Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Sunday, July 13, 2008
The McD's Do Ireland Part I
Ah yes, so it's been a while, and I'm not actually in Dublin anymore, I'm home safely in San Francisco. So, if you're looking for current events in my life, read no further, you won't find them here. However, there are a few events that took place, journeys I made etc., on which I took extensive notes (and by extensive, I mean minimal and barely legible. Gems like 'children @ bar' and 'grass in the middle.' Luckily I have a memory like an elephant, and failing that, whatever I forget I'll just make up to make the post more exciting. Sound good? Great.). These are events about which I wanted to write. And since this was intended as an online scrap book, mostly for my benefit, I'm going to indulge myself and get these things down on some virtual paper.
One event I had intended to record was a week long visit to Dublin by my parents. Mr. & Mrs. McD don't often travel that much, primarily due to budgetary reasons, so it was a real treat to have them come across the pond for a visit. Fortunately, with my ridiculous corporate housing, they were able to stay with me. Even more fortunate, I don't mind sleeping on floors that much. I brought a sleeping pad and bag with me, so I camped in the living room while the folks took my room. I figure for the decent up-bringing, straight teeth and college education they provided, the least I could do was offer them a bed.
I worked during the week, so Mom and Pops were left to their own devices during the days. They walked near and far, traipsing around the Liffey, up the Grand Canal, around Grafton Street, touring Kilmainham Gael, the National Gallery, Powers Court, and generally making the most of their time. In the evenings we'd meet up for dinner.
One night we took a trip to Johnny Fox's, "Irelands Highest Pub" to take in the "Hooley Show," which from the name sounds to me like it might involve ping-pong balls and livestock, but in reality was nothing more than a family friendly burlesque with Irish step dancers and a traditional band cracking the odd joke. Some of the jokes that the broken nosed and mustachioed band leader told included but were not limited to:
Q:"What's the difference between an Irish wedding and an Irish wake?"
A: "There's one less drunk at the wake."
"All the 500 thousand men in Ireland who were wiped out by the famine are standing in line at the Pearly Gates, and in an effort to manage the crowd, St. Pete calls out 'Alright, all ye men who were hen pecked in life by wives and the women in your lives, stand over to the left.' At which point, all 500 thousand Irishmen step over the left, except for one: Paddy the Irishman.
One event I had intended to record was a week long visit to Dublin by my parents. Mr. & Mrs. McD don't often travel that much, primarily due to budgetary reasons, so it was a real treat to have them come across the pond for a visit. Fortunately, with my ridiculous corporate housing, they were able to stay with me. Even more fortunate, I don't mind sleeping on floors that much. I brought a sleeping pad and bag with me, so I camped in the living room while the folks took my room. I figure for the decent up-bringing, straight teeth and college education they provided, the least I could do was offer them a bed.
I worked during the week, so Mom and Pops were left to their own devices during the days. They walked near and far, traipsing around the Liffey, up the Grand Canal, around Grafton Street, touring Kilmainham Gael, the National Gallery, Powers Court, and generally making the most of their time. In the evenings we'd meet up for dinner.
One night we took a trip to Johnny Fox's, "Irelands Highest Pub" to take in the "Hooley Show," which from the name sounds to me like it might involve ping-pong balls and livestock, but in reality was nothing more than a family friendly burlesque with Irish step dancers and a traditional band cracking the odd joke. Some of the jokes that the broken nosed and mustachioed band leader told included but were not limited to:
Q:"What's the difference between an Irish wedding and an Irish wake?"
A: "There's one less drunk at the wake."
"All the 500 thousand men in Ireland who were wiped out by the famine are standing in line at the Pearly Gates, and in an effort to manage the crowd, St. Pete calls out 'Alright, all ye men who were hen pecked in life by wives and the women in your lives, stand over to the left.' At which point, all 500 thousand Irishmen step over the left, except for one: Paddy the Irishman.
'Paddy,' St. Peter calls out, 'Why are you standing over there?' To which Paddy replies 'Me wife told me to.' "
And my Mom's personal favorite:
"Whiskey was my mother's favorite drink....it killed my father."
The band was good and amusing, and the food solid as well. We had muscles, salmon, steak, ate soda bread and drank Guinness. After the band performed, the dancers came on stage - one of whom looked a bit like Lurch from the Adam's Family, but could nonetheless cut quite a rug. The men of the troupe were dressed in black, and the women did about four wardrobe changes in the space of an hour, each outfit a little more tacky, florescent and sequined than the last. But the dancers certainly earned their money, and by the end of the show had worked themselves into a real lather, clacking their heels like machine guns, all the while maintaining a straight-armed paralysis in their upper bodies. Good times.
And my Mom's personal favorite:
"Whiskey was my mother's favorite drink....it killed my father."
The band was good and amusing, and the food solid as well. We had muscles, salmon, steak, ate soda bread and drank Guinness. After the band performed, the dancers came on stage - one of whom looked a bit like Lurch from the Adam's Family, but could nonetheless cut quite a rug. The men of the troupe were dressed in black, and the women did about four wardrobe changes in the space of an hour, each outfit a little more tacky, florescent and sequined than the last. But the dancers certainly earned their money, and by the end of the show had worked themselves into a real lather, clacking their heels like machine guns, all the while maintaining a straight-armed paralysis in their upper bodies. Good times.
More to follow soon...honest.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Lucozade For Strength & The Funniest Fraction In Dublin
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."
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."
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.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Gimme Some Moher
One of my oldest friends, and fellow Mainer, Jana, is visiting me in Dublin this week. So, for a bit of excitement, this weekend we rented a backwards Toyota Yaris and drove cross country from Dublin to Galway.
Driving on the left, with the steering wheel on the right, stick shift on the left; with roads so small, narrow and windy they constitute only a slight upgrade from the sheep paths they clearly once were, for the uninitiated yanks, it was enough to induce an aneurysm. Luckily, we had an Aussie in tow, and since they do everything backwards anyway (driving, seasons, water drainage, etc.) she was able to navigate us out of the the city center without any incident, and by the time we hit the countryside we Americans were feeling bold enough to give it a crack. Despite a few roundabout incidents, and a near bowel loosening encounter with a tour-bus just outside of the Burren - we managed to make it through a driving heavy weekend pretty much unscathed (at least externally).
On Friday we made it to Galway and found our hostel just a tad before 10pm. The hostel, called Barnacles, was clean and packed and right in the center of town on Quay Street (pronounced 'Key Street' - Jana and I enjoyed playing the ugly Americans, and despite being corrected numerous times, obstinantly referred to it as Kway Street). We got a four bunk room at the hostel and, from the small world department, we actually ended up sharing it with an American PhD student from Standford.
After dropping off our things, we made out for a night on the town. Our first stop was at the chippy just a few doors down from the hostel for dinner. There, we put down a grease sodden meal of cod and fried potatoes, after which we figured we had the proper base to hit the pubs.
We started out at a club/pub, whose name I can't remember, full of university students and a DJ spinning reggae/funk/fusion, after which we headed to a more traditional Irish pub called Monroe's. There they had a 5 piece acoustic band that did some great covers...the actual songs are a little hazy, but I think they played 'She's a Brick House,' some Prince, 'Superstitious,' and some other dance classics - but it was all on acoustic guitar, so it made for an interesting sound that was surprisingly fitting for a traditional Irish pub.
All and all, Monroe's was great, with a low roof, and large bar area, it was simultaneously cozy and spacious. The crowd was good too, ranging from early 20s all the way up to a handful of gray-hairs who looked like they'd been coming to Monroe's for more than a few decades. After the band finished up at Monroe's we headed to Róisín Dubh (which is pronounced nothing like what it looks - I still have no idea how it's meant to be said). The Róisín D has a late license and stays open to the wee hours. This, for me, was one of it's only shinning graces. Their biggest detriment was a fairly atrocious DJ that was completely unresponsive to Jana's requests for Prince and/or Stevie Wonder.
The other shining grace about the Róisín Dubh was that, while milling around after it had shut down, Mikaela (the Aussie) and Jana, managed to get us invited to a local flat party. The Galwayans (Galwegians?) are generally a friendly bunch, and Jana and Mikaela happened to meet the current bassist from The Commitments , Stephen Foley, (who wasn't in the eponymously named movie, but was a cool guy nonetheless) and who was hosting a party back at his place (while Jana and Mikaela were meeting Stephen, I was talking to his fairly aggressive, deeply intoxicated friend about the always enjoyable, and never inflamatory topic of America's short comings in foreign policy - a topic of his choosing, not mine). At Stephen's, we met a friendly crew of Irish, and danced, drank and sang until the small hours of the morning started getting large again. By the time we walked back to the hostel, the swans were awake, plumbing the river for eats.
After getting an understandably late start on Saturday, we hit the road and drove down to the Cliffs of Moher, which did not disappoint, living up to and surpassing the beauty of numerous postcards and Irish tourism promotional pamphlets. It was a cloudy day for most of the ride, but the sun chose the opportune time to peak out just as we arrived. It made for some great photos.
On the ride back, we made our way through The Burren, which is an interesting moonscape - fields full of karst limestone. It was pretty cool in the setting Irish sun. (Embarrassingly, and not all that surprisingly, it made me wish for a green, novelty t-shirt that that said, "The Burren Rocks!" with a picture with three stones on it - yes, you all know I would wear it. I looked though, and according to Google, it does not exist. So, I'm thinking of getting a little capital together, and buying a roadside stand to sell t-shirts just out side the Cliffs of Moher - I'm fairly confident I could make a mint).
Saturday night we took it easy in Galway and went back to Monroe's, where there was another acoustic guitarists, playing slightly less dance oriented, but still pop, covers, as well as some original instrumentals. He was accompanied by a man on a washboard, and though I thought he was great, I don't think he was trained at Juilliard. The washboard might be second only to the tambourine in the 'lack of skill necessary to play the instrument satisfactorily' department.
Still, they were a good duo, and made for fantastic background music to some truly stellar people watching - characters from which included (but were not limited to): the Mario Brothers (a pair leathery, fisherman-looking types, possibly brothers, with waxed, handle-bar mustaches, and those nifty Irish hats - who sat on the same side of a bench in the back of the room, watching the crowd unblinkingly, never speaking a word to one another, but who when leaving were all smiles and seemed like they had had a good time), the Fluorescent Prego-Knacker (a real nightmare of a gal, blond, about 7 to 8 months pregnant, in a skin-tight, hot-pink dress that barely covered the unborn child, and, had it been a breech birth, we surely would have seen the child's toes. She was drinking some sort of blue alco-pop and fighting with her boyfriend all night), and the Bar Fly (a 50ish woman that would not desist in her attempts to hit on the evening's troubadour, despite his unrelenting unresponsiveness - she continually tried to sit on the stage by his feet, and eventually settle for some meager conversation with the washboard guy). A great cast, to say the least.
On Sunday, we drove up north to Connemara and visited Connemara National Park - it was scenic, sheep country, home of some of Ireland's prime bog land, and sod production. After the park, we took a circuitous route back to Dublin, winding through county Mayo, before eventually getting back on the M4 and making our way home. All in all, a fun filled trip.
Driving on the left, with the steering wheel on the right, stick shift on the left; with roads so small, narrow and windy they constitute only a slight upgrade from the sheep paths they clearly once were, for the uninitiated yanks, it was enough to induce an aneurysm. Luckily, we had an Aussie in tow, and since they do everything backwards anyway (driving, seasons, water drainage, etc.) she was able to navigate us out of the the city center without any incident, and by the time we hit the countryside we Americans were feeling bold enough to give it a crack. Despite a few roundabout incidents, and a near bowel loosening encounter with a tour-bus just outside of the Burren - we managed to make it through a driving heavy weekend pretty much unscathed (at least externally).
On Friday we made it to Galway and found our hostel just a tad before 10pm. The hostel, called Barnacles, was clean and packed and right in the center of town on Quay Street (pronounced 'Key Street' - Jana and I enjoyed playing the ugly Americans, and despite being corrected numerous times, obstinantly referred to it as Kway Street). We got a four bunk room at the hostel and, from the small world department, we actually ended up sharing it with an American PhD student from Standford.
After dropping off our things, we made out for a night on the town. Our first stop was at the chippy just a few doors down from the hostel for dinner. There, we put down a grease sodden meal of cod and fried potatoes, after which we figured we had the proper base to hit the pubs.
We started out at a club/pub, whose name I can't remember, full of university students and a DJ spinning reggae/funk/fusion, after which we headed to a more traditional Irish pub called Monroe's. There they had a 5 piece acoustic band that did some great covers...the actual songs are a little hazy, but I think they played 'She's a Brick House,' some Prince, 'Superstitious,' and some other dance classics - but it was all on acoustic guitar, so it made for an interesting sound that was surprisingly fitting for a traditional Irish pub.
All and all, Monroe's was great, with a low roof, and large bar area, it was simultaneously cozy and spacious. The crowd was good too, ranging from early 20s all the way up to a handful of gray-hairs who looked like they'd been coming to Monroe's for more than a few decades. After the band finished up at Monroe's we headed to Róisín Dubh (which is pronounced nothing like what it looks - I still have no idea how it's meant to be said). The Róisín D has a late license and stays open to the wee hours. This, for me, was one of it's only shinning graces. Their biggest detriment was a fairly atrocious DJ that was completely unresponsive to Jana's requests for Prince and/or Stevie Wonder.
The other shining grace about the Róisín Dubh was that, while milling around after it had shut down, Mikaela (the Aussie) and Jana, managed to get us invited to a local flat party. The Galwayans (Galwegians?) are generally a friendly bunch, and Jana and Mikaela happened to meet the current bassist from The Commitments , Stephen Foley, (who wasn't in the eponymously named movie, but was a cool guy nonetheless) and who was hosting a party back at his place (while Jana and Mikaela were meeting Stephen, I was talking to his fairly aggressive, deeply intoxicated friend about the always enjoyable, and never inflamatory topic of America's short comings in foreign policy - a topic of his choosing, not mine). At Stephen's, we met a friendly crew of Irish, and danced, drank and sang until the small hours of the morning started getting large again. By the time we walked back to the hostel, the swans were awake, plumbing the river for eats.
After getting an understandably late start on Saturday, we hit the road and drove down to the Cliffs of Moher, which did not disappoint, living up to and surpassing the beauty of numerous postcards and Irish tourism promotional pamphlets. It was a cloudy day for most of the ride, but the sun chose the opportune time to peak out just as we arrived. It made for some great photos.
On the ride back, we made our way through The Burren, which is an interesting moonscape - fields full of karst limestone. It was pretty cool in the setting Irish sun. (Embarrassingly, and not all that surprisingly, it made me wish for a green, novelty t-shirt that that said, "The Burren Rocks!" with a picture with three stones on it - yes, you all know I would wear it. I looked though, and according to Google, it does not exist. So, I'm thinking of getting a little capital together, and buying a roadside stand to sell t-shirts just out side the Cliffs of Moher - I'm fairly confident I could make a mint).
Saturday night we took it easy in Galway and went back to Monroe's, where there was another acoustic guitarists, playing slightly less dance oriented, but still pop, covers, as well as some original instrumentals. He was accompanied by a man on a washboard, and though I thought he was great, I don't think he was trained at Juilliard. The washboard might be second only to the tambourine in the 'lack of skill necessary to play the instrument satisfactorily' department.
Still, they were a good duo, and made for fantastic background music to some truly stellar people watching - characters from which included (but were not limited to): the Mario Brothers (a pair leathery, fisherman-looking types, possibly brothers, with waxed, handle-bar mustaches, and those nifty Irish hats - who sat on the same side of a bench in the back of the room, watching the crowd unblinkingly, never speaking a word to one another, but who when leaving were all smiles and seemed like they had had a good time), the Fluorescent Prego-Knacker (a real nightmare of a gal, blond, about 7 to 8 months pregnant, in a skin-tight, hot-pink dress that barely covered the unborn child, and, had it been a breech birth, we surely would have seen the child's toes. She was drinking some sort of blue alco-pop and fighting with her boyfriend all night), and the Bar Fly (a 50ish woman that would not desist in her attempts to hit on the evening's troubadour, despite his unrelenting unresponsiveness - she continually tried to sit on the stage by his feet, and eventually settle for some meager conversation with the washboard guy). A great cast, to say the least.
On Sunday, we drove up north to Connemara and visited Connemara National Park - it was scenic, sheep country, home of some of Ireland's prime bog land, and sod production. After the park, we took a circuitous route back to Dublin, winding through county Mayo, before eventually getting back on the M4 and making our way home. All in all, a fun filled trip.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Friday, April 11, 2008
Mark Ronson
Pretty sweet DJ/Producer from the UK. Apparently he produced Amy Winehouse's last album. He's got a video called 'Valerie' that's getting quite a bit of airtime over here.
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