Day 9: Dublin to Philadelphia and Philadelphia to Chicago
Back in Indiana, suburban Chicago, with the family. There is a new shower here. You all should come over and try it out. I'm just about to try it out for the first time myself and break the cycle of only showering once every two or three weeks. I also can't wait to buy a deodorant gel stick, which apparently does not exist in Europe. I'm not just going to spray terrible scents on me and hope that covers up my stench. I want the comfort of gel adhering to the hair of my armpits. Nothing beats that kind of fresh feeling. Nothing.
A brief retrospective look back on my trip and I realize that I didn't accomplish anything that I had sent out to do like write a second draft to the novel, figure out what I want to do with the rest of my life, figure out where I want to live for at least the next few months of my life, maybe finally make a decision about grad school, and try to once and for all not live in an existential panic. But I did none of that. I did a whole lot more. I went to Slovenia. You probably can't say that, can you? (And if you can, don't tell me, don't slash my sails, not right now, let them stay puffed up and full and happy. Thank you.)
I've returned to a familiar routine. A pot of coffee. On my dual-monitored desktop blasting Distorted Pony, downloading the (finally!) new Duchess Says. Writing e-mails, researching literary magazines, making music on Fruity Loops, tuning my tele, and shopping online for used books. It's a lot of the same, but I feel different doing it. I can't quite explain the change. It could just be the jet lag, but I don't jet lag. There probably isn't a change. Watch me sit on my ass until tonight's Hawks game. Watch!
I wanted to spend several blog posts posting several pictures from my journey. But now that my camera is gone and likely gone forever before I could upload those hundreds of pictures, I have to decide the fate of this blog. Like all the others, it is destined to die. I'm sorry. It's what happens when Kyle Brown makes a blog. It dies.
So do I start another? Change the name of this one? What will I talk about. It's easy to be perceived as exciting and interesting when you're across an ocean traveling new lands where your friends can read about your experiences and spend those five to ten minutes living vicariously. But back in suburbia. No one wants to live vicariously through my suburban experience. Hell, I want one of you to go do some travel and blog about it so I can sit here and read about it and live vicariously. And if I really put my mind to it, I can use the word vicariously more in this paragraph than in any other paragraph ever.
So how about some goals. Some futureplans. How about another trip next September? This time with more friends. Then there won't be any need for any of us to live vicariously through the other because we'll all be drunk in hostels together, meeting new people, making new friends, and learning about how people live in other places, which really isn't too much different than here, where people just want good, cheap booze and some laughs, some entertainment. How does that sound? Sign up now!
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Stealing Memories
Day 7: Klagenfurt to Cologne/Bonn and Cologne/Bonn to Berlin
It was a long day of waiting with a little bit of flying. Berlin was drizzly and windy and overall rather Dublin/Ireland-like. I didn't get to my hostel until almost 10pm. I wanted to relax and have a beer or three and get a good night of rest. But I forgot that Berlin is a city that never sleeps.
"Hey! Hey! Kyle! Kyle!"
"?"
"I can't believe it, man."
"Gino? Holy shit!"
I had met Gino at the hostel in London. Gino is a small, kind, generous forty year old Dutchman. We both knew that we were going to be in Berlin at the same time, but neither of us had any idea where the other was going to stay. Turns out we both picked Comebackpackers.
Gino had Tequila. We drank with a couple other Americans and a small group of rabid Australians (you know I <3 you guys). You can imagine how little sleep I got and just how terrible I felt when I woke up.
Day 8: Berlin to Dublin
I closed my throbbing eyes for the duration of the two hour flight. When we landed, most of my headache had gone away. I checked back into Isaacs, my favorite hostel. I ate a burrito. I drank a lot of coffee. I am now drinking a beer and helping Regina remove an annoying virus from her laptop.
At this point I stopped writing the blog post because my backpack went missing. It's still missing. It was sitting right next to me at a table that was filled with people I had been talking to for hours. A surreal, sad moment. We looked everywhere. It was/is nowhere. I've talked to the Garda (Police), and they're filing a report that I'll pick up tomorrow morning before I head off to the airport (if the bag is not found before then).
Things could be worse. It could have been my laptop. It could have been my wallet or passport. I've only lost some books (Catch-22, Ulysses, The Black Book). All the maps of the cities I've visited on my trip. My purple notebook with all the notes for the novel. And my camera was in there filled with all the photos from my five weeks here that I have been unable to upload because I left my cable at home. All sentimental, irreplaceable things. I even lost my picture of me and James Joyce. Losing these photos makes me feel like I have no evidence of my journeys. Like none of this has even happened. Like the last five weeks has been merely a dream. And maybe it was.
I start my long journey back home tomorrow under even more mixed emotions than I would have imagined. I had been looking forward to uploading all of those pictures, all those little pieces of evidence that I really saw what I saw, but now I will have to look forward to other things--like my eventual return to Europe, my inevitable return to traveling.
It was a long day of waiting with a little bit of flying. Berlin was drizzly and windy and overall rather Dublin/Ireland-like. I didn't get to my hostel until almost 10pm. I wanted to relax and have a beer or three and get a good night of rest. But I forgot that Berlin is a city that never sleeps.
"Hey! Hey! Kyle! Kyle!"
"?"
"I can't believe it, man."
"Gino? Holy shit!"
I had met Gino at the hostel in London. Gino is a small, kind, generous forty year old Dutchman. We both knew that we were going to be in Berlin at the same time, but neither of us had any idea where the other was going to stay. Turns out we both picked Comebackpackers.
Gino had Tequila. We drank with a couple other Americans and a small group of rabid Australians (you know I <3 you guys). You can imagine how little sleep I got and just how terrible I felt when I woke up.
Day 8: Berlin to Dublin
I closed my throbbing eyes for the duration of the two hour flight. When we landed, most of my headache had gone away. I checked back into Isaacs, my favorite hostel. I ate a burrito. I drank a lot of coffee. I am now drinking a beer and helping Regina remove an annoying virus from her laptop.
At this point I stopped writing the blog post because my backpack went missing. It's still missing. It was sitting right next to me at a table that was filled with people I had been talking to for hours. A surreal, sad moment. We looked everywhere. It was/is nowhere. I've talked to the Garda (Police), and they're filing a report that I'll pick up tomorrow morning before I head off to the airport (if the bag is not found before then).
Things could be worse. It could have been my laptop. It could have been my wallet or passport. I've only lost some books (Catch-22, Ulysses, The Black Book). All the maps of the cities I've visited on my trip. My purple notebook with all the notes for the novel. And my camera was in there filled with all the photos from my five weeks here that I have been unable to upload because I left my cable at home. All sentimental, irreplaceable things. I even lost my picture of me and James Joyce. Losing these photos makes me feel like I have no evidence of my journeys. Like none of this has even happened. Like the last five weeks has been merely a dream. And maybe it was.
I start my long journey back home tomorrow under even more mixed emotions than I would have imagined. I had been looking forward to uploading all of those pictures, all those little pieces of evidence that I really saw what I saw, but now I will have to look forward to other things--like my eventual return to Europe, my inevitable return to traveling.
Sunday, October 9, 2011
Day 6: Day Trip to Ljubljana
I've been sharing this six bed dorm with a Ukrainian doctor. He's on a work holiday here in Austria for about a month. The Ukrainian doctor has two cute little daughters. He told me he can only have daughters and a friend of his can only have sons. He said the secret is that his friend keeps a pistol and a knife under his bed, and the doctor said he could never do that so he is doomed to forever have daughters. I told the doctor that I had some great-great grandparents from Ukraine. He told me they must have come from western Ukraine before WW2. I think he assumed I was at least part Jewish.
Yesterday he was going to take a train to Venice, and I was going to take a train to Ljubljana, and we shared a cab at 5am to the train station in Klagenfurt. We split the cost and parted ways.
I, too, was planning to take a trip to Venice for the day, but I just could not get the timing to work out. The earliest busses and trains were already full. The cheapest place to stay in Venice was about 300 Euro a night (everything else was booked). The travel agent suggested Ljubljana instead. They had a sale going on for a 20 Euro round trip train ticket. She also said that you ride through the Alps and that it's beautiful. Alps? Mountains? I'm in!
I fell asleep on the train ride there, but I woke up and the first light of morning was lighting up snowcapped mountains. Holy crap. Unfortunately, though, for most of the ride, there was too much fog and clouds to see most of the mountains. You could get a peek here and there, but I just closed my eyes again until we reached Ljubljana.
So I know some German, and that helps with signs and menus, but I don't know any Slovenian. Few signs were in English. The Chicago Classic burger at the Ljubljana McDonald's is called the New York Classic. (I end up in McDonald's a lot because of the free wi-fi.) But, surprisingly to me, people spoke better English in the Slovenian capital than here in this college town in southern Austria. Thank goodness. I'm sure if I had been in a rural area, I would have had a more challenging experience.
The University of Ljubljana, home to Zizek, is only one (old, majestic) building. I made it a point to go there and try to sneak in and have a look around. I had no such luck, though I considered taking a picture with this one homeless man who bore a strong resemblance to the philosopher.
Ljubljana is small, only about 250,000 people, and everything that I wanted to see was well within walking distance. I checked out the remains of some ancient Roman walls (actually walked on top of it). I found the Museum of Modern Slovenian Art where I felt like a student, lingering near a group of young adults taking notes on each piece. A late lunch introduced me to a Slovenian beer called Union. It's a lager. It's like almost any other lager. And then, a bit light and fluffy, I took a little mountain-climbing train to Ljubljana Castle. The Castle (Grad) sits on a cliff right over downtown. I had never quite seen a city with such a forested cliff right in its center.
I climbed to the very top where the flag is flying. You get a spectacular 360 degree view of Ljubljana and the mountains all around, in particular the snowcapped Alpls to the north and northwest. The clouds broke, and I took many pictures like this one:
It was a long, long day, and about 5pm I got back on the train to head home. Who did I see when I first popped my head in the train? The Ukrainian doctor. It turned out that he thought he could buy his Venice ticket at the last moment, but he met the same fate I did when I tried to go to Venice. He, too, was also pleasantly surprised by Ljubljana's charm and beauty. As for the train we were on, not so much.
"You can tell this is Slovenian train. So dirty, old, ride not steady. It feels like Soviet Union. Austrian train so nice. Clean. Smooth."
We chatted the rest of the way to Klagenfurt and marveled at the sun setting over the snowcapped peaks of the Alps as we neared the Austrian border.
"So beautiful. Look at this. I surprised. Wow, Slovenia beautiful country."
I could not agree more.
I've been sharing this six bed dorm with a Ukrainian doctor. He's on a work holiday here in Austria for about a month. The Ukrainian doctor has two cute little daughters. He told me he can only have daughters and a friend of his can only have sons. He said the secret is that his friend keeps a pistol and a knife under his bed, and the doctor said he could never do that so he is doomed to forever have daughters. I told the doctor that I had some great-great grandparents from Ukraine. He told me they must have come from western Ukraine before WW2. I think he assumed I was at least part Jewish.
Yesterday he was going to take a train to Venice, and I was going to take a train to Ljubljana, and we shared a cab at 5am to the train station in Klagenfurt. We split the cost and parted ways.
I, too, was planning to take a trip to Venice for the day, but I just could not get the timing to work out. The earliest busses and trains were already full. The cheapest place to stay in Venice was about 300 Euro a night (everything else was booked). The travel agent suggested Ljubljana instead. They had a sale going on for a 20 Euro round trip train ticket. She also said that you ride through the Alps and that it's beautiful. Alps? Mountains? I'm in!
I fell asleep on the train ride there, but I woke up and the first light of morning was lighting up snowcapped mountains. Holy crap. Unfortunately, though, for most of the ride, there was too much fog and clouds to see most of the mountains. You could get a peek here and there, but I just closed my eyes again until we reached Ljubljana.
So I know some German, and that helps with signs and menus, but I don't know any Slovenian. Few signs were in English. The Chicago Classic burger at the Ljubljana McDonald's is called the New York Classic. (I end up in McDonald's a lot because of the free wi-fi.) But, surprisingly to me, people spoke better English in the Slovenian capital than here in this college town in southern Austria. Thank goodness. I'm sure if I had been in a rural area, I would have had a more challenging experience.
The University of Ljubljana, home to Zizek, is only one (old, majestic) building. I made it a point to go there and try to sneak in and have a look around. I had no such luck, though I considered taking a picture with this one homeless man who bore a strong resemblance to the philosopher.
Ljubljana is small, only about 250,000 people, and everything that I wanted to see was well within walking distance. I checked out the remains of some ancient Roman walls (actually walked on top of it). I found the Museum of Modern Slovenian Art where I felt like a student, lingering near a group of young adults taking notes on each piece. A late lunch introduced me to a Slovenian beer called Union. It's a lager. It's like almost any other lager. And then, a bit light and fluffy, I took a little mountain-climbing train to Ljubljana Castle. The Castle (Grad) sits on a cliff right over downtown. I had never quite seen a city with such a forested cliff right in its center.
It was a long, long day, and about 5pm I got back on the train to head home. Who did I see when I first popped my head in the train? The Ukrainian doctor. It turned out that he thought he could buy his Venice ticket at the last moment, but he met the same fate I did when I tried to go to Venice. He, too, was also pleasantly surprised by Ljubljana's charm and beauty. As for the train we were on, not so much.
"You can tell this is Slovenian train. So dirty, old, ride not steady. It feels like Soviet Union. Austrian train so nice. Clean. Smooth."
We chatted the rest of the way to Klagenfurt and marveled at the sun setting over the snowcapped peaks of the Alps as we neared the Austrian border.
"So beautiful. Look at this. I surprised. Wow, Slovenia beautiful country."
I could not agree more.
Friday, October 7, 2011
Beer, Geography, and Art
Day 4 and 5:
I've been relaxing and enjoying my time here in Klagenfurt. Yesterday I got a little tour of the forest and lake from a kind little tour guide, and last night I helped our quiz team tie for fourth place, thanks to my skillz in the Geography round. Also, I drank a Duff beer.
On the ride home, I ate something like a hotdog or a spam sandwich (from a gas station) with cheese and confusion. But it had mustard on it so it was all good.
Today the skies have opened up on me for the first time since Ireland. I suppose my run of great weather could only last so long. I took advantage of the rain and went to the modern art museum here in town. The highlight of the museum was an artist named Inge Dick. I sat in a dark room with a projection of the color red on one of the walls. In the bottom right hand corner was a time clock counting up. I stayed in the room from 8:55:17 to 9:01:55 and while I'm pretty sure the red never changed, I couldn't be 100% sure.
The other highlight was an artist named Manuel Knapp. It was like Wolf Eyes meets low quality instructional videos and another projection, this one with black and white shifting images. I could find no pattern, but I left the room before my eyes exploded.
I've been relaxing and enjoying my time here in Klagenfurt. Yesterday I got a little tour of the forest and lake from a kind little tour guide, and last night I helped our quiz team tie for fourth place, thanks to my skillz in the Geography round. Also, I drank a Duff beer.
On the ride home, I ate something like a hotdog or a spam sandwich (from a gas station) with cheese and confusion. But it had mustard on it so it was all good.
Today the skies have opened up on me for the first time since Ireland. I suppose my run of great weather could only last so long. I took advantage of the rain and went to the modern art museum here in town. The highlight of the museum was an artist named Inge Dick. I sat in a dark room with a projection of the color red on one of the walls. In the bottom right hand corner was a time clock counting up. I stayed in the room from 8:55:17 to 9:01:55 and while I'm pretty sure the red never changed, I couldn't be 100% sure.
The other highlight was an artist named Manuel Knapp. It was like Wolf Eyes meets low quality instructional videos and another projection, this one with black and white shifting images. I could find no pattern, but I left the room before my eyes exploded.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
MOUNTAINS
Day 3: Berlin to Bonn and Bonn to Klagenfurt, Austria
There are mountains to the south and west of this town. The Alps. Die Alpen! As it is not every day that I see mountains, this gets me excited!
I walked about ten minutes west of my hostel, and I came to a lake and beyond the lake, gently rising into to the sky were the forested foothills of the Alps. I took some pictures and in some of those pictures there are dogs faithfully retrieving tennis balls thrown into the lake by their owners. It paints a nice picture. And I'd upload those pictures if it weren't for leaving my camera cord back home. Patience readers, photos will be in sight soon enough (too soon).
On my way back, I saw a little girl with a mullet. Oh, Europe.
Apparently I bring the good weather with me as it has been gorgeous not only in London, but now in Berlin and Austria. I suppose that makes up for the first three weeks in Ireland where it only didn't rain at least a little bit for three of those days. Tomorrow I plan on doing a little hiking, a little nature-frolicking, with the assistance of a kind tour guide.
If your math is as good as mine, and it probably isn't, that's four flights in three days. What this means is that I finally get a chance to sit and relax and actually enjoy a destination. I love the adventure of traveling, of the airport grind (the airport bars), and the challenge of trying to get somewhere in a huge city on each city's own version of public transportation, but I also enjoy sitting in one place for a little while to get to know it. I have a hunch Klagenfurt will be a nice little place to do just that, a nice little place to spend the last days of my freedom before I start my whirlwind journey back to somewhere where I'd rather not be.
For now, though, I've got a little of this:
There are mountains to the south and west of this town. The Alps. Die Alpen! As it is not every day that I see mountains, this gets me excited!
I walked about ten minutes west of my hostel, and I came to a lake and beyond the lake, gently rising into to the sky were the forested foothills of the Alps. I took some pictures and in some of those pictures there are dogs faithfully retrieving tennis balls thrown into the lake by their owners. It paints a nice picture. And I'd upload those pictures if it weren't for leaving my camera cord back home. Patience readers, photos will be in sight soon enough (too soon).
On my way back, I saw a little girl with a mullet. Oh, Europe.
Apparently I bring the good weather with me as it has been gorgeous not only in London, but now in Berlin and Austria. I suppose that makes up for the first three weeks in Ireland where it only didn't rain at least a little bit for three of those days. Tomorrow I plan on doing a little hiking, a little nature-frolicking, with the assistance of a kind tour guide.
If your math is as good as mine, and it probably isn't, that's four flights in three days. What this means is that I finally get a chance to sit and relax and actually enjoy a destination. I love the adventure of traveling, of the airport grind (the airport bars), and the challenge of trying to get somewhere in a huge city on each city's own version of public transportation, but I also enjoy sitting in one place for a little while to get to know it. I have a hunch Klagenfurt will be a nice little place to do just that, a nice little place to spend the last days of my freedom before I start my whirlwind journey back to somewhere where I'd rather not be.
For now, though, I've got a little of this:
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Deutschland Uber Alles
Pardon any slurred words or irritating typos because this is serious. One euro fifty for beer. Self service. On the honor system.
Day 2: Dublin to Berlin
I rised and shined before the sun did, departing Dublin for a third time (a fourth is scheduled). As the plane was taxiing, the sun peaked its head above the horizon. I closed my eyes and woke up in Deutschland.
In case you were wondering, my great-grandfather Otto Scheive was from Germany, so I am still getting in touch with my roots over here, one euro fifty at a time.
My nap sadly took up most of the afternoon. It was much needed, but it cut into my daylight sightseeing. Saw the Brandenberg Gate, das Reichstag, und Alexanderplatz where I overpaid for ein nicht so gutes bier.
Two more flights tomorrow. Where do I end up? Tune in to find out!
Day 2: Dublin to Berlin
I rised and shined before the sun did, departing Dublin for a third time (a fourth is scheduled). As the plane was taxiing, the sun peaked its head above the horizon. I closed my eyes and woke up in Deutschland.
In case you were wondering, my great-grandfather Otto Scheive was from Germany, so I am still getting in touch with my roots over here, one euro fifty at a time.
My nap sadly took up most of the afternoon. It was much needed, but it cut into my daylight sightseeing. Saw the Brandenberg Gate, das Reichstag, und Alexanderplatz where I overpaid for ein nicht so gutes bier.
Two more flights tomorrow. Where do I end up? Tune in to find out!
Monday, October 3, 2011
Nine Flights in Nine Days
or How to Be a Terrible Planner-Aheader
or How to Be a Fiscally Irresponsible Traveler (and not give two fucks about the money)
or How to Live as if You'll Never Get Another Chance to Travel to Europe Again
or Kyle Brown Wants to See Some Snowcapped Mountains Fuck Yeah Hey Hey
Day One: London to Dublin
The initial plan was to come back here to Dublin and just chill and finish the novel, but fuck that. Let's see some more Europe! Let's go where I can show how little conversational German I can understand! When will I get another chance to up my country count as easily as now since I'm so close the Continent?
Who knows.
So here it goes.
There is a crossroads of sorts in Kyle's life. Where will he end up? Which of the myriad of forks will he take? What will he do there? What will he do when he gets back? If he gets back?
I've been asked, "Are you homesick?" No, I'm the opposite of whatever that is. Sick of home. In love with not being there. In love with doing something else. So hopefully with all of my time on planes (trains and automobiles), I can live these final nine days like that sappy, sappy cliche: like there is no tomorrow.
But there is a tomorrow. And I will fly to Berlin.
or How to Be a Fiscally Irresponsible Traveler (and not give two fucks about the money)
or How to Live as if You'll Never Get Another Chance to Travel to Europe Again
or Kyle Brown Wants to See Some Snowcapped Mountains Fuck Yeah Hey Hey
Day One: London to Dublin
The initial plan was to come back here to Dublin and just chill and finish the novel, but fuck that. Let's see some more Europe! Let's go where I can show how little conversational German I can understand! When will I get another chance to up my country count as easily as now since I'm so close the Continent?
Who knows.
So here it goes.
There is a crossroads of sorts in Kyle's life. Where will he end up? Which of the myriad of forks will he take? What will he do there? What will he do when he gets back? If he gets back?
I've been asked, "Are you homesick?" No, I'm the opposite of whatever that is. Sick of home. In love with not being there. In love with doing something else. So hopefully with all of my time on planes (trains and automobiles), I can live these final nine days like that sappy, sappy cliche: like there is no tomorrow.
But there is a tomorrow. And I will fly to Berlin.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Guinness for Strength
I've been putting this off and putting this off and putting this off, and here I find myself on the last night of the Irish portion of my trip, and I need to squeeze this necessary blog post out of me like dirty water from a dirty stone.
The saying is that the Guinness is better here at the source, and if the Willy Wonka-like factory is any indication, I am certainly as close to the source as I can get. They will tell you the stout tastes better here, smoother, that it's better balanced, even sweeter. And, you know, they are certainly right. To an extant.
The bottom line is that I have grown up on stouts that are two and three times stronger (ABV%) than Guinness and its measly %4 (listed as %4.2 here). Imperial Stouts, Russian Imperial Stouts, even Baltic Porters. Stouts that taste of coffee, that taste of chocolate, that pour like motor oil, that pour with a brown head, that leave brown residue all over the glass. And because I grew up on these bigger, more powerful, and massively flavorful stouts, I still have little good to say about Guinness. I suppose here it is drinkable. I've had more than one. I've probably had a half dozen to, you know, really put it to the test, to see whether or not it's just a question of an acquired taste. But, no, it's not. I'd rather have a lager like Carlsberg, even Heineken, before Guinness. Right now I'm even sipping a Beamish, which is an Irish stout, too, but is a little thicker and more flavorful (and only two Euro fifty at this hostel).
So I really do hate to break it to you, Ireland--you've been a wonderful host to me--you have a beautiful country here and friendly, helpful citizens, but your national beer/icon, one of your most well known exports, still isn't good.
The saying is that the Guinness is better here at the source, and if the Willy Wonka-like factory is any indication, I am certainly as close to the source as I can get. They will tell you the stout tastes better here, smoother, that it's better balanced, even sweeter. And, you know, they are certainly right. To an extant.
The bottom line is that I have grown up on stouts that are two and three times stronger (ABV%) than Guinness and its measly %4 (listed as %4.2 here). Imperial Stouts, Russian Imperial Stouts, even Baltic Porters. Stouts that taste of coffee, that taste of chocolate, that pour like motor oil, that pour with a brown head, that leave brown residue all over the glass. And because I grew up on these bigger, more powerful, and massively flavorful stouts, I still have little good to say about Guinness. I suppose here it is drinkable. I've had more than one. I've probably had a half dozen to, you know, really put it to the test, to see whether or not it's just a question of an acquired taste. But, no, it's not. I'd rather have a lager like Carlsberg, even Heineken, before Guinness. Right now I'm even sipping a Beamish, which is an Irish stout, too, but is a little thicker and more flavorful (and only two Euro fifty at this hostel).
So I really do hate to break it to you, Ireland--you've been a wonderful host to me--you have a beautiful country here and friendly, helpful citizens, but your national beer/icon, one of your most well known exports, still isn't good.
Friday, September 23, 2011
Lisdoonvarna Matchmaking Festival
Perhaps I sound a bit frustrated--poor single Kyle had to settle with matching up with your grandma (who is a real gilf btw)--but, no, that is not the case at all. The west of Ireland, while rainy and windy as shit, is beautiful. The Cliffs of Moher were obviously breathtaking, and looking out most of the windows in this hostel, you can see large hills, small mountains off in the distance, rolling toward the ocean. Besides, I did not come here to find a match--I really hope no one comes here to find a match, but sadly I know that's not true--I came here for a once in a lifetime opportunity to find out and observe just what the hell a Matchmaking Festival is. Next time, though, I'll just stay at home and make a new profile on OKCupid. Stay tuned.
Not only is Lisdoonvarna home to the human mutation of the Pillsbury Doughboy, it's home to donkeys.
A town with a population of not more than a thousand people receiving an influx of close to 40,000 is a sight to behold. Everyone parks on the sidewalks. Thankfully I have yet to see any tan Buicks. I had seen enough of those over the summer. The reprieve from the Buicks and Chevy Impalas is more than welcome, but I still can't escape the old people. At least these grandmas and grandpas are still healthy enough to get down and break a hip.
I talked to a local musician named Dermot, 33, and he told me the Matchmaking Festival is "a fucking joke." And the the hotels around here are trying to seperate themselves from the "absolute fucking joke that is Willie Daly and his assinine Matchmaking book. "The sad part," he continues, "is that Willie is so clueless that he really believes in what he does. His magic book, his magic matchmaking ability. He fucking believes all of it. It's pathetic." But he rakes in that dough.
You see, Willie Daly, a fourth-generation matchmaker, charges 20 Euro for you to fill out a one page form giving your information and interests. He reads through all of them and matches people up and gives potential matches each others contact information. For a mere 50 Euro, Willie will meet with you one on one to get a better idea of what you want in a match. (Fire, I want fire in my match.) If you're truly lucky, you'll be able to touch his book, which guarantees that you'll meet your spouse within six months.
Also, he looks like Kenny Rogers.
We can indeed only hope.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Where's the Crack?
Before I let yall know where the crack is, first a list of things I've found in the dorms as I've been cleaning:
- 17 cents
- 1 universal adapter (which is great because I left mine at home)
- 1 bottle of Budweiser (the American kind, though made by Guinness here)
Overall I've put these things to good use, especially in charging my phone, which I'm not using as a phone at all but as a watch. Why not get a watch? I hate wearing things on my wrists.
As for where's the crack:
It's an odd question you'll be asked here. "Where's the crack?" Uh, I'm quite sorry, I'm new here so I don't know, but when you do find the crack, if you could find me some meth, that would be grand.
There is another variant: "What's the crack?"
Equally, well, perhaps more confusing. What is the crack and where is it? Are we all not crack? The crack is what you make it. I always answer "drugs." And then they explain to me:
It's craic not crack. Basically instead of saying, what's going on or what's happening, in Ireland they ask where/what the craic is? It's getting smoked, dear Irishman. It's getting smoked. The craic is crack.
There is another variant: "What's the crack?"
Equally, well, perhaps more confusing. What is the crack and where is it? Are we all not crack? The crack is what you make it. I always answer "drugs." And then they explain to me:
It's craic not crack. Basically instead of saying, what's going on or what's happening, in Ireland they ask where/what the craic is? It's getting smoked, dear Irishman. It's getting smoked. The craic is crack.
Monday, September 19, 2011
Used Condom Count Competition
- 1 Diana
- 1 Kyle*
- 0 Cyrus**
* notably found in driveway, not in a bed
**manager
Needless to say, though, that I was disappointed to have not found any used condoms from this past weekend's matches. Evidence of physical love was all around us, but I fear the old ladies and gentlemen weren't keeping it safe. Then again, after a certain age, why bother?
**manager
Needless to say, though, that I was disappointed to have not found any used condoms from this past weekend's matches. Evidence of physical love was all around us, but I fear the old ladies and gentlemen weren't keeping it safe. Then again, after a certain age, why bother?
Saturday, September 17, 2011
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Roll Camera
I better try getting this all out now before someone comes into the dining room and asks me if I want to go out to get a pint. That has more or less been my experience here in Ireland. It is exactly what I expected. Plus, cliffs:
Monday I bussed from Dublin to Lisdoonvarna. Tuesday was the first day "earning my keep." That consisted of maybe a half hour of work because all the matchmaking is done more or less on the weekends. Boats of tourists, middle aged divorcees, and Sinead O'Connor will all be around here looking for mates, looking for love, passion, sex (stay turned for: Used Condom Count Competition), someone to grow older and older with at least until you split and re-attend the Matchmaking Festival in a future year. I can only hope that after a long weekend of cleaning rooms, Sinead will tell me, "Kyle, nothing compares to you."
Me and Diana left about noonish. We left by foot, planning to walk the 10k (6 miles) to the cliffs from Lisdoonvarna. The streets were narrow as shit. There is maybe enough room for a bus and a car to pass each other, but not enough room for a couple of tourists who may be trying to simply get to one of the most breathtaking pieces of scenery in the world--and an ATM. Diana needed cash, and Lisdoonvarna has no bank, no ATM, and neither does Doolin. Doolin has nothing.
While cautiously walking the needle-narrow roads, we thought we'd stop and eat in Doolin. On our way we had experienced busses and trucks racing only inches past us, disapproving cows,
thorny bushes, and doom. You could see the doom building in the distance. We were walking straight into the wind, straight toward the doom. And the doom did descend on us, and we did get drenched. More than once. Then it got colder. The wind stiffened. Then the sun would come out. And the process would start over again.
We had been walking about an hour and a half and came to a sign that said Doolin 2km ----->. Awesome, a chance for lunch. We deserved lunch, a hot lunch, a hot coffee or ten. We had walked almost 2km and came to a new sign that said Doolin 2km ----->. Ah, Doolin, an Irish town on the move, always 2km away, always just out of reach, just out of sight.
After what seemed like days and days of trekking and avoiding busses and getting soaked and drying out and shivering and cramping, we saw Doolin rise from the mist. It had four restaurants. One was closed. One didn't open until the evening. One was only serving a shady looking buffet. So to the cafe we went. We ate, dried off a bit, had some hot drinks.
Now. Now to the cliffs. We had to backtrack the 4km and head another 5km to the cliffs. Another hour spent walking into the doom with at least another hour to come. There was our fate hovering toward us. We knew it was coming. Another downpour of ice-cold needles blowing into our eyes. One needle, two needles, ten, twenty, countless needles. But before the doom could really crank up, we passed a van and a lady about to get in. She asked us if we wanted a ride, and, yes, yes, we wanted a ride.
It was easy to see that, no, the sign that said 10km to the Cliffs of Moher was full of shit--10km my ass. If you take nothing away from this blog, take this: Irish road signs were made and hung after a few pints.
As for the cliffs themselves, what could I type? I was nearly as speechless as I was in New Zealand. It all seemed unreal. Like these cliffs do not exist. That the experience that I am experiencing is not really being experienced. At any moment I expected a viking ship to come around the cliffs and the director to yell cut and the green screen to drop and the makeup lady to come over and powder my nose, preparing me for my next take.
Monday I bussed from Dublin to Lisdoonvarna. Tuesday was the first day "earning my keep." That consisted of maybe a half hour of work because all the matchmaking is done more or less on the weekends. Boats of tourists, middle aged divorcees, and Sinead O'Connor will all be around here looking for mates, looking for love, passion, sex (stay turned for: Used Condom Count Competition), someone to grow older and older with at least until you split and re-attend the Matchmaking Festival in a future year. I can only hope that after a long weekend of cleaning rooms, Sinead will tell me, "Kyle, nothing compares to you."
Me and Diana left about noonish. We left by foot, planning to walk the 10k (6 miles) to the cliffs from Lisdoonvarna. The streets were narrow as shit. There is maybe enough room for a bus and a car to pass each other, but not enough room for a couple of tourists who may be trying to simply get to one of the most breathtaking pieces of scenery in the world--and an ATM. Diana needed cash, and Lisdoonvarna has no bank, no ATM, and neither does Doolin. Doolin has nothing.
While cautiously walking the needle-narrow roads, we thought we'd stop and eat in Doolin. On our way we had experienced busses and trucks racing only inches past us, disapproving cows,
thorny bushes, and doom. You could see the doom building in the distance. We were walking straight into the wind, straight toward the doom. And the doom did descend on us, and we did get drenched. More than once. Then it got colder. The wind stiffened. Then the sun would come out. And the process would start over again.
We had been walking about an hour and a half and came to a sign that said Doolin 2km ----->. Awesome, a chance for lunch. We deserved lunch, a hot lunch, a hot coffee or ten. We had walked almost 2km and came to a new sign that said Doolin 2km ----->. Ah, Doolin, an Irish town on the move, always 2km away, always just out of reach, just out of sight.
After what seemed like days and days of trekking and avoiding busses and getting soaked and drying out and shivering and cramping, we saw Doolin rise from the mist. It had four restaurants. One was closed. One didn't open until the evening. One was only serving a shady looking buffet. So to the cafe we went. We ate, dried off a bit, had some hot drinks.
Now. Now to the cliffs. We had to backtrack the 4km and head another 5km to the cliffs. Another hour spent walking into the doom with at least another hour to come. There was our fate hovering toward us. We knew it was coming. Another downpour of ice-cold needles blowing into our eyes. One needle, two needles, ten, twenty, countless needles. But before the doom could really crank up, we passed a van and a lady about to get in. She asked us if we wanted a ride, and, yes, yes, we wanted a ride.
It was easy to see that, no, the sign that said 10km to the Cliffs of Moher was full of shit--10km my ass. If you take nothing away from this blog, take this: Irish road signs were made and hung after a few pints.
As for the cliffs themselves, what could I type? I was nearly as speechless as I was in New Zealand. It all seemed unreal. Like these cliffs do not exist. That the experience that I am experiencing is not really being experienced. At any moment I expected a viking ship to come around the cliffs and the director to yell cut and the green screen to drop and the makeup lady to come over and powder my nose, preparing me for my next take.
Monday, September 12, 2011
Bird Song
Pardon me if this post gets a bit Millery, but if you know me and my literary tendencies then you shouldn't be too surprised.
I woke up wide awake after two hours of sleep. I had been dreaming that I was snorting Vicodin with an old flame when I looked out the window and saw a line of cars as far as the eye could see that needed to be parked. That panic, that dread is what woke me up shaking. The room was hot, and I was possibly still feeling the effects from the beer-vending Pepsi machine in the basement.
There was no hope in falling back asleep. I was too annoyed with myself for something I had not done the night before. Sometimes I am quite a mumbling nervous cold bowl of soup. I trudged downstairs and had my free breakfast of staleflakes, white toast with raspberry jam, orange juice, and coffee. I breakfasted with two fellow Americans, an accountant and an Internet business owner who lives in Zurich. Most of their conversation was about how they hated taxes. The accountant couldn't keep his eyes off his I-Pad.
I needed to take a walk. The rain was steady and the wind strong. The remnants of a hurricane were on the way. But I needed to take a walk to keep from kicking myself anymore.
The pavement was wet and like glass, like wet glass. It reminded me of the steps in front of the Stewart Center at Purdue. When wet, they turned to ice. When icy, they turned to impossible. The streets of Dublin are the same, and with my Bambi legs, there was little hope for me, but I needed to keep moving. My mind was occupied with trying to keep my umbrella right-side-out and staying as balanced I could on the ice-slick pavement. It made for some good meditation. That and the physical exercise of walking improved my mood immensely.
I had set off with no direction. Rarely I do. I found myself in the retail district walking south. It was about 9am on a Sunday morning and between that and the weather, no one was out. I heard a tourist in passing say, "Here's the Dublin weather." The shops were all locked up and dim. It was hard not to window shop when everyone was out. I saw a nice pair of brown shoes for 60 Euro. It's a good thing I don't think I'd ever pay that much for shoes or I would have waited around until the store opened.
My wandering took me to St. Stephen's Green, a cute little park in the middle of the city where I had been the day before. On Saturday the sun was warm and shining down on St. Stephen's Green. The green was nearly covered entirely by couples, mostly young couples, lazing in the sun, baking in the sun, eating, drinking, and napping on one another. They looked like albino seals on a green beach. Everyone looked happy and relaxed. I felt indifferent if not a little empty. After a loop around the park, I went for a coffee and some reading.
Sunday was a different story. The park was nearly empty. There were a few runners puffing on the pavement and somehow not slipping and sliding through the park. I shuffled my way along. I had walked over a mile and my tired and sleep deprived legs were growing tired. I stopped by the tree covered pond and looked at the pigeons. I had never looked so closely at pigeons. Not only were they every shade of gray from black to white, some had some blue-green and purple on the back of their necks. Their little toes were red and worked quickly to get places slowly. They weren't afraid of me and they got quite close. Their little red eyes blinked sideways at me, their heads twitched and they looked somewhere else, for something to peck at, for a drink of water. They had a simple life.
I stared at another bird that was standing on a large rock. He looked tired and disheveled. An Einstein bird that looked like a small albatross, webbed feet and all. Those feet were a ghost white, translucent, unhealthy looking. I stared at this bird for possibly longer than I stared at the pigeons. What the hell was this? Then it dawned on me: it's a seagull. A drunk seagull.
The edge of the pond meandered, and I followed it to the other side. There an old man with a bag was feeding the birds. The pigeons swarmed and ducks honked and the seagulls screamed. I laughed. The old man smiled at me. Suddenly the world was quite beautiful and absolutely everything was okay. They were birds, real birds, and their were thousand. This isn't some kind of metaphor. Goddamn, this is real.
I woke up wide awake after two hours of sleep. I had been dreaming that I was snorting Vicodin with an old flame when I looked out the window and saw a line of cars as far as the eye could see that needed to be parked. That panic, that dread is what woke me up shaking. The room was hot, and I was possibly still feeling the effects from the beer-vending Pepsi machine in the basement.
There was no hope in falling back asleep. I was too annoyed with myself for something I had not done the night before. Sometimes I am quite a mumbling nervous cold bowl of soup. I trudged downstairs and had my free breakfast of staleflakes, white toast with raspberry jam, orange juice, and coffee. I breakfasted with two fellow Americans, an accountant and an Internet business owner who lives in Zurich. Most of their conversation was about how they hated taxes. The accountant couldn't keep his eyes off his I-Pad.
I needed to take a walk. The rain was steady and the wind strong. The remnants of a hurricane were on the way. But I needed to take a walk to keep from kicking myself anymore.
The pavement was wet and like glass, like wet glass. It reminded me of the steps in front of the Stewart Center at Purdue. When wet, they turned to ice. When icy, they turned to impossible. The streets of Dublin are the same, and with my Bambi legs, there was little hope for me, but I needed to keep moving. My mind was occupied with trying to keep my umbrella right-side-out and staying as balanced I could on the ice-slick pavement. It made for some good meditation. That and the physical exercise of walking improved my mood immensely.
I had set off with no direction. Rarely I do. I found myself in the retail district walking south. It was about 9am on a Sunday morning and between that and the weather, no one was out. I heard a tourist in passing say, "Here's the Dublin weather." The shops were all locked up and dim. It was hard not to window shop when everyone was out. I saw a nice pair of brown shoes for 60 Euro. It's a good thing I don't think I'd ever pay that much for shoes or I would have waited around until the store opened.
My wandering took me to St. Stephen's Green, a cute little park in the middle of the city where I had been the day before. On Saturday the sun was warm and shining down on St. Stephen's Green. The green was nearly covered entirely by couples, mostly young couples, lazing in the sun, baking in the sun, eating, drinking, and napping on one another. They looked like albino seals on a green beach. Everyone looked happy and relaxed. I felt indifferent if not a little empty. After a loop around the park, I went for a coffee and some reading.
Sunday was a different story. The park was nearly empty. There were a few runners puffing on the pavement and somehow not slipping and sliding through the park. I shuffled my way along. I had walked over a mile and my tired and sleep deprived legs were growing tired. I stopped by the tree covered pond and looked at the pigeons. I had never looked so closely at pigeons. Not only were they every shade of gray from black to white, some had some blue-green and purple on the back of their necks. Their little toes were red and worked quickly to get places slowly. They weren't afraid of me and they got quite close. Their little red eyes blinked sideways at me, their heads twitched and they looked somewhere else, for something to peck at, for a drink of water. They had a simple life.
I stared at another bird that was standing on a large rock. He looked tired and disheveled. An Einstein bird that looked like a small albatross, webbed feet and all. Those feet were a ghost white, translucent, unhealthy looking. I stared at this bird for possibly longer than I stared at the pigeons. What the hell was this? Then it dawned on me: it's a seagull. A drunk seagull.
The edge of the pond meandered, and I followed it to the other side. There an old man with a bag was feeding the birds. The pigeons swarmed and ducks honked and the seagulls screamed. I laughed. The old man smiled at me. Suddenly the world was quite beautiful and absolutely everything was okay. They were birds, real birds, and their were thousand. This isn't some kind of metaphor. Goddamn, this is real.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Arts and Leisure
I took Ulysses to Phoenix Park yesterday. We wandered for about an hour and a half heading west, bought a sandwich, and sat in the shadow of the park's Washington-Monument-looking-phallic-symbol. Except they call it the Wellington Monument.
As the chicken and swiss and tomato and onions were digesting in my stomach, I look out Ulysses for a little exercise, worked up a good sweat in the warm sunlight, then laid down on the grass and fell asleep for about a half hour.
Well rested and nourished, we headed south and got lost trying to find the Irish Museum of Modern Art. It was a confusing square of a building with a courtyard in the center and some nice benches to sit on and watch the clouds rush by.
My visit was rushed, but the highlight was Sean Lynch's DeLorean Progress Report. It made me think of the corpse of Marty McFly being picked at by little fishes at the bottle of the ocean--he never should have gotten involved in Doc's fake bomb building scheme.
On the long, lazy walk back to the hostel and a dozen or so cheap pints, the sky finally opened up and drizzled a bit just when I thought I'd make it through a whole day here without any. I didn't mind so much. The cool spray was refreshing.
As the chicken and swiss and tomato and onions were digesting in my stomach, I look out Ulysses for a little exercise, worked up a good sweat in the warm sunlight, then laid down on the grass and fell asleep for about a half hour.
Well rested and nourished, we headed south and got lost trying to find the Irish Museum of Modern Art. It was a confusing square of a building with a courtyard in the center and some nice benches to sit on and watch the clouds rush by.
My visit was rushed, but the highlight was Sean Lynch's DeLorean Progress Report. It made me think of the corpse of Marty McFly being picked at by little fishes at the bottle of the ocean--he never should have gotten involved in Doc's fake bomb building scheme.
On the long, lazy walk back to the hostel and a dozen or so cheap pints, the sky finally opened up and drizzled a bit just when I thought I'd make it through a whole day here without any. I didn't mind so much. The cool spray was refreshing.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
lifting again his hind leg
Within a few hours of being in Dublin, I knew I had made the right decision. I wanted to show Ulysses to the James Joyce Centre, and since we're staying only a few blocks away and needed to kill some time before checking into the hostel, we ambled on up there, blurry eyed and a little jittery from the coffee.
The visit took two attempts. On the first attempt, we was blocked by a gentleman sitting on the steps drinking a couple of bottles of Budweiser. Okay, this is surely the right place, even though it's in the middle of a residential street. We walked on and came back about fifteen minutes later. The same gentleman was peeing in the bushes next to the James Joyce Centre. He noticed that I had noticed that he was peeing in the bushes of the James Joyce Centre and said to me,
--- Just watering the flowers, mate.
I walked past him and up the stairs and into the James Joyce Centre and spent the next hour and a half learning about James Joyce.
Did you know he was born on Groundhog Day?
My favorite little part of the museum (it looked like a small museum) was a replication of the tiny bedrooms that Joyce had to write in for most of his life. I have long been interested in how writers write, the process, the position, their surroundings, their medium. It looked as though Joyce used any type of notebook he could get his hands on. The pages were not lined. He wrote in longhand and without too many words on a page. He took what looked like crayons and crossed out and circled and reworded large blocks of his handwritten text. Once that was acceptable, a manuscript was typed, and the ones I saw had text that ran virtually to the edges of the page, hardly an indentation for a new paragraph, hardly space in between lines. Text so tiny and compact I was having trouble reading it without getting quite close. It's not that my eyes are terrible (though I could probably use glasses from time to time, Mr. Squints-a-lot), but Joyce was plagued his whole life with poor eyesight, suffering through a number of surgeries, forced to wear eyepatches, and thicker-than-coke-bottle glasses. By the time he died, he was very nearly blind. It boggled my mind how he could have made any corrections once these crammed manuscript pages were typed up for him.
After showing Ulysses a good time at the James Joyce Centre, I took him past the statue of James Joyce.
Needless to say, me and Ulysses were quite surprised by another sign that being here in Dublin was a little something like fate. Like this all should very much be happening.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
The Day of Reckoning is nigh!
On 6 September, 2011, I, Kyle Patrick Brown, will land on the only island sans snakes. Thank you, my middle-namesake St. Patrick. My left leg is shaking, my senses are tingling, my bit is chomping. Excitement is oozing out of me. Or does not this odd paragraph already show it?
Pardon me, I've been practicing, partaking.
Sometime on the morning of the sixth of September, I'll be setting foot in a new city, a new country. The land of Joyce, Swift, Beckett, Frank O'Connor, Bono, the Edge, whiskey, Guinness, and potatoes (or a lack thereof). Also, my great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandfather John Brown who sailed from Belfast and settled in and immediately made himself an infamous Scotch-Irish redneck of eastern-Kentucky whose rebellious offspring would later defy the family friend McCoys to co-mingle and make babies with the Hatfields.
And now look at the result.
I have much still left to plan, and I seem to like it that way. That's what my procrastination tells me. One day on Labor Day weekend, I'll pack. One day next week I'll buy a round trip ticket from Dublin to London so I can see London again and try to change my negative opinion of it. (Don't say I'll never give you a second chance--I want to love you, I want to love all of you.) But for now I'll blog about my future-journey, my future-adventure, and try to articulate just a hint, a slight touch of my excitement. There. I think that's enough before things get creepy.
Stay tuned, dedicated readers of my multitude of spurious blogs! More is to come!
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