what Gwangnaru means

One of the things I like to do whenever I visit (or move to) a new town in a different country is translate the name. Names tell you a lot about a place. In a nation as old, as storied and as historically rich as Korea, names give you a wealth of information about the origins and geopolitical importance of a place.

"Oh sure," you might scoff. "What can place names tell you in a country as small as Korea? It's all the same peninsula. The whole country's in a single time zone. It's a one-biome and one-climate country. Locations that are only 25 kilometers apart within it are going to have the same history."

Not true. Heck, you only have to travel 20 kilometers in Korea to hear dialectical differences in the language. Twenty kilometers! And I can confidently say that, in the culinary arena alone, Gwangnaru is worlds apart from Bucheon. I can only imagine the cultural, traditional and historical disparities that will come to light. I've already noticed that Gwangjin folk seem to prefer duck to chicken. Perhaps that has something to do with their proximity to the Han River...

But I digress. Let's talk about translating city names.

I started this tradition with Bucheon. Through a sinuous process of trial, error, ignorance, and liberal use of Google Translator, Miss H and I managed to figure it out. If we are correct (and we most likely aren't, since we haven't the knowledge or the resources to examine the name in Hanja, or Chinese characters), "Bucheon" translates to "Gold River."

Well, I kept this tradition up when Miss H and I moved across town to Gwangnaru, in the Gwangjang neighborhood of the Gwangjin ward.

Noticing a pattern here?

That's right. The syllable "gwang" appears in every one of those names.

Now, as with a lot of Korean words, gwang has its origins in Chinese. If I did my research correctly (and I probably didn't), "gwang" means "light" when written in Hanja. But like other languages that were adopted by other cultures and nations, however, Korean words' meanings and connotations have evolved from the mother tongue. The first and foremost definition that popped up in Bing Translate for "gwang" was "barn, shed, or granary."

Naru proved somewhat harder to translate. It's a fairly common word. It tends to show up a lot in business names: Gimbap Naru, or Sundae Naru. (Just so you know, "sundae" is not ice cream. It's bundles of Chinese vermicelli wrapped in cow or pig intestines. It's a popular snack food here.)

Thankfully the Internet is not my only source. I have the assistant director of the Sejong University's General English Program. At a meet-and-greet yesterday I asked him straight-out what the word "naru" meant. He's been living in Korea for more than a decade, and is married to a native Korean (they have two beautiful children). Rest assured that the A.D. is quite fluent in Hangeul. Without a moment's pause he informed me that "naru" is a ford or a ferry-landing.

Well, there you go. "Gwangnaru" translates to "Barn Ferry-Landing." For the sake of lingual aesthetics, let's shorthand it to "Granary Ford."

Hello, my name is (Professor) Post, and I live in Granary Ford, Snow Fence. (Gwangnaru, Seoul. Ha-ha.)

So from now on, if you hear me make a passing reference to "Granary Ford," don't be confounded. I'm referring to Gwangnaru. When the yellow dust clears up, I'll get you some pictures of the place. For now, enjoy your weekend...and this photo of my new building, Dongho Villa:

the Jung-dong Market expedition

On Saturday (the 24th of March), I did something worth mentioning. After some unexpected snow flurries in the early afternoon, I put on my hat and coat and went looking for something.

According to the Bucheon teachers' group (on Facebook), there was a street market on the other side of Jungang Park, four or five blocks south of my apartment building. It was practically mythical, its exact location shrouded in mystery. With nothing more to go on than a white arrow clumsily indicating a vague tangle of side-streets two blocks south of the park, I bundled up and went looking for it. 

...and returned 40 minutes later, realizing that I had forgotten my camera. I wanted it because the light was falling beautifully across the apartment blocks and skeletal trees downtown. And I had noticed. 

I almost turned back again when I figured out that I didn't have any money. In retrospect, however, it was a good thing that I went to a street market sans cash. I didn't want to blow it all on twigim (Korean tempura) or something frivolous like that. Moreover, I wanted to be able to look the barkers in the eye as I projected the customary broke-ass aura I employ in the vicinity of pushy salesmen.

That having been said, I started my second trip to the Jung-dong Market in high spirits. The sun was a little lower than I would have liked, and a bitter wind was blowing from the northwest, but I still got some nice shots of Jungang (Central) Park:

Those innocent pictures caused quite a stir. Not long after I had snapped that picture of myself (camera propped on the public stage used for summer concerts), a gaggle of Korean children sprinted up to me and stopped me in my tracks. One of the more athletic boys caught up to me first. He screeched to a halt, gaped for a moment, and then yelled back at his companions: "Weguk imnida!" ("He's a foreigner!") Then the rest of the girls and another boy caught up. They were quite animated (and winded). After some hand signals, gestures, fumbling for cell phones (and the digital dictionaries therein), plus a lot of pidgin English, they managed to convey to me what they wanted. They had seen me darting back and forth in front of the stage (as I set the timer on my camera and then scrambled into position). They hadn't seen the camera, however. Naturally, they assumed that I was stealing their stuff. I had noticed an assortment of coats and bags strewn haphazardly about the stage and the girders on its inner walls; now I knew who they belonged to. After assuring them that I had taken nothing but photographs, even showing them the one I had taken of myself as proof, they pronounced themselves satisfied. They laughed in embarrassment, apologized profusely (one of the politer boys bowed from the waist, his head level with my knees) and returned to whatever game they'd been playing before they accosted me.

Caught somewhere between amusement and indignity, I moved on, out of the park and into the maze of high-rise apartments and low-rise shops which characterize Jung-dong's streets.

I found myself thinking, as I moved through the urban jungle (earning the stares, curious looks and bemusement of the natives), about something Miss H had recently told me. She had stated, bluntly, that she would give a considerable sum of money to move away from that godawful backwater desert hellhole and go somewhere new. She would change her name, take up a new profession, move to a city where no one knew her name or her story. She would metamorphose into someone entirely different and begin her life anew.

I found myself strangely fascinated by the idea as I wandered about Jung-dong. I was only a half-mile from my apartment block, where by now every shopkeeper and street vendor undoubtedly knew my face. But here, on this side of Central Park, I was a total stranger. I wore my Stetson and my aviator shades. My bulky coat obscured much of my body. I carried no bag, and my camera was stowed away in a big pocket somewhere. Nobody could tell who I was. I might've been a secretive tourist, a cocky expat teacher, an off-duty oil worker, a diplomat gone incognito. I theorized that I had done two-thirds of what Miss H had wished she could do. I had moved to a new city and taken up a new profession. In name only was I still the same person. The idea excited and invigorated me. At any moment I expected to be drawn into some intrigue, and impress all involved with my biting wit and knowledge of diverse subjects.

After a few thrilling street-crossings and a bit of ducking and weaving through uneven, winding side-streets, I found the market. I felt like an explorer approaching the intimidating gate of some long-lost city in the midst of a hostile wilderness. The impression was only enhanced by the entrance to the market, with its imposing façade and alien script:

But once inside, I felt as though a gigantic weight had lifted from my shoulders. It was impossible to say what that weight was, exactly. Culture shock? No. It was more of the opposite. Two and a half years of limbo, thirty months spent grinding my teeth in the high desert of California, working minimum-wage jobs and watching my future slip further and further away, had suddenly evaporated instantaneously. At the sight of this Korean market, the old adventurous feeling awoke in me again. I realized that I was back in South Korea. I was overseas. I was an expatriate. I was roaming again, exploring, breathing, expanding, living the dream once more. And it felt righteous, my friends. It felt righteous.

The market went on for what seemed like miles. In reality it was less than one, but my feet were aching by the end of it. My head was up in the clouds, though. I saw all manner of fish and seafood, delectable meats, the freshest fruits and vegetables, and the most savory street food I had yet encountered outside central Seoul. I was again gladdened by the fact that I hadn't brought any money; it would surely have wound up in the traders' pockets. I marked all I saw with a practiced eye, memorizing the location of each noteworthy booth, stall and kiosk, resolving to make a second visit at some viable point in the future.

Then I strolled home. I arrived back at my apartment footsore and half-frozen, but nonetheless exhilarated. I'd walked for miles and was near to blistering my soles, but my soul was soaring. (There seems to be an inverse proportion in adventuring; the worse your body feels, the better condition your spirits are in, if you do it right.)

I'd achieved my goal. I'd found the market. And I'd snapped some fine pictures on the way. Mission accomplished. I collapsed into my chair and had a relaxing evening, with homemade mushroom soup and a nip of Ballantine's whisky to see me through.

And that was my weekend. How was yours (he asked smugly)?

a shindig in Hongdae

On Friday night, after having successfully taught my first classes and survived the first truncated week at my hagwon, my fellow foreigners and I decided to go out on the town.

Hongdae, that is.

This isn't my picture. Obviously I went to Hongdae in February, so everybody should be bundled up and running very fast to get out of the cold. But you get the idea. Lots of people, lots of neon.

Hongdae is an area of western Seoul known for the massive Hongik University. (The name "Hongdae" is actually an abbreviation of Hongik Daehakgyo (홍익대학교), the institution's Korean name.  The surrounding suburb contains a plethora of bars and nightclubs, and a modest indie music scene. Being only 20 minutes away by bus and subway, Hongdae is a natural choice for anybody in Bucheon looking to get their party on.

That very feature, however, makes it an extremely popular place on weekends.

It was madness from the get-go. The multitude which tried to exit the subway station at Hongdae were funneled into a tiny stairwell no wider than two people abreast, causing something of a traffic jam. I felt like I'd stepped into Diagon Alley when I emerged from this cattle chute: the narrow, uneven, tilted streets ran in every conceivable direction, lorded over by untidy piles of buildings plastered with more neon signs than a righteous god should've allowed.

Andy and I ducked, dodged and slid through the throng until we reached the comparative sanity of a second-floor coffeehouse, where we met Joe. Our fellow co-teacher was sipping peppermint tea and crooning over the secondhand guitar he'd purchased that afternoon. Andy ordered an espresso and the three of us laid plans. We were expecting some more people to show up, so we decided to go someplace visible. Across the street and up a rickety metal staircase was the Bar Rising, a bottled-beer sort of joint with black floors and walls and ceilings and tables and chairs, and enormous windows looking out on the chaotic street below. The cheapest beers were 4,000 won a pop, so we decided to have only one and then adjourn somewhere more reasonable. In the meantime, another third of our entourage showed up: Kim (Andy's girlfriend), Mel (another English teacher who lives in our same building), and Jay, an institutional sort of expatriate who's been here for several years.

We socialized for a spell and then headed out. The next stop was Vent, a tiny basement bar a few hundred yards up the street. Down a twisted staircase lay a lopsided room with a short bar (dozens of bills of foreign currency pasted on the walls behind it), a miniscule DJ's pulpit walled off by cinder blocks, a large fridge of beer bottles along one wall, and stools and tables stuck haphazardly wherever they fit. The main attraction of this bar was the Manchester United/Liverpool game being broadcast on the widescreen TV. We crammed ourselves into a nook and began our evening, laughing, joking, watching the game, and getting buzzed on cheap highballs. I was in high spirits. I was rapidly becoming readjusted to Korean nightlife, and it was good to unwind after a stressful first week in a new land.

We left Vent a few hours later. It was bitterly cold. Eastern Seoul isn't that far from the coast, and a chill wind was blowing off the Yellow Sea (pardon, I mean the West Sea). Blasts of moist, frigid air went rattling down the streets of Hongdae, seeping down coat collars and sending cute Korean couples in their chic designer clothes scurrying for the nearest coffeehouse.

Not us, though. We were intrepid foreigners and on the lookout for a good time. So we forged a path deeper into the interior of Hongdae, searching for a half-mythical pub which Jay had been to once and really liked. Shamrock and Roll, it was called: an Irish pub concealed in the folds and back alleys of Hongdae's sinful heart. After a few blind alleys and several false alarms (during which Liverpool had time to score a goal on Manchester, upping the ante) we found it.

How shall I describe to you the weirdness of living for a week in a city populated (mostly) by Koreans, and then suddenly stepping into a noisy, smoky, crowded bar filled with nothing but foreigners?

It was the height of oddity. My brain took an hour to adjust to it, though this may be attributable to the soporific effects of alcohol. There was hardly a Korean face in the crowd. I saw English folks, Canadians, Americans. The men were tall, or short, or muscular, or rotund, or bearded, or hairless. Some women were willowy, some petite; some with long hair, some with short. Eyes and skin tones ran up and down the spectrum. Foreignness aside, the mere heterogeneity of the room astounded me.

By some miracle the booth in the back corner was unoccupied. We claimed it in the name of Avalon and got straight to drinkin'. After some time, the remainder of our entourage finally fought their way through the crowd to join us: Jeff (my old Canadian buddy) and his girlfriend, Jennifer. We had quite a caucus going in that back corner. Joe and I switched from beer to whiskey, Andy and Jay smoked and laughed at the Liverpool offense, and the ladies sparkled and scintillated amid the piles of coats on the bench.

Full to bursting with drink and camaraderie, we waddled out of Shamrock and Roll at almost one o'clock. The street vendors were still in business and going like gangbusters, even despite the cold. We made a consensual pit stop and bought steaming hot kebab and Pad Thai, capping our night with savory munchies. After a bit of friendly banter with the vendors we made our way to the main street and hailed a taxicab.

The jet lag finally caught up to me in the backseat. My head lolled and I began to snore.

Jung-dong at a glance

This is a photo of my school/apartment building. Copyright me.

I should explain some terminology here first so you'll understand what I'm talking about.

Municipal areas in South Korea are split up into many different administrative levels. The ones I want to talk to you about are gu (pronounced just like it's spelled) and dong (don't snicker).

Gu are roughly equivalent to districts or boroughs in Western countries. Dong are the individual neighborhoods which comprise those districts.

I live in the city of Bucheon, sandwiched between Incheon and Seoul (about 25 kilometers west of the latter), in Wonmi-gu, Jung-dong.

It's this neighborhood of Jung-dong that I'd like to focus on here.

Bucheon is no small city, but my coworkers were quick to point out that the district of Jung-dong is one of the best and busiest. Everything can be found here, and most of Bucheon's residents wend their way to Jung-dong whenever they need to shop or carouse. 

As you might expect, I'm beginning to like this neighborhood.

Last Thursday night my teachers-in-arms went out for late-night dinner of ddok samgyeopsal at a restaurant a few blocks from my hotel. Samgyeopsal, well may you ask, is pork belly, cut into strips and fried with kimchi and bean sprouts. You eat it the way you eat most grilled meat in Korea: wrap it up in some lettuce with onions, ssamjang (meat sauce), and whatever else your little heart desires, and bolt the whole thing at a gulp. It's delicious. Ddok is rice cake—rice ground into a paste and molded into various shapes. In this case, the ddok takes the form of flat rectangles which are laid beside the samgyeopsal and fried, and then wrapped up in the lettuce and eaten with the meat. We had a feast—beer, soju, side dishes, and two portions of samgyeopsal (enough for eight people) for only 13,000 won a head. That's about $11.60 at the current exchange rate. Peanuts. Now I remember why I love Korea. You can get the most delicious food (and all the booze you can drink) for absurdly reasonable prices.

Following that we went to the Park—a pub one block west of the restaurant. We crossed some brilliantly-lit streets, passed neon storefronts and laughing crowds and disjointed snatches of pop music, traversed a frigid staircase and two smudged glass doors. We were standing inside a strangely-shaped, darkish sort of room filled with wraparound wall benches, oddly-contoured metal-and-plastic chairs and spindly tables, American hip-hop oozing out of the speakers, and a comprehensive list of cocktails (written in English!) inscribed behind the bar. The owner is Korean-American and speaks perfect unaccented English. He owns a stubby bulldog who greets patrons by trying to boulder his way up their legs. Joe, a fellow American who's been with Avalon four months, summed it up appropriately. It's like having your own private party room: you can request specific songs on the stereo, beers and drinks are incredibly low-priced, pool and foosball are free to play and—as this was Thursday night—we had the place entirely to ourselves. We took full advantage of the situation.

Even just a superficial glance of the streets and alleys in the vicinity of my hotel reveals a treasure trove of shops, cafés, eateries, stores, and other gold mines of comestibles and consumer products rarely seen outside of an American super mall.

There's a wonderful lunch room in Apartment 807 in Eczema...no, Enema...no, Enigma...no, Estima, my future apartment building. Between the hours of 3-5 they serve free lunch to Avalon teachers, and they also put together trays of snacks which they send over to us in the afternoons. Wednesday they had ddokpokki (rice cakes in a spicy red sauce), and Thursday they had these sort of rice dumpling things, which were absolutely killer. And on Friday they had peeled, boiled potatoes, served whole with sugar on top. And yesterday, on my first day of real teaching (which I'll tell you about in a few hours, or possibly a couple of days) they had sweet sandwiches. Yes, sweet. Sugared sammies. It's Korea. Don't look at me like that.

Just down the stairs and around the corner from my school is an excellent gimbap shop. Gimbap is basically Korean sushi, only instead of raw fish, the rice and seaweed are wrapped around a filling of vegetables, ham, and egg. It's quite intoxicating. This grub joint serves a variety of foods, including donkaseu (fried pork cutlet in sauce) and my personal favorite, bebimbap. Take a stone bowl, heat it, pour a wad of sticky rice into it, pile some gochujang (hot pepper paste) on top with six varieties of vegetables and a fried egg, and serve it. That's bebimbap. You mash it all up with a spoon until the rice is smeared with red gochujang, and devour the concoction while it's hot. It is AMAZING, and beats anything I've ever been served in a Chinese restaurant. (And I'm not just saying that because I'm against Communism.)

One hundred yards away is a tiny shop across from a police station, which sells street food: ddokpokki, hot dogs on sticks, and deep-fried vegetables. Everything is cheap and all of it is delicious. And you don't even need to talk to order: just jab an emphatic finger at what you want, and the lithe, brisk, bright-eyed proprietor will snatch it up and prepare it for you.

Across the street from the school—right next to the 7-11—is a franchise called Paris Baguette. Koreans have a sadly skewed idea of what pizza and burritos are composed of, and which ingredients are involved in their manufacture. Nonetheless, Paris Baguette has managed to copy the finer points of bread-baking and streusel production tolerably well, and the muffins, rolls, and pastries are beyond reproach. The food is pricy but satisfying.

And this is just what I've discovered in three days. Can you imagine what will come to light in a calendar year?

Much more awaits, even within this single square mile of turf which marks the limits of my experience in Bucheon, the immediate vicinity of my school and my apartment building. I've caught the merest glimpse of the basement of the Hyundai Department Store, an enormous fortress-like edifice directly across the street from Avalon. There's a food court down there which would knock the Mall of America into a cocked hat. Several other food shops have been recommended to me: pizza parlors, fried chicken kitchens, gimbap places, and other miscellaneous grub joints.

And only 25 kilometers away lies Seoul, with its museums, monuments, fine dining and shops.

But I'll get to that later.

welcome to the R.O.K.

I've arrived.

Being back in Korea is as much a frustrating pain in the neck as it is a nostalgic reunion. I'm glad of the triangle gimbap, the godawful convenience-store food, the PC-bang and the excellent exchange rate, but on the other hand, I'm being reminded of all the things which annoyed the hell out of me the first time, too. The complete lack of public garbage cans, for one thing. Can't find one to save my life. The homicidal drivers, for the other. The cab driver who brought me from Incheon International Airport to the S.R. Hotel in Bucheon was a classic example.

And now, having checked into a hotel, exchanged all my money for Korean bills, let my family and friends know that I'm alive and well—and having survived my couple of days on the job—my head's in a whirl and I'm feeling completely overwhelmed. And yet somehow, I'm relieved. As I should've expected.

Perhaps I can sum the whole affair up in the message I sent to my parents earlier last evening:

Okay, here's the scoop. I'm a hotel room. This is pretty standard since the person I'm replacing hasn't moved out of the apartment yet. I'll be taking possession on the 12th.


Whoo boy, where to begin? I arrived at my room at around 6:45 PM on February 7; I fell into an exhausted slumber at 7:30, awaking around 5:30 AM this morning. I channel-flipped for a few hours (finding two English-speaking channels, one for dramas like CSI and one National Geographic Channel), then put on my clothes and began to explore the neighborhood. It was bitterly cold and windy, the wind chill putting the already frosty 19 degrees down into the single digits. Thank GOODNESS you guys bought me some long underwear and I've got my rabbit fur hat and gloves with me. I'd be so frozen without them...


I should add at this point that my hotel room is VERY warm, with a heated floor, hot water, a big bathtub and shower, and this computer I'm typing on. I finally got it to work!


So: Mr. M (the English fellow who is apparently the head native English teacher at Avalon) came at 1:30 and we walked me to school. It's quite close by...not even five minutes from the hotel. And right next door to the apartment complex where I'll be staying eventually. But this is where it gets complicated. Avalon actually is TWO facilities: the old one on the second floor of one building, and another on the fourth floor of the building next door. Some teachers work primarily out of the one campus; some teachers primarily out of the other; some both. It's maddeningly confusing. Things only went downhill from there. My head is a whirling tornado of grade levels, classes, and other information. This Avalon school is a LOT more stringent and professional than Reading Town was. They make Reading Town look like a half-assed wannabe English school, in fact. They make you keep daily reports (which do come in handy for keeping track of things); fill out lesson plans; and are in the process of overhauling the curriculum. Rumors abound that class times (which currently stand at 70 minutes, five classes per day, though most teachers only teach four) will be altered next semester, which begins March 2. That's right, I've come in on the tail of a semester. Swell. I felt overwhelmed at first...still do, in fact...but after sitting in a couple of classes (two of them taught by Andy), I feel a whole lot better. Andy assured me that this looks a lot more complex than it really is, and I'm beginning to see that. I'm just going to have to really sweat it out for the first week. I'm teaching two classes and observing one tomorrow. The good news is I have three hours to prepare my lessons, with the aid of Mr. M and the woman I'm replacing.


Her name, incidentally, is C.A., and she's from Columbia, South Carolina. She does have a bit of an accent. Out of decency I haven't pumped her for the details of her dismissal, but I do know that she already has another job lined up in a podunk town south of Seoul, in an elementary school. For lunch break today she took me to a little shop she knows of which sells street food. We ate sausages on a stick while she took me up to the apartment I'll soon be occupying, No. 908. I love the layout. The bathroom is surprisingly spacious, there's lots of storage and the view is spectacular. There's a little sleeping loft above the kitchenette which is a perfect nook, in my opinion. I'll send pics as soon as I can. I received more good news in that I don't need a transformer (both my laptop and my phone charger can run on up to 240 volts, so all I need is my adapter; I'm beginning to think the monitor of my old laptop getting fried was just a tragic coincidence).


So...long story short, I have the Internet in my hotel room (so I don't need to use a PC room and pay money for the moment); my laptop is charging; my first day of work went swimmingly; and my living quarters are VERY close to a humongous amount of shopping, plus bus stations to the interior. This really couldn't be a better setup. My only worries are my wrinkled clothes, being thrown into the teaching crucible tomorrow with virtually no training, and trying to get organized and in-step with operations. Plus I'm homesick as hell, even worse than last time. The cookies you baked me are definitely helping, Mom. I'm trying to set up Skype on this computer so maybe we'll talk this afternoon, eh?


Love, Andrew

the champion of León

                                                                                                                                                             from thecouponguide.net

And so, W-Week has drawn to a close, and the to-do list has been completed with assiduous diligence.

On Wednesday I got up at 4:00 a.m. to ride with Miss H's father (Mr. B) while he delivered a 28-ton load of lime to a construction crew at Camarillo Airport. That was a fun trip. There were a few things about riding in a big rig that I didn't expect: namely, the noise, the cramped quarters, and the constant leaping and shaking. That huge diesel engine is LOUD. The cab is not as spacious as it may seem. And all the kinetic energy from the two tanks we were hauling was transmitted directly into the rear axle of the rig itself, which shook us in our seats like marbles in a jar. The ride was only 2½ hours down and the 2½ back, but I nonetheless felt sorely abused by the end of it, as though every tendon and muscle in my body had been pummeled by a grizzly bear. It was intriguing, however, to see how a semi handles, and to get a look at the logistics of the trucking industry: the logbook Mr. B keeps of his travels (mileage and hours); the ear-splitting air pump used to blast the lime from the steel tanks and into the dispenser truck at the construction site; the complications which stopping for food and bathroom breaks represent; and all the other aspects of the biz. I left feeling like I'd been hit by a train, but enlightened no end.

Thursday was a largely unremarkable day, because Miss H wasn't in it. I had to leave her at home while I finished packing (completely finished, mind you) and went shopping. Shopping for what, you ask? Presents. Gifts. Cards. As it happens, my father's birthday is February 12, my girlfriend's is February 13, and February 14 is Valentine's Day. I was a shopping fool: chocolate, a new leather wallet for Dad, lotions and fragrances and candles from Bath & Body Works, and a necklace from Icing.

Friday was a designated fun day. Miss H and I had set aside that day by prior agreement to celebrate her birthday and Valentine's Day. I gave her her presents, she gave me mine, we hugged, we kissed, we laughed, and we may have misted up a little, perhaps. Then we hung around the house and relaxed. I hadn't noticed, but this moving-back-to-Korea thing has exacted a heavy toll on me. I've been under a lot of stress and last-minute panic. I hadn't quite realized just how heavy the weight was on my chest until I packed my last sock, zipped up the duffel bag, looked around the room and heaved a deep sigh. I felt like collapsing on the floor and not moving for a week.

Then the unexpected happened. An old friend came in from out of town. I'll refer to him by his initials, B.E. He happens to be a Canadian friend of my other Canadian friend, Jeff. I met him in Seoul during Seolnar a few years ago. He lives in San Francisco and he came all the way down to see me off. What a pal. He, another buddy Chris and I went to a dive bar in eastern Apple Valley and whooped it up until 2 a.m.

After getting my head screwed back on Saturday morning, Miss H and I went to the local arcade for some one-on-one time, the last we would probably have before I left. But lo and behold! B.E. and Chris showed up out of nowhere. We bumped into them as soon as we walked through the doors. We all bought some tokens and set about throwing balls into holes worth 4,000 points and shooting rampaging tyrannosaurs and punching crocodiles on the snout. It was a blast. Then Miss H and I picked up some Pizza Rolls and headed back to set up for the grand cocktail party send-off. A fun time was had by all. We drank, we caroused, we joked, we played Would You Rather? and Taboo, and just generally invested capital in the bank of camaraderie. The party broke up at three, and Miss H and I fell onto the bed and were asleep in milliseconds.

And today was a red-letter day! For we packed up the truck, drove to Buena Park, and feasted at a wonderful venue called Medieval Times. For those who may be unaware, Medieval Times is a feudal Europe-themed eatery where you gorge on tomato bisque, roast chicken, prime rib and garlic bread off pewter bowls and plates (with your hands; no forks or knives) while, below you in a dirt-floored arena, knights in shining armor joust and duel for your entertainment. It's an immersing experience. Strobes flash. Heroic trumpets sound. Standards whirl through the air. Sparks fly from clashing blades. We were seated in the green section, which meant that we cheered for the Green Knight, a champion of León. Sadly, he was defeated in his second bout by the Red Knight (who was later slain by the tournament champion, the Red-and-Yellow Knight). The entire show lasted about two hours, with exhibitions of falconry, martial skill, and fine horsemanship. Andalusian horses with gossamer manes pranced and cavorted in dressage. The food was delicious, the entertainment rousing, the company marvelous and the evening well-spent.

And now here I sit in a hotel suite somewhere in the vicinity of LAX, preparing to make a late-night run to Taco Bell (for my last taste of godawful Anglo-Mexican fast food before I leave for Korea). My flight leaves at 11:50 a.m. The countdown is almost over.

Further bulletins will, from here on, originate in the Far East.

Wish me luck...

rocks, sand and stars

FOREWORD
What you must understand about Southern California is that, basically, it's a city. The entire region is an unending sea of buildings, commercial and residential neighborhoods which themselves compose independent towns. Some of them are packed so closely together that it's impossible to tell where one ends and the other begins. (It IS possible to tell where Redlands ends and Hemet begins, for reasons which Karl Marx could rattle off half-drunk; but that's beside the point.)

It's a macrocosm, really. SoCal is put together much like a town in itself. Each city is a different neighborhood, each neighborhood with its own—ahem—unique character. Over on the east side you've got the low-rent district, full of hicks and wife-beaters and layabouts and canned-beer drinkers, living in vans and campers down by the river; the west side is the plush, breezy, hoidy-toidy coastal resort with miles of beaches, bungalows, and palm trees; the south side is the middle-class, (relatively) peaceful and (somewhat) clean area where the parents and grandparents live; the north side's hilly and scrubby and jam-packed with administrative buildings and the cookie-cutter houses, whence the morning commuters come; and in the smoggy, filthy, eccentric center of town reside the sin and vice and glam and sophistry and commercialism of California's recycled-paper heart.

I live on the east side, which is composed mostly of the Mojave and Colorado Deserts, the Colorado River, the San Andreas Fault, a few dozen small- to medium-size cities and hundreds of dead-end, ramshackle towns: 29 Palms, Barstow, Hinkley, Boron, Amboy, and Needles. Some of those cities are nice places with green golf courses and big stucco mansions and expensive restaurants, like Palm Springs. But for the most part the Mojave is Podunk, devoid of moisture. There's a few national parks, some military bases, a couple of mountain ranges and a big salty lake thrown in for good measure.

Just west-southwest of this desert is the Los Angeles Basin, which is composed mostly of Los Angeles (blargh) and all of its innumerable suburbs and outlying districts. That literally IS one big city. You can walk from Burbank to Irvine to Fontana to Long Beach without touching the ground. Just hop from rooftop to rooftop. You may need a vaulting pole to cross the interstate highways; you may need a ladder to get over the skyscrapers; the palm trees would be handy for moving from one Malibu estate to the next; and Mount Lee might require an extra-large jump (what with those big white letters and all). But you get the picture.

Southern California is a massive metropolis, a single titanic municipal entity, possessing a great many postal codes, enough freaky religions to put Jim Jones off his Kool-Aid, more palm trees than ought to be countenanced by a sane god, and about 20 million people—most of whom spend their time either sitting in traffic or being crabby. Or both.

For someone who hates cities (like me), it's a deplorable situation.

Subjectivity aside, there are a LOT of buildings down here.

AND a lot of lights.

That makes it kind of tough to stargaze.

You can stand anywhere in Southern California at night and it's guaranteed you'll have to deal with some kind of light pollution: either from the beehive of Los Angeles to the southwest, or Laughlin and Las Vegas to the northwest.

Nonetheless, Miss H and I saw a hellacious load of stars on the night of October 11. We were in Joshua Tree National Park, which explains why.

CHAPTER ONE - JOSHUA TREE NATIONAL PARK
Not too many people know about this hidden gem of the desert. Not even the people who live here. It's not like it's some big secret. Joshua Tree lies just south of the small town of the same name (itself east of Yucca Valley and west of 29 Palms) and north of Indio and Palm Springs. It covers over 1,200 square miles (nearly 790,000 acres, or 320,000 hectares, if you prefer that sort of measurement). Contained within that expanse is some of the prettiest desert country you could ever hope to find in Southern California. As-yet unsettled by fat, beer-soaked hicks and their rusty cars, that is. It's got some epic scenery, too. The park is coated with massive piles of Cretaceous granite (quartz monzonite to be exact, rough stuff), eroded into oblong boulders and jumbled in the most wanton manner imaginable. Most of these piles are so unique in appearance and so gigantic in stature that they've garnered themselves unique nicknames, like the Hall of Horrors and the Giant's Marbles.

A female friend of mine once referred to these piles as "God's Legos," which just about says it all, I reckon.

We'd been meaning to take a camping trip for a while, Miss H and I. Then, one week, I unexpectedly wound up with two days off in a row. So naturally I seized the carp and arranged things with my lady forthwith.

My father, fortuitously, is an avid outdoorsman. We have enough camping supplies in our garage to put an Arab caravan out of business: tents, folding chairs, tarps, pots, pans, cups, tin plates, lanterns, matches, lighters, med-kits, water bottles, ropes, stakes, poles, walking sticks, knives, hatches, multitools, candles, sleeping bags, air mattresses, camp pillows, cots, cooking stoves, gas canisters, the works. Each component would drive a psychometrist out of his mind. There's so much pain, exhaustion, exhilaration, sweat, torture, exertion and triumph wrapped up in these inanimate bits of equipment. Each has a story to tell. A mountain climbed, a rocky trail conquered, a valley explored, a tent pitched in a hidden glen, a hot meal cooked and devoured lustily. Aching calves. Bursting lungs. Throbbing hearts. Backs soaked in brine. A cool breeze welcomed with religious fervor. Sunlight on the leaves. Blinding snow. Birdsong in the distance. A half-glimpse of some forest creature. The chuckling of a stream. The savory chill of mud and water on red-hot feet. Compass needles and maps. Trails and trees. Rocks and roots. Sun and stars. Earth and sky and everything in between.

From this trove (and its memories) I selected the gear I figured we'd need for two people and one night in the Mojave Desert in autumn. We had a tent, a couple chairs, some sleeping bags, an air mattress, a battery-powered lantern, the camp stove, some silverware and dishes and cups, a tarp for a ground-cloth, and a medical kit. I loaded my travel vest with whatever else might come in handy: my Bowie knife, my survival card (more about that later), my three-in-one sporknife (exactly what it sounds like), a deck of cards, a flask of brandy, a good novel, and various other accoutrements. And by "accoutrements," you know I'm talking about more booze. I packed my traveling cocktail set with 500 milliliters of vodka and a similar amount of sweet 'n' sour, just in case we felt the need for some libations in the evening.

We loaded all this into my faithful Jeep on the morning of the eleventh, picked up some grocery items in Lucerne Valley, and headed for Joshua Tree.

CHAPTER TWO - INTO THE DESERT
The hour-long drive was just as scenic as I remember. Once you crest the hill just east of Yucca Valley and begin the quick descent down the torturous 247, and the town opens up beneath you, rock piles and cactus spines and red tile roofs, with the stark and blasphemous granite mountains rising up behind...

A quick left on the 62 and a right on Park Drive had us at the gates of Joshua Tree inside 20 minutes. All civilization faded away, except for the two-lane blacktop we drove on. All had suddenly changed to desert at its most elemental: sand, rocks, mountains, and the titular Joshua trees, arms clutching at the empty sky like an agonal prophet.

The immaculate clarity of the place dazzles the eye and the imagination: all is reduced to lines and colors, the green spikes of the Joshua and the agave standing out against the beige-brown of the sand and shrubs and the blue-hot ocean of sky overhead. Heat waves trick the eye, mirages dance on open ground, and the merciless sun limns all with a harsh white glare. It's been said before by better men, but one can truly believe, standing in the midst of this unyielding and eldritch environment, that one is standing on the untamed surface of an alien planet.

...which does not and should not detract from the charm of the place. Not one little bit. Joshua Tree is beautiful. The park is a feast for the eyes, far more enchanting than many bits of more extreme deserts like the Kalahari or the Gobi. There's more in it, for one thing. The Mojave and Colorado Deserts boast a more rich and diverse biosphere than many wetter ecosystems. On any given day you can see coyotes, roadrunners, rattlesnakes, scorpions...and that doesn't even compare to what comes out at night.

We spent a happy afternoon touring the park. Up to Keys View, to look down upon the Coachella Valley from 5,000 feet up; Indio, Palm Springs, and a myriad-phalanx of date palm farms laid out beneath us. To the west was Mount San Jacinto, the loftiest of the Three Saints, a massive blue-green beast of a landform, stretching to 8,319 feet. At its feet, winding away toward L.A., lay the deceptive San Andreas Fault, ready to blow any second. To the southwest, the grayish-blue void of the Salton Sea was clearly visible; and beyond that, just at the edge of perception, sat Signal Mountain on the Mexican border, ninety-three miles away. Even Coachella's ever-present smog (and that of Los Angeles, drifting in from the west) couldn't prevent us from seeing these miracles.

Good thing I brought my binoculars, though.

We got some unusually clear pictures up there. There was some kid in a white shirt and a baseball cap with a $3,000 camera hanging around his neck, sitting on the stone partition and looking bored out of his mind. I walked toward him to ask him to take our picture. Before I'd even opened my mouth, he was standing up and reaching out his hand for my trusty red Canon.

He took good pictures.

It was a bit warm to hike to Barker Dam, but we settled for strolling through the Wonderland of Rocks.

We got to the campground at about 4 o'clock and pitched camp.

CHAPTER THREE - HOW TO OPERATE A CAN OPENER
I had picked Jumbo Rocks for a campsite because I was vaguely familiar with it. I'd picnicked there before. I seemed to recall that it was a locale straight from Tolkien or Verne, an epic sort of place with titanic boulders sprawled everywhere, bushes and trees and stretches of sand elbowing in where they could.

My recollection was right on target.

Miss H and I snatched a registration form from the box and drove around looking for the most photogenic campsite (farthest from anyone else). Fortunately, even on Columbus Day weekend, the park was deserted. Miss H and I found our site with relative ease. We filled out the form, raced back to the entrance to get registered, and then came back and set up camp.

Now this, ladies and gentlemen, is what a functioning campsite looks like.

Night fell swiftly. Miss H and I climbed up on the rock to view the sunset. Then we broke out the camp stove and the chili and began to cook dinner.

Now, let me first explain something to you about can openers. They come in three main varieties. The first is the electric can opener. Craven, rump-fed poltroons employ these in their Malibu condominiums to obtain the Fancy Feast necessary to prevent their fat-bastard Persians from pissing on the carpet.

The second type is the rotary or hand-actuated can opener, in which the operator "clips" the blade and its rotating gear to the can, holds the apparatus steady with one hand and turns a knob with the other. The blade proceeds around the edge of the can's lid, neatly severing it from the can proper.

The third type is the manual or hand-operated can opener, which is basically a metal flange with a wicked hook carved into the bottom edge.

There's a trick to operating this latter type.

You have to go around the edge of the can with the blade instead of going straight for the middle.

Guess which stratagem I attempted first?

One mutilated can-lid later, Miss H hit upon the brilliant idea of going around.

Things worked much better after that, and we were soon spooning hot chili into our gullets by the white light of a battery-powered lantern.

After that it was time for some s'mores. I, in my infinite wisdom, had remembered every single solitary piece of camping equipment that we'd need, but had neglected to (a) buy bread to go with the lunch-meat we'd purchased, and (b) had overlooked what method we'd use to toast our s'mores. Propane flames don't really impart a desirable flavor to the marshmallows, you see. Natural flames are preferable. If a little bit of the smoke gets into the graham crackers, well, so much the better.

We didn't have natural flames (we'd brought a camp stove instead of firewood, for the sake of portability).

So we settled for eating 'em cold.

Yeah, okay, I know. We're blasphemers. Apostates. Communists. But hey, a cold s'more is still a s'more, same as cold pizza is still pizza and a bad cigar is still a cigar.

CHAPTER FOUR - ON THE DOORSTEP OF THE STARS
And then came the night's grand finale: we made ourselves comfortable at the cement picnic table, turned off all the lights, craned our heads back, and looked at the stars.

And looked and looked and looked and looked.

There were millions of 'em.

The night-black sky was speckled with tiny flecks of brilliant diamond-white, like granules of sugar scattered in a coal scuttle, spotlights streaming through bullet holes in a black wall.

It was the most beautiful sight we'd seen in an eternity. We were far removed from the lights of any town (even Los Angeles was a mere greenish line to the southwest). Constellations which had previously been muted and tired and old now lit up the heavens with renewed energy. The Big Dipper lay suspended in the northwest, glittering as I'd never seen it before, like a rock star playing in his hometown. Hundreds upon hundreds of tiny new stars, too dim to be seen from my backyard, were glowing and gleaming out of the firmament. It was an immensely cheering sight. It did my heart good to think that there were still places in the continental U.S. where you could see starry skies like this (in Kansas, apparently, you can see nebulae...nebulae, for Pete's sake!). It was like the star-spangled opening sequence of Star Wars: a sky literally swimming in stars, every single square inch taken up with twinkling lights.

We gazed for as long as we could. There was far too much to take it all in at once. Plus our necks were getting sore. So we turned in about ten-ish and hit the sack.

I can remember getting up once in the middle of the night for a bathroom break. I was debating whether or not to take the flashlight. I did wind up taking it, just to avoid tripping on (or bumping into) any of the massive boulders that composed our campsite. But I turned it off when I got to my (ahem) lavatory. I looked up at the sky and breathed a deep sigh of contentment.

Then I looked around and realized that I could see by starlight. I had never been able to do that before, not in all the places I'd been or lived. I'd read about people doing it in books (books written in the nineteenth century or early twentieth), but had hardly been able to credit it. Now I could see that it was possible. There was no moon. Nothing but the endless blue-black vault above me, spangled with celestial bodies, the largest and best planetarium in the universe. Everything was dim about me, but I could see. See in the dark. How long had it been since a human being, raised in civilization, had stood in the dark of the world and tried to see his way without a contrivance like flashlight or fire?

We woke the next day about 8:00 a.m., when it was already getting too hot to sleep. We packed up, did one last check around to make sure we'd left nothing behind, paid our camping fee, and left the park by the scenic route. We had breakfast at Denny's in 29 Palms, had a leisurely drive home, and spent the rest of the day vegetating. Not much was said. We were still remembering the stars.

first impressions of Edinburgh

Wow, I am really letting this story slide, aren't I? I took this trip in June, and I'm still only half-done telling you about it in October. Hang with me, people. Sometime soon I'll put up some links to the other parts of this story, if you feel you need a refresher.

During the barbecue at Adam's mum's house in Newcastle on June 18, Adam's mate (who I'll call R.P.) said something interesting.

R.P. is actually a native Scotsman, born and raised in Edinburgh. Jeff and I would be departing for that wondrous city on the East Coast train the next morning (fortunately not too early). We were drunk as lords, trying to dose off the disappointment at England's draw with Algeria in the World Cup. The evening was ripe for some funny stories. So R.P. told us about the time when he and a friend were blind drunk in Edinburgh and were stopped by police.

R.P.'s friend was pretty well gone by that time. This was evidenced by his desperate plea to the constable who'd stopped them:

"I swear I've not been cunting, drinkstable."

But getting back to June 19th: Jeff and I weren't nearly so bad off that morning as we'd been three days earlier, departing for Dublin. We'd had as much to drink, but we'd imbibed it more gradually, and done quite a bit to burn it off in the meantime (like running back and forth trying to grill for our English guests, and yelling bone-bleaching obscenities at the TV as the English team attempted to penetrate the Algerian defense).

We got up about 7:30-ish or so, had something to eat (and a lot of water to drink), checked our knapsacks one more time, got in the taxi, and made Newcastle Station in good time. With some creative finagling we managed to procure two seats in car F, and before we knew it the train was creeping northward out of the Toon.

We slowly left the city, and the multifarious bridges which hung above the River Tyne, their gantries and beams and pylons firmly visible beneath an iron sky. The rows of red brick houses and crenellated steeples faded out, replaced by sheep pastures, hedgerows and woods. As time went on and the train picked up speed, the hills began to multiply, and suddenly the jagged, adamantine coast of Scotland was outside the windows.

The sea was rough and gray, unlike the sky above, where a bit of blue had entered the breach. Wind-surfers nabbed the breakers, dipping up and down like diving birds. The skies cleared further as we rode north, until only a few sullen gray patches remained.

The trip was far shorter than even I had imagined. Remember, now, I spent three days on a train from Fargo to Los Angeles a few summers back. I was smelling pretty ripe by the end, rest assured. But a scant two hours after leaving Newcastle the train pulled into Waverley Station in Edinburgh. Jeff and I bit and clawed our way through a mixed crowd, climbed a massive staircase and emerged into the sunlit chaos of Princes Street.

Stop a minute.

Did you ever have one of those moments when you realize you're doing something you've always wanted to do, and that your dreams are finally coming to fruition, and that you're right where you should be, and all the hard work and waiting has paid off, and you're in for one sweet hell of a time, and the  joy and satisfaction and anticipation and contentedness just well up inside your heart and mind and midsection like one of those baking-soda volcanoes at the school science fair?

Yeah, I had one of those moments just then.

We turned left and headed down Princes Street in search of our hostel.

It took a bit of walking and dodging to find it. We strode nearly the length of Princes Street, hung a right on Queensferry, and then a slight left on Belford where it abscinded at an acute angle from Queensferry.

All the while I gazed about me in unadulterated wonder. The city of Edinburgh was like nothing I'd ever seen before. And I was liking what I saw. When I stepped out of Waverley Station I thought we'd somehow gone through the Chunnel and wound up in Eastern Europe somewhere: Prague, maybe. Mind-boggling stone architecture, enormous monuments, statuary of every description, and a skyline besotted with steeples, towers and minarets, all hung under a cottony sky with the blue breaking through. Nothing had prepared me for it. "Flabbergasted" is the term.

And of course, the requisite bagpiper was on every corner.

The hostel itself was a converted church in a very quiet neighborhood a few hundred yards down Belford Street. Its dark steeple loomed over the narrow street like a brooding curate, the ancient stones worn and weathered by time and the elements. It—

Oh, hell, why am I talking when you could just go to Edinburgh and see for yourself?

We checked in and went to our room. It consisted of three two-person bunks and not much else, except for a slip of mirror on the wall and a few notices. There was no lock on the door. There wasn't even a ceiling on the room: above our heads was empty air, stretching up to meet the dark wooden vault of the church.

A holy experience (as in "Holy shit"). I immediately called dibs on the top bunk, you may rest assured. Laying there with my head east and feet west, I was looking straight over the lip of the western wall to the enormous window below the church steeple, thus:

Talk about a room with a view.

Okay, I'm done being smug. I'm also done with this blog post. This is all I have time to tell you about right now. I have to go drill some holes in the sky chasing unmanned aerial vehicles now. I shall relate to you the events of the first evening (and night) in Edinburgh tomorrow, mayhaps. Until then, good night and enjoy the pictures.

where've all the Irish gone?

TIME: late afternoon, June 15, 2010

PLACE: Dublin, Ireland (O'Connell Street and the River Liffey)

MAJOR PLAYERS: my Canuck friend Jeff and I

OCCASION: our side-trip from northeast England into Ireland

PROBLEM: where the hell are all the feckin' Irish?

I forgot to mention a few things in that last post. First of all, right after we got to our hostel, I leaped out the door and ran down the road to an Internet café, where I stumped up a ridiculously large amount of euros to use a computer for two hours. I sent off my latest article to The Expeditioner, and then I went back, rendezvoused with Jeff, and met Harry, our Australian roomie.

We all clear now? My apologies. This is what happens when I blog without having my notes in front of me. I tend to complain a lot and not say anything edgy or worthwhile. All the poetry of the moment has been scribbled in the notebook.

Jeff hadn't been idle while I was out writing an article. He had explored the western regions of College Street, and ventured a little way east, into Temple Bar, the gleaming party district of southern Dublin. It's touted as the "cultural quarter," preserving the medieval street layout and cobbled streets. But it's also the drunken touristy bit as well. No matter. It was scenic, had a sort of charm about it rarely found in an urban area, and was awash with pretty girls, as I'd mentioned previously. And don't forget the red-haired street performers and amphibious trucks filled with screaming children in Viking hats.

And there was another thing I'd noticed about Dublin while I was out walking around by myself, and even more so when I hooked up with Jeff again and went exploring up O'Connell Street, north of the Liffey.

There were hardly any Irish people anywhere.

There very well may have been, but if they were, they were few, and quite silent. I saw almost nothing but foreigners. I certainly heard nothing else. As we walked up the broad avenue towards the enormous spire in the distance, Jeff and I were barraged with American accents, English accents, Australian accents...but hardly a whiff of Irish in the whole bunch.

We couldn't accept it. This was Dublin, for Pete's sake. The same city Joyce wrote about in a book called, unsurprisingly, Dubliners. It's the capital of the country. The largest city in Ireland. It should have been a friggin' nexus of Irish folk. (I wanted to see some Irish lasses, dammit.)

 

So I decided to try an experiment. Neither Jeff nor I understood what the hell the Spire of Dublin was supposed to be. It was just this shiny steel rod, standing up straight in the middle of O'Connell Street, north of the Liffey. Looked impressive, sure, but it was hardly the most imaginative monument we'd ever seen. (And before you say anything disparaging about the Washington Monument, at least that is an obelisk, and a damned tall one, too, countering anything the Egyptians ever put up.)


So we decided to ask somebody about it. A local, preferably. This would be a great way to assay the extent of the un-Irishness of Dublin. If the random person we picked turned out to be Irish, my faith would be restored. If not, I'd give up all pretense and guess that there were probably fewer Irish people in Dublin than there were foreigners...however good or bad that may be.

I picked the prettiest and most bored-looking girl I could find in a 50-foot radius from the base of the spire.

"Excuse me," I said, pointing up at it, and putting just a hint of Texas into my inflection, "my friend and I are both new around here. What the heck is that?"
"I don't know," she said, in an American accent.
"You don't know either?" I asked. "What's it called?"
"The Millennium Spire," she said. She wasn't offended by our questions. She had an amused sort of smile on her face, in fact. She was a curly blond wearing a flowery skirt, flip-flops, and Paris Hilton sunglasses. She wouldn't have looked out of place in Orange County.
"Where are you from?" I asked.
"Minnesota," she replied. "My family's here on vacation, I'm just waiting for them now."


Well, that was that. I guess there's some kind of reverse diaspora going on in Dublin. All the Irish left and all the foreigners moved in and took up the slack.

I had more pressing matters to attend to than demographics. Jeff indulgently followed me as we ducked down Henry Street and into a supermarket where I grabbed some postcards for the folks back home. Then we went back across the river and into Carroll's Irish Gifts. I was a man on a mission. One of my dear friends, the lovely Miss B (whom I was rather close to in college), had given me a special request. She had stated categorically that I was to buy her a souvenir whilst abroad in the British Isles, on pain of death.


Never one to incur Miss B's wrath, and wanting to surprise her with something beautiful and lovely and marvelous and reminiscent of our time together, I stepped into the shop and cast a discerning eye over the goods. After much deliberation, I selected a necklace, a teardrop-shaped bit of amethyst with spiral silver trim. (Purple is Miss B's favorite color.)

Then it was time for more selfish ends. I dithered a while over a T-shirt for myself. The selection ranged from the basic—IRISH REPUBLIC, EST. 1916—to the jocular—IRISH I WERE DRUNK—to the ribald—I SURVIVED A NIGHT IN DUBLIN, with images of a glass of beer, a couple humping in bed, and an aspirin pill.

I decided to sleep on the decision.

Jeff and I returned to the hostel (stopping off by the Ha'penny bridge on the way, which struck a chord with Jeff, because his ancestral name is something quite close to Ha'penny; so we had to get pictures) and had a lovely nap. We partook of some delicious pasta salad in the kitchen on the second floor, courtesy of the staff, and then went out to explore Temple Bar.

We passed the Christ Church Cathedral and the Four Courts...

...and located the Brazen Head, supposedly the "oldest pub in Ireland", established 1198. Here we sipped Guinness (and I learned how to pour it; the stuff's so foamy that you have to fill the glass three-quarters of the way and then let it sit for a bit before finishing) and watched Brazil beat hell out of North Korea.

And we laid plans for the morrow. We figured we'd take the walking tour just to familiarize ourselves with Dublin's layout and historical significance. Couldn't hurt, and it was free, too. We were on a budget, after all. We'd definitely want to hit either the Guinness brewery or the old Jameson distillery. Those were two Dublin tours we couldn't miss, and they both offered the chance of a free taste.

And suddenly Jeff and I realized the inherent stupidity of coming to Ireland to detoxify.

We slowly worked our way back east to the hostel, stopping in at any likely pub that caught our eyes. First there was Thomas Read for some Paulaner Hefeweizen (apparently it's a faux pas to order Kilkenny in Dublin; the barman stiffly informed me that he was fresh out); and then Doyle's, right next door to our resting-place. We had another pint of Guinness. We had become addicted to it. Guinness, surprisingly, actually tastes good in Ireland. Everywhere else it's been bitter, flat, and thoroughly unimpressive stuff. But in Ireland it was rich, foamy, dark, aromatic, full-bodied and smooth, far and away the best stout we'd ever had. We were astounded, flabbergasted, gobsmacked. We couldn't get enough of the stuff. One drink was like the most delicious meal and the most satisfying draft all wrapped up in one.

While we were sitting there in Doyle's (which was the most pub-like of all the pubs we'd visited...almost pitch-black, loaded to the brim with dark wood, and filled with all manner of working-class folks, their faces half-hidden in shadow) a sharply-dressed gentleman with a name tag that read "Martyn" walked up to our table and asked us if we wanted to read his poetry. I had a few beers in me (and, subsequently, a pervading sense of general equanimity), so I said I would. With names like "The Black Rose" his poems were charged with feeling and besotted with visual and sensual imagery, manifested in florid verse. I was a bit buzzed to tell Martyn that, though. Nonetheless, I read a few of his poems, nodded appreciatively, handed his book back, and told him thanks, but I was saving all my money for beer.

Don't miss the next chapter of our stalwart heroes' fearless journey through Dublin, dancing with the Australians, coming soon to a blog near you!