was enough. He stopped in the middle of a sentence and looked up at them.

"Please, why don't you join us. It is only," he checked his watch. "Heighteen past the our." He waved grandly to some open seats. This is how much of a nerd I am, I was thinking yea, you tell 'em Frenchy! It actually was the most at home I'd felt in class here. Professors calling out students - sweet.

RAG Week Wrap-Up

Hmm. I did wake up one morning to find my key in the sink. My theory is that I dropped it in the mud and then gave up on washing it off. Could be.

RAG week came in like a lion and went out like a lamb. One of the roommates got sick (more than hungover), one had to go home for a few days, and the other wasn't up for it. I had plans to go out one night with another friend and she cancelled. Oh well, probably for the best. As much as it was fun to watch, I can't say that I found RAG week to be a whole bunch of fun. I would sum it up like this: it was almost as crowded and drunk as Mardi Gras in New Orleans, but minus the warm weather and nudity.

I did stop in to the college bar once to see the doings, and that was quite crowded, with a live band and good craic. And on the way in I saw the first and last collection spots for "Raising a Grand." I donated a euro, thinking that I would be seeing these guys with their fluorescent vests and white buckets everywhere. Alas, I did not. And while you might think my total donation was weak, consider this: if all 11,000 students did what I did, they'd have eleven times their goal. So really, I gave more than ten times my share (aside: yes, I have kissed the Blarney Stone).

Drunken Logic

Just quickly, before I hit the hay:

Tonight one of my roommates decided to direct traffic outside the club after it closed. Not foot traffic - car traffic. Said road is a one way street. "You there!! Come on through! Let's go! You there bouncer-man, give me your jacket so I can do this properly." I guided him gently by the arm to the late night snack place.

It's a good example of what I call drunken logic. It seemed like a good idea at the time. My brother and I started using the phrase after one rotten session in the centre of our town (that means drinking downtown in American). We went back to my apartment and crashed. I woke up in the middle of the night to use the toilet. To my surprise, I found one of my brother's socks in the toilet. Using the toilet brush I removed it from the bowl. Later on, I asked my brother, who slept on the futon fully clothed other than said sock, what the feck?

He had no memory of any sock doffing, and so replied, "drunken logic, I guess." To this day when one of us does something numb while on the piss, we justify it with either "drunken logic" or "sock in the toilet."

Field Research

Just a quick update from the field during "raise a grand" week (aka "RAG week"):people here are smashed. Everywhere. On campus, downtown, at the clubs, at the apartments. I have seen Spring Breaks more sober than this. I guess that's what happens when you unleash 11,000 students on a city of 75,000. Of course, for you, I will continue to do extensive research on this phenomenon by blending in with the natives in their natural habitat. Not for me - for the love of the game. Or something like that.

Continuing to mix nerdiness with drunkenness, I went to the European Community Law tutorial today, mostly because I didn't even realize they had been meeting so I hadn't attended one yet. Two students. Since I was already on campus, I figured I might as well attend Irish Constitutional Law. Four students and she cancelled class because - get this - it wouldn't be fair to the students who were not present.

One last (mostly random) point. I have never met a people more interested in discussing consistent weather. When I was in San Diego, hardly anyone ever talked about the weather. Why? Because it was always high 60s/low 70s and dry. But here, even though it's exactly the same every day, people will have 15 minute conversations recapping the weather over the last five days. Honestly, what is the point? It's the same weather as yesterday, as last week, and at this point, last month. In fact, let me give you the lead-pipe lock forecast for the weather for every single day from mid-January to mid-March in 2007 for Ireland:

Daytime highs 5-7°C.
Night time lows 0-3°C.
Showers.
40% chance of rain.
Winds 5-15 mph, occasional gusts to 30 mph.

This forecast is guaranteed by me.