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.
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