back from the UK

Here's the short version, in case you're pressed for time and don't want to read the rest of this post:

     1. Miss H and I went on our trip to the British Isles and Ireland. It was Fun, with a capital "F." 

     2. A couple of days ago I queried Ethan Ellenberg with a 50-page excerpt of New Model Earth, which is the new title I've chosen for Revival, my sci-fi magnum opus.

     3. Miss H and I are moving. We're staying in Henderson, but we're switching apartments.

I told myself I'd write a post for each leg of the trip Miss H and I took to Europe, with oodles of delicious pictures for you to drool over. This is a travel blog, after all. But to be honest, I can't be bothered. There's too much going on right now. We're moving, as I mentioned. And I'm still trying to do three things every day: write, read, and exercise. So far I've been failing miserably, but not for lack of trying. Well, okay, maybe for lack of trying. But not for lack of wanting. So I'll just give you the picks of the litter: 

Black Linn waterfall, near Ossian's Seat in the Scottish Highlands.

I shouldn't have to tell you what this is.

The obligatory Big Ben selfie.

Tower Bridge ain't falling down...

The Titanic's original slipway in Belfast, Northern Ireland. 

Carrick-a-Rede rope bridge, County Antrim, Northern Ireland.

Trinity College Library, Dublin. 

The view from Dundrum Castle, County Down, Northern Ireland. 

The Giant's Causeway, County Antrim, Northern Ireland.

All done drooling? Great. The trip was luscious. Heather and I had a long layover in Miami on July 3, and spent a sultry afternoon in South Beach lying on golden sand and swimming in bathwater-warm seas and stuffing our faces with Cuban food and ducking self-professed heroin addicts on Collins Avenue. The bachelor party ("stag do") in Edinburgh was a blast; the boys and I pub-crawled across town, buying cheese from a bona fide cheesemonger and whisky from a bona fide whisky monger and mowing down while we roamed the streets. I ate haggis pizza and got to try a beer that was 44% alcohol. Jeff and Jenn's wedding ceremony was beautiful. They had a double-decker bus with their names on it, and got married in a friggin' castle, and the reception dinner was just amazeballs (game terrine, beef Wellington, and apple and berry cobbler), and a fun time was had by all. Then Miss H and I walked from one end of London to the other, and then flew into Dublin and did a private pub crawl of our own, and then had an 18-hour layover in Boston that left a fine taste in our mouths (as did the fondue and pisco sours at Stoddard's). And that was the trip. 

It was, however, ludicrously expensive. 

So expensive, in fact, that Miss H and I have been living paycheck-to-paycheck since we got home. 

Our lease is up, and Ventana Canyon Apartment Homes will be increasing our rent. They claimed it was because there was "development" going in next door to our apartment complex and that's upping the property value. The "development" they speak of is the construction of another apartment complex. I was no great shakes at economics in school, but doesn't an increase in supply and a corresponding decrease in demand mean a drop in price...?

Anyway, we selected a one-bedroom apartment at a complex just a mile and a half away, around the corner on Gibson. It'll mean a downgrade in living space, but much cheaper rent. Frankly, the complex is much nicer: a five-foot-deep heated pool, an indoor racquetball court, and a host of other amenities Ventana can't offer. I won't tell you the name of our new complex, however, because I expect to become a world-famous author soon and I'm keen on privacy.

Yes, I said "world-famous author." I haven't been bone-idle since I got back from the UK. I busted my hump, and with the help of a few erudite beta readers, I whipped the manuscript for Mugunghwa into shape. I'm publishing it for the Kindle...well, hell. Maybe tonight. Depends on how convoluted the KDP (Kindle Direct Publishing) process is. I've already formatted my novel the way they want it and saved it HTML, and now all I have to do is pick a cover design and set a price, as far as I'm aware. Then it'll pop up on Amazon 24-48 hours from when I click the "publish" button. Fame and fortune will follow.

...but just in case it doesn't, I also prepped my manuscript for New Model Earth (which I shall hereafter refer to as NME) and sent a query letter, a synopsis, and an excerpt off to the folks at Ethan Ellenberg Literary Agency. These are the same folks who picked up John Scalzi and published his works, so I have high hopes. 

Before 2015 is out I intend to start writing freelance opinion articles for the Pacific Standard, The Awl, and any other online periodical that likes my pitches. Might as well start working as a freelance writer, especially while I'm waiting to hear how my novel ambitions pan out. 

I've also taken proactive steps to get my flying career in order. Rather than lament my persistent lack of funds, I set up a GoFundMe campaign (click here or see the badge at the top right of this page). I need $25,000. That's to get current, get my high-performance rating, rack up 100 hours PIC and 50 hours cross-country flight, do my commercial checkride prep, take my exam, and then become a commercially-licensed pilot. And hopefully get snapped up by Grand Canyon Airlines shortly thereafter. 

I'm taking this campaign seriously. I've shotgunned it out over Twitter, Facebook, and Gmail, and I've even printed out flyers—actual, physical pieces of paper—to post up at the small airports around Las Vegas (North Las Vegas, Henderson, and Boulder City). I'm doing that this weekend, if there's any time after the move. 

If you really love me, you'll save this and send it to everyone you know. Even that hated coworker you have to stand next to in the elevator each day on your way to work. 

announcing the British Isles, 2015

Hello. I've been gone a while. You might have noticed some ch-ch-ch-changes since I was here last.

First, take a look up there in the location bar. You might notice that the Vaunter finally got himself his own URL. Yep. The Sententious Vaunter isn't just a smug moniker anymore, it's a web domain. I've got my own webpage now. Bought it from Google for $12 a year. This is part of my attempt to clean this blog up, pare it down, develop it into something useful and timely, and (perhaps) make it more profitable. I want a travel blog that'll pay me to travel, not just a corner of the web where I bloviate. As soon as I figure out HTML (I got an account with one of those free web design sites, but it was so long ago that I don't even remember which one), I'll revamp TSV, give it a shiny new overhaul, and it'll actually be its own webpage instead of a Blogger template. Time to hit the big leagues. Time I actually started a travel/sci-fi writing blog in earnest.

Speaking of travel...

If you've been with this blog from the beginning, you probably remember Jeff and Jenn, the Canadian/English couple I've bummed around with on two or three continents. They're getting married in July. In England. In a castle. Miss H and I were invited. We're going. And we're making it a three-week tour of the British Isles. Manchester, Edinburgh, Birmingham, London, and Dublin. With long layovers in Miami and Boston. 

It's gonna be epic. 

I'm so excited, not just because this will be Miss H's first venture onto European soil, but because it's a chance for me to redeem myself. I saw Edinburgh and London and Dublin for the first time (with Jeff at my side, actually) but only for the briefest of moments. I was in London for an overnight layover and I had a scant 72 hours in Edinburgh and Dublin, respectively. This time around we'll have as much as five to six days in each location. Maybe not enough to explore their every nook and cranny, but enough to see the major sights, get to know more than one neighborhood, and drink as much beer and cider in pubs as I can hold (and then some).

And did I mention that the bachelor party is in Edinburgh, Scotland? The whisky capital of the world?

Hell yes it is. And you'll hear every gory detail here on TSV. 

Stay tuned...

Lafcadio Hearn's old house

Day One of Kumamoto:

I don't know why I bothered getting up early and making the first train out of town, both in Tokyo or Kyoto. There was no need. In Kyoto I had to wait around for two hours because I arrived at ten o'clock in the morning and check-in time was at noon. I repeated the mistake in Kumamoto. Even though I slept in and took a late-morning train that took four hours to arrive, I walked into the lobby of the APA Hotel at one o'clock. Check-in wasn't until three.

I paid a few hundred yen to use the Internet workspace and "checked in" with everybody back home. I considered stowing my stuff behind the counter and sauntering outside to see some stuff, but there really wasn't time. I needed to do laundry, too, so I got that started before I'd even checked into my room. The concierge was thoughtful enough to bring me my key at 2:55.

My room at the APA was smaller than the one in the Karasuma Kyoto, a lot smaller. The bed was harder. There was barely enough room for me to turn around in the shower. But I did have a pretty good view out the window and a place to lay my head for two nights (all for the low price of 8,800 yen). I wasn't complaining.

Laundry finished at about four o'clock. Worried about managing to see everything on my to-do list (Lafcadio Hearn's house, the Suizen-ji Gardens, and Kumamoto Castle), I grabbed my camera and my trusty satchel and hit the bricks.

Now, I told you that Kyoto had subway trains and Japan Rail commuter trains as well as charming little trams, right?

Well, Kumamoto is so far south and is such a sleepy little city that all it has are trams. I walked outside Kumamoto Station and saw a tram station outside of the train station. (Trippy.) Cabs and buses, too, but you know me: I go for trams every time. There's a single Y-shaped tram line which runs through greater Kumamoto. For 150 yen ($1.50 per ride) you can go anywhere you want. There are stops every few hundred yards. Best yet, the tram stopped near all three items on my to-do list. So I hopped on after I dumped my stuff off at the hotel. The train rattled and shook. The people aboard blinked sleepily. The brass handles make an even louder cranking noise when the operator turned them. It was like the Keifuku Randen tram turned up to eleven. I loved it.

First stop was Lafcadio Hearn's old house, near the tram stop at Suidocho.

Whoa, wait. You don't know who Lafcadio Hearn was?

It's hard to describe him in one sentence, but I'll do my best: Lafcadio Hearn was a Greek-Irish journalist and writer who moved to Japan in 1890 to be a correspondent for a newspaper and wound up becoming a teacher and a naturalized Japanese citizen.

Boom. There you go.

Aw, rats. I suppose just one sentence isn't going to be enough. Okay, here:

Patrick Lafcadio Hearn was born in 1850 on the Ionian island of Lefkada (hence his middle name) to an Irish-born British Army sergeant major and a Greek noblewoman. With his father he moved to Dublin at age 2, and received "a rather casual education." At age 19 he was sent to the United States, settling in Cincinnati, Ohio, living rough for a while. After befriending some powerful people, however, he started a career in journalism. He lived in New Orleans for ten years and wrote much about that city. However, his short-lived assignment to Japan was the one that changed his life. He liked the place so much (and was in such good graces with local ambassadors) that he managed to snag a teaching position at a middle school. He learned Japanese, took a Japanese name (Koizumi Yakumo), accepted a professorship at a university in Tokyo, married a Japanese woman, and just settled down and lived out the remaining years of his life. He died in 1904 of heart failure. He's best remembered for his writings about Japan, which back in the late nineteenth century was still a black hole as far as most Westerners were concerned: unknown and mysterious. Hearn's 1894 book Glimpses of Unfamiliar Japan gained him notoriety and started the Western obsession with Japan and Japanese culture.

My favorite book of Hearn's, however, was the one I read when I was—golly, eight years old or something. It's called Kwaidan: Stories and Studies of Strange Things. It's a book full of Japanese ghost stories. I was just fascinated by it. Here was a group of people, monsters, ghosts and legends that I'd never heard of before. I was (and still am) a huge fan of Greek mythology and was just starting to branch out into others, like Norse and Hindu. Hearn's book was like a bolt from the blue. I loved the simple, straightforward, unpretentious and yet lyrical style of the work, and I adored the vividness of the settings and characters which Hearn coaxed out of the old tales. Kwaidan not only kicked off my long-lived curiosity about Japan and Asia, but also made me idolize Hearn. He became sort of a role model for me: a journalist who didn't do that well in the journalism world, but is best remembered for his travels and the stuff he wrote about the places he saw. I'm also rather awed at how well and naturally he was able to fit into Japanese society, learning the language and marrying a local. It's something to aspire to, you know? That level of linguistic assiduousness and cultural sensitivity.  

Okay, enough of me geeking out. As an homage to Hearn and the impact he had on me at a young age, I decided to seek out his old house and have a look. I didn't feel like stumping up a few bucks to take a peek inside, but I satisfied myself from without. It was a beautiful little house. I was really rather envious.

For my international readers.

There was a lovely little park next to his house, too.

On the whole, I walked away feeling like a better person. I'd completed a successful pilgrimage. Some people go to see Shakespeare's house in Stratford-upon-Avon; others go to see Faulkner's or Twain's. Me, I like to challenge myself a bit. I went to see Hearn's (in Kumamoto on Kyushu Island). Someday I'll see one or two of Hemingway's and some of my other favorite expat writers', too.

Next up: SUIZEN-JI JŌJU-EN. If you want to see me pet a carp, you'd better tune in.

cocktail review no. 67 - Leprechaun

Honestly, I'm not running out of ideas. Okay, maybe I am. But that's not the reason why these cocktail posts keep happening so infrequently. I'm not sure what the reason is, exactly, but I'm quite certain that that's not it.

Regardless, I'm going to keep going with these cocktail reviews. You hear that? I mean it. They won't lapse like my random travel destinations column did. I'll consider it a mark of highest shame if I don't crack an even hundred reviews. There are at least that many drinks I've tasted. Perhaps I should review more shots. I'm worried that would make this blog too popular, though. If you'll look over there on the right (and down a bit) you'll notice that cocktail reviews comprise half of this blog's "most popular posts" list. I'm not sure what to attribute that to. A sizable cross-section of the people trawling the blogsphere must be thirsty, I guess.

Or leprechauns.

Anyway, enough chit-chat. Let's get to the point!

I branched out a bit from The Bartender's Bible for this one. (That book is currently 6,000 miles away from me on my bookshelf in Seoul, anyway.)

You like gin-and-tonics, right? Well, so do I. But I've had 'em a lot lately and I wanted something new. New, but simple. Either I'm getting lazy in my old age or I'm coming around to my Dad's golden rule. I just can't be bothered to make really complex cocktails lately. Or even anything that involves a shaker. Highballs are where it's at for me. Glass, ice, three ingredients, and boom: cocktail deliciousness.  

So this here's the leprechaun! A take on the gin-and-tonic or the whiskey and tonic, using Irish whiskey:

• 2 ounces Irish whiskey
• tonic water
• lemon twist for garnish

Pour the whiskey into a highball glass half-filled with ice cubes. Top with the tonic water and garnish with a lemon twist.

And there you have it, folks! Two seconds and you've got a zesty, powerful, refreshing drink that'll still put some fire in your belly. Gin's good, don't get me wrong, but it can sure chill you down. Whiskey always puts the heat into my innards. This is a good, strong kick of a drink. As always, I invite you to try it for yourselves.

More reviews to follow. Stay tuned every Thursday. My research department has become much more assiduous now that I'm home in the States and not grading deadhead students' papers. Get ready to sit back and join me for a drink once again. We're breakin' a hundred, got it?

random travel destinations - Germany

It is with no little regret that I present to you the last of my RANDOM TRAVEL DESTINATIONS. I just can't sustain it. Too many countries and too much info (and so little time!). I don't like doing things I can't sustain. You probably noticed that I let my football-related posts fall off. I couldn't keep pace with the games and couldn't bear to blog about San Diego's umpteenth humiliating defeat in the conference championships. Screw it, I say. I'm not going to cover any more seasons. Leave it to the sports writers.

But back to why I'm giving up on RTD: I'm going to run out of countries pretty soon. There's only 192 or so (well, 193 now that South Sudan's referendum went through). I'm sure all of you have heard enough about Bahrain and Libya and whatnot anyway. And some countries just don't have anything going for them, either. I mean, what's there to see in Qatar? Doha? Yeah, that's pretty much it. Might go just to say I've been there. Everybody I've talked to that's been there says it's a hole in the wall. Small potatoes. Nothing to write home about.

I think what I'll do instead is start up a new column, called BACK CORNERS OF THE WORLD, where I'll illuminate some hidden-away paradise I've discovered in my travels. Like the best arcade in South Korea. The darkest pub in Edinburgh. The tastiest street fare in Central Asia, and so on. And better yet, I'll have actually been to these places instead of blathering copy at you like a travel agent.

So, here's the last RANDOM TRAVEL DESTINATION. I chose Germany because that's where Miss H and I are going to try and wind up when we leave. We're going to teach abroad together. Seeing as how I've already done Asia, and Miss H would like to see Europe, and Germany seems to pay the most of all the European countries...Deutschland sealed the deal.

About the country itself:

Well, jeez, what can I say? You know most of it already. The Protestant Reformation, and Kaiser Wilhelm, and the Weimar Republic, and the Third Reich, and the fall of the Wall, and the rest of it. In fact, ever since the Cold War ended, Germany has just gone right out of the American line of sight, hasn't it? The Average Joe couldn't tell you who the president of Germany is, or the chancellor, either, or whether the president or the chancellor is in charge. (I think there's an Angela Merkel in there somewhere, but I could be wrong.)

So let's just start from the beginning and I'll give you some stuff you may not know.

Back in the wild days (before soap), 750 B.C.E. or so, the Germanic people rose in northern Germany and southern Scandinavia, and headed south with the sun to colonize the rest of their future country. Not much is known about them, except when they got there—because as soon as they did, they bumped into the Romans. It's estimated that the words "Germany" and "German" stem from the Roman word for "men from the forest" or perhaps "men with spears." The Germans and Romans did indeed have martial contact, for the Romans invaded Germania (a region which, by their estimation, stretched from the Rhine River to the Ural Mountains) under the reign of Augustus. They were trounced, too. A fellow named Arminius, who had big ideas about uniting the Germanic tribes under one banner, defeated the Roman armies in the Battle of Teutoburg Forest. Arminius was eventually assassinated by rival Germanic leaders, but his military victories against the Romans had done their work; Germania remained outside the Roman Empire. In a few centuries, the Germans had occupied most of Germany, including the shores of the Rhine and Danube, as well as Austria. A great number of disparate Germanic tribes sprang up, among them the Franks, Frisians, and Saxons. You might know the Saxons. Their descendants are generally accepted to be modern-day Germans, Dutch, and English. And since the early United States was composed mostly of English and Germans, well...the Saxons might very well be considered our progenitors. (Certainly there are quite a few English words that have Germanic roots, and that's gotta count for something.)

Anyway, things rattled along in Germany for another thousand years. The Great Migration saw the expansion of the Germanic tribes to the west and southwest, and the assimilation of all the smaller tribes into major ones. One of these, the aforementioned Franks, grew so powerful that it established its own empire. They survived the Romans and became a factor for the spread of Christianity across Western Europe, too. They conquered most of Gaul, which would become France. ("France," in fact, derives from the Latin for "country of the Franks." See, this just proves that the Germans had designs on France from waaaaaaaaay back.)

And the rest of it you've learned in history class. Holy Roman Empire, blabbity blabbity blah...Great Famine, Black Death, yadda yadda yadda...Martin Luther, Protestant Reformation, Thirty Years' War, yakety yak yak...

Nowadays, though its liberation from Communist clutches and subsequent reunification went down barely 20 years ago, Germany has established itself as an economic powerhouse and an influential force in European and world politics. The world's third-largest population of foreign-born migrants resides in Germany. They were the world's leading exporter of goods (of any kind) from 2003 and 2008. Cars are their cup of tea. Three of Germany's top 10 most profitable corporations are car manufacturers, Volkswagen, Daimler, and BMW respectively. Not many people know this, but the major name brands Adidas, DHL, Nivea, and T-Mobile are also German in origin. The national airline, Lufthansa, is one of the most remunerative in the world, taking in 22.3 billion euros annually (31 billion U.S. dollars at the time of this writing).

And, as with any successful economic power, there's a substantial demand for English teachers in Germany. It was the same in South Korea, it's the same in Japan, it's the same in the United Arab Emirates and Oman and Saudi Arabia, and it's the same in Germany. There are international academies and private institutions who are in need of native-born English speakers to tutor their young 'uns (and even their professional adults).

I say that with no little pride. I'd say we have Britain to thank for the fact that English is now the global language, the trade language, the pan-geographical lingua franca, as it were.

And hey, it gives me an automatic in. I ain't complaining.

Apart from all this, I know virtually nothing about the country. I'm intensely excited to learn its language (I'm 75% German myself on both my father and mother's side); lots of hard consonant sounds I'll have to learn. Cake is something else that Germany's famous for. Kaffee und Kuchen is a serious affair in Deutschland, similar to siesta in Spain or teatime in England. Everybody gets together at home or in town and has a cup of coffee and a slice of cake. Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte (literally "Black Forest Cherry Cake") is perhaps one of the most famous of German confections. I mean, come on, look at it:

If decadence were a crime, we'd have to call Germany on a Cake Holocaust. Doesn't that look like a little slice of heaven? Wikipedia says this orgasmic monstrosity "consists of several layers of chocolate cake, with whipped cream and cherries between each layer...decorated with additional whipped cream, maraschino cherries, and chocolate shavings."

Damn.

Certain bits of Germany itself are enough to make you drool, too. Take a look at Lake Hintersee, in Bavaria. Pretty country, ain't it?

Just a few reasons I'd like to go: cake, high country, old European architecture, rich history, a language I could get used to hearing every day (and not think I was in a war movie)...and, oh yes, a little thing I like to call

BEER!

Speaking of being in third place, Germany is subordinate only to Ireland and the Czech Republic in its per capita consumption of beer. According to this list, the average German knocks back 110 litres of amber fluid per year. (The U.S. drags in thirteenth place with a measly 81.6 litres.) That's well ahead of such renowned beer-drinking countries as the United Kingdom, Australia, and Poland. I'm astounded (and not a little excited) by this news. I've been to the United Kingdom and Ireland and thought they were boozy countries. I can't wait to get to Germany and try it out for size.

Wish us luck, people. RANDOM TRAVEL DESTINATIONS, signing off.

bog bodies

Breakfast on the morning of June 17 was a somewhat muted affair. It occurred rather late in the morning, and only after large amounts of water had been drunk and hot showers had been taken.

Jeff and I, despite our fuzzy heads, still weren't finished with Dublin. There were some things we figured we had to see before we left, and had no excuse not to, since our flight out didn't leave until the afternoon.

That pretty much left the National Museum. It actually wasn't too far away from us, over on Kildare Street. We didn't know it going in, but the Museum actually has four branches, all in different places. We were walking into the archaeology branch.

...which happened to be right next to the houses of Irish Parliament. There was a big ol' protest going on outside its gates as we approached. Camera crews were busy filming it, policemen were busy guarding it and spectators were busy gawking at it. A bunch of elderly folks were walking up and down the sidewalk, hoisting signs that said PRESERVE THE SANCTITY OF MARRIAGE and SAME-SEX MARRIAGE IS A SIN.

Some things apparently don't change too much between continents.

We entered the museum through a metal gate and walked up the steps into the domed lobby. Outside there were a bunch of school kids (crisply uniformed) all hanging about, either waiting to start a tour or just having finished.

Nothing makes your day like hearing a little Irish girl singing a Taylor Swift song, let me tell you.

So, we walked in. Admission was free. The museum was rather small (at least this particular branch). Nonetheless we saw some cool stuff. There was a whole Viking longboat found somewhere over near Galway or something that had been almost perfectly preserved. Or maybe it wasn't even Viking, maybe it was just a big effing wooden canoe that the early Irishmen had built. I don't remember, I was hung over.

They had a nice little section on ancient Egypt on the upstairs floor with a bunch of articles, artifacts, artistry, artisanship, and all those other words that start with "arti."

(I wish I could give you more details, but as has previously been mentioned, I was hung over. And it's Wednesday afternoon as I'm writing this and I just woke up from a three-hour nap and there's a thunder cloud hanging over my house that's making a whole lotta noise and I'm trying to finish this entry before it starts crackling and pouring and frying my motherboard.)

The pinnacle of the museum's collection was its exhibit on "bog bodies." These were the mummified, mutilated remains of Irish kings, slaughtered by their political foes and dumped into bogs. The peaty composition of the Irish bogs meant that the decomposition process was slowed or even halted, resulting in some of the best-preserved bodies you'll find anywhere in the world. Indeed, some of these guys (except for the fact that their skins looked exactly like leather, and they were, as has previously been mentioned, mutilated) looked almost...well, alive.

It was creepy, dude.

I highly recommend the exhibit if you happen to be in Dublin. It's not going anywhere. It's by far the most exciting thing ever to have come out of an Irish bog (except when they pulled Old Patty Flynn stone-drunk out of the Ardee bog last year; that was a hoot).

So we left the museum about eleven and headed back to the hostel. We made a brief stop in Waterstone's (a bookstore chain found all over the Isles) to check the price of a copy of Ulysses...

...saw this thing maneuvering around streetcars...

 ...zipped back to that souvenir shop on O'Connell Street so I could finally get my Ireland T-shirt...

(Feel privileged, this is the most recent photo of me. Like, ever. I just took it five minutes ago.)

Then we our hostel a fond farewell, had one last tributary pint of Guinness in Doyle's (as Argentina slaughtered South Korea up on the TV), and headed for the airport.

And so we departed Dublin the same way we'd come in: tired and hung over.

We were sitting behind some little Geordie kids on the way back. I tell you what, I like hearing English, Scottish and Irish accents in general, but hearing them from kids...well, that's an extra kick. Makes the little tykes seem extra cute, you know. It was two little boys and a girl, and they were all talking about what makes airplanes stay up. They were pointing out the window and watching the Boeing's flaps go up and down. It kind of took the hangover away for a while.

Ryanair, being one of those cheapo airlines, doesn't give out free drinks and snacks. You have to buy them. And they cost a lot of euro. If you're a smoker, though, and you don't think you can go the 45 minutes between Dublin and Newcastle without a puff, they sell smokeless cigarettes. Yes, on an airplane. They were sellin' cigs. Wow. Neat.

We got back to Newcastle, hopped at cab back to Tynemouth, and were home and dry in Adam's mum's house before the sun set.

But as you already know, that ain't sayin' much up there in the northern latitudes.

Next up: I try to host an American barbecue for my gracious hosts...with British charcoal and a British grill. Witness the disaster next time on British barbecue blues. Don't miss it.

dancing with the Australians

[pant, wheeze]

Welcome to the sixth consecutive day of posts regarding my recent trip to the U.K. and Ireland. For those of you who are just joining the party, here's a recap:

My Canadian friend Jeff and I, who were visiting some English friends in Newcastle, England, slid west into Dublin for a day or three. We'd survived the first night, and were now onto the second: a pub crawl chaperoned by the city tour guides. It was due to start at 7:00 at the Purty Kitchen, in Temple Bar (the touristy-party district of southern Dublin).

Jeff and I washed, waxed and dried (figuratively speaking) at the hostel, then sauntered out into the slowly darkening day. I say "slowly darkening" because, as has been mentioned previously, night comes extremely slowly to the northern regions in summer. It takes the sun about three hours to set, and even then it doesn't get completely dark. Evening goes on forever. (You can get a good idea of what I mean by watching the movie Gregory's Girl, which takes place in Scotland.) It's probably the most charming temporal thing I've ever experienced.

It also meant that Jeff and I had plenty of time (and light) to get to the Purty Kitchen. We almost ran out of the former, if not the latter. We couldn't quite remember where the danged place was. Cillian (our tour guide) had only shown it to us once, and Temple Bar, though composed of only two or three streets running east-west (south of the River Liffey), was a nightmare of byways, alleys, and cobblestone cross-streets. We didn't remember whether the Kitchen was over to the west, closer to the cathedral; or east, towards Westmoreland Street.

After a few disagreements about cardinal directions and a lot of guessing, Jeff and I managed to muster up a whole brain between us. We located the rendezvous point with minutes to spare. It was blatantly obvious. The Purty Kitchen was just on the other side of the New Theater (where U2 was first discovered, remember?). Plus there was a whole line of people outside, waiting for happy hour to hit. Most of them had been on the tour with us, including a couple of the Americans (Oklahomans, fresh out of college and having a fling before settling down).

So we queued up. When seven o'clock struck an erratic sort of relay race began. We'd snatch a ticket for a free beer (eight-ounce cups of Foster's, a severe gyp to the palate, but better than nothing). We'd dash inside, get served up, chug the brew as soon as possible, dash back outside and repeat the process. The beers were only free until eight. The chaperones doled out the beer stubs like they were candy, and the rest of us nabbed what bits of conversation we could between slugs of beer and increasingly haphazard runs for the door. Jeff surrounded himself with several Canucks of various sexes; a boy and girl from Montreal, another man from Toronto. I stood at a high table with a couple of Australians: a man from Queensland and a girl from New South Wales. (To make things even more ironic, she was from Newcastle, New South Wales.) Her name was Angela. She had been around with us on the tour. She was, if I may say (platonically), rather cute. About 5'5", petite figure, short dirty-blond hair, fair skin. Positively charming eyes, and her accent wasn't bad either. She was a student at the University of Newcastle and was taking a summer break abroad.

I was rather enthused. This was precisely what I'd been hoping for all along: to meet some young, good-looking, free-spirited foreign girl while overseas. Just to talk with her, honest. If anything else happened...well, that would be an added bonus.

Don't bother tuning up. Nothing happened. Neither of us went to each other's hostel room and engaged in a wild romantic encounter. (Good thing, too...she was staying at a rather shifty hostel. Wouldn't have wanted to leave my pants lying around there.) I'm simply mentioning Angela here, now, because she will be an important player later in the drama—when we all began to dance.

In the meantime, I was in a rather special place, chugging beer with an attractive Australian. I must admit, her male companion was rather good company as well, funny as hell and just as opinionated as me. The World Cup, my constant companion wherever I went, was on the TV. South Africa was losing tragically to Uruguay. Jeff was scintillating and chafing beautifully with his companions over at the bar. I was working up a good buzz and feeling fine.

Eight o'clock struck. Duly fraternized (and moistened), we moved en masse from the Purty Kitchen to the next venue, Peadar Kearney's. The place was claustrophobic up top and spacious down below, the bar barely having room to swing a cat in, but the downstairs (with plentiful pool tables) darkly lit and cavernous.

Angela, Jeff and I ordered up some drinks. How we managed to push and shove our way through the wall-to-wall crowd remains a mystery. Word of a beer pong tournament swept the room shortly thereafter, and Jeff and I dove down the narrow staircase and into the basement to take on the Oklahomans. We lost, miserably. Those Okies know their business. It was my first time ever playing, but still, I would have though a Canuck and a Californian would have been able to hold up their end better.

I was just about lit by this time. I wandered back upstairs to refill my glass and join the Australians in a rousing chorus of "Waltzing Matilda." The Irish guitarist on the tiny stage crammed in the corner strummed and hummed, and the rest of us filled in the words. At the bar was a blond, bearded fellow from Manchester, England. What his name was I've long since forgotten. Solid bloke, though. The two of us sat and discussed the broader issues of life and world travel until it was time to switch pubs. Like a horde of thirsty locusts, we tourists swarmed the door and hung a left up Dame Street to Sweeney's.

This last was just a long, low room with several levels, each decked out with tables and chairs. Tequila shots were one euro apiece. The Montrealese and the Torontan had joined us, as had Angela. We'd lost Angela at Kearney's, but I (despite weaving a good deal) ran back down the sidewalk, rounded up all the stragglers, and herded them back to Sweeney's. Thought it was a gallant sort of thing to do, go back for the damsel left behind. Jeff and I sipped beer, shot tequila and talked with the other three until...well, until none of us were in any shape to talk anymore. I remember the Montreal-man just sort of keeling over slowly, like a ship foundering, until he was prostrate on the bench. I don't remember where the Toronto fellow disappeared to. I wasn't sure what kind of shape Jeff was in. Angela was taking things quite easy; she was still in good shape. I was feeling no pain. I was about to go ask the owner if he could stop the bar and let me get off.

But we weren't quite finished yet. There was one thing we had to do before calling it a night: clubbing. As it happened, our starting point, the Purty Kitchen, was in possession of an upstairs club. So back (and up) we went.

The remainder of the night passed in a blaze of strobes, pop music, and gut-shaking rhythms. The Canadians, the Mancunian, Angela and I all formed a sort of hectic six-square on one side of the dance floor and cut loose. I haven't gone that crazy in a while. All of us were soaked through in a matter of minutes. We kept imbibing, too: Smirnoff Ices were going like hotcakes at the downstairs bar. Jeff wound up jaw-to-jaw with a pretty girl from Wisconsin as the Mancunian and I hosted a dance-off in the corner.

I'd love to be able to show you pictures of some of this, but I left my camera in my room at the hostel. I knew I'd be getting soused, and didn't trust myself to hang onto valuables. I'd like to give you a more coherent rundown of the night's events, but as has previously been mentioned, I was soused. You should see the notes I took while out on this pub crawl. My writing, as it moves down the page, gets progressively more illegible until it fades finally to gibberish. Much the same is true of my memory. Angela disappeared sometime shortly after my memory fades away. I believe she, the Mancunian and I exchanged Facebook info, but I was never able to locate them. Such is life. Ships that pass in the night. Freak-dances in Dublin. Se la vi.
I vaguely recall stumbling away from the Kitchen with Jeff in the black of night, which had finally arrived; stopping off in some convenience store for a (large) bottle of water; traipsing back into the hostel, doffing my shoes and collapsing onto the upper bunk. It was as well that our flight out of Dublin back to Newcastle left in the early afternoon; we were going to need a serious lie-in.

But that's a story for next time. Next up on the Sententious Vaunter, bog bodies: the final day in Dublin.

the law firm of Strongbow and Jameson

Quick recap:

Me. Jeff. Dublin. Ireland. June 16. Twenty-ten A.D. Just finished the walking tour. It's about, oh, two o'clock in the afternoon or something. Cillian (our tour guide) has released us at St. Stephen's Green. We've been told to come to the tour-sponsored pub crawl at 7:00, starting at the Purty Kitchen in Temple Bar. ("If you don't have plans, come out," he said. "If you do have plans, cancel them.") We've toured St. Stephen's Green and Grafton Street with Harry, our Australian roomie. We've split from Harry and are now on our way west, through Temple Bar, to explore all the stuff we saw on the tour that we want to see more of. Plus we're trying to make up our minds whether we want to pregame with Guinness or Jameson before going to the pub crawl (meaning we're trying to decide whether to tour the Guinness brewery or the Old Jameson Distillery). That yellow-hued DUKW with all the screaming Viking tots is still driving around, yelling at pedestrians.

Got all that?

Okay, on with the show.

I wanted to see the inside of Christ Church Cathedral. I'm ain't the religious type, but I've got a thing for churches. The bigger and older they are, the more I like 'em. Nothing beats standing 'midst the pews in an ancient cathedral, the holy light of ages beaming down from the stained-glass windows above the worn pulpit...even if the pews, windows and pulpit are just replicas. There's a quiet sort of grandeur about a place of worship, one which I like to sample even if I don't buy into it.

Jeff wasn't in the mood to stump up the requisite €6 to get inside, however, so I went in by myself. The ticket agent took my money, politely ordered me to take my cap off, and handed me my pass.

And then I was in.

It was something else in there, folks.

The cathedral has some pretty intriguing history. It was originally built by a Catholic Viking king, about a thousand years ago. It was made of wood. A couple hundred years later, the Normans showed up, led by a fellow named Strongbow (there's a cider named after him; we drank heavily of it in Newcastle). Strongbow and his buddies oversaw a complete rebuild of the cathedral, including the construction of a choir, transepts (whatever the heck those are), the crypt, and chapels to several saints. Strongbow himself has a tomb now in the upper chambers of the cathedral.

No, I wasn't whistlin' Dixie: I said "crypt." This cathedral has a crypt. How cool is that?

After I got done touring the main complex, I went down into it.

Besides having some breathtaking tombstones (speaking of "quiet grandeur")...

...the crypt also houses a golden tabernacle and candlesticks used by King James II; the oldest-known secular carvings in Ireland; and "the Cat and the Rat," the mummified bodies of a cat and a rat which a janitor found stuck down an organ pipe.

I wish I could show you pictures of these goodies, but they didn't allow photography in that bit of the crypt.

I don't know about you, but I think that was well worth the six euros. Damn skippy.

I emerged into the bright Dublin sun (man, did Jeff and I get lucky or what? It was sunny the whole time we were in Ireland, gorgeous weather), rendezvoused with Jeff, and together the two of us struck out again. We decided that we'd had enough Guinness for the nonce; me being a hardcore whiskey fan, we elected to check out the Jameson distillery.

For the record, I think Jameson is tasty stuff. And their commercials are hilarious.

So, following the map (Jeff's Lonely Planet guide, no two-bit tourist map this time) we marched over to that part of town. We stopped off for a bottle of water at a nearby supermarket (it was actually quite warm outside). While I waited for Jeff, I perused a nearby fence, which had this mysterious missive attached to it:

And thence we strolled boldly into the distillery.

The tour was costly...I think it was twenty euros each or something. The next tour didn't start for about twenty minutes, so Jeff and I killed the time by browsing around the gift shop. Such treasures you've never seen: Jameson hats, Jameson overcoats, Jameson hip flasks, Jameson golf balls, Jameson pens, even a charming collection of tweed driving caps. But the worst was the booze. They had every single Jameson variety in that gift shop. Signature reserve, twelve-year-old special reserve, gold reserve, eighteen-year-old limited reserve...even the coveted rarest vintage reserve, one bottle of which costs more money than Donald Trump makes in a day and comes with its own serial number. The buyers put their names down in a master registry, along with the number of the bottle they bought. Seriously, a bottle of Jameson RVR is more like a pedigreed dog than a measure of booze. I was just sorry I didn't get to taste it, and judge for myself. It was sheer torture being in that room.

The tour fortunately started before I went totally stir-crazy. Our guide, a handsome girl named Georgina, plunked us down in a small theater and has us watch an introductory video. It explained (a little) about the history of the Jameson family (their family motto is Sine Metu, "Without Fear," because the early Jamesons made a name for themselves fighting pirates) and the uniqueness of John Jameson's whiskey. It didn't go into too much detail, but it sure got the juices flowing.

Then we went on the tour. Each exemplary piece of equipment used in the distillation process had been preserved. Some (like the wash back) were still in operation, eternally sloshing some display wort around a big wooden tub so we could see how it worked. We learned some surprising things about the creation of the spirit. As the whiskey matures, a surprisingly large amount (thousands of bottles' worth) is lost through the casks to evaporation. This has been nicknamed the "angel's share." (There's only one way it goes, after all: up.) I'll bet St. Peter's job satisfaction went through the roof once John Jameson started up his stills. We were able to sample this effect ourselves. There was an upended cask with a hole cut in the top for us to sniff. We took a whiff and BOY, a hefty punch of whiskey goodness wafted out of the barrel and into our nostrils. That was cool.

I won't say too much more (a) because I don't want to spoil the tour for you, and (b) Jameson representatives, clothed in black, will probably come banging on my door, and (c) I'm lazy. So I'll just say that it was an interesting tour. The creation of Irish whiskey is a much more intricate process than I'd imagined. The big thing that Georgina tried to impress upon us was that Jameson's (and other Irish whiskies) differs from Scotch whisky in that it's lighter and smoother, and better-tasting, due to the grains being merely baked in the kiln instead of having the devil roasted out of them.

And just to prove to us that she meant what she said, Georgina gave us a taste-test. She asked for eight volunteers at the start of the tour, and (well, you know me, don't you? I'm a booze-hound) my hand was one of the first in the air.

Georgina took us upstairs to the tasting-room (which looked like a rather classy restaurant, except instead of kitchens, there was just a bar and a whole lot of tables and chairs). She sat the eight of us down at a table and brought us each three plastic shot glasses. One was American whiskey, one was Scotch, and the third was Jameson's. We weren't blindfolded, and we were told which was which. Then we were invited to taste each whiskey in turn. First we took a sip of the American; then a sip of Jameson's to compare it with. Then we had a swig of Scotch, and a swig of Jameson's to chase it. Then were asked to slug that last bit of Jameson's back and make a final decision: which was best?

The vote was 7-1 in favor of Jameson. We all got signed certificates with our names printed on them that said we were now qualified, bona fide tasters of Irish whiskey. (That old gentleman next to me in the picture said he liked the American and Scotch whiskies better, just to be contrary. Georgina gave him a certificate anyway, telling him that there was "plenty of room for improvement.")

Now, before you accuse me of being a suck-up, I answered the survey honestly. I said before that Jameson is good stuff. It is rather smooth and easy and flavorful, I'll give it that. But the American whiskey used in the test happened to be Jack Daniels. I HATE Jack Daniels. I have no earthly idea why Jack & Coke is the most popular cocktail in America right now. I honestly don't know why it gained prominence over all other American whiskies. Over bourbons, for Pete's sake. I think bourbon is a lot better than Tennessee whiskey. (Old Crow and Wild Turkey 101 are my two picks.) The Jack Daniels company has a few good brands, like Double Barrel, Single Barrel and (to some extent) Gentleman Jack, but their Old No. 7 is barely passable. I wouldn't drink it straight.

And the Scotch whisky they used in the test was Johnnie Walker Black Label. Now, Black Label's the first Scotch I ever had. It's one of my dad's favorites, and my dad is a picky, picky man when it comes to booze. He won't drink any gin but Broker's (maybe Bombay Sapphire will do, if there's nothing else). He's a martini-man, and never touches rum or vodka. Hardly ever trucks with tequila, even, unless Jimmy Buffett's on the stereo and it's margarita time. I'm rather ambivalent about Johnnie Walker. Doesn't taste bad. But the fact remains that it's blended whisky. Blended whiskies just aren't on the same level as single malts. I think it was kind of a cop-out by the Jameson company that they didn't pick a good all-'round Scotch single malt to test side-by-side with their product. Johnnie Walker really isn't up to the challenge.

Mmmmmmm...challenge...

So I answered honestly. Of those three whiskies, I liked Jameson the best. Scout's honor.

And I got a little certificate for my trouble, which says that I, the Postman (real name withheld) is now a qualified whiskey-taster. I'm going to frame it, but it's printed on metric paper, so I'll have to get a custom frame. Bugger it all...

And that was that! Jeff, who hadn't signed up for the free taste-test but was sipping his free cocktail at another table, managed to snag some pictures of me in hog-heaven.



Before I hear any smart remarks, I'd like to assure you that my face was that red BEFORE I started drinking. 

Then we got up and headed out. It was time to regroup at the hostel, get cleaned up and step out to Temple Bar for a pub crawl en masse.

What happened next is a bit blurry, but I remember it as being rather fun at the time. Don't miss dancing with the Australians, coming up next.

the grand tour of Dublin

Jeff and I had a long talk with Harry over breakfast on the morning of the 16th. We found out where he was from (I think it was one of those Australian towns that sounds like baby-burbles, Wollogong or Toowoomba or something). He also told us what he was doing in Dublin (backpacking, remember?), and we explained to him a little about ourselves. Everyone we talked to on this trip seemed rather touched that an American and a Canadian were traveling together so amicably. I think they expected us to be at each other's throats.

Indeed, Jeff and I made the most sanguine travel buddies imaginable. We had our disagreements over cardinal directions sometimes, and our sightseeing priorities varied widely, but all in all we got on swimmingly. I give Jeff most of the credit for that. He's a veeeeery easygoing guy, besides possessing an unusual amount of inborn Canadian politeness.

Jeff, Harry and I had the same itinerary this morning: the walking tour of Dublin, beginning at 10:30. We donned our best walkin' duds (Harry dolled up in a short-sleeved button-down and a tweed vest) and followed the guide out of our hostel, down College Green and along Dame Street to a small square. We sat around for a bit until the other saps from the other hostels showed up, and then were introduced to our tour guide, Cillian.

That's pronounced "KILL-ee-uhn." Like Killian's Irish Red. You know, the beer. Only Cillian's name had the proper Irish spelling. The name means "little church" in Irish, in fact. How do I know? Cillian told us. Ladies, you'd have loved him. The guy's accent was off the charts. If I was a chick, I'd have married him on the spot. Had sort of the rugged look about him: stubble on his cheeks, square jaw, twinkle in his eye. He led us further up the road, hung a left, and halted right outside Dublin Castle.

"Right," he said. "My name is Cillian. That means 'little church' in the Irish language. I'll be your tour guide today. What nationalities do we have represented in the crowd?"

There were about twenty of us. Cillian pointed to each in turn, and everyone named their home turf. We had a good smattering of Americans and Australians, a few Canadians, and a couple of French girls.

Jeff and I were standing together and when we rattled off our nationalities, Cillian said "No fighting between the Americans and Canadians, okay fellows?"

That brought an appreciate chuckle from everybody.

"No English people here today?" Cillian confirmed when we'd finished the rounds. "Excellent, is it all right if I really stick the knife in?"

Jeff and I grinned at each other in anticipation.

Cillian proceeded to give us the complete history of Ireland, starting from the Neolithic Age and concluding with the formation of the two distinct Irish political entities (the free Irish Republic and Northern Ireland). He did it in about ten minutes, as he promised at the outset. He didn't pull any punches when it came to the role the British played in Irish history, either [cough]. He gave a loud cheer when he got to the bit about ousting the British and becoming an independent republic. He gave some of the crowd a bit of lip service, too. In discussing the Irish Revolution, he briefly mentioned the French and American Revolutions.
"In 1776, the Americans revolted against the English and won their independence," he said. "Nice job, guys, well done."

Man oh man. I knew Ireland had had a troubled history, and I knew (vaguely) of the major events in it (though not necessarily in chronological order). The most I ever knew about the IRA, in fact, was from its brief mention in The Quiet Man (which, by the way, is one of my favorite movies ever) and a few short stories I'd read in high school.

But, seriously. Jeez Louise. After Cillian had finished up I felt like I was walking out of the saddest movie ever made. Ireland has had it rough. As if the Norman and British invasions weren't bad enough, and having home rule denied them so many years, there were the Troubles, too. Irishman against Irishman. Civil war is hell, I can vouch for that. I won't say I came any closer to understanding Ireland, its culture, or its people, but after Cillian's speech I think I sympathized a little more with the bad stuff that's happened to them (and what's still happening).

We started the tour at the most logical place: Dublin Castle, right behind us.

Now, before you get all excited, Dublin Castle...er...doesn't exactly look like a castle, you know. It actually looks kind of like a house. Like a mansion, sort of. The only castle-ish thing about it is the Records Tower...

...which as you can see is tall, round, made of stone, and topped with battlements. The rest of the castle looks like this: 

(photo courtesy of Wikipedia)

Why does it look like that? Well, 'cause the Brits moved in and took over management of the country. They built the complex originally under the rule of King John as a fortified base to house England's treasure from the Normans. The place eventually became the seat of British rule of Ireland. Cillian told us all sorts of stories about how the statues which overlook the castle's courtyard symbolize English tyranny.

Take Lady Justice, for example. She's standing on top of the arch there in the above picture. She (like the other statues) is facing in, toward the castle, not out, indicative of England's selfish colonial ways; she's not wearing a blindfold, indicating that justice was not blind in English Ireland; and furthermore, she's carrying a sword. (Do I really need to explain that?)

Interesting stuff. Cillian also told us a rather sad story about an Irish prince who was enticed onto an English ship (with booze) and imprisoned in the dungeon of the records tower for some years. He remained there until the young lords of the two most influential Irish clans mounted a rescue operation. One died in the attempt, but the prince was rescued.

What comes next is so secret and so jealously guarded that I can't show you any pictures, nor even tell you precisely where it is. Cillian asked us to keep it under our hats. It's one of his favorite places to go for a little peace and quiet, and he can't have any of you noisy tourists barging in and mucking it up.

It's the Dublin Castle Garden. It's just a circular courtyard of green, green grass ringed with scenic walks and park benches. The Royal Stables border the garden to the south, its façade massive to the point of absurdity; it was built by an unsympathetic English lord to obscure the unsightly Dublin slums behind it. To the west lies a library, bequeathed to the city by a U.S. copper magnate (Alfred Chester Beatty) who collected an insane amount of Egyptian papyri and Oriental texts. He became a naturalized British citizen in 1933. He moved his vast anthropological collection to Dublin in 1950, and was made an honorary citizen of Ireland in 1957. He was given a state funeral in Ireland upon his death, pretty rare for a private citizen.

But I didn't come here to tell you that. I came to talk about this garden. It's...wonderful. Easy on the eyes and quiet as a tomb. You're surrounded by the edifices of modern architecture, but they seem somehow distant, remote, as if you were standing in an uncharted clearing  in the midst of the urban jungle. You can hear the traffic warbling by on either side of the Liffey, but it's a dull roar. People stroll up and down the paved walkways or sit on the park benches and meditate. You can sprawl full-length on the soft grass, gaze up at the sky, and let your mind wander where it will.

Not bad for a city park.

If you actually do manage to find this place, keep it a secret, okay? And you didn't hear it from me.

We also learned where the name "Dublin" comes from. Dublin used to be two small villages at the intersection of the Rivers Liffey and Poodle (pronounced "Poddle"). These villages were Átha Cliath (Irish for "Ford of Hurdles"; there was once a wooden bridge there) and Dubh Linn (meaning "Black Pool," there used to be a blackish sort of pool nearby, I guess). Then the Vikings came in and rezoned the entire area. The two villages were united and blossomed into a city.

And so we wandered on through Dublin and Temple Bar. We saw Jonathan Swift's birthplace, the New Theatre (where U2 was discovered)....

...the Clarence Hotel (which U2 got kicked out of for being too scruffy; they own the place now, and Cillian said he often sees the Edge in there having a quiet drink)...

...and Trinity College, which still has some odd rules on its books. Apparently, if any student is occupying a room which faces the school's courtyard, and he sees a Catholic enter said courtyard, that student is obligated to shoot the Catholic with a bow and arrow.

Also, if a student enters the school on a horse, wearing a robe and carrying a sword, he has the right to demand a free meal and a glass of mead or port. Only one person has tried this in the school's recorded history, and he got the free meal and the drink...and a suspension. Some technicality about having livestock on campus, or something.

Trinity College is also home to the Book of Kells, a Gospel book written in Latin which surpasses all others in the intricacy and artistry in its illustrations; and the harp of Brian Boru, the Irish king who defeated the Vikings. The harp is now the emblem of the college. (And if you've ever wondered where that harp on the glass of Guinness comes from...that one's Brian's, too. It just faces the other way.)


Jeff and I also learned the story behind the Spire of Dublin. Apparently the city fathers decided that Dublin needed a monument. So they came up with the spire idea. Bob's your uncle, Fanny's your aunt, they got themselves a monument. Most Dubliners think it's ridiculous. Some of the local nicknames for it include "The Spike," "The Stiffy by the Liffey," "The Erection by the Intersection," "The Stiletto in the Ghetto," "The Cock by the Dock," and others far more rude. It's not that bad. I actually rather like it. Gleams beautifully in the sun. Enormously tall, epic in stature. Lights up at night too. Sort of comforting. You can navigate by it almost anywhere in Dublin. Real handy when you're out on a bender (sorry, I'm getting ahead of myself; I'll tell you about that later).

We finally wound up at St. Stephen's Green (yowzer, speaking of gorgeous city parks) where the tour concluded. As our send-off, we stood in front of the statue of Theobald Wolfe Tone (or just "Wolfe Tone" for short). Interesting guy, Tone. Commonly called the father of Irish republicanism. His story is rather long and convoluted, and like those of most Irish revolutionaries, not without tragedy. Tone originally wanted to found a military colony in Hawaii, but couldn't get support. So he turned to politics. He co-founded the Society of the United Irishmen. Originally this group's purpose was to merely to obtain a modicum of political reform in Ireland; say, equal political representation among Catholics and Protestants. However, frustrated by the unfairness of British government, and inspired by the French Revolution, the United Irishmen soon became a revolutionary republican advocacy group.

After various attempts to thwart British rule, including a secret alliance with France (abetted by France's war on Britain, which began in 1793), the United Irishmen got hit with a crackdown. Martial law was declared and Tone was given a court-martial. Sentenced to death, he slit his throat; the English doctors tried to sew him up, but they were too late. Tone died in November 1798, at the age of 35.

Awfully cheery thought. Fortunately, right behind Tone's statue was St. Stephen's Green. It's rather difficult to feel gloomy about anything in a place like this:

We strolled out through the Fusilier's Arch and up Grafton Street. Performers of all descriptions were out in force, populating the street with guitar and fiddle music, giant bubbles, and James Joyce quotes.

Yes, by some happy miracle, we had alighted in Dublin on the 16th of June, otherwise known as Bloomsday. On this auspicious date, fans of Joyce's novel Ulysses take to the streets in full costume and reenact their favorite scenes (at least, the scenes they can legally enact in public).

Some of these guys were pretty darn good, I must say.

We split up with Harry at Grafton Street, and Jeff and I struck out on our own.

And later I shall tell about what we saw and did (and ate). This post has already gone on WAY longer than I planned. I'd better not let my posts run too long anymore or Talli Roland might get on my case. Next up, Strongbow and Jameson: inside Christ Church Cathedral and a tour through the Old Jameson Distillery. After that (I promise) dancing with the Australians: a pub crawl through Temple Bar.

Don't miss it...