Before the Trip
Last Saturday, we lost our game against the Cottbus Crayfish. There's not much to say, aside from mentioning my frustration at our performance. It was undisciplined and lazy and one of the worst games I've been a part of, especially considering the situation. Due to this loss, and other circumstances, I do have one final game this coming weekend. I'm thankful, because my last game here and probably ever does not have to be that farce of piss-poor officiating and substandard effort.
That said, the weekend closed quickly, as I dropped Mitch off early Sunday morning on his own trip up to Denmark and Sweden. Soon enough, it was time for me to leave on Tuesday.
Tuesday, September 17
I had packed the previous two days, so I was ready for my afternoon train ride to Dusseldorf airport long before I needed to go. Monika was able to drop me off at the train station, albeit over an hour early, so I had quite a bit of time to myself to read and wait. I caught the train, late as it was, and I was off, lugging my backpack and knapsack along with me south to the airport. I almost missed a connection in Frankfurt and had to run from platform to platform, but the journey went smoothly. I made it to the airport and found my gate and whatnot without much issue...until I presented my passport to the German airport agent. Due to how long I've been in Germany, he took issue with my status in the country. One can only stay in Germany without a visa (or most other countries, I believe) for ninety consecutive days. I held up the line as the man looked at my passport, furrowed his brow, and did his best to explain the issue with me. I was oddly calm, considering the fact that they were well within their rights to deport me. Thankfully we were able to iron out the issue - since I had been to Amsterdam since I had arrived in Germany, I was cleared - and I was able to pass through and board my plane. The agent assured me that I'd be able to re-enter the country the next week as if it weren't even a point of concern, but I didn't care about that ambiguity at that point. Ireland was calling me. The flight was a bit delayed, but went well, and I found Niall, my Dublin connection, right away. For those of you who don't know, he is my mother's cousins' cousin's husband. So, definitely close enough to be called family. He immediately took me to his local pub and bought me my first Guinness. Yes. It is better in Ireland. I enjoyed the drinks and the atmosphere; it wasn't like the other pubs I ended up seeing later in my trip, it was local, authentic...it wasn't as tainted by the commercialism brought about by the major tourist areas of the more immediate city area of Dublin. Or so it seemed to me. After two quick pints we popped down to his house, quite literally a few doors down, and I met his wife Annette, my mother's cousins' cousin. We sat up talking for a bit, discussing the connections we had back in the States in my cousins the Sweeneys and quickly forming a strong familial fondness. Having family and a base camp for my adventures proved invaluable to my experience, and I cannot express how grateful I am to the Moores for their hospitality. I went to bed in my room in the kids' playroom happy and excited for the rest of my trip.
That first Guinness. Heaven.
Wednesday, September 18
I woke up early Wednesday morning, too excited to keep sleeping. After everyone else had woken up, I met James, Niall and Annette's three year old son. What a funny kid. James is into everything, whip-smart and mischievous, and, as Niall said, "three going on forty-three." As Niall cooked a traditional Irish breakfast for us (wonderful), I played with James and met his little sisters as Annette brought them down, twins Faye and Hannah. After the breakfast, Annette took me out to Dublin City to my hostel, Abigail's. She pointed out a few points of interest on the way, which proved helpful later on. I was staying very literally in the middle of the city, right along the Liffey, with the major bar district of Temple bar behind me and the rest of the city within easy walking distance. After being dropped off and promising to keep in touch if I needed anything, I dropped my bags off at the hostel (I couldn't check in till two, it was only eleven), grabbed a free city map from the welcome desk, and went a-roving. Immediately I could tell I loved the city; this was in the alley three steps out of my hostel door:
There was a whole alleyway of tributes to the great artists of Ireland, specifically Dublin. I think there was an artists' collective right in the building behind it.
I wandered a stretch of the city, keeping the spot that I needed to meet for the free tour at two o'clock close enough that I could easily find it. My head was spinning, but I loved it. The street art, the buildings, the brogue floating through the air...I was where I wanted to be. And this brings me to maybe the most important thing I've learned over here in Europe, at least about going to new places: I want to be a traveler, not a tourist. A tourist will take a guided bus tour through a city and be content, watching the major landmarks pass by in fifteen seconds, just enough time to snap a decent picture and listen to the bare essential details of the place, minus the strain of getting out of the bus and finding the place themselves by walking along the gritty sidewalks between the less esteemed proud buildings and the washed and unwashed people of the city itself. A tourist buys a t-shirt emblazoned with the city's name immediately and puts it on then and there, as if to remind the place and everyone in it that THIS IS WHERE WE ARE, I'VE BEEN HERE, even before they've had the chance to really be there, to soak up the vibe and the feelings the place gives off. Most of all a tourist doesn't give a damn about the local people or their sensibilities; they must experience the place HOW THEY WANT and WHEN THEY WANT. Everything is about them, and I loathe them for it. I hope to embody a different role, that of a traveler, who walks the streets and soaks up the sights, the sounds, the smells, the vibe. I'm there to see everything, yes, same as a tourist, but I want to fit into the natural order of things without interrupting it, without inserting myself into it by force. I want to go along with the natural pace and flow of things, to wander and discover on my own and for myself and not in the order set down by a tour company set on exploiting only the pretty and proud things about the place. I want the dirt and dust and grime, the ugly things, because at the end of the day most of the time in those things is where the character of the place will come out. I realize I will have to do some touristy things while I travel; it's unavoidable even while seeing things with locals, as I learned with the Moores later on in the trip. But I can avoid committing the aforementioned offenses wherever I go.
All that said, I did take a tour. Oh, the hypocrisy of it all. But, it was a walking tour, which is essential, and it wasn't the only way that I saw the city. I used it more as a means to orient myself within the city than anything else. The tour was decent; I saw many of the things I had been planning on seeing, which was nice, but unlike the tours I took of Hamburg and Berlin, I didn't come away feeling that I'd learned all that much of the area. That is undoubtedly because I've studied and been interested in Dublin for a long time, but it didn't phase me all too much. After the tour, I needed to buy a bus ticket for my trip across the country to Co. Clare the next morning. To do that, though, I needed to find the main bus depot, Busarus. So, time for more wandering. I walked from one side of the city to the other, attempting to use my map and the directions of friendly strangers. No luck. But what did I care? I was happy going from one street to the next, stumbling upon landmark after landmark. In that fashion I walked through St. Stephen's Green, rediscovered Trinity College, and found where I might want to check out later once the sun went down. No luck finding Busarus, however, so by six or so I decided that I needed to cut my losses, check into my hostel, and find somewhere to eat before the pub crawl I was planning to take later that evening. Once I got to Abigail's, I decided to ask to see if I could find the depot and buy my ticket on the way to all those things, and I found out that I had been searching all that time on the wrong side of the Liffey, and that Busarus wasn't more than a fifteen minute walk from where I was. Undaunted, I followed the directions I was given and my map, found an old friend along the way, and bought my bus ticket to Doolin for the next morning at seven AM.
My old friend James Joyce, on Earl Street.
After buying the ticket, I had to find the pub where the pubcrawl started at, so, naturally, I was once again unreservedly lost. I wandered through Temple Bar, looking at every pub sign in vain, until finally I grew so hungry that I knew I needed to eat or my night out would become alarmingly dangerous on an empty stomach. Thankfully I stumbled right upon the Braddock's, the fish and chips shop Annette had recommended as the best in the city. She was right. I got my walking around food and continued my search in vain.
Brilliant.
As the eight thirty start of the crawl approached, I became a bit annoyed. I had been using a small promotional map which had the location marked on it in relation to where my tour started earlier that day, but I couldn't find it for the life of me even while it appeared to sit just across the street. I finally took out my city map and looked for the street name...and realized that the pub was located along the same street my hostel sat. Of course in Dublin every street changes its name innumerable times, so I had been looking all over the city when all I had to do was step out of my door, turn left, and walk for three minutes. I made it just in time, met up with some firefighters from Texas and some university students from Bristol and had a fun night. I turned in a bit earlier than usual, though, because I had a five forty-five wake up and a seven o'clock bus to catch the next morning.
The coolest thing I saw on the pub crawl: This was in what billed itself as a "sports pub." It's the text of my favorite poem, "Raglan Road," by Patrick Kavanagh. That's why I love Ireland. There's poetry in the sports pubs.
Thursday, September 19
After a long night out, thankfully waking up in the morning to catch my bus was easy. I never met anyone staying in my hostel room (an 8 person mixed room) so I did my best to be quiet getting dressed and getting my stuff together in the dark. I was out on the street by six o'clock, and by the time I crossed the Liffey carrying my bag and possibly getting lost trying to find the station sounded majorly unappealing, so I hailed the first cab I saw. It was only a five euro fare, so it was worth it. I caught my bus at seven, and off I went to Doolin, to the west of the country to Co. Clare, to see the Cliffs of Moher and the county where my last immediate relative to immigrate to the States came from (my great-grandmother Theresa Noonan earlier in the twentieth century, she was alive until I was twelve). The bus ride was five hours or so, so I wrote a bit in my travel journal and read. I learned a valuable lesson about the Irish bus system: they'll always be late. Without any major delays or issue I still missed my connection in Galway by over forty-five minutes, so, rather than arriving in Doolin at one, I left Galway at two, and made it to the coast around four thirty. Doolin is a tiny little coastal town, that an old English lady on the bus informed me had no running water as recently as the late sixties. She also told me she'd lived there since all the houses on the main street were lived in, which I didn't quite understand. Upon further explanation I learned that the main street is now filled with shops and the like, to serve the tourists who provide a major part of the local economy. I was a bit worried if all I'd find was a tourist trap. Upon arriving, though, my fears we assuaged. I checked into my hostel, which also served as the town's bus depot, and upon checking in the proprietress gave me a map, telling me go out the door to the left are the Cliffs, to the right is Doolin Cave, down across the way is the dock and coast, and circled the three major pubs that held traditional music shows every night. So, considering the four or so hours I lost, I decided to just plop my bags down in my room and head straight out to the Cliffs. Walking the path alone was wonderful, never dull, never lonely. Just peaceful, the countryside and me, wind whipping at my hat and spray jumping up from the inlets every time a big wave crashed in. The Cliffs were breathtaking, incredible, indescribable. So I won't try. I'll just share some of the pictures.
This picture was taken a step off the porch of the hostel.
I spent half my walk trying to use the self-timer on my camera...whoops.
Classic view of the Cliffs
I was walking as the sun was setting. Perfect timing. None of these pictures were put through filters.
After walking for about two hours and change, I decided to head back to eat some dinner and find a pub I wanted to stay in for the evening of music. I didn't make it all the way down the path though, about a 7k walk according to the proprietress, so I resolved to wake up at dawn the next morning for the sunrise for the entire cliff walk. The walk back was quicker, and I showered and headed out to three pubs. I ate at the first and had a pint in each before deciding to stay at the first, which was closest to my hostel and seemed to be the most popular of the three. The only issue I had was the atmosphere of the pubs; although the music and beer and food was all great, the other clientele were solely middle-aged American tourists. I was hoping to spend the evening quietly, but a bit of conversation wouldn't have been the worst thing in the world. Not with these people, unfortunately. But in the end it was probably a good thing. I enjoyed a few pints and the music immensely. The band playing wasn't on any type of stage, just two guys with accordions and one with a guitar sitting round a table, while the most stereotypical-looking old Irishman (wool sweater, long white beard, glittery-quick eyes) stood and sang folk-songs, many of which I knew. It was a wonderful evening.
Friday, September 20
Like I said, I planned on waking to walk the Cliffs again at dawn. I woke up with my alarm and was outside before the sun was up, but decided to walk down to the dock. Upon getting down there, I saw that I could walk along the rocky shoreline. It was a beautiful morning, with even better weather than the day before, and I was the only living soul awake and about. Walking along the shore alone with the sun was one of the more incredible, peaceful experiences I've ever had. I felt a part of things, even as I was very definitely separate from such an ancient and serene place. I didn't see another person until two labs out on a walk with their owner ran up to me and jumped all over me, trying to play, as I was on my way back in. Once again, it's a heavy task to describe the shore itself, so I'll let my pictures do the talking.
Again, no filters were used in taking these pictures. And they don't do the morning justice.
I went on another walk later after a quick breakfast, to check out the tower placed in the hills and to get a good view looking down on everything. I have to share pictures from that as well.
After an amazing time in Doolin, I took the bus back, and, of course, it ran later than it should have. I had scheduled a place on a literary pub crawl for Friday night, starting at seven fifteen, and of course I missed it. I wasn't worried about the loss of the spot on the crawl, because the trip was worth it, but I was a bit nervous about what I might do on a Friday night completely by myself. Thankfully, all those fears were gone within five minutes of checking back in to my hostel in Dublin. When I opened the door there were three young guys hanging around, looking like they were discussing what they were about to do for the night. After only a few minutes conversation, I got their names (Matthew, Bobby, Bret) and we decided to all go out on the same pub crawl I had been on earlier in the week, which I could go on again free of charge. Also joining us was Patrick, a nice German guy from Frankfurt, but he didn't hang around for very long. Which was unfortunate, because with him we had kind of a boyband thing going on (we joked), a whole bunch of random, very different guys thrown together to go out into the world. It was a good bunch; we had a good time from the fun yet awkward pre-crawl dinner of stew in an almost closed white tablecloth type restaurant (not the type of place to go with four other guys you met ten minutes before) to the end of the night, or rather, the early morning. Lots of funny stories came out of that night, and by the end I was glad to have missed the literary pub crawl.
Saturday, September 21
Saturday morning I woke up first out of the room, which had grown during the night to include a few students in port from the Semester at Sea ship. After a shower and getting breakfast together, Matthew, Bobby, and I decided to go out to the Guinness Brewery and the Jameson Distillery, while Bret needed to book new travel plans. It was great to have some friends to go with on these tours, and we even ended up meeting Bret at Jameson after we thought he had gone on to London. They were things I was planning on doing myself, but were much more fun with other people, especially these two guys. We told stories and got to know each other a bit better throughout the day; even though Bobby and Matthew were old college buddies they allowed me to be a part of their Dublin experience, which I appreciated more than I think they know. I love travelling solo, but after two and a half days I was ready to welcome company. I'm glad I found it, even if we didn't end up getting those tattoos we were so intent on getting. Maybe next time.
My perfectly (eh) poured pint.
Me, Matthew, Bobby
Bobby and I in the Gravity Bar at the top of the Brewery
The whole group at Jameson.
We stuck together for the rest of the day, eating stew twice to bring the total tally of the group up to three bowls each, and planned on going out again in the Temple Bar area that night even though the guys had a six-forty flight. I found a cool street sale and bought my Ireland book, something I wanted to do when I was over there. I got a copy of The Collected Poems of W.B. Yeats; it didn't seem worth it to buy another copy of a Joyce work, and poetry has been growing on me ever since Comps. Since they didn't have any Kavanagh, Yeats will serve. The night Saturday was fun, but we headed in earlier than the night before so the guys could sleep. If I'm ever in the Seattle or NorCal area, I know that I won't have any issue contacting Bobby to see if he's up to go get a drink, and I know he knows the same goes for me in Cleveland. It's good to meet good people on the road.
Sunday, September 22
My time in the city had wound down. The guys left before I woke up on Sunday, and Niall was coming to pick me up from the hostel at eleven. After breakfast and a quick souvenir shopping trip he got me, and I was off for a day with the family. First, he took me up on a walk up the Montpelier Hill outside of Dublin, site of the ruined legendary Hellfire Club and overlooking Dublin City. It was a beautiful day (I had great weather all trip, Niall said it was the best September weather he could remember) and I could see the whole city. We went back home for lunch, an amazing Shepherd's Pie Annette made. After spending some time with the kids, we loaded everyone up and drove out to Wicklow to see Glendalough, one of the famous scenic areas relatively close by. It was similar to my family going out on a walk to Chapin Preservation in Kirtland, with walking paths and nature everywhere...but here was the site of ruined monasteries over a thousand years old and one of the most beautiful lakes and glacial valleys in the world. Annette told me that this was where they filmed Braveheart, and it looked about right. It was a wonderful day out, minus me kicking a rock so hard I ripped my boot, but the drive home was possibly the best part. Niall took us the scenic route home, the R115 Road from Laragh through the Sally Gap to Rathfarnham, just as the sun was setting. As we were just reaching poor James' tipping point of being out and about (it's tough being three), I thought we were done for. We were still in the middle of the mountains with no home in sight. I thought we were in for a tough rest of the ride home...when Niall assured him we were only five minutes away from home and dinner. True to his word, in five minutes we were home. I had no idea the mountains were so close to their house; they really live in the perfect place. They're about fifteen or so minutes from the city, about the same distance they are from some of the most beautiful scenery in the world. I'm so lucky to have visited such generous family to have taken the time to show me both. After a quick takeout dinner, I went to bed early, because of a seven o'clock flight and a four forty-five wake up time.
View of Dublin
Hellfire Club
So many Celtic Crosses!
James and I
Glendalough
Of course there are sheep.
So on Monday, I left Ireland. I was able to return to Germany without deportation, clearly, and I'm back for my last week in Germany, my last football game, and the last little time I have before I dive headfirst back into the real world. I'm so happy that I was able to take my trip to Dublin. It is something that I'll remember for the rest of my life, but it's not something that will truly end. It was just the start of a lifetime of experiences and journeys as I navigate the twists and turns of my time in the world.
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