Madrid

I thought I would get this one off before today's string of events.

It was morning earlier. It was dark. It was time to leave. It was 5.45. With a somewhat steady head the Three Amigos (literally just thought of that (Brilliant!)) hopped in a Taxi headed for the Train Station. It was to be a relatively easy day of travel. The train to Gatwick was smooth and on time, a nice start to any trip, the queues at Gatwick were non-existent, another refreshing start, and we had 2 hours to kill in the terminal before our gate was announced. Hey is that Bailey's? Yes, my Two amigos thought it was a good idea to start the day off witha nice refreshing, ice cold, cup of Bailey's. They purchased the Bailey's and I stood in a McDonald's line for three hours (slight exaggeration) and got three cups with ice. We had a pleasant sit down discussing, as always, politics, religion, and puppies, you know, guy stuff. Our gate was announced and the first bottle of Bailey's was finished (yes I said first (if you were to look at me right this instant, well not this instant but the instant when I wrote "the first bottle of Bailey's was finished," you would probably see me sighing, smiling, and shaking my head.)) and it was time to board.

Have you ever been in a sardines can? It was kind of like that. EasyJet, was. Scott suggested the emergency exit rows for suitable seats, and I being in the lead heeded his advice and went straight for them. But when the time came to sit in said seats, and I noticed that oneo or two people already occupied some of the seats, I panicked and just kept walking, my mind blank. Finally, I turned into the tightest row I could possibly find and we took our seats. Luckily there was a touch of an effect from the Bailey's and I drifted off into a sweet and insanely uncomfortable sleep. The plane ride was smooth, as far as I know, and soon our feet were touching the Tarmac in sunny Spain.

The weather was beautiful, not a cloud in the sky. So, this being the case, we took the first two hours of our time in España in the airport terminal and the underground. After said duration we arrived at the metro station at which our hostel was near and stepped out into the sunshine, and into a horde/throng of people. People People everywhere, so much People so much fear ( I know that doesn't really fit, and indeed is a bit of a downer, but I sort of like the sound of it). We walked through said horde/throng to our hostel.

We dropped our bags off and went, almost, immediately to the Plaza del Toros for, O let's call it an adventure.

Scott's main reason for coming to Spain, or so he said, was to see a Bull Fight. So he was particularly excited when he found out there would be one on Sunday in Madrid (today/yesterday). We got off the metro in the Plaza and went slowly and unsurely toward the ticket counters. Looking as much like tourists as we possibly could, we stood about three feet away from the windows and looked at the big board of ticket prices, trying to decipher their meaning. While we were standing looking, obviously, thouroughly confused, an old Spanish man in a smart corduroy blazer came up to us. My spanish is a bit rusty (I've been out in the rain for nearly two and a half years) so I was pretty much unable to understand what he said. But through a few gestures and points and the words "lo mismo" I got the idea he wanted to help us buy more expensive tickets. We walked with him, slowly and cautiously, toward his yellow stand about 330 feet away. In it a woman sat with a smile and showed us the tickets. All throughout their explanation came the words "es oficial" which put me at ease and made me nervous at the same time. Finally after some of the best bargaining ever seen on my part while trying to talk to someone who did not understand us nor we them, we wound up with three tickets in the 10th row in the Sol y Sombre (Sun and Shade) section for 30 euros. It was not a bad deal and if the tickets were real it could be a very good deal. We left feeling uncertain and agreed that if we had been swindled, we certainly had been by a nice guy. We went towards the stadium again to take a few pictures, when our friend came along again to help us. After a quick photo, some unpronounceable banter, and a fistful of smiles, he asked us, quickly, where are we from. Americanos, came the answer, and with it a smile. "Hillary o Obama," was the reply from our amigo, who goes by Miguel (or so he said). "Obama?" I said, merely repeating the last word I heard, and with that he put a finger into my chest and with a smile full of rugged teeth responded, "Yo? Hillary." We smiled and said goodbye, he seemed happy with his swindle, and we departed ways.

We walked around the stadium a little, thinking about the days to come. It was going to be a good trip.

Will the three amigos make it into the stadium? Will the amicable Miguel, turn out to be a great guy or an evil genius? Will they make it to Barcelona? Will the adventures ever end? and Whatever will they do next? Find out next time on (pause) Nate's Blog.

A New Dawn

I regret to inform those adament readers that I will not be able to finish Edinburgh at this time as I amcurrently on an adventure of note. Thus I will postpone the shocking conclusion to Edinburgh in lieu of the fact that as I type I am in the España of Spains: Spain. This lovely country is Merely the hub of an ever-on-going journey throughout Europe. I will try my best, O Wonderful, Wonderful Reader, to keep you up to date as much as I can with my goings on about towns. However, my friends (and enemies, I suppose ( for somebody must be reading this)) I must warn you that many times I will write these after a long day of, let´s call it, adventuring and I will have what is known in the adventuring world as tiredness, thus my writing will inevitably suffer (look to previous parenthetical aside (and previous sentence for that matter) for reference). So please be kind (indeed, feedback is welcome!).

I travel now with Dave Bergerson, whom many of you, I am sure, have some recollection of and a fellow by the name of Scott Walkington, whom, perhaps, some have an inkling of. I shall mention them in intimacy from here on out so it would be good to get to know them. They are dudes. I am dude. We are dudes. Enough said. To the cities....

The cities I think will be much more interesting. we will be spending time in: Madrid, Barcelona, Brussels, Brugges, Amsterdam, Croningen, Hamburg, Berlin, Prague, Mannheim, Paris, Stockholm, Turku, and Helsinki. So look forward to glowing portraits of some of Europe´s finest cities, or to, the more likely of the two, a glowing mans incoherent and stumbling attempt at a rough stained picture that probably fell out of the back of a truck somewhere and then the author stumbled upon it, dusted it off a bit and then said, "Hey I bet I could sell this," and then took it to a dealer and said, "Hey I bet I could sell this," and the dealer said, "Looks a bit rough around the edges, but Hey I bet you could sell this," and then they both nodded, shook hands, and the author left with a smile on his face and the dealer was left standing nodding his head in content. Something more like that, I think.

Well, it´s late. I´m tired. And I will stop. Tomorrow, you will, hopefully, discover the reason for my acute tiredness at time of publication, and, thus, the cause of the incoherent rambling. For today it was Madrid tomorrow Europe!

(Actually tomorrow we will be in Madrid again.)

Edinburgh: An Introduction

Some of you more literary types (for I am sure there are many!) may recognize this title as a bit of a play on Seymour: An Introduction by the catcher himself J.D. Salinger. Furthermore, I am sure that those types are also wondering why I would make an allusion to Salinger when, really, he had nothing to do with Scotland. Well, my loyal, beloved readers, I think I may skirt the issue and not necessarily answer your queries directly, but, I think, with more of an explanation. Not but a few days ago I was reading the aforementioned story and was completely infatuated with the prose and, more importantly, the idea of Seymour, the narrator's brother. The narrator showed an affection hardly seen on the printed page for his subject. In the beginning he felt that perhaps an introduction would be the first step at unveiling the person he loved so dear, that would, in turn, be followed by more intimate portraits entitled like such as (anyone?), Seymour 2 and Seymour 3. Thus an epiphany bestruck (Not a word? Whatevs.) me, in an attempted homage to two of the most lovely things I have experienced in my life, Edinburgh and Salinger, I will name this blog entry as such and put forth my ode to Edinburgh.

The first thing necessary in a story such as this is a intuitive quote, I believe.

"All speech, written or spoken, is a dead language, until it finds a willing and prepared hearer. "

This one is particularly pertinent, I think. If it were not for you, O Glorious Reader!, what would these words be? They would exist, sure, but as Robert Louis said (By the w, the quote can be attributed to RL Stevenson, which I thought was more befitting seeing as the man was from the, Glory Be!, land of Scots), they would only be a lifeless collection of letters. So, as a show of gratitude to the, O let's say, 5 of you, I offer this bouquet of parenthesis: ((((())))).
Now, if you've made it this far (you probably have because, let's face it, the majority, neigh! the whole, of my readership is family(still...)) without letting out a shaking-head-sigh and leaving the website, I will reward you by beginning my tale.

I remember it clearly. There were three of us that night, sitting in a Kitchen, chatting. I believe I may have had my foot upon my knee in a rather relaxed position. I remember mentioning, in a somewhat casual yet cavalier manner, that a bus trip to Edinburgh (say, sometime in November, for it was September back then) and back, if booked far enough in advance, could go for the low-low price of 10 pounds round trip. It was Tuesday Night, I believe. Annicka, one of the two to whom I was talking, nodded her head appreciatively, 'Mm-Hmm,' she said. 'What about next weekend?' 'What, you mean like 10 days from now?!' I asked in a supercilious manner (finally, a chance to use supercilious!), the kind of incredulous and condescending voice one uses to say things like, 'You mean you've never heard of Flaubert?!' or 'Are you saying Pollock is your favorite abstract expressionist? Gaah, how remarkably predictable!' She responded calmly, assumedly unaware of my pretension, 'No, I mean like the day after tomorrow.' I looked at the other man at the table, Henrik, with that famous smirk and eye-roll (Women.) and expected to be greeted with a similar expression, but instead I was surprised to find him slowly nodding. 'Well,' I said, looking back to Annicka now, 'I guess we could take a look at prices.'

I remember it clearly. There were four of us in the room, a small room, a room not necessarily fit for four people to fit comfortably. The fourth now was a girl named Teija, she sat quietly. I was sitting at Annicka's computer, looking at bus prices, looking at hostel prices. It was doable. We looked it over and discussed it. It took about ten minutes until we were all four nodding in unison. We would leave Friday night from London, stay two nights, return Monday morning. It was something like 30 pounds for the bus ticket and 26 pounds for 2 nights in a hostel. We decided to book an eight bedded room after we called four more people to confirm their interest. A one later decided to join our gang after we had booked the rooms and bus tickets bringing our total to a happy nine (you better believe there is going to be a Fellowship of the Ring reference in the near future). After the four of us aforementioned, there were three girls: Regina, Virva, and Maria, and two boys: Scott, and Georgios. We would leave Friday afternoon.

I remember it clearly. It was Friday. Afternoon. We were aboard the train headed to Waterloo. The bus would leave from Victoria Coach station. We were anxious. The tension was precipitously palpable (c'mon!) aboard the train. Perhaps I felt it more than others--portrayed, I think, most clearly by my incessant foot-tapping and my non-stop non-talking--because I'm pretty sure they were counting on me to get them to Victoria Station and I didn't really know where it was. And I didn't really have a map. We deboarded (Not a Word? Whatevs.) the train and to my surprise my apprehension did not Disapparate (Potter fans?), instead I felt more nervous with every step. What's worse, as my oblivion was more than obvious, I assumed someone would step-up and suggest something like, 'Nate, be calm, for I will take the lead of this fellowship (see?). I will show you the way to Morder (or Victoria Coach Station),' but no one stepped forward, and although worried, they seemed almost as oblivious as I! Perhaps not, because as I now recall I remember several instances when I would say something like, 'Okay, I think it is literally right around this corner,' or 'I think I see it right up ahead, is that it?' It usually wasn't. But at about the exact time of when the last threads of our hope string were set to fully unravel, we almost literally stumbled upon it. We looked upon the blue bus as a gift sent down from the heavens--it was our saviour, it would take us to the holy lands (maybe it would even turn some water into wine for us). We set about getting ready to board, anxious at the prospect of exploring Edinburgh for two whole days. Edinburgh Here We Come!

Oh, did I mention it was a nine hour bus ride?

(As I look back on that previous paragraph I realize that the tension felt by the, handsome, strapping, intelligent, incomparable protagonist must not be felt by the reader for the main reason that there was no real time frame mentioned. Well, to be totally truthful I don't really remember how much time we had left upon arrival at the Coach Station. It was close, that's all. If it helps, think of it as we arrived just as the bus was departing, banging incessantly upon the doors of our dreams, screaming for them to recognize us. Take a minute, read through it as such, and let me know if it helps. Or you can just keep reading.)

I remember it clearly. I have never in my life wanted to punt a child so much as I have on this bus ride. It started off innocent enough. The bus was not too full and I was fortunate to be sitting in a window seat next to a heater. A perfect spot, I thought. I will be warm and I get to lay my head against something that is not the back of the chair--which, in it's evil turn, affords you the wholly attractive chance to reach the edge of sleep and then have your head violently fall forward, snapping you out of your one or two winks. My seat mate, Henrik, was attempting to break the world record of head bobs as I put my head against the freezing cold window and moved my pants as far away from the heater as I possibly could as they were seconds away from catching on fire. And then the coughing began. A small child, innocent I presume, began toying with the idea of how long he could continually cough without covering his mouth and then abruptly stop just long enough to feel like you may actually get a chance to close your eyes long enough to slip to sleep and then start coughing again. He was incredibly successful at this. What was worse was it was not just an excuse-me cough or an a-hem like cough, it was as full of phlegm as a thermos full of phlegm (Calvin and Hobbes fans?). It was as if a 75 year old man had not coughed in all his years and then feeling he could not hold it in any longer let out the most prolific cough in the history of coughing (by the w, History of Coughing? Probably an awesome major--all those readers who are still unsure of what to do with their studies take a look). It was like this over and over until finally he was put to sleep (I know what I said). But by this time, light was beginning to enter my tightly shut eyes and I could feel we were nearing our destination. Was I upset? Hardly. And as we began navigating the streets of Edinburgh on the way to the coach station, all thoughts of chucking the child out the window flew from my head. And slowly a smile spread across my face. And slowly we pulled into the coach station. And slowly we descended those steps.

We had made it.

Insert Sequential and Possibly Alliterative Brighton Pun Here

From the Hotel we headed straight toward the Royal Pavilion, a building that is vaguely reminiscent of the Taj Mahal. What it is doing in the center of Brighton, one will never know (scholars maintain that it was built long before the conquering of the British empire by the anglo-saxons in1135, further suggesting it was built around the turn of a millennium, which one? one will never know (scholars suggest the year 1000 is as good an estimate as anyone is going to make))(note: for those of you unfamiliar with British History, I literally just made all that up).

As mentioned before, it was a beautifully sunny day. The air was of the perfect temperature and there was general good cheer all around. We looked around the Pavilion for a time, saw that there was an entrance fee of 32 pounds (slight exaggeration, but pshaw! nevertheless), and decided to sit on the grass and just enjoy the afternoon. We were surprisingly tired after the 3 minute walk from the Hotel D' Awesome and the grass felt cool and reassuring beneath us. It was a welcome treat. Nearby there was an outdoor cafe serving frothy cups of enlightenment, but these lazy legs could not be pulled from the spot where they were stuck. So, instead, we just sat around, in a bit of a circle, and watched the people go by.

I remember one moment quite clearly (indeed, I believe as it was transpiring I thought about how to word it in my blog (have I, then, lost all sense of reality? am I so lost in my own head that I have become detached from the normal world? is it I that is that pretentious egotist staring off into space concerning himself only with himself? is there any way I can add another meaningless rhetorical question to this already unimportant and, more than likely, sleep inducing digression? (that's enough))) Well, if you are still with me, let me relate. I was lying, quite angelically if I do say so myself, on my back with my hands placed behind my head staring into the trees that were just a few yards in front of me. The others, too, I think were lying silently around me as if a sleeping drug had been inserted into the deep fried shrimp (or maybe it was just a drowsy drug, because none of us were sleepy). The sun was slowly moving down toward the trees that my eyes had just become accustomed to. I remember watching the sun sink lower and lower and just thinking how quickly time moves. It was inescapable. Soon this moment would be gone. Soon these people would go. Soon nothing would be left but our memories (phew, I am getting awfully cornrifically reminiscent in these last few entries). I remember looking at the image now created as the sun sparkled behind the top leaves of those tall trees. It was such a beautiful image with such a depressing connotation. It signified the beginning of the end. It was soon that sun would fall. It was soon we would go home. It was startling then when I came out of my trance to see the rays of sun dancing on my colleagues smiling faces. Had they not just experienced a deeply profound realization? Had they not just become nihilist in the twenty minutes we were lying on the grass in silence? I suppose not. Thank God. My thoughts now diverted, I looked around to see them each enjoying this moment simply for it's simplicity. Satisfied, I put my head back against the grass and let the sun do it's dance across my smiling face. (I should note that as I wrote that last paragraph I was listening to Iron & Wine (for those who do not know, Iron & Wine is as soft as indie folk can get, and that is saying something), which may contribute to my introspective laziness. Also, perhaps for my pretentious tone. And most definitely for it's evocative sappiness. Maybe I'll listen to some funk.)

I was feeling particularly groovy when we removed ourselves from our hippy circle and decided to head to the Marina. It was a pretty significant walk from the Pavilion to the Marina, but we were up for it after sitting for about an hour, so we undertook it. We walked down to a path that leads to the Marina, and found it, as per usual, to be more than lovely. It was afternoon now, and the sun was just beginning to orange ever so slightly. It played beautifully with the waves of the sea, sparkling so spectacularly. It was no wonder our conversations were often hindered by our long longing looks out to sea. Sometimes I would walk along side another one of my fellow travelers, discussing this and that, often, though, I would fall back behind the group and just admire the beauty of the situation.

We made it to the Marina, which to me seemed more like it's own entity than a part of Brighton. It held a giant ASDA (Wal-Mart basically), a gas station, lovely looking flats, numerous pubs and restaurants, and the cheapest looking most expensive car wash I've ever seen (It was literally a guy with a hose and a bucket of soap charging something like 10 pounds (no exaggeration) for a 'DELUXE' wash). We procured a pint at a local pub and sat in the sunshine excited to enjoy the rest of the day.

The pint was put back hastily and we decided, though lovely, the marina was a bit too noisy and it was time to head back to the train station. We took our time heading back, nearly criss-crossing (Jump! Jump! (anyone?)) through the city. It was pleasant enough, as the sun was fulling fading now, it caused beautiful shadows from east facing walls to engulf us in their outward stretching. In time, we reached the top of a particular hill that overlooked the city centre and the train station. It was here we jumped onto a little wall and bit greedily into our store bought sandwiches and watched the sun fall behind the buildings that were situated across a little valley and atop another hill in front of us. We sat in relative silence. In a more than perfect symbol, the sun was slowly setting on our journey. It had been a more than congenial companion. And now, with its last grasp of light still reaching just above those buildings across the way, we wiped the crumbs from our hands and walked down the incline before us toward the station. I looked up during the descent and saw the sun, without pomp, slip behind the building, out of sight, but it's presence still known. I thought, without pomp, what a perfect way to end the day*.



*and a blog entry (I really wanted to put that in there but I thought a poetic pause (what?!) was called for)

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)

Dubliners (III)

Grace.

After arising and putting on my only clothes (those my fellow travelers would learn to love and loathe), I moved quietly to the window, easily drew the curtain to the side and looked out on the view that at night was a blur image of buildings lit with unbecoming lights and a river casting an impressionist image of the Dublin nightlife, I found that with the grey of the morning light came a new and slightly neurotic city. The hustle of the cars along the avenue, the unknown drivers unknowingly being looked down upon from the second story of a hostel window, the fast and eager pace of those walking along the thoroughfare, the shouts of car horns, the noisy talkings of the street, all blended together to make the city feel manic and important–to make the city feel alive. All this from the second story of an unassuming hostel. All this before I’d eaten breakfast.

Breakfast came with a splash of milk onto an assuming bowl of Rice Krispies. It went quickly enough and before the plastic spoon hit the bottom of the empty porcelain bowl we were out the door and slowly ambling towards the haven of highs, the glory of greats, the hither-be-known synonym of sheer awesomeness: The Guinness Storehouse.

The streets grew silent as we neared the Storehouse, as if in anticipation of a momentous event, the city–our city–had frozen in time and only we six were able to move gently through to our awaiting serendipity. We found the Storehouse to be generally empty upon arrival, and after looking at the map, we calculated the exact time it would take us to claim our free pint of Guinness. It was to be a long hour.

The Storehouse is a collage of sights, sound, and smells. Throughout the seven levels one finds the smell of roasted barley at times overpowering, at times strangely sweet, and always altogether (for lack of a better word) intoxicating. Each level is devoted to a specific characteristic of the Guinness Trademark, but because I am doing this solely by memory I will not go in to labored detail. Just know that it has a heavy devotion to the entire brewing process, advertising, Guinness throughout the ages, and (possibly the most fascinating part) barrel making. It is well worth the 9 euro admission price, if for the simple fact that you get to drink a pint (or two) at the top of the world.

It must be said that as we neared the top level (the level at which the fabulous freebie is given) the remaining floors were moved through in something one could easily call haste. It being nearly noontime our lips felt the subtle tingling sensation of dryness, our tongues, ever eager for something to taste, licked our lips in anticipatory delight, our minds thought not of what was before us but of what was to come. We were thirsty.

As we ascended the final stair that led us to the Gravity Bar—a circular room with 360 degree views of Dublin, hardwood floors, cleverly placed modern chairs and tables, and a homey feel in a modern atmosphere that could only be accomplished by contrasting the revolutionary design of the building with the famous antiquity of the Guinness Trademark—our eyes fell upon the bar in the center of the room bustling with busy bar matrons and stocked with the only Taps that one could possibly want or need: Guinness taps.

We handed our tokens to the barman who quickly (some might say too quickly for a proper pint of Guinness) poured our pints, and, after letting them settle, finally let the cool goodness rush down our throats. It is rare to find subtle ecstasy in something you expect, but this was my feeling upon the first gulp of Guinness. It was cool not cold, refreshingly light, and as smooth as ever. It was a rare event: a perfect pint. But it was not just what’s in the glass that made it a perfect pint, but, also, what surrounded it. The air was filled with joyous language and happy tidings. A palpable happiness hung easily throughout the room. And when you are in good company with people you enjoy in a place you want to be, nothing in life can be sweeter.

We sat at a fashionable chair and table number and after another free pint (a man was kind enough to give his tokens to us) decided from the Storehouse we would go to Phoenix park. A decidedly missed attraction, Phoenix Park is the largest park in Europe and after grabbing some food we made our way to this rolling expanse of green grassland. We sat on a bench at the entrance to the park and quietly ate our food, watching the occasional local couple slowly amble by, hand in hand, enjoying the sunny autumn day. After finishing, two of our group decided to do some shopping in town while three of us ventured into the park.