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For the first time on the trip we get to sleep in, which means I wake up for breakfast at seven-thirty instead of six-thirty in the morning, and I don’t have to put my luggage outside our door. Pure bliss.
Our first excursion of the day is a drive around the Ring of Kerry. It’s a shame that we’re coming to this area so late in the trip, because so many people have told me that the Ring of Kerry boasts some of the most beautiful landscape in the country. Unfortunately, I’ve seen so many picturesque coastlines, I’m kind of landscaped out. The days are blending together, and one rolling green hill looks exactly like the next. The days are blending together as well. I’m starting to get vacation fever, where I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t living on a bus. Is it day? Is it night? How many thatch roofed cottages are too many?
We stop at what our guide promises to be an absolutely spectacular view, and apparently he was right, because one of the pictures I took from this spot is now the background on my iPad and it still makes me want to cry a little every time I look at it, especially when I’m playing the Lord of the Rings soundtrack on said iPad at the same time. On an unrelated note, I eat seafood chowder for the third and final time on our trip.
We eventually return to Killarney for our jaunty car rides. My tour book calls it a “jaunting” car ride, but I swear, our guide said jaunty and I like the sound of that better. We climb up onto old timey wagons as our jaunty car driver doles out plaid fleece blankets. I am squashed in on a bench next to a cop from New York (or was it Boston?) of Irish descent and his sassy blond wife. Our driver is a short squat fellow who looks like a Mary Poppins extra and pronounces his “th’s” like “t’s.” I don’t remember his name, but the horse was named Charlie. Alka, a doctor from New Jersey, keeps sassing our driver about his jokes. I knew I liked her for a reason.
Riding through a national park, our driver points out a herd of deer, which are allegedly of Japanese origin, and are kept in this park for the sole purpose of feeding an indigenous eagle. It is illegal to hunt the deer, as this is the eagle’s only source of food. In hindsight, this story sounds kind of crazy and I’m wondering if our guide was just making crap up.
The jaunty car takes us to Ross Castle, where I once more harass my mother to take comical photos of me climbing around the ruins. On the way back, Alka convinces our driver to let her sit in the front, and then drive the jaunty car. This lady is out of control, and I am greatly amused. While I appreciate how modern travel allows us to cross countries and even continents in a matter of hours, there is something about traveling by horse that is charming and magical. For a moment, I almost wish I was one of those awkward girls who grew up on farms and learned to ride horses since she was three. I don’t want the ride to end. I want to jump on the horse and run away to join a traveling Irish circus.
Back in town, it instantly starts to pour and my mom and I duck into a shop to purchase my father a hat very similar to the one our jaunty car driver was wearing. When the rainstorm intensifies, we help the lady shopkeeper drag her racks and baskets into the store. See Ireland? See what a kind, helpful American I am? Wouldn’t you like to have me dwell within your borders? I thought you’d see it my way.
We’re on our own for dinner, and I am horrified to discover I am craving pizza. After a deal of whininess on my part, we walk back into town and find a nice, relatively inexpensive Italian restaurant to eat at. It’s not bad, but it’s no Papa John’s pizzeria.
Back at the hotel, we sit down with a lovely lady from Vancouver for a drink. I proceed to get slightly buzzed and tell her how happy it makes me to meet a successful, beautiful single woman who is 40. We talk about marriage, choosing our future paths, and just life in general. I think for the first time what an opportunity it is to go on one of these tours. You’re thrust into close quarters with a bunch of strangers, and while some of them might be real weirdos, you can also meet some really incredible people. With that thought, I fall into bed, now more than just buzzed, and quickly pass out.
Showing posts with label travel blog. Show all posts
Showing posts with label travel blog. Show all posts
Sunday, January 8, 2012
Saturday, December 3, 2011
Day Five: Killarney
I don’t remember much about the next morning, because I was hungover. I remember wanting a Perrier and settling for the Ireland equivalent. Our first stop of the day was a quick stroll round the quaint village of Adare, chalk full of thatched roof cottages. Most of our time in Adare, however, was spent trying to find dental floss. There was none to be had, at least in the sense there was nothing like the spools of thin waxed string that we crazy Americans are used to. We did manage to buy a sack of individual thick threads that the lady at the apothecary claimed would be exactly like our dental floss, only it wasn’t at all, and I could barely get it in between my teeth.
For the first time ever, I managed to doze on the bus. It was that or get even more nauseous from the constant twisting, winding coastal roads. At last we stopped for lunch, in the most whimsically named town ever: Dingle. Needless to say, Dingle was a real delight.
If you’ve ever heard of the town of Dingle, you may know that it the city has a mascot. That mascot is Fungi the dolphin. Fungi is actually a real dolphin who likes to hang around the bay in Dingle. He first showed up in 1984. In case you hadn’t checked a calendar in awhile, it will soon be 2012, which makes Fungi a few years past the typical twenty-five year dolphin lifespan. Our tour guide pondered the question of what Dingle will do when Fungi is no more. Along the wharf was a charming statue of Fungi. Somehow I managed to bamboozle my mother and Evelyn into taking comical pictures with the Fungi statue. Joy is had by all.
I have to say the only downside to Dingle was the dog poo that seemed to be all over the city, in spite of the numerous signs posted telling people to clean up after their dogs. Did the people of Dingle just not care? Maybe they didn’t have as strict of fines as they do in Los Angeles. Or maybe the dogs are all jealous of the attention Fungi gets, and aims to ruin Dingle tourism. All I know is that it took fifteen minutes, several puddles of rainwater, and a very thin twig to clean off my mother’s shoe.
After saying goodbye to Fungi and the good people of Dingle, we continued down the coast, expecting to wind our way up to some famous rock or something up on a hill. Perhaps if we’d actually made it up to said rock, I’d remember the name, but we didn’t so therefore I didn’t. After the previous day’s downpour, a coastal bridge had washed out, denying us access to this mysterious rock and the picturesque landscape leading up to it. You could literally look across the enormous hills and see the long strips of brown where the rain swept the dirt from the mountain top down to the sea. What was most impressive though, was the skillful way our bus driver Mickey managed to turn the bus around on a narrow coastal road without falling off the edge, or running down one of the various sheep or cows meandering around the place.
All in all, it wasn’t the most exciting day, but it was a nice break. We arrived in Killarney that evening and had a bit of time to just relax, take a hot shower before we dined at the hotel on horribly salty mackerel. If you can imagine the texture of cooked fish, only instead of a meat or fishy taste, it’s like you dumped an entire container of Morton’s onto your tongue. I believe it was that evening that I vowed to stop trying to eat in Ireland and just stick to the Guinness.
For the first time ever, I managed to doze on the bus. It was that or get even more nauseous from the constant twisting, winding coastal roads. At last we stopped for lunch, in the most whimsically named town ever: Dingle. Needless to say, Dingle was a real delight.
If you’ve ever heard of the town of Dingle, you may know that it the city has a mascot. That mascot is Fungi the dolphin. Fungi is actually a real dolphin who likes to hang around the bay in Dingle. He first showed up in 1984. In case you hadn’t checked a calendar in awhile, it will soon be 2012, which makes Fungi a few years past the typical twenty-five year dolphin lifespan. Our tour guide pondered the question of what Dingle will do when Fungi is no more. Along the wharf was a charming statue of Fungi. Somehow I managed to bamboozle my mother and Evelyn into taking comical pictures with the Fungi statue. Joy is had by all.
I have to say the only downside to Dingle was the dog poo that seemed to be all over the city, in spite of the numerous signs posted telling people to clean up after their dogs. Did the people of Dingle just not care? Maybe they didn’t have as strict of fines as they do in Los Angeles. Or maybe the dogs are all jealous of the attention Fungi gets, and aims to ruin Dingle tourism. All I know is that it took fifteen minutes, several puddles of rainwater, and a very thin twig to clean off my mother’s shoe.
After saying goodbye to Fungi and the good people of Dingle, we continued down the coast, expecting to wind our way up to some famous rock or something up on a hill. Perhaps if we’d actually made it up to said rock, I’d remember the name, but we didn’t so therefore I didn’t. After the previous day’s downpour, a coastal bridge had washed out, denying us access to this mysterious rock and the picturesque landscape leading up to it. You could literally look across the enormous hills and see the long strips of brown where the rain swept the dirt from the mountain top down to the sea. What was most impressive though, was the skillful way our bus driver Mickey managed to turn the bus around on a narrow coastal road without falling off the edge, or running down one of the various sheep or cows meandering around the place.
All in all, it wasn’t the most exciting day, but it was a nice break. We arrived in Killarney that evening and had a bit of time to just relax, take a hot shower before we dined at the hotel on horribly salty mackerel. If you can imagine the texture of cooked fish, only instead of a meat or fishy taste, it’s like you dumped an entire container of Morton’s onto your tongue. I believe it was that evening that I vowed to stop trying to eat in Ireland and just stick to the Guinness.
Monday, November 7, 2011
Day Two: Belfast
I was once told by a doctor that when you lose a night of sleep, you can never truly make up for it, no matter how much rest you get in the following days. Which is probably why in spite of having gone to bed at like nine o’clock our first night in Ireland, I feel like death upon waking up the following morning at 6:15am. As my mother reminds me I need to get my suitcase ready for the porter to pick up, I instantly regress to the state of angst-filled teenager, cursing the ill stars I was born under, and wondering how anyone could be so unlucky as I am at this moment, in Ireland on a vacation that I really didn’t have to pay for! Woe is me! Curse you evil world!
Eventually I get out of bed, and a little after that we’re back on the bus, now heading to Northern Ireland. Our first stop is in a city called Downpatrick, where St. Patrick is allegedly buried. You know, St. Patrick. The one of banishing snakes and green beer fame? Yup, that guy. They say he’s “allegedly” buried there because he died in roughly 460 AD, and I guess they didn’t have DNA tests back then so nobody‘s completely sure. While touring the cemetery, I made sure to take about fifty million pictures in case any ghost decided to reveal themselves. Unfortunately, the only thing that was revealed was my inability to take quality photos.
A few hours later, we make it to Belfast and stop near the city hall to grab a quick lunch. Over a delicious meal of fish and chips, my mom and I make friends with some of the other tour goers. Everyone we meet is beyond nice and inquisitive to my job and life, making me feel even worse for my judginess earlier. But there is always one downside whenever I meet new people. I get to explain all over again that no, I’m not in college right now. In fact, I actually haven’t been in college for three years, and that was grad school, and no no, I’m not a child prodigy, I just look like it. Yup, almost 30. Yes, I get that a lot. After lunch, I try to stand in the sun so maybe my skin will wrinkle faster.
We arrive at our hotel in Belfast, which despite being in Ireland was apparently assembled by Swedes, because our bedroom looks like an Ikea display case with modern furniture and a crazy computer console on the desk. The computer had a huge welcome message for Ms. Steinhoff (I assume my mom) and… Steinho? I am not kidding, it says Ms. Steinhoff and Steinho. HOW DID THEY KNOW???
A brief interlude. Shortly after arriving at this hotel, I almost fall down a flight of stairs and die, but am saved by our tour bus driver, a delightful Irish fellow named Mickey, who grabs me before I plummet to what could only have been a most painful demise. Mickey and I quickly bond over this incident and become best friends for life. I instantly become cooler for having an in-joke with the bus driver.
Next up, a tour of the city. The tour mentioned that Belfast happens to be where the Titanic was built. They showed us a bright, shiny new museum (not open yet, we drove by it) that has been constructed for the hundred year anniversary of the Titanic’s sinking on April 14, 1912. If you’re interested and have a bazillion dollars to burn, there is going to be a memorial cruise next April that will follow the Titanic’s voyage across the Atlantic, stopping on the spot it sank on the proper night, then hopefully continuing on what would have been its route to New York City.
ENOUGH ABOUT HISTORY! Now on to what Ireland is really known for. The drinking. The tour ended with a stop at the Crown Bar, a beautiful old Victorian pub filled with these tiny cubicles where guests can seclude themselves for a night of Guinness binging. The story goes that you can leave the door to your “snug” as they’re called, open if you wish to invite others in, but were originally built as a way for people to drink unseen. That’s Victorian morals for you I guess. It’s okay to be an alcoholic, just don’t let anyone SEE YOU being an alcoholic. We linger at the bar until our Guinnesses (Guinnessi? What is the plural of Guinness??) have all been quaffed, and then head back to the hotel. Somehow I manage to direct my mother and our new traveling companion, Evelyn, back to the hotel without anyone getting murdered.
We dine in the hotel restaurant and are seated next to a family from our tour. The most remarkable fact concerning this event, is that the family contains young people. YOUNG PEOPLE!!! They invite me to go walk into the city for drinks, and I very much want to join them on this journey. I’m a young person! I like drinking! I’m super hip! Okay, I’m moderately hip. I can pass for hip if I need to. If someone held a gun to my head, I could hopefully convince them that I maybe knew a few hip people in college. I really do want to go to bar and hang out with these young people…. But instead I pass out in the hotel at ten o’clock.
And so ends DAY TWO.
Eventually I get out of bed, and a little after that we’re back on the bus, now heading to Northern Ireland. Our first stop is in a city called Downpatrick, where St. Patrick is allegedly buried. You know, St. Patrick. The one of banishing snakes and green beer fame? Yup, that guy. They say he’s “allegedly” buried there because he died in roughly 460 AD, and I guess they didn’t have DNA tests back then so nobody‘s completely sure. While touring the cemetery, I made sure to take about fifty million pictures in case any ghost decided to reveal themselves. Unfortunately, the only thing that was revealed was my inability to take quality photos.
A few hours later, we make it to Belfast and stop near the city hall to grab a quick lunch. Over a delicious meal of fish and chips, my mom and I make friends with some of the other tour goers. Everyone we meet is beyond nice and inquisitive to my job and life, making me feel even worse for my judginess earlier. But there is always one downside whenever I meet new people. I get to explain all over again that no, I’m not in college right now. In fact, I actually haven’t been in college for three years, and that was grad school, and no no, I’m not a child prodigy, I just look like it. Yup, almost 30. Yes, I get that a lot. After lunch, I try to stand in the sun so maybe my skin will wrinkle faster.
We arrive at our hotel in Belfast, which despite being in Ireland was apparently assembled by Swedes, because our bedroom looks like an Ikea display case with modern furniture and a crazy computer console on the desk. The computer had a huge welcome message for Ms. Steinhoff (I assume my mom) and… Steinho? I am not kidding, it says Ms. Steinhoff and Steinho. HOW DID THEY KNOW???
A brief interlude. Shortly after arriving at this hotel, I almost fall down a flight of stairs and die, but am saved by our tour bus driver, a delightful Irish fellow named Mickey, who grabs me before I plummet to what could only have been a most painful demise. Mickey and I quickly bond over this incident and become best friends for life. I instantly become cooler for having an in-joke with the bus driver.
Next up, a tour of the city. The tour mentioned that Belfast happens to be where the Titanic was built. They showed us a bright, shiny new museum (not open yet, we drove by it) that has been constructed for the hundred year anniversary of the Titanic’s sinking on April 14, 1912. If you’re interested and have a bazillion dollars to burn, there is going to be a memorial cruise next April that will follow the Titanic’s voyage across the Atlantic, stopping on the spot it sank on the proper night, then hopefully continuing on what would have been its route to New York City.
ENOUGH ABOUT HISTORY! Now on to what Ireland is really known for. The drinking. The tour ended with a stop at the Crown Bar, a beautiful old Victorian pub filled with these tiny cubicles where guests can seclude themselves for a night of Guinness binging. The story goes that you can leave the door to your “snug” as they’re called, open if you wish to invite others in, but were originally built as a way for people to drink unseen. That’s Victorian morals for you I guess. It’s okay to be an alcoholic, just don’t let anyone SEE YOU being an alcoholic. We linger at the bar until our Guinnesses (Guinnessi? What is the plural of Guinness??) have all been quaffed, and then head back to the hotel. Somehow I manage to direct my mother and our new traveling companion, Evelyn, back to the hotel without anyone getting murdered.
We dine in the hotel restaurant and are seated next to a family from our tour. The most remarkable fact concerning this event, is that the family contains young people. YOUNG PEOPLE!!! They invite me to go walk into the city for drinks, and I very much want to join them on this journey. I’m a young person! I like drinking! I’m super hip! Okay, I’m moderately hip. I can pass for hip if I need to. If someone held a gun to my head, I could hopefully convince them that I maybe knew a few hip people in college. I really do want to go to bar and hang out with these young people…. But instead I pass out in the hotel at ten o’clock.
And so ends DAY TWO.
Thursday, November 3, 2011
Day One: Dublin
Our trip to Ireland got off to a rocky start before we even left the country. Before we even left the state, actually. We awoke Wednesday morning to find our flight from Detroit to Philadelphia had been canceled, and after a phone call to the airline, they placed us on another flight at 4:15, a couple hours before our previous flight. This meant we had to race to finish packing and get on the road to Detroit, roughly an hour and fifteen minutes away. Arriving at around 1:15, we are informed immediately upon checking in that the four o’clock flight has also been canceled. Our last chance is a flight at 1:15. Oh wait, it’s already 1:15! Good luck catching it, because this is Detroit and we will absolutely not help you any more than we absolutely have to. Long story short, after begging a few kind strangers to cut in the security line and running halfway down a terminal in my socks, my mother and I are the last ones on the plane and make it to Philadelphia, where we have like four hours before our connecting flight to Dublin! Hooray U.S. Airways!
Cut to: Dublin airport. I’m delirious from lack of sleep. There are absolutely no red heads in the airport. I try to look as cool as possible, standing next to my mom and dragging my purple luggage. As I scan the crowd gathering for our tour group, a horrible realization dawns upon me. These are all old people. Old or at least middle aged. Young people stay in hostels. Young people go backpacking across Europe. Young people do not take bus tours. What have I done?!
We get to the hotel and are allowed a brief time to sleep before our trip begins in earnest. In our room, my mother and I are baffled by an inability to turn the lights on. We discover a key slot beside the front door. Apparently, to either save money or energy, you have to keep your room key in this slot anytime you want to turn on the lights. While I appreciate the effort to save on resources, it is rather difficult to stumble around in the dark looking for a keycard when you have to pee in the middle of the night.
After a lot of juvenile whininess on my part and a lot of Mother Teresa like patience on my mother’s part, we walk to a nearby café to enjoy a bit of breakfast. Now the traditional Irish breakfast is made up of the following: sausages (bangers), bacon (rashers), another type of sausage, fried eggs, a grilled tomato, and something that may have had mushrooms in it, and toast. So basically, a whole lot of meat and carbs. What they did not have was fresh fruit. This is the moment where I realize how incredibly spoiled I’ve become living in southern California. Not everyone lives in a magical world of sunshine and citrus. But a impending case of scurvy is a small price to pay for escaping the traffic and smog of Los Angeles.
So our first night in Ireland, I almost got my mom murdered. Okay that’s an exaggeration. After ditching the old people on the bus, we set out into Dublin, happy and carefree, ready to enjoy all that this beautiful city had to offer! Our first stop was at a Starbucks. YAY!!!! No, this was just a stepping stone. A coworker had recommended to me a good area to find tradition Irish music. We set off in what I thought might possibly be the right direction. Now, I’m usually rather good at following maps, but since I refused to take out said map because I didn’t want to look like a tourist, we ended up wandering into some sketchy area. I don’t know if it was actually sketchy but it looked and felt sketchy, so I ended up having to take out my map anyway and steer us onto safer streets. Afterwards, I realized we weren’t anywhere near where I had been trying to get us. The lesson of the day is acting like a tourist might be uncool, but so is getting murdered in an alley in Dublin.
END OF DAY ONE
Cut to: Dublin airport. I’m delirious from lack of sleep. There are absolutely no red heads in the airport. I try to look as cool as possible, standing next to my mom and dragging my purple luggage. As I scan the crowd gathering for our tour group, a horrible realization dawns upon me. These are all old people. Old or at least middle aged. Young people stay in hostels. Young people go backpacking across Europe. Young people do not take bus tours. What have I done?!
We get to the hotel and are allowed a brief time to sleep before our trip begins in earnest. In our room, my mother and I are baffled by an inability to turn the lights on. We discover a key slot beside the front door. Apparently, to either save money or energy, you have to keep your room key in this slot anytime you want to turn on the lights. While I appreciate the effort to save on resources, it is rather difficult to stumble around in the dark looking for a keycard when you have to pee in the middle of the night.
After a lot of juvenile whininess on my part and a lot of Mother Teresa like patience on my mother’s part, we walk to a nearby café to enjoy a bit of breakfast. Now the traditional Irish breakfast is made up of the following: sausages (bangers), bacon (rashers), another type of sausage, fried eggs, a grilled tomato, and something that may have had mushrooms in it, and toast. So basically, a whole lot of meat and carbs. What they did not have was fresh fruit. This is the moment where I realize how incredibly spoiled I’ve become living in southern California. Not everyone lives in a magical world of sunshine and citrus. But a impending case of scurvy is a small price to pay for escaping the traffic and smog of Los Angeles.
So our first night in Ireland, I almost got my mom murdered. Okay that’s an exaggeration. After ditching the old people on the bus, we set out into Dublin, happy and carefree, ready to enjoy all that this beautiful city had to offer! Our first stop was at a Starbucks. YAY!!!! No, this was just a stepping stone. A coworker had recommended to me a good area to find tradition Irish music. We set off in what I thought might possibly be the right direction. Now, I’m usually rather good at following maps, but since I refused to take out said map because I didn’t want to look like a tourist, we ended up wandering into some sketchy area. I don’t know if it was actually sketchy but it looked and felt sketchy, so I ended up having to take out my map anyway and steer us onto safer streets. Afterwards, I realized we weren’t anywhere near where I had been trying to get us. The lesson of the day is acting like a tourist might be uncool, but so is getting murdered in an alley in Dublin.
END OF DAY ONE
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