Remember that time that I said I was getting back on the wagon? Like most struggling bloggers, I keep finding things that distract me. Like rewatching episodes of Criminal Minds or that pesky idea that I should finish my thesis, or those 40 hours of work that I am obliged to complete each week. You see what I’m dealing with here? Blogging killers. I’ve also devoured the book, Divergent. It’s Young Adult, so it’s not like it was nearly as dull as my Public Policy textbooks or my own, incredibly dull thesis paper with the short and concise title, which I no kidding just had to look up because I couldn’t even remember it myself after working on it for 6 months: “Redevelopment Models: A Comparative Analysis of European and American Adaptive Reuse of Failed Industrial Cityscapes.” Trust me when I tell you that it is a real page turner. I’ll sign advance copies for interested parties.
This is an incredibly long winded excuse for why my blogging has been at an all time low. So, Public, I apologize. I’ve been working. And traveling. And drinking far, far, FAR too much. I have stolen my friend Katie’s “Healthy August” idea, hoping that a month of dedication to fitness can undo a month of dedication to good times and careless drinking & eating habits. I am also adding the bonus of Facebook stalking myself from college to determine if I can tell from pictures that I’ve been careless for a month. But then realized that I’m incredibly kind to myself and that my penchant for A-line dresses is helping my confidence. That and that Italian men will still mutter “Bellissima” when anything in a skirt walks past. “Thanks, boys, your extremely tight pants look good too. Are those jeggings in August? Respect.” [we fist bump and carry on our merry ways. At least, we do in my head.]
I’ve already covered our 4th of July in Belgium but one short week later, we hopped on a plane to Ireland!! The impetus for this trip was to see Mumford and Sons who we foolishly missed when they were in Rome earlier this year. Not making that mistake again! But the added bonus is that Ireland is awesome. Seriously. The people there are so ridiculously nice, which my sister will quip, I said about 1,000 times in my previous Ireland post, but it’s absolutely true. I’ve not met a kinder group of people, except for drunk Irish hipsters, to whom none of this applies. You drunk Irish hipsters, you’re just as bad as hipsters everywhere. You hear me hipsters?? I’m on to you. And you’re corruption of even the most pure things, like Irish sweetness. So go ahead and knock that off, you hear me? And then ironically wear a Starbucks shirt and explain to someone why it’s ironic. [grumbles profanity about effing hipsters…]
So… we’re up in Ireland. We started with a drive to Cork, Tom’s white knuckles gripping the wheel on the wrong side of the road. Katie and I didn’t seem to mind and shouted “COWS!! SHEEPIES!!” at each field of livestock. I never thought of myself as a City Girl, but my Jane Austen-like love of the country rises up each time I see an expanse of open greenness. After most likely numerous unbeknownst traffic violations, we pulled into Cork and wandered around to find a drink. Like Belgium, the sun doesn’t seem to want to set in Ireland either. But we found some fish and chips and friendly bar-keep followed by an evening of pub music. The musicians seemed to just appear and overtake a large corner table. Pints, shots, wine glasses, various instruments, chairs and bar stools and laughter all seemed to co-mingle in this section of the pub as song after song began and ended with no apparent break. The group changed sporadically, some people plopping down on a bar stool with a violin and then equally spontaneously, leaving. “Did that guy just walk in with a drum?” No really, he did.
So… we’re up in Ireland. We started with a drive to Cork, Tom’s white knuckles gripping the wheel on the wrong side of the road. Katie and I didn’t seem to mind and shouted “COWS!! SHEEPIES!!” at each field of livestock. I never thought of myself as a City Girl, but my Jane Austen-like love of the country rises up each time I see an expanse of open greenness. After most likely numerous unbeknownst traffic violations, we pulled into Cork and wandered around to find a drink. Like Belgium, the sun doesn’t seem to want to set in Ireland either. But we found some fish and chips and friendly bar-keep followed by an evening of pub music. The musicians seemed to just appear and overtake a large corner table. Pints, shots, wine glasses, various instruments, chairs and bar stools and laughter all seemed to co-mingle in this section of the pub as song after song began and ended with no apparent break. The group changed sporadically, some people plopping down on a bar stool with a violin and then equally spontaneously, leaving. “Did that guy just walk in with a drum?” No really, he did.
After discovering that Katie is my soul-mate of old man habits (drinking Scotch, drinking Irish whiskey, smoking cigars, wearing bathrobes), we decided to start an independent Irish Whiskey tour. One shot, with one ice cube, from each bar. Patty’s was our favorite, mostly because it was dirt cheap, about 2 Euros depending on the level of dive bar, and Middleton’s was the best, but significantly more expensive.
From Cork, we traveled down to Blarney, kissing some level of the Blarney Stone and rolling our eyes repeatedly at the annoyingly whiny American family behind us. “This is why people hate Americans.” We decided to claim Canada for the remainder of the trip. No one hates Canada. Fun fact about the Blarney Stone – you have to hang upside down, a 90 year old man holding your midsection, to kiss the darn thing. Despite (or perhaps in spite of)skydiving, I find myself absurdly afraid of heights and end up kissing about 2 feet about the darn thing. Tom got more serious and believes that he kissed the grout between the Blarney Stone and the rest of the Blarney Castle. But Katie, she got in there. She committed.
After Blarney, we wandered around more of the country parts of Cork, but I won’t bore you with that. Flash forward and we were back in Dublin. Here’s the thing about Dublin, it’s not really the most amazing city. I mean, it’s cool and it’s in Ireland and they have pretty delicious burgers and beer, but it’s not like the destination that you think it’s going to be. Prague, Budapest, hell, even Paris, are all such iconic cities and so remarkably different, poor ol’ Dublin just seems like a city. Harsh truth, I know. Look, I can’t always say amazing things.
Dublin gets the following notes: Phoenix Park, where we saw Mumford & Sons is enormous. And about a 2.698047295 mile walk from anything else. Once inside, after a significant amount of pub crawling pre-gaming, we found a pleasant spot, listened to the openers, (one of whom was Ben Howard who is no kidding awesome. You should listen to him. Right now. I’ll wait. Download hisalbum “Every Kingdom” and then come back. I’m going to get a cappuccino freddo while you do this.) drinking crappy but expensive beer, and making fun of drunk hipsters in high-waisted jorts (jean shorts, which are apparently back in style??? False. Take them off and find real pants. Also, are you wearing a crown of flowers?? This isn’t Woodstock. Not even Woodstock ’99. Take those off. You look ridiculous.) Mumford was about as epic as you’d expect. Upon the concert’s completion, our group somehow got separated in the mass of people, failed miserably at hailing a cab, and due to lack of seating, ate a bucket of fried chicken next to a fountain and mountain of trash. At one point during the concert, someone walked into me, chin first, with an enormous beer. Beer to the face is now one of my least favorite things. I spent the remainder of the concert covered in that pleasantly pungent cheap beer smell and very sticky. (I know, “that’s what she said.”) Sitting next to the mountain of trash, drunkards walking through the fountain, in my beer-covered dress, I thought “This is how a vagrant lifestyle starts…”
So other highlights of Ireland: I finally met my sisters’ Irish friends, Caroline and Danielle. We met up for Moroccan food and spent hours laughing harder than I can remember. They are both planning on moving away from Ireland next year, their fearless wanderlust making me equal parts anxious and envious. Being so far away from my family, it has been several years since someone has said “Oh my gosh, you look exactly like your sister.” It was so nice to hear that and remember our similarities.
If you go to Dublin, skip the Jameson Distillery, just take yourself on a drinking tour of their various flavors, and instead go to Guinness. And eat there. Oh my heavens… it’s sooooo tasty. Nom nom nom.
Our bank accounts drained and our livers drying out, we came back to Italy. But I miss that beautiful island – covered in lush green, easily understandable use of the English language, and their embracing nature for international food. Thai food, I miss you so much. Let’s rekindle our flame… Tom told me he didn’t mind.
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