This is a post I started two weeks ago in Bratislava, but finally got around to finishing. I'm in Zagreb, Croatia at the moment, but I'll let you know what I've been doing since this post was written:
I'm sitting in an Elvish Bar in Bratislava right now. What, you may ask, is an "Elvish Bar"? You know, Elvish: relating to Elves, the effeminate, pointy-eared guys from "Lord of the Rings." Their bar.
Before you start thinking that I'm on some weird Slovakian drug, let me assure you I'm not, and I haven't had any absinth in almost a week. This is an actual place, the "Storm Game Club and Elveon Elvish Bar," where the geeks and nerds of Bratislava come to socialize [sic] and play "Command and Conquer" next to each other. I imagine they may even get drunk together upstairs. Maybe they even talk to each other.
I ask the guy at the front desk of my hostel where an internet cafe is, and this is where he sends me.
What's surprising is how many girls are here. Sure, there are plenty of pimply-faced, weedy-looking guys getting worked up over "World of Warcraft," but there are plenty of members of the fairer sex as well. And even more surprising is how hot most of them are. In Slovakia, almost all of the women are attractive, even the gamer geeks. (More about the pulchritude of Slovakians, and Czechs, later.) The bar upstairs is a legit bar, fully stocked, with a lounge and plenty of ladies sitting around. I don't know what the hell I'd talk to them about besides "Lord of the Rings," but damned if it doesn't make me want to try. (Possible opening line: "So...you're an Elf?")
Anyway I've been in Bratislava for a few days after spending a week in Prague, and already I like this city and the people more. It isn't as beautiful as Prague -- less developed, obviously less prosperous, and much smaller -- but for all its roughness around the edges it feels more vital, as though the people are living their lives rather than posing for tourists. Not that I got the feeling that Prague was fake, but Slovakians simply seem more open than Czechs, more friendly, less concerned with trying to keep up the image of the place as a tourist destination, and that shows through in the atmosphere of the whole city.
Take my first night in Bratislava. I checked into the Downtown Backpacker's Hostel in early evening -- great place, by the way -- had dinner and a few drinks at the bar attached to the hostel, then went out to explore. I stopped by a bar called the KGB, which was wasn't the best experience. It was a nice enough place, I suppose, sort of dead on a Tuesday night, but the staff wasn't especially friendly, and for some reason all the damned bar seats in Eastern Europe are "reserved."
I don't know if it was just my American prejudices, or the way the place usually is, but going to anything called the "KBG" is probably not a good idea in general. It's cool I guess if you like visages of Lenin grimacing down at you, but I prefer to get my buzz on without thinking about gulags and mass murder and such. After a drink and a bit of writing in my journal, I popped back out to find a place on my map called the "Sub Club," which looked to be located at the foot of Bratislava Castle, off a freeway.
After wandering down a few dark streets and realizing that I would have to walk down a highway with no sidewalks to get to the place as it was shown on my map, I decided to find a bar and just drink more. Unfortunately it was almost 1am, and most places seemed closed. I did find a bar open till 4, which was tiny and looked to be all locals engaged in their own conversations, but I had a drink there anyway since I didn't want to go back to my hostel just yet. Eventually the large group at the table next to me left, and I was motioned over by the sole remaining member of the group. I sat down and he offered me a cigarette, which I accepted. (I mean, I didn't, Mom; I've never smoked a cigarette.)
Although he spoke almost no English, he was very friendly. We tried to talk, and wound up comparing passports; eventually I gathered that his name was Vasily, and we was a Slovakian citizen from the Ukraine who had served as a paratrooper in Afghanistan. Twenty years ago were at war with this guy; now I was sitting at a table in a capitalist democracy, sharing cigarettes and whiskey with him. Ain't the world funny.
I felt a tap on my shoulder, and a man said something to me in what I guess was Slovakian. He looked like Salman Rushdie -- excuse the literary reference -- right down to the small circular glasses, the little beard, and the funny haircut.
"English," I said, smiling and shaking my head to indicate that I didn't understand.
"Ah, English!" he said. "We would like to play poker at this table" -- he pointed around to show that all the other tables were full -- "Would you like to join us?"
The buy-in was 300 Slovakian crowns, which is about 15 bucks, so I said yes. I didn't know if these guys were poker sharks or what, and I didn't care; I was more interested in the experience. So Vasily and I wound up playing Texas hold 'em past 5 o'clock in the morning, drinking and smoking and laughing with these five Slovakian guys. I held my own for awhile, eventually lost my chips, bought back in and lost again. It didn't matter; it was only money. We were having a great time, talking about Slovakia and America, politics and literature, debating whether Alexander Pushkin or W.H. Auden was the better poet. The woman who ran the bar eventually sat down to watch us play, since we were the only ones left, and kept the place open an extra hour-and-a-half for us.
The Rushdie look-alike -- whose name was Edward -- asked me if I had ever read Mikhail Bulgakov. I said that I'd never even heard of him, which shocked him, and he said I had to read The Master and Margarita. On a side note, I picked it up in a bookstore in Budapest last week, and he was right: it's excellent.
Eventually the proprietess very politely kicked us out, so we packed up the cards and chips and headed out into the cool night. I said good-bye to Vasily and Edward and all the rest, and walked -- somewhat drunkenly -- back to my hostel. There aren't any great quotes to come from that night, or funny stories, and it may not blog particularly well, but it was one of the best nights I've had in Europe. It wasn't the most drunken, or the most fun, and there were no girls involved, but it is one of the experiences that will leave an impression on me for a very long time.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
Observations
I have come to the conclusion that I cannot write a blog as a narrative -- except for a few choice stories -- so I will confine myself to comments, observations, and general bullshit. Here, to whit, are a few things I've noticed or learned in my travels:
-There us a type of whiskey in Ireland called -- I shit you not -- "Black Bush." Try google-ing that one.
-Black Bush is pretty good. Yes, I did just say that: "I like Black Bush."
-Coke bottles in Dublin are really weird: they're either made from a kind of silver or gold plastic material, or they come in tiny glass bottles that look like they would be called "fun sized" in the States.
-Mulled wine is really, really good, especially on a cold night -- just don't gulp it or you might swallow one of the twigs or whatever the shit is they put in there.
-Don't stand too close to somebody at an ATM (and by "too close" I mean within eight feet) or you might get bitched out by and old Czech dyke who thinks you're trying to steal her money in the middle of the day on a crowded street.
-You can buy a bong in Prague for 500 crowns...which is about 25 bucks.
-Salvador Dali exhibit: cool.
-Salvador Dali exhibit on absinth: awesome.
-Alphonse Mucha exhibit: cool.
-Alphone Mucha exhibit on absinth: awesome.
-Irish girls may not always be the hottest (although many of them are) but they are usually the most fun to hang out with
-There are no street signs in Europe; the street names, sometimes, are on the sides of buildings at intersections. When they aren't you have to ask people where you are, which calls attention to your American accent and makes you look like a huge tourist. Either that or whip out your big-ass map and stand there in the middle of the sidewalk squinting at it, which makes you look like an even bigger tourist.
-Czechs and Slovaks love them some dogs. They're everywhere: walking on the streets (sometimes) with their owners, running through bars, shitting everywhere, etc. Despite this, they are all very well behaved; I don't think I've heard a dog bark once. And despite the facts that owners apparently don't have to clean up the dogshit, the streets are all remarkably clean, at least in Prague; they have cleaners come out at night to pick up all the trash and shit that people leave lying around.
-Prague is easily one of the most beautiful cities in the world. Everything is so old, and the architecture is stunning. This is old Europe, very different from Dublin; it's the difference between a city that has been built up over the last two or three hundred years, and one that has been built up over a thousand.
-Castles are cool. Seriously.
-Corona is everywhere. It must be Mexico's biggest export, besides (insert anti-Mexican cliche here).
-When you order a glass of wine in Prague, they don't pour you a glass like they do in America (or Ireland, for that matter). They pour you a little carafe with about three glasses worth in it, and give it to you with an empty wine glass to drink at your leisure.
-Beer in Prague, or at least Pilsner, is cheaper than water.
-There are very few traffic lights in Prague or Bratislava, but there is also very little speeding. This is probably because the streets are all pretty short, and curve and twist and rise and fall a lot. All the drivers are very respectful to pedestrians, too. There were several times when I was about to cross a street but waited to let a car pass, only to have it slow to a stop and the driver motion at me to go ahead.
-They love American music over here: except for the occasional local song, I've heard very little over here that I haven't heard before. That isn't always bad -- the Doors, Simon and Garfunkel, Red Hot Chili Peppers, for example -- but it very often is (Nickelback, Pink, Madonna, etc. I've heard so much goddamn Madonna in the Czech and Slovak Republics that I wonder if 40 years of Soviet domination was as much a matter of taste as it was geopolitical misfortune.)
Alright, that's enough for now. I'm in Bratislava at the moment, and will post soon on some of the shit I've been getting up to here.
Peace
-There us a type of whiskey in Ireland called -- I shit you not -- "Black Bush." Try google-ing that one.
-Black Bush is pretty good. Yes, I did just say that: "I like Black Bush."
-Coke bottles in Dublin are really weird: they're either made from a kind of silver or gold plastic material, or they come in tiny glass bottles that look like they would be called "fun sized" in the States.
-Mulled wine is really, really good, especially on a cold night -- just don't gulp it or you might swallow one of the twigs or whatever the shit is they put in there.
-Don't stand too close to somebody at an ATM (and by "too close" I mean within eight feet) or you might get bitched out by and old Czech dyke who thinks you're trying to steal her money in the middle of the day on a crowded street.
-You can buy a bong in Prague for 500 crowns...which is about 25 bucks.
-Salvador Dali exhibit: cool.
-Salvador Dali exhibit on absinth: awesome.
-Alphonse Mucha exhibit: cool.
-Alphone Mucha exhibit on absinth: awesome.
-Irish girls may not always be the hottest (although many of them are) but they are usually the most fun to hang out with
-There are no street signs in Europe; the street names, sometimes, are on the sides of buildings at intersections. When they aren't you have to ask people where you are, which calls attention to your American accent and makes you look like a huge tourist. Either that or whip out your big-ass map and stand there in the middle of the sidewalk squinting at it, which makes you look like an even bigger tourist.
-Czechs and Slovaks love them some dogs. They're everywhere: walking on the streets (sometimes) with their owners, running through bars, shitting everywhere, etc. Despite this, they are all very well behaved; I don't think I've heard a dog bark once. And despite the facts that owners apparently don't have to clean up the dogshit, the streets are all remarkably clean, at least in Prague; they have cleaners come out at night to pick up all the trash and shit that people leave lying around.
-Prague is easily one of the most beautiful cities in the world. Everything is so old, and the architecture is stunning. This is old Europe, very different from Dublin; it's the difference between a city that has been built up over the last two or three hundred years, and one that has been built up over a thousand.
-Castles are cool. Seriously.
-Corona is everywhere. It must be Mexico's biggest export, besides (insert anti-Mexican cliche here).
-When you order a glass of wine in Prague, they don't pour you a glass like they do in America (or Ireland, for that matter). They pour you a little carafe with about three glasses worth in it, and give it to you with an empty wine glass to drink at your leisure.
-Beer in Prague, or at least Pilsner, is cheaper than water.
-There are very few traffic lights in Prague or Bratislava, but there is also very little speeding. This is probably because the streets are all pretty short, and curve and twist and rise and fall a lot. All the drivers are very respectful to pedestrians, too. There were several times when I was about to cross a street but waited to let a car pass, only to have it slow to a stop and the driver motion at me to go ahead.
-They love American music over here: except for the occasional local song, I've heard very little over here that I haven't heard before. That isn't always bad -- the Doors, Simon and Garfunkel, Red Hot Chili Peppers, for example -- but it very often is (Nickelback, Pink, Madonna, etc. I've heard so much goddamn Madonna in the Czech and Slovak Republics that I wonder if 40 years of Soviet domination was as much a matter of taste as it was geopolitical misfortune.)
Alright, that's enough for now. I'm in Bratislava at the moment, and will post soon on some of the shit I've been getting up to here.
Peace
This one's for Dahlgren
All right, I'm dedicating this post to Adam "Twinkles" Dahlgren, for his tireless encouragement to me to blog. It's been awhile since I posted, because frankly I'd rather DO shit than write about doing it. But I guess I should start with my first night in Dublin...
I had dinner that night at a place called Market Bar, a really cool restaurant in what looked like a converted warehouse on Fade St., which was just a block or two up from my hostel. This was the place that popped my Guinness cherry in Ireland...and my god, is that stuff good. They pour it the same way they do in the States, letting it settle a bit between the first and second pours, but it just doesn't compare. It's fuller and richer than the stuff we get in America, with a longer and less-bitter finish -- it lingers on the tongue like a creamy alcoholic milkshake, teasing the palate with hints of barley, cocoa and maybe even espresso. God I need to stop, I sound like I'm at a wine tasting.
After an amazing dinner of duck confit and lentils, I headed over to a place called International Bar. I got there around 10:45, or "quarter to eleven" as they say over here -- always "such-and-such until -- which is apparently late in Dublin, especially on a weeknight; a lot of places close surprisingly early in Dublin. I had heard they had live jazz and blues there, and a sign outside advertised a comedian at 8:30 (or "half eight") but all the acts and most of the patrons were gone by the time I got there. I ordered a pint of Bulmer's "vintage cider"for 5 euro and headed downstairs, which was nearly as dead as the bar. I struck up a conversation with the cute Spanish bartender, Alba (like Jessica) who had come to Ireland as a backpacker, like me, and wound up staying to work. Eventually I got talking to three Irish guys, Owen (who was maybe 25), Tom (who had dredlocks -- seriously, and Irish guy with dredlocks) and Dermot (who turned out to be an off-duty cop). I told them about how I wanted to visit family in Cork and Limerick, which prompted to Dermot to observe, as nicely as possible, that I looked "gullible" and "like fodder" for the punks and con men in Limerick. (Those are direct quotes.)
Anyway we all got along pretty well so when International Bar closed we headed over to another bar, making sure to stop and piss in an alley on our way there. At this place I met a couple of American students who were studying in Italy. Morgan was the one I remember: very pretty (one might go so far as to say beautiful), blonde, from California, studying comparative literature. We all hit it off and I went with them to the next place (after saying goodbye to Owen, Tom and Dermot) which turned out to be closed, so we all went to what is now my favorite drinking spot in Dublin: the Oliver St. John Gogarty. This is a massive, three-story, family-run bar, well lit, with live Irish music on the second floor. Amid copious pints of Guinness we danced -- like Irish river danced, if you guys can picture that -- and in general had a great night. Unfortunately Morgan and her friends were leaving at 4am so I brought them back to my hostel, where I had that bottle of Patron, and we drank in a hallway outside an emergency exit until it was almost time for them to leave. I went with them back to their hostel to say good-bye, exchanged email addresses and contact info, and made tentative plans to meet up in Amsterdam on 4/20...which I'm not sure I'll be able to do now, but maybe. Anyway, that was my first night in Dublin, and if none of the rest of the nights quite lived up to it, it was only because that first one was so damn good.
Peace
-B
I had dinner that night at a place called Market Bar, a really cool restaurant in what looked like a converted warehouse on Fade St., which was just a block or two up from my hostel. This was the place that popped my Guinness cherry in Ireland...and my god, is that stuff good. They pour it the same way they do in the States, letting it settle a bit between the first and second pours, but it just doesn't compare. It's fuller and richer than the stuff we get in America, with a longer and less-bitter finish -- it lingers on the tongue like a creamy alcoholic milkshake, teasing the palate with hints of barley, cocoa and maybe even espresso. God I need to stop, I sound like I'm at a wine tasting.
After an amazing dinner of duck confit and lentils, I headed over to a place called International Bar. I got there around 10:45, or "quarter to eleven" as they say over here -- always "such-and-such until -- which is apparently late in Dublin, especially on a weeknight; a lot of places close surprisingly early in Dublin. I had heard they had live jazz and blues there, and a sign outside advertised a comedian at 8:30 (or "half eight") but all the acts and most of the patrons were gone by the time I got there. I ordered a pint of Bulmer's "vintage cider"for 5 euro and headed downstairs, which was nearly as dead as the bar. I struck up a conversation with the cute Spanish bartender, Alba (like Jessica) who had come to Ireland as a backpacker, like me, and wound up staying to work. Eventually I got talking to three Irish guys, Owen (who was maybe 25), Tom (who had dredlocks -- seriously, and Irish guy with dredlocks) and Dermot (who turned out to be an off-duty cop). I told them about how I wanted to visit family in Cork and Limerick, which prompted to Dermot to observe, as nicely as possible, that I looked "gullible" and "like fodder" for the punks and con men in Limerick. (Those are direct quotes.)
Anyway we all got along pretty well so when International Bar closed we headed over to another bar, making sure to stop and piss in an alley on our way there. At this place I met a couple of American students who were studying in Italy. Morgan was the one I remember: very pretty (one might go so far as to say beautiful), blonde, from California, studying comparative literature. We all hit it off and I went with them to the next place (after saying goodbye to Owen, Tom and Dermot) which turned out to be closed, so we all went to what is now my favorite drinking spot in Dublin: the Oliver St. John Gogarty. This is a massive, three-story, family-run bar, well lit, with live Irish music on the second floor. Amid copious pints of Guinness we danced -- like Irish river danced, if you guys can picture that -- and in general had a great night. Unfortunately Morgan and her friends were leaving at 4am so I brought them back to my hostel, where I had that bottle of Patron, and we drank in a hallway outside an emergency exit until it was almost time for them to leave. I went with them back to their hostel to say good-bye, exchanged email addresses and contact info, and made tentative plans to meet up in Amsterdam on 4/20...which I'm not sure I'll be able to do now, but maybe. Anyway, that was my first night in Dublin, and if none of the rest of the nights quite lived up to it, it was only because that first one was so damn good.
Peace
-B
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Fucking with rude Dubliners
So I actually wrote this about two weeks ago, on the night it happened, but waited until now to post it. Enjoy:
It is 3:20 in the morning, and I have to post this blog before I forget it. I was out in Dublin tonight, wasted as usual, and wound up at a club in the (touristy) Temple Bar district with my buddy Todd from the hostel I'm staying at.
"Five euro cover," the woman at the door said. Todd decided that was too much and headed home. I figured on rolling the dice and taking a look around the club. I pay the money, get the fucking stamp on my hand and go in. Downstairs I head straight for the bar and order a pint of Carlsberg. There are two blondes next to me, one cute and one not. I make eye contact with the cute one, give her the smile-and-nod, and get a smile in return, which I figure is a good sign. The bartender brings me my pint, I pay for it, and when I turn back the cute one is gone but the ugly one is still there. I figure I'll make some friends, build up some credit, so I say "Are you from Dublin originally?" and give her my friendliest smile.
I get the straight-up nasty look, the turned back, and not even a word of acknowledgement.
Now I've gotten the noncomittal "yeah," the "no thanks," and the polite-smile-but-cold shoulder, but I've never gotten the total rudeness this bitch gave me. It offended me. It's the first time in Dublin anyone was genuinely an asshole to me. I took it personally. A quick lap around the club while chugging my pint proved that there were a few cute girls, but nothing special, and I realized that Todd had the right idea when he left earlier. I hate clubs anyway, and I should never have wasted my time or money. As I'm leaving, I see the blonde bitch with her cute friend by the door. Drunk and feeling belligerent, I tap her (the bitchy one) on the shoulder as I point to the cuter one.
"By the way," I say as loudly as I can, "your friend is hotter. Cheers."
The look on her face and the way her eyes widened when I said that made me think I was about to get assaulted. I walked out of the club, expecting to be hit in the back of the head, and breathed a sign of relief when I saw the bouncer out front. At least if she attacked me, the bouncer could vouch that I hadn't "provoked" it. The last thing I need is an international arrest record.
Anyway, I'm fucked up and proofreading this is taking too much effort. I'll update soon with more (and better) news. Till then, cheers.
-Brendan
PS: While I was typing this, Todd showed up at the hostel and told me he got a delicious 5-euro cheeseburger while I was having adventures with Dublin's cuntish underlife. If there was any sign I needed that I have bad judgment, that was it.
It is 3:20 in the morning, and I have to post this blog before I forget it. I was out in Dublin tonight, wasted as usual, and wound up at a club in the (touristy) Temple Bar district with my buddy Todd from the hostel I'm staying at.
"Five euro cover," the woman at the door said. Todd decided that was too much and headed home. I figured on rolling the dice and taking a look around the club. I pay the money, get the fucking stamp on my hand and go in. Downstairs I head straight for the bar and order a pint of Carlsberg. There are two blondes next to me, one cute and one not. I make eye contact with the cute one, give her the smile-and-nod, and get a smile in return, which I figure is a good sign. The bartender brings me my pint, I pay for it, and when I turn back the cute one is gone but the ugly one is still there. I figure I'll make some friends, build up some credit, so I say "Are you from Dublin originally?" and give her my friendliest smile.
I get the straight-up nasty look, the turned back, and not even a word of acknowledgement.
Now I've gotten the noncomittal "yeah," the "no thanks," and the polite-smile-but-cold shoulder, but I've never gotten the total rudeness this bitch gave me. It offended me. It's the first time in Dublin anyone was genuinely an asshole to me. I took it personally. A quick lap around the club while chugging my pint proved that there were a few cute girls, but nothing special, and I realized that Todd had the right idea when he left earlier. I hate clubs anyway, and I should never have wasted my time or money. As I'm leaving, I see the blonde bitch with her cute friend by the door. Drunk and feeling belligerent, I tap her (the bitchy one) on the shoulder as I point to the cuter one.
"By the way," I say as loudly as I can, "your friend is hotter. Cheers."
The look on her face and the way her eyes widened when I said that made me think I was about to get assaulted. I walked out of the club, expecting to be hit in the back of the head, and breathed a sign of relief when I saw the bouncer out front. At least if she attacked me, the bouncer could vouch that I hadn't "provoked" it. The last thing I need is an international arrest record.
Anyway, I'm fucked up and proofreading this is taking too much effort. I'll update soon with more (and better) news. Till then, cheers.
-Brendan
PS: While I was typing this, Todd showed up at the hostel and told me he got a delicious 5-euro cheeseburger while I was having adventures with Dublin's cuntish underlife. If there was any sign I needed that I have bad judgment, that was it.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Holy shit, I did it
First of all, the name of this blog (if you know me) does not mean what you think it does...does not necessarily mean what you think it does. Green is my favorite color, and since I'm starting this trip (the first of many) in Ireland, it seemed appropriate. THAT'S ALL.
Anyway, my trip started after a hectic dash around DC to take care of some final odds and ends before making it back to my apartment in time for the Supersuttle...which, somehow, I did. If you saw me that day you know how manic I was. (Whoops, bad word choice.) Once I got to the airport and through security, I did what any red-blooded American of Irish descent who hates to fly does on St. Patrick's Day...I got wasted at the bar.
Okay, okay mom, not wasted, but I had a couple of Jamison whiskeys-and-soda, and a beer to go with my mixed greens and turkey sandwich. I tell myself that eating healthy makes up for the alcohol I consume. Don't ruin it for me.
The bartender was a nice enough guy with bad teeth and (I think) a French accent named Ilir, who went out of his way to get me a seat at the bar but looked surprised when I ordered the Jamison. The stuffy British couple next to me gave me a weird look too. I guess not a lot of 22-year olds drink Irish whiskey. Anyway, the Brits soon left and another guy -- maybe in his late forties/early fifties -- sat down. The TV was on ESPN and PTI was on, and Kornheiser was asking Jim Boehiem (or Jim "Motherfuckin National Champion" Boehiem, as we call him in Syracuse) some bullshit about the NCAA. (Side note: American University made the tournament for the first time EVER. That's fuckin right, doggy.)
"Great man," I said pointing to the TV when Boehiem came on. The expression of the guy next to me indicated that he had no idea what the hell I was talking about, and the slight accent I couldn't place as he muttered something made me realize what a dumbass I was: this guy wasn't from the US.
"Oh, do you follow American basketball?" I asked weakly, trying to recover.
"No," he said. "I like American football, but we don't watch basketball much in Ireland."
I blinked. The accent I couldn't place was Irish. Some mick I am.
"Really," I said. "What part of the country are you from?"
"Dublin," he replied. I quickly explained that I was on my way to Dublin, and asked him if there were any particular places I should check out. He started warming up as he ticked off a handful of pubs and literary museums. We chatted about Joyce, Hemingway, Twain and Melville for a little while, and I explained that I was (past tense) a literature major.
"I'm Brendan, by the way," I said, extending my hand. He started laughing.
"You must be Irish," he said. "I'm Brendan, too."
I took this as a sign. On my way to Dublin, I got drunk with a guy from Dublin named Brendan.
At some point during our conversation, the obnoxious British guy on the other side of me started talking loudly about Irish Republicans with their "US-supported terrorism" and their "revolutionary songs" tha people sing. Now, the conflict between Northern Ireland and the Irish Republic is a long and complex one -- and far be it from me to minimize or gloss over the losses suffered and inflicted by both sides -- but did this dipshit really need to start bitching about it while sitting next to an Irish-American (okay, American of Irish descent) and two seats down from a real Irishman, in the middle of an airport bar, and on St. Patrick's day of all days? The guy kept getting louder and louder, and I was about to tell him to fuck off when the guy he was talking to basically did it for me and rather abruptly excused himself. Brendan and I continued our conversation about Moby-Dick while this limey dick drank gin through his stained teeth and kept hating his life.
Eventually I said good-bye to Brendan and got on my plane. The flight to Newark was uneventful. I bought a bottle of duty-free Patron tequila for $35, which I figured was a good investment and a great way to make friends at the hostel.
The flight to Dublin was, among other things, my first experience with airline food other than peanuts. I got what Chuck Palahniuk called -- in Fight Club -- a "chicken cordon bleu hobby kit" (or, in this case, a chicken cacciatore hobby kit). Not bad, if you don't mind the feeling of your colon weeping. (Also, apparently "pour it on" is a registered trademark of whatever company makes the packaged salad dressing used by Continental Airlines. WTF? How do you trademark a phrase like "pour it on"??)
Anyway, I'm rambling and I'm taking up too much time on the computer at the hostel, so I'll wrap this first post up. A few other random things:
-Ireland from 30,000 feet up, especially the western coast, is breathtakingly beautiful -- and I don't use a cheesy word like "breathtakingly" lightly (or the word "beautiful," for that matter).
-Shitting at 30,000 feet is decidedly not beautiful, nor is it pleasant. It is, however, more pleasant than shitting in New Jersey.
-It's interesting how the Irish use different words for things. For instance, signs don't say "restrooms" or "women" and "men," they say "toilets," "ladies" and "gents." An elevator is a "lift." An ATM is a "cash machine." Police are not "cops" or "po-pos," they're "garda." Etc.
-The friendly guy who worked at the airport bus stop, after telling me how to get to my hostel, asked me about the upcoming presidential election. I mentioned that I liked Obama. He then proceeded to say that the current administration should be tried as war criminals and told me he saw a documentary the other night about Marines who had raped and murdered some people in Iraq. I stood in silence for about three seconds, unsure of how to respond. Then, after literally three seconds, he grinned, said "enjoy your stay," and strolled away.
-Of course, the really hot Australian girl with the blue eyes and the long dark hair I struck up a conversation with in the lounge of my hostel was about to fly to Scotland. Figures.
-Getting around is really difficult when none of the streets have any signs.
All right, I'll get my digital camera working so I have some pics up for you in my next blog entry tomorrow. For those of you who are interested, I am staying at the Avalon House on Aungier (pronounced AIN-ger) St. near Trinity College and St. Stephen's Green.
Slainte!
-Brendan
Anyway, my trip started after a hectic dash around DC to take care of some final odds and ends before making it back to my apartment in time for the Supersuttle...which, somehow, I did. If you saw me that day you know how manic I was. (Whoops, bad word choice.) Once I got to the airport and through security, I did what any red-blooded American of Irish descent who hates to fly does on St. Patrick's Day...I got wasted at the bar.
Okay, okay mom, not wasted, but I had a couple of Jamison whiskeys-and-soda, and a beer to go with my mixed greens and turkey sandwich. I tell myself that eating healthy makes up for the alcohol I consume. Don't ruin it for me.
The bartender was a nice enough guy with bad teeth and (I think) a French accent named Ilir, who went out of his way to get me a seat at the bar but looked surprised when I ordered the Jamison. The stuffy British couple next to me gave me a weird look too. I guess not a lot of 22-year olds drink Irish whiskey. Anyway, the Brits soon left and another guy -- maybe in his late forties/early fifties -- sat down. The TV was on ESPN and PTI was on, and Kornheiser was asking Jim Boehiem (or Jim "Motherfuckin National Champion" Boehiem, as we call him in Syracuse) some bullshit about the NCAA. (Side note: American University made the tournament for the first time EVER. That's fuckin right, doggy.)
"Great man," I said pointing to the TV when Boehiem came on. The expression of the guy next to me indicated that he had no idea what the hell I was talking about, and the slight accent I couldn't place as he muttered something made me realize what a dumbass I was: this guy wasn't from the US.
"Oh, do you follow American basketball?" I asked weakly, trying to recover.
"No," he said. "I like American football, but we don't watch basketball much in Ireland."
I blinked. The accent I couldn't place was Irish. Some mick I am.
"Really," I said. "What part of the country are you from?"
"Dublin," he replied. I quickly explained that I was on my way to Dublin, and asked him if there were any particular places I should check out. He started warming up as he ticked off a handful of pubs and literary museums. We chatted about Joyce, Hemingway, Twain and Melville for a little while, and I explained that I was (past tense) a literature major.
"I'm Brendan, by the way," I said, extending my hand. He started laughing.
"You must be Irish," he said. "I'm Brendan, too."
I took this as a sign. On my way to Dublin, I got drunk with a guy from Dublin named Brendan.
At some point during our conversation, the obnoxious British guy on the other side of me started talking loudly about Irish Republicans with their "US-supported terrorism" and their "revolutionary songs" tha people sing. Now, the conflict between Northern Ireland and the Irish Republic is a long and complex one -- and far be it from me to minimize or gloss over the losses suffered and inflicted by both sides -- but did this dipshit really need to start bitching about it while sitting next to an Irish-American (okay, American of Irish descent) and two seats down from a real Irishman, in the middle of an airport bar, and on St. Patrick's day of all days? The guy kept getting louder and louder, and I was about to tell him to fuck off when the guy he was talking to basically did it for me and rather abruptly excused himself. Brendan and I continued our conversation about Moby-Dick while this limey dick drank gin through his stained teeth and kept hating his life.
Eventually I said good-bye to Brendan and got on my plane. The flight to Newark was uneventful. I bought a bottle of duty-free Patron tequila for $35, which I figured was a good investment and a great way to make friends at the hostel.
The flight to Dublin was, among other things, my first experience with airline food other than peanuts. I got what Chuck Palahniuk called -- in Fight Club -- a "chicken cordon bleu hobby kit" (or, in this case, a chicken cacciatore hobby kit). Not bad, if you don't mind the feeling of your colon weeping. (Also, apparently "pour it on" is a registered trademark of whatever company makes the packaged salad dressing used by Continental Airlines. WTF? How do you trademark a phrase like "pour it on"??)
Anyway, I'm rambling and I'm taking up too much time on the computer at the hostel, so I'll wrap this first post up. A few other random things:
-Ireland from 30,000 feet up, especially the western coast, is breathtakingly beautiful -- and I don't use a cheesy word like "breathtakingly" lightly (or the word "beautiful," for that matter).
-Shitting at 30,000 feet is decidedly not beautiful, nor is it pleasant. It is, however, more pleasant than shitting in New Jersey.
-It's interesting how the Irish use different words for things. For instance, signs don't say "restrooms" or "women" and "men," they say "toilets," "ladies" and "gents." An elevator is a "lift." An ATM is a "cash machine." Police are not "cops" or "po-pos," they're "garda." Etc.
-The friendly guy who worked at the airport bus stop, after telling me how to get to my hostel, asked me about the upcoming presidential election. I mentioned that I liked Obama. He then proceeded to say that the current administration should be tried as war criminals and told me he saw a documentary the other night about Marines who had raped and murdered some people in Iraq. I stood in silence for about three seconds, unsure of how to respond. Then, after literally three seconds, he grinned, said "enjoy your stay," and strolled away.
-Of course, the really hot Australian girl with the blue eyes and the long dark hair I struck up a conversation with in the lounge of my hostel was about to fly to Scotland. Figures.
-Getting around is really difficult when none of the streets have any signs.
All right, I'll get my digital camera working so I have some pics up for you in my next blog entry tomorrow. For those of you who are interested, I am staying at the Avalon House on Aungier (pronounced AIN-ger) St. near Trinity College and St. Stephen's Green.
Slainte!
-Brendan
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