Going Home

I spent a couple days hanging out in Dublin before going back to Copenhagen.  After my bizarre experience in Cork, it was nice to be back at Abbey Court, with its Wi-Fi, pool table, hammock, self-catering kitchen, and central location.

The moment I stepped off the bus, I went to a barbershop and got a badly-needed haircut.  After checking in, I took a shower for the first time in a week, and shaved for the first time in two.  It felt good.  Then I went and bought groceries, planning on cooking my meals in the kitchen for the next couple days.  It was my first time eating semi-real food since Galway.  While on my way to the grocery store, I saw four of these Irish Air Corps planes flying low overhead.

The Irish Air Corps is well prepared to defend the island against any 1940s-era military.

They were probably rehearsing a flyover for Friday's presidential inauguration.  Michael D. Higgins (pictured below) won the election (he's Labor Party). 

While sitting at the dinner table, I saw William, the Slovakian who had come to Dublin with his girlfriend and was looking for work.  I was pleased to discover that he had found a job as the hostel's handyman.  I stayed in the same room I had stayed in my first few nights in Dublin.  For the first time in two weeks, I actually slept uninterrupted for a full night -- partly because there were only two other people in my room (the Halloween rush was over) and partly because William had fixed the squeaky door.

My favorite part of staying in a hostel is the people that you meet -- everyone has their own story.  On Thursday, I went pubbing with Peter, a vacationing Polish database administrator for Hewlett Packard, and Alex, a Brazilian policeman (he is an escort driver for hazardous materials trucks, and he is in Ireland learning English).  We went out with Alex's English class, and I met many people from all around the world -- a Venezuelan university graduate, a German girl from Mainz-am Rhein who had just finished high school and was taking a gap year, a Frenchman from sunny Toulouse and his stylish Parisian girlfriend, and two Italian girls from Naples.  I was able to practice my German with the high school grad, and I was pleased when the Venezuelan girl informed me that my Spanish was actually pretty intelligible, and that we both shared the same (low) opinion of Hugo Chávez.  More evidence that the world is not so large -- Peter ran into a coworker from his office in Poland in the pub, and I met an intern from Alex's school who is from Baltimore and is visiting Copenhagen next week (she knows one of the girls in my kollegium).

Getting home, we talked until four in the morning with Joe, an Irishman, and Ali, a Lebanese immigrant.  Joe is from Limerick and is looking for an apartment in Dublin before his fiancee and their children move to the city.  Ali was a professional footballer in Lebanon (he was a goalkeeper) until he injured his foot.  He received surgery in Ireland, ended up going to school there, and has been in the country ever since.

The following morning, I had breakfast with Peter, Ali, and a Spanish man from Barcelona.  I was happy to translate for the Spaniard and to help him with important English phrases like "Where is the fridge?"  We were joined by two American girls studying in Scotland.  Waking up on little sleep just to get the free breakfast, however, would have dire consequences later...

 Peter and I both had 6 a.m. flights the next morning, so we decided to turn in at 8, get a good night's sleep, and leave for the airport bright and early.

Just kidding.

The thought process essentially was: "Well, it is our last night in Ireland, and we have to catch a 3 a.m. bus, so perhaps the most reasonable and mature decision at this point would be to simply stay up and pass the time by partying all night."

So that's what we did.  Peter, Alex, the two American girls from Edinburgh, and I all went pubbing on Grafton Street until late at night.  One of the American students and I did end up going back early, hanging out in the hammock room, until I unfortunately nodded off.

It turns out that you don't go that long without sleep without being really hard to wake up.  So when my alarm failed to rouse me, I was verbally dragged from my hammock by my new American friend.  Glancing at my watch, I bolted to my room and gathered my things, and Peter (who had followed me home) and I just made the bus.  Before I stepped off at my terminal, Peter gave me a token of friendship -- an XL-sized Polish soccer shirt.

Fortunately, the rest of the trip went without a problem.  I stopped in London (which looks beautiful from the sky at dawn) to catch a connecting flight.  It had been Remembrance Day in Britain the day before.  The day holds a great deal of significance for the British; maybe more than the equivalent Veteran's Day does for Americans.  It marks November 11, 1918, when World War I was ended by armistice -- well over a million British (and their colonial and dominion colleagues) died in the conflict, so while America had its own share of war dead, it essentially wiped out an entire generation of Europeans.  People lay poppies on graves and monuments, and sell the flowers to raise money for veterans (the poppy takes its significance from "In Flanders Fields," about the eponymous region of Belgium where much of the worst fighting took place in the First World War).  That afternoon, I continued to Copenhagen (I spent a little more for a flight from EasyJet, which flies directly into Copenhagen).

There were a few surprises waiting for me in Denmark.  Some, I suppose were to be expected -- it was much colder, and at 4 p.m., the sun was already low in the sky.  Some surprises were welcome -- the new Night Netto next door was having its grand opening in just a couple days.  Some were not so welcome -- I spent some time cleaning an invasion of mold that had sprung up around my room's radiator while I was gone.  But, I had a room to myself, and, after going to the Night Netto, I had real food.

So ends my two weeks of vacation, and in the end, I enjoyed all of it -- the fun, the boring, the creepy, and the crazy.  It was sad to say goodbye to Ireland, and it will be sad to say goodbye to Denmark, too.  I have only five weeks left, and (with the exception of a 3-day weekend), it's all work from now on.

Hooray.

Cork: My Time in the Twilight Zone

The Scenic Route

I left dreary Galway for sunny Cork with high hopes.  The weather was as gorgeous as the terrain between the two cities, and the Bus Eireann bus bumped through the rolling hills between the Atlantic coast and the Irish interior.   We made brief stops in Shannon and Limerick.

Shannon Airport

Rest stop in Limerick

Things Get a Little Strange

 

Stepping off the bus at the Parnell Place coach station in Cork, I followed the directions I had scrawled on a sheet of paper to where my hostel was supposed to be.  It was a long walk -- at least 15 minutes out of the city center.  It was chilly and the sun was beginning to set.  There was an eerie air about the area; it was as though all the Halloween partying was over, and it was just me and the ghosts.  I passed a skate park where some 13-year old chavs were hanging out.  A chav is a cousin of the American "gangsta," found in the British Isles.  While perhaps threatening to Anglos, they fare poorly in foreign environments.  In the states, a "chav" would be classified as a "wanksta," and the estimated survival time for a chav on the mean streets of Baltimore or Philly is approximately 15 minutes.

An assortment of male and female specimens.  Hoodies and athletic wear have become ubiquitous among the under-forty in the British Isles.

Things Get a Lot Strange

 

 I had some trouble finding my hostel, but after walking around the neighborhood for 15 minutes, I bumped into it.  Despite the building's size, it was very well-hidden behind a wrought iron gate and some tall trees.  The place was cheap and well-reviewed, and I couldn't find anything specifically wrong with it -- but the moment I stepped in the door, something felt a bit off.

Maybe it was the old haunted mansion feel that the place had...

 Or the "for sale" sign out back...

The previous owners were driven mad by the screaming Victorian children ghosts.  And that's the scariest kind of ghost there is.

 Or the completely out-of-place picture of James Dean...

Who also happens to be DEAD.  Whooooo...spoooooky!!!!!

 Or the picture of six ghostly '70s-era hostelers...

Shortly after this photo was taken, they were all killed by a slasher in a hockey mask.

 Or the clock that was stopped at 6:04.

Is it AM or PM?  Gee, Scoob, this clock sure is SPOOOOOKY!!!!!

 Maybe it was the dour-looking young man at the front desk, or my ghostly roommates (two gaunt men with shaved heads who must have been in their early thirties) who never talked and seemed to be living there.  And, when I arrived, it seemed that I was essentially the only person there.  It was spooksville, alright.  And I was living there for four days.

I didn't shower in Cork.

 I was relieved when a dozen French high school kids arrived that night.  So I hadn't totally dropped off the face of the Earth.  Although the fact that there was no free Internet certainly made it seem that way.

Sunday: Walking Among the Young and the Dead

When I woke up on Sunday, my foot hurt.  I figured that this was probably due to excessive walking, so I decided to hang out around the neighborhood.  Things tend to be closed on Sundays, anyways.  So, I took off on a short trip around the area.  

I started out on a footpath along the north channel of the river Lee.

The end of the path was marked by an old bridge.  I stepped off the path and walked up a steep hill to have a look at the neighborhood.

This is maybe the skinniest house I've ever seen!

Having seen enough, I reversed my path and walked over to St. Fin Barr's Cathedral.

It's an extremely beautiful building, built in the mid-19th century on a site that had been used for worship for nearly 1,000 years.

 As a history nerd, I spent a lot of time reading the old gravestones out back.

 The cathedral's organ is undergoing restoration.  Here's a banner urging people to sponsor a pipe.

 Then I started walking toward the University College Cork.  Here's some student housing on the south channel of the Lee.

 Here I am on campus, attempting to duplicate the photo of this building on Cork's Wikipedia page.

Inside that building is a display of engraved rocks from all over Ireland.

According to one of the students, you can't walk on the seal unless you've graduated.

 The university has its own footpath that travels along the south channel.

 While fetching dinner, I took one more stroll over to the cathedral and took some photos of the hillside neighborhoods...

 ...and paid one more visit to the footpath on the north channel in order to take a few more shots of the river.

The skate park, minus the skaters.

Monday: Sunny Cork

 

My foot was feeling a little better on Monday, so I walked to the city center.  There isn't as much to see and do in Cork as there is in Dublin, but it is certainly a more beautiful city.  The city center lies low in a valley on the Lee, which forks into two channels.  The city center is located between the two channels and on the sea, and suburbs dot the banks of the channels.  The suburbs are located in terraced neighborhoods on steep hills; they are filled with pastel-colored houses, old churches, and quaint pubs.  The city's topography and climate can be compared to San Francisco or Seattle.  

My first stop was Cork's famous English Market.

I bought a tasty treat.

 Here's the main touristy shopping street.  Every city seems to have one.

 I wound up at Parnell Place, looking out over the river.

 Then I crossed over and visited this Presbyterian church.

 With some of the architecture and horticulture, Cork could be Miami, or the French Riviera.

 Unlike the port of Dublin, the port of Cork didn't seem to have any security, so I just walked in.  There was a container ship loading cargo, and this cruise ship:

Tuesday: Foggy Cork

 

The good weather had gone away by the next day, but Cork is just as nice with a bit of fog and rain.  It is a little unnerving, however, walking around some of the neighborhoods.  The narrow streets wind like mazes and close in on you.  Stray dogs walk around in the fog.  You hear sirens but see no cars.

I came across this clock tower in the "culture quarter," on the banks on the Lee near the city center.

 Then I made my way through this winding, multicolored collection of town homes.

 As I walked farther from the river, the air began to take on a bready, nutty, fruity quality.  It seemed to be coming from this factory.  Judging by the aroma and the large tanks, I figured it must be a beer brewery.

 And when I ascended the adjacent hill, I found that I was right.  It was a Heineken plant.

The streets seemed to get even steeper and windier as I climbed higher into the hills.  This cat is having as easy a time as myself negotiating the terrain.

 A familiar sight as I encounter my car...

 The stairway leading to the highest tier of houses was covered in street art.

 There were, of course, a few warning signs.

 Finally, I reached this green where I could look out on the entire city.

Coming back down the hill, I was delighted to run into a delivery truck for my favorite non-American potato chip.

 I stopped in a cinema participating in the Corona Cork Film Festival.

Cork is an old town, and you can see many ancient artifacts just lying around.

 Speaking of ancient things...

Educational Detour: The Irish and their Language

People have lived in Ireland for 9,000 years; the first immigrants came from Iberia (Spain and Portugal) with later arrivals from the Celts (French and Germans during the Roman era), Scandinavians (Vikings), and the British (invaders and settlers).  The Irish share strong genetic links with the Basques, and you can sort of see this in a lot of peoples' physical features.  The Irish language is of Celtic origin and is the official first language of the Republic.  Kids are made to learn it in school, and a decent number of people consider themselves competent in it.  Most public signs are written in English and Irish.  While the language is historically important to Ireland, I must say that it is a bit absurd to make kids learn it in school.  The language seems to be, for all intents and purposes, dead, and it certainly isn't in use outside of Ireland.  For better or for worse (thanks, bloody Brits), this is an English-speaking country...

End Educational Detour

When I returned to the hostel, the French kids were outside smoking cigarettes with their teachers.  Classic French!

The French left that evening, but fortunately, two middle-aged men going back to school for computer programming checked in, so I was spared sleeping in an empty haunted house on my last night.  I checked out of the spook house bright and early the next morning, walked down to Parnell Place, and jumped on the bus back to Dublin.