12.24.2008

Merry Christmas!

Fröhe Weinacth, Buona Natale, Joyeux Noël and Feliz Navidad!

I have now met up with Anja and am staying with her family in Wittenberg. Everything is well. Her brothers, Oliver (8) and Felix (2) are delightful. It's been years since I've been around the larval specimens of pink apes, so it's a lot of fun. It's also a completely different experience, because little kids don't necessarily (okay, don't at all) operate on the same sleep schedule as adults. I got a brief glimpse of what I put my parents through when I was an infant when Felix started crying for his father sometime around 3AM last night. I swear I had just put my head to the pillow when he started, and I was praying that Norbert, his father, would come and see to it that he was alright. You see, for children, it would be a grave social faux pas if I were to react to them in the same way as I do my college-age compatriots if they wake me up from a sound sleep. Luckily, Norbert came up and rocked Felix back to sleep in short order. However, Oliver, being at that ambitious age when rising with the sun is normal (oh what nostalgia!) has taken it upon himself that around 8:30AM or so, I have slept long enough and that it is time to play. This he does in a manner-of-fact tone that only a child can do. In German. I imagine the conversations we have going like this.

Oliver (auf Deutsche): Peter.
Me: *No reaction*
Oliver: Peter.
Me: *I am awake now, but am not letting on*
Oliver: Peter, it's 8:30 in the morning. The sun has been up for two minutes!
Me: *I open my eyes. The game is lost*
Oliver: Ah, your eyes are open! How wonderful! That means it is time to play!
Me: *At this point, two conversations begin - one in my brain in English, and one out loud in German*
To myself: "Dear god, gods or whatever there is controlling the cosmos, please forgive all my many years of sinning. I take back every bad thing I've ever said, ever done, ever thought against my siblings, my parents, my pets, my friends, my teachers, the President, both political parties, Mother Nature, You, and everything else in the Universe. I will devote myself only to tending medicinal plants in a mountain-top garden for the rest of my life, in quiet and in peaceful repose, never again so much as brushing a mosquito from my body. I shall make even the Jains look like violent sociopaths, if you will only remove this sweet, irreproachable child which you have sent to damn me as I lay here unable to defend myself until at least 9. Please, oh higher powers that be, please!"
To Oliver: Ja. Okay.
Oliver: Peter, it's 8:31! A whole minute has gone by where we could be playing? Don't you realize we only have another sixteen hours to play? There is so much to do!
To myself: "Okay Peter, prayer didn't work. Okay... But can't get angry! That will ruin his life. What will he think if this crazy, slothful American suddenly jumps out of bed and starts yelling at him in some foreign language? He'll be scarred for life. Every time he hears English, watches anglophone movies or listens to anglophone music, thinks about the United States, irrepressible feelings of hatred will well up inside him. He'll go crazier than bin Laden, than Kaczynski, than Hitler! You will have created a force of evil out of a pure innocence. It'd be worse than Marius releasing Baal, worse than Qui-Gon taking Anakin as his padawan, worse than voting for Pat Buchanan. Oh what a thin line I tread! What precariousness I face!"
To Oliver: Ja, ich komme. Eine minuten.
Oliver: *Unwavering* Ah, Peter, you must not know what time it is! How simple a mistake! It's okay, it's still 8:31. And now it is 8:32! Hurray! Hurray! A minute has passed and now we can go and play! Come! Come now! You can't sleep when you're playing, just as you can't play when you're sleeping!
To myself: "Face it Peter, you are up against an implacable foe. There is no possibility for detente, for negotiation, only surrender. Unconditional capitulation. He will never cease in his efforts to harry and challenge you. He will win the battle and the war and you will have no choice but to meet his demands and submit! You, who've faced all-nighters, anxious dogs, loud parties downstairs, fire-alarms, even sleeping outdoors in the cold, have been defeated by a small child. Do not be so ashamed though. Like Master Yoda said, "Size matters not." He has been training every day of his life. His devotion to his art is unparalleled. He makes martial art masters, learned scholars, and virtuoso performers seem like errant amateurs. You had no hope. You had no defense. It is best to end your suffering quickly and with whatever is left of your honor and sanity!"
To Oliver: Okay, okay. Jetzt ich komme.
Oliver: Wonderful! Ah, I see that you have propped yourself up on one arm in an effort to stall for time! That is mildly clever of you! It has been tried on me many times though, not to fear. I applaud your efforts, futile though they may be. Now it is play time! Come and play! Yes, up on the other elbow! Good! Good! Soon we will play! And now you've gotten into a crouching position! I know you're thinking when I turn my back you'll go lay down again, but luckily I will instead come and crawl next to you and lock eyes so that you have no choice but to get up fully.
To myself: "I knew I should have gotten me a Duplicator like in Calvin and Hobbes. You know, sleep in hiding while my clone endures all this, then pull the switch around noon or so. Hell, I'd settle for 10 even. Well, at least I still have the Transmogrifier and the Flying Time Machine! Jokes on you kid!"
To Oliver: Okay, spiele zeit.
Oliver: Good! I found a cardboard box we can tear up and kick around!
To myself: *Crying softly* "I am bested."

All in all though, I am having quite a pleasant time, and am quite glad that I am able to celebrate Christmas with Anja. Since she reads this blog though, I obviously can only allude to the horrible cruelties that she is inflicting upon me, and can't mention them specifically. It's late now, and Anja and I are off to her aunt's near Dresden tomorrow, so I'll call it quits and get a bit of sleep before Oliver makes his judgment rounds. Tschüs!

12.21.2008

A Deep Breath

Alright, I recant my earlier disaffection. The rocks I collected during my time in France and elsewhere have literally been there for millions of years. I can replace the maps with a couple dollars and a few days on e-bay. And money does grow on trees, plus whatever the hell plant linen comes from. Flax? Does linen come from flax? What is flax anyways? Have any of you seen a flax plant? I vaguely recall hearing something about them growing in the Nile flood plain. Maybe I should go to Egypt.

Anyways, I feel a lot better now because I got some food in me, listened to Minnesota Public Radio (thank you Internet), and had a nice walk around Berlin. It is a big big city. Texas big though, not New York big. Very spread out. I saw the Russian Embassy, the Chancellery and the Parliament, looked at Tiergarten from a distance, walked through the Brandenburg Gate (smaller than I'd expected it to be), and saw the Fernsehturm from several different angles. And I meet Anja tomorrow! Plus, its almost Christmas, so I can't be upset. And I'm in Europe, so I really can't be upset!

Bella zio? Lei e' ubriaca. Spacca!

or Hell isn't Other People, it's Budget Airlines

or Why I'm Never Leaving The US Again

This has been written piecemeal, starting on Saturday in Milan and continuing to the present moment in Berlin. If at any point I change tone, well, the events that have passed during that time should be an influencing factor. Needless to say, it has been interesting. Federico, my host from couchsurfing has been extremely hospitable and has shown me about Milan in a way in which I otherwise would never have had. My total lack of ability to speak Italian coupled with the languages difference from French and English would've made going around by myself nearly impossible. As it has turned out, I've eaten well, slept well, visited well, and met a number of quite interesting people.

First of all, there is Federico, my host. He lives with his parents near the Porta Genova station in southern Milan. His house is in an old smelting plant complex that has now been (beautifully) turned into private homes. His own home is enormous and wonderfully decorated; so much so that it is frequently used as a setting for advertisements, as it was the day I arrived. Apparently that day, it was the Barilla pasta company. Federico's mother, Barbara, sounds and looks like any Italian mother, smoky voice (because she smokes) with dark hair and a lovely expressive manner that indeed does use the hands a lot. All stereotypes, I've found, are based in some part in truth. Federico also informed me she's recently taken up smoking pot, as we discovered coming home the other night. His father, Roberto, I only briefly saw twice, is the editor of one of the daily papers in Milan. His brother, Francesco, is 12, and unlike my impression of most twelve-year-olds (or even seventeen-year-olds, as my host brother proved) he was not a little shit. Pardon the explitive. There were also a whole slew of Federico's friends, his girlfriend, and Diana, another couchsurfer from San Sebastien in the Basque Country of Spain.

Second, there are Federico's friends. I find Italian, like Spanish, to be a lovely language. French is lovely too, but in a subtle, soft sort of way. Italian and Spanish are languages that make you really feel like you're doing something with your mouth. Lots of zz's and rr's and ch's and ss's and tz's. French is muffled in that regard. Federico and his friends introduced me to little bits of Italian slang as well. Whereas the people of central and southern Italy speak dialects of Italian, the Italians of the North (like where Milan is) actually speak pure Italian. However, not content to be themselves, they have opted to mixing their Italian with a whole slew of slang particular only to the city. To say 'What's up?' in standard Italian would be 'como esti' - similar to French or Spanish - but in Milan, they say 'bella zio' - literally, beautiful uncle. Similarly, they have 'spacca' or 'it breaks' to say 'cool!' or 'that rocks!' and 'sbatti' or 'a scramble' for something that is stupid and a waste of time. I also learned the important phrase, 'lei e' ubriaca' or 'she is drunk'. Good to know! Despite my linguistic insight into the Italian language, any effort to speak the language would result in something like me reading a guide book. For questions like 'Where is the Duomo?' or 'How much does this cost?', I'm sure what I'd actually be saying would be 'Yes, the eels are patriotic, Gloria Estefani sneezes at them' or 'Twice now I have had carpal tunnel, once in May and once with your dog'. For more complex statements like 'I like Milan a lot. I'll have to come back one day', I can only assume I am saying 'Milan irritates my teeth like a wet airplane on crack. I have photographs of Silvio Berlusconi naked with the Pope, I will trade you five goats and your grandmother for them."

The events of my time here have been interesting. My bus ride from Montpellier - all 11 hours of it - was not the worst experience of my life, but would probably rate among the top five. Thank god there were no screaming children on board, or I might have just suffocated myself with my gloves. Perhaps that helped to realign my karmic balance, as the rest of my time up to this moment has been spectacular. I had no problem getting to where Federico had told me to meet him, even with my 40 kilos of luggage (88 lbs, more than half my weight) in three suitcases in tow - as well as a bag of groceries, my camera and the ridiculous red poster I got in Ireland (yes Anna, I still have it). After meeting him, he and I headed off on foot to check out the Duomo. Apparently I had had my monumental knowledge (literally, my knowledge of monuments) of Milan confused with that of Florence. Then again, my preformed ideas of Italy are a mix of Roman ruins, Tuscan vineyards, the Venetian canals, Lamborghinis, Ferraris, Alfa Romeos, Mazerattis, and the mafia walking down the street while broad, old men sit gesticulating wildly outside shops, consuming enormous amounts of pasta, and admiring how beautiful all the women are. Like France, Italy is full of beautiful people. Europe is full of beautiful people. Except the English. The English on the whole have been homely to ugly. Maybe it's because I can understand what they are saying that I like them less.

While walking around the Duomo - a 14th-century gothic church that is probably the most impressive edifice to God I've ever been in - Federico pointed out the demonstrators for not just one but two of the official Fascist parties in Italy. Mussolini would be proud(?) to know that his legacy has continued to present day. However, for the millions of Italians and thousands of soldiers of the Allied armies who fought against him, I'm not so sure they'd enjoy this rejuvenation. It was also explained to me that despite the fact that fascism is officially banned in the Italian constitution, these two political parties represent a significant force in the government. These mad, mad Europeans. Still though, who am I to let a bit of right-wing extremism dampen my day. Federico told me he couldn't go into the Duomo because he'd burst into flames, so I went in while he and his friend visited the rock and roll exhibit that was set up in the plaza. (Note: one of the lesser known parts of Vatican II was to construct a giant orbital laser beam that would incinerate any non-practicing Roman Catholic trying to visit a church without returning to the faith. It's the #2 cause of death in Italy, after death-by-tortellini). I can't speak to the hsitory of the Duomo, as I only glanced at the wikipedia article. What I can say is is that it is huge. I could easily fit all my possessions, plus the possessions of my entire family, deconstruct our house, drain our lake, and then maybe excavate the acreage of our property and stow it within the walls of the cathedral with no problem. That, plus an ornately styled marble floor and a vaulted ceiling roughly one-hundred feet or so above my head made it all quite cool.

After the Duomo, we went around to the Via Montenapoleono, which is the major fashion street in Milan. It is subtler and less showy than the Champs Elysées in Paris or... those places where The Devil Wears Prada was shot. Okay, so I don't know much about fashion. Still, the stores there and the clothes and accessories inside were no less impressive. A pair of ruby slippers? 1,250 euro. A Bvlgari necklace? 49,000 euro. Armani shoelaces? 200 euro. Federico told me that even if it doesn't look like it, Milan has a greater concentration of fashion houses and designers than either Paris or New York. Even September, during the Milan Fashion Week, he works as a steward for various events, and basically is beside himself as a stream of beautiful women pass by where he lives. What a truly grueling job that must be. We then went to see the Castello Sfazia (I think it was called that) which is the ducal castle of the Visconti Dynasty of Milan. It was a lot different from other castles I've seen in Europe in that it was in the middle of a city, but was not palatial. It was very much a defensive castle. Sure it looked night, but it would be a practical place to hole up against say, a barbarian horde, or even your own revolting peasants. We wandered afterwards, but Federico explained that Milan is not really like Paris or Rome with a ton of monuments and famous buildings. It's possible to see the whole place in two days. Finally, we went home for lunch, which Federico cooked. We had penne in tomato sauce - simple but very tasty. He also confirmed in explaining how to make pasta and the sauce that my family has been doing it correctly all along.

Saturday afternoon, we walked around some more. I can't recall what we saw. My ever-growing collection of photos will no doubt remind me in six months time. Eventually though, Federico had to go drop something off for his mother, so he left Diana and I to have lunch at a mozzarella bar that he recommended. For all the delicious cheeses of France, they simply don't have an equivalent for the wet white cheese of Italian fame. Besides parmesan, it is perhaps the most famous of Italian cheeses, and not without reason. In Italy, it doesn't get better. My lunch of a big ball of mozzarella with strips of Tuscan prosciutto I can probably say ranks among my top five meals of my life. Magnifico. After lunch, Diana and I walked back to the Duomo and started to head back to Federico's. However, it being a Saturday, and Saturdays being big things in Italy, we were literally elbowing our way through waves of people coming in the opposite direction. It wasn't uncommon to see people just stop in the middle of the sidewalk, in groups of four of five, and start talking. Sometimes they'd try to monopolize the whole sidewalk, with half the party looking into shop windows while the other half behind them near the street pointed at what the others should look at. This, couple with the constant possibility that a car will drive half-way up the sidewalk to park, made getting back a long and tiring process.

We arrived home, picked up some takeout sushi (nothing will ever compare to the real stuff except more of the real stuff), and watched Young Frankenstein. Diana thought it would be a horror movie and so was reluctant to watch it. We convinced her otherwise, and she enjoyed it. After the movie though, more serious business needed tending. Federico's girlfriend Sarah had gotten wind that Diana was staying at his house. Despite the fact that the two have been dating for five years, Sarah decided to become irrationally jealous that there would be a woman sleeping in Federico's house (Diana was sleeping in the basement while I shared Federico's room on a cot). Rather than explain the situation to his girlfriend, Federico decided it would be better to come up with a complicated scheme whereby Diana would be presented as a friend of mine who had been in Milan staying at a hostel and who had not been able to book for a second night. Out of kindness, Federico had offered to put her up, and that was to be the scoop. Luckily, Sarah bought it all and Federico was out of the doghouse.

Saturday evening, Federico brought Diana and I out to a party. This party was a birthday party for one of Federico's friends. This guy - whose name if I picked up ever I have now forgotten - decided to throw himself and his girlfriend a birthday party via a Facebook e-mail, from 8PM to 11PM. In it, he also put a list of presents that he wanted and stated that the reason for this list was to avoid duplicates. As Federico pointed out to me, first of all, this guy is a dick. Second, who throws a party for themselves, demands presents, and then kicks the guests out at 11? So, as retaliation, Federico and his friends decided to select the cheapest, most useless present they could find, and get it for this guy in bulk. Federico also explained that this guy is sex-deprived by his prudish girlfriend, so I said Federico should get him a pregnancy test kit.

On the way to the party, Diana, myself, Federico and Federico's girlfriend Sarah are in the car. Federico explained to me that when he goes to California in the summer time, he is often made fun of because the subtleties of English pronounciation escape him. For example, the difference between 'three' and 'tree'. For further example, the difference between 'beach' and 'bitch'. For even further example, the difference between 'can't' and, well, guess. I suppose I too would be a bit shocked if I asked someone to do something and they replied 'sorry, can't' with slightly different articulation. After, we discussed more serious things, like racism in the United States, and our prison system. Federico was shocked to learn that the death penalty exists not exclusively in Texas as he had thought, but in 38 out of the 50 states in the Union. We also talked a bit about Obama, a subject that has earned my fellow citizens - regardless of their political pursuation - the returned amity and gratitude of millions of Europeans who'd been... less than overjoyed about the Bush presidency.

We arrived at the party after it had officially finished, but then again, so had everyone else, so no one minded. Maybe that's how Italians normally do things - in which case, I'd get along well. I find it normal for myself to be casually late anywhere between two and six hours after the fact. Being announced in introduction as an anglophone, I was thus used as practice for the Italians to spruce up their English, or to show off. When the Italians speak English, it is a lot more beautiful than when the French speak English. I don't like the French speaking English to me. It grates the ears. Anyways, this is the first conversation I have after sitting down:

"You like the dog?" says the birthday boy, whose house we are at. He points to the Golden Retreiver at my feet.
"Yes, she's beautiful," I reply and pet her.
"She is pregnant," he continues. "We know this because yesterday, she fuck."
'Okay. Well, spacca!' I think to myself. He goes on, "Yeah, she fuck yesterday. The male dog, he also a golden retriever. His owner, he want a thousand euro for to have sex."
"A thousand euro? Wow."
"Yeah, I tell him I would do it for five hundred." This statement, in perfect English, would leave me to believe that this guy I am talking to would be willing to impregnate his dog for five hundred euro. Well, maybe his girlfriend has just pushed him that far. The rest of the party wasn't especially interesting. There was free cake, which was tasty, and a couple of Federico's friends sang and dance to some pop songs from the US, which were amusingly bad, but other than that, nothing. We went home, I packed up my things, took an altogether too short nap, and began my journey out of Milan.

I feel that it is important to mention that all good things must come in moderation. As much as I have enjoyed being in Milan these last two days, I never adjust to the sense of abject fear and rage-enducing sense of delay that is inspired by having to get places. For my flight from Milan to Berlin, I woke up three hours after going to sleep, dressed in the dark, bid fairwell to Federico, dragged my suticases out the door, and began the slog to the metro. I don't think a word exists for the feeling of being burdened with the (dead) weight of a not-so-small child or a very big dog, distributed between two suitcases (which have the annoying habit of swinging apart from one another when you least desire them to) and a backpack, and having to make your way, terrified that you'll be irrevocably late, across a foreign city to a place you can only hope will be where you want it. Harried is what I come up with - a feeling of being perpetually attacked or harassed. The Milan Central station is a monument - in the truest sense of the word - to the legacy of Benito Mussolini and fascist Italy. It is enormous. It looks like what the Greeks would have built if they'd had steam power, an Art Deco bent, and money being thrown at them left and right. Luckily, I found the bus and got on, and everything was alright. Still, I very much miss my car and the flexibility it provides.

I will also remark on the irony of well made plans that go awry because of one critical error at the start. In Chemistry, in high school, my lab partner Brian and I would have grades that would be only slightly separate - mine being the lower one. The reason for this is because during the long mathematical calculations integral to chemistry, I would often make some small mistake at the start, and that would throw off everything. I'd come to almost the correct conclusion, having followed all the steps, but it's that one mistake at the start that screws you. This story I use as an analogy for my problem that upon arriving at the Milan airport. Having suffered hauling my bags across town, sweating with fear, repacking all my things carefully so my checked bag weighed only 15 kilos (and thus redistributing the remaining 25 either on my person or in the carryon; a true beach of a task) and finally striding over to the check-in counter, I am told that I have booked the flight for January 21st, and not December 21st. The feeling I felt there was similar to having someone jump out at you to scare you, only you feel it all in slow motion. In my brain the process was something like, "Oh." Followed by, "Well, this is interesting." Followed by, "Very interesting indeed." Followed by a pause. Followed by a chorus of wrathful oaths against God, my own shortsightedness, this horrible can't of an airline, and just for good measure Silvio Berlusconi who was no doubt behind it all. My brain is essentially thrown off track. Like anything that goes of track, whether a brain or a car or what have you, the immediate idea is to get back on track, regardless of what damage or consequences might follow. For a driver, the risk is overcorrecting and swerving into oncoming traffic or flipping the car. For my brain, it was not thinking about anything except getting another ticket, hang the cost. Luckily, there were still spots available. Unluckily, the cost was... not small. Sufficed to say that my Christmas present from all of you will be this short hop over the Alps. After that humiliation, I still had to trudge through security carrying fifty-five pounds of crap, straining to hold everything up, sweating like a heavy-weight boxer, and still in mental shock over my error in calculation. I am now onboard the plane to Berlin. Tomorrow, I will meet Anja and begin my two-week sojourn in Germany. I plan on getting to my hostel, sleeping for an inordinately long time, and then going to meet her. The moral of this story is to be careful to check and double-check your work, lest you make an error that compounds the end result. Besides these hellish disasters, I have enjoyed my brief glimpse of Italy a lot. It looks good, it sounds good, it tastes good, and what I had intended to be a check off the list of countries visited has only made me realize how much more there is and to want to come back and explore it more. Buon notte, gutten nacht, and good night!

P.S. (from Berlin) My friend Ping also tells me that the box of various things - including my rock and map collection - that she had offered to bring back to the US for me ended up being sent with our friend Paige, who was told she couldn't bring it in her carry-on. Yeah, I should have mailed it all. Yeah, I should've left explicit instructions in the case it couldn't be mailed. Perhaps I just shouldn't collect things. I think if I find an open fire somewhere, I'll go throw in my film and my camera too. Great. Fuck you, life. So, I guess the important lesson is never, ever leave home. Also, never, ever entrust things to other people. Also, just in general goddamnit all to hell.

I've now had a little bit more time to breathe deep and realize that, as Dad recently put it, I am still alright. I'm healthy (if a little disheveled), I'm not lost, nor am I freezing, and I am lucky to be where I am. I think I am just a bit too tired to express myself as best as I can.

12.18.2008

Gone!

I'm all packed, have said my goodbyes, am still wondering how I'll fool the RyanAir people into thinking my 40-odd kilos of baggage are actually 25 (needless to say, I'll be looking like a cold, cold hobo for about three hours on Sunday), and will soon miss this lovely place and all its lovely people.

For the next two weeks, I'll be in Berlin (or around Berlin). If you need to get a hold of me, call my US cellphone. It should be the surest way to reach me, but please save it for an emergency. It's expensive. If you just want to get a hold of me, e-mail or facebook will be checked on a semi-regular basis. Other than that, I will be out of normal communications until the end of January! Expect intermittent letters, postcards and the like. Au revoir! Je vous aime lots and lots.

12.15.2008

Going, going...

Today is Monday the 15th of December. In Montpellier, it is currently a full 50 degrees warmer than in Minnesota. And it's only 44F here. It's strange to be in a place where fall lasts until the winter solstice. Anyways, enough of the weather.

I finished my last paper, took my last exam, and now I am in the process of packing, weighing, throwing things out, picking things up, putting things down, picking them up again, looking things over, asking myself 'Why the hell do I still have this,' then taking the next half hour to come up with some excuse to keep it, bundling things, unbundling things, putting things in boxes one way, putting things in boxes another way, putting the boxes inside other boxes, putting the boxes in suitcases, putting myself in boxes, eating the boxes, wondering 'Why the hell did I just eat a box? Now I have to get a new box', getting a new box, slapping my wrist when I try to eat the new box, vomiting up the old box, wondering if I can still use it, deciding against it, fiddling with the new box, putting stuff in it, taking stuff out of it, throwing it out the window causing a car to swerve into the side of a building, taking out a load-bearing wall, leading to the collapse of half the building which then ruptures the gas line that conflagrates into a five-alarm fire, deciding I should just make do with the old box, piecing it together with duct tape, trying to fit things in it despite looking like and being a lump of wet cardboard, being screamed at by my host family that the neighborhood is on fire, ignoring them as I devise an ingenious plan to construct a new box out of an mismatched sock and three square meters of vinyl I found in the alleyway, and finally deciding to give up as the floor supporting all my things has just collapsed into the growing blaze, consuming them in a fireball and burning off my eyebrows.

In all seriousness though, I am almost done with being in France. Contrary to my last post, I'm not all that bothered by it anymore. A lot of people have already left, and I'll be leaving in a few days anyways. True, I will likely not see a lot of these people for a while, if ever, but c'mon, I can't worry about every little thing. I can barely summon the energy to finish this entry without giving up. It took me an hour to write this paragraph! Gah! More later. Maybe.

12.04.2008

This Damn Country

I distinctly remember my first day in Montpellier - I had just left my British-commune hostel in Carcassonne, I was fast running out of money (which I continue to do), and I was feeling aloof, mixed with homesick and arrogant. I had no interest in "mixing" with the other Americans when I finally arrived at our dorm housing - having hauled my 80-odd pounds of luggage up a hill for two hours in the rain. I had no interest in becoming friends with them. I was quite content to just do my own thing. Oh how silly I was back then.

I've spent four months in Europe. This is the longest I have been away from home. Through necessity as much as desire (read: desire as much as necessity) I've found myself transforming my surroundings into a second home. It is hard to live in a place and not invest yourself into it if you want to have a normal time. It is one thing to be traveling all the time and enjoy a city or not. It is a different thing altogether to make yourself at home in a new place. Much to my shock, I'm finding I will miss Montpellier, my life here, and my friends.

For months now, I've been hearing people say how much they miss me, and how they want me to come back home, and even - though I don't believe it - that life just isn't the same without me. It's touching to hear that, granted, but it was a temporary thing - I'd be back in a long time, but I'd be back. Something lately has been happening, a thing that I did not anticipate and for which I had not planned. I hear, now and again, my friends who will be staying or going elsewhere telling me how much they will miss me.

Well damnit, I will miss everyone I've had the privilege of knowing here too! It has been a long four months, but in many ways it's still been altogether too short. And the difficult thing is that while going back to my home and Macalester and all the people who are there will be returning to a fixed thing, I can never again return to the same Montpellier. The people who are here are here only for a finite time, and then they'll uproot like me and take off for the four corners. That makes it particularly sad, that I will never be at a bar or in class or even walking down the street and see someone I know (let's face it, I can count the number of French friends I have on my fingers, and none of them even live in Montpellier). Thirteen days from now, I'll be off to see the rest of Europe, and while I have to good fortune to have some wonderful friends waiting for me along the way, it will nonetheless be bittersweet to leave. Humph.

While I could say "Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all," I find that to be campy quite frankly. Instead, I'd rather say, oh, I don't know, "Here's to all of you, the fine memories, and everything in between!"

11.28.2008

Chapter 75: In Which Our Intrepid Adventurer Sees Green

Or, How I Typed So Much My Hands Nearly Fell Off

In consulting the map of Europe, I am fast finding myself crossing off more and more countries of which I had had no intention of visiting prior to arriving on this continent. Switzerland, Belgium, and now, Ireland. My motive for going to this island was two-fold. One, my good friend from high school, Anna Haugen, is studying there in Galway, and I'd not seen her for several months. Second, I was weary of the French language, French Catholicism, and French limestone formations. So, instead, I decided to hit up their Irish counterparts.

(Figure 1: Meg Young - without whom none of these pictures would be possible)

For reasons surpassing my knowledge, southern France has a number of small cities with even smaller airports that are perfect for budget airlines. The one in question is the ever-infamous RyanAir, which flies direct from Carcassonne, about 120 kilometers from Montpellier, to not one but several locations around Ireland, including Shannon - the closest airport to Galway (Okay, so Galway has its own airport, but I couldn't very well get there, now could I?) At Anna's request and my own desire, I decided to take a long weekend and go to visit her. Leaving Friday morning, I walked to the train to take a bus to take a plane to take a bus to walk to find Anna. It took about 10 hours, and since Anna doesn't have a cell phone, I was more or less going on faith that she would a) be waiting for me, and b) that I would be able to find her. After a few minor hiccups (I came in at a different bus station than she had anticipated), we met up, checked into our hostel, and since it was still relatively early, set out on the town.

(Figures 2 & 3: Christmas Decorations; The Arc de Triomphe de Montpellier)

Galway is a city on the Atlantic coast of Ireland - just about as close to the United States as you can get, although it's at the same latitude as Newfoundland - and has a population of about 70,000 people. It is distinctly small, but like Montpellier, is nonetheless lively and interesting. I suspect cities like Fargo or Cedar Rapids would have a far more interesting life in Europe. I'm afraid I can't tell you much about Galway, as I didn't see a whole lot of it myself. I was there for a three nights in total, but only about half a day. That first night, Anna showed me about and took me to get fish and chips. Fish and chips, for those who might not know, is essentially batter-fried fish and fries. The Irish love it. The English love it. I don't. I don't like white fish in the first place, and the addition of batter and a hefty 8.50 euro bill doesn't make it any more appetizing. They didn't even include tartar sauce. After that, we walked around, since fish and chips is a heavy meal and doesn't sit well for the uninitiated. We ended up walking the length of the main shopping street and then out to the pier that juts out into Galway Bay. At night, there is not much to see except a bunch of swans, but it was neat nonetheless. We walked back inland and went to a bar, where Anna introduced me to a real Guinness. Indeed, what we all think of as the classical Irish drink (aside from whiskey) is better in its homeland than abroad. In part, the Irish manufacturing techniques that allow Guinness to be brewed to its particular flavor (a bit like coffee, a bit like tea, not a lot like beer) are forbidden elsewhere in the world, and thus the stuff that is exported is not the same as in Ireland - similar, but noticeably different and inferior once you've tried them both. And, at 4.10 euros, it was one of the cheapest things in the country!

(Figure 4: my flight aboard RyanAir - perhaps the first flight in years I've been on that wasn't full!)

Ireland's joining the European Union was perhaps the greatest thing to have ever happened to the country - even more so than the departure of the snakes, the British, or U2 to the global music scene. Its economy in the 1990s and early 2000s saw unparalleled growth, one of the fastest and most profitable booms in all of Europe. This is partly due to its original misfortunes - the effects of the Great Potatoe Famine, coupled with four centuries of British oppression, left the Irish economy based almost entirely out of heavy manufacturing and industrial production. This turned into a boon when the rest of Europe and the United States began to experience mass deindustrialization in the 1970s and continuing to this day. What had been a crippling absence for Ireland now became an opportunity not to be burdened by a crashing market, and it quickly and smartly made its way towards transitioning its economy straight from primary economic production to tertiary and quaternary economic sectors. In other words, from farm to finance without the furnace in between. One problem has been Ireland's lack of population. The Republic of Ireland is a country of about 4 and a half million people - most of whom still live in a rural setting, a situation which is unheard of in almost every other country of Western Europe. Had it not suffered the mass emigration and population depletion following the famine, it would have anywhere from 20 to 40 million people - Dublin would be more like London in size, and much of the Emerald Isle would be blacktopped and urbanized. Regardless of whether or not having a low population has been good for the environment, it was never particularly beneficial for the economy, and so the Irish, once the economic pariahs of Europe, have begun to accept guest workers - mainly Polish - in record numbers. In Dublin, nearly one out of every five signs was in Polish, it seemed.

(Figures 5-11: Mr. O'Connell, with a gift from the pigeons on his head - and the Spire; Anna's friends outside a pub; the quays of the River Liffey; looking south on Gardiner Street; a sign in Gaellic (Irish) and English; The Bank of Sciretland)

The economic boom has given the Irish a lot of cash and their joining the eurozone has been good, too. However, the increase in wealth along with the only-too-true stereotypes of the Irish being abusive, dysfunctional alcoholics has lead the Irish government to raise taxes - especially Sin Taxes - markedly. Some say it goes a long way to cutting down the rates of alcoholism, traffic-related deaths, abuse, homelessness, and so on, others say it is crippling to the lower classes who are most affected by regressive taxes. Whatever might be said by whomever, the fact is - Ireland is expensive! I will not share with you how much money was lost traveling to this small, lovely and wallet-shrinking land, but needless to say that despite my penny-wise planning and actions, simply being there is in some ways pound-foolish. Thank you, as always, to my many benefactors in the Banks of Help Peter's Broke Self Out. Enough of that, though. I must also give a thank you to my friend Meg Young, who graciously agreed to lend me her digital camera for the trip - since she herself could not go to Amsterdam the weekend I went to Ireland, and thus had no pressing need for it. It is thanks to her that I am able to bring to you, in glorious technicolor, Ireland! Also, I've now single-handedly beat my own record for longest post by outdoing my trip to Geneva.

After returning to our hostel from the bar, Anna and I consulted that it would be best to leave for Dublin as early in the morning as possible so as to give us the most amount of time to get around, and because she had another group of friends from her college coming in to Dublin that morning. So, we went to sleep and woke up the next morning around 5:45 AM, got dressed, scrounged a bit of breakfast, went to the ATM, hopped on to the bus and conked out almost the whole rest of the way. Dublin and Galway are on opposite sides of the short axis of the island of Ireland, and are about 430 kilometers apart from each other (about 4 hours on the bus). We arrived in Dublin around 10 in the morning to a sky of broken clouds with just a bit of sun peaking in. Dublin, like Galway, is further north than any point in the continental US, and thus the sun rises around 8 AM and sets around 4 PM. Having two-thirds of the day in darkness is, even for me, disorienting. Montpellier is almost at the exact same latitude as Minnesota, and so the decrease of daylight here has, at some basic level, left me unfazed. Going north though was absolutely bizarre. Still, during those 8 hours, it was quite pleasant. I checked into my hostel, a small B&B run by a man from the Mauritius Islands who shook my hand when I told him I was an American, and Anna into hers. I had tried to find couchsurfing hosts, but alas, my efforts were for naught. We met up with her friends at her hostel, and then proceeded to wander aimlessly for a few hours, as groups of seven people are wont to do.

I do not like traveling with more than one or two other people for long periods of time. I've found that one person is excellent at making up his or her mind, two people compromise well, three people is a nice democratic assembly, four is where cracks start to form, and any group more than four should be rightly considered a mob and thus swiftly put to death. Still, I had a nice time. Anna's friends all go to Saint John's University or its sister school, Saint Benedict's College. They are both located about an hour and a half north of the Twin Cities and are home to perhaps the most stereotypical Midwesterners - polite, mild-mannered, good-natured people who smile like it were a sport and are overwhelmingly likely to be blonde, blue-eyed, and descended from Scandinavians. Even though I am on a program here in Montpellier based out of the University of Minnesota, the hard, gritty life of the city has blackened the hearts of many of my companions, and so it was almost shocking to be amongst people with whom I'd grown up and from whose stock I came.

First, we went to see Trinity College, a landmark in Dublin, mainly because it takes up like a fifth of the city and is the principal source of Irish intellectualism in, well, the world. It was cool. And, it houses the Book of Kells, which we declined to see. One of the College's most infamous Headmasters, Anna told me, had once said, regarding the admission of women to the school, that he would let women in over his dead body. Three weeks later, he was dead and buried under one of the principal entrances to the school, whereupon all the newly admitted women could fulfill his request to the letter. After seeing the college, the mob decided it was hungry, so we began to migrate towards the nearby shopping district, whose name escapes me and thus must not be important. After looking through a number of places to see if they could seat seven (there are no Denny's in Europe), and if their prices were acceptable (again, no Denny's), we finally settled on a place called Sheehan's. One thing I find particularly lovely about Ireland that you don't so much find in France - for obvious reasons - is that all of the shops, bars and restaurants are usually named after the Irish family that started it: Murray's, Murphy's, O'Connell's, O'Kinnan's, O'Donnell's, Skerrit, Finnegan, O'Leary, Hernandez (yes, it is a traditional Irish name), and so on and so forth. The French are not big on last names on businesses. I think this has to do with their socialist nature, and the fact that if they had their way, everyone would just be named after the town they were born in - or lorded over. Sheehan's was nice, but I was still trying to adhere to a budget, so I got the soup and sandwich, which while tasty, was not exactly traditional Irish cuisine. If we talked about anything, it has since exited from my mind like sand being washed from the beach. After lunch, we decided we needed to get some things, drop some things off, do this, do that, and so we more or less broke cohesion, and planned to meet at the Hugh Lane Contemporary Art Museum at about 4. Before completely splitting up though, we all went into Carroll's, a store whose sole existence is to sell Irish things. If you think it could have a relation to Ireland, and it can be manufactured in bulk in Vietnam, you can find it at Carroll's. It is not uncommon to find two Carroll's on the same block, and there are several throughout the city. I decided against getting anything. Or did I...?

(Figures 12-17: Anna Haugen, my American counterpart, in charge of the conquest of Ireland; an example of the 'modernization' of Dublin; Trinity College courtyard, looking east)

Meeting up near the Hugh Lane, a few of the girls traveling with us wanted to go see the Irish writers museu... wait! Now I remember what we did before! Crap! Rewind! We went to the Irish National Archeological Museum before hand. Which was cool! So cool! It's devoted to the archeological history of Ireland (in case you couldn't guess by the confusing and circumlocutory name) and doesn't suck, which I feared it would. Ireland's past is fascinating, improved in no small part because so much of it is preserved - literally. The peat bogs of Ireland have been the sources of some of the most revealing archeological discoveries in the world. The museum begins at the start with the Stone Age history of Ireland, and from display to display it is perfectly visible to see the evolution of humanity - from the use of stones to the production of tools and weapons to the I don't know what to call it materialization of religion beliefs, and then the similar evolution of civilization through the copper, bronze and iron ages. It culminates with the history of Viking Ireland and just up to the end of the 18th century. And my oh my the stuff they have. The ancient Celts were master metalworkers, especially with gold. And, you even get to see their contemporaries - the bogmen. The bogmen are literally men and women who had died in the bogs and as a result of the complete lack of air and light had become mummified within their own skin. Only three were on display, but one of them - of whom remained the torso, arms, and head - still had a full head of rust-colored hair, eyelids, and fingernails. He lived around the 6th century B.C. For over 2,500 years old, he was doing fairly well, in my opinion. The National Geographic did an exposé on them when they were first discovered, I believe in the late-90s or early 00's. All quite cool. (And the museums in Ireland are free! Yeah!)

(Figure 18: The Clonycavan Man - Photo from the National Geographic)

Back to the Hugh Lane. Outside the Hugh Lane, we were... attacked? Accosted, by a five-year-old girl who kept trying to push and shove Anna and her friend Kate. Her older sisters looked on, yelling at us to get out of here. Anna explained that they were most likely Travelers, or more stereotypically, Irish Gypsys (Pikeys - such as those seen in the film Snatch). Ireland, like most other countries in Western Europe, has a housing shortage, and unfortunately its economic boom has meant that the housing market is a sellers world. Marginalized groups like Travelers, homeless, or immigrants, have found it increasingly difficult to live in a country with a one-sided relationship with them - they need Ireland, but Ireland doesn't necessarily need them. It is an unfortunate but true state of affairs, and I hope the Irish are doing a better job of combating social inequality than are the French. Back yet again to the Hugh Lane. The Hugh Lane is a contemporary art museum, but unlike most contemporary art museums in the world, it is one of, if not THE oldest. It was opened in 1908 by Mr. Lane, who felt that artists deserved to be appreciated within their lifetimes and furthermore whose works did not need to wait until their producers had died to be enshrined in a museum setting. While we perhaps take for granted the notion of living artists - Damien Hurst or Lucien Freud for example - back then, only a century ago, if you weren't dead, your works were unworthy at best. Lane decided to consecrate the works of contemporary artists in his museum, starting with his own collection of Impressionist paintings by the likes of Monet, Degas and Manet. However, the general public was uproarious when his museum opened, and in a fit, he took his paintings from it and gave them to the National Gallery in London. After things quieted down, it was his intention to give them back to his gallery, but his untimely death in 1915 - he died on the Lusitania no less - and a signed, dated but not witnessed copy of his will decreeing the latter and the official version giving the paintings to the National Gallery left the whole enterprise in doubt. As a result of diplomatic actions between the two museums, they did something equally unprecedented, and decided to share the paintings on a rotating basis between the two - switching every two years. Despite that no doubt fascinating bit of historical trivia, a contemporary art museum that has been open for a hundred years thus has been collecting contemporary art for that time, and much of what we have come to consider as very mainstream was enshrined on their walls under the auspices of artistic radicalism. Like 99% of contemporary art, I found the stuff being produced by artists alive today to be contrived and stupid. Sorry, but I did.

(Figure 19: An installation outside the Hugh Lane - a walking woman. Neat!)
But, one of the artists had, as part of his exhibit, a couple hundred sheets of paper, 5'x3' or so, with a black border and a red center, free for the taking - encouraged even. So, I being the opportunistic American, took one with me. Anna told me I was being an idiot. Anna and I have a relationship based on one principal: Whenever one of us is right and the other is wrong, the other will stop at nothing to prove that this is not the case. 90% of the time, I am wrong and have to defend myself, which I do to the point of excessive stubbornness. It was in this model that I found myself for the next four days carting around a ridiculously large rolled up sheet of red and black paper, just to prove her wrong. In fact, so far did this argument escalate, that I bet her that if I could get it back to the United States without doing it harm, she would be forced to put it up in her dorm room once she got back to college. I will say this - I've managed to get it back to France without it suffering damage. After leaving the museum, the big roll of red paper in tow (awkward to handle, no less, as I had nothing to keep it from unrolling, and Anna absolutely refused to lend me two of her hair binders to keep it rolled up), we all set off to another Dublin landmark - the Jameson Whiskey Distillery. Let's face it, it is impossible to discuss Irish history without acknowledging the rich presence of alcohol in nearly every aspect of their culture. There hasn't been a famous Irish writer that wasn't at the bottom of a bottle six days out of seven, and if asked to describe the five adjectives most associated with Ireland, you'll probably get 'green, potatoes, catholicism, leprechauns, and whiskey'. Maybe I am biased, maybe I am a politically-incorrect dick. Still, I beg you to consider.

(Figures 20-24: Reuse of the distillery space as condos and restaurants on the ground floor; Anna and her friend Ashley; the Mash; the Stills; five examples of whiskey at different ages - bottom left to upper right, 1 year, 3 years, 5 years, 12 years, 18 years. Note the different quantities. This is due to evaporation over time from within the barrel, called the "Angel's Share")


In my own defense, I would rather be spending time in a museum than touring a distillery, and Dublin has quite a number of museums the likes of which I did not have the time to visit (Montpellier has one museum, and not a good one at that, so I haven't had much of a chance at cultural whatchamacallit here). While waiting for the tour to begin, I looked around the gift shop, which naturally sold a lot of whiskey, whiskey related products, and clothes bearing the company name. They even had a special display of their most expensive items - such as a set of every bottle of their Middleton Special 18-year-old Whiskey from 1976 to today, yours for only 50,000 euro. The tour started off with a video on the life of John Jameson, which made him look like a saint, when in fact I've since learned he was a domineering bastard who treated his employees like crap and of whose 16 children only 9 or so made it to adulthood. At the end of the video, the tour guide asked for volunteers for the whiskey tasting at the end of the tour. Perhaps because I had a giant red and black tube with me, I was selected, along with two of Anna's other friends. We went throughout the distillery - which has not been operational since the 1970s when production demands forced it to be moved to County Cork and thus the facility in Dublin now serves as a museum, restaurant and condo complex - seeing the various stages of how whiskey is made. About as complex as beer, slightly more complex than wine, and far more complex than moonshine, it's basically heating grain, soaking it, mashing it, boiling the alcohol off, distilling it, and then aging it. Jameson's claim to fame is that it is distilled three times, making it 160-proof and blinding for all except residents of Appalachia over the age of 80, perhaps named Ol' Buck or General Sherman. In order to meet legal requirements and, you know, not kill people, they water it down and then set it to age in matured oak barrels, which means the barrels they use have already held some other kind of alcohol - either port, sherry or brandy I think were the three. The earliest whiskey can be taken out is after three years, and it is rarely aged longer than 18. Of course, they tell you this, but then you notice the bottles with the priciest tags were usually made before my birth and then some. After this, the few of us selected for the tasting were to the bar along with everyone else - who got a free drink as part of the tour - and we were set down with a shot of scotch, Jameson and an American whiskey - the other two being Johnny Walker Black at 12 years old, and a similarly aged Jack Daniels. The difference between the three is that American whiskeys are distilled once and aged in new oak barrels but are otherwise the same to Irish whiskey, and the barley of the scotch is smoked and not roasted, and distilled twice, aged in similar barrels to the Irish whiskey. I relay all of this to you for the purposes of information, and nothing more.

We left the Distillery and made our way to a pub for dinner. I decided it was time to try Irish cooking, so I ordered the Irish stew, which is just lamb, potatoes, a few other vegetables, and a thick broth. It tasted good, however I suspect I could've had a better meal at different establishments. As the sun sets bizarrely early, we started eating around 7, and being Americans, finished at 7:30. The next three hours were spent reminding myself why I decided to go to Macalester and not any other school. After dinner, we all walked back to our hostels, and I bid Anna and her friends a good night. I wonder sometimes, in writing these long, long, looooooong posts, if any of you will ever travel again, or if you're just living vicariously through me. In either case, I'm happy to disgorge all this information on to the world. It keeps me from, you know, doing homework. I still get it done, of course! Never fear. I'd take up travel writing, but really all I'm doing is copying and pasting what I've heard and learned from reading signs, listening to guides, listening to friends, inferring for myself, remembering from books, articles or heresay, and occasionally, inventing. This, mashed with my own personal commentary, a dislike for socialism, and an irreverence towards the number of churches on this continent, and voila! Oh, speaking of that, Anna had told me before I came that, since she goes to a Catholic school, is on a program from said Catholic school, but is not herself a Catholic, she has seen just about every church in Ireland on their many, many excursions. She warned me that we would not, under any circumstances, be going to see churches, and if I wanted to, I would be doing so solo. Anna's description of her program made me grateful for everything that I have in Montpellier. She enjoys it, but as she put it, she is with 28 of the same people in a cabin complex that is part of a hotel in a small village about 20 minutes outside of Galway. Their professors come to them, three days a week, and they essentially spend every part of every day together. There is little privacy, and worst of all she shares her room. I think if I had to do that, I'd probably go bonkers after a few days. Living with Joe last year, despite our amicable friendship and us getting along swimmingly, saw moments when, hell, we just needed privacy. So, merci famille de Belair for leaving me in peace as I wish it. And merci my own family for, well, everything, as usual.

My second day in Dublin was just with Anna, since her friends all had to return to Cannes in France where they study abroad. I woke up, took a shower, and when I came back, the only other person in my hostel dorm room, a middle-aged black man from the Caribbean, said to me without opening his eyes, "Your breakfast is there." At first, I had no idea what he had said, and wasn't sure if he was talking in his sleep or not. It was a bit strange. Breakfast was nice - the Irish understand how to make breakfast, unlike the French, who kind of treat it as an afterthought that maybe one is hungry when one wakes up in the morning. After that, I went to meet Anna at her hostel and we set off for the National Museum of Art, which Anna was quite excited to see. The museum however, wouldn't open until noon, so we decided to walk through Saint Stephen's Green, a park to the south of the River Liffey. For all of you Minnesotans dealing with the snowbound Earth, or for Grandma Anne and Judy and just having an absence of the color green, Ireland is shockingly so. Even in late November, everything is still green - minus the most of the trees which've lost their leaves. Still though, all of the grass - and there is lots of it - is still green, and for reasons surpassing my understanding, there are still flowers in bloom. Now, where was I? Ah yes, so after walking through Saint Stephen's Green, we decided to get some coffee - or rather, she would drink coffee and I would get hot chocolate, as I've yet to develop a strong affinity to coffee. We go to a little coffee shop and sit down, and while we're there, a young man comes in, looks at the menu and leaves again. While doing so, he forgot to latch the door behind him, and this woman sitting by the door looks over her shoulder in disgust: "Bastard!" she exclaims loud enough for everyone in the small shop to hear, "What a stupid bastard!" And then goes back to her coffee. Anna and I snickered to ourselves.

(Figures 25-27: Saint Stephen's Green; flowers therein; the Office of the Taoiseach - essentially the Prime Minister of the Republic of Ireland)

The National Museum was neat. I checked my bright green umbrella I'd bought before leaving from the 2 euro store in Montpellier, and the kind Irish coat check man asked me where I was from, etc. and hoped I would have a nice visit. The paintings in the museum that pertain to Ireland are all from periods in time when it wasn't exactly proper to, you know, show that they were an impoverished nation under the heel of British rule, so a lot of the paintings look exactly the same as other European ones of similar eras - the 18th and 19th centuries. There were a few pieces from modern artists about Ireland, mainly portraits of contemporary Irish figures like Mary Robinson and others whose names I completely forget. Anna said that at this point that she'd been studying Irish history for the last three months, she was beginning to recognize the faces and histories of the people in the portraits. After the museum, Anna and I went wandering for a little bit, trying to find a place for lunch. Anna was getting grumpy about walking (Yeah, nice try. I've been walking about at minimum a kilometer a day since coming to France, on top of the several I usually walk when traveling) but wouldn't stop at any of the places we saw, deciding they were too pricey. Anna and I have had practice dealing with one another, so I simply let her vent and in exchange, I just walked quietly. She felt better after that. We ended up getting that traditional Irish meal - kebabs. After that, we went to our hostels and checked out. Anna had originally thought we'd be staying in Dublin for two nights, but changed her mind so that we would return to Galway that evening. Having already paid though for two nights, she did not believe that she could cancel her reservation, especially after this thought was confirmed by the night staff at her hostel who told her so the evening prior. Upon returning to her hostel and asking the desk clerk for the day shift, he informed her that, yes, it was possible to cancel for that evening... had she told them the night before. As it stood, the housekeeping staff had already finished and they were no longer able to refund her. She was quite pissed at this, and asked them if there was anything that could be done. The sympathetic clerk agreed to refund her half, and she thanked him appreciatively for this. We then high-tailed it to our bus to Galway, with moments to spare. If Anna thinks she is lucky, she's got nothing on Martha.

(Figures 28-32: The equivalent of the Irish Supreme Court Building, whose exact name I forget and can't find on Wikipedia; a nice brick building - France doesn't have brick buildings in the South; Christchurch Cathedral; From a different angle; Dublin Castle - not exactly Buckingham)

The bus ride to Galway was uneventful - the sun set about fifty minutes into the ride, and that was all I saw until we arrived back in Galway. Anna was still not in the mood to walk much, so after checking in to our hostel, decided we would have kebab again for dinner as well. I, decided that I'd rather not have whatever was left of my vote stripped from me, told her that yes, we could have kebab, but like hell were we going to sit any longer than necessary in a neon-lit dingy upstairs dining room of an Irish kebab shop. She seemed to accept these terms, and we went to a pub instead. Anna and I have had a running dialogue for all the time we have known each other, which primarily revolves around around discussions of each others families, our lives, and various (dys)functions, and so on and so forth. Anna and I also have rather similar personalities - we're self-assured almost to arrogance, are quite bright, interested in any and all things and thus indecisive in what we want to do with our lives, don't appreciate people who are, for lack of a better word, idiots, and have an often scathingly sarcastic reparté between one another. In some ways, it's nice that she and I only manage to see one another every six to eight months. I enjoy her company immensely, but, all good things in moderation. Thus, we spent most of the night talking about what had happened in our lives since we last saw one another - I think it was in the spring or possibly last winter. A fair bit of time. Around midnight, it being a sunday, the pub was closing, and we headed back to our hostel to sleep.

(Figure 33: Dusk over the landscape outside Dublin)

The next morning, I awoke, had a bit of breakfast with Anna, ran a quick errand with her, and bid her a fond farewell. It was extremely pleasant to see her, and I enjoyed her showing me around Ireland quite a bit. It wasn't that she was leaving at that moment, but rather that I was - I had booked myself onto a tour of the Burren and the Cliffs of Moher, which are two of the most prominent geological features in Western Ireland and in fact, Western Europe. The tour was sparsely peopled at first, but I did meet Ross, an Australian around my own age who'd been working in London for six months until September, and who was now waiting until the beginning of December, touring Europe before flying back to Sydney. He, like ALL the other Australians I've met (it's like six or seven now), works in outdoor activites - namely, instructing teens in stuff like that. Don't ask me to elaborate, I dunno myself. Still, the Australians seem to be a people who cannot survive without being outdoors, doing sports, extreme or otherwise, or traversing the outback, or mining in the outback, or showing people around the outback, and so on. Of all the people I've met, they seem to be the most well travelled. If you'll recall Camilo, the Australian-Colombian couchsurfer my friend Rachel hosted, he had been away from Adelaide for over a year and had started his journey in Thailand, traveling overland the whole length of the Eurasian landmass to France. Go figure.

(Figures 34 & 35: Anna and I on the edge of Eyre Square, Galway; The Skeffington Bar)

The Burren is a region just south of Galway about 250 kilometers squared and they are essentially limestone mountains. It is unique because the size of the landscape - all limestone - and the age has cracked the landscape, and into these fissures that have formed has flowed ages and ages worth of water. Imagine a waffle iron, or an ice cube tray. The landscape looks like that, and into their crisscrossing fissures - called grykes - accumulate dirt and sand over the years, and provide the perfect environment for plants to grow. Because the plants grow in spaces that are enclosed by rock - which is easily heated by the sun - they exist in a microclimate that is able to support plant types found nowhere else in Ireland. There are over 700 different types of plants in the Burren, which means nothing to me, but apparently it is a large number for such a small area. Even more interestingly is that the Burren is host to plants from the Mediterranean, the British Isles, and even the Arctic. Cool! I nearly climbed one of the mountains during the free time we had while the rest of the tour went and saw a cave (I've seen plenty of caves at this point) but I didn't have enough time to reach the summit. After touring the area, we went and had lunch at a little pub - it's true that Ireland is exceedingly rural, and thus all the more beautiful - and then went on to the Cliffs of Moher (don't pronounce the 'h' - almost like 'more') The cliffs themselves are the highest sea cliffs in Europe, at 700 feet high. Believe me, that's high. They look out over the ocean, and on a clear day, you can see Russia, especially if you're standing on Sarah Palin's roof. Okay, maybe not. It was extremely windy, and while there is a small section of the cliffs above which is paved and designed for tourists, it's small and sucks, and there is a well-worn path all along the five miles of the coast past which one must pass the sign below. All in all, it was very neat, and beautiful. And, for a change, I can show you what it was like!

(Figures 36-42: Ross, the Australian; a cow atop a Burren mountain; looking up at a Burren mountain; Irish countryside; looking out over Galway Bay; a castle whose name I forget; again looking up at a Burren mountain)
(Figures 43-47: looking down a Burren mountain; looking sideways across a Burren mountain; there are cows in these here hills; looking over the valley between the mountains; yours truly)
(Figures 48-60: along the Atlantic seacost near Fanore; the same; the Cliffs of Moher; YOUR PITIFUL SIGNS CANNOT STOP US, MWAHAHAHA!!!; looking south; looking inland towards Lahinch; another view towards the south; those people looks small for a reason; there was a real danger of me being blown off the cliff while this picture was being taken - 60-100 mph winds are not uncommon; looking north along the length of the cliffs; this is what 700 feet down looks like; and for my next act, when I turn around, these cliffs will disappear!; okay... I am not pleased that my magic trick didn't work)

After hopping back on the bus, we drove back inland to a neolithic dolmen burial site, which was a lot smaller than tourist fliers make it look. After that point, the sun had set and there was nothing else we could see. We drove back into Galway, I said goodbye to Ross, and then went to bed. Oh wait, no I didn't, because even though the sun had set, it was still only 5:30. With NOTHING else to do, I got on the internet, checked my e-mail, and tried to find a way to pass the next four hours until it would be appropriate to sleep. I decided to go to the creperie for which the hostel offers a discount, and of course got lost trying to look for it. When I finally did find it, I realized - as I swore to myself - that I had left the coupon for the discount back in my hostel room. Even paying full freight, it wasn't that expensive. Perhaps it was good that this sequence of events passed exactly as it had, because as I was waiting for my crepe, the LARGEST DOG I'VE EVER SEEN, came up to the door. Thus, I met Rover, the Irish Wolfhound. He was extremely gentle and owned by a pair of I don't want to assume anything but probably homeless people who'd let him to wander for a bit. He smelled food, and so I was his new best friend. As he followed me around and I fed him bits of chicken, EVERYONE on the main shopping street was stopping, looking at the dog in awe. I got so many people asking me 'can we pet your dog?', 'your dog is so beautiful!' and so on, and had to explain that he wasn't mine. After I'd finished and given him all I could, he went off, and so did I. As I was walking back up the street, I found him laying down with his owners. I told them he'd been following me, and what a nice and beautiful dog he was. His owner told me he was only seven months old, and already was about three feet high and five feet long. I suspect if he'd gotten on his hind legs, he would've been looking down at me. This little bit over with, it was still not late enough to sleep, so I decide to go write letters. In the bar Anna and I had been to the night before. Believe me, it was sad. Writing letters, by yourself, in a bar. Sometimes traveling solo does have its downs, but it was alright. I managed to get caught up on some correspondence, and it passed the time long enough for me to go to sleep.

(Figures 61-65: a megalith tomb; close-up; grykes; Rover, the Irish wolfhound - note the size in comparison to the chair; by his owners)

The next morning, I woke up, had an Irish breakfast - delicious! - , mailed my letter, saw the sea for the last time, and hopped on the bus to the Shannon airport. Ten hours later, I was back in Montpellier, a bit grimy, definitely tired, and quite hungry, but back in France. So, since it is now Thanksgiving, I would like to add that I am thankful for everyone in my family, especially my immediate family - Dad, Mom, Sam, Helen and Martha (and Grandma Anne and Judy, who deserve special mention for being as special and wonderful as they are), all of my friends, Barack Obama, the continent of Europe for being interesting, the United States for being home, and of course to the Frobozz Magic Company.

(Figures 66-69: the River Corrib as it flows into Galway Bay; the River Corrib and the Claddagh Bridge; Eyre Square; the fens near Shannon Airport)

P.S. Although now it isn't Thanksgiving anymore (it's the day after), I'm still thankful for all of the above, and while I am thankful for technology, I would be even more thankful to anyone who can speed up the process of putting pictures on this website, since seriously this took me like an hour and a half! Yikes!