Monday, August 22, 2011

Why Ireland's Amazing: Third Installment (or The Time I Puked My Guts Out at a Viking Tower)

Hello, friends.  I apologize for the infrequency of posting as of late, but I have just begun online work towards my Masters of Divinity and so am filling my days with more reading about various martyr torturing and less time wandering around lost in the Louvre.  Nevertheless, I would be very sad with myself if I stopped writing this blog, and so I will try to continue to keep posting at least once a week (whether said posts will be affected by my lack of sleep and new fixation on the apocrypha remains to be seen).

So, Ireland!  While we kept to a home base in Dublin, we did manage two delightful (in varying degrees) day trips.  Our first was to Waterford.  Now when planning a group vacation, it is generally wise to somewhat adhere to tenants of democracy (rather than cheerocracy) and let everyone have a say in at least one thing that will be done or seen.  My MIL, who really is fairly minimal on requests as a rule, asked that we take a day trip to Waterford, where Waterford Crystal is made.  And thus, we headed south on the train.

When I asked the man in the tourist office if he had any recommendations for lunch, he solemnly informed us that he was not allowed to show partiality, but did mention that this pub (pictured above) is the oldest pub in Waterford, and thus it is where we stopped for lunch.  I had myself a chicken sandwich (really?  I used to be a vegetarian?) and a hearty helping of questionable seafood chowder.

After lunch we took a delightful and highly informative walking tour of the city.  After being shown the requisite ancient, beautiful cathedrals and 14th century abbeys, our guide took us into  a shopping mall.  The thought bubble over my head would have read, in block letters, "W.T.F."  But the reason for the commercial detour was that during the digging done prior to the building of the mall, remnants of a Viking village were discovered.  This stone wall was the only thing that was able to be preserved, and so rather than moving the mall or destroying this piece of history, they simply enclosed it in the basement of the mall next to the parking garage.  What you can't see are the cheesy '80's illustrations of vikings that look like something out of a dated Sunday school classroom.

Unfortunately, our tour-guide had the sad task of telling us that Waterford Crystal is, in fact, no longer manufactured in Waterford, Ireland.  In 2009 they fired all the workers, closed up the factory there, moved production to Eastern Europe and then miraculously "lost" all of the workers' pensions (even though, of course, all of the executives' seem to have remained untouched).  Needless to say, my poor MIL was not going to spend her hard-earned cash on a Waterford whiskey decanter like she had planned.  A small silver lining is that some of the workers have set up independent shops.  Some of them, like Sean Egan (whose shop is pictured above), seem to be doing quite well for themselves; Sean was recently commissioned by the American Ambassador to make a piece commemorating the 10 year anniversary of 9/11.   

And so, out in the rain and fresh off of our Waterford Crystal disappointment, we went in search of something to do with our remaining time in the city.  We ended up back at Reginald's Tower, a viking tower that is the oldest building to remain in continuous use in Ireland.  And, in a tiny spot of good luck, it happened to be free and open to the public that day.  But alas, as soon as I walked in I knew that, as Miss Clavel would say, "Something is not right."  I was in a historic building (where vikings!  Hairy, hairy vikings!  With swords!) used to be, and yet all I could do was sit in a corner and watch the room spin around me.  And all at once, my questionable seafood chowder decided to make an encore presentation.  AH grabbed the scarf I bought earlier that day out of the paper bag and sent me outside, where I proceeded to reacquaint myself with various and sundry fruits de mer in the entry way of the Tower.  Then, of course, came the fun part:  figuring out what to do with the bag (and, as it was a paper bag, doing so in a timely manner before it disintegrated).   After a few minutes of wandering around Waterford in the rain with a bag o' barf, I finally managed to find a trash can.  I made my way back to the Tower where Mama AH held a trash bag for me and wiped my face, and AH (bless him) held my umbrella overhead, while bewildered and disgusted tourists walked by.  I managed to tell AH between heaves, "Well, I'm sure glad we got the etching of the Abbey and not Reginald's Tower.  It would've been a shame to pay 40 euros for a picture of The Viking Tower That I Puked At."

After a very long, wet and uncomfortable walk back to the train station (during which several more garbage bags were employed), I was more grateful for a public toilet than I've ever been in my life.  At that point, I didn't even have it in me to peel myself off the floor of the loo.  I knew it was disgusting, and I knew it must look strange, but only the threat of burning alive could have moved me off that floor until it was time to get on the train.  I heard some ladies whispering outside my stall, and knew that they were probably wondering how much the silly tourist had to drink. I was longing to shout, "BEWARE THE SEAFOOD CHOWDER, FOR IT IS A POX!", but had to settle for just hoping they would distance themselves from me as soon as they could.  Soon after they left, I heard knocking and a man's voice asking, "Is anyone in there?  We're coming in!".  Good Lord.  It was the station manager and a police officer.  I managed to get out, "I'm fine, just puking, save yourselves."  They asked if there was anything they could do; I assured them that there wasn't.  On our way out to the train (where we managed to get seats as close as possible to the toilet), the station manager asked if I was feeling any better (nope, not yet). 

But I have to say, between heaving out copious amounts of vomit, I couldn't help but feel that I was in the friendliest place in the world.  I can't wait to go back someday.  I just might avoid the chowder.


Wednesday, August 17, 2011

Why Ireland's Amazing: Second Installment

And so to rhapsodize about Ireland a bit further, here are some of the highlights of Dublin:

The second evening in Dublin, we took a literary walking tour.  This was a fantastic way to combine some of my favorite things: whiskey, Oscar Wilde and good acting (the tour was led by two professional actors who acted out various scenes from plays written by Irish playwrights, including the man I will always be a Fruit Fly for, Mr. Wilde).  My MIL discovered that while she was not a huge fan of Guinness, Jameson would do nicely, and thus a good time was had by all.

There were some truly spectacular artifacts at the National Museum of Archaeology, including this bowl depicting scenes of human sacrifice (which was apparently done quite a bit).  You know what was almost as fun as looking at shiny things?
Hearing teenage girls shrieking at the sight of these human remains, which were found amazingly well-preserved in the peat bogs of Ireland (poor ol' pruny here was most likely the victim of above-mentioned human sacrifice).  I wanted to point out that there's no reason for the shrieking: he's been dead for over a thousand years, and even if he were to be a part of a zombie apocalypse, he doesn't have legs or hands and thus probably wouldn't get around to any actual brain-nomming.

We finally did make it to the Abbey (despite my inability to use technology that my Grandmother is probably familiar with).  The play we saw, Translations, was haunting and beautiful, and I am currently on the hunt for more plays by the playwright, Brian Friel.  
And they served Guinness at the theater bar, so AH was an especially happy camper.

Our tour of Kilmainhaim Jail, where the leaders of the 1916 Easter Rebellion were executed by firing squad, turning the leaders of an unpopular uprising into national martyrs and setting a series of events in motion that would eventually lead to the 1922 War of Independence.  It put the hairs up on the back of my neck something fierce.


Remember our Heineken Overlords?
Yeah, they've been replaced.  I mean, if doctors say it's good for you...
Then it must be true, right?  Obamacare?  Try Allisoncare: a government subsidized pint a day. (Yes, that's the platform I will be running on when I eventually decide to get into politics).
And here I am in the palace of my new Jameson Overlords, where I was hand-picked (to shut me up because I was jumping up and down like Hermione Granger in Charms, but we'll ignore that) to participate in a whiskey tasting.  It was surprisingly informative; I learned that the reason I detest scotch is that they allow the peat smoke to help dry the barley in the kiln, which is why it's so smoky and tastes of old man.  Also, I got this nifty certificate, which I am totally putting on my resume; what good Disciples church could resist me now?  (Speaking of church, maybe there need to be less pictures of me looking really excited about alcohol on the internet...)

Next Up: Western Ireland and Waterford!

Friday, August 12, 2011

Why Ireland's Amazing: First Installment


And...we're back!  AH and I arrived in Paris Monday afternoon, and Mama and Papa AH were back safely in the States later that evening, and boy, are there many stories to be told and pictures to be downloaded.  I was hoping to do this in some sort of succinct manner, but I feel like I would be short-changing the trip to try to sum it up in one entry, so this is going to be a multi-parter.  

To go ahead and give you the spoiler, a truly amazing time was had by all.  I'm trying to convince AH that someday, once he's patented some fancy laser something that makes us obscenely rich, we should buy a summer home in western Ireland (yes, I know it's chilly, but I'm not exactly engineered for sun and sand anyway).  I want a blonde cow, some chickens from my sister in law, and a few sheep to make sweaters from (you know, because I'm so obscenely domestic and I love getting up early in the morning to do chores).

One of the most wonderful things about Ireland is the people.  The whole time we were there, I don't think I met a single unfriendly person.  On the evening that I was sick (more on that later), AH decided to pop down the street for a sandwich; I expected him back in no more than an hour.  Three hours later, my normally somewhat shy husband reappears, clearly having enjoyed a few pints, and tells me all about the new best friends that he's made down at the pub.  

On Saturday I was worried that my good luck with the Irish had reached its end when I called the number listed for the Abbey Theater and had the following conversation:

Man:  Hello?
Me: Hello, I have a question about the production this afternoon.
Man: Um, what production would that be?
Me: Translations by Brian Friel at the Abbey Theater.
What kind of box office doesn't even know it's own play?  I need to give Adrienne a call; this place clearly needs competent office management.
Man: OK, what's your question?
Me: Can you tell me whether the play is entirely in English or are portions in Gaelic?
Man: Um, I'm sure it'd be in English, I don't know why it wouldn't be.
Me:  Well, from the description it sounds like some of it might be in Gaelic.
Man:  Let me check the website...
Me: I checked the website.  It doesn't say anything about the language of the production. That's why I'm calling you.
This guy wins the prize for incompetence...
Man:  I'm sorry, but I don't see anything.  When you come down, maybe I can call someone?
Me: O...K? 
That made absolutely no sense at all.

So after ranting (loudly, of course, as I am wont to do) about this at breakfast, I go to the room to get my things and return to find that my in-laws have solved the mystery of the incompetent box office worker.

AH:  Um, honey, did you know that you have to dial out when you call from the room?
Me:  Why?
AH:  Because you had a very long and confusing conversation with Liam, the front desk man this morning.  He kept apologizing; he said you seemed very upset that he couldn't tell you what language the play showing at the Abbey Theater was.

And....mortification ensued.  It turns out that the Abbey doesn't have incompetent box office workers, but the Phoenix Park Hotel has some extremely tolerant and helpful front desk employees.