Day Three: Sligo

Another cheerful morning! Thankfully, I’ve already given up on any semblance of looking attractive, which really streamlines this getting dressed process. I figure in a week, I’m going to smell like Irish hotel anyway, so why not take the pressure off right away. Down at breakfast, we were delighted to find that in addition to the heart attack Irish breakfast special, this hotel offered croissants and tiny wrapped blocks of cheese. Later, my mom will reveal to me that she has shoved some of each into her purse for us to snack on later. I don’t know why this amuses me as much as it does. It makes me feel like I’m in Lord of the Rings. Characters in fantasy books are forever walking around with wheels of cheese and loaves of bread in their satchel. It’s a fitting metaphor, especially if you know my relationship with my mom, dutifully dragging me around while I whine and collapse from exhaustion. It kind of happens a lot.

I was truly quite excited for our first stop of the day, the Giant’s Causeway in County Atrim. According to my trusty guidebook, the Giant’s Causeway is a natural phenomenon of these crazy looking hexagonal rocks formed by a volcano fifty billion years ago. Our bus dumped us out at the little rest stop where were told to await another bus that would take us down a short drive to the rocks. After standing in the cold for an eternity, I decided to ditch the oldies and the bus and walk down myself, because that‘s what hip, rebellious young people do. We don’t play by the rules! And then my mom came along after me, probably to make sure I didn’t faint and accidentally fall into the ocean, because that’s what mom’s do. Take care of their idiot, rebellious children!

Though it was windy and cold, within a few minutes I could no longer see the small visitor’s center and gift shop. On one of me was a tall, rocky hill. On the other, the coast. I had this feeling that I didn’t want to blink, I wanted to somehow freeze this image in my mind. There are not words for it, other than it was all very Lord of the Rings, right down to the bread and cheese in our purse.

http://i.pbase.com/u47/jflogel/large/33978808.GiantsCauseway7.jpg

The actual site itself was even more stunning, and I can easily believe how people thought it was a magical place. I began to climb out onto the rocks pillars of rock, toward the ocean. There were a few other tourists there doing the same, so I figured at least I wouldn’t be the only moron who plummeted to my death. There, on the edge of the water, feeling a wind that was literally strong enough to knock me down if I wasn’t careful, I had either a transcendent or cheese ball thought, depending on how you look at it. It was a reminder of how puny and weak we are, that we can build our skyscrapers and are compuphonepads and they all mean nothing up against a wind that was strong enough to knock the air out of my lungs. No joke. For a few seconds, I held my arms out Titanic style and just let the sea spray hit me. Later, I would find that while I was getting my mind blown by the destructive beauty of nature, the oldies safe on solid ground snapped some very comical photos of me looking like a jackass.

And on we went! We stopped in Derry for lunch, where I had my first of what would many bowls of seafood chowder on this trip. Unfortunately, the first place was the best, and I proceeded to lament that most wondrous original bowl for the remainder of my trip. None other could live up to it’s precedence. If you’re ever in Derry, the restaurant was called Fitzeroy’s. I warn you now, if you go there, be prepared to give up ever eating chowder anywhere else again. It was that good.

We made one more stop in Donegal as we continued on toward Sligo. By then I was starting to get antsy on the bus, so I decided to prove our guide’s claim that there were eight million sheep in Ireland. Thus, my mother and I began to count the sheep. Ironically, we did not fall asleep at all, but became very agitated when the bus was moving faster than we could count, which in turn led to a lot of hysterical laughing and screaming of “Quick!!! How many over there? Twenty? Fifty?! HOW MANY?!” Eventually, this devolved into a lot of rough estimating and upon reaching eight hundred, we gave up. In conclusion, there are in fact, a lot of sheep in Ireland.

The bus arrived in Sligo for the evening. We would be staying that night in an old train station that had been converted into a Best Western. After settling in, I headed back down to the lobby to explore. On the way, I ran into one of the ladies from our tour, Alka, a doctor from New Jersey. “Have you found the computer yet?” she asked. I nodded and told her where it was. “I always know if I find you, I’ll find the computer,” she explained with a laugh. This was when I realize how crazy I’m going being disconnected from Los Angeles. I was so excited to get away, and yet my brain is still suck there. Clearly, I’m not drinking enough on this trip.

END OF DAY THREE

Little Things Hitting Each Other

The world of fantasy literature is oft a repetitive one. Unless your last name is Grimm, Tolkien or “Anonymous Poet From Before We Wrote Shit Down Because Clay Was Expensive,” than you probably stole your story from somebody else.

“What madness is this?” you exclaim. “Oh, that vile wordsmith Steinho is making wild accusations once more! What about Harry Potter, you fiend? For goodness sake, what about Harry Potter?” By the way, in my head everyone talks like Charles Dickens.

Well guess what, popular children’s fiction lovers! Things like boggarts, mandrake roots and the philosopher’s stone were part of English mythology long before the fabulous J.K. Rowling ever included them in her wondrous tale. To her credit, it’s the way in which Rowling wove together existing folklore and original ideas that have made her books so enticing, and her earnings so extensive she could probably fill a giant bin with gold coins and swim in it.

No, it’s all those other fantasy writing hacks that I detest so; the ones who fail to get past the familiar triad of human, dwarf and elf. (Or the current and more repulsive trend of vampire, werewolf and teen moron.) Why must there always be dwarfs and elves? Why must the dwarves always be miners and carry axes and talk with Scottish accents? I’m waiting for the hilarious fantasy novel about the dwarf who got sick of living in a dank cave, and moved to Hawaii to become a pearl diver and teach surfing to tourists.

Until that day arrives, I am thankful for the few original discoveries I have made in the fantasy genre, such as David Petersen, and his graphic novel series, “Mouse Guard.” Once upon a time, in a magical land known as Michigan, a lad named David Petersen was born and watched a lot of cartoons, and grew up to draw his own cartoons about heroic warrior mice, who fight bears and hawks and wear smashing little capes. This is the gist of “Mouse Guard.” While it follows the general guidelines of a typical fantasy epic, with ruthless nobles and legendary swordsmen, terrified villagers and vicious monsters, the key difference is that every character is a badass mouse. Currently, there exist three books in the Mouse Guard world, including “Fall 1152,” “Winter 1152,” and the six issue mini-series in comic stores at this very moment, “The Black Axe.”

Anyone who has ever loved the adventures of Robin Hood or King Arthur, not to mention anyone who appreciates beautiful, rich illustrations, will enjoy these stories. It is such a mistake to assume the media of comics has nothing to offer other than tights-wearing mutants and hyper-violent mayhem. I recently perused the first volume in the “Preacher” series by Garth Ennis, and while I was intrigued by some of the mythology, the excessive visual nastiness kept me from reading further. Maybe I’m turning into an old woman, but I find myself less and less excited about seeing pictures of cartoon faces being blown off.

If you think just because these graphic novels are about adorable mice in cloaks, they will not appease your garish American appetite for violence, than you are most certifiably wrong, you villainous warmonger. In one story from “Mouse Guard: Legend of the Guard,” the wife and young son of two knights must watch as their respective champions stab the crap out of each other, knowing their opponent must die if they themselves are to survive. Another chapter tells of a young lady mouse who watches her fiancée die at the hands of an evil king, and must take up his weapon and blood-drenched armor to avenge the murder. If these mice ever sing, it is not on the shoulder of a cartoon princess.

So if you feel ill at the sight of another Gandalf clone with names like Aoyemandyer, or fantasy series where someone turns out to be the descendant/reincarnation/long-lost cousin of a Greek/Norse/Egyptian god, soothe your rankled soul and read “Mouse Guard.” Because watching a mouse stab a bear in the face is both hilarious, and cool to see.