Snowing in SoCal!

This year was the first time in over 100 years that it did not snow in NJ at all in the month of December. Even I, who hates being cold, was saddened not to get my little burst of snowy winter before heading back to the sunny warmth of SoCal.

This morning though, I woke up (in California, mind you) at 6 am to the sound of rain. I peeked outside my window, and sure enough, it was raining, which is pretty rare here. I smiled (it's always a little exciting when it rains here) and went right back to bed.

An hour later, I woke up to people chatting loudly outside my window - and it didn't stop. I couldn't figure it out - I've only lived here for five days, but so far, it had been a pretty quiet neighborhood in the mornings. And it's Friday, so it's still the real week and the kiddos should have been off to school.

Not thinking too much of it, I got up, got ready for my day, opened the blinds to the patio as I was getting breakfast and saw:

SNOW!!!

Real snow in my little patio in California! Sure, it was already melting (that's what those insanely loud raindrops were), and it looked at first like the salt they lay down on sidewalks and streets in places where "it's snowing" actually means something, but this was real snow (a real snow dusting), not just hail (often confused with snow by Southern Californians, it would appear) and not just the imagination (again, that happens here from time to time).

There was even enough snow for my neighbors to make the tiniest snowman (snowperson?) I've ever seen. And there was snow near the pool area. I've never actually seen a pool with water in it, that could have been used the day before when the temperature was in the 70s, with snow anywhere near it (in Jersey, and I'd assume everywhere else where it snows, pools are emptied or covered for the winter).

Somehow, being in California for the snow made it almost as exciting as if I had never seen snow before, either. I wanted to call some of my friends and tell them to look out the window, but it was too early for that (so I called my aunt and mom back east where it was three hours later instead). But the weirdest part was that they didn't have snow - not in La Verne, a few towns west, and not in Los Angeles, either. So they too were excited to see the pictures (and although they'd heard it snowed, as they are not CA natives either, they didn't trust reports from Californians - they needed to hear from someone who's seen real snow before. And it helped that I had photographic evidence).


Snow in my complex!



My actual apartment - with a "dusting" of snow.



The Tiniest Snowman Ever



The Tiniest Snowman Ever - in perspective (it's that tiny little blob at the top of the stairs. See, it's a very teensy snowman.)



My gnome wants to go play in the snow, but he's not allowed out until after the gardeners come.

New Home

The movers came yesterday and I am closer to feeling at home in my new apartment. And today my heat was fixed, so hopefully I won't have to force myself out from beneath 14 layers of blankets to get up in the morning (and it only got down to the mid-50s in my apartment without heat the last two nights. I can't imagine what I would have done in a climate that actually gets cold in January).


Here are some pictures of the new apartment as is. It looks like a disaster zone, but I'm hoping that will improve as I unpack.

Living Room

Dining Area (I'm also turning it into an Office Area)

Kitchen

Bedroom

(That whole far wall is a closet. Not bad!)

Bathroom

(Notice the NYC Subway map shower curtain in the mirror - that was a gift when I moved here from JSnoBu and it has set the decor theme in my bathroom since then - it's all framed maps of public transport systems - NYC, LA, DC, the Venice vaporetti [the water buses], and this year I will be able to add London Underground, Paris Metro, Dublin Luas and San Francisco BART maps to my collection!)

The Patio

(Management promised me the gardener will clean up the leaves this week. One thing I've never noticed about CA until coming back after so many months away - it looks like Autumn here now. Most trees still have their leaves, in yellows and oranges, instead of the bare trees back east this time of year. It's like a second Fall!)

Re-locate: Starting Over

OK, I swear I'll finish the Ireland Saga at some point, but for now, I might as well catch you up on the present.

I came back to California last week, and was staying with my friend Sara until my apartment lease started on Sunday. On that morning, I drove from her home in La Verne, about four towns west of Upland, my town-to-be, thinking about what was about to happen. I had been so excited the night before, I barely slept. I was about to move into my very own apartment for the first time. I've never lived completely on my own before, without roommates or family. It was somewhat bittersweet, because a few months ago, I was planning on moving back here with Conor, and would have been sharing this experience with him. Even when I looked at apartments when I was back in September for my exams, I told people I was looking either just for myself or for my fiance and me (I indicated that the doubt was from the visa process, and not that I was thinking of breaking up with him, of course, but still, he was on my mind as I looked).

But instead of making a home with him, this transformed into a chance to start fresh. A new situation, a new year, and a new home. It all felt promising.

I was driving along Foothill Boulevard, which is actually the historic Route 66. As I got to Claremont, which is just west of Upland, I saw three vintage biplanes, in bright oranges, yellows, and reds, flying in formation overhead. As they passed, three vintage cars, mostly in black but with red and yellow panels, drove past me in the opposite direction on Foothill. A block later, as I was still smiling about the funny scenes, three old-school cruiser-style motorcycles drove past me.

I decided (and chose not to let reality get in the way) that this was a parade for me, welcoming me back to Upland and celebrating my new home and fresh start.

Favor: The Movement

We interrupt my longwinded saga of my voyage around Ireland to bring you this emergency request:

Please vote for The Movement to be played at the Oxygen Festival this summer!

Below is the text of an email I just received from my friend, Matt, (technically Conor's friend, but don't hold that against him!), who's in a band called The Movement. They're really good, and lots of fun, and it would be amazing if they could play at Oxygen, which is the biggest music festival in Ireland and always has an incredible lineup. (Check out The Movement's MySpace page here )

Here's how you can help:
Click here.
Write "The Movement" in one of the boxes
Be automatically entered for passes to the festival! (It's a win-win situation!)
Get your friends/family to do the same!

Here's Matt's email request, so you can hear about it in his own words:

"I need a bit of help. I'm trying to get our band into next summers' music festivals, and currently the organisers of Oxygen have a wish list where you can vote for your 5 favourite bands to play thefestival on their website. We'd really appreciate it if you could take asecond to vote for us.
go to http://www.mcd.ie/os/ and put ' The Movement' in one of the boxes.
cheers for your help
matt
p.s. pass this on to anyone/everyone you can think of"

Wuthering Heights, TXTs, and a Bit More Truth

So back to the drama in my life, because my travel journal is riddled with it at this point in the journey. And I have to say, I think some of it was certainly exacerbated by the wilds of Donegal.

(Photo: Road trip in Donegal)

Co. Donegal really was striking, the "savage" and "terrible" raw beauty the guidebooks describe it as. The palette of colors throughout the county seems wider here - the greens are harsher, and there are streaks of earthy reds and browns ripping through the bogs. Where peat has been cut, it looks like a giant raked his fingernails across the land. There seem to be many more mountains tearing through the skyline, as well. We could just picture Heathcliff, hair whipped by the brutal winds, eyes wild with passion and grief, searching desperately for Catherine in the rawness of these moors (yes, yes, I know we're in Ireland and not England, but I can't imagine even the moors of Thrushcross Grange and Wuthering Heights being more desperate or desolate than this).

There is something about this wild, rugged, and harsh beauty that is at once stunning and terrifying. Whereas the beauty of California, the sunshine and perfect days (and yes, even the brilliant, streaky sunsets apparently augmented by the layers of smog), make me lighthearted and happy to be alive, there is a passion in the beauty of Ireland, and particularly in the Northwest, that demands you confront your emotions and inner demons. It is a beauty that demands the whole truth, and will not let you be at peace with yourself until you've acknowledged what is savage in you, as well.

And so, as we drove through Donegal, I couldn't help but think of all the confusion I was feeling about the whole broke-up-with-the-fiancé thing. On the one hand, Vincent had been a big confidence boost, I have to say, and I was receiving multiple text messages from him daily - most of them too embarrassingly gooey to even mention (although Jen and I, and even her dad, did get a good laugh out of them. They were very sweet and well-intentioned...but I hadn't even known him for 24 hours, so they couldn't be taken all that seriously). This confidence boost made me think that perhaps my lingering feelings for Conor were really fears of change, or of never finding anyone else. Vincent was a reminder that change can be fun, being single can definitely be fun, and that I probably (hopefully?! I don't want to jinx myself for all eternity) will in fact meet someone else one day.

But on the other hand, the whole Vincent thing was also a stark reminder of just how sad I was about Conor and me. As Jen pointed out, here I was, getting daily texts (love letters for a technologically savvy and attention span-depleted generation?) from Vincent, whom I'd met a few days earlier, but had not heard a word, spoken, written or TXTed, from Conor, whom I'd known for years and had until recently been planning on spending the rest of my life with, since the day after he and I hung out, and it just really shouldn't have been that way.

As the days passed, I shifted from thinking of Vincent to thinking of Conor again, and I was clearly not as over Conor as I'd hoped I was. I missed him, but I wasn't sure I didn't miss him because I would miss Ireland, too, and all that Ireland means for me (because so much of it is entwined with Conor). Maybe that was why travelling around Ireland made not being with Conor hurt so much.

And his silence, although it isn't fair to contrast him with Vincent, bothered me too. And so all of a sudden, I was so mad at how Conor had handled/been handling our break up.

[**It's funny, months ago when this was all happening, I was still very protective of Conor - I didn't want to say anything bad about him, and I especially didn't want to say anything to close friends/family who hadn't met him or spent a lot of time with him, because I didn't want them to think badly of him. I was probably a little embarrassed, too. But now, after all that's gone on and all the time that's passed, I'm not that concerned about it.

So here's what actually happened: although Conor and I were definitely on the rocks, I was still coming to Ireland and we were still hoping we could make it work between us. However, as I mentioned in one of my early posts, I realized while in CA taking my exams that I was just really excited about my Ph.D. progress, about being back in CA where I love the place, I love my friends, I have the resources I need to do my work, I live a lifestyle I enjoy, etc. And all this made me realize that being with Conor required me to give up more of myself than I was willing to - and that being with him no longer made me happier than all of these things. And blah blah so on and so forth.

Ah, but Conor must have felt that way himself, or something similar, because the day before I was supposed to leave for Ireland, the day before, he calls me - and he only does because we haven't spoken in a week and a half and I finally emailed him to point out that we do need to speak as I was meant to leave the next day, and he tells me he just doesn't think it's going to work. And he didn't think he had to call to tell me, because he figured I'd have sorted that out on my own based on the fact that we hadn't spoken to each other in the last week and a half.

Now, I had indeed already worked that out on my own, and in fact, changed my plane tickets so that I was flying out two weeks later, but since we hadn't spoken in the last week and a half, he didn't know this.

So, while I was glad he did the dirty work of breaking up - and, to be quite brutally honest, I did sort of milk that situation to my own benefit and his definite detriment, which I'm not entirely proud of, but what the hell, he deserved it - I was a bit shocked to discover that the man I had almost committed to spending my life with was that much of, let's face it, a giant coward. I mean really, that's how you break off an engagement? You just stop ringing the person? What are we, in seventh grade? He might as well have passed me a note...at least that would have been vaguely respectable in light of the whole long-distance thing.**]

Ok, that was a tirade I hadn't planned on making public, but I guess if I'm bothering to do the whole heart-on-my-sleeve blog thing, I might as well lay it out there. And, although that whole bit in between the asterisks is definitely a rant with the full weight of the last two months behind it, it is in fact in keeping with just what I was feeling at the time, because I have my journal in front of me, and exactly what I said was:

"So he's a jerk and a chicken. It just seemed a horribly immature way to deal with this. I couldn't imagine, if the situation had been reversed, and he was putting his life on hold to come to the US, I would have done the same. I mean, just out of feeling guilty I would have at least waited until he arrived and then tried to see if we could make it work.
But I guess those are some of the biggest problems between us - the differences in both the way we think people should be treated and in how we want to be treated ourselves.

Part of me also thought it was coincidentally convenient - not only did he get a two month extension on his dissertation for breaking up with his fiancée [oh yes, he did], but what would have happened if we hadn't broken up, since he hadn't finished before I came, and thus was not ready to move to Belfast, as had been our original plan? Would I have moved in with him and his parents?! Oh, hell no.

Anyway, I definitely drove around Donegal feeling passionate - and quite a bit rage-y.

When I came to Ireland for the first time, two years ago, it was right after my dad died. Travelling by myself in this lush, vibrant, but at times desolate country forced me to face my grief (well, some of it - the real onslaught of grief would come the following fall) - and comforted me in those times with the absolutely amazing beauty and life of the country. This time around, I am mourning the loss of a relationship - obviously it's very different from losing my dad, but it's a significant loss for me nonetheless. And being in Ireland makes so visible the connection between intense grief and intense joy - the kind of grief that makes knowing joy possible.

[And we're back at my dissertation topic...]

And it really did feel like I was mourning for our relationship. I decided that it was hard, painfully hard, to let it go, but that it had to be done. Jen and I had a long talk Friday night, and I was bemoaning not know what was right, or what I should do. Jen was very helpful - she reminded me [and I repeat it here for posterity, and because I'm sure I'll need to be reminded of it again] that sometimes love isn't enough, and that life really does get in the way of it sometimes. But that doesn't mean it was wasted - there's always something to take away from a relationship, or something that comes with it. I was also scared that I may never know when a relationship is "right" again, because for so long I had thought this one is [Obviously. Or I never would have considered marrying Conor. And so all the people who say, "You just know when it is right" infuriate me, because I did know, and it turns out I was wrong. (Plus, I'm just going to go out on a limb here and assume that at least some of all the other divorced or otherwise parted couples who thought they too would be together forever "just knew" at some point as well - so please, before anyone ever says that to me again, come up with a better answer. Because that crap does not cut it.] Anyway, Jen had a more specific way of looking at it, and although I am sure there are other reasons, at least this is the start of a legitimate list: she told me, 'You'll know it's right when you're with someone you don't have to subsume parts of yourself for.'

Ok, I obviously should have known that already. And most of me did. But hearing it from someone else made it much clearer. This relationship had died."

[I do feel the need to warn you: that last statement will undergo revision before the end of my trip. I had fun, but boyoboy it was a rollercoaster at time!]

Backstory

I started writing my next blog entry ("Wuthering Heights, etc.") and realized that perhaps I should back up some first, to avoid confusion. I've been a bit coy about the whole Vincent thing, haven't I? Way back when it happened, or even when I was keeping somewhat up-to-date on the blog, it felt somewhat inappropriate to dish gossipy details. But now that it's been nearly two months since it happened, it doesn't seem like a big deal, so what the hell?

We totally had a fling. A PG-13, confidence building, first time since the fiancé break-up fling mind you, but a fling nonetheless. So I'll go back some pages in my journal to provide you with the Vincent backstory.

(Imagine the sounds of a plane engine, a la Lost, as I transition.)

Vincent, the Frenchman who had been living in Ireland for five years, and I officially met in Blue Zone, the groovy wine-and-jazz bar in Dingle I was raving about. However, Vincent had noticed me earlier in the day reading on the pier while he was working on his boat (and apparently projected onto me all sorts of what-he-wants-in-a-lifelong-partner attributes, because otherwise there's no accounting for his level of intensity). We chatted for a while (about religion, politics, my broken engagement, his own failed loves, our hopes and aspirations, our shared appreciation of sunsets, Jon Stewart...Ahh, the French. No topic is taboo.), and I met many of his friends (apparently it's quite the hangout for ex-pats from the Continent. Many of his friends were from France, Spain, the Czech Republic, and Bulgaria. By the way, apparently he and I are going on a vacation to Bulgaria one day, and he might buy me a house there. See what I mean about intensity?). He was actually a very cool guy, and soon enough, we were joking around with each other as though we'd known each other for...well, for more than three hours.

Then we walked down to the pier (although it was now locked, Vincent has a key since he keeps his boat there) and among the boats, Vincent pointing out the ones he would love to one day own. Then, because I was shocked that there were real sand-beaches (as opposed to harbours or sea cliffs, all that I had seen) on the Dingle Peninsula, we drove to a nearby beach (I did make him promise he wasn't a deviant psycho or anything first...I take my safety seriously!), which was really, unbelievably romantic. The sea was perfectly flat, reflecting the nearly-full moon, the teensiest of waves lapping against the whitest sand (I think the moonlight had lots to do with that...I have a feeling it wouldn't be quite as romantic in full sunlight).

The next day, he picked me up to drive me to Tralee, but first drove me all around to his favorite places on the peninsula. He had made me a mix CD and a CD of photos of sunsets he had taken in his travels. He, um, also asked about whether I want to have kids one day (When I told him I want to adopt, he insisted we adopt older kids who otherwise would go overlooked. Wonderfully sweet of him, but a wee bit psycho, too. I won't even get into the other crazy plans he had for us.) He wanted me to stay, or join him later in my trip, but alas, I absolutely had to meet Jen and her dad (and with increasing urgency as Vincent's interest seemed to grow exponentially - and inexplicably). He waited with me in Tralee until it was time to board the bus, and before the bus had even left the parking lot he had sent me a gooey sweet text message. The texts continued throughout the week, each one more romantic (and hence crazier).

Paired with the mix of cheesy love songs, which we played in Jen's rental car, my 24-hour boyfriend provided us with much comic relief throughout the rest of the trip. (I was always very nice in response...I figured, hell, I got a huge confidence boost out of it, why shouldn't I boost his confidence as well? This was all very good while he was on one side of the country and I on the other, and I was going back to America in a week. Still, I did at times have a lingering fear that he would somehow wind up on my doorstep in the States one day...) It was just unfortunate that I didn't share any of his (completely inexplicable!) amorous feelings. Because otherwise, it would have been the most romantic fling I've ever had!

***(sounds of airplane engine - the backstory is over. Too bad I'm not on some fabulous Hawaiian island, though)***

Down the Pub - a photo essay

After entirely too much time spent trekking through County Donegal in desperate search of warm food, Jen, Mr. S. and I successfully found a teensy little pub absolutely packed with paraphernalia in the town of Adara. It was adorable, the winner of several James Joyce "Authentic Irish Pub" Awards (it was too soon after my postcolonialism qualifying exam to let the notion of the existence and expectation of "authenticity" go unremarked, but I will spare you the boredom of repeating my rant), and served excellent cheesy garlic bread. However, I'm too tired to tell you more, so I'm just going to show you pictures instead.

(Advance apologies for some blurriness - rain had gotten onto my camera lense and I only noticed it after a few blurry photos)

Those are all the pictures from the Donegal pub. There were lots more I wanted to take - but then other customers came in and I didn't want to disturb.

The following pictures are from other trips to Ireland; I'm including them because I had trouble loading pictures into my last blog so this is really an experiment to see if there is a limit, or if there's some other reason or if I am merely technologically challenged. Enjoy!

Gravity Bar, Guinness Factory, Dublin (above and below)

Traditional Music Session in Doolin, Co. Clare (above)

The Bushmills Distillery (in Bushmills) on the Antrim Coast

(above and below)

The all-purpose bar, hardware and bike shop in Dingle (above). Similar to the all-in-one donuts, burgers, and Chinese food restaurants so inexplicably popular in California, I guess?

Outside a pub in Cork
(above and below)

(poster in Kilkenny, above)

And that was your thirst lesson in Irish!

Donegal

Wow, if you're reading this you are either eternally optimistic or very, very bored at work. In either case, I thank you for your faith that I would one day finish my damn story. (I'll explain what I've been doing in the meantime when I finally get up to talking about November. You may want to check back in early 2007?)

Anyway, after tearing through Counties Galway and Sligo at breakneck speed, Jen, Mr. S. and I finally made it to Donegal City (By "City" they seem to mean the four roads that comprise the town and come together to form a diamond shape with a big statue in the middle of it). After a gray, rainy day, we pulled into town just as the sun was appearing - which was apparently just in time to set. We drove around until we found a suitable B&B (not as easy as the guidebooks made it sound - Rick Steves, I am losing faith in you), and while Jen settled in to take advantage of the big bathtub with bubble jets in the room we were sharing, I headed out for a walk along a trail that lined the river, hoping to take advantage of the little bit of sunshine.

(Photo: at the end of the trail, the river widens, letting out into the sea. Beyond that land is the Atlantic Ocean. It really was pretty.)

After we were all rested, we headed into "town" to find a restaurant (the quest for nourishment was a recurring theme on our journey, and every day it became increasingly difficult. Perhaps we should have prioritized eating while shops were still open? But that didn't occur to us.) Eventually, we found a place that was open, and it turned out to be really nice - and warm, which was a plus in my book. We split a bottle of South African pinotage (my second in three days - and in my entire lifetime), and by the end of the meal, we were feeling quite festive, so we set out in search of a pub. Although there were a few (no matter how small and middle-of-nowhere it may be, every Irish town seems to have at least a few pubs in it), we were in search of live music, and there was only one that seemed to fit the bill that night: The Scotsman, which ironically enough boasted the only traditional Irish music in town. (And by traditional, they definitely meant pub-songs-tourists-know).

It was an interesting place, filled entirely with one bartender; several drunk regulars , who no longer had teeth and kept sliding off their stools crowded around the bar; two musicians in the middle of the big room; an entire busload of retired Canadians on holiday; and one guy probably in his late 20s sporting a black tracksuit, red Pumas, a blondish badass buzzcut, and two pints of Guinness.

So not quite what we were hoping for, but we stayed for a few rounds and it was good fun (I wouldn't go so far as to say it was good craic - but we did laugh a lot, even if it was mostly cynically). Occasionally the barkeep would take a break from tending bar to come join the musicians on the bodhran, and she was quite good. And then one of the Canadian women, at the encouragement of her friends, got up and bleated out a sad, sappy song about when one's old wedding ring used to be new. It took all our energy not to put our hands over our ears (or her mouth), so after that we decided to call it a night.

The next morning, we headed out for the Glen Gesh Pass, which Jen and I had been hoping to hike. It was supposed to be one of the most beautiful places in Europe, described in Lonely Planet as almost Swiss Alpine-y. Our B&B owner insisted we go first to Slieve League, the highest sea cliffs in all of Europe, and since they were somewhat on the way, we thought it would be fun. The day kept looking promising - hints of blue sky and clouds lightening up around the edges. But whichever direction we drove, we seemed to be heading stright back into the dark, angry skies.

Ah well, this meant there were plenty of fat, twisting rainbows to be seen along the route, so it wasn't too bad.

The road up to Slieve League was so narrow and windy I was certain the car would tip right over the edge. It was also dotted with what must surely be the heartiest sheep in Europe, in order to withstand the sideways sleeting rain and winds like knives constantly cutting through the mountains.

(Photo: Hearty - and stubborn - sheep)

As we approached the car park, we saw a beautiful arc of a rainbow pouring out from a cloud right into the sea. Jen sped up, hoping to take a picture of it before it disappeared, but by the time we parked and got out of the car, massive raindrops had started falling. We snapped a few pictures before we were soaked through, and got back in the car - but a second later the rain stopped, so we got out and made our way over to the edge to get a better view of Slieve League.

(Photo: Just before the rainbow disappeared and it started to pour)

Even though the view was mostly obscured by clouds, it was still breathtaking: rippling cliff walls capped by clouds, and off in the distance, we could see the sky brightening and another rainbow floating along Slieve League towards us, skimming the clouds and the sea. We waited for it to approach, but it was difficult- the wind whipped up suddenly and pushed so hard our eyes watered and we had to brace ourselves to keep from falling over (and Mr. S. wouldn't let us stand by the edge anymore. Apparently people fall over the Cliffs of Moher to their death every year, so we heeded his caution - this is even higher and scarier). At least the wind dried our previously soaking clothes in almost no time.

(Photos: Slieve League)

We got back in the car and decided what we needed was a cup of tea. We decided to drive to Killybegs, the next town, because we'd seen many signs for it and it seemed much larger than anywhere we'd passed through since leaving Donegal City.

When we got to Killybegs, maybe a half hour later, the "town" consisted of about three buildings, none of which were open. We finally found a single living soul, who informed us our best bet was Glencolumbkille, which turned out to be about 40 minutes away. At this point, we were not just cold and hungry, we all also had to pee desperately. But it turns out Glencolumbkille had nothing on Killybegs. We decided there had to, absolutely had to be something in the next little dot on the map.

Somewhere on the road Ardara, the next dot, we realized we were in fact driving over the Glen Gesh Pass, the very pass we had hoped to hike. We were at once crushed we were driving over the big hiking adventure we'd both been looking forward to since before we even got to Ireland, (as hiking it now would seem a bit anticlimatic, since we'd already seen the views) and puzzled - hiking along the side of the road is definitely not what either of us thinks of when we think of "hiking."

We were definitely let down. But, since the weather sucked and this whole thing was taking much, much longer than we'd anticipated, and the whole need-to-eat-and-pee thing was wearing on us all, we decided it was probably for the best, hopped out at an overlook and took some pictures, got back in the car, and called it a day with respect to hiking.

(It was pretty and it did look a bit like the Swiss Alps. But still - bit of an overstatement in the guidebooks, I have to say. And we ran into buzzcut tracksuit boy from the night before, which was at least comforting in the sense that it made us feel as if we were on some tourist trail, albeit a very sad one, and not completely out of our minds).

(Photo: Me and Jen being blown away by view and wind. Awful photo, but the only one I have of the two of us from this trip.)

West Coast Drive-by

Meanwhile back in Dingle a few weeks ago...

I was meeting my college roommate Jen and her dad in Galway on Wednesday, so much of Wednesday was spent traveling. (I repeat my earlier comment that traveling around Ireland by bus takes forever and I don't recommend it. I have no idea why that didn't occur to me two years ago when I spent six weeks travelling in that manner.)
Vincent offered to drive me back to Tralee where I would then be able to catch a bus to Limerick ... and then to Ennis ... and finally to Galway. He picked me up early in the morning so we had time to drive around all of the Dingle peninsula, which was wonderful. When I was in Dingle two years ago the weather was awful, so I only got to do pre-arranged van tours rather than explore on my own. (I did an archaeological tour, though, which was pretty cool - we looked at lots of pre-Christian Celtic sites and early Christian sites. I'm going to include some pictures because I don't have any from this trip...and pictures are always more fun than no pictures!)

Standing stone - Cross slab

Ogham Script - ancient Celtic writing

Ring forts

Driving around the island was amazing, though. Vincent took me to see the Blasket Islands and the Sleeping Giant just off the coast of An Daingean (incidentally, the residents of the town of An Daingean/Dingle - as opposed to the whole peninsula - were voting recently to change the name back from the Irish An Daingean, as it has been called for the past year or so when Irish became mandatory on the peninsula, to its English name "Dingle"). We could also see the Skellig islands off the coast of the Ring of Kerry peninsula in the distance. Then he drove me through Conor's Pass (even joking about the irony is too obvious), which cuts between Mount Brandon, the highest mountain peak in Ireland, and the other mountains on the peninsula. The buses don't drive that route, because the road is too narrow and windy in many places, so I never would have been able to see it otherwise - and it was stunning. It is a glacial canyon, with seven sparkling glacial lakes at the bottom, and it is apparently always shrouded in mist - even for Irish misty standards, this is spectacular.

Many, many hours after Vincent dropped me off in Tralee, I stepped off the bus in Galway. And to my surprise, Kennedy Park, the park in the middle of Eyre Square, which is the main (only?) square in Galway, and which has been barricaded by all sorts of makeshift fences and scaffolding and under construction for at least the last two years since I've been coming to Galway, was open, fountains flowing, sun shining (the surprises just didn't quit) and full of pedestrians. It was great.

I lugged my big ole' backpack...and roller carry-on - I decided to spare no luxuries like real towels, a winter coat and a hair dryer on this trip, and so overpacked - through Galway to Nun's Island, one of the little islands in the middle of the River Corrib, which runs through the city centre. As I was crossing O'Brien bridge, I saw my favorite home in Galway - this adorable backyard right on the river with a cute little lush green yard and flower beds. It's a B&B, and I always think to myself that one time I will remember the name and make reservations there. I never remember the name.

I turned the corner and immediately saw the sign for our B&B, where Jen and her dad had made reservations. It was on the tiniest street imaginable, and was very dingy looking. I immediately felt bad, because I had assured Jen that every B&B I have stayed in in Galway has been perfectly adequate and we would probably be fine no matter where we booked. Now, she and I, who have done the whole hostelling thing (as late as the night before, for me), would likely have been fine anywhere, but her dad is a full-fledged grown-up who expects a little more out of his accomodation than a too-small bunk-bed and twelve strangers cum roommates. Whoops.

But when I walked into St. Martin's B&B, a wonderfully friendly woman named Mary showed me to an enormous room, which Jen and I would be sharing, and barely left me time to drop off my things before she whisked me into the dining room for a cup of tea while I dried off and warmed up (you know how I just described it as sunny in Eyre Square? Well by the time I'd made it to the B&B - maybe 15 minutes later - it was pouring). And the dining room's bay window overlooked the lush garden and flower beds I've been admiring for two years! We were in the B&B I always want to stay in!! Yeah! And inside, it was enormous - Jen's and my room had a flat panel tv, a regular tv, three beds, a dressing area - with skylight, a huge bathroom, and two different kinds of hairdryers. It doesn't get any better than that...

Jen and her dad showed up a little while later, and after settling in, we hit the town, our main priority being dinner. Unfortunately, it was about 8:30 and we had forgotten that nowhere in Ireland serves food after 8 or so. After a long wild goose chase, we finally found one place serving food (McSwiggan's I believe, if you're ever hungry in Galway at night and don't want Abrakebabra, Supermacs, or Eddie Rockets, which are all Irish for fast food). The next day, Jen and I had time for a quick run through the city and then it was off to Sligo, where we had initially thought we'd spend the night. However, it was pouring by then, Jen and her dad weren't particularly compelled by any of Sligo's sightseeing points (Yeats stuff and seaweed baths - which I do highly recommend, though) and as I'd been to Sligo a few years ago, I didn't feel the need either, so we headed off for Donegal, where we were hoping to go hiking the next day.

I was very sad not to stay longer in Galway, which after Belfast and Dublin is where I've spent the most time in Ireland, and is my favorite city here. Mostly though, I was sad I didn't have time to eat at Couch Potatas, which is probably my favorite restaurant in all of Ireland. But we did cover a lot of ground, bombing through the West Coast. And boy oh boy, did the rental car make it easier than Bus Eireann!