The flight to London began in SFO, with a brief stopover in Boston's
Logan airport. I discovered on the flight that there is nothing you can do
to make the flight seem longer then watch the little electronic map that
tracks the progress of the plane. Watching a real time, little tiny plane
crawl across the Atlantic makes time stretch to impossible lengths.
Heathrow is a big airport that seems cobbled together, containing a
variety of architectures representing whatever style was in vogue when a
particular wing was built. You've got the modern airport wing, the Space
Mountain wing... It has no maps either, so you have to follow signs; which
are clear, but I can build a better mental model of things when I can see
the whole picture at once. Especially when you wander down a really tunnel,
only to find that although it should go through and connect to where you
want, there's a strange secured
glass door between you and where you want
to be.
This is the chair that I wasted two hours of my life
trying to sleep in. It's bad when I can't sleep.
I whined profusely as I wandered Heathrow with my 55 lbs. of gear waiting for check-in. Note to self, never even think about packing 55 lbs. of gear again. I wish lockers at Airports were still an option. Stupid terrorists. Another piece of travel advice, try to avoid five hour layovers. British Midland is apparently the Southwest of British carriers. The flight left 20 minutes late. I wasn't quite sure what to make of the British nanny style uniforms that the flight attendants wore either. Perhaps they make British passengers feel safe or well cared for? It just kind of creeped me out; I kept expecting them to break out into song. At the same time, it kind of turned me on, so I was really unsure what to make of them
Most of the people I ran into seemed very friendly and helpful. For
example, I lost my Palm V somewhere in Heathrow. Someone found it,
e-mailed me, and shipped it back to the states for me. Certainly would have
been gone forever if that had happened in the US. It would have been nice
to have it so I could have taken notes on it...on the other hand, what the
hell was I doing bringing my Palm on vacation?
First order of business in Dublin was finding Erik. As I waited for the bus to take me into the city, I noticed the Dublin police have an odd way of dealing with unauthorized parked cars at the airport. In America, that's a big security concern, so they immediately tow unattended cars. In Dublin, I guess they don't have a car bomb threat, so they immobilize the cars with one of the those boot thingees. This way if someone parks a car bomb in front the airport, there's no way anyone can get rid of it without a tow truck?
I got off the airport bus about 750 miles away from where I was to meet
Erik, and had to walk the rest of the way through the city, just kind of taking
it all in. It dawned on me that this was really the first time I had ever been
so isolated. I've been alone in a city before, but almost always a familiar one
and with my own transportation. Even with some of my first trips to San
Francisco by myself, I kind of knew where I was going and I was driving. Here I
was in a totally unfamiliar city, with no cell phone (more importantly no one
to call anyway), and only an address to guide me. I was feeling a little more
nervous excitement then I should probably admit, lest I seem like a shut-in
mama's boy. So it was exciting. It would have been fun as well, if I wasn't
packing 55 lbs. of crap. I easily found the hostel (Avalon House) and met up with Erik (who
had just returned from a bus tour of the Irish countryside).
The first night in Dublin was spent at Oliver St. John Gogarty's pub for
a night and catching up and drinking the first of many Guinness' (Guinni?).
The band was very good, and the crowd interactions bore a striking
resemblance to a US piano bar; which happens to be my exact cup of tea.
Songs you know the words too, loud enough and drunk enough so that you can
sing without feeling self conscious. Fun, but I'm guessing not exactly a
splash of local culture. I met a whole bunch of Erik's friends from his
tour, that were mostly from Australia, Canada, and New Zealand. This is
where I learned that it is a first class party foul to mistake a New
Zealander with an Australian. It seems they have the same sort of humorous,
faux rivalry that the US and Canada do.
The next day, we met some of the same people for lunch at the "Thunder
Road Café," and amusingly bad attempt at Americana. Harley's, bad 50's
medleys, and Elvis memorabilia were the rule. And of course,
instead of American-kiss-your-ass-service, there was the apparently
customary Irish (and to be fair, British) lack of enthusiasm with respect
to the wait staff. Yes, in America we tip obscenely large amounts in
comparison to Britain and Ireland...apparently it pays off, because the
wait staff in those countries don't expect large tips, but they also don't
deliver a high level of service. Basically, if you want something, you're
going to have to bug them to get it. This includes "extras" like
ordering your food, receiving your food, and getting the check when you're
done. I'm sure (hope) the situation is different in the better
restaurants.
We checked out the National photographic archive [website], a lot of small shops in Temple Bar, and basically explored the city. More like Erik showing me around the city, since he had been living there for six months. Also decided to catch a movie, The 13th Warrior. The movie had a short indie flics attached to beginning of them; interesting way to force-feed local culture to the masses. The one attached to our movie was a rather uninteresting crime drama that I forget the name of; at least it provided a good time buffer for the folks that insisted on showing up 20 minutes late and talking loudly as they entered. Not like people don't do this in the states, but at least for my movie, they were raising it to the level of art.
What you ask is this strange arrangement? This table was at the hostel, and
when I took my first shot, the undersized cue ball jumped off my cue and
hit the last ball in the rack, knocking it to this position. Too bad I
wasn't trying to do this...
That night we went to another pub (because what else do you go to
Dublin for?) and drifted down to the dance club underneath it, which played
all-American music, mostly 80's dance tunes; I guess Madonna is universal?
I spent the evening talking with Anne from Australia, learning all about
cricket. She had never heard of Brian Lara. (Brian Lara is the Tiger
Woods of cricket). On the way home I ended up alone, walking the streets of
Dublin, which as it turns out, are absolutely deserted at 4 AM in the
morning. Totally deserted. In my mile walk, I maybe ran into two other
people. Even the incredibly busy Grafton street was empty, including the
strange man who spent the days standing at the end of street. The quiet
was disturbing, and I was glad to make it back to the hostel.
By this point, Erik and I had caught a vicious plague. The last two days in Dublin were spent running errands, hanging out, and trying to recover from our newfound illnesses. Dublin seemed much like the US. Very similar culture and disposition; apparently this is not the case elsewhere in Ireland. Similar to the US, although for some reason the workers who hit the bars after work and remained until last call, drinking the whole time seemed much larger. At our hostel we met and really talked to Eva - she was sharing our room. This enthusiastic girl was going to school, looking for a place to stay, all while staying in the hostel. I don't even want to think about trying to be productive while staying in a hostel. Hostel's, while fun, are kind of like dormitories except that no one is there to study. Her English was about 100 times better then our German, but it was reassuring to know we could at least ask for a pork chop or how someone was doing. Your public-school-bound tax dollars hard at work.