Updates

There are three (possibly four) massive updates on the way, covering the last three weeks of travel and overall excitement and exertion. Not to fear, I am intact and in Ireland, and working to bring you the very best quality of writing and photos spanning three countries.

I sound like a money back-guarantee. Good thing you don't pay me anything to read this.

Senatus Populousque Romanus

The plane left me off at Ciampino Airport, where it first hit me that I was (relatively) alone in a city where not only did I not know the language, I knew nothing about knowing the language. No small words of “please” or “thank you” even, and Deutsch was still constantly dogging my vocabulary to the point that whole sentences would be thought in German before I realized that I was not cognicient in my native language.

So from the small little airport I found the bus to Termini Station where Erica, Erik and Karissa were to meet me. Termini, however, is more than a little station and after an hour and a half of waiting, walking, trying to call on my dying cell phone, and loosing euro after euro to the pay phones, I decided my best course of action at midnight in Rome was to line up for a cab and show them the hostel address. From there I could call Erica and tell them I was safe and sound.

Apparently I greatly underestimated the tiny backstreets and confusion of buildings that is Rome, as well as its unlabeled avenues and lack of reliable road names, house numbers, or any grid-like street pattern. After being left at the top of a soaping dark street and pointed in the right direction, I was forced to seek aid at a nearby restaurant. The doorman showed me to a large wooden entranceway in a wall up the street, rang a buzzer, and pointed me inside. With thanks I entered a large, dark hallway of yellow stucco walls that led to an open courtyard of uneven mosaic tile and the entrance to an unmarked five story building. The stone stairs inside wound up into darkness and no where could I find any link to my hostel.

Without any options, but at least off the street, I decided to stay put in the hallway and wait for Erica and Erik to return, supposing I must be somewhere near the right spot. A few minuets of waiting and the large wooden doors creaked open again and a group of about seven men, speaking in German, entered. My mind still thinking in Deutsch, I decided to ask for help, and while none of them were familiar with the hostel, one lent me his cell phone so I could finally contact Erica who told me to stay put, that I was in the right spot, and they would come back to meet me.

In the end I found the hostel a fine accommodation, our room being on the top floor of the five-story building and the offices being to the right and up the stairs of the initial hallway. We had a kitchen to cook in and that first night spent tired and sweaty I was gracious for the lack of screen or glass in the window. Only parted wooden shutters and the warm, Roman air.

Through the window shutters.

All things were in walking distance for us, especially the Colosseum in the blue sky and sun, high, fluffy clouds- weather I forgot could be real. While I found the ruins of the Forum intriguing, and the flora and stone of the Palatine Hill beautiful, the Colosseum was something less than it had been in my mind. Obviously crumbled, its majesty lessened by my own familiarity with contemporary stadiums, it was still the base of all things I had seen. In fact, the entire city was to me a large archeo-historical marvel, where sites of excavation ran through city squares and arches over streets were simply treated like any other structure, while in fact they were older than my very country.

The Arch of Constantine sits next to the Colosseum and as we ate lunch by it- a cheap Italian pizza, not more than cheese and tomato paste in a pita- the thought that I was in Rome began to come through my shocked mind. From there we wandered to the Circus Maximus, a long depressed field beside the Palatine Hill where broken bottles are prevalent and the city moves around above you.

The Roman Pantheon was an intriguing building which, like most churches of Rome, looks more than dilapidated from the outside. Nothing but a drab brick, brown rotunda, but coming through the columns of the entrance you find the most spectacular display of colored stone and marble floorwork. A beautiful circle, where on one side Raphael lay and on the other Vittorio Emanuele II, the first king of Unified Rome, whose monument we encountered at least once a day on our way to the sights of the city.

The ceiling of the Pantheon is done is the receding square pattern of most domes, just as it is painted on St.Paul’s in London, but here all things were real. So was the stone, magnificent and looming overhead, meeting in a wide open circle to the sky that is supposedly spectacular in the rain, the water pouring a cylindrical column to the cool floor.

The Dome of the Pantheon.

But still the Pantheon could not compare to St.Peter’s Basilica, which is a church obviously meant for something greater. Our day at the Vatican was another superb sunny morning, with clouds that did not appear real, floating lithely over the plaza. I was surprised at how quickly we walked into it, almost on accident suddenly we were emerging from a group of pillars to the crowds of St. Peter’s Square, the Basilica before us and the sun overhead.

Inside, however, it took my breath away. The size of all things was greater, the statues and the ceiling, the thickness of the columns and the sturdiness of the floor, things built by man, but not for them. My only thought, standing gaping in the center isle as people moved and parted about me, was that no other church, chapel, cathedral or dome would ever compare to the grandeur of the color and size before me now. The center isle culminated at the nave with the baldacchino by Bernini, a structure of four dark woods posts inlayed with gold and crowned with the figures of angels, under which lay the remains of St. Peter. The closest I have ever been to something so religiously important.

Behind this the grandeur of the actual alter lurked in gold, blazing like a sun ray, another work by Bernini, and appropriate, but striking me as something strange and altogether too gaudy, seemingly too contemporary for the center of the Catholic Church resting here before me. Still all the niches and chapels and the height of the walls, the way the light filtered in was more than enough to convey the feeling of being a visitor to something not designed for me. Not deigned for any of us.

Statue inside St.Peter's.

The rest of our day was spent touring the labyrinth of the Vatican Museums, a long series of hallways stretching on forever, containing what might very well be the basis of all Western Civilization, art, culture, things whose pale reflections we see in the sight of our own capital. In Rome they appear authentic, new, never before though of, designed, built, fresh for the human eyes. Past walls of maps and murals and finally coming to a crossroads, we followed the arrows through a small door and into the crowd of the Sistine Chapel.

It was smaller than I imagined, and while pictures of it always seem too busy for the eyes, it wasn’t so in person. We moved through the bodies of people, all standing steady, necks craned up to take in the full view of intricacy and color. I wanted to stand there for hours, I could have really, while around bubbled up the well of conversation only to be “shussshed” and moments later, well up again.

We exited in a final push towards the rear door and found yet more museum hallways taking us back out of the museums, and eventually into Rome again, to the market stands which grabbed Vatican tourists on their way to the metro- all too like the vendors in the temple- but still intriguing to browse.

On our third day in the city we decided on a day trip to Hadiran’s Villa, a monumental site of excavation, a 45-minuet bus ride outside of the city in the tiny town of Tivoli. Here we leapt off the bus in a flurry, hoping for the right stop, and backtracked our way through back alleys until we found the road to the Villa, encountering along the way the most typical of Italian sights; the cypress-lined gravel road.

The Villa itself was a massive complex of crumbled stone where once the Emperor Hadrian spent his leisure. It rests at the base of a complex of small hills and mountains, into which stretched the buildings of Tivoli. It was sunny and warm again as we walked through open ruins, climbed on some, posed with others. Baths and pools, some full, some drained, were evident. Rotundas whose ceilings were simply now patchwork with sky and half-fallen columns. It was the perfect day trip as we sat in a grove of trees and ate our lunch, protected from the slight drizzle that had snuck up on us. Everywhere, in between stone walls and complexes, grew a vast array of wildflowers which inexorably ended up in my hair as the day progressed. Small lilies and bright poppies, buttercups, daises, some I could not name at all, giving color to everything around them.

A bouquet of Italian wildflowers.

I was glad to get a day out of the city, whose maze of streets were becoming strangely familiar at this point, and see more of the country. All my life the idea of Rome has never been associated with any nationality. Rome in my mind simply was only the city, without ties, and to remember that I was in Italy was hard, even while encountering the language almost constantly.

On our fourth day the weather took a turn for the worst and came in a plunking downpour, thankfully still warmer than the Irish version, but unpleasant nonetheless. We set off through the neighborhood of the Villa Borghese, upscale and lush with greenery, in search of the Galleria Borghese, only to read in our tourbook as we huddled around a heater on the veranda of a nearby restaurant, that it was closed without a reservation. Disheartened, we turned to head back into the city, tramping wet streets in our drenched clothes- none of us prepared for the rain- to the Santa Maria della Vittoria, where housed is the famous sculpture the Ecstasy of St. Theresa. Unfortunately this was closed for lunch. Tired, we decided to dry out in the hostel, get some food, and come back in the afternoon. Tracing the same route we took that morning, we stopped for dinner at a small pizza place we had had breakfast, where the cook recognized us four wet Americans with a grin a euro slice of pizza.

Farther down the Quattro Fontane we found ourselves in the spot we had stood that morning, now in the warm evening sun. In fact we were standing at the top of the Spanish Steps, a sight we had missed in the rain of the Piazza Trinità dei Monti. Beautiful and in bloom, with flower pots in patterns on the stone, it was gorgeous crowded (as everything is) between buildings of deep dry yellow and red.

Nights in Rome, after we cooked our pasta dinners, we treated ourselves to the wonders of Italian gelato, frequenting the same stand each night. From there we would tour the Colosseum or the Trevi Fountain while it was lit at night, Erica and I vying for the “artsy-ist photo” we could take. To culminate our trips we even splurged our college-age budgets for a nice dinner out, complete with wine and dessert, at a small bistro with street-side seating and fairy lights for the long-falling dark.

My "artsy" photo attempt.

Our final day was spent trekking the city one last time, from the Pyramid of Cestius back to the National Museum of Rome (which we discovered was closed on Mondays) to a final attempt to catch an Italian movie, and finally ending up at the Piazza del Popolo, after passing the Roman LUSH Store (a discovery I found most exciting)! Be also finally stepped inside the Basilica di Santa Maria degli Angeli e dei Martiri, another drab, brick construction we passed each day in the Piazza della Reppublica on our way to or from Termini station. Inside we found a large open space, the church being more like a squat cross than having an extended isle, where works of art and pendulum demonstrations ticked in the corners. In ayed into the floor, however, was one of the most intriguing gold lines, cutting diagonal from the corner of the right wing, up past the alter, and surrounded with stone cuts of astrological animals and marks for seasons. Called the Meridiana, on sunny days a pin-prick hole in the ceiling lets in a dot of light that, depending on the season, lines up with certain spots on the golden line, telling dates and times on the floor of the church.

All the more because I come from such a young place, culturally speaking, Rome blew a gasket in my head. Something so old, existing, in front of my eyes, touching this stone that was carved and placed here before any man West of the Atlantic had even stepped foot in a boat for the Americas. Before anything I have ever know. But more than that, you get the feeling that any reference to classical culture you have ever encountered was only a shadow, and here is the real, monumental thing.



A girl offering flowers to Mary at the Basilica di Santa Maria degli Angeli e dei Martiri.

Deutschland, the Homeland

I took off at 9.15am from a po-dunk little airport called Kerry, situated in the background of Killarney, for an hour-long flight to Frankfurt-Hahn, a slightly bigger po-dunk airport in the background of Frankfurt am Main, where I finally met Vanessa Schöps and her daughter Amy. My ‘cousins’ in Germany.

It was a long day as we drove down the Autobahn, a two-hour ride to Cologne (Köln), where we met Vanessa’s friend Tanya at her home and she treated us to a relaxing evening the exquisitely warm weather of the German springtime. That evening, as we sat in the backyard and soaked in the long-setting sun and Vanessa introduced me to the taste of Jagermeister, I felt like I could be anywhere in America, in the country summer sun and the vegetation, if I hadn’t been talking in my fractured German and trying to catch clips of conversation as they flew overhead.

We woke the next morning to the traditional breakfast of Brötchen- rolls with jam and honey, cheese, meats, butter, all the usual- and headed out to see the highlight of Cologne, the Kölner Dom, Cologne’s resident cathedral. At a whopping 509 stairs, we took to the task of climbing the monolith. The view from the top was partially blocked by mesh webbing and tagged by a thousand different languages and names from the bell tower on up. The outside is a traditional gothic structure highly reminiscent of the Scott Monument in Edinburgh, and by far one of my favorite architectural styles.

At the base of the Kölner Dom.

The rest of the day was spent waltzing around Cologne and down to the edge of the Rhine, which runs through the city, where half the population seemed crowded onto the promenade to take in the sun. We relaxed there as Tanya’s boyfriend and company tried to find an open grocery store to buy ‘fleisch’ and host a cookout, which took place that afternoon before we took off for Vanessa’s home in Siegen.

The next few days were spent in the company of Vanessa and Amy in their beautiful and bright apartment overlooking a quiet cemetery and part of the seven hills of Siegen. Here I was introduced to a few of Vanessa’s neighbors and their children. Two of the girls, both around Amy’s age, thought it was terrific that I spoke English and spent a good amount of time asking me questions in the language as I tried to speak back in my rusty German. Afternoons were spent either walking through Siegen’s Obere Schloss (Obere Castle and Park) or lounging on backyard balconies while a thunderstorm (my first in months) poured overheard.

Siegen itself reminds me very much of Pittsburgh, a hilly town with a decidedly industrial feel of railroad tracks and low metal buildings. The main historical attractions include the Schlosspark, a centuries-old castle turned public park, with a small venue for children’s plays and many, many flowers. There we took Mogli, Vanessa and Amy’s 10-year-old hound, to run for a bit in the sun and air.

The other main attraction is the Krönchen, or “little crown,” the town’s main cathedral church, which is capped with a gold crown circling the cross overhead. In our attempt to see the inside we found it closed, so we sat of the steps for a while, taking the small downhill streets and decidedly Germany architecture of the surrounding city buildings.

Siegen from the steps of the Krönchen.

Around Siegen it fades into green pines and dark forests, interspersed by hills, lakes, and the very well designed highway infrastructure of the country. Easter morning was spent sunning by one of these lakes as people in fine sweaters and shoes took walks with the family or paddled around the water in kayaks and canoes. The amount of people on bicycle in Germany is intriguing. All around Siegen, and even Koblenz and Cologne, people on pedals made up a good portion of the moving population.

One evening Vanessa told me the story of her discovery of her ‘American cousins,’ while studying English at age 16. It was her mother who informed Vanessa of her grandfather’s brother, Henry, who left for America, and Vanessa’s own search for the two sons who now lived there. Vanessa’s own grandfather, Otto Fischbach, stayed in Germany and married, living out his life in a small town near Siegen called Wenden. It was a teenage Vanessa who took it on herself to call America, dialing my own Woodbine house. She admits she had no idea what my father was saying on the phone and was forced to seek the aid of a neighbor in translation. You can see in her face how much she wants to see the States, and in that I can understand, albeit reversely. The want to seek one’s own family; in my case, my roots, in her case, long-lost relations. Both of her parents have passed away now, one buried in the cemetery behind her apartment complex, the other in a cemetery across town.

It felt good, releasing almost, and infinitely interesting to think of the genealogical ties I share with these two people. The granddaughters of two men, meeting again almost a century gone, and the paths that brought me there, to that tiny German town, standing on a back-balcony as afternoon became lost in dusk, somewhere close to where my own great-grandparents walked.

Amy's chucks (pink) and my chucks (green.) Sehr bunt, nein?

My final dinner in Germany was spent at a fine little Italian place called Mona Lisa’s, situated in what appears to be a back alley near the Siegen town center. The fine little outdoor seating area situated Vanessa, Amy, myself, and two German men, friends of Vanessa I had met the day before.

When one pictures these two, it is remarkable that such characters exist. Gunter, an old friend of Vanessa’s, is an older man, grey-haired and edging into his mid-sixties I would guess. A larger man, he wore the quintessential German garb of suspenders and hosted a mustache, the round, approachable face in which I could see hints of my own father’s, and a most apparent cross-eye. He had worked on an American base in Germany for a number of years as a young man, and even gone to the States, as far as California and Washington. He knew a good amount of English and our conversations were filled with his thoughts on American food (most notably the poor quality of bread and sour cream) as well as the way in which the US Armed Forces operate (an opinionated subject, I assure you.) He was most intrigued at the idea of student loans, and asked a good number of questions about my ability to study abroad in Ireland; was I funded? How often did American students come overseas?

His companion was a tall, skinny fellow with high socks and pants that ended at about the mid-calf, a tie-die shirt and brown vest, a face with long features and even longer hair. Eki spoke little English, but seemed to serve mainly to aid Gunter, who was in poor health. I was unable to get a picture of either of them, but in my mind they exist well. It was the most interesting experience to talk to these men who by appearance were the most quintessentially German-looking fellows I had ever seen and full of the most interesting and enlightening conversation I had on my journey.

The following day we set out after breakfast to Koblenz, to die Deutches Eck- “The Corner of Germany”- where the Moselle River meets the Rhine. It was another warm, sunny day as we pulled up outside the apartment of another of Vanessa’s friends, an older woman who invited us in for a drink while Amy ran off with the other children that were inexorably present.

Vanessa, myself, and a friend who came to Koblenz with us- a girl of about 26 who was studying in Siegen- walked across the Mosel and through the city to the Eck, a pointed corner lined with provincial flags and commemorated with a bronze statue of Wilhelm the I. Koblenz itself was a fine city full of yet more architectural wonders, where small streets opened up to fountains an plazas, dipped into small garden seats and riverside palisades. After lunch we lounged barefoot by the Mosel as the angle of the sun slowly dipped, until at about 6 we decided to get going so that I could catch my flight.

As Vanessa said goodbye and I dropped by bag by the check-in she handed me a small flat package of thanks and along with a hug, said wiedersehen. I sat by the gate for my plane and turned the package over in my hands, finally pulling back the paper to reveal a green hardback children’s book entitled “Was ist Glück?” My rusty, but improved German revealed the story of two small pigs looking for luck. A kind, beautiful little German gift for the Irish in me.

Monument to Wilhelm I at die Deutches Eck.

As my flight was called I piled the book into my bag and hopped up, ready for my next stop in the ancient metropolis of Rome.

I Corcaigh in éineacht le Muintir

I received a phone call around 2.00pm, which in itself was strange since I usually get text messages rather than actual calls, to find that my parents were already lost in Cork, standing outside the Waterstone’s on Patrick Street borrowing someone’s cell phone in order to contact me. I lugged on my shoes and headed out to greet them for the first time in three months. Really, not much had changed, but I had forgotten mom’s penchant for wearing fleece jackets and dad’s grey beard.

It had been a long drive from Dublin airport that morning and hard time finding me, much less their B&B, so we found the car parked over Tesco and went in search of the small, but comfortable B&B by the train station where my parents had a room. After a much needed nap (on all sides) we finally received a call from Barbara and David who had arrived in Cork as well, after an extra night in Dingle.

We met for dinner at a place called Bully’s by the Tesco- an area ripe with small café’s and restaurants that I have to admit I have rarely explored. It was a pleasant meal as we planned the next day, repeat with Cork’s most famous sights.

In truth, Cork’s not a very touristy city, and I like this about it. Whereas in Dublin tourist busses and people with cameras are a common sight, in Cork there’s not much more than the Beamish & Crawford Brewery (which was not open for tours yet) or the Butter Museum (yes, it does exist.) So we went up to see the UCC campus, fresh and green in the coming spring, and all the things contained therein; the Honan Chapel’s famous mosaic floors and the Gluckman Gallery’s newest exhibition, the quad and the seal and the Ogham Stones that line the hall of the Alus Maximus.

Afterwards we drove back into the city to see the English Market and buy loaves of fresh bread and scones and eat lunch at the FarmGate, a café situated over on a terrace, overlooking the market fountain. It was a good meal, but to top it off I decided to show then O’Conaill Chocolatier- famous around Cork for their supurb melted hot chocolate (my favorite being the dark chocolate) complete with little chocolate-pieces and enough to fill you up even if you haven’t just eaten a full lunch. Gourmet dessert in a glass.

After an afternoon nap around the apartment, and a though cleaning of the kitchen by mom, we ate that evening at the Boqureia, a trendy little tapas place over the north river. While the seating was minimal, the wine was good, as was the food, salmon tartar and all. After dinner we took to find a pub where we could continue the evening, eventually wandering into a place a bit down the road for a final drink before we parted to get some sleep, ready for tomorrow’s journey.

While Barbara and David’s trip was over, mom and dad’s had just begun. The journey up to Galway took me back past the Cliffs of Moher and Poulnabrone on the Burren, this time the day being warm and sunny. From there we wound up to Galway where we stopped at our next B&B before heading out to dinner. It was amazing how much of the city I remembered after merely a weekend there three months before, but at the same time I had walked much of the city, again and again, and in the coming spring it was brighter, but still very much the same.

Flowers blooming at the Cliffs of Moher.

We took time in Galway to tour the Connemara, stopping at Kylemore Abbey along the way. The country was greener in the spring, although still holding on to visages of brown grass on the hillsides. At the abbey the gardens were now open, and while the plants weren’t yet at peak, it still had spots of color, the brick walls enclosing the perfectly planned grounds while beyond the mountains rose to the sky, overcast but not raining. I love the Victorian atmosphere of Kylemore, and while the glass houses are no longer standing the gardens retain much of that style. Grandiose and styled.

Purple lantern flowers at Kylemore Gardens.

We wound back around the Connemara, seeing the country, around the Twelve Bens, and back to Galway. It’s really an all-day trip, but when we returned we took a drive around the city square and went for dinner at a pub/restaurant near the shopping corner, where the same pedal-cars were available for hire as in February, and minimal crowds hung around the doors to pubs in the usual haze of cigarette-smoke and conversation. It is things like this that I will miss most about Ireland.

The next day was spent cutting across the Irish interior on the way to Dublin. New highways are a fine addition to the Irish infrastructure, but they are few and far-between, so small roads showed us the way, with minor stops to see if any of a number of minor Irish castles were open since mom had never been in one before. We stopped at two, but were out of luck thanks once again to the unopened tourist season, and while seeing them from outside was beautiful, it was not the full castle experience.

Around 2.00 we rolled into Dublin, which is quite frankly a small city all things considered- smaller even than Baltimore- but still the largest in Ireland and full of traffic. Passing the Guinness Brewery, we pulled up to the bus station I remembered so well from my previous weekend there. Managing to catch the 2.00 bus, I said goodbye to my parents and wished them well on their final two days in the country, touring Dublin city, while I took the four-hour ride back to Cork to prepare for my upcoming journey to the Continent.

Of Seascapes and Stationary Stones

Three months living an ocean away from anyone you knew is a long time when it comes down to it, and seeing family again after so long is both a relief and a shock. So it was with the last two weeks, starting with a wonderful visit from my Aunt Barbara and Uncle David who took the long flight overseas and met me as I hopped off the bus in the little town of Doolin on the edge of Galway Bay in Co. Clare. The town was like most Irish towns, in that it wasn’t much more than a few B&Bs and a couple pubs on a little string of road between rocky pastures and surf.

We stayed at a lovely little B&B called Cullinan’s while we toured the sights of the Burren. I had never visited the Burren before, and my only real sight of it was from the other side of Galway Bay, it appearing as nothing but a series of grey, rock hills on the edge of the water; terraced and barren. But upon closer inspection the crags of rock hide a million little flowers and green leaves sprouting in the cold and wet that plagued much of the Burren during our time there. Along the drive we took time to examine a number of ancient stone forts including Cather Conell and the Poulnabrone Dolmen, a prehistoric portal tomb whose rocky makeup blends it into the background of the Burren seamlessly, as if it has been there forever.

Poulnabrone Dolmen in the rain of the Burren.

Evenings in Doolin consisted of dinner at a pub called O’Connel’s, where live music was in the plenty and I was persuaded to try a Smithwick’s, an Irish ale, and the first Irish beer I have had that wasn’t a stout (I am apparently not a stout-drinking gal). It was like most pubs in the way it catered to nooks and crannies, booths and side-tables, with paraphernalia on the walls and an atmosphere of talk and community. Actually, rather different from the scene I encounter in Cork pubs, but not at all bad.

Two nights in Doolin found us once again on the road around Co. Clare and across the Shannon to the town of Dingle in Co.Kerry. To the south of Doolin, whence we traveled, sit the famous Cliffs of Moher, a series of sheer and rocky precipices that jut out to the Atlantic at staggering heights. Our visit saw a foggy and grey day as we approached the walk along the tops, where sometimes the mist would lift for a bit and you could make out the shadow of rock before it disappeared again into wet and wind. It was as if the ever-changing clouds of Ireland had descended to make the already impressive sight even more intriguing, substantially more dynamic.

After awhile cliff-walking in the mist we headed back onto the road, stopping once again a bit down the road to see St. Bridget’s Well, St. Bridget being one of the three patron saints of Ireland (the other two are St. Columba and, of course, St. Patrick). It was little more than a ceramic statue and a small, underground passage to the cool, running well. The passage was littered with what appeared to be years of offerings and prayers, papers, pictures, plastic flowers and stuffed animals, ribbons, and rosaries all made the more foreboding by the light peaking into the passage from either end.

Offerings at St.Bridget's Well.

It was here that, after watching a small girl follow her father’s instructions when visiting the well, that Aunt Barbara and I decided to also follow these instructions in genuflecting. Unfortunately my camera was not very securely pocketed and it managed to wriggle it’s way out and leap for the water, where it plummeted to the bottom and stayed as I tried to wriggle out of my coat and retrieve it.

So the camera is gone, but the pictures, stored safely on my card, remain intact, and with the purchase of a new camera all things seem to be amended. But I’m still a little baffled that St. Bridget didn’t think to bless me with a still functioning camera.

Eventually we made it to Dingle, where we stayed at another lovely little B&B that overlooked Dingle Bay, a sight of muted light in the fog and water and cow-pastured earth. it was as if a painting had come to life, to think the light never really looks like that. But it does. It does.

In Dingle we took time to tour the Dingle Peninsula thanks to some help from a Rick Steve’s travel guide found in the B&B. Our first major stop was Dunbeg Fort, a semi-circular Iron-age promontory fort latched onto the side of a cliff. Open completely to the public, we walked down between two sheep pastures, alongside a classic bubbling brook, and through the stone entrance, into the center when people lived before time was measured in years.

It was an intriguing site, matched only by the Beehive Forts we next saw. Just as they sound, the Beehive Forts were a jumble of fallen stone domes, resembling to all other things, a beehive. In and out, some stones were excavated, some were still visibly buried. Some gave cool shadows in the warm sun, and inside the beehive domes it was almost cold.

The tour took us winding along the coast, around Mt. Eagle and Mt. Brandon, to the very tip of Ireland, from which the Great Blasket Islands and the little lump of rock called Skelling Michael are visible. We would have surely visited one of these islands, most probably Skelling Michael, where the ruins of beehive huts that once housed a community of monks now sit deserted on the edge of the sea. But it was still before Easter and most boats don’t start running until after the holiday. Out of luck this time.

We ended the drive at the Gallarus Oratory, a piled stone building that looks like something out of an Andy Goldsworthy installation. Smooth rounded sides coming to a pointed roof, the stones perfectly fit, flat and cool. Dating from the 8th century, it’s one of the oldest churches in Ireland. A small, now quiet and chill building with a dirt floor and marks in the wall where a cover would have been a door, it was a beautifully intriguing thing.

Dinner was had back in Dingle, at a seafood place called “Out of the Blue” where the whole menu (written on a chalkboard at the start of the evening) is composed of whatever is brought into the harbor that day. Fresh as can be. It was a spectacularly delicious meal the likes of which I have not had in a long time, and which left me quite full for a long time as well.

The next morning I departed on the 10.15 bus back to Cork to prepare for the arrival not only of Aunt Barbara and Uncle David in Cork, but also my parents!

Mist at the Cliffs of Moher.

London Calling

Coming into London feels a bit like coming home at this point. I no longer have the urge to see all there is to see, considering I’ve seen most of it before, and also considering I will probably be there again someday. It’s not a place I feel like I might never get back to.

On the Underground.

I forgot how much I love London in the long three years since I was last there. Not much has changed: the Eye is still the Eye and the Tower is still the Tower. I loafed around for three days at the whim of my travel companions, just glad to be back, to be using the Underground and seeing the Thames. We spent time at Westminster Abbey and St.Paul’s Cathedral. I saw Parliament and the House of Commons for the first time, as well as the replica of Shakespeare’s Globe. We wandered outside of the Tate and stumbled across Temple Bar and the Courts of Justice after a quick jot down Fleet Street.

Most of the time in between sights was spent just roaming. Erica and myself had visited the city before, but Erik hadn’t, so it was a nice mix of tourist spots and just things we found. I feel like I’ve gotten to the point here where I am running out of tourist spots there, I just want to see the streets and the buildings and the little shops and restaurants and spend all day on the Underground, hopping stop-to-stop.

But I did see a good few sights I had never visited before. In addition to the Globe and the Tate Modern, we also browsed the Portabello Market, a weekend street-market in Kensington that our roommates recommended to us. I have to admit, it is much better than Camden Lock. Full of antiques dealers and bookseller and nifty little boutiques and specialty stalls, this place was indeed “right up my alley” as I had been told numerous times. I could have easily spent the day there.

A street vendor.

In addition we also saw Cleopatra’s Needle, an actual Egyptian obelisk taken by the British during their imperial occupation of Egypt. It now sits on the side of the Thames, its supposed curse affecting the nation, but we could see no hint of it. Afterwards we walked to Trafalger Square, climbed Nelson’s Column and spent the fading light looking towards the mobs at the National Galleries.

That morning we had alighted first at King’s Cross to visit the fabled Platform 9 ¾ , and finally facing the fact that we were never going to get to Hogwarts, we instead went to the British Museum, which is just as good, really. For the next three hours we parted ways to see the exhibits, the Rosetta Stone and Sutton Hoo and Hadrian’s Bust again. I found an interesting exhibit on the history of museum collection entitled “the Enlightenment” (a pompous name if you ask me, but an interesting exhibit) as well as a modern installation called “Cradle to Grave.” I wandered the eastern exhibits, found a good one on Chinese Jade, and took many, many pictures.

A statue of the Bodhisattva Avalokiteshvara.

But one of the best parts of the trip was the hostel, a funky little place situated over a bar somewhere on the southeastern outskirts of the city. Some nights the music was a fine acoustic open mic, and we came down for a beer and some enjoyment. Other nights it was a thrashing heavy metal and punk set that sent the walls shaking until midnight as we lay upstairs exhausted and unable to sleep. I liked the place and the character and even the weird-smelling bathroom, and especially the two-minuets walk to the tube station. Worth every pence to be in the city again.

St. Patrick's Day

I will not lie, breakfast is when it started. I walked out of my room at 10.30 to find the girls in the midst of preparing food for a “kegs and eggs” hosted by one of the Minnesota boys. Erica and I decided instead on sitting down to a respectable meal of pancakes, home fries, pear-flavored Bulmers and some white zinfandel.

I had been advised prior to the day by some of my Irish friends that going out on St. Patrick’s was a bad idea, and it would be optimal to stay in and enjoy a proper amount of alcohol away from the crowds. But this being our only time in Cork during St. Patrick’s, the girls and I headed out around 12.30 to the annual Cork parade. It was a much smaller affair that I expected, populated mostly by families and internationals and consisting of community groups and youth organizations. Homemade costumes and floats abounded. It was an enjoyable time as we stood down on Grande Parade and ‘ooohed’ and ‘ahhhed’ at the large dragon float and dance troops.

Girl with a flag at the parade.

The area had a good crowd, but it was by no means packed. I could easily see through the onlookers and I dodged more children than I did drunks. Around 2.00, the festivities over, we went back to Leeside to refresh our drinks and plan for dinner. One of the girls was celebrating her 21st birthday so a good group of us went to the Jade Palace, a nice little sit-down Chinese place off of Patrick Street. The meal was good, and dessert was included. We sang Happy Birthday and played with the table’s giant lazy susan and had the whole place to ourselves.

Parade Dragon.

After dinner we decided to start getting ready for the evening. It was a good time, for the most part. We started at a place ironically called Sober Lane, where the live music was mildly popular and the place not too crowded. From there we hopped to Preacher’s, a little hole-in-the-wall where the sound was a mixture of 80s punk and modern rock and where we spent the next few hours in good conversation and bad dancing. Full of band posters and people with phenomenal colored hair, Preacher’s is a place I might go back to if ever I found myself in that hard mood.

But finally getting tired of the cramped space we decided to try the Brog. I was sure we would never get in, but no one seemed to believe me when I professed the student bar to be loved by most everyone, expect people from Minnesota. The crowd was just as I expected and, unable to get inside, we hopped down to Crane Lane where I enjoyed my final drink of the evening- a straight Jameson whisky- and walked home with one of the girls around 1.30 am.

A national holiday, St. Patrick’s Day is roughly equivalent to the Fourth of July, and that is the best I can describe it. Full festival atmosphere, and while visitors seem to enjoy it to an extreme, the Irish I know tend to take it in stride. Two of the guys I know stayed in their little town outside of Macroom (about a 30 minuet drive from Cork) for the day and enjoyed what the Guinness Book of World Records calls “The Shortest St. Patrick’s Day Parade,” while another did homework until, finally giving up at 9.00, he made it into the Brog. But for the most part there was no more obvious drunkenness than an average Corkian night, but there were many more green hats than I have ever seen before.