The Rain Over Eyre

Dublin was a welcome sight after a less-than-thrilling plane ride, wherein I learned Aer Lingus has exorbitant baggage fees (travelers take heed!). 7Kg overweight and 56 Euro lighter, I managed to stuff myself and my things onto a city bus that stuttered its way through rush hour traffic with all the speed of a rock rolling uphill. As my fellow passengers fell in love, settled down and rasied families, I struggled to understand the way the streetnames changed every two or three blocks, the bus turning left or right every time I thought I might figure it out. An older woman (I'm sure she was just a child when the journey began) must have noticed my confusion, and offered my first taste of the exquisite Irish hospitality.

In dire need of a haircut, I finally made it to the hostel, shook off the rain, checked in to my room and set off into the rain to see what I could see of the city described to me at length by James Joyce. I ducked into a pub called The Hairy Lemon and dove right into a lamb stew, marvelling at the accompanying "brown bread" and "brown sauce," each of which lived up to their names, to a point. I'm bringing some packets of brown sauce back as souvenirs and for study at the lab. Don't tell customs.

Now, I enjoy a drink, and each country I've visited can pretty much be summed up in a single beverage. In Spain I drank wine. Prague, absinthe. Germany, Jaegermeister. Amsterdam... well, let's say for the sake of this passage, Heineken. Coming to Ireland, I looked forward to two distinct drinking possibilities: Whisky and Guinness. Well, the Guinness is delicious, I won't deny. The whisky costs more here than it does in California. However, what I did not expect to find was cider. But one of my American roommates suggested I try some Bulmer's at a pub on my first night, and I've quite taken a liking. Light, crisp, not too sweet. It maybe doesn't go down as smoothly as Jamesons or Bushmills, but it's economical.

Of course, it's mostly been that delightfully thick black brew, Guinness, that's fueled my conversations, and the Irish wit has not disappointed. That first night culminated in a "grand" sing-along that was just "good craic" (great fun). So, that's the culmination of irish lingo I've picked up, but you'll all be irritated to hear upon my return that I have taken to the accent quite ardently. Anyway, I eventually met the calls of, "Yer tey-urn ta sing one, Calleefurnya!" by leading a rendition of "Sittin on the Dock on the Bay that raised hairs and provoked the bartender to shout "Last call!"

Night number two found me in the middle of a "literary" pub crawl, where I was essentially shown, along with a large group, the favorite drinking haunts of writers like Joyce, George Bernard Shaw, Oscar Wilde and a few others I forgot by the fourth round. I wound up with a group of people at a pub called The Old Stand, making bets on the nature of musical instruments with an Irish fellow around my age named Brendan. A Scottish lass whirred around us, stopping long enough to introduce herself as Brendan's girl, then whirred away again. "Ah, Suzanne's the bollocks!" he said proudly. We got on well enough that they dragged me on to a club when the pub closed, and when the weight of the night hit me I begged off to go home to sleep (though the sun didn't set til nearly eleven, the pub crawl started at 7:30, and I apparently refuse to acknowledge drunkenness before dark). Sorry to see me go, Brendan said, "Already? But I didn't get to interrogate ya about American politics!"

"I don't know how useful you'd find me," I said, "I'm not your typical American. I'm really more of a Socialist."

At this, he grabbed me, looked deeply into my eyes, and said, "No Shit! An American Socialist! I never thought I'd see it! I could kiss ya! ...Ah, feck it, I'm doin it!" and planted one on my cheek. I left with an invitation to meet up with he and Suzanne during their springtime visits to Havana and Caracas.

It was all good craic, but every Irish person I met in Dublin begged me to get out of the city to some other berg. "Cork is grand!" "Yeah, but Kerry is beautiful." "Aye, but everyone should go see Galway." "How about Donegal?" "Oh, Donegal!" "Yes, you can't forget Donegal!"

Not to disappoint everyone, but I did not make it to Donegal. Nor did I attened the "True Irish Sporting Events" of irish Rules Football, which was described to me as 15 goalies on each side, and hurling, which seems to involve a bunch of guys knocking around a hard, baseball sized ball with a short, flat club, and more than occasionally knocking each other around as well. I should also point out that not a single Irish man discussed these sports around me, but a slew of women spoke of them with bloodhthirsty devotion.

Outdrunk, and outmanned, i once again retired for the night, and contemplated my next move: Galway.

The Dam Rain

Okay, so an overnight bus is not the best way to approach Amsterdam. Nevermind that it was full, leaving Max and I to wrestle broad shoulders in attempts to find sleep or even comfort. The true agony didn't begin til our 6am arrival. Way made our way exhaustedly to our hostel only to be informed that we could not check in until 2pm. They did stash our luggage, but the gruff Aussie manning reception lacked the international charm we'd grown accustomed to on this trip, and refused to even give a staight ansewer on where to find breakfast.

So, we wandered out into the Red Light District at 7am. At 7 on a Sunday morning, even the prostitutes have forsaken their windows, leaving only the absolute sketchiest of humanity to slither and crawl the cobbled streets, trying to push whatever it is their trying to push, and/or waiting for the chemicals to leave their systems. One guy, who would become familiar enough the next few days, seems to have mastered the art of perilously forlorn begging. A small, sad looking man to begin with, with downturned lips and recessed, unfocused eyes, he walks up to you from apparently nowhere to ask for change. "Please," he says, stepping nearer, "PLEASE," grasping at you with clawlike hands, "PLEEEAASE!" with gills veritably flapping as if he were a fish asking for a drink in the desert.

After an arduous morning where the only highlights were a hotel buffet breakfast and sitting alongside a canal in the only sunshine we would see suring our stay, we finally made it to our bedroom, where I did manage 2 hours of sleep before the snoring hit peak volume. Now that it was late afternoon I braved the Red Light District again in search of food, finidng only greasy fast food for some reason. I also spotted my first window prostitute, who waved to me from behind her pane, directly across from an 18th century stone church. I can't be certain, but I'm pretty sure it was Geroge Foreman, in drag, with a purple wig.

Ultimately, I couldn't form a complete opinion about Amsterdam's particular form of window shopping - I would alternately flash between thinking about animal cages and vending machines. But I suppose in a world where this happens whether it's legal or not, forcing it into public view and regulating it might be the best-possible scenario. Of course, as the whole area is perpetually jammed with tourists, it usually appeared as just another spectacle, at least until some guy would break the illusion by walking up to a window, being let in, and drawing the curtains.

I wish I could say I bicycled through the tulip fields looking at windmills, but the weather was rotten - brought with us from Hamburg I'd guess - so the experience wound up being relatively boring aside from the Van Gogh museum. It was pretty funny getting kicked out of a Dutch bar in a nontourist area. We only went in to escape the rain, and I would have ordered a beer once I'd used the restroom. But they didn't speak english, we don't speak dutch, and the bartender seemed of the opinion we werejust trying to take advantage. Before I reached the men's room, I heard acommotion and saw Max hastily backing out the front door. Then the attention turned to me, with three or four people shouting, pointing to the door, and ultimately calling out "Sorry!" once we were out. I get the feeling this was the attitude of the entire country by the time I boarded my flight to Dublin.