Sleeping in, Final Tour, and My Last Day in Dublin

I woke up fairly late on Sunday morning, just long enough to throw on decent enough clothes to go down stairs where the wifi was better and skype with Chris for a while, around 8:30.  I then rolled back up into bed, and slept until the noontime bells chimed at the Christchurch Cathedral.  It surprised me, because I have never heard them before, so I must have been busy at noon every other day the bells were ringing.  Or, maybe it was because it was Sunday.  Either way, the bells went on for at least 10 minutes, and they were beautiful.  It was very cool being so near to the church that I could actually hear the bells.

Once roused, and since only one other girl was in my room, I decided to take up much of the floor to open my suitcase and rearrange some things.  To save space, I have been sleeping with my backpack and purse at the foot of my bed (also, as a vague guard against thievery, although I must admit that the risk seemed very low at this place.  Nearly every person here has been leaving their stuff out, or very visible in their rolling cages under the bunks.).  I decided that it seemed safer to keep my mug for Liz, and my welcome sign in my backpack than in my suitcase, where I have some semblance of control whether things get broken.  That meant that I saved some vertical space in one corner of my suitcase, which I decided to fill with some of the seven mostly unnecessary books that I brought with me.  Thinking back on it, I should have planned to find a book store and left room to bring books home, rather than bringing my own.  This is especially true, because I found a place near Trinity College called Books Upstairs.  Forcing myself not to go inside was torturous, because I knew that if I went in, I would not leave without a book.  Such is the plight of a complete book addict.  Rick Steves and Lonely Planet were fairly useful, and I have read not quite half of an embarrassingly thin copy of Joyce.  The other four books are disturbingly unread...  And very bulky.

It seemed smart enough to take a shower at this point, so my towel would have time to dry before it needed to be packed as well.  Right about the moment that I was standing around in my underwear and a tee shirt gathering my things to go commandeer a shower for myself was when one of the hostel employees was doing his bed-check rounds.  Several knocks on the door is not a good enough indicator of who is about to come through a door.  I mean, every person who has come through that door so far has been female, and some have knocked and some have not.  But, I mean, a little "Hey, man coming through, put on trousers." might be a worthwhile thing to add to the pre-entry repertoire.  I don't really care, because I was actually well covered up, but, as the Brazilian girl in my room commented after my shower, sending a girl to inspect the girls' rooms doesn't seem that unreasonable a request.

I ended up having a fairly interesting conversation with this Brazilian woman when I returned from my shower, and while I got dressed.  She is from the very far south end of Brazil, where it is often cold, and that she is in Ireland on her way to her pilgrimage to Germany to see where her family is from.  She said that her family is actually German from an earlier migration -- earlier than the mid 40's mass exodus following world war two.  She was stopping in Dublin on her way to the rest of her travels, to get a well rounded trip out of her time off the continent.  We chatted a bit longer while I got dressed, something about Portuguese expansion versus English expansion into their colonies.  She seemed quite well educated about the various methods of colonization, but her conclusion was that the Portuguese were much kinder about it than the English, and I tried to be diplomatic about saying that the Portuguese were not saints in their colonization either.  Especially since she said just earlier in the conversation that there are reservations for the native population as well.  But, whatever.

After our chat, I took off to get some breakfast/lunch at SuperMac's.  I had been told that SuperMac's was like Irish fast food, and I had yet to go there.  It was a favorite of my compatriots after a long evening at the pubs.  There was a SuperMac's (and Papa John's pizza place, because Papa John's made it across the pond) in Temple Bar Square.  I knew that the Jeanie Johnston tours left every hour, and I expected that it would take me about 15 or 20 minutes to walk to the far end of town to where she was moored.  I had been having a hard time getting wifi at the hostel, and I needed both food and to write, so I was happy that eircom, Dublin's free city wifi, was working.  I walked into the SuperMac's/Papa John's, and waited for quite a few minutes before someone came to take my order.  If this is fast food, we are not starting off well.  Much to my chagrin for this entire trip, the expectation that all the minimum wage jobs are being taken by Poles was confirmed yet again, when a very pole-like Pole appeared from the back to finally take my order.  I got a bacon cheeseburger, which came with chips and a Coke.  It cost 7.50 euro, which comes out to just over 10 dollars American.  I would expect to pay 7.50 for one of those really giant burgers at Carl's Jr., but this seemed incredibly exorbitant.  I forget whether I have already remarked on my disappointment upon finding that, despite the euro being worth 135% of the dollar, Ireland is incredibly expensive to live in, and so I am actually experiencing extremely painful inflation.

Anyway, the other remarkable thing about Irish fast food was that their hamburger buns came with corn meal on the top, instead of sesame seeds, and red onions instead of white.  It was pretty good, I mean, it was basically just standard fast food.  I sat a bit too long eating, and left perhaps ten minutes before the next Jeanie Johnston tour was to begin.  I am a quick walker, and more so on the flat landscape of Dublin, but I wasn't going to make it by 2.  Heading out briskly anyway, I walked north toward the river, and turned right to head east.  I crossed the Haypenny Bridge, so named for the half penny toll for crossing back in the day, and was grateful that another tourist paused to take a photo, so that I could as well.

I continued on eastward along the north side of the Liffey, which allowed me to pass by the famine statues.  They are a rather bleak collection of metal sculptures of several men, women, children, and a mangy dog, making their way in destitution toward the ships that would carry them away to the rest of the world.  It was an appropriate stop, given my destination.  I pressed on, and arrived at the Jeanie Johnston about a quarter after 2.  The girl inside was quite happy to sell me the single, last ticket for the tour at 3.  She asked what I knew about the ship, and I said that it was a famine ship that carried loads of Irish to North America, and that they had a doctor on board and no one died on any of their trips, and that I thought the boat had had a female captain.  She said that that was remarkably more knowledge than most people have upon arriving for a tour.

An English man and a few others came in just after me, and unfortunately she was sold out for both of the remaining tours that day.  He asked what the ship was really about, and she said that it was a famine ship.  He asked if this was the original, and she said no, it was just a replica.  He seemed slightly confused, but in a moment of clarity, he said, "Oh, so it didn't used to travel with all that stuff on it."  Now her turn to be confused, she said, no, it carried starving Irish to the New World to escape the famine.  He seemed rather put off at the prospect, and asked if there was an informational pamphlet that he could take to read about it, and that was when I took my leave and stepped out of the little office to take pictures of the boat.

Once those clever fellows had cleared out, however, I returned, and asked my new friend if she thought, as I had, that the man had assumed that it was the boat that had once been famished, and not the passengers.  She replied, rather conspiratorially, that she certainly hoped not, but that she wouldn't be surprised, as the man was English.  We talked a while longer, and while I have forgotten her name, I recall that she is from Donegal.  We talked a bit about boys -- the unfortunate condition of Irishmen that makes them a bit less to look at, but they make up for it greatly in charm.  All Irishmen sing, and many dance, and nearly all of them recite poetry.  As she remarked, it takes a six up to an eight most of the time.  I asked her what she thought about the impending Scottish vote for independence, and what she thought that would mean for Northern Ireland.  Her thoughts were that it would be best to leave things alone in Northern Ireland, and she was somewhat dubious about whether Scotland should separate either.  She said that the differences between Northern Ireland and the Republic were primarily boiling down to social welfare issues these days, not religion: who had better schools, health care, higher education, infrastructure, etc.  And for those who wish to be British, they can be, and for her, she is quite happy in Dublin.

I had missed my coffee that morning, and was regretting it.  My friend pointed me further west as my best bet for some coffee.  The place she suggested, the Twisted Pepper, which is a tattoo parlor or a night club when it is not a coffee place, was a bit too far afield for me to reach on foot, and be back in time for my tour.  Since it was Sunday, most everything had buttoned up tight and were closed.  Even things that had Sunday hours posted, ones I might mention I was living through presently, were not actually open.  It must have been a holiday, and no one had told me.  I wandered at length, moving further north of the river, and eventually, passed bus depot and through commuter train interchange, found a small pub that had a cappuccino machine.  I bought a take away cup, and retraced my steps.

I arrived again at the Jeanie just before 3, and many more children and mothers had arrived in my absence.  I was impressed with how many fathers were attending as well, and especially impressed by how many Irish families were visiting.  There were several pairs of adults, who had shed their children for the day or through the years, who seemed equally surprised by the appearance of so many children.  I chatted with my friend a bit longer, and we talked about Ireland a while longer.  Then it was tour time,

Our tour guide was a charming young girl, and she talked us through the highlights of the ship.  This Jeanie Johnston is a replica of the original, based on the paper specifications from when it was built in the early 1800s.  Her original purpose was as a trade ship, and she carried primarily lumber.  Through a series of changes of hands, she was bought as converted for use as a famine ship, to carry literal boat loads of people to the New World.  It is true, that not one passenger died while on the ship, nor any crew, but it is not true that she had a woman at the helm.  That was still considered mostly bad luck.  Famine ships at the time were often called coffin ships, for more often than not, upon arriving at their destination, the passengers unloaded were already dead.

It was quite common practice to quarantine the passengers who stepped of these boats, for those who survived the journey were likely to be full of head and body lice or disease especially cholera, typhoid and dysentery.  The Jeanie Johnston brought 15 boatloads of about 120 people to Canada, and one trip to Boston.  Among the things that make the Johnston remarkable, a system of requiring passengers to spend time above deck, separating the ill from those who were not yet ill, preventing the sick or infested from gaining entry to the ship before departure, requiring that passengers wash their hands regularly and their bodies often, and providing adequate food and bedding, were revolutionary ideas at the time, but did incredible amounts to keep all the passengers alive.  A doctor on board who actually tended to the passengers as well as the crew saved hundreds of lives by his work.

The reason we have a replica, and not the original ship, is because it was actually lost at sea.  Long after the famine years ended, the ship was returned to its original purpose as a lumber hauler.  It was on a return trip from New England, and had been caught up in a storm that lasted much longer than expected.  She had been weighed down too heavily with the lumber in the hull, and the excessive weight allowed too much water into the bilge, only serving to waterlog the wood and make it heavier.  Despite throwing much overboard, it was obvious that Jeanie Johnston was to sink into the ocean slowly, carrying all of her crew with her.  Most remarkably, another ship happened to be heading in the other direction, and saw, at a distance, the very tops of the masts of a ship, all of her crew bound by ropes to the top most parts of the sails.  The savior ship arrived just in time to cut free all of the crew and captain and haul them on board, before the Jeanie Johnston sunk completely.  So, truly, no one on the Jeanie ever died.

I learned far more than just this, and was told many stories about specific people's journeys to make it to the New World.  What I liked about our tour guide was that she really had become invested in these stories: she had personally looked up the Canadian birth record of the little boy who was born while in passage on the Jeanie Johnston.  His record said he was born on the Atlantic, and he had 28 first names, one for each of the crew of the boat, the captain, the doctor, the boat herself, and the boy's father.  Our guide said that the descendant of that boy once came to visit the boat, and she said it was very moving indeed.

After a long march up the river back to my hostel, it was around 5 o'clock that I finally set down to some evening things.  I scheduled my airport shuttle ride with the hostel, for a mere 7 euro.  Initially, I went to sit at one of the bar stools near the kitchen.  It was interesting to watch everyone preparing their food, and I reflected on the fact that, at fancy hotels, there are tons of services provided, but all cost money.  It costs money even to look at the mini bar to see if you want to buy something.  But at a hostel, it cost nearly nothing to stay, and you have a fully furnished kitchen in which to cook, and even store your food in one of the massive bins they keep for such things.  And people are very polite, doing their dishes, cleaning up after themselves, and being fairly courteous, even when they don't all speak the same language.

I ended up in a very interesting conversation with a black man from western Africa, who had started several very profitable businesses in Africa, and who had then moved to Columbus, Ohio to work for a car manufacturer, among other things.  He has settled here in Dublin, and developed a very convincing and slightly uncanny accent, and likes the more relaxed working life in Ireland.  He works for the equivalent of the State Department, I think, and is going to school at Trinity College for a social work degree.  We started talking because he asked me to watch his jacket, and to please not steal any of the diamonds or gold ingots he was carrying.  I was a little disarmed, and didn't know what to say back, without implying something about blood diamonds, but luckily he returned and did plenty of talking for both of us.  He offered to share his supper with me, but I said no, because I don't usually eat other people's food.  He was not offended at all, and said it was probably for the best best, for both my health and my taste buds.  Apparently he is an atrocious cook.  I know it wasn't his fault, but at one point, something exploded off the side of someone's pot, and made a very startling noise as it banged around the kitchen.  It seemed rather appropriate timing, given his comment, though.

After turning down dinner, I instead bought a coke and a Mars bar from the vending machine, and sat down near an outlet to blog.  I think I completed at least one full day that day, but I don't remember now.  I also struggled for a long time over the condition of my fall class schedule -- I have been lamenting to anyone who would listen about my troubles: the entrepreneurial marketing class is one I desperately want, but is in the middle of the day on Thursday, which limits my flexibility for work schedules while I am balancing both Classic Helicopter and Westward Fishing Company.  And since business economics and international business, my only remaining core classes other than the management series, are both only offered Monday and Wednesday, it is impossible to get onto an all T/TH nor an all M/W schedule, and I am very vexed.

The Australians near me were playing a very peculiar drinking game in which they shook a handful of coins like dice, and depending on which side was facing up, they had to drink.  I quickly learned, that whether there were doubles, or heads, or tails, or a preponderance of heads, or a preponderance of tails, the rule was that you always had to drink.  At one point, they asked me if I was doing homework or something for university, and I said no, just blogging home to my family.  They didn't seem interested in adding someone with a mild cold to their crowd, so I was left fairly alone.

Around nine or so, I went upstairs to lay out my clothes for traveling, pack everything as densely as humanly possible, and attempt to sleep in my state of anxious anticipation.  I dragged my feet, but got everything fairly well put away, and left my backpack and my purse at the ready at the foot of my bed.  My shuttle was coming at 7:30 the next morning, so I set my alarm for 7.  No one was going to shut off the light til 11, so after completing my evening ablutions, I read Joyce for a while longer.  I am developing an incredible fondness for Joyce.  Eventually the light went out, but no one had shut the curtain on our view of the massive and well-lit, domed building across the river, and by then I was far too comfortable and tired to get up to close it.  Someone during the night closed it, though, and I slept rather fitfully, between coughing and anxiety.  Despite my feeling rather abandoned in Dublin on Saturday, by now I was feeling quite fondly toward it, and was already sad to be leaving.

My First Day Alone in Dublin

I had a few orders of business to finish before I could start my first day alone in Dublin.  After seeing all my friends and comrades off to their taxis, I returned to my room for a shower.  After that, I dawdled for a while, finishing packing, and getting myself as prepped as possible for my flight in two days.  I tried to structure my things in a more efficient manner for both space and practicality, putting things like my suit much deeper in my bag than they once were.  I also had generously offered to take Dale's suit home with me, since he will be traveling in Spain and France for a few more weeks, and has no need for a suit.  I also managed to find space for his couple of souvenirs, including a rather cool flask and funnel from Jameson that he bought for his sister's husband (?).  I took my time doing all of these tasks, resting often to nurse my cold, and also to drag my feet in deciding what to do all day.  I needed to be out of the room by 10:30, with my luggage downstairs in the luggage room until my new accommodations would be ready at noon.  At about 10:20, I was successfully checked out, and back in, to my all girls dorm for 12.  In the meantime, I needed to charge my tablet.

I spent perhaps just over an hour sitting in the hostel, watching my tablet charge, messaging no one because it was 3 am in the states, and not blogging because I just couldn't bring myself to type anymore, and not eating because breakfast was long since over, and not really doing anything for an entire hour.  I sniffled, I coughed, I very very thoroughly read Rick Steves and Lonely Planet for recommendations on what to do with myself.  Eventually, around 11:30, I decided that it was no longer worth moping, so I best get out and do something with my day.

I took off for Dame Street in search of nourishment.  I ended up wandering into a place called Crackbird, which just happens to be a sister restaurant of JoBurger, the place with the off-beat burgers where I had a small meltdown in front of Leta.  (Remember all those weeks back.)  This JoBurger guy must have a specific style of waiter that he prefers, because the JoBurger and Crackbird waiters were all skinny, artsy type men with that very hipster hair cut, rings on their fingers, and a slightly gay air about them.  I don't know what that says about the company or its owner, I merely report, as your humble correspondent.

I was slightly duped into going in, because I didn't realize that the lunch menu that was featured on the pasted menu outside was a Monday through Friday sort of deal.  A pair of older women walked in and suffered from the same mistake, but when you are old, you have the privilege of having the intestinal fortitude to walk out again, while much less confident, younger people feel obligated to stay.  So, as sad as it is to sit alone in a restaurant, I did anyway, and typed half-heartedly, and read Rick some more, to pretend that I am a travel blogger, and thus a legitimate human.  I ordered something called chicken brochettes, and I had absolutely no idea what I was getting myself into.  I also ordered some cous cous.  From the appealing 6.95 lunch menu sandwich that drew me in, I knew a bill twice that much was coming my way instead, so I kept with water to cut costs.  The brochettes ended up being skewers of chicken.  I chose the bay and lemon chicken, which was quite a good choice.  It was actually very very delicious, but far more than I could eat in one sitting, especially in my weakened state.

When I first arrived, just before noon, there was one couple in the restaurant.  I sat down.  Two old ladies came and left.  A husband, wife and young child came in, followed by another husband and wife, and a pair of girls.  Eventually, I felt that it didn't look so sad that I was sitting alone, as it had when I was in the middle of a completely empty, moodily dark restaurant by myself.  At that moment, I felt the sting of being removed from my herd, and it was quite an abandoned feeling.  Having a cold only served to tighten the sadness screws further.  By the middle of the day, I was feeling quite terrible about Dublin, and sorely regretting not leaving earlier.  (I tried to remember why I booked my flight so late:  I had been certain that the trip ended on Saturday, not Friday, thus making our departure date a Sunday.  By that logic, I thought I would save a bit of money by flying out Monday instead.  This is all very funny when one recalls that I caught that Virgin flight to San Fran, and spent whatever savings I had allegedly accumulated in trying to save myself a 22 hour layover.  It is also funny, because looking at the calendar of events, it obviously says "Leave for Home" on Saturday, and nothing else.  So I am just illiterate, obviously.)

I took my box of leftovers back to the hostel to keep in the fridge, and to put my things in my new room.  Just to annoy myself further, Crackbird is quite far up Dame Street, so when you look at it on Google Earth, I did a ton of walking that day.  I could not have picked a more distant restaurant from which to bring back leftovers.  I stuffed my food in a dubiously tepid fridge, and hauled my crap up the stairs from the luggage room to the elevator.  Because an elevator that goes all the way down to the luggage room would be silly.  Anyway.  The dorm room seemed fairly civilized, decently roomy but pretty tight, with a bathroom with two toilets, sinks and showers for our dorm.  I found out the next day that there is actually another door in our room that goes to another dorm of 12 girls.  Basically, we were a sardine tin of people in there.

I made my way back out into the city, resolved to find the National Library of Ireland, where they have an extensive genealogy department, and a good exhibit on W. B. Yeats.  It was quite a walk, all the way down Dame Street, past Trinity College, and toward Stevens Green.  I don't recall if I have remarked already on my superior jaywalking ability, but I have become quite proficient, and can successfully not be hit by cars no matter what direction they are coming from.  I jaywalk all the time in Seattle, but I feel that adding Dublin to my list is an achievement.  I made it to the library, doffing my sweater because as usual, it warmed up in the afternoon.  The genealogy department was annoyingly closed, so my only point of interest was the Yeats exhibit.

I know that as a person with a lot of interest in history, and Irish history especially, I should probably read every word of these sorts of exhibits.  But like the 1916 exhibit (which, please recall, Yeats was alive for, and commented on rather frequently), I am by now quite acquainted with Mr. Yeats.  I casually read the highlights of each section, looked at his handwriting, and at his family portraits, and passed over his oft-hoped-for, never-realized affair with Maud Gonne, one of the female ringleaders of Irish independence pre- and peri-rebellion.  He wrote at least one play dedicated to her, and one specifically about Irish independence where Gonne was to be the female personification of Ireland.  I sympathize greatly with Gonne, in that it is hard to be both smart and pretty, and there are always a few men who hold out hope that one day you will fall in love with them too, but you won't.  Unlike Gonne, however, I have never entered into strange, occult marriages with these poor souls to make them feel better, because that is crazy.  Yeats was apparently quite fascinated with the occult, faeries and whatnot, and Gonne had a certain appreciation for those things as well.  One story says that when her first son died as a toddler, she was so distraught that she attempted to reincarnate her lost son by conceiving again on top of his grave...  She was also very tall, nearly six feet.  (BTW.)

Anyway, I did have the pleasure of listening to the entirety of the poem 1916, about the rebellion, and the poem from which comes the phrase "A terrible beauty is born."  For those who know, the last Irish restaurant I sampled before leaving for Ireland was A Terrible Beauty, in Renton, opened by the daughter of a Northern Irishman named Colin.  (Hi Colin, if you're still reading, after all those horrible things I said about Northern Ireland...)  After Yeats, I walked across the courtyard to the National Museum of Ireland: Archaeology.  I walked rather briskly through the exhibit on prehistoric peoples in Ireland, as Stone Age people seem to be basically the same everywhere.  I found the section on Viking forts in Dublin and elsewhere to be fairly interesting, and the little piece of a copy of the bible that they pulled out of the peat bogs a few decades ago.  I also walked through some sections on medieval Ireland and the battle at Clontarf, where Brian Boru, the high king of Ireland who fought the Vikings and was beheaded in the last throes of battle, was alleged to have waged his war with the tyrants from the North.  The story is as much legend as fact, but Brian Boru is a very big deal to Ireland.  The harp at Trinity College in the Long Room is called the Brian Boru harp, and is the harp on which Guinness modeled its logo. 

(How's this for a very funny aside, Guinness had been using the Brian Boru harp, with the straight edge on the left, since approximately 1759.  When Ireland became a nation, they also wanted to use the harp as the symbol of Ireland.  Guinness said no.  Why Guinness wouldn't want to share its symbol with its own nation, I don't know, but Ireland decided to just flip the harp, and use it anyway.  So Guinness faces right, and the Republic of Ireland faces left.)

After my museum tour, I was going to stop at Stevens Green to get a picture with the Oscar Wilde statue in the park.  But it seemed worth my while to walk around the block to the natural history museum instead.  That block ended up being much, much further than I realized, so that by the time I reached the history museum, I did not feel up to meandering through several floors of more exhibits.  I instead went in search of the Liffey.  Once you find the river, it is very easy to orient yourself within Dublin.  The river runs east-west (ish), and since I mostly stick to south of the river, I know that once I find it, I just need to head west until I come to the hostel.  I started to poke my head into a park, but decided against it, and pressed on for the river.  I had absolutely no idea where I was, but I just kept heading north, and was eventually rewarded with a view of the harp bridge over the river.  This put me very close to the Jeanie Johnston, a famine ship in which I had much interest, but I couldn't bring myself to head further from my hostel.

As previously mentioned, my jaywalking skills are quite good.  The reason they are so good, is not just because I am a total rebel, and I live on the edge.  No, it is also extremely practical.  The pedestrian crosswalks are extremely slow to change.  They also have a very strange system of red, yellow and green lights like for cars, with inconsistently long yellow lights, so you have no idea how much longer you have to cross the street before these Dubliners will mow you over (because good God, they have no qualms at all about vehicular manslaughter in this country.).  Since it is difficult to know when (if) you the pedestrian will ever get to cross, it is your responsibility to look around and cross whenever you feel you can.  What this means for my long march back to the hostel is that I did not stop walking for 25 solid minutes, because I was either on a sidewalk, in a green light crosswalk, jogging across a yellow light crosswalk, or confidently striding across a red light crosswalk.  By the time I finally did arrive in my hostel, I was absolutely exhausted, and completely parched.  I parked it in a spot by an outlet for my tablet, and set about Facebook messaging people and blogging for the next three hours.  I ate the rest of my chicken from earlier that day, had a Coke and a Mars bar (I've developed quite the affinity) for dessert, and turned in early.

Staying in the dorm room was not so bad, and the other people in my room were actually more respectful of other people than most of my group mates.  Lights went out around 11, and I was honestly probably the most annoying because I kept waking up to cough and sneeze and be completely horrendous.  I feel bad for the girl in the bunk below me.  Hopefully she was not too bothered.

I had a very strange dream that I was checking in for my flight out of Dublin, and I kept stealing candy from the food stands in the airport.  At one point, I became convinced that I just needed to get to a Chase bank, and then my credit card would start working again and I could stop stealing candy.  I know that everyone says that you are really fluent in a language when you dream in it, but I don't know how that works for dialects.  Everyone in my dream, including myself, had a pleasant Dublin accent, and when I woke up in the morning, I definitely had a brogue.  I had a man's voice with my sore throat, but a brogue as well.  Maybe the raspy throat helped with the accent.  I don't know, but two days later and I'm having a hard time shaking this accent.  I have heard myself say "tree" instead of three while counting, and I am saying Seattle weird (with ts instead of ds.).  Very peculiar...

Good Bye at Guinness

Our last company visit was a formal visit with Guinness at the Guinness Storehouse.  While Lauren and I had walked to the museum yesterday, we had both wondered about the large, circular glass room at the Guinness facility, and we were soon to find out.  We began our visit with a talk with the media marketing director, who talked about how the point of the Guinness Storehouse is to be more than a tourist attraction; Guinness already receives more than half of all the people who pass through the Dublin Airport.  The Guinness Storehouse is supposed to be a pilgrimage site, for devoted Guinness brand enthusiasts, for locals and tourists, and for everyone who wants to appreciate the history of a beer that is older than America (founded in 1759).  It was a remarkable place, and the interior glass atrium was shaped like a giant pint glass.  After talking about media impressions for Guinness, St. Paddy's Day prep for Guinness, and discovering that the world's per capita greatest consumers of Guinness are in Nigeria, we headed downstairs for a proper tour of the facility.

We had a guide, who spoke to us all via microphone transmitted to our headsets, which was quite a handy way to talk to 25 people at once.  Her microphone box was giving us some serious feedback, so at one point she had to swap her mic, but overall, it was fairly useful.  She talked and explained the various steps of production, and taught us how to drink Guinness correctly.  Elbows out, eyes to the horizon, drink through the head.  All the men on our trip with facial hair have come to appreciate the pleasure of the Guinness head in their mustaches.  Guinness appears black, but is really a very deep ruby red color.  This is the time, by the way, to say Slainté.  We all had a little baby pint of Guinness, and I am glad they only gave us a baby pint, because, as usual, I hadn't eaten breakfast.  Always good to start your day with a Guinness at ten in the morning.  I think I might really be Irish by now.

We continued on, and took our group picture within the life sized Guinness advert.  Our guide left us on the next floor, where we learned to pour a perfect pint.  I have a few pictures of myself pouring a pint, and Tanner (who happily drank my Guinness for me, because I didn't want to) said that I am a very good pour.  I posted to Facebook from the canteen, because Guinness very much wants people to brag on the internet about their brand, and I think it has already been decided that when it comes time for a house party, I'll be pouring.  It takes exactly 119.5 seconds for a Guinness to settle after the initial pour, so don't rush me, this is for science.  I wish we had gotten some kind of cert from Bushmills when we went, because between my Jameson tasting diploma, and my Guinness perfect pour document, I am certainly more than qualified regarding Irish alcohol.  Not going on the CV, but certainly on the wall.

We took our perfect pours up to the Gravity Bar to enjoy.  The Gravity Bar is in that circular glass structure, and it had an absolutely beautiful view of all of Dublin.  If you followed the glass interior of the Storehouse structure all the way up, the Gravity Bar is the head on top of the pint.  As soon as we walked into Guinness Storehouse this morning, I knew I wanted some good beef Guinness stew.  I had my heart set.  I wanted it desperately.  When I saw that the lunch special was for Guinness stew, I nearly died.  And it did not disappoint, it was rich and fabulous.  I ate every last bite.  It was amazing, and exactly what I wanted.

We took our cabs back to Leta's hotel, and departed for the hostel to change out of our monkey suits.  I wore the dress I bought in Dingle, and got a fair few compliments from the guys on the trip.  I did look rather dashing.  In the scheme of good Irish purchases, this one has definitely already paid for its self.  And it matched the peach shoes I had brought, and who can ask for more than that in life?  But it was time to remove the suits anyway, and Lauren and I, ever the explorers, set off in search of the Chester Beatty Library.  Chester Beatty was an American, and like many Americans around the turn of the 20th century, he had money, so he bought his culture.  He had a massive book collection, hence the library, but he was also quite interested in other bits and pieces of history.  He collected quite a few relics from the three major faiths of the world, and snuff boxes (finally found out that snuff was powdered tobacco and spices.  I was certain it was cocaine, so teach me, I guess.), and fans and amulets and things.  There are several pieces of the bible on papyrus, written in Greek, from somewhere around the fourth century. 

The adventure, really, was in getting there, because neither of us had bothered to look it up.  We knew it was "behind the Dublin Castle", but that could have meant anything.  We wandered up and down Dame street, coming across competing information from the many directional signs that pointed the way.  Usually these are quite helpful, and indeed, far more helpful than the paltry signs in Seattle.  Eventually, after walking thoroughly up both sides of the street and doing a fair amount of jay walking, we ducked into a candy shop and asked for directions.  I fear the man was trying to be helpful, but his description was less than illuminating.  His map was slightly more helpful, but this notion that the roads sort of snake around the castle and lead to the library was somewhat overly optimistic.  I am a woman, but I am generally quite good at navigating, and street names would have been useful, or at least some landmarks.  Luckily, once we presented ourselves on the corner with Leo Burdock's fish and chips on one corner, and the Christchurch Cathedral on the opposite corner, and looked around for another directional sign, it was quite easy finding the place. It was truly behind the castle. A very pleasant circular grass field, surrounded by stone walls marked the plaza outside the entrance, and we went inside to tour the two floors of exhibits.  We popped up to the roof top garden, which was not remarkably different from any feng shui rooftop garden that I have seen in Seattle or any other metropolitan area.

After our tour, we had a few minutes at the hostel before meeting with our group at Leta's to walk down to Boxty's near Temple Bar Square.  This was to be our final dinner together, so after eating three delicious courses (I had the beet and orange salad with sunflower seeds and candied pecans, aka, girly food, Irish gnocchi with mushrooms and a bleu cheese sauce, and some incredible Bailey's cheesecake with fruit on top.), we settled in to debrief our time in Ireland.  I feel a little bad for the people who got stuck in the same room with us, but they were quite supportive of our events, so they didn't seem too cut up about it.  We talked about all our company visits, and which ones were our favorites and why, we talked about all of our tourist stops, and which were our favorites and why, and Leta gave us all awards for funny things that happened to us during the trip (I got Most Likely to Get a Proposal from a Horse Cart Driver).  We said thank you to Leta, and we got each got a picture of our group from the Jameson factory to take home.  I look slightly like a disembodied head, but at least I am smiling, unlike a few unfortunate souls.

We headed back to the hostel, and Lauren and I debated trying to go out to find music again.  But we had just walked through Temple Bar, which was our best bet for music, and nothing coming out of the pubs sounded older than the early 00's, so we decided to stay in and pack and shower instead.  Everyone else was leaving at intervals over the night and next morning, and I would have the whole room to myself from 9 until 10:30 when I had to check out, so I mostly observed.

Reilly and Koryn left at 4 in the morning, and I did not really wake up to hear them go.  That left only Lauren and Evalina to leave at 8:30 and 9 respectively, with nearly all of the boys and a few of the other girls.  Around 8, I couldn't deny their departure any longer, so I roamed around and said good bye to everyone.  I gave lots of hugs, and everyone promised that we would see each other again at school.  All the business majors I will definitely see again, regularly and often, but a few in other majors may be harder to stumble upon.  Supposedly Toto is working on the reunion party already, so I will hopefully see them again soon.  I didn't expect to miss everyone quite so much, but after they all left, I was at a loss for what to do.  (I will start a new post, regarding my time in Dublin alone, but I just wanted to get something up before I connect with my flight to Seattle.)

Unfortunately Ill on my Day Off

When I woke up in the morning on Thursday, I could feel that the left side of my throat was tight and burned a little.  This is not a good sign.  I am actually quite betrayed that I got sick.  I was fastidious in my cleanliness, washing hands often, using hand sanitizer when necessary, taking Airborne every day, and wearing my patient x medical mask while riding on the bus.  And while all my comrades in arms were falling at my sides, I, ever the vigilant, ever the healthy, remained well.  Until the absolute end of my trip.  I lay in bed lamenting my poor luck, and decided that at least it was better to be sick at the end of the trip than at any other time.  And with my free weekend coming up, it would give me an excuse to just laze around and catch up on blogging.  Silver linings, people.  Sore throats, but also silver linings.

Since I did not feel too unwell yet, Lauren and I resolved to tour the museums and things that we had yet to see.  Our pair of boys were off on the Game of Thrones bus tour, so we were two girls flying solo in the big city.  Our first stop was the General Post Office, the GPO.  I took a few pictures of the outside, for this was the place where the Easter Rising of 1916 based their headquarters.  There were still a few bullet holes visible in the columns outside.  All of Dublin went up in flames and gun fire as the English waged war for three or four days against the several Irish rebel outposts.  Each were systematically taken, but I believe the GPO was the last.  It was where people like Eamon de Valera, Michael Collins, Padraig Pearse and James Connelly were holed up, fighting for the freedom they were so desperate to earn for Ireland.  Padraig Pearse read the Irish Proclamation of Independence just outside the GPO.  If I can make it happen, I would very much like to come back to Ireland for the centennial of the Rising.  I don't know if I will live to see the 300th anniversary of America's Independence, and honestly, if I do, I will be far too old to enjoy it animatedly, but by God, in a year and a half I will be more than capable of celebrating with the Irish.

After our quick stop at the GPO, which is still a working post office, and thus rather uninteresting on the inside, we headed to Butler's across the street.  Butler's is delightful, and I think I have already talked about their superior peppermint white mocha.  It was a bit of a sugar rush first thing in the morning, but so smooth and rich.  I highly recommend Butler's.  Lauren bought some chocolate for her mother, and we continued on.

The National Museum of Ireland, Military and Decorative Arts (interesting combo) was quite far west, so our walk was rather long.  As usual, it was a bit brisk first thing in the morning, but by the time we were nearing the museum, we both shed our coats and sweaters.  At the very last second, we consulted a map on the tourist bus stop pole, but we needn't have bothered, because our destination was on the very next block, and would have been very hard to miss.  It was once a military facility, and was quite large, with a spacious courtyard, and large and obvious markings.  Happily, it had taken us a while in arriving, because the museum opened at ten, and we walked in at nearly exactly ten o'clock. 

Inside, we found a fabulous exhibit on the 1916 rebellion.  Much like Leta has said, and I think every teacher says, it takes at least three repetitions for information to really sink in.  So I have read Malachy McCourt's History of Ireland, I have read Ireland by Frank Delany.  I was in Dublin for five days and went to Kilmainham Goal to learn about the jail and also the uprising.  I have been all over this country.  I have listened to Ken Harper talk about the founding of the Republic, I have heard Gabriel talk about the birth of his nation.  So by the time I passed through this exhibit, I was extremely familiar with the content.  It was a really great finish for me, because by now, I know everyone's roll in the events, I can recognize their faces, and I really liked knowing that my understanding is so much deeper than I could have thought.  I counted, and from the time I was accepted on this trip, in April, I think, I have not stopped obsessing about this country.  It has been my private passion and anticipation and expectation have consumed me.  For nearly six months, Ireland was all I could talk about, all I wanted to read about.  The 1916 exhibit was but one largish room, but it felt like a culmination.

The rest of the museum was quite large and interesting.  I think we walked backward through the exhibit on the Irish at war.  Where we walked in was the modern Irish military, which has apparently had a rather large presence in Syria and Lebanon for a few decades.  Moving backward in time, there was information on the world wars, more information on the 1916 uprising, and all the myriad of wars that the English sent the Irish to go fight.  "Oh, is it cold in Canada?  We'll send the Irish."  "Hmm, fighting in the rugged, malaria infested jungles of Africa?  We'll send the Irish."  The only war that the Irish seemed to miss was the American War for Independence, which the English seemed to feel obligated to fight for themselves.  I think that was probably a smart decision, since the Irish would have probably joined with the Americans anyway.  At the very end (beginning) of that exhibit was a section on fighting the Vikings.  By that time, Lauren and I were all militaried out, so we found the section on decorative arts to cleanse our palates.

There were many good exhibits, including one on coins in Ireland from Vikings onward, a whole section on Irish table service silver, clothes through the ages (I had a small heart attack realizing that one day, a display of yoga pants and ugg boots may one day adorn the glass-shrouded mannequins of our history museums.  "Although few young females regularly practiced yoga, the prevalence of this style of trouser was particularly important to early 21st century culture, and was the inspiration for many image-and-text-based digital photos, called "memes".  Yoga pants were regarded as the greatest invention for women's posteriors since the bustle and the high heeled shoe.").  There was a wing dedicated to Asian art, which I found slightly misplaced in Ireland, but what do I know.  We finished by walking through a display of furniture throughout history, and by the end of our hour and a half, we were both kind of museumed out.

The walk back to the hostel felt really short, but since the hostel was roughly equidistant between the two places we had been earlier, it was appropriately only half the walk.  We laid around in our beds for a bit, before collecting ourselves for lunch.  On Dame Street was a place called Eddie Rocket's, which was very like Johnny Rocket's in the States.  I had a slider basket, with a much needed Coke, and Lauren got a chocolate milkshake and a salad with some kind of orange chilli sauce on it.  We put our 20 cent coin in the little juke box, but I don't think our song ever played (or maybe it did, but the pages were out of order, so the machine might have played a different song than we thought we selected...).  Between the Thai food we have had here, and the newfound interest in chilli sauces that the Irish have, Lauren has apparently been expanding her tolerance for spicy food.  I have a fairly good tolerance, and in fairness, the things she has been eating have been very barely spicy at all.  We had a nice little lunch, and I broke my 50 euro bill and paid for us both.  She would pay me back later.

Our next stop was to see about going inside the Christchurch Cathedral.  We walk past it extremely regularly, because the path between our hostel and Leta's hotel on Fishamble street takes us just behind the church.  Interestingly, the two largest cathedrals in Ireland are both Protestant.  After Catholicism was banned in Ireland (1500s? approx.), the most prominent and remaining cathedrals were Protestant instead.  This includes the other big church in Dublin, St. Patrick's Cathedral, which is sort of ironic for it's Protestantism.  It cost six euro to get into the church, but we decided it was quite worth it.  I have many pictures of the inside, and the only one I regret not taking was one of the sculpture of Strongbow.  Strongbow, the Earl of Pembroke, whose last name I think was Fitzgerald, was an Anglo-Norman invader who came in 1107, and who is regarded as the catalyst English person to begin the 800 years of English domination over Ireland.  He was actually brought in by an Irishman (MacDermott?  Something like that.) to join his fight against another Irish high king.  Little did he know with whom he was allying, I suppose. 

The other thing I regret was that we did not go down the stairs to see the catacombs.  Since the sign said cafe and gift shop, and we were neither parched nor looking for anymore trinkets, we didn't take a look.  I realized later, upon reading the pamphlet more thoroughly, that there were several very cool points of interest down there.  For instance, a cat and mouse that got stuck in the pipe organ, presumably chasing one another, and were mummified.  That would have been a pretty good stop.  But alas, I suppose it is a call back, and I will just have to come visit again.  Luckily, Dublin has more than enough surprises, for when I come back.

I forget exactly why we went back to the hostel, but we did for just a minute, and I took the opportunity to investigate my rooming situation for the weekend.  Four Courts had a bed in an all girls room for both Saturday and Sunday night for 40 euro, and I realized that that would probably be my best offer on such short notice, so I booked it.  I feel quite comfortable here, so it should be find.  Since we had nearly 2 hours until we met the group for dinner, we both grabbed books and headed back to the Cathedral to sit in the grass.  I took a slight detour to the chemist for some cough drops.  They had nothing like a Halls or a Ricola, and I was slightly distressed by their lack of decent lozenges.  There was nothing that was just soothing, it all came with some kind of medicine in it.  Interestingly, the boxes were embossed with braille, and I wonder if it is the same braille system that we use in America.  I mean, sign languages are similar but dialectically different across even just the English speaking world, so I wouldn't be surprised if it is the same for braille.  But I don't know why you would need multiple systems of lettering.  But I also don't know what governing body could dictate which system to use.  I also noticed that the only variety of condoms (because throat lozenges belong next to condoms) that they sell here is a brand called Durex.  Which does not sound nearly as sexy as Trojan or Magnum.  It sounds like a brand of bleach, or a rain slicker.  Although I suppose condoms are just tiny rain slickers anyway.

Sitting in the grass was a fabulous decision.  It was beautifully sunny but not hot, and the grass was cool but dry.  We sat half in the sun and half in the shade, which gave us a great spot for 360 degree people watching.  She immediately set down to reading, but I was slightly more restless.  I stared at the sky for a while, I tried to find a good pub for music in the Rick Steves' book, I looked at that orange cat (the one who was stalking birds all those weeks ago), I watched an old man very peculiarly walk out of his way to walk around Lauren and I, I consulted the travel book again, and found that my search for how are you in Irish would have been much shorter if I had asked Rick.  A group of students came and sat near us, and we spent quite a bit of time trying to discern their origin and age.  I think we determined that they were 15 or 16 year olds, possibly from Germany or the Netherlands, with an English woman as their guide.  I finally settled into reading a little Joyce, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, and I think I am getting into the swing of his stream of consciousness style.  At the very beginning, there is a very funny incident with his classmate, where he can't figure out why he is being teased for kissing his mother good night, and whether it is wrong to kiss one's mother, and what kissing is in general.  I understand why this style has been so important for the progress of literature.  It is very realistic to life.

As it got chilly, right before dinner time, we retired to the parlor of Leta's hotel to wait for the others to congregate.  We walked as a group sans the Game of Thrones crew, to Toscana for dinner.  Every single restaurant in Ireland requires going up stairs.  This restaurant was quite novel in that instead we had to go downstairs.  Because nothing is ever one floor in this country.  It was rather tight in the veritable wine cellar where they stuck us, but the food and service were absolutely delicious.  I had more bruschetta to start, which was extremely good, and a cannelloni, which I thought would be more like pasta and sauce, but was more like giant pasta tubes with meat inside and sauce.  Regardless, it was delicious.  I have been quite dedicated to my mission of not overeating anymore while I am here, so I did not finish all of it.  It was quite hot by the time everyone had gotten their food, and the Game of Thrones bunch of five appeared just as I was finishing.  Since I had not ordered dessert, I decided to leave, to make room for everyone else, and because I was sick and hot.  Walking through the city is generally very pleasant, and the walk past the church is not very hazardous.  I am, however, fairly confident that I saw a small time drug deal though.  So, you know, I'm alive, don't worry.

I hung out in the hostel for a bit, until everyone else arrived.  Lauren and I gathered Dale, and went in search of music.  O'Shea's Merchant, right near the hostel, was promised as a good spot, but was completely dead when we arrived at 9:30.  We hightailed it for Temple Bar Square instead, and were rather disappointed that nothing traditional seemed to be playing.  It was a Thursday night, but I would think that would lend its self to more traditional music than not.  We eventually stepped into The Temple Bar, but the guys playing were very inexperienced, and couldn't get their sound set up correctly (too much guitar, not enough banjo or accordion or vocals.).  Dale was still vaguely sick, and I was coming down with it and eating cough drops like candy, and Lauren was not upset when we decided to throw in the towel.

Visits of Titanic Proportions

Leta warned us of a surprise company visit, and I was dubious of what it could be, since she didn't tell us to wear anything particularly special.  The day before, Emily, thinking much as I have that her surprises nearly always leave me inappropriately dressed for the occasion, interrogated Leta about the casualness of our casual dress code.  Not walking heavy, no hiking, we were promised.  But cute casual, not athletic casual.

I had heard competing information for Leta and Gabriel, 9:30 company visit, 2 hour company visit, two hours to get to a company visit, visit in Dublin, visit in Belfast.  When we first took a little look around the dockland areas of Belfast, before heading out of the city, I was suspicious that we would come so close to the Titanic museum without going inside.  The H&W, Harland and Wolff, cranes that once lifted the Titanic were impossibly large.  The museum is large, four pointed, to look like the prow of the ship from every direction.  The building is as tall as the ship was, from keel to gunwales. 

Of course, we were indeed going to the museum.  Never underestimate Leta's ability to surprise us with the thing we were guessing we would do...  Anyway, inside the museum, we went directly to the sixth floor, and worked our way downward through the history of the vessel.  Information about the history of Belfast and shipping in Belfast got us started, and I confess, I rushed through the first three floors too quickly, and ended up in the bottom three, which were primarily devoted to modern depictions of the Titanic in media, and to deep sea explorations to better understand the ship, which I did not find quite so compelling.  So, the short story is that I rushed through the good parts, and then stood around for an hour, while more sensible people dragged their feet through the exhibit.

(Bear with me on this, for my mind, it makes more sense to go first floor, second floor etc, but you have to just remember that I am moving reverse chronologically down the stories of the building.  Pretend it is Star Wars, and just go with it, and argue amongst yourselves about which floor I am really talking about.)  The first floor was the history of Belfast as a linen manufacturing city, as the bustling northern port in Ireland for the British, and for Harland and Wolff, the operators of many many cranes.  The most notable, and most relevant to the story, are Samson and Goliath.  They are still standing today, and I got pictures of them before we went into the museum.  They look perfectly modern still. 

The second floor was about the construction of the ship, and while the ride was a bit hokey, they had an actual moving ride, where you could move along as though on the side of the ship, and watch recreations and see displays of the various parts that went into building the boat.  I would hate to be on the crew who hammered the steel bolts in from both sides to keep the metal plates together.  I'm sure there was an entire generation of completely deaf Belfaster men.  (For your interest, there is no official name for people from Belfast.  I googled it.  No one has settled on anything.  Belfastians has been thrown around, purely academically, but no one likes it.)  After my little lift ride, I continued on to the next floor, to see recreations of the outfitting of the inside of the Titanic.  There was one display, in which you could virtually move up the stairs through five levels of the ship.  You stood in the center of this three sided room of tv screens, and get extreme vertigo as it completely feels like you are moving around within the room.  It was really that good.  I feel like it might have been easier if I had pretended to walk while I was in it, to ease some of the vertigo.

The outfitting of the rooms was quite marvelous, especially the state rooms, but even the smaller rooms were clever and quaint in their use of space.  I could not get over how tiny the beds were though.  I am not an especially large woman, but there is absolutely no way I could have slept in even the largest, and most palatial of state rooms.  If I thought hostel beds were terrible and tiny, sleeping in second class bunks must have been horrendous.  I read that for all but the state rooms, the showers ran salt water.  Salt water.  What would even be the point of showering?  You would come out just as gross as you went in. 

The next floor (the fourth?  I think?), we heard audio recordings of survivors, or readings of things written by survivors, of the crash.  All along the walls were the Morse code and text versions of all the distress calls and responses from other boats.  The most tragic thing is the obvious desperation in the voice of the guy tapping out the calls.  "OK, we will hold on as long as we can."  It said that from the moment they saw the berg to when they hit it was just over 34 seconds.  Virtually instantaneous.  When you realize how truly massive this boat was, and the confidence that people had in it, it is absolutely astounding that it went down.  There was a bridge built in Dublin by H&W, and for several years after the tragedy, no one would cross it.  What is nearly as remarkable as that, is that Titanic was only 406 of over 1000 ships that Harland and Wolff built.  Despite the tragedy, they went right back to making boats, and eventually people got over the whole bridge thing.  (Haha, see what I did there, it's a bridge, you have to get over it.  Very clever, Sierra.)

After that, as stated before, I sort of lost interest.  The final levels featured a theater playing video and some very rehearsed audio of the deep sea searching of the wreckage underwater.  The only thing of note at this stage was that they have identified a microorganism that can break down metal, that is slowly eating the Titanic, that might be usable for breaking down more of our waste on the surface.  The final sections were on the representations of the Titanic sinking in media (apparently the mid century movie depiction is the most historically accurate), and of further deep sea diving to the Titanic on the ocean floor.

After my tour, I needed some coffee rather desperately, and got a cup at The Galley coffee shop, where the crew wore very cute turn of the century outfits.  The poor Americans behind me in line literally held their money out, and he took what he needed from them.  They said that that was not the first time they have done that.  In fact, they were nearly robbed blind in Morocco because Moroccan merchants are not as honest as the Irish.  I mean, I hate the money too, it's all silly sizes and colors, and there are literally eight million different coins.  (1 cent, 2 cent, 5 cent, 10 cent, 20 cent, 50 cent, 1 euro, 2 euro.  You could very nearly give exact change with these coins so that someone could conceivably get one of each.  3.88 in change, and you would get one of everything.  It's preposterous.)  But I am literate, and I can figure out how to count out my own change, however slowly.  I figure that it is my right as an obnoxious American, who -- second to the Germans, who are holding up the euro right now -- are the main source of foreign direct investment in their stupid little country, to get to take as long as I damn well please counting out my money.

Anyway, I sipped my coffee, got on the free wifi, assured my mother and boyfriend that I am alive, and googled how to say "how are you" in Irish.  Not only had Tony the cart driver tried to tell me, but Gabriel had too, and this time, I was going to learn this phrase.  Google Translate, in fairness, is retarded.  It did not offer to pronounce the Irish translation, only my English phrase that I just typed.  Thank you Google, I do, in fact, speak English already.  The phrase is "Conas atà tù?" and happily pronounced very much the same way that it is written.  (Contrast with the Irish language word for cheers, for drinking, spelled Slaintè! but pronounced s-lawn-cha!)

We piled on the bus, and began heading for Dublin.  I was very much looking forward to returning to the Republic, and because this was our last day with Gabriel, I rode with him in the front seat.  It was quite warm in the sun, and there were fairly forgettable hillsides on the way to Dublin, so I did some blogging, and some staring out the window.  When we passed into the Republic, I felt like I could exhale again.  By the time we arrived in Dublin, I felt quite comfortable again, but was prepping to have to say good bye to Gabriel.  Someone else in the group had bought a card, and everyone had signed it.  I took a second to write to him, and told him that I will miss him terribly, and if he ever needs a live-in nanny to care for his kids, I won't be hard to find.  I thanked him for letting me be the co-pilot he never asked for, and for learning my name, and I told him that I would miss him very very much.  I hugged him as I got out of the bus, and again before I had to check in in the hostel.  He said that he might be coming to visit in Seattle, and I hope that he does, and if he does, I hope that we can have a massive reunion of all the kids he has driven around Ireland over the years.  He has been doing this trip with Leta for at least five years, so by now, there must be nearly 150 kids who have fallen in love with Gabriel too, and would like to see him.  If I ever make it back to Ireland, I will go visit Gabriel.

We checked back in at the Four Courts hostel, and I contemplated what I would do about the weekend.  Since everyone else is leaving on Saturday morning, I will have to find accommodation for Saturday and Sunday night, which are honestly the two worst nights to be looking for accommodation in Dublin.  I would love to say that I planned ahead and organized it in advance, but I didn't, so I would need to do a little research.  But that was going to be an issue for future Sierra, because soon after we arrived, we decided to go to Penney's one more time.  Literally every single girl, including Leta, and Kathleen who came to replace Marnie, went to Penney's.  I didn't need anything, and I wasn't prepared to buy anything unless there was something incredibly good.  I was interested in seeing how different pants were here from in America.  The first thing I discovered is that the boot cut has not crossed the ocean.  There were 5 different varieties of skinny.  Skinny jegging, skinny slim fit, skinny high waist, boyfriend (which is hardly an improvement over skinny, because the narrow hips and wide legs make me look about seven feet across.), and another variety of skinny that I think was cropped.  Not a boot cut or flare jean to be found.  So, that was tragic.  I stumbled upon a maxi dress, to which I am strongly addicted, but passed because, despite being 3 euro, it was at least one size too big, and thin as cheese cloth.  I don't know what you are supposed to wear under it, but I've noticed that most of the Irish don't seem to know either.  So that's not good.

As my beloved and patient mother will attest, I am having a very hard time with the fact that I gained some weight recently, and had to buy all new pants, and I can no longer throw on whatever and still get a flattering cut.  I have come to associate high waisted pants with greater success though.  I found an intriguing pair that came with little suspenders and were skinny, but had plenty of hip room, so I decided to give it a shot.  This was a terrible idea.  I don't know what these pants were made of, but it was not real denim.  They were very very stretchy, and had the top flaps of pockets, but no pockets, so that the flaps just stuck out straight back from my butt, which looked much like someone had put two balloons on top of ice cream cones.  And not good balloons, but day old balloons.  It was very bad.  I apologize for the mental image, but I was thoroughly horrified by putting on these pants, and in fact felt quite terrible about my abnormal, American shaped body for the rest of the day.  Clothes shopping has gone from one of my favorite hobbies to the absolutely worst activity ever, and I don't ever want to go back.  Eff you, Penney's, and your weird, bad self-esteem pants.

Leta, as usual, had a fantastic time, and several much skinnier girls made some purchases.  We met outside and took off for another Thai restaurant.  I should have decided to find my own food.  I don't like Thai, and it was giving me a weird vibe (see, Thai food after the Aran Islands).  But I went because everyone else was going, and I am not good with peer pressure.  It ended up being quite good, beef red curry with bamboo shoots and coconut milk, if very expensive.  I think I ended up paying somewhere in the family of 13 euro, including the service charge for large groups.  We were all quite motivated to shed our coinage, so the pile of change on that table was a bit over the top.  As we set up to leave, Leta was taking a cab, and Lauren and I were going to go with her, but there weren't enough seats with all the people who wanted to join the taxi, so we decided to walk instead because Lauren wanted some gelato.  She asked very nicely if I wanted some gelato, and I said I had spent quite enough money already that day, so no, and besides I don't really eat dessert.  She said, well, then you can watch me while I get some gelato. 

We took a different route from the other girls who were walking back, and ended up crossing paths with them on O'Connell street, and from there found our gelato place of choice.  She got a rich, dark, chocolate brownie gelato, and was extremely satisfied with her purchase.  We found the river, our easiest landmark, as it runs up the center of the part of town that we inhabit, and proceeded on to the hostel.  Once inside, I spent quite a bit of time on Facebook messenger, chatting with everyone at home, and she took a shower, and I had one before bed.  As usual, everyone else got in quite late.  I will admit that other than when Reilly and Will came in looking for something, and Reilly rode Will piggy back out of the room, I did not hear anyone return.

Northern Ireland, in the Land of Giants

We had our only Northern Irish company visit in the morning, and were told to dress business casual, with change of clothes for later explorations.  I wore a button up and my nice-ish green jeans, with my suit jacket, and the plan to simply trade small heels for sneakers and a sweater for the jacket.  Our visit was to Bushmills, the other Irish whiskey.  On the way, Gabriel had us stop to see a castle that had once been quite large, until a piece of the hillside released underneath it, and all the servants in the kitchen fell into the ocean with a chunk of the castle. 

Bushmills is the oldest distillery in the world, and received its license to distill in the 1600's and has been in operation ever since.  Their bottling capacity is actually greater than their production, and since Jameson's production is greater than their bottling capacity, Bushmills has a lease to do much of the excess bottling.  According to Niall, the representative with whom we talked for a while, it is better to be your competitor's bottler than to let anyone else bottle for your competitor.  Might as well get some of that greater Jameson money anyway.  Bushmills has benefited tangentially from the revival in popularity of Irish whiskey, so Jameson and Bushmills are much in the same boat on those things, despite Jameson doing better overall.  As is unsurprising after talking to Jameson, the target market for their rebranding is of course, young people.  They have created a honey whiskey to compete with brands like Jack Daniel's, to go after women as well.

After a fairly brief meeting with Niall, we took a tour of the distillery.  It was much more interesting to go into a working factory than to see recreations like at the Jameson tour.  It was quite warm in nearly ever step of the process, from the mash to the distillation, to casking.  They use many different barrels, including bourbon barrels and madera wine barrels.  The girl who lead us on the tour was only 18, and was headed in the fall for Bristol to go to university.  She was quite excited to meet us, and talk about college-ish things with us.  So there was learning going in both directions.

After the tour, we were given free samples of their drinks, and I had the honey whiskey.  It was quite good, but no better or worse than the Jack Daniel's honey whiskey that we have at home.  The girls headed out to the bus first, to change into our casual clothes.  I switched shoes and put on my sweater.  Then the boys changed, and we all prepared to head for Giant's Causeway.  If you are familiar with Devil's Tower in Wyoming, you will know about how volcanic matter turns into hexagonal columns when it cools and the surrounding soil eventually erodes away.  Giant's Causeway is much like walking around on the top of that.  Gabriel told us the story about Cuchillain (koo killin, as we learned from our hurling playing friend), which he finds significantly more probable than the story about the volcano.

There once were giants in Scotland, and this part of Ulster, the northern province of Ireland, was ruled by Cuchillain, the great warrior.  The giants heard of Cuchillain, and were incredibly motivated to go and kill him, as is the habit of giants.  Cuchillain's wife heard of this plan, and advised her husband that it would be best that he does not fight these giants, for he would most certainly lose the battle.  She devised an alternative plan.  When the giants came, Cuchillain would lay down in the baby basinet.  He did just that, and when the giants crossed the land bridge between Ireland and Scotland, and came knocking at Cuchillain's castle door, Cuchillain's wife let them in, and asked them to sit and wait while she fetched her husband, who was cutting wood out in the fields behind the castle.  The giants, left alone in the room with Cuchillain (a rather large man) laying in the basinet and pretending to be a baby, realized that if this was the size of the baby, what must be the size of the man?  In their haste to remove themselves from the castle and from all of Ireland, their heavy footfalls broke up the land bridge between Ireland and Scotland, shaking the remaining stone in the north until it undulated behind them and uneven stepping stones in their wake.

Either way, it was a long, hot walk in the sun along the cliff edge, and a much cooler and shadier trek down the steep trail on the cliff face (no guardrails, because this ain't America), and a cool ocean breeze blowing across the actual Causeway.  This is yet another of my stops that will make significantly more sense with pictures.  There were large boulders tossed by the ocean onto the shore, and interestingly, distinct edges of rock, where one side was light and one side was nearly black.  I don't know if that was a feature of algae or some other phenomenon.  The hexagonal rocks, like surprisingly geometric stepping stones, rose unevenly out of the sea, and were excellent climbing spots.  Since I have never been to the top of Devil's tower, I can only assume that this is what it looks like from the top.  We took a family picture on a particularly pointed outpost.  A photographer was doing some kind of Irish potato ad campaign, and Emy and Zoe became potato models for the brand.  Why they were photographing bags of potatoes at Giant's Causeway, I'll never know.  And how Leta came to decide that two of her girls needed to go become potato models is perhaps just as much of a mystery.

It was veritably blistering in the sun, with the heat bouncing up off the rocks.  The hike back up the hill to get back to Gabriel and the van was exhausting.  I was still wearing my button up and long pants, and carrying my sweater, which Gabriel had admonished me to bring.  I ran the last few steps up the final stairway, and very nearly collapsed on the grass at the top.  A convenience store was nearby, and I was desperate for a coke.  I found one named Margaret, which is Marnie's full name, and I bought it because I miss her.  I thought I heard her laugh on the bus, and I turned and then was sad.  She was part of my little crew, and I always hung out with her.  I'm going to miss her these last couple of days.

We stopped for lunch along our way, at a place whose name I forget, but it featured on the Game of Thrones tour that leaves from Dublin.  I charged my tablet, which was near death, and had some soup.  I am fairly exhausted of eating out all the time, and eating so heavily all the time.  Several of the boys played pool, and I watched and finished the last blog post I posted.

After Giant's Causeway, we continued further into the hinterland, to a rope bridge.  I forget the name, which looked an awful lot like Irish for a place that professes to be more English than Irish.  It is allegedly quite famous, and it cost us six euro to go.  This became another massive hike in the sun, and still I was incredibly inappropriately dressed.  I like that Leta surprises us with excellent visits, but slightly more warning (extensive hiking coming soon!) would be nice.  I personally hate surprises anyway, so...  Massive hike notwithstanding, we made our way out to a fabulously beautiful Irish cove that looked so picturesque, and the water so clear, it could have been tropical.  The rope bridge was, in fairness, a bit of a disappointment.  It was far too short and far too sturdy to be truly terrifying.  The cliffs on the other side of the bridge were quite beautiful, although I'm sure that most of my pictures could be mistaken for The Cliffs of Moher, Aran Islands, the Burren, or Giant's Causeway.  Not to be jaded, but they are all starting to look the same. 

We trekked back, over hill and dale and through much farmland, to get back to the van, sweaty again for the second time that day.  By then it was quite late afternoon, and not much more to do in Belfast.  Since we were leaving in the morning, we were advised to spend most of our money tonight.  This became a challenge I took very much to heart.  Lauren eats earlier in the day than our group generally does, and I was absolutely famished.  We tried in vane to rally some boys to go with us, and ended up wandering the streets of Belfast in search of food.  It didn't take terribly long, and Belfast is certainly not as scary as I was initially feeling.  We ended up at Scalini, an Italian place.

I had the bruschetta, she had a Caesar salad, we shared a Hawaian (missing an I, amusingly) pizza and remarked on the name of the bacon on the pizza, since it was obviously not Canadian, and shared a piece of chocolate cake and ice cream.  I had a glass of wine as well, because as I told Lauren, the fastest way to burn through your cash is with alcohol.  We had delightful dinner conversation, and I got to know her quite well.  It was very nice being out just the two of us, and indeed, we spent nearly every pence we had been given.  We meandered back to the hostel, and did most of our packing.  I would love to say that at this point, we went to bed, but we didn't.

Unfortunately, when you only spend two nights in a city, the first one is your first night in the city, and the second one is your last night in the city.  So there is really no excuse to avoid going out back to back nights.  We dodged our arrival night, but around 9 we decided that, if the crowd could decide where to go -- and get there -- by 9:30, we would go out as well.  The boys' room, which had all the boys in it, became the pre-funking room.  Every single person left in our group was inside, and people (Emily) were already getting misty eyed about the end of the trip.  We stood around in the fairly oppressive heat for a while, and around 9:30, everyone began collecting themselves to go out.

The only pub that I was particularly interested in was The Crown, so named by a husband and wife pair.  The husband was Catholic, the wife Protestant.  He agreed to let her name the pub The Crown, after the monarchy, if he could decide where the logo would be depicted.  He selected the mosaic tile on the front step.  So as you enter The Crown, you're also wiping your feet on the crown.  Touche, my friend.

Inside, it was very shiny, which is the best way I can describe all the mirrors and generally reflective metal panels around the very ornate bar and seating.  Instead of haphazard collections of tables and chairs, this pub was mainly dominated by a dozen or so wooden booths, with doors, and leather seats inside around generous tables.  Carved animals with Latin phrases ornamented the columns of each corner of these booths.  It was certainly an adults' pub, and we came off as quite raucous upon our arrival.  Most people had a drink, and a few girls found some Aussies to talk to (it seems there are nearly as many tourists from Down Under as from America around here.).  Lauren, Dale and I had our fill fairly quickly, popped our heads into Robinson's next door to see if anything remarkable was going on there, which nothing was, and left for home.  I liked it very much that Dale was also ready to go home, Tanner is awesome, and makes me feel better about how much I swear and my lack of faith, but he is much more willing to go out, and won't come back until later at night usually.  Dale is on the same wavelength as Lauren and I.  I think, actually, that he might have been still battling with his cold.  So, perhaps his desire to go back to the hostel is not so remarkable.

A Vagabond in a War-Weary City

We departed from Galway fairly early, and began driving toward Belfast.  As we were loading, I was telling Gabriel about Tony the cart driver, and how he tried to teach me some Irish while we were driving, but that I couldn't remember how to say it.  The phrase was just How are you?, and Gabriel said that I could sit in the jump seat next to him and he would teach me.  So, leaving Galway, I got to be Gabriel's copilot.  (The phrase is Conas ata tu.  It is interesting how many languages use tu to refer to you.  Since Gaelic is a language of the Celts, who came from Europe, I wouldn't be surprised if there are some shared roots among those languages.)  I was happy as a little clam in the front seat with Gabriel.  There is not remarkably a lot to see between Galway and Belfast, so it was fairly easy, farmland driving.  We chatted a lot, and I got some blogging done as well.  Apparently the second rocks (as they have become colloquially known, for our stop at a second set of rocks that looked exactly like The Burren) was a stop we were required to take, because much like American commercial driving, the chip in the dashboard requires that bus drivers take a certain number of breaks after certain amounts of time, and we were required to take that stop for his chip to be legal.  So there you go.

We rode along quite happily, he and I, singing Irish songs (he played Johnny Jump Up on his iPod, which is one of the songs we learned at the musical pub crawl in Dublin, and he liked that I sang it with him.).  We drove for perhaps an hour and a half before making a pitstop in County Kildare.  Gabriel let me use the microphone to wake everyone up, so I spent the ten minutes before the wake up call prepping what I was going to say.  Everyone hates how aggressively he wakes us up "Hello my little chickeeens!  Wakey wakey at the zoooo!".  So I put on my best Irish accent, and my best flight attendant voice, and I said "Good morning ladies and gentlemen, and thank you for flying Aer Lingus.  It is haapasht 11 local time, here in beautiful County Kildare.  The captain has advised me that we will be landing shortly, for coffee and tea service, and we recommend that all passengers take the opportunity to strain the spuds.  We ask at this time that you please return your seat to its full upright, and locked position as we prepare for landing.  As always, thanks again for flying Aer Lingus."  It went over very well, and everyone was quite amused.

The pitstop was fairly nice, a good little reststop of which there are fairly few in Ireland.  The bathrooms were nice, and a few people got Burger King or coffee before returning to the bus.  I rode with Gabriel for much of the rest of the ride into Belfast.  We stopped for lunch soon after, maybe another half hour on, and I got a little pannini and some apple juice.  I brought Gabriel a cup of soup, because we are best friends now, and also because I wanted to avoid a repeat of the other day.  The man does so much, it is not hard to bring him a little hot soup.

As soon as we crossed the border into Northern Ireland, I felt like there was a shift of energy.  There was nothing marked about the change in scenery, but I just felt like I had left the Republic.  I hadn't thought of Ireland as being the Republic of Ireland until I was in the north.  The little cafe where we got lunch felt different, and after two weeks of adapting to accents, I was surprised at how hard it was to understand them.  Firstly they mumbled, which is always a problem, as my mother is wont to remind me.  But secondly, their accents were definitely different.  The Cork or Dingle accents were thicker, but I understood everyone.  As soon as I was in the north, I had to start asking what.  Anyway, they seemed to find me quite a bother for my stupidity, so it contributed to my feeling that the north was not the Ireland that I came to be in.

Gabriel gave us a crash course on Belfast and Northern Irish history as we approached, and I confess, it is difficult to follow the many different factions of the competing groups.  The IRA, the Orangemen, the Ulster Unionists, the Sinn (shin) Fein party, all of that I could probably explain, but it would take a little time to get them all straight, and their respective allegances.  The highlights are that when the people of Northern Ireland voted to decide which counties were staying with England, and which were becoming part of the Republic, they had unequal representation.  Catholic houses were granted one vote per house, regardless of how many voting age people lived in the house (and since the Catholics often lived in the slums, their homes were often quite full.), while the Protestants were given one vote per voting age person.  Thus, the Protestants, a clear population minority, pushed the vote so that four of the six counties that wanted to be in the Republic, became part of the UK instead. 

Driving across the border was less intimidating than we expected.  There was less protection than at the Canadian border, and not even a guard station.  Toto, who had only gotten a visa to go to the Republic, was concerned that he wouldn't be let into Northern Ireland, but no one at all checked.  As recently as ten years ago, though, there would have been full and elaborate check points at the major roads.

Belfast is an interesting enough city, but I felt on edge upon arrival.  Gabriel gave us a quick drive around, and we saw city hall, and a few churches, and he pointed out the road down which we were not to go.  British flags adorned nearly every building, and he said that it would be politically unsafe to go there, especially at night.  He wanted to remind us that, like every city, there are places where you just don't go, but it still felt very creepy to look down the road and know that that was a street thumbing its nose at all the Catholic Irish in the area.  There was far more graffiti here than in any of the cities I have seen so far.  It feels simultaneously more metropolitan, more English even, and more third world.  This place is so recently on the brink of very real civil conflict, and death in the streets, that you feel the tension in the air.

We dropped our things off at the hostel, Vagabonds.  The room that six of us girls were in was incredibly tight, and there were unfortunately no en suite bathrooms.  The nearest and nicest bathroom was up a half flight of stairs, where in one corner, there were three doors.  One had a full bath, sink, toilet and shower.  One was a half bath, with sink and toilet, and the other door had just the shower.  Making the best of the space, I suppose.  With all of our giant bags, which have gotten quite fat and crazy with all the buying of things and whatnot for the last two weeks, it was very cramped in our room.  At least this place had proper sheets and blankets, unlike the other hostels which have had only comforters.

We just dropped our things, and headed back out to the bus to meet up with Ken Harper, of Black Cab Tours, to show us the main sights and tell the history of the city.  We walked along beside the international mural wall, which is a section of the mural walls dedicated to Irish support for international causes that they deem important enough to require large scale artistic support.  These included murals for a Native American held in jail for 20 years, Palestine, and other such topics.  Around the corner were more, including one featuring dozens of African Americans (among them, a rather roundfaced depiction of Obama), in solidarity with the plight and oppression of the Irish by the English.  There was also one about global climate change. 

We also got to walk through one of the gates of the peace wall.  It's like the Berlin wall, and they sometimes call it that.  The gates close at night, keeping the Protestants in and the Catholics out.  Inside, the curbs are painted red, white and blue, and pennant banners with the British colors fly across the roads between houses.  Among many of the neighborhoods, murals are painted on the sides of tennant housing.  One was called the Irish Mona Lisa, because the barrel of the rebel's gun follows you when you walk by.  It is a very disarming mural, and people live in these houses nearby.  There are new townhomes going in directly across from this morbid Mona Lisa.  We drove past a caravan park of Protestants who were having a silent protest because they are no longer allowed to march through the Catholic neighborhoods, proclaiming their British and Protestant pride.  It was terrifying being in these neighborhoods.  I can't imagine living anywhere near there.  It is honestly as close to a war zone as I hope to ever come.

Ken explained the other flag that flew beside the Union flag, a white flag with a six pointed star and a red hand on it.  He said that it was the red hand of Ulster, the northern province that contains all six of the Northern Irish counties, and a few ones from the Republic.  The red hand of Ulster, or the right hand of Ulster, is the symbol of the Ulster Unionists.  The six pointed star represents the six counties, and the hand is a reference to one of the last high kings of Ulster.  In a competition for the kingship between MacDermott and O'Neill, they proposed a race.  The first person whose right hand crossed the line would be king.  MacDermott, seeing that he was certainly going to lose the race, cut off his own right hand and threw it over the finish line.  Thus, the right, or bloody red, hand of Ulster.

After our tour, which left us all feeling a little shook up, Gabriel led us to a chicken wing place called Ryan's.  It was a bit of a walk, and we separated into quite the long trail along the way.  Leta, who walks rather slowly because of her knee, was second to last to arrive.  Byron got some kind of news the day before via e-mail, and had been in a sober mood all day, and he was the last to arrive at dinner.  He got a phone call from home, and apparently, without going into too much of his grief, one of his very close friends had passed away.  He made some arrangements for distressed traveler, and ended up leaving very early in the morning on Tuesday.  At dinner though, all we knew was that something had happened to Byron, because it was like all the life had been sucked out of him.  It was really very sad, and I didn't realize until then how much of a driving positive force Byron had been in our group.  It was very sad to see him so deflated.

I had dinner with Lauren, Corbin, Kelly and Brayden, and somehow the topic of my being homeschooled came up.  That led, as it often does, to a discussion on how one meets people and dates when homeschooled.  They asked a simple enough question, how many boyfriends have I had, which turned into a very long attempt to remember them all.  Anyway, by the end of it, people had heard more dating horror stories than any of them had ever expected from me, and I don't know if they were traumatized or amused.  I have had some pretty bad dating horror stories.  I won't name names here, but ask me some time about Rocky, Colin, Tony, Kevin (1 or 2), and Alex.  There are some very funny stories, and the Colin story always goes over well, with plenty of cringes.

From there, we just went back to the hostel, and I had a shower in the bathroom that was just a shower, and did battle with the shower head device.  I don't know if the red button actually made warm water or not, and I couldn't figure out how to turn down the water pressure, so my skin was nearly peeled off by the water, which fluctuated between warm, hot, and chilly within moments, and seemingly independent of the status of any nearby showers or toilets.  All in all, probably the strangest shower experience, and I will be grateful for the return to a shower that stays on, and stays one temperature.