Insert Quasi-Comical Brighton Pun Here

Simply put, Brighton was a simple trip--simply perfect in its subtle simplicity (c'mon!).

We boarded the train that morning with gusto, with excitement, with aplomb, if you will (I will.). Our sights were set to the south and a little sea-side town by the name of Brighton.

The Kooks once asked, 'Do you want to go to the Seaside?' and even though they were not quite sure that everybody wants to go, we answered their query with a resounding Yes! (That's a tough inside joke to start with because if I am doing my math right here, out of the 3 people who read this blog I would wager only 1 person has heard of The Kooks and possibly even less have heard the song. But, I suppose they don't call me Noble Nate.)

Six of us boarded the Train that morning and by some miracle six of us arrived contented and complacent (yeah I know) at the Brighton station. We made our way out of the station and quickly chose the best possible spot for getting in people's way, which in this instance was a taxi queue. Our little circle attracting curious and somewhat menacing glances from taxi drivers and passers-by alike, we took our time figuring out which way was the sea. After venturing down an underpass and discovering that no, the sea is not located under the train station, we decided to head down hill as it was the most logical.

Now, a brief interlude is at hand, I believe, to explain some of my views on traveling in foreign soil. What hinders me most in my travels is the fact that I am a man. This being the case, I have the unfortunate habit of not wanting to look like a tourist where ever I go. So after I have spent some time in a city or town I will consider it a cardinal sin to be around someone looking at a map in public, or, much worse, asking for directions. With each city comes a different leeway on time. For instance I gave myself a one day leeway in London, where I would act to my best ability the role of an obvious tourist--walking unevenly with my head straight into my map/guidebook, a camera around my wrist or snapping obvious photos of groups of people in front of obvious landmarks, waiting for the light to change before crossing the street, paying for completely unnecessary and altogether wasteful tourist attractions, wearing completely inappropriate clothes for the weather (I'm looking at you Germans), etc. In Brighton, the leeway I gave myself to lose the tourist complex was 2 minutes, essentially, after we put away the map. I promised myself I would not look at it again and would rather get completely lost than ask for directions. My mentality became: blend.

So I walked alongside my colleagues with an indifferent look on my face. My steady gait displayed my easy confidence. I dismissed stares as nothing more than either a tourist trying to get a good look at a local or a local finding a like soul. I nodded frequently. My fellow travelers would sometimes read signs aloud, as was our game, but I had to hold my tongue with difficulty to maintain the appearance of an uninterested local out for a leisurely stroll with some of his friends from out of town. (Maybe he'll take them down to the Beach, show 'em a good time. I hear the pier is especially nice this time of year.) Finally, some of the pressure was relieved as my strolling led us onto the glory of the beach.

It was a very uncommon beach. With rocks and devastatingly cold water (To be honest I did not test the water, but just from looking at it I imagine it was frigid), it had a curious appeal to it. And with the sun shining quite brightly it was easy to lounge there for an hour or two. And that is exactly what we did. Occasionally, we would pick up stones and hurl them into the sea. Other times, because half of us were men, we would turn the stone throwing into competitions--ones that I would embarrassingly win every time. But mostly we just sat there and enjoyed the views, the fresh air, and the company around us.

After a while we got up and strolled along the beach toward the pier. I couldn't help but admire the quaintness of it all, and how much it reminded me of an oil painting of the seaside around the turn of the century. Save the noisy cars and now rather large buildings above, it was eerily reminiscent of a bygone era, where hot dogs cost a nickel and a ride upon the great ferris wheel on the pier was not but a dime. Women, white clad, would stroll alongside impeccably suited men, all the while twirling their lace umbrellas and adjusting their over sized hats making the sun dance amid the pavement beneath them. Nowadays, hot dog stands are replaced by pubs and the mysteriously situated and delicious smelling donut vendors (Brighton up your day with a donut was a particularly hard one not to read aloud, and I daresay I could not resist), and things do not come cheap--a sandwich was around 5 pounds, fish and chips were closer to seven. Yep, things certainly are not like they used to be. Nevertheless we were happy to be where we were, and after inspecting the pier with all of it's touristy goodness, we headed smilingly to a big sign that said THREE COURSE LUNCH BUFFET FIVE POUNDS.

We ventured timidly into the hotel that had this sign above it's doors and were immediately struck by the grandness of the place. We were sure the sign was a misprint, or perhaps a landmark of that by-gone era that could not be removed, or, more likely, five pounds was the weight of the food, not the price. The lobby led into a sitting room with plush carpeting and high ceilings. Chandeliers hung from above and sparkled from the sunshine that burst through the 6 foot windows that lined the wall facing the sea. A sharply dressed group to our left sipped on some alcoholic drink and lounged in wonderfully colored chairs. They stared at us like an upper-class group of people who had just had their luncheon interrupted by a group of ragged unwashed youths. We held our breaths in anticipation of Jeeves coming along to usher us out, as clearly we were in the wrong part of Dodge. But as we looked right, into the dining room, it was fairly empty and we moved slowly toward it, our stomachs growling.

I felt a bit like a mouse who sits in the shadows of the wall of a house and sees to his surprise a great and grand piece of the finest cheese imaginable sitting all alone in the middle of the living room. Surely there must be something waiting to snatch him up on the other side of the wall, or perhaps hunger has driven him to see mirages, or maybe, just maybe, if he approaches slow enough and disturbs nothing he can get in, grab the cheese and get out.

I approached the maitre d' as slow as I could.

I cleared my throat, 'How much is lunch, here?' 'Five pounds,' he replied, 'how many?' 'Uh, six.'

We sat at an unassuming table looking out over the sea, each of us stunned into silence, the only words we could find that could break it consisted of, 'Are you sure?' and 'I can't believe it is really...' and 'We'll probably end up....' Suffice to say, my first course was a lovely tomato soup with croûtons and perhaps a hint of oregano. I sipped my soup and admired the dining hall. It also held a few chandeliers that sparkled with the sun's rays, the walls were painted a pleasing pink and were at intervals fashionably lined with white. Mahogany doors and neatly designed carpet completed the room's antique feel. It again suggested a desperate grasp of a by-gone era. The second course was the buffet and it was peppered with semi-decent looking portions of vegetables, meat and potatoes, chicken, and seafood. I ate it hastily, I should say. By the dessert course we were all sufficiently satisfied, but could not help but shake the fact that we may owe more than we have for this meal. As a group we approached the waiter and asked about our bill. 'You each had the buffet?' he looked at us a bit lazily. 'Yes,' was all we could muster, as that feeling in our stomachs churned uneasily with the food we had just ate. 'Right, that's 5 pound each,' he smiled. We handed it over and practically ran out the door.

The sunshine greeted our smiling faces kindly. We looked at each other, it was just past one o'clock. What should we do now?

Dubliners (IV)

So we strolled. Our pace was not unlike that at Hyde Park, (avid readers will hopefully know of the pace in which I speak, newcomers will need only to scroll on down (question: is it lame to reference oneself in one's own blog? answer (after much deliberation): yes, yes it is.))(A triple parenthetical followed by a single parenthetical? some say it couldn't, and, I daresay, shouldn't be done, well...yeah they're right, it's a bit awkward.) easy, refreshing, and remarkably pretentious. Before our pace could become steady however, there stood over us an obelisk of unfathomable dimensions. As if punishing the grass by withholding Apollo's stare, it cast a great shadow which we could not help but step within and attempt to take arty photos (I thought mine turned out quite nice, to be honest.). After our attempts at po-mo had come to a satisfying conclusion we sauntered further into the unknown. As we really had no map of the park and our only real reference point was this behemoth that surely could be seen from miles around (in actuality after walking oh about 250 meters through the trees the obelisk became nothing more than a memory and a picture to show off), it seemed a good idea to head west into the waning afternoon sun and then attempt to circle back to our starting point thus bringing us back into the Dublin city at around 5 or 6. Well, to save you the suspense (you're welcome Grandma) and to ruin the narrative, that is basically exactly what we did.

The sheer pleasantness of the journey, however, made any inhibitions and worries over suspenseful intrigue, drift angrily away (To clarify, inhibition and worries were angry that pleasantness was overtaking them so thats why they drifted away. Basically it's hints of personification mixed in with metaphysical metaphors. No big deal.).

We walked down and up onto hills littered with football pitches and cricket grounds. The greenery of the fields completely infatuated us. At times we were completely, utterly, surprisingly, terrifyingly, and happily alone. As far as the eye could see over these fields of delight was unfiltered greenery, nothing stood in our view except the beauty of the landscape. Often the sun would slip behind the clouds and let only spots of rays reach down onto the trees and fields below. It was warm and cool, windy and still, haunting and beautiful. It was a forest in a park, a park in a forest. We walked without care, we walked through groves of trees, we walked easily through the long endless fields, sometimes kicking unabashedly at the dandelions that littered the grass, we walked without a thought, we walked, at times, without a word, breathless and speechless with the sheer delight and happiness of the present, we just walked. We felt so alone, so free inside this park, inside this city. It, however, like all things began to wane, and our feet began taking us closer and closer to the city. We walked by the city zoo, which we briefly considered entering and enjoying the funny things animals do, but when we saw it cost 13 euros we decided it was time to head back to the hostel. After a restroom break, our feet moved us through the final bits of the park and back into the roaring business of the city. We did not look back, however, and enjoyed the experience for what was, for soon the park would be but an afterthought of that one afternoon we were alone in the biggest city in Ireland.

We came to the river near that synonym of awesomeness and followed it back to our hostel. It was nearly six o'clock and our thoughts shifted to (let's not dramatize it here) food. We were thinking of food; how we would procure it, in what shape it would be, how much it might cost, and if it needed to be digestible (we were rather picky in that sense). We decided to head to the local supermarket and grab some meat and pasta and sauce. A few agonizing minutes later--where the sights and smells of the kitchen tempted us into almost stealing those chimichangas that were left on the counter, despite their burned exterior and surely frozen interior--and we were silent in our contented eating. After shoveling the pasta into our mouths in most attractive manners we sat back, took a few casual sips from our beer, and enjoyed a Rugby match on TV. This was living. The match reached halftime and the food had settled enough in our stomachs so that we could stand erect without tipping over, we thus decided this was as good a time as any to head out and experience the Dublin nightlife.

We met a man named Scott on the Millennium Bridge, one of many picturesque bridges that line the river, and went mouth first (what I mean to portray by this vagary is that our mouths were thirsting for that tapped mine that flows only in Dublin(I don't believe it is sold anywhere else in the world, to be honest):Guinness) into the Temple Bar district. We found a particularly popular bar and ventured in. It being nearly 6 or 7 hours since our last taste of the black gold we fought tooth and nail to the front of the queue to put our orders in. We sipped gingerly on our sweet success and enjoyed the second half of the Rugby match. This particular pub being rather raucous we decided to move on. We found, on the outskirts of Temple Bar, a charming bistro with patrons enjoying new wave music and lifting cappuccino cups up to their goateed faces all the while pontificating on the erroneous views of unnamed politicians (Ha! Just kidding. It was another pub. I just wanted to see if you were paying attention.) With each pub came new faces, new lighting, new smells and sounds, and each one that night had a character that is indefinable. Each was unique, yet they all offered the same friendliness, the same jovial atmosphere, and the same wonderful tasting beer.

The next morning found a few of us alert while others had a bit of a tougher time removing themselves form their bunks. You see, the night before, when four of us called it a night and went back to the hostel, three stayed on to go to something like 6 or 7 more pubs and came back early in the morning. Thus, it was a bit of a slow morning.

I will be brief in discussing our last day in Dublin. Of course there were wonderful and life-altering moments that will go unmentioned, but I have found myself dragging and droning on and on. So for that I apologize and will quickly summarize our last thirty-six hours.

We walked to the beautiful and awe-inspiring Trinity College. Where the old buildings glowed from the sunshine. We strolled the grounds like uncaring school children, naive to the crowds of tourists and skipping from each new sight to the next. Next we found a few parks that livened our senses and brought smile upon our faces. We sat on benches and, thoroughly exhausted, laughed as those do when it is really late at night. Finally, our day coming to a close, we went to the supermarket and again bought a nice meal for us to enjoy over the Rugby Final. The pubs that night glowed red and orange from the lights of the city street. Our exhaustion was evident in the slow means in which we took sips from our pints. We each looked around hopefully, as if to catch that moment that will last forever. Our eyes searched and searched, until we found that once again time had overtaken us and it was that and that alone that would bring an end to our trip.

The next morning we walked placidly to the bus station and, after a bit of confusion boarded a bus to the airport. We were relatively silent that bus ride, lost, I think, in our thoughts....



Again, sorry for the abrupt conclusion to Dubliners, but I realized that I have taken way too long to write this so I am, in a sense, cutting and running. There were certainly moments that were worth whole-hearted comment but, I think in a way it is wise to be withholding.

'Memory is a way of holding onto the things you love, the things you are, the things you never want to lose. '

(Yeah, it's from The Wonder Years)