The Ireland Trilogy: Final Episode

Sunday, March 4th, the alarm went off at 7:45 a.m. as the rain beat against the window. Patrick and I grabbed our cameras, donned some sweaters, ate a couple chocolate muffins, and tip-toed around rain drops until we reached the steps of the hotel down the street.


A red 14-passenger van parks alongside the street and a diminutive, mustachioed man walks up to me and asks if I'm going on a tour of Glendalough. After confirming that “Merchen” was indeed on his list, Patrick and I find dry solitude from the rain in the oversized minivan. Joining Patrick and me are a couple from Italy, a pair of girls from France, three people I never got a chance to speak with, and four other Americans. As we pulled onto O’Connell Street, our tour guide gave us a brief history of downtown Dublin, teaching us about the 1916 Easter Rebellion and sharing with us a brief history of the Catholic-Protestant conflict.

The four Americans joining us turn out to be quite the cast. The two seated next to me are Jim from Seattle and Deb from New York City. They are “exhibit artists” for zoos and are currently recreating an elephant habitat in the Dublin Zoo for an incoming herd of African Elephants. Very nice people. To the left of Patrick sat Ray, Deb's father, and his best friend Sam, both from New York. Retired utility men from NYC, sporting FDNY caps, they cracked me up the entire trip. I was just waiting for Ray to bust out a “fuggedahboutit” at any moment.

“Hey, this is nice, I mean, uh, it’s rainin’, you know, and uh, I can’t see out the window, but hey, no, very nice, let’s go on a tour.”

"I'm sorry Dad, my fault."

"No, no don't worry about it, I'm having a lovely time, only thing I would change is maybe, you know, everything."

So our first stop along the countryside is a graveyard. Creepy. The rain is still falling and there's an “Irish Mist” or more appropriately, “An Irish Wall of Solid Fog”. The tour guide tells us that from where we are standing, there's a lovely view of the Irish Sea and Dublin Bay...on a clear day.

Back in the red wagon, we continue driving up a muddy road.

“Where yous guys from?” asks Ray the New Yorker (OK, he didn't really say "yous guys" but he still could have been a Soprano).

Patrick told them he is German and I said I was also from the States. South Dakota, actually.

"Well, I know where Germany is, but I've never heard of South Dakota, ha ha."

You got me, Ray.

After driving up a winding, muddy road, being able to see about four feet in front of us, we're told we're just downhill from a beautiful lake with waterfalls. Refusing not to see all of the available Irish Landscape, Patrick and I, along with two girls from France, make up a crew and hike up the hill to see this lake. The rest of our group opt to stay in the bus. The rain is absolutely hammering Patrick and me. Patrick has an umbrella that gets blown inside out every now and then, and I can't really see anything because the rain is hitting me in the face! Honestly, I loved it. I thought, I AM IN IRELAND! After getting a few shots of the lake in a rainstorm, Patrick and I head back, soaked, and get our complimentary cup of coffee (two sugars).

This entire day is hard to put on paper. I talked with these interesting strangers from the United States and looked out a rain-soaked window at a beautiful country with a scarred history.

We stop again at another lake. "Just a few meters away is a large body of water referred to as Guinness Lake, as a number of Arthur Guinness' family members have lived on property near here. It's a majestic view...on a clear day."


With that, we continued.

Something I found honestly hilarious, highlighting what a diverse country the United States is: As we drove, Deb gazed out her window and said, "Dad! Look-sheep! I know you wanted to see some sheep on this trip!"

"Oh really?" said Ray "Where's the sheep?"

I tried so hard not to laugh.

"Those dumb sheep, just standing out there in the rain, why don't they take cover?"

Seriously, I love New Yorkers. It's official.

A few minutes down the road a whole herd of sheep stood outside my window (on the opposite side of the road). "Hey!" exclaimed Ray. "This guy's got sheep galore and ain't sayin' anything!"

"Sorry," I said, "Umm, there are a lot of sheep in South Dakota. I'll be sure to let you know next time I see some."

So for the next 10 minutes every time I saw such "wildlife" I would dutifully announce "SHEEP!"


The experienced New Yorkers posed to me a question: "How often do sheep get sheared?"

"I believe once a year. There is a shearing 'season' and the sheep spend the rest of the year growing their 'wool' back."

"Ah, thanks kid."

"But then again, that's South Dakota sheep. I don't know about Ireland sheep." (my attempt at a joke)

"Kid, sheep are sheep."

OK then, fair enough. (For the record I looked it up. Most sheep are shorn once a year, though some are sheared twice a year and some every two years. Not that I'm bitter; the point is I'm always right.)

As the drive continued with nice Irish music being played over the speakers, the spry New Yorker and I come to a conclusion: if we can only see four feet out of our windows...then wouldn't the driver also have the same amount of visibility? We decide not to think about it as we hang a right on what looks like a river but is apparently the dirt road leading us to the great waterfall.


This waterfall is massive. I'm expecting a herd of sheep to come flying over the mountain at any minute. The rain is still coming down like a kid that just dropped an open bag of marbles out the window. "Word is, it's going to clear up" the tour guide tells us. Even I am skeptical, BUT still loving Ireland. It can't be the Emerald Isle without a little rain! (Or so I tell myself...constantly.)

We pull into the town of Glendalough to eat some lunch, and all of us are grateful for some legroom and the prospect of putting some food in our stomachs.

After ordering the Guinness Stew, Patrick and I sit down next to our tour guide, along with another man who was running a tour from a different bus. We chat about politics, about Ireland, and about the guy on the other side of the room, who, as it turns out, is brother to Grammy Award-winning singer Enya. Neat.

Probably the funniest exchange of the afternoon:

Tour Guide: What are ye names, lads? Where ye from?

Me: Aaron. The U.S.

Patrick: I am Patrick, from Germany.

Tour Guide (both): Aye, Patrick! And yer from Germany?

Patrick: Yes, I guess it was popular to give your child an English name in the '80s.

Tour Guides: AN ENGLISH NAME!? Why that's as Irish as it comes! Why we're almost to St. Kevin's Church--aye Kevin, that's a good Irish name.

Patrick: Ah yes, I have a friend from Germany named Kevin. His parents also gave him an Eng...IRISH name.

Patrick later whispers to me, "I meant the English language, not the country."

"HAHAHAHAHA, I mean, I understand, Patrick."

After our stop, we head to the back country of Glendalough county. After a short tour of an eroding monastery that was founded in the 1400s, we were let loose to explore the countryside and the two lakes. The weather did clear up. This experience is basically too beautiful and awe inspiring to describe. The pictures may help. As Patrick said, "It's just too much..."

The mist hung over the mountains as the hills rolled and the waterfalls flowed. This was the Ireland I dreamed about while looking at a world map.

On the way home we drove along Europe's largest man-made lake. Turns out they flooded a town and it took them seven years to finally drag out this one old man who refused to leave. Tenacity. We drive awhile more and the driver tells us that 80 percent of Braveheart was filmed in Ireland, with many of the battle scenes using members of the Irish Army Reserve.


At this point, I'm still loving Ireland, but I'm so car-sick I'm just praying to St. Patrick I don't throw up on the guys from New York. We arrive back in Dublin to blue skies and a shining sun.

The next morning, Monday the 5th, Patrick knocks on the bathroom door as I'm brushing my teeth.

"Aaron, you know how we thought our plane took off at 2 p.m.?"

"What do you mean, ‘how we thought’?”

"Well it turns out that's when we land in Sweden...our plane leaves at
11:00."

"What time is it now?"

"9 a.m."

"And we're supposed to be there right now?"

"Technically."

So Patrick and I throw everything in our bags and jump, grab a chocolate muffin, and hop on the next bus to the airport. We get there 10 minutes before they stop taking passengers. We made it. All in all, it was a fantastic weekend. I daresay we conquered Ireland. Flying back, I found myself slightly sad to go back to Sweden, not because I didn't miss it, but because it meant being covered in a canvas of clouds again. But the next week the weather gave us nothing but sunshine.

Ireland Part Deux: Dublin City

At the St. James Gate Brewery, home of Guiness

Saturday, March 3. 8:00 AM

“Hey Patrick. Hey—Patrick.....PATRICK!”
“What?”
“You awake?”
“Sure.”
“Alright! Let’s go!”

Sharing a room with eight other people requires patience and time management, so while some people from France readied themselves for the day using the facilities, Patrick and I made the jaunt down a flight of stairs for our continental breakfast.

A chocolate muffin and a banana. Being a student traveler: love it.

Back upstairs Patrick slyly dove into the bathroom while I guarded the door. After the both of us were ready, Patrick struck up a conversation with a hostel mate of ours. She was, of course, from Germany, and while I looked at the map, Patrick and this German girl chatted away in their native tongue. Jokingly, I told Patrick I was going to find someone who speaks Spanish so he would be out of the loop for once (as Patrick speaks English/German/French). Mind you, my Spanish isn't great by any means, and after telling Patrick this, the German girl informs me she lived in Chile a year and starts peppering me with questions in Spanish.

“I...um..como...me gusta...yeah, you totally caught me off guard.”

Picking up pieces of my ego as we walked out the door, the sights and sounds of Dublin washed over us.

First of all, Sweden is a lovely country. A lovely country where you don't see the sun for WEEKS AT A TIME. Ireland is a town where it rains. A lot. Not this day. This day gave us an umbrella of blue sky and sunshine. We were set, and with Patrick's killer orientation skills, we walked along the River Liffey, occasionally snapping a picture of the great stone parliamentary structures until we found ourselves at the doorstep of Trinity College.

Trinity College

Trinity College, or TC as Oscar Wilde and I used to call it, has a suffocating air of history, with the walls and cobblestone shouting the thoughts and wisdom shared at this institution of higher education. In addition to Oscar Wilde, such minds as Frank McCourt (Angela's Ashes) and Bram Stoker (Dracula) attended TC, which, until the mid 1960s, was an exclusively Protestant college.

After debating whether we could see ourselves as students at Trinity College, Patrick navigated us across the street to St. Stephen's Green. Stepping through the giant stone arch seemed to transport us to a land of tranquility. The park, green in all directions, is bespeckled with fountains and ponds. Stone walls and trees gives off an air of mystery. Old men with canes and laughing children alike enjoy the solitude of “Arch Park,” as I constantly referred to it, much to Patrick's chagrin.

St. Stephen's Green

St. Stephen's Green

Patrick and I then took out the map in an effort to figure out which direction we were facing and to decide if that was indeed the direction we needed to travel to successfully reach St. Patrick's Cathedral. At this time a kind random Irishman inquired, “Where ya lads be lookin' far? Ah St. Patty's. Yes, ye go tru de farst two stoplights and hang a right ye do, can't miss 'er.”

Thank you, kind random Irishman.

From about a block away we spotted the St. Patrick's bell tower. Construction of aforementioned cathedral began in 1190 and though St. Patrick's fell into disarray between the 17th and 18th centuries, Sir Benjamin Guinness, of the famous Arthur Guinness family, put a sizeable amount of charity into the structure, refurbishing the cathedral and laying ground for St. Patrick’s Park.

St. Patrick's

Inside the cathedral, the arched ceilings and history artwork was nothing short of overwhelming. Neither the pictures nor my words can really describe the feeling of being in such a massive, holy place.


After I felt my personal pilgrimage was complete, my travel partner via Deutschland and I decided it was time to eat something. The fortifying nutrients of a chocolate muffin and a banana seemed to be wearing off.

While searching for an eatery and walking in the general direction of the Guinness Storehouse, we stumbled upon The Brazen Head. As it turns out, the Brazen Head is the oldest pub in all of Ireland, founded in 1198. Unable to pass up this bit of history (and a chance to sit down) Patrick and I wandered into this ancient structure and ordered a beverage and the soup de jour (potato soup, naturally).


Feeling reinvigorated, to the storehouse we went.

Turns out, hundreds of other people also thought it would be a good idea to check out the Guinness Brewery on a sunny Saturday afternoon. While waiting in line we met an array of characters from around the world. After listening to some kid from New York rant about the poor exchange rate between the dollar and the euro, I started a conversation with a kindly Scotsman who was in Dublin with his wife on vacation. I understood probably half of what he said, but he’s probably one of the three coolest people I’ve ever met.

Once inside, Patrick and I paid the admission fee and were given something of a paper weight for a souvenir and a ticket for a “free” pint of Guinness at the Sky Lounge on the seventh floor.

The Storehouse/Museum turned out to be pretty fascinating, as we traveled the self-led tour, which chronicled the actual process of making the beer (ingredients, machinery, etc) and then gave a history of the Guinness family and their impact on Ireland. Continuing the journey, the fifth floor is a room dedicated to “drinking trivia,” which highlights the origins of many drinking myths and describes in details the effects and perils of alcohol abuse.

After the sixth floor, which gave a history of Guinness advertising, Patrick and I took the elevator to floor #7: The Sky Lounge. Comparable to the Space Needle in Seattle, the Sky Lounge walls are entirely made of glass, giving a panoramic bird’s-eye view of the city of Dublin. There was, of course, a rainbow to the west. What a great day.

“A rainbow! You know what that means, Aaron. An elf and a pot of gold!”
“A leprechaun, Patrick.”
“Whatever.”

After the tour, we simply wandered around Dublin for awhile, chatting about random things. Patrick plans on working for a major corporation with his business degree, which should probably happen considering he’s in the top 5% of his class at his home university in Germany. We talked about the differences between Germany, South Dakota, and Ireland, and after learning the unemployment rate in Ireland is 3% and minimum wage is eight euros ($10 USD), we again contemplate going to Trinity College.

The night ended with Patrick, Jeremy (from New Zealand) and I sitting at O’Shea’s while a man and a woman with a guitar and a violin played some classic Irish tunes, and old men got up and danced a jig when the spirit moved them.

Ah, Dublin.

Not Your Land, Not My Land, It's Ireland (Part 1)

So it's been a while since the last blog. Inexcusable. BUT I have for you now a three-part trip to Ireland.

It started a few weeks ago, when my friend Patrick, from Germany gave me a call.

Patrick: My mom gave me 100 euros for my birthday.
Me: That was nice of her.
Patrick: Yes. We should go on a trip or something.
Me: Where?

Fast-forward to Friday, March 2, when Patrick and I are standing in an airport about the size of the SDSU Student Union. I'm taking random pictures (for this blog) when a security guard comes up to me and requests that I delete the pictures of the airport that are aimed towards the security doors.

Umm, OK.

I thought he was going to take away my entire camera, in which case I would have had to do something drastic to throw him off guard. Like crying, for instance.

But, with Sven the security guard at ease, Patrick and I boarded the plane and were off to Dublin.

Upon arrival, we were so excited that we were actually in Ireland, it took a minute for us to realize we had absolutely no idea where to go from the airport. We looked into renting a car for Sunday, but as it turns out, one needs to be 25 years old to do that. I've been 21 for a month, and now I'm being told I'm not old enough. Just when I thought I had put in my time....

Anyway.

We two intrepid globetrotters jump on a bus for six euros, which Patrick informed me is ridiculously cheap. When I later learned one euro is equal to 1.20 US$, I agreed.

The bus took us past the city center on O’Connell Street (named in honor of Daniel O’Connell, a legendary parliamentary man) and on to the bus stop, which, conveniently, was two blocks from our hostel.

Now, the day I booked the hostel, there was a bit of...confusion. Hostelbookers.com said the Jacobs Inn was the only hostel in all of Dublin that had a room for us March 2-5. I didn't feel like paying the online extra booking fee, so I called the hostel myself. They said there were no rooms available until Sunday the 4th.

So, I booked the rooms online anyway, after Patrick, business major, convinced me that Hostelbookers had a contingency with the Jacobs Inn and that there were no rooms available when we called, because Hostelbookers had already reserved them, and we then reserved them from said website.

“I hope you're right, my German friend.”

So we pull up to the front counter being only half-sure we actually have a place to stay. Turns out, Patrick was right.


We unload our belongings into our room (111) and meet a few of the people we're staying with (as it was a 10-bed room). We met Jeremy, from New Zealand, who was in Dublin looking for work for a few months so he could continue traveling. Hey, best of luck.

With the sun setting over the Liffey River, Patrick and I hit the town. After going in the completely wrong direction for about half a mile and finding ourselves in a part of town reminiscent of Angela's Ashes, we turn around and find ourselves engulfed in the Temple Bar, which is actually an entire section of town. There are pubs and eateries left and right with live music flowing from the windows of almost every one. Patrick and I sample the nightlife in The Vat House, O'Shea's, Maddigan’s, Robert Reagan’s, and the streets in general before calling it a night. After looking at the city map, we plan out a course for Saturday morning.

Ah, Dublin.