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.

Lisdoonvarna Matchmaking Festival

I've hinted at its ridiculousness, its underwhelming, geriatric clientele, dancing to Lawrence Welk-like champange-country hits of yesteryear.  These are your grandparents, divorced and/or widowed.  Your farmers who only get out of town once a year--to the Matchmaking Festival.  Your anyone European who still does not have the Internet.  As I so eloquently said on facebook:  "it's like Internet dating for people who don't have the Internet."

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.

"I really hope against all hope," Dermot concluded, "that Willie is the last generation.  This generation all around us will hopefully be the last that participates in this matchmaking debacle.  We can only fucking hope."

We can indeed only hope.

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.

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?

A Comprehensive List of Activities and Interests in Doolin

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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.

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.

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.

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.