All Things Go

Galway during the Arts Festival

“We're drinking my friend, To the end of a brief episode, Make it one for my baby, And one more for the road."
--Johnny Mercer

What stands now as three grand weeks of adventure across the pond will, with certainty, seem like a brief episode years from now. But what an episode.

All things come to their end, and so too the Yank's European excursion. Having just finished a return trip to Ireland, where we spent two nights in Galway and then back to Dublin for a day and night, nearly everyone has come home to the States. As I write this message from New York, Hetty has hopefully made a flight out of Dublin and is airborne. Chris, Ashley, Stephanie, and myself (along with the already returned Shane) have left behind the fair green lands of the British Isles. Our last days, after leaving Scotland, were spent on the other side of Ireland, in Galway, during the annual Arts Festival.

We didn't participate in any directly related festival activities, but the little Irish city was certainly in the celebratory spirit and there was music everywhere. It was a great time to have visited. I dropped the ball and recorded no video whilst there, but Chris and the girls snapped some fantastic photos of the town and the coastline. All three girls were with us, as we serendipitously met up with Ashley and Stephanie on the train from Dublin to Galway, they having just flown in from spending the week in Italy and Munich.

Thus we began our trip in Ireland, and so ended it. We rode the train back to Dublin our last day and returned to Abraham House hostel, all the while experiencing a feeling not unlike returning home. For Chris and I's part, the entire trip went as smoothly as silk, and--after we actually made it to Europe--things were about as amazing as one could hope for. We watched the Wimbleton finals from in HDTV while in London, arrived hot on the heels of the Tour de France in Barcelona, saw the running of the bulls in Pamplona, gazed in awe at the fireworks on the Eiffel Tower in Paris on Bastille Day, processed fresh sides of beef on a Scottish farm, gained ten pounds while being spoiled by the nicest Glaswegian in the world, and danced jigs to traditional Irish reels long into the Galway night.

Thus does the journey come to a close, at least for now, for the Yanks Across the Pond.

Bonnie Mountains

It just didn't seem right to leave Glasgow behind, what with all the exquisite pampering we had received at the hands of Shane's Great Aunt Agnus, but we all had flights to catch out of Edinburgh (or Manchester, in Shane's case) thus we parted ways with the fine city. Shane, Chris, and I made plans before leaving to return; the three of us having decided that Glasgow was just the sort of place we should be living. Our only really questionable experience was when Shane caused a rucus by wearing his shirt with a prominent Celtic logo into the place we stopped for lunch. The guy behind the bar pointed to the logo and told Shane, quite seriously, that he better cover it up or get out. We were concerned that we had inadvertantly run afoul of a Ranger's hooligan, and Shane discreetly put on his "jumper". Our meal was eaten in unease, but we weren't about to turn tail and run on account of some soccer-mad Scot.
It turns out, we learned later, that wearing logos or team colors of any kind into public places (outside of general markets and such) is typically forbidden to avoid any unwanted chicanery going down.

After our farewells to Glasgow, we returned by train to Edinburgh. Shane forgot his passport, and only realized it as we entered the station, and thus he had to return to East Kilbride and then meet back up with us later at Waverly. The timing worked out, and soon we were all reunited (Chris, Hetty, Shane, and myself) in Old Town, where we returned to the hostel Chris and I had used and made descreet use of their luggage room before setting out on the town again.

Having already seen much of the town and castle, we all agreed it would be more fun to walk down towards the coast and hike up the mountains known as Arthur's Seat in Holyrood Park. The day was especially windy, and more than once I feared for my life as we ascended to the peak which stands 250 meters (823 ft) above sea level. We have some grand photos, but most are one Shane's camera and so must be posted later.

After the mountain, we did some souvenier shopping and then parted ways, with Chris, Hetty, and I heading for the airport to fly back to Dublin. From Dublin we would spend two days in Glasgow, before returning (today) to fly home on the 23rd.

Anecdotes

As we have been returned now to Ireland for two days, and the trip will shortly be coming to an end, I wanted to take a break and reflect on some of the smaller curiosities of the trip:

I didn't bring a razor to Europe, as I figured if I wanted to shave I could purchase the requisite tools over here. Thus, in Dublin I wandered into the Euro 2 store where everything is 2 Euro and bought a pack of ten disposable razors. I didn't buy shaving cream, saying to myself, 'I'll just cowboy-up and use water. This of course resulted in the most painful shave of my life. I probably would have had a closer, gentler shave if I'd used a roofing shingle.
In London I bought a bottle of shaving cream which made the next time only the second most painful shave of my life.

On the steps outside of Abraham House in Dublin, a Frenchman engaged me in conversation. A few minutes in, he asked in his broken English, "Do you like Obama?" I replied "no." He frowned and was silent. I came back with, "Do you like Sarkozy?" He shook his head fervently and said, "No, he is uh, very bad."
Our conversation pretty much ended there.

In Dublin, an Irish woman stopped us to beg for money by first asking us, in Ireland mind you, "do you speak English?"

On our Wicklow Tour, Tour Guide Steven liked to joke about Gypsies ("they have an uncanny way of finding things before they go missing"). He said in Ireland they are called Travellers, or Tinkers, in England they are called Pikies, and in Georgia they are called Rednecks. Ashley confronted him at the end of the tour, telling him that we were from Georgia and that his joke was in poor taste. Turns out, Steven had lived in Thomasville for a few months on a soccer scholarship. We forgave him the slight, but only once.

In London, Chris and I spoke with a Spaniard from Galacia who told us that Italy was filthy, and then proceeded to emphasize his point by acting as though he was wading through mud to signify all of the garbage on the streets of Rome.

From the train, as we passed through Wales into Western England, we saw acres of trailer parks, on both sides of the tracks. They were cleaned and orderly, but stretched for miles.

Glasgowin' Places

Chris, Ben, and I were all sitting in the kitchen after meat processing, enjoying tea and the warmth of the ancient oven, when Ben looked at the clock and shook his head.

"I thought that work was going to take me all day. I haven't had this much free time in ages." Then he sighed and smiled slightly, "I guess I can take a nap."

The time that Hetty, Chris, and I spent on the farm was a welcome change of pace from the sightseeing and hosteling. We spent less than two days there, but by the time we boarded a train to Glasgow, I for one was quite refreshed (though smelling a bit to be sure.) Ben drove us up to the station, where we bid a fond but hasty farewell, as the our train was just at moment arriving.

The next stop for us in Scotland was Glasgow, where we would join back up with Shane and spend two nights being spoiled by his Great Aunt Agnus. To that end, we road the train into Glasgow Queen's Station and then had to walk down to Glasgow Central and catch a train to East Kilbride, a quiet little suburb of row houses and chatty local butchers who are always up for 18 holes (so Shane told us.) We were unsure of the house at first, because it was literally right next to the train stop, so we camped down in a cafe that had free wifi to check emails and confirm. It turned out we had the right house, and I ran across the street and knocked loudly, drawing forth a Shanerton.


Staying with Aunt Agnus was unbelievable. She is the nicest woman, with a thick Scottish accent, who fits every stereotype of the doting grandmother. If she caught wind of any need we had, she was quick to remedy it--and she wouldn't take no for an answer. She fed us breakfast and dinner both days--even making us a meat pie--and we all probably gained ten pounds each. Breakfast and dessert were all accompanied by thick, real creme that we had to eat less we risk disappointing. Her house was fantastic, with two stories and a massive loft. We each had our own bed, and a shower that had a start and stop button.

Shane led us into Glasgow (it was a mere 20 minute train ride) the afternoon we arrived to show us around and give us a nice taste of the culture difference between Glasgow and Edinburgh. Where the capital is far older looking, and more geared towards tourist, the former industrial center of Glasgow has become a nexus for fashion and art, with more that four Art Museums and Galleries. However, Chris and I had already experienced quite enough art for one trip, and we decided not to bother with anymore (modern, specifically.) Glasgow looks like and must be a far more livable city, with American style shopping malls and pedestrian streets lined with shops and Quiznos.
At one point, we were walking towards the central station to return to East Kilbride when Chris started wandering in the wrong direction. We called for him, and he suddenly snapped out of a daze. Hurrying over he apologized and said,
"Sorry. I saw someone eating a meat pie, and I noticed the name on the wrapper was Greggs. So when I saw that Greggs over there, I just started walking towards it unconsciously."
We would later enjoy some fine Scotch Pies from Greggs.

The next day Hetty was not feeling well (she thinks from the rare steaks we ate the other night, here stomach not being accustomed to such fare). She planned to stay around East Kilbride with Aunt Agnus while we men were going to head back into Glasgow and try to catch a train to Turnberry, where the British Open was just finishing up. Unfortunately, by the time we reached the city, the service to the Open had ceased. Disappointed, we fell back and regrouped. I had read about a museum the night before called the Royal Highland Fusiliers Museum, and we decided to go have a look. Strike two. For some reason, on a Saturday no less, the museum was closed.

With no other real plans, we decided to do a bit of shopping as I needed a jacket and Shane wanted to get some Celtic (the catholic football club in Glasgow, of which his side of the family are fans) apparel. I ended up finding a vary nice Celtic (pronounced "Sell-tick") jacket that was on sale. Shane picked up a shirt that had the clubs logo on the breast, and he immediately changed into it. His shirt caused problems later, because soccer hooliganism is a real issue in Glasgow...but more on that later.

Agricultured

"Some hae meat and canna eat,
And some wad eat that want it,
But we hae meat and we can eat,
And sae the Lord be thankit."
--Robert Burns

After we met Hetty at Waverly Station in Edinburgh, Chris and I hurried back to the hostel to fetch our bags before jumping on board a train bound for Glasgow. Our stop was not Scotland's other big city, but rather an ancient little farming town between the two called Linlithgow. It was here, at Bonnytoun Farms, that Hetty had some "relatives." The reality of the situation is this: Hetty's family is good friends with a woman named Ruthie who they grew up around and called their "cousin." Ruthie some seven years ago met a nice Scottish boy named Ben who had come to America on holiday and decided to stay. They married, and a little while later moved back to Scotland to take over the family farm. At the time we were arriving, however, Ruthie was actually on holiday herself in the States and thus Ben and two of their children (five year old Casper and 2 year old Poppy) were the ones to greet us along with their sheep dog Dash and family dog Rover.

Ben is a friendly man, and he made an excellent host as we settled in for a night in the large, aged farmhouse that sat on the edge of 200 arces of pasture land where cattle, sheep, and horses grazed. The place reminded me of my own family's farm in Flordia, but considerablly larger and Scottish. We arrived late afternoon, and Ben sent us to the polytunnel (greenhouse type structure) to pick ourselves some green veg for supper. He already had the potatoes pulled up, and was about to prepare the amazing, enormous cuts of steak we had chosen. The entire meal we ate came from the farm, and it was probably the best I had the entire trip. The next day, we made an attempt to repay Ben's hospitality by helping him take a few fresh sides of beef he had just slaughtered and process them into mince (hamburger meat), diced, and his own special reciped sausages. He was glad for the help, he told us, as the hour we four spent working together would have taken him the entire day by himself.

You Take the High Road...I'll Take the Train

"O Scotia! my dear, my native soil! For whom my warmest wish to heaven is sent; Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content."
--Robert Burns

We left Paris on the morning of the 15th after a quick breakfast at the station. We would later that day take lunch in London, and then supper in Edinburgh. The trip from Paris to London was lightning quick, as we took the Eurostar train through the chunnel. I slept most of the way, making the journey seem that much more brief. In London we took a moment to walk back out into King's Cross (we had become quite familiar with the area) in order to eat a quick meal and stop by a Tesco so I could stock up on HP Sauce to bring back to the states. We then boarded a train and bid a final farewell to London, and England all together.

The train up through the countryside was pleasant, and by the time we crossed into Scotland the scenery had become spectacular. However, the best bit of the whole affair was the free wifi that was pumping throughout the train. By the time we had reached Edinburgh, I was nearly caught up on my interneting...but only nearly.
Edinburgh is a grand city, and as one exits Waverly Station (named after the Walter Scott novel) the medieval walls and castles that still survive in Old Town jump out and announce themselves with quiet grandeur. The crown jewel of the city is of course Edinburgh Castle, which guards the city from on high from its untenable mount. We would eventually see the castle from all angles, and go up into it as far as we could for free. A seventeen pound fee is required to enter all the way, and we were warned ahead of time that the price of admission is not worth what you experience. That evening, after checking into a hostel for the night, we found a likely looking restaurant and sat down for our first helping of haggis, complete with mash and turnips (tatties and neeps as they say.) The haggis was the best I've had (though the Australians make a fine attempt) and I must say that I have grown immeasurably fond of turnips during this trip.
Our hostel was just off the Royal Mile which stretches from the garish Scottish Parliament building at one end (a point of national pride since it only came into existence in 1999 after the union of the with the English Parliament in 1702) all the way up to the Castle on the other end. In between are countless kilt shops, souvenirs stores (all selling the exact same merchandise), and pubs that are designed to lure tourists in for "traditional" Scottish fare. We spent the night in relative comfort, having to close to window at one point against the chill, and awoke with a plan to explore a bit and then meet with Hetty when she arrived at the train station that afternoon. She was coming fresh from a stay in Amsterdam at a Christian Mission Center, having taken an overnight ferry to London and then a train up to Waverly.

Yep, that's haggis, sausage, rashers, beans, and a tomato. Covered with plenty of brown sauce.

After an amazing traditional breakfast courtesy of the buffet in the cafe of our hostel, Chris and I spent the majority of the morning in the fascinating and jam-packed Scottish National Museum that was seven floors filled with artifacts, fossils, and history. The exhibits there on the Romans and Vikings were larger than most regular museums. An incredible amount of artifacts remain in existence dating all the way back to the pre-Christian Picts and Scots. As an added bonus, the entirely free museum allows visitors to access a platform on the roof to get a panoramic view of Edinburgh, with clear views all the way to the coast (which didn't seem that far away.)

Around 4:30 in the afternoon, we returned to the train station and within minutes had located the newly arrived Hetty and picked out the next train we would all be taking to her "cousins" farm in Linlithgow. What was to follow was the beginning of an extremely interesting and rewarding stay on a cattle/pig/sheep farm in the rolling Scottish countryside.

Fireworks at the Tour Eiffel

And this was just the five minute opener...

The Man of Bastille

"History is a gallery of pictures in which there are few originals and many copies."
- Alexis de Tocqueville

Traveling from Pamplona by train may have been the most scenic passage in all of Spain, but if it was I have no clue. All the way back to Madrid, Chris and I slept like stones. The long night of being awake left us needed a long day of being asleep, and thankfully our insightful trip planning lent itself to such. For we arrived in Madrid at one station (Atocha) and then took the Metro to a more Northerly station (Chamartin) where we then camped out for a few hours and waited to leave on a sleeper train to Paris. Sleep was the order of business, and our overnight train was designed to accommodate. Our cabin contained four seats that, upon request, were folded away making room for couchettes to be let down. Chris and I were joined by a quiet Frenchman named Pierre and a Mexican on holiday whose name I have forgotten. However, he was infinitely useful in dealing with our train attendant, who spoke in the most rapid-fire Spanish that without a go between, he and I would have not been able to communicate.

Once again, I am sure the views of the Pyrenees and what-have-you were spectacular, but the inside of my eyelids was of far more intrigue to me at the time. I did manage to catch a glimpse of the rocky, cattle field area around Valladolid, and it was quite peculiar. I finally awoke in the morning when our motorboat mouthed attendant came to return our passports and tickets, and I glimpsed the pastoral countryside of France leading into the Gare D'Austerlitz in gay Paris--on the national holiday of Bastille Day.

Stepping out of the train station into Paris was a strange, welcoming feeling. We emerged right out onto the Left Bank of the Seine and were struck by the gorgeous view of the city with the sun just rising above the rooftops. Paris was nothing if not a sight. We did not have far to go from our train station to the hostel, but when we arrived at the Hotel du Commerce, there was no one at the reception. After waiting for fifteen or so minutes, a middle-aged French woman came tottling in with an armful of flowers she had obviously just picked up from the market. A polite French/English mix conversation began and I learned that our room were not ready yet for another hour.

Not wishing to waste any time, Chris and I dropped our bags and walked down the street to visit Notre Dame Cathedral. The place was already crawling with tour groups in all manner of languages, but we managed to get a good look around, outside and inside. The most striking thing about Notre Dame, other than its architecture, size, and flying buttresses, is the stunning hypocrisy of the Catholic church that is still on full display. Visiting Notre Dame, one is immediately reminded of the precise reasons for the Reformation. Case in point: as you enter the cathedral you are asked to kindly remove you hat, as a gesture of respect and piety (which makes sense), but you are then immediately presented with literally hundreds of ways to spend money inside the church. From purchasing candles to light, to twenty euro DVDs, to a machine where you inside a euro coin and an image is smashed onto it. As Chris pointed out, "I'm pretty sure this is why Jesus turned the tables over in the temple."

By the time we finished up with Notre Dame, we had killed the needed hour, so we walked back to the hostel. As we did, the military parade on the Champs Elysee must have just started because jet fly-overs began. The first three jets zipped by leaving three lines of red, white, and blue smoke (for the flag) hanging in the sky. I was a bit upset that we were missing the parade, but it was all the way across town.

We got checked in no problem, our rooms looking like the quaint sort that I expected from France with doors (we had two, single bed rooms) that opened out into a small, outdoor lane inside the building. Settled, we made for the Rive Droite and the sights of the Louvre and Touilleries (the art museum was closed, but we wouldn't have gone in anyway) and made out way towards the Arc de Triomphe. The sun was out the whole time, and everything was strikingly beautiful. There were Parisians and Tourists everywhere--it being the big holiday--and the whole city had a celebratory atmosphere. There was a carnival on in the middle of the mall that leads up to the Champs Elysee, but the attraction that garnered our interest was the mob of protesters that the police had fully encircled. Some fifty or more Gendarmes had wrangled a group of people in clown make-up and masks and were slowly moving them towards police buses. We have no idea what they were protesting, or why they were being arrested, but it certainly was an entertaining sight.

On the Champs, we saw the aftermath of the parade, as part of the street was lined with bleachers and soldiers of all sorts were still milling about. At one point, in a head-turning moment, we passed two German soldiers, in full uniform, walking side by side down the street.
Flags were everywhere to include an enormous flag hanging under the Arc de Triomphe, just above the grave of the unknown soldier. France was very proud of herself that day.

Having walked nearly the width of the city, after the Arc de Triomphe, we decided to duck into a theatre on the Champs Elysee to rest and catch a film. We found an American movie in English with French subtitles, and went for it. The film was called Jeux de Pouvoir ("Power Games") in French, but State of Play in English. It stars Russell Crowe and Ben Affleck, amongst others, and is about political and journalistic intrigue in Washington D.C. It had come out a few months prior in the States, but we had missed it. The film was good (I mean, come on, Russell Crowe) but it was more fun to watch a movie about our capital in the capital of another country, subtitled in their language.

The movie let out around six, and we figured we had better head towards the Eiffel Tower to get good seats on the Champs de Mars for the fireworks display that evening. We had thoughts of going up the tower, but that dream was soon proven foolish as the near vicinity of the tower was entirely blocked off. We joined streams of people as they coursed down the boulevards into the Champs de Mars where we were deposited in the seething, cigarette smoking, wine drinking, baguette eating mass of humanity that had already accumulated in the lee of the tower. Then we played the waiting game.

There was an enormous concert put on, by French pop artists who must be quite popular, but it didn't mean much to either Chris nor I. They played a few American rock songs (some in English, some in French) but for the most part it was just noise. Then, after a few hours, the sun finally set and the tower went dark in preparation. The fireworks display and light show that followed was unbelievable. It lasted for thirty consecutive minutes and blew out enough ordnance to level a small Russian city. The show was worth the wait, to say the least, and I felt validated in our decision to visit Paris on that particular day. A video will surely follow.

A Wall-Slapping Good Time

I don't exactly know what was going on, but apparently this is an important part of the San Fermin Fiesta.

Corrida de Toros

The Night and the Bulls

"The things that happened could only have happened during a fiesta. Everything became quite unreal finally and it seemed as though nothing could have any consequences. It seemed out of place to think of consequences during the fiesta."
--Ernest Hemingway from The Sun Also Rises

After the adventure that was Barcelona, things once again moved in divergent directions. Shane woke before dawn on the morning of the 13th to catch a flight back home with the promise of meeting us in a few days time in Edinburgh, where we would then go visit with his Great Aunt and her family in Glasgow for a few days. Ashley and Stephanie had parted with us the night before, their intention being to stay on in Barcelona for another afternoon (they arrived a day behind us) and then take the train over into Italy. When we shall all be together again is unclear, though the girls and us all fly out of Dublin, so at some point we might cross paths once more on foreign soil.

For our part, Chris and I had a most different sort of challenge ahead. We left Barcelona in the early afternoon on a slow train that wound us along the gorgeous Mediterranean coast, and then up into the foothills of the Pyrenees into Basque country; the former Kingdom of Navarre. We were bound for Pamplona, and a long night in the fortified city during the famed Festival de St. Fermin. We had no lodging booked (for such would have been very expensive) but we had a plan. We showed up late in the afternoon and caught a bus into the city center (I didn't see where it was going, but followed my gut. To our good fortune, my gut is an accurate navigator.) Once in the city, we used the free map we got at the station (we have used free maps from the stations everywhere we've gone and, though some of them have been quite lame, we've always had success) to find our way to the luggage check that Pamplona city sets up every year for transient festival attendees such as Chris and myself.

For a little under five euro, we were able to check out bags over night. I changed into my all white attire, and then we hit the city to find a vendor selling the rest of the Fermines custom. During the festival, everyone where's all white except for a red sash or neckerchief, or both. Chris and I just went with the neckerchiefs, and soon we were blending in with the hundreds of thousands of others from Spain and around the globe there to wait up all night for the corrida del torros; the running of the bulls.

Near the luggage check was an ancient fountain that had on four sides, four spigots that were constantly pouring cool, fresh water into basins beneath. This fountain was a great find, and the most visited spot of our night.

My young sister Lorraine visited Spain the year prior, and had also attended the Fiesta. She said then of Pamplona that it was "crowded, filled with drunks, and smelled like pee." She could not have been more correct. By 4am the city was so filthy and doused in urine, that a fresh breath was hard to find. People were passed out in every available green space (and some on the narrows streets themselves where they were mocked and messed with by other revelers.) Before that however, things were grand. Dueling marching bands roamed the old, cobble stone streets leading impromptu parades. Concerts played in the plazas, and the excitement of the moment was in the air. By about 2, however, I was failing out. I had not slept nearly as much as I had hoped on the train in, and Chris and I looked around for a secluded spot to nap. Fearing for our safety at times, we only caught snatches of sleep, then eventually abandoned the endeavor all together.

To stay awake, we ate the ubiquitous ham sandwiches (bochadillos), drank cokes (as I couldn't find the coffee joint, though I swear I saw one at some point) and discovered the tall city walls where there still exist cannon placements. The whole of the old city of Pamplona used to be a fortress, and the rear of the fort is still intact. I would have liked to have seen it in the day. We also made frequent visits to the blessed fountain.

Finally, at some point, the crowds began to stir again and move towards the streets where the bulls were to be run. Chris and I also made our way there and stood by as the fences were erected. Two fences are put up parallel to each other on either side of the streets--one to separate the bulls from the police and emergency personnel, and another to separate the spectators further. Chris and I posted up on the top of the second fence, in a likely spot, and waited. Finally, after safety announcements over loudspeakers in eight languages, the race began at promptly 8am.

The whole of the event was exhilarating and over in a flash. Two groups of bulls came thundering down the slick cobble stones (they cleaned the streets before hand with fire hoses) chasing and being chased by all manner of the brave and the idiotic. I got the first charge on video and it lasts a whopping 20 seconds.
After the run, we wandered back through a now remarkably cleansed city past a cafe with a TV showing the footage filmed of the run moments before. We watched on camera as nine people were bucked or trampled, resulting in the most injuries yet of the Fiesta. Having just finished yesterday (the Fiesta), I believe the record still stands. After watching this, we retrieved our bags and made for the train station where we were bound to travel back to Madrid to connect on an overnight Trainhotel to Paris. Needless to say, we slept pretty much the entire day, in trains and train stations alike.

Barcelona Blues

Yep, that's Dr. House schleppin' Schwepps in Spain.

"Oh and guard your wallets. Barcelona is number one pick pocketing place."
--Shane Birney on Facebook two days before arrival.

The afternoon that Chris, Shane, and I arrived in Barcelona we changed into swim attire and made for the beach. Along the way, we passed through one of the most gorgeous cities we have yet visited during this trip, complete with castles, palm trees, and an enormous mountain that looms over the relaxed Catalan town like a kindly grandfather. Barcelona is infinitely different from Madrid in more ways than just the language. Everything feels more European, beautiful and yet dirty, vast and yet compact, strange but at once familiar.

We found the beach (or series of beaches rather) and proceeded to stroll along and wade in the crystal waters of the Mediterranean which were surprisingly chilly. It was long before we noticed that there were naked children running around, which then further clued us to to the naked adults. Apparently Spanish law permits nudity anywhere as long as it doesn't "cause a disturbance." The beaches however were not what you would consider "nude" beaches, but people sure weren't shy.

In a quest for food and adventure, we entered the Ramblas, which are in the heart of the city and comprised of hundreds of tiny, narrow winding streets and alleyways that criss-cross each other in no discernible pattern. Yet, despite their incongruity, we never became lost and actually had a grand time wandering the ancient labyrinth. Before long it was dark and we figured we would return to the hostel and check to see if the girls (Stephanie and Ashley) had gotten in touch with us, as they were due in the city late that evening. First, Chris made it a point to fulfill a homesick craving by stopping in for a pepperoni pizza from the Barcelona Dominos. I must admit, it did taste delightfully like America.
At the hostel, we found no message from the girls, but since where new where they were staying we decided to walk over and check to see if they had arrived. This was the beginning of the trouble.


The sun was well down by the time we went searching for the Hotel Barbara, which--as it turns out--is not in the nicest of areas. In fact, we found the Hotel hidden away down a narrow alley that was poorly lit and dirty even by Barcelonan standards. A quick visit with the clerk alerted us that the girls had not yet checked in, so we left to head back to our place. In the process, we turned a wrong corner and were immediately swarmed by prostitutes. Thankfully, I had my Panama hat on and was able to pull the brim low over my face and, for lack of a better word, charge through. Shane didn't have this luxury. As he tried to shoo away the streetwalkers, on particular large and angry Gypsy confronted him , babbling in Spanish and barring his path. As he attempted to argue with this...female...through the language barrier, out of nowhere two men appeared and hopped onto his back and shook him violently. Just as quickly as they had appareared, they were gone and Shane was left considerably dazed. Chris and I got him away finally, but as we turned the corner a look of realization dawned on Shane's face.
"My wallet's gone." He said quite simply. Thus, full of determination, he turned back to the Devil's alley from whence we had just escaped and proceeded to demand the return of his property. This however only resulted in more trouble as the angry Gypsy who had started all of this became violent and attempted to claw Shane, missing his flesh but shredding the back of his T-Shirt.

That episode effectually brought our night to a close as we returned to the hostel and Shane went about the necessary steps to have his debit card canceled. Thankfully the only things he lost were the aforementioned card and his driver's license. His cash and passport had remained unmolested in his hip pocket during the attack.
The next morning was a bit sober, but Shane was determined not to let his vacation be utterly ruined, and he did a capital job of keeping his spirits high. Later in the day we finally caught up with Ashley and Stephaine, who had arrived from Paris via plane sometime around 1am but mercifully had no problems with the locals. We all spent the day in cafe's and on the beach, though I was the only one who actually braved the frigid Mediterranean waters for a delightful mid-afternoon swim. I had my first taste of horchata and cuddlefish and we all enjoyed each others company during our vacation from our vacation.

A Brief Gasp

Chris and I left Madrid on the morning of the 8th. As we sat waiting for our train to show up, I stood up and walked over to the TV screen announcing arrivals, and as I did, I noticed a familiar face walking into the station. It was none other than Shane Birney. "Shanerton!" I cried, somewhat out of surprise and somewhat out of relief that we wouldn't have to hunt for him in Barcelona. "John Ford Milton, you totally awesome dude!" was his reply...or something similar at least.

It turned out that Shane was unable to make the Barcelona flight he had planned on (he flies for free in standby because he is a Delta employee) but that there was space on an earlier flight into Madrid. Thus he, and a pretty new friend he made in the process named Amber, decided to fly into Madrid and then train into Barcelona. Thus, we all met in the Renfre station on that fateful morn, borded the train, and enjoyed together the beautifully dry country that undulated out of the city in a series of browns and dull yellows, punctuated by olive greens.

The train ride was fast and enjoyable, and as we passed through the low mountains into Catalunya, I thought about how the Tour de France had just finished up a leg in Barcelona and was that very day heading back into France through the same mountains. We were quite literally on the heels of the race. Signs for the Tour's arrival in Barcelona were everywhere when we arrived.

We parted ways with Amber, as she was due to meet her lifetime friend and spend the weekend in Pamplona, and then headed out for the hostel. Hijinks ensued, and shortly I will address them, but as the hour grows late here, and we have an early start manana, I will leave with this teaser:

Travel Guru Rick Steves says that pickpocketing will happen in Europe; it is simply a fact of life. Also, Barcelona is the pickpocketing capital of Europe. Long story short: Shane lost his wallet to some Gypsies.

Los Calles De Madrid

Spainish Nights

"Spain: a whale stranded upon the coast of Europe."
--Edmund Burke

Spain may not seem like the most obvious of destinations for one to take after a stint in London, but it is never-the-less precisely where Chris and I ended up on the afternoon of the 8th. We woke and scrambled from the Clink Hostel to St. Pancras rail station where we intended to ride a train out to Gatwick airport. However, after sitting on the platform for a few minutes, a voice recording came over the PA that informed us, "The train to Brighton has been delayed due to a broken down train in Farringdon." Our train tickets were activated to be used on the Tube and we had to ride south to Victoria Station and catch a train there. In doing this, we ended up on a train that didn't stop at Gatwick, and thus had to hope off at East Croyden and catch the next train. The entire time, right up until Gatwick, the tune of "Broken down train at Farringdon" sang over the loudspeakers. Turns out there wasn't actually a broken down train, but rather the beginnings of a strike that we thankfully escaped the effects of (see the video in the previous post.)

In Gatwick, the delays continued as apparently people had to be evacuated out of security due to a pulled fire alarm "that had since been resolved", so the line stretched out to eternity. However, to Gatwick's credit, a woman showed up to fast track us so that we would make our flight. We did make it to the plane, and Chris and I were able to enjoy our first foreign language flight (the crew was Spanish and the announcements came first in Spanish, and then in English that was almost as difficult to understand itself.) We flew Air Europa and had a nice flight, landing in Madrid at around 2 o'clock. We experienced a bit of turbulence in landing, and a black woman next to us completley lost it, first calling out "Wow! What is going on!" and then just sitting stiff-bodied, eyes closed while mouthing prayers to her heathen gods.

The Madrid airport was very nice, painted in bright yellow like McDonalds and staffed by friendly, bi-lingual individuals. We ate in the airport, as we hadn't eaten yet that day, at an overpriced cafeteria where I was able to get my first taste of jamon Serrano on a bocadillo (my new favorite food obsession.) Chris had what he described as "lunch room pizza".

We rode the metro into the city centre of Puerta de Sol, which was 45min away. Coming out of the underground into the bright sunlight filling the plaza was quite an experience. Madrid is a beautiful city, and it is nearly impossible to look in any direction without be stricken by the architecture. We stumbled around the plaza (they are doing a bit of construction), sweating in the delightfully dry heat while looking for our hotel. I eventually located it despite the less than specific map we had and the terrible directions provided by the hotel. However, our place is fantastic as we are centrally located and in a large room full of amenities including TV (which has been an adventure in and of itself) and a balcony looking out over the Plaza de Carmen.

After a siesta, we took out to explore Madrid, seeing many peculiar sights and discovering that Madrid has, hands down, the best McDonalds I have ever been in (complete with walk up windows for ordering on the go and, inexplicably, cereveza on the menu.) I was able to use my limited Spanish to order us two "Cono Kit Kats" which are delicious vanilla cones with a kit kat stuck in them....you know, because why wouldn't you? We took our cones with us to the Plaza Mayor, stopping to admire one of the Museo De Jamon along the way. Madrid is absolutely ham crazy, but it's not lunch meat or spiral cut, honey baked ham like we have in America. Jamon Serrano, and the more expensive Jamon Iberico, look like jerkey because they are cured, and have a buttery texture with a flavor that doesn't come close to anything I have eaten before. The next day I bought two bocadillo's from a Museo de Jamon and chomped on them as Chris enjoyed two hamburguesas con queso in the McDonald's across from the Prado. That night however, I dug into a skillet of seafood paella at a small cafe where our mineral water came in glass bottles and cost 1.30 euros apiece (sin gas).

Today, (as I type it is the 9th) we strolled along the Calle de Prado and saw Neptune's Fountain, the Prado (though we didn't go in) and many of the impressive government buildings. We paid six euro and visted the Reina Sofia in order to see Picasso's Guernica, not entirely realizing that the museum is exclusively dedicated to "modern art." I don't know what emotion modern art is supposed to elicit from people, but it mostly just made Chris and I laugh. We saw some of the most ridculous paintings and exhibits the human mind has come up with (Silla y máquina de escribir...look it up), to include an entire room that was dedicated to four parallel, five foot high blocks of iron. However, we did see an impression collection of Picasso's work, leading up to the star of the show, Guernica and the test sketches that preceded it. In fact, the whole exhibit dedicated to the Civil War was actually pretty fascinating. Everything else though was a chore.

Afterwards, we visited the cities enormous park, the Parque del Retiro, where a group of young Spainards was having a water fight with water taken from nearby, questionably sanitary, man-made pond. The rest of the day was spent enjoying the city; its shops and mega-department stores, its people and street performers, its food and culture.

Chris and I both have thoroughly enjoyed Spain more than we expected too, and have done well with the small amount of Spanish learned in school and afterward. Here speaking Spanish with the people seems like an accomplishment more that it does at home with Mexicans. Chris had to show his ID when purchasing something with his credit card and the man smiled and said in English,
"Georgia? Atlanta. Atlanta Hawks!" To which he added a thumps up.

Next we take a train to Barcelona where Shane should be meeting us, and where we will be reuniting with Ashley and Stephanie (just got word from them today about this development.) They are coming fresh from a stay in Paris, and should have some good stories to tell.

A Bit of Good Fortune

Chris found this video last night of what happened the very day we left London. Thankfully, we missed the commotion by a few hours:

Visit msnbc.com for Breaking News, World News, and News about the Economy

Ah Hail No!

You know, like Will Smith would say:

Hyde Park Bike Fail

It's near the end, so stick with it.

I Don't Mind the Gap

"Why, Sir, you find no man, at all intellectual, who is willing to leave London. No, Sir, when a man is tired of London, he is tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford."
— Samuel Johnson (hat tip to Donna Wroble for the quote)

In London the Yanks were as full a crew as they are likely to be for the remainder of the European tour. Five out of the six major players met in the Clink, and then proceeded to traipse about London with a wanton gaiety. For two days we saw many of the major sites, taking photos galore of such mainstays as Big Ben and Parliament House, Westminster Abbey (though we declined to pay the ridiculous entry fee since they don't allow photography inside), The Tower Bridge, Trafalgar Square where Nelson stands towering about the city, the National Gallery (which we did go inside since it was free), The Tower of London (we broke down and paid the extortionist rate to visit, though it was worth it), and much more.


On the first day we all stuck together, saw the sights, ate traditional English food (Chris and I had some fantastic bangers and mash), and rode the tube about town while attempting to "mind the gap please." It is one of my goals in life now to have a house with the tube ladies voice (I call her Linda) that speaks to me everyday and says things like,
"Good Morning, John. Please remember to put on pants before leaving the house."
The Tower was probably the highlight of the day (it's always fun to run about in a castle where so many famous people have been beheaded), though the National Gallery was indeed a fine site (lots of work from my favorite artist J. M. W. Turner.) They have an exhibition on at the Tower right now with all of Henry VIII's armor that was engrossing. The even have a pair of very crude, early firearms that Henry had in his possession.

We ended the first day by eating at a Pizza joint in Soho, which is about the only part of the city still awake past 8pm. They had a pizza on the menu called "The American" which was a peperonia pizza described as the perfect choice for those who "like their flavors strong, and simple." Chris of course had to get it, if only he said to give them feedback on whether they succeeded. Apparently the pizza passed the test.

That night Ashley got in touch with one of her friends who was on business in London at the time and she absconded to go stay in a real hotel room (I don't blame her.) I learned this the next morning when Stephanie woke me and asked me to accompany her across town to fetch the our wayward companion. On the way back I grabbed some fish and chips so I could finally check that off my list of things to do in life.

That afternoon, after we all went to the tourism office to make train reservation at the Rail Europe booth, we separated. Chris and I went to the incredible Imperial War Museum (free) and the girls went to the recreation of the Globe Theatre and then, later, to production of As You Like It somewhere. The museum was grand, dedicated to Britians involvement in the first two World Wars, and all the subsequent conflicts up until present time. We could have spent the entire day there and still not got through everything, but we managed to squeeze most of it in.

After the museum, we took the tube over to Hyde Park and right as we were getting off the train we heard the announcement that the station was closing due to an emergency. As we made our way through, we found out that the place was flooding. Thus we were forced out into the storm that suddenly began while we were underground. Undeterred by rain, strolled over to the park and watched cyclists take spills in the giant puddles that had formed. Then it began to to hail, and that pretty much spelled the end our of day in the park. We walked down Kensington, past Harrods, to the nearest, open station and trained over to Leicester square were we ran smack into the world premier of the new Harry Potter movie. The place was a madhouse, and neither Chris nor I care anything about Harry Potter, so at most seeing the stars was a mild curiosity.

We eventually made it back to the hostel and learned the girls hadn't been back so we ended up hanging out with a Spaniard, two German's (one of whom was born in Kazakhstan) and their giant Polish friend. We were outside on the steps of the Clink when the girls wandered up and told us what they had been up to. After that is was a matter of packing, hugging, and parting ways because Chris and I had to be up early to make our flight out of Gatwick to Madrid. Ashley and Stephanie were leaving the next morning for Paris on Eurostar, and Hetty was bound for Oxford. Our crew was splitting up, and separate adventures awaited.

Island Hopping and Wale Watching

"I shall return."
--General Douglas MacArthur

Leaving Dublin was a sad event, for so greatly did the city and the Irish nation as a whole impress itself upon my heart. Yet, it was only bittersweet sorrow for Chris and I knew we would be back very soon--if only for a short while.

We awoke early on Sunday and check out of the hostel, then walked around the corner to the bus station. We had a bit of confusion with what bus to get on, because the ferry service only ran to Dublin Port and I was thinking we needed to get to Dun Laoghaire. The help, if gruff, bus driver straighten me out though assuring me that Irish Ferries (the line located at Dublin Port) went to Holyhead, Wales (our UK destination.) He was correct, and we made the ferry terminal no problems, got tickets, and walked aboard the massive Jonathan Swift. The passenger deck resembled a cafeteria with two little food counters on either side. Large windows gave you a fine view of the sea, and you could walk out onto the topdeck outside if you wished where the wind was insanely powerful.

We made Wales in two hours flat and had some time to explore the quaintly endearing village of Holyhead. As was the case in Ireland with Irish, all the signs in Wales are in Welsh and English and in the little grocery we visited we heard a lot of the local jabbering in the odd, ancient language. In Holyhead we boarded a train for London using our Britrail pass and then proceeded to ride along the north coast of Wales, which is absolutely stunning to see. I made a promise to myself then that I must return and devote a trip solely to Christian Bale's homeland. At some point mid afternoon we crossed into England and the countryside became wavy green fields covered in sheep; pleasant, but boring. The weather was fantastic the whole day, and it was still bright and sunny when we detrained in London at Euston Station.

London was "all bustle and confusion" as we exited the station onto the street and began the short trek to our hostel. We past St. Pancras and King's Cross stations and got our first taste of the awe-inspiring architecture that would keep our mouths agape as we wondered the city the next few days. I had to constantly remind myself that we were now in a city older that even the thought of America. It is truly something to be in a city as at once ancient and modern as London.

Maybe you can't see, but that's the original John Milton.

We found our hostel, The Clink, in the old converted courthouse it occupies in King's Cross. The place is nice, and is definitely interesting to look at with its Internet consoles and TV lounges set up in the old count rooms. We inquired at the desk and learned that finally, against all odds, Hetty White had made it to Europe and was at the hostel that very moment. We also learned that Ashley and Stephanie had arrived safely, and after dropping off my stuff in the room, I went down to find them.

The poor girls were squirreled away in a sweltering basement room that had no A/C (a foreign concept in Ireland and the UK apparently) and no window. They later got moved up to the first floor, but amazingly Hetty remained in basement room the whole time. Stephanie related to me their trials leaving Dublin; apparently their flight was at 6:30am. They got no sleep and flew on Ryanair, which uses planes pretty much cobbled together from old school buses. Thankfully though, they arrived safely. Upon arriving, they were sitting in the Internet room and Ashley checked her Facebook page and saw a message that Hetty had sent only two minutes earlier. Ashley looked up, spotted the only other girl in the room, and then approached her with a casual,
"Hey, are you Hetty?" It was.


That evening we all five went out and explored London, watching the sun from Blackfriars bridge over the Thames. Everything was closed (which is a frustrating reality of Ireland and Britain both, the earlier close up times) and we ranged far south into London before discovering a chippy that was still open. Much to my delight, I was able to get pie and chips wrapped up in a cone of paper the traditional way. The others got fish and chips, or chicken and we all walked back out of the slum-esque area we were in to the bridge.

It gets dark in London in the summer around the same time as in America, so it was good and dark by the time we made it back to the Clink. We planned an early morning of Tube-facilitated sightseeing, and then were off to sleep.

The Irish in the Mists

“Oh, row, the rattlin’ bog. The bog way down in the valley-o.” --Traditional Irish Folk Song

The day we spent sightseeing in Dublin was proceeded by a stop in at the tourism office, which is situated in an old cathedral in the heart of the city. While there, Ashley and Stephanie mentioned that they had picked up some brochures about day tours that might interest us. Upon their capital suggestion, we took the opportunity to book a tour going up into Wicklow County, south of Dublin, through the mountains, and into the gorgeous valley of Glendalough (Valley of the two Lakes in Irish). We had a few tours to choose from, and based on gut instinct ended up picking what is probably the best, as it turns out they have won awards and are featured prominently in my Lonely Planet city guide (though I didn’t realize this at the time.)

The day started off a bit hairy though, as my watch alarm failed to go off and wake us to make the 9:20 departure time up the street and over from our hostel. We wouldn’t have woken at all if Ashley hadn’t pounded on our door. I actually didn’t even hear the knock, but just woke to Chris saying what amounted to, “I think somebody’s knocking. You answer it.” When I opened the door, the hallway was empty. It was then I noticed the time, 9 o’clock on the dot. Scrambling, Chris and I got ready and ran downstairs. We knocked on the girl’s door and got nothing, so we booked it down to where the bus was going to be. Thankfully, we made it fine and the girl’s were there waiting.

Our tour guide was named Steven, and he was a younger, knowledgably lad who did a good job but was a bit sensitive to people talking on the bus. He took us around a bit of Dublin, then down to the bay where we stopped and walk around the coast for a while, taking photos and marveling at the mad Dubliner who were thick skinned enough to be swimming in the crystal clear, freezing cold water.

From there we drove down into County Wicklow, known as Ireland’s garden. We passed through small towns home to Daniel Day Lewis and Bono, and past many locations used in the filming of movies such as Braveheart, P.S. I Love You, and many others. Halfway through the day we made it atop the mountains which are completely bald and covered in bog lands. At various places you could see where the peat (turf) had been cut up into bricks by the locals and left to try for burning in the colder months. We stopped a few times for photo opportunities, where at one point a bit of rain and wind blew up out of nowhere, as it is want to do in Ireland, and nearly sent me over a cliff. Re-boarding the bus, Steven had a bottle of Irish whiskey available to warm any who felt too blustered. A few times during the tour, Steven led us in the singing of traditional Irish tunes (all but one of which I already knew by heart) though the non-English speakers didn’t fare too well during these song session.

The highlight of the tour, and the main stop, was the ruins of the monastery of St. Kevin. The monastery sits in Glendalough just above the two lakes that give the place its name. Steven lectured us on the history of the place before setting us loose. At one point he asked, “What’s the furst ting yous notice about the monastery comin’ in?” To which I answered, “The smell.” My response elicited laughter, and Steven himself couldn’t help but chuckle, shaking his head. “That’s a very Irish answer.” He told me. Later he asked if my mother or father were Irish, then explained to the group how the Irish think by telling this story:

A woman comes up to a man in Ireland and asks him, ‘Sir, what is the fastest way to get from Wicklow to Dublin?’ The man replies, ‘Well, are you walking or driving?” “I’m driving.” The woman says. The old man comes back with, “Good. That’s the fastest way.” The grounds are littered with tombstones and Celtic crosses marking all the faithful buried in the Church yard based on the old, mistaken Irish Catholic belief that being buried in sanctified ground would get you a better chance at making Heaven. From the ruins, we got to take a small hike passed the lower lake before rejoining the bus for home.

We were dropped off near Trinity College and then took a walk down to Merrion Square so Ashley could see Oscar Wilde’s house (she, like Stephanie is an English teacher) and take her picture next to the statue of his limp-wrist likeness in the Square. The boys then parted ways from the girls, them to shop us to go see Public Enemies. The theater we caught the show in was the single largest I have ever had the pleasure of seeing a movie in (the actual theatre itself, not the whole cineplex) and it fairly resembled the inside of a recital hall with curtains over the enormous screen and everything. The movie was fantastic, and I highly recommended it, but the actually movie-watching experience in Dublin was even better. The sound was cranked, making every awesome shoot-out (of which there are a few) that much more visceral, and the crowd was absolutely silent the entire time which helped.

The next morning the four of us were to check out and head for London; the girls taking a early flight and the boys boarding an 8:30 ferry to cross the Irish sea whereby to connect with a train into the city. To that effect, we all retired relatively early.