This is a bit of a cleaning house post. The folks were in town this past week, tales of which I'll post soon - you can check out photos on the right. But, as it's been a while since I last wrote, and nothing major has happened recently, this is going to be a bit of a potpourri of random musings, vignettes if you will, from the past few weeks in and around Dublin.
A few weeks ago I attended a great concert in Dublin at place a called the Sugar Club (which I repeatedly and mistakenly referred to as alternately the Sugar Bowl, the Cotton Club and occasionally the Sugar Shack). Despite my tenuous grasp on its name, the Sugar Club is a fantastic place to catch a show. It has a real 1950s classy feel to it - booths upholstered in red, in a tiered, stadium-style arrangement, each fitting five people people comfortably. Every booth has it's own table to set your drinks, which you can procure with relative ease from the fully stocked bar in the back at the top of the stairs. Overall a cozy but not claustrophobic feel, and all this with a great sound system to boot.
The band we went to see was called Angus & Julia Stone. A brother and sister duet from Sydney, well worth the price of admission. They have kind of a White Stripes meets Morrissey feel to them. Both Stone siblings play multiple instruments. Julia played guitar, trumpet and piano, Angus played harmonica, guitar and dobro, and they were accompanied by a solid rhythm section.
They maintained a quirky stage presence throughout the show, Angus generally mumbling things inaudibly before songs (though, from some reason he had perfectly clear annunciation when asking the soundboard guy to turn down his sister's guitar) and when not playing the trumpet or piano, Julia flitted around stage in her stockings, doing a kind of weird tippee-toe dance, and moving her hands exactly like Leonardo DiCaprio did in What's Eating Gilbert Grape? It might not sound great, but trust me, it worked. If they come to a venue near you, check them out. You can hear their tunes on their MySpace page. Just a Boy is a good song and Private Lawns was great live.
All in all it was a fun night, and ended at a reasonable hour, something which is a bit of rarity around these parts. As those who know me can attest, I've been known to push the limits on the length of an evening past the point of good judgment. Fortunately, I'm often accompanied by others with sound reasoning skills, who know when to call it a night. Not so here. They truly live up to the Irish motto and game plan for a fun evening: 'No mater when you go out, you come home tomorrow.' All this revelry, however, can lead to some very rough tomorrows.
Fortunately, they have a miracle elixir in the UK called Lucozade, developed and sold by the pharmaceuticals company GlaxoSmithKline PLC (you known we're talking industrial grade stuff here, just look at that corporate amalgamation). Essentially Gatorade on steroids, it looks and taste like rocket fuel (or at least as I imagine it would) and boy does it work wonders on the late night induced malaise. One bottle can get you from feeling like death warmed over to only slightly sub-human in just a manner of minutes.
After a particularly long weekend in which more than a couple bottles of 'zade were utilized for its curative effects, we came up with a marketing slogan that I think would truly speak to their Dublin market:
'Lucozade: Almost as good as a decent night's rest.'
Pretty sure it would fly off the shelves.
And now a note on the Dublin accent and my highly developed sense of humor.
One of my favorite things to hear in Dublin is a native saying anything with the number 3 in it. For instance, a cab driver asking for a fare of 3.30 ("That'll be tree-turty"), brings a smile to my face every time. However, the best thing to hear by far, is anything involving 3rds. The reason for this is simple: for some reason they drop the "th" sound so it's just a 't', and pronounce the 'i' as though it were a 'u.' Simply put, one third is pronounced "one turd." And yes, this makes me laugh. In fact, it amuses me so much, I'm tempted to hang around clearance sales or used car lots, in the off chance that I might hear a Dubliner and a sales person haggling over prices and have the following exchange:
"It's a lovely car, but would you be willing to take two turds off it?"
"Two turds? No, I can't do two turds. One turd, maybe. But two turds? Let's not be ridiculous."
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Sunday, May 11, 2008
How Do You Make A Venetian Blind
If life were a coffee commercial, I'd have made this trip with my overly attractive and leggy fiancée - and actually, this would be a flashback, and duh, we'd be drinking coffee, probably in our large suburban home. But it's not, I didn't, and we aren't.
On the contrary, this trip starts at quarter to 5 in the morning (I've already been up for an hour) and I'm in the surprisingly bustling Dublin airport, sitting on a none too comfortable metal bench, next to the better part of a German rugby team, who, collectively, smell like the inside of the Bushmill's factory - I'm fairly certain an errant spark could set them ablaze. And where am I headed on this overcast Dublin morning? To Venice, of course. The city of canals and espresso. In what was a case of a fare that was too fair to be passed up (a 70 euro round trip flight with RyanAir - they're practically paying me to go). Yes, a nice romantic weekend with myself on this fine May bank holiday weekend.
The flight itself was uneventful, and I was able to sleep through most of it, head back, mouth agape, doing my best to catch any stray flies. Upon landing, I was greeted by beautiful, sunny Italian skies in Treviso (the main reason the fare was so cheap - it's a city that's about an hour bus ride north of Venice). The bus ride was a nice introduction to the Veneto Italian landscape, which doesn't look too dissimilar from Northern California wine country - slightly rolling, a fair number of large estates, generally pleasant.
The bus deposited me and the parcel of pale skinned, blue-eyed, Irish couples that constituted my fellow travelers at the Piazzale Roma, the one and only bus stop in Venice. From there I made my way to the ticket counter to try and figure out how to catch a bus to my hostel, which, due to poor planning, and late booking, was a 15 minute bus ride out of the city. With nary a lick of Italian, I managed to get the right ticket, and get on the right bus. What I wasn't able to do, was identify the right bus stop. And instead, took the bus to the end of the line. Whoops.
I had asked the bus driver to let me know when we got to the correct stop, or at least I tried to anyway. But he didn't really speak English, and I don't speak Italian, and me repeating the name of the bus stop incorrectly, and successively louder, didn't really seem to help him understand what I was asking. But, when he saw I was still on the bus at the end of the ride, I think we both realized something had gone amiss.
We had another chat, and this time, I think we both got our messages across, and at any rate, he pointed me out at the correct spot, and all was well. (As a note on Italian bus drivers, and Italians in general, it's true - they're a fairly good looking people. This bus driver was wearing Gucci sunglasses, and looked like he was ready to go clubbing, and on the whole, the public transport people were surprisingly well put together).
I'll spare you the details on my accommodations, as they're really weren't much to speak of - basically a canvas cabin (the less imaginative might call it a 'tent'), in an Italian RV park that I shared with a guy who was asleep for nearly the entire time I was there. I thought he might have mono, or dengue - but then he finally came around on the last day, and he was actually a real nice dude from Perth who had been drinking for weeks straight with his Aussie mates in the UK. Consequently, he needed to sneak off to Venice to give his liver a break.
So, at any rate, after getting to the campsite, I made an about face and headed back into Venice.
And Venice was beautiful. What with the unique architecture, and its striking angles caused by narrow streets and tilting spires, all highlighted by luminous canals, it constituted a veritable wet dream for the amateur photographer. I nearly developed tendonitis in my clicker-finger.
The first day I walked all over the place. A confusing proposition at first, but one that got easier after I found the major tourist attractions: Ponte Rialto (a bridge), San Marcos Basilica (a church), and the Accademia (a museum and a bridge). Using these three features (as well as the Grand Canal) it was fairly easy to triangulate my location by looking for these ubiquitous yellow signs that were always trying to point you in the direction of one or the other of these locations. Thus, if I were trying to get back to the bus stop, I knew I had to be walking away from San Marcos and the Accadmia, and if I was north of the Grand Canal, I needed walk toward Ponte Rialto. At any rate, it made sense at the time.
And although I enjoyed my time in Venice, I'm not sure one such as myself can fully appreciate the place without the gift of a uterus, or at the very least a companion that was equipped with one. I say this because it became readily apparent after passing the umpteenth designer handbag store (positioned snuggly between a haberdashery specializing in haute couture, and a shop which sold pink riding gloves exclusively), that shopping was an important part of the city's draw, and one in which I was completely disinterested. Yes, yes, I know it's a stereotype and I apologize for any offense. But Venice had enough designer handbags, sunglasses and shoes to sufficiently bury the entire cast and production crew of Sex In The City (something which, admittedly, I might enjoy visualizing a bit too much).
The food in Venice was decidedly hit or miss. The pizza and gelato were delicious, and if you are not planning to spend a significant sum on a really nice meal, I suggest sticking to this fair. I made the mistake of sitting down in a nice open square, at a restaurant that had outdoor seating, and was seemingly reasonably priced, and lucky me, a menu in English. Yes, I realize that this screams tourist trap, but I was hungry and not thinking straight. So I sat down, and after a meal of lukewarm shrimp with the main-vein (or as my Dad calls it, "the poop-shoot") still intact, wilted, slightly browned, lettuce, and a glass of red wine so cold I'm sure it came out of a box in the freezer, I was forced to grab a slice of pizza and a gelato from a nearby stand to wipe away my disappointment.
And now for a non-sequitor:
One thing I found surprisingly fun about Venice was the location of their public toilets. These were all cleverly tucked away in back alleys, but there were signs up above arches, and on the sides of buildings, pointing you in the direction of the hidden 'WC's. As it cost about a $1.60 to set foot in these public restrooms (which were pleasantly clean), and since I'm a bit thrifty, I really wanted to make these trips count, if you catch my drift. Consequently, I would only start to look for them once I had been sufficiently primed by multiple cappuccinos, etc. thereby making the search a sort of high-stakes version of Where's Waldo?
Oh, and the answer to 'How do you make a veneitan blind?' You poke him in the eyes.
On the contrary, this trip starts at quarter to 5 in the morning (I've already been up for an hour) and I'm in the surprisingly bustling Dublin airport, sitting on a none too comfortable metal bench, next to the better part of a German rugby team, who, collectively, smell like the inside of the Bushmill's factory - I'm fairly certain an errant spark could set them ablaze. And where am I headed on this overcast Dublin morning? To Venice, of course. The city of canals and espresso. In what was a case of a fare that was too fair to be passed up (a 70 euro round trip flight with RyanAir - they're practically paying me to go). Yes, a nice romantic weekend with myself on this fine May bank holiday weekend.
The flight itself was uneventful, and I was able to sleep through most of it, head back, mouth agape, doing my best to catch any stray flies. Upon landing, I was greeted by beautiful, sunny Italian skies in Treviso (the main reason the fare was so cheap - it's a city that's about an hour bus ride north of Venice). The bus ride was a nice introduction to the Veneto Italian landscape, which doesn't look too dissimilar from Northern California wine country - slightly rolling, a fair number of large estates, generally pleasant.
The bus deposited me and the parcel of pale skinned, blue-eyed, Irish couples that constituted my fellow travelers at the Piazzale Roma, the one and only bus stop in Venice. From there I made my way to the ticket counter to try and figure out how to catch a bus to my hostel, which, due to poor planning, and late booking, was a 15 minute bus ride out of the city. With nary a lick of Italian, I managed to get the right ticket, and get on the right bus. What I wasn't able to do, was identify the right bus stop. And instead, took the bus to the end of the line. Whoops.
I had asked the bus driver to let me know when we got to the correct stop, or at least I tried to anyway. But he didn't really speak English, and I don't speak Italian, and me repeating the name of the bus stop incorrectly, and successively louder, didn't really seem to help him understand what I was asking. But, when he saw I was still on the bus at the end of the ride, I think we both realized something had gone amiss.
We had another chat, and this time, I think we both got our messages across, and at any rate, he pointed me out at the correct spot, and all was well. (As a note on Italian bus drivers, and Italians in general, it's true - they're a fairly good looking people. This bus driver was wearing Gucci sunglasses, and looked like he was ready to go clubbing, and on the whole, the public transport people were surprisingly well put together).
I'll spare you the details on my accommodations, as they're really weren't much to speak of - basically a canvas cabin (the less imaginative might call it a 'tent'), in an Italian RV park that I shared with a guy who was asleep for nearly the entire time I was there. I thought he might have mono, or dengue - but then he finally came around on the last day, and he was actually a real nice dude from Perth who had been drinking for weeks straight with his Aussie mates in the UK. Consequently, he needed to sneak off to Venice to give his liver a break.
So, at any rate, after getting to the campsite, I made an about face and headed back into Venice.
And Venice was beautiful. What with the unique architecture, and its striking angles caused by narrow streets and tilting spires, all highlighted by luminous canals, it constituted a veritable wet dream for the amateur photographer. I nearly developed tendonitis in my clicker-finger.
The first day I walked all over the place. A confusing proposition at first, but one that got easier after I found the major tourist attractions: Ponte Rialto (a bridge), San Marcos Basilica (a church), and the Accademia (a museum and a bridge). Using these three features (as well as the Grand Canal) it was fairly easy to triangulate my location by looking for these ubiquitous yellow signs that were always trying to point you in the direction of one or the other of these locations. Thus, if I were trying to get back to the bus stop, I knew I had to be walking away from San Marcos and the Accadmia, and if I was north of the Grand Canal, I needed walk toward Ponte Rialto. At any rate, it made sense at the time.
And although I enjoyed my time in Venice, I'm not sure one such as myself can fully appreciate the place without the gift of a uterus, or at the very least a companion that was equipped with one. I say this because it became readily apparent after passing the umpteenth designer handbag store (positioned snuggly between a haberdashery specializing in haute couture, and a shop which sold pink riding gloves exclusively), that shopping was an important part of the city's draw, and one in which I was completely disinterested. Yes, yes, I know it's a stereotype and I apologize for any offense. But Venice had enough designer handbags, sunglasses and shoes to sufficiently bury the entire cast and production crew of Sex In The City (something which, admittedly, I might enjoy visualizing a bit too much).
The food in Venice was decidedly hit or miss. The pizza and gelato were delicious, and if you are not planning to spend a significant sum on a really nice meal, I suggest sticking to this fair. I made the mistake of sitting down in a nice open square, at a restaurant that had outdoor seating, and was seemingly reasonably priced, and lucky me, a menu in English. Yes, I realize that this screams tourist trap, but I was hungry and not thinking straight. So I sat down, and after a meal of lukewarm shrimp with the main-vein (or as my Dad calls it, "the poop-shoot") still intact, wilted, slightly browned, lettuce, and a glass of red wine so cold I'm sure it came out of a box in the freezer, I was forced to grab a slice of pizza and a gelato from a nearby stand to wipe away my disappointment.
And now for a non-sequitor:
One thing I found surprisingly fun about Venice was the location of their public toilets. These were all cleverly tucked away in back alleys, but there were signs up above arches, and on the sides of buildings, pointing you in the direction of the hidden 'WC's. As it cost about a $1.60 to set foot in these public restrooms (which were pleasantly clean), and since I'm a bit thrifty, I really wanted to make these trips count, if you catch my drift. Consequently, I would only start to look for them once I had been sufficiently primed by multiple cappuccinos, etc. thereby making the search a sort of high-stakes version of Where's Waldo?
Oh, and the answer to 'How do you make a veneitan blind?' You poke him in the eyes.
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