This'll be lengthy...hit the bathroom first.
Part I: On How Airlines Do and Don't Work
First, I have to start with the tale of the aborted departure. I had originally booked myself on the flight from Newark to Belfast on Thursday the 26th. The flight departs daily at 9:30pm, so I booked myself on a flight from Chicago to Newark at around 2 in the afternoon, giving myself plenty of time. I went to the airport, checked my bag, and unfortunately, all the flights from Chicago to Newark were overbooked - I don't know if an earlier flight got cancelled or what. In a situation like that, the airline will put your checked bag on the flight, assuming that you'll eventually get on a later flight. However, they won't put a bag on an international flight unless they *know* you're on it. So I figured my bag would be in Newark the next day. I didn't get a seat on the plane, so I came home disappointed.
On Friday, I made sure to guarantee that I'd make it to Newark, and I got on the 6am flight. Remember when I said that the Belfast flight departed daily at 9:30pm? Yeah, 12-hour layover in Newark. However, the semi-posh Club offers daily memberships for about 50 bucks, and I figured that would be worth it and help the day go by quicker. I made it to Newark without incident, and even had a bit of luck when a sympathetic co-worker let me into the Club for free, and I could come and go as I pleased that day. So, score.
Now, if there's one issue I have with my company, it's how we handle baggage. I've had more lost bags than I care to think about, and it's incredibly difficult to get detailed, accurate information about where one's bag is at any given time. I was in Newark but did not know for a fact that my bag was there, or that it would get loaded on the flight to Belfast with me. I tried calling the baggage office from one of the office-ish cubicles in the Club, but of course, did not get through. My only recourse was to leave the "sterile area" of the airport, go down to the baggage office, confirm where my bag was and where it was headed, then make my way back through the damn TSA and back to the Club.
(I hate the TSA. Just want to throw that out there. HATE them.)
I girded my loins and left the sterile area. After a very brief but educational chat with one of the baggage agents, I learned that my checked bag was actually waiting for me in Belfast - not what is supposed to happen, but that's what happened. So, peace of mind regarding my bag achieved, I headed back up to get groped by the boys in blue. However, one of my perks is that I'm able to use the "employees only" line at the TSA checkpoint. This doesn't always guarantee that I won't get groped, but it lets me bypass the line for the general public and saves a bit of time. And in this instance, they were only using a metal detector on the employee line rather than the nudie booth, which I always opt out of.
(I don't shy away from showing my penis to anyone, but I draw the line at government employees. I once tried to date a girl who worked for the IRS, but it didn't get past second base.)
So having successfully tracked down my bag, and successfully avoided an intimate encounter with our friends at the Department of Homeland Sexurity, I waited out the day in the Club and scored a first-class seat to Belfast that evening.
Part II: The Road to Armagh
The flight from Newark to Belfast was turbulent as all get-out - I'd say mild to moderate chop the whole way. I'm not a nervous flyer anymore, though, and I was able to sleep through most of it. The meals were delicious, and I was sitting next to a young woman named Shawna. Shawna, a woman from Derry, had a countenance best described "merry." We talked and we dined, and drank too much wine, and her most favorite film is Glengarry!
(Okay that was lame...stick 'n' move, stick 'n' move.)
I arrived at Belfast at 9am, retrieved my bag which had been tucked away in some office deep in the bowels of the airport, bought a bus pass, and headed out the door. I should note at this point that I had forgotten one small detail: Northern Ireland is part of the United Kingdom, and as such does not participate in the European economic union - in other words, they don't use the Euro, they use pounds. I had cashed one of my travelers checks in Newark and gotten Euros, which were pretty much worthless in Ulster. Oops. Still, credit cards worked pretty much everywhere, so it was sort of a non-issue. I took the bus from the airport to the downtown Belfast bus terminal, and from there to Armagh.
(My impressions of Ireland so far: people talk very fast and drive on the left, but otherwise not too much culture shock to speak of yet. Oh, and I noticed that all the men were clean-shaven, and I'd been letting my beard grow out for the last couple of weeks. So, between my accent, my Michigan hoodie, my beard, and my general look of cluelessness, I definitely stood out in a crowd.)
(Oh, and let's address the Irish Curse for a moment: on the bus from the airport to downtown Belfast, a man was sitting in a seat and drinking from one of those small bottles of wine. A woman sitting near him was quietly chastising him for doing so, and his reply was: "It's what we do. It's what we do." I promised myself not to allow him to speak for all Irish.)
The road to Armagh passes through a couple of noteworthy towns: Craigavon and Portadown. In Craigavon, a new bus passenger had the guts to sit down next to this gringo: a rather old man, perhaps in his early 80s, who didn't hesitate to strike up a conversation. Turns out his name was Torl, and he was on his way to Armagh to visit his brother Tommy, who had traveled there from Wales. Torl turned out to be a treasure-trove of information and was more than happy to share as we rode together to Armagh.
The most interesting thing he told me was about Portadown - and when he came to this subject, his voice dropped to little more than a whisper. He told me how Portadown was the powderkeg where "The Troubles" started back in the late 60s. Of course, Ireland's inter-faith violence starts much further back than that, but Portadown represents to many the most recent locus of violence. As we rode along, Torl pointed out several spots where this event happened, or that commemorative plaque was installed - again, never speaking in more than a whisper. It didn't make me feel nervous at all, but sad.
As we left Portadown, Torl decided he wanted to sing a song to me about Armagh. I've been hunting for it on YouTube and can't seem to find it, but he definitely got a kick out of singing it to me - something about "The Sons of Armagh." It turned out that Torl's brother Tommy was staying at the same hotel I was - the Charlemont Arms. This made it super easy to find the place, which was just a few steps away from the Armagh bus terminal. I let Torl greet his brother (and his sister-in-law) on his own and made my way to the hotel, but I did spy them all together later in the hotel's dining room. My room wasn't quite ready yet, so I sat in the dining room and had my first major experience with culture shock in Northern Ireland: those people are clueless when it comes to making white russians, since they don't keep kahlua on hand. Declan, the bartender, ended up making what was basically an Irish coffee with vodka in it. Ah well - it'll work in a pinch.
When I first arrived at the dining room, it was empty, and I parked myself at one of the larger tables. The place started to fill up a bit, though, and after a while a very outgoing woman asked if she could join me at my table. I said yes of course, feeling like a typical American - taking up more space than I really should've been. But she was friendly enough and didn't seem at all angry, and chatted me up a bit. Her name was Niamh, which is pronounced "naif," and she was Declan the bartender's cousin. Niamh was chatty as heck. I learned that she was a musician and music teacher, focusing mainly on fiddle and harp - traditional Irish instruments, so that was cool. However, Niamh didn't tell me about her music career as much as she told me about the "roll" she was on - she apparently had won a lot of money at Bingo the night before, and a similar sum on a scratch card earlier that day, even going so far as to show me the roll of cash in her purse. That's great, Niamh, congrats. Check please!
I dragged my jet-lagged and white-russian-Irish-coffee'd ass up to my room and passed out for several hours. When I woke up, I discovered that the lights in my room wouldn't turn on. Hmm. No biggie, it was still light out, so I headed out to wander around. I asked a couple of locals where the best pub in Armagh was, and they pointed me in the general direction. I got there and discovered that they had no kitchen, and once again, they could not make me a white russian. SOD THIS BLOODY COUNTRY...sorry, I overreacted there a bit. Actually, the bartenders were really nice - one of them, Patricia, was super friendly and told me how she was studying accounting at the local "univarsity." I sang Monty Python's Accountancy Shanty to her, which she appreciated I'm sure.
(I got in the habit of saying "Can a guy with a funny accent get a drink here?" as an ice-breaker with the locals - they seemed to get a kick out of it and forewarned them that the voice they were about to hear was definitely not from there.)
Since I couldn't get dinner at that pub, I headed back to my hotel and sat in the "fancy" part of the restaurant. Still couldn't get a white russian to save my life, but for extra humor value, the restaurant featured "live music" that night - which basically consisted of a one-man karaoke act, crooning such hits as Tina Turner's "We Don't Need Another Hero," the Golden Globe-nominated song from the 1985 film "Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome." It felt so...so...so *Irish*. Brought a tear to my eye and made my shamrock-shaped heart grow three sizes that day.
Oh, so about the food. Remember how I said at the outset that Northern Ireland is part of the United Kingdom? The stereotypes about British food are pretty much true. Dry, bland, and small portions are pretty much the norm.
By this time I was ready for bed again, so I headed up to my room - where the lights still wouldn't turn on. There was a bright street lamp right outside my window, by which I was able to read the guest services book. Another bit of culture shock: apparently in Ireland, in order to activate the power to the lights and outlets in your room, you have to insert your room keycard into this little device on the wall. (This is obviously a tradition going back centuries.) I located the wall-mounted device, put in my keycard, and viola, the TV coming on was music to my ears. I was able to charge up my iPad at last, which has become my invaluable tool for booking flights and hotel rooms. This paragraph brought to you by Apple. Think Different.
The next morning (Sunday the 29th), I had breakfast at the hotel (waited on by Janny, another friendly young woman who was studying "narsing" at the local "univarsity"). I caught the bus back to Portadown, and by the skin of my teeth caught the train down to Dublin. The train was packed to the gills, but I managed to find a "seat" of sorts in the dining car. It wasn't so much a seat as this metal...thing...that you parked 1/3rd of your butt on while standing on this raised...edge...okay we'll skip that part. One cool little moment for me was at a later stop when this punk-ish looking guy got on, and he was listening to an iPod which was loud enough for others to hear. He was listening to "Strangeways, Here We Come," which was The Smiths' last album before their breakup in 1988. I could hear it from clear across the train car and couldn't help but sing along. I would've chatted with the guy if the train hadn't been so packed.
Part III: Dublin and Overt Racism
I arrived at Connelly station in Dublin, and realized that I had absolutely no clue where to go from there. I had booked myself for three nights at a Best Western in Dublin, but I hadn't adequately researched which bus to take to get from Connelly station to the hotel. Also, remember how I said that Northern Ireland uses British pounds, but Ireland proper uses the Euro? All I had were pounds and US dollars in my wallet. I flagged down a cab and asked if he'd accept either a credit card or pounds, and he said to hop in. We drove to the hotel, and along the way he asked me how my trip was going. I told him about flying into Belfast and the bus to Armagh, etc., and he scoffed. He said "There are places in Belfast you do *not* go." I said "Well, that's kind of true anywhere, isn't it? I mean, are you saying that there's nowhere you can't go in Dublin?"
He said, "Yeah...Hell."
Yikers.
I handed him my 10-pound note and checked into my hotel - having learned in Armagh to stick my keycard into the little thingy on the wall! I laid down for a quick nap, which...turned out to be a lot longer than I had expected. I woke up around 6pm or so, and headed across the street to a very swank restaurant for a delicious meal. The waitress, Andrea, was extremely friendly and the meal was perfect. It was just a burger and baked potato, but it hit the spot after lackluster Ulster fare.
Part I: On How Airlines Do and Don't Work
First, I have to start with the tale of the aborted departure. I had originally booked myself on the flight from Newark to Belfast on Thursday the 26th. The flight departs daily at 9:30pm, so I booked myself on a flight from Chicago to Newark at around 2 in the afternoon, giving myself plenty of time. I went to the airport, checked my bag, and unfortunately, all the flights from Chicago to Newark were overbooked - I don't know if an earlier flight got cancelled or what. In a situation like that, the airline will put your checked bag on the flight, assuming that you'll eventually get on a later flight. However, they won't put a bag on an international flight unless they *know* you're on it. So I figured my bag would be in Newark the next day. I didn't get a seat on the plane, so I came home disappointed.
On Friday, I made sure to guarantee that I'd make it to Newark, and I got on the 6am flight. Remember when I said that the Belfast flight departed daily at 9:30pm? Yeah, 12-hour layover in Newark. However, the semi-posh Club offers daily memberships for about 50 bucks, and I figured that would be worth it and help the day go by quicker. I made it to Newark without incident, and even had a bit of luck when a sympathetic co-worker let me into the Club for free, and I could come and go as I pleased that day. So, score.
Now, if there's one issue I have with my company, it's how we handle baggage. I've had more lost bags than I care to think about, and it's incredibly difficult to get detailed, accurate information about where one's bag is at any given time. I was in Newark but did not know for a fact that my bag was there, or that it would get loaded on the flight to Belfast with me. I tried calling the baggage office from one of the office-ish cubicles in the Club, but of course, did not get through. My only recourse was to leave the "sterile area" of the airport, go down to the baggage office, confirm where my bag was and where it was headed, then make my way back through the damn TSA and back to the Club.
(I hate the TSA. Just want to throw that out there. HATE them.)
I girded my loins and left the sterile area. After a very brief but educational chat with one of the baggage agents, I learned that my checked bag was actually waiting for me in Belfast - not what is supposed to happen, but that's what happened. So, peace of mind regarding my bag achieved, I headed back up to get groped by the boys in blue. However, one of my perks is that I'm able to use the "employees only" line at the TSA checkpoint. This doesn't always guarantee that I won't get groped, but it lets me bypass the line for the general public and saves a bit of time. And in this instance, they were only using a metal detector on the employee line rather than the nudie booth, which I always opt out of.
(I don't shy away from showing my penis to anyone, but I draw the line at government employees. I once tried to date a girl who worked for the IRS, but it didn't get past second base.)
So having successfully tracked down my bag, and successfully avoided an intimate encounter with our friends at the Department of Homeland Sexurity, I waited out the day in the Club and scored a first-class seat to Belfast that evening.
Part II: The Road to Armagh
The flight from Newark to Belfast was turbulent as all get-out - I'd say mild to moderate chop the whole way. I'm not a nervous flyer anymore, though, and I was able to sleep through most of it. The meals were delicious, and I was sitting next to a young woman named Shawna. Shawna, a woman from Derry, had a countenance best described "merry." We talked and we dined, and drank too much wine, and her most favorite film is Glengarry!
(Okay that was lame...stick 'n' move, stick 'n' move.)
I arrived at Belfast at 9am, retrieved my bag which had been tucked away in some office deep in the bowels of the airport, bought a bus pass, and headed out the door. I should note at this point that I had forgotten one small detail: Northern Ireland is part of the United Kingdom, and as such does not participate in the European economic union - in other words, they don't use the Euro, they use pounds. I had cashed one of my travelers checks in Newark and gotten Euros, which were pretty much worthless in Ulster. Oops. Still, credit cards worked pretty much everywhere, so it was sort of a non-issue. I took the bus from the airport to the downtown Belfast bus terminal, and from there to Armagh.
(My impressions of Ireland so far: people talk very fast and drive on the left, but otherwise not too much culture shock to speak of yet. Oh, and I noticed that all the men were clean-shaven, and I'd been letting my beard grow out for the last couple of weeks. So, between my accent, my Michigan hoodie, my beard, and my general look of cluelessness, I definitely stood out in a crowd.)
(Oh, and let's address the Irish Curse for a moment: on the bus from the airport to downtown Belfast, a man was sitting in a seat and drinking from one of those small bottles of wine. A woman sitting near him was quietly chastising him for doing so, and his reply was: "It's what we do. It's what we do." I promised myself not to allow him to speak for all Irish.)
The road to Armagh passes through a couple of noteworthy towns: Craigavon and Portadown. In Craigavon, a new bus passenger had the guts to sit down next to this gringo: a rather old man, perhaps in his early 80s, who didn't hesitate to strike up a conversation. Turns out his name was Torl, and he was on his way to Armagh to visit his brother Tommy, who had traveled there from Wales. Torl turned out to be a treasure-trove of information and was more than happy to share as we rode together to Armagh.
The most interesting thing he told me was about Portadown - and when he came to this subject, his voice dropped to little more than a whisper. He told me how Portadown was the powderkeg where "The Troubles" started back in the late 60s. Of course, Ireland's inter-faith violence starts much further back than that, but Portadown represents to many the most recent locus of violence. As we rode along, Torl pointed out several spots where this event happened, or that commemorative plaque was installed - again, never speaking in more than a whisper. It didn't make me feel nervous at all, but sad.
As we left Portadown, Torl decided he wanted to sing a song to me about Armagh. I've been hunting for it on YouTube and can't seem to find it, but he definitely got a kick out of singing it to me - something about "The Sons of Armagh." It turned out that Torl's brother Tommy was staying at the same hotel I was - the Charlemont Arms. This made it super easy to find the place, which was just a few steps away from the Armagh bus terminal. I let Torl greet his brother (and his sister-in-law) on his own and made my way to the hotel, but I did spy them all together later in the hotel's dining room. My room wasn't quite ready yet, so I sat in the dining room and had my first major experience with culture shock in Northern Ireland: those people are clueless when it comes to making white russians, since they don't keep kahlua on hand. Declan, the bartender, ended up making what was basically an Irish coffee with vodka in it. Ah well - it'll work in a pinch.
When I first arrived at the dining room, it was empty, and I parked myself at one of the larger tables. The place started to fill up a bit, though, and after a while a very outgoing woman asked if she could join me at my table. I said yes of course, feeling like a typical American - taking up more space than I really should've been. But she was friendly enough and didn't seem at all angry, and chatted me up a bit. Her name was Niamh, which is pronounced "naif," and she was Declan the bartender's cousin. Niamh was chatty as heck. I learned that she was a musician and music teacher, focusing mainly on fiddle and harp - traditional Irish instruments, so that was cool. However, Niamh didn't tell me about her music career as much as she told me about the "roll" she was on - she apparently had won a lot of money at Bingo the night before, and a similar sum on a scratch card earlier that day, even going so far as to show me the roll of cash in her purse. That's great, Niamh, congrats. Check please!
I dragged my jet-lagged and white-russian-Irish-coffee'd ass up to my room and passed out for several hours. When I woke up, I discovered that the lights in my room wouldn't turn on. Hmm. No biggie, it was still light out, so I headed out to wander around. I asked a couple of locals where the best pub in Armagh was, and they pointed me in the general direction. I got there and discovered that they had no kitchen, and once again, they could not make me a white russian. SOD THIS BLOODY COUNTRY...sorry, I overreacted there a bit. Actually, the bartenders were really nice - one of them, Patricia, was super friendly and told me how she was studying accounting at the local "univarsity." I sang Monty Python's Accountancy Shanty to her, which she appreciated I'm sure.
(I got in the habit of saying "Can a guy with a funny accent get a drink here?" as an ice-breaker with the locals - they seemed to get a kick out of it and forewarned them that the voice they were about to hear was definitely not from there.)
Since I couldn't get dinner at that pub, I headed back to my hotel and sat in the "fancy" part of the restaurant. Still couldn't get a white russian to save my life, but for extra humor value, the restaurant featured "live music" that night - which basically consisted of a one-man karaoke act, crooning such hits as Tina Turner's "We Don't Need Another Hero," the Golden Globe-nominated song from the 1985 film "Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome." It felt so...so...so *Irish*. Brought a tear to my eye and made my shamrock-shaped heart grow three sizes that day.
Oh, so about the food. Remember how I said at the outset that Northern Ireland is part of the United Kingdom? The stereotypes about British food are pretty much true. Dry, bland, and small portions are pretty much the norm.
By this time I was ready for bed again, so I headed up to my room - where the lights still wouldn't turn on. There was a bright street lamp right outside my window, by which I was able to read the guest services book. Another bit of culture shock: apparently in Ireland, in order to activate the power to the lights and outlets in your room, you have to insert your room keycard into this little device on the wall. (This is obviously a tradition going back centuries.) I located the wall-mounted device, put in my keycard, and viola, the TV coming on was music to my ears. I was able to charge up my iPad at last, which has become my invaluable tool for booking flights and hotel rooms. This paragraph brought to you by Apple. Think Different.
The next morning (Sunday the 29th), I had breakfast at the hotel (waited on by Janny, another friendly young woman who was studying "narsing" at the local "univarsity"). I caught the bus back to Portadown, and by the skin of my teeth caught the train down to Dublin. The train was packed to the gills, but I managed to find a "seat" of sorts in the dining car. It wasn't so much a seat as this metal...thing...that you parked 1/3rd of your butt on while standing on this raised...edge...okay we'll skip that part. One cool little moment for me was at a later stop when this punk-ish looking guy got on, and he was listening to an iPod which was loud enough for others to hear. He was listening to "Strangeways, Here We Come," which was The Smiths' last album before their breakup in 1988. I could hear it from clear across the train car and couldn't help but sing along. I would've chatted with the guy if the train hadn't been so packed.
Part III: Dublin and Overt Racism
I arrived at Connelly station in Dublin, and realized that I had absolutely no clue where to go from there. I had booked myself for three nights at a Best Western in Dublin, but I hadn't adequately researched which bus to take to get from Connelly station to the hotel. Also, remember how I said that Northern Ireland uses British pounds, but Ireland proper uses the Euro? All I had were pounds and US dollars in my wallet. I flagged down a cab and asked if he'd accept either a credit card or pounds, and he said to hop in. We drove to the hotel, and along the way he asked me how my trip was going. I told him about flying into Belfast and the bus to Armagh, etc., and he scoffed. He said "There are places in Belfast you do *not* go." I said "Well, that's kind of true anywhere, isn't it? I mean, are you saying that there's nowhere you can't go in Dublin?"
He said, "Yeah...Hell."
Yikers.
I handed him my 10-pound note and checked into my hotel - having learned in Armagh to stick my keycard into the little thingy on the wall! I laid down for a quick nap, which...turned out to be a lot longer than I had expected. I woke up around 6pm or so, and headed across the street to a very swank restaurant for a delicious meal. The waitress, Andrea, was extremely friendly and the meal was perfect. It was just a burger and baked potato, but it hit the spot after lackluster Ulster fare.
Monday and Tuesday (April the 30th and May the 1st) are kind of a blur, honestly. I never quite got over the jet lag and spent much of those days asleep! I did get out a bit, though. I rode a couple of buses around, checked out a couple of pubs, and generally enjoyed the people-watching. I'll be honest, though - Dublin wasn't the most inspiring city. Again, aside from the accents and the left-hand driving, it was pretty much just like Chicago. If I had to do it all over again, I would make two changes: one, I would be more disciplined about the jet lag issue on Day One, and two, I would've scheduled less time in Dublin.
(Oh, part of why I scheduled so much time in Dublin was because I wanted to take a day trip to the Isle of Man. Once again, lack of foreplanning on my part led to disappointment: the ferries between Dublin and the Isle aren't running until June.)
Part IV: The Challenging Fun Enjoyable Happy-Time Death-Defying Wednesday
My airline flies into three cities in Ireland: Belfast (Northern), Dublin (Eastern), and Shannon (Western). Since I fly standby everywhere, I sometimes have to get creative about how/when/where I depart and arrive. In this case, two factors motivated me: one, which location would guarantee me a seat (since I have to work on Saturday), and which location would offer the best chance of getting a first-class seat back to Newark? The answer to both questions, for a Thursday morning flight, was indubitably Shannon.
Next question: how best to get there? Train's an option, or...if I really felt like a challenge...I could rent a car. This I *had* researched before I left Newark: car rental is relatively inexpensive, provided that you 1) stay within Ireland proper and don't cross the border to Ulster, and 2) rent a manual transmission. I can drive a stick, but it's been a while, and I've driven on the left, but again, it's been a while, and that was on a scooter in Bermuda. So while it was an option, it was a dangerous one.
And as all of you know, "Danger" is my middle name.
I picked up a car on Wednesday morning from Budget in Dublin. I made sure to get a GPS as well, which was both a blessing and a curse. My plan was to drive to Shannon, stay at a hotel there, then fly out on their 9am flight to Newark. I booked a night at the Carrygerry Country House which is within sight of the Shannon airport, so all of my bases were covered before I left Dublin.
Leaving the Budget office in Dublin, there were two ways I could've gone. If I had turned left, I would've had to go through downtown Dublin to make my way to the highway to Shannon. If I had turned right, it would've been a short jaunt up to the highway that rings Dublin - slightly farther mileage-wise, but much easier than driving through downtown Dublin. On the left. In a manual-transmission vehicle.
I got in the car (on the passenger side, of course, where the steering wheel was), and after a few minutes of familiarizing myself with the controls, I punched in the address for the Carrygerry Country House into the GPS. It did all of its little calculations, and I pulled out. The first thing the nice woman inside the GPS said was, "Turn left." Umm...but wait...I want to go right...it's easier...if I go right...
The scene from "The Office" where Michael and Dwight are being led around by the GPS suddenly flashed in my head. Michael, you're about to drive straight into a lake! THE COMPUTER KNOWS, DWIGHT!!
So left I went.
I think right off the bat I ran a red light - I'm still not sure about that. What I do know is that driving on the left was immediately the least of my concerns. I've always had trouble not stalling in first gear, and I think that happened about 20 times between the Budget office and the entrance to the highway to Shannon. I learned that day that the Irish don't hesitate to use their horns like Americans do. I'm not sure what hand gestures they use, though - I was too busy getting my car re-started. I got pretty good at that, at least. The ten thousand Dubliners I inconvenienced would probably disagree.
I eventually made it to the highway, and from there it was smooth sailing, and I enjoyed that drive quite a bit. Had to remember that the left was the "slow lane," and a couple of times I looked into my rear-view mirror to see a speedier car riding my ass, but in all it was a great drive. Roundabouts were no problem for me (thank you Boston!), and about two hours later I was pulling into the driveway of the Carrygerry Country House. (The GPS wanted me to make a right when the sign clearly indicated a left to get to the House - fool me once, GPS. Neil Peart has his own great little alternative meaning for GPS - "Get a Pen, Stupid.")
One interesting driving-related problem I encountered was when I was driving through the farmland surrounding the Carrygerry House. The farmers there build these five foot-high stone walls on the edges of their property, butting right up against the edges of the fairly narrow roads. It's impossible to see around corners, and there's not a lot of room to maneuver when you see a tractor suddenly coming the other way.
The GPS failed me again when I attempted to find a decent lunch place in nearby Limerick. The House's wifi was iffi at best, so I just punched in "RESTAURANT" into the GPS and let it pick a place for me. I chose the first one that came up, and went out for what amounted to a 45-minute drive, ending up at...someone's house. Um...stupid GPS. I turned around and backtracked, stopping at a roadside place along the way, in nearly-nonexistent Ferrybridge, Ireland. I don't remember the name of the place, but it was perfect - small, good food, nice people. The young woman behind the counter, Tracy, was excited about the fact that I was from Chicago, since she had recently returned from a six-month trip to San Francisco. (And the two cities are, of course, exactly the same.) Tracy has a degree in childcare but, like many young educated Irish people, is having a hard time finding meaningful work. She's hoping to find work in another commonwealth country - Canada, Australia, anywhere. Apparently her pending exodus is nothing new among her generation.
(What I noticed about her accent and the accents of the other patrons in the restaurant is that it's more of a drawl - they spoke noticeably slower than their Ulster/Dublin counterparts. Very interesting to me and I wish I'd gotten an audio recording of it.)
Oh, the other thing about accents: people in Ireland speak English, but they also speak Irish Gaelic - Tracy told me that they all receive an education in Irish Gaelic as well as English, along with math and reading and whatnot. So when you meet someone or overhear them speaking, you first have to determine if they're speaking English or Irish, and it's not always easy to tell right off the bat. I even watched a bit of a TV show where an interviewer was asking questions in Irish, and the interviewee was responding in English. The show provided subtitles when the Irish-speaking interviewer was speaking.
So anyway, I headed back to the House, slept the night, got up in the morning, got a first-class seat back to Newark, connected there back to Chicago, and here I am.
Part V: Final Thoughts
I enjoyed Ireland, but I wasn't as *wowed* as I had hoped to be. Like I said, Ireland is very similar to the U.S. - people are friendly but not to a ridiculous degree (I'm looking at you, Canada), there's litter here and there, Dublin was very similar to Chicago, and while the accents are present, they're not impenetrably thick for the most part. Ireland wasn't a very *challenging* country - the bus system in Dublin is a little confusing, but it's relatively easy to get around, and even driving wasn't that big of a deal. It's an easy country to visit (I'm looking at you, fans of all-incLewisive resorts), so I'd definitely recommend it for a first-time traveler to Europe.
So yeah, that's Ireland in a nutshell. Next stop: Japan in August!
No comments:
Post a Comment