From Liverpool, I flew back into Cork. The traffic was so bad that the bus driver let us off in the middle of the road so that we could walk to wherever we were going, as it was going to take longer to actually drive there. I wandered around a bit, looking for a decent tshirt before my bus left in an hour, but couldn't find the tourist info center that had the one I wanted. So instead, I grabbed dinner – sandwich and crisps from a convenience store (do they call them something else?) – and made my way back to the bus station.
There were so many people that wanted on my bus that they called up two more buses and made them direct trips to different cities. One to Tralee, one to Killarney, and one to somewhere else that was just before Killarney. See, it's always so easy to get out west and then once you're there THERE'S NO GETTING BACK! Seriously, a hundred buses arrive on the west coast every day and maybe three leave. In any case, this meant that I actually got to Killarney while it was still light out. The town seemed much the same as it had before, save the addition of massive decorations for the Gaelic football final that was scheduled a few days from then. I even remembered how to get to the hostel, and the clerk actually remembered me from two years ago! I was too flattered at the time to have been creeped out by that.
It had been one loooong day of traveling (see the train ride through Manchester, etc. that was all on this same day), and the Timbers would be playing at approximately two a.m., and since there was WiFi I planned on watching them. So, it wasn't much of a surprise then that I slept through the meeting time the next day for the tours of the Dingle peninsula which I kinda wanted to go on, since I didn't have a car and that seemed to be the only way to get over there. Instead, I grabbed a German girl that was moping around in my room looking lonely and we walked around the Killarney National Park and I took a zillion pictures.
Once again, though, I booked too many nights in Killarney, because after the park, there really just wasn't anything to do. There are more Americans in Killarney than any other group of people, especially the Irish, so between the tourist attitude and the local attitude towards tourists, the atmosphere of the town isn't all that great in the evening. I hurredly booked a room in Tralee for the following night so that I could get to Doolin, where there was hiking, as early as possible.
I spent the rest of the afternoon trying to catch up on soccer scores (Sky Sports is fucking evil and stupid. More on that later, I think.), and I called home for the first time to let my parents know that I was alive and well, if a little bored. I left fairly early the next day, hoping to get some breakfast at the wonderful place next to the hostel, but as it was Sunday there wasn't a thing open or a soul about. At the bus station, an elderly couple was fuming mad that the bus to Dingle had been canceled because of 'The Football.' I loved how no one called it just 'football' but always had to add that article 'THE Football,' which to me made it into a proper noun. This applied, I think, to both soccer-football and Gaelic football, although in this case they were talking about the Gaelic version, in which Kerry, the county we were in, was to be playing the final against their rivals and neighbors, Cork. Anyway, The Football was kind of a big deal, I guess, what with bus drivers refusing to run their routes during the match, and the decorations everywhere (houses, businesses, cars, lawns, children).
From the park:
Boy did I love Cork. It had me with the coffee, really, at the hostel. Fresh roasted in Cork! €2! Ummm, mmm, mmm, coffee. It came in your very own (rented, anyway) mini-French press. I always love ordering tea in this part of the world because they give you your very own pot and it makes me feel special. I know that sounds silly, but it's just one of those things about traveling that just tickles me. The hostel's lobby also had free WiFi which also made me very happy after being in the techno-wasteland of Achill. (I love Achill for that, and I hope that relaxed, get-away-from-it-all atmosphere doesn't change too much, but when ya need something done, it's awfully frustrating.) I got directions via public transit to Turner's Cross, the soccer park where I was going to see Cork City FC play that night.
But what really cemented my liking of the city was the market downtown, which I ran across the next day while exploring the city. Much like Pike Place in Seattle (one of the only cool things left in that city), it was semi-underground with wooden ceilings and walls. Full of fresh fish, meat and veggies, it smelled like it, too. I've always loved Pike Place, so I was excited to explore every little corner of the place. This was when I ran across the shark.
Wow, I can't say I've ever seen a dead shark before. I almost felt sorry for the thing. Ok, not almost. I really did feel sorry for it. And that's speaking as someone who both hunts and fishes. But even I have to admit that it was pretty neat to be this close to a real shark. So the camera finally came out and I became a full-fledged tourist, taking pictures of sharks and streets and buildings.
A lot of things about Cork reminded me of Portland, and that's not necessarily a bad thing. First of all, there's a big river that runs through the middle of downtown. This means that there are a lot of bridges, like Portland, and also like Portland, this means there is a ton of traffic. Fortunately, the downtown is small enough that one is able to walk everywhere anyway, so it wasn't too much of a problem for people that don't need to commute long distances everyday. Then, there's the nickname "People's Republic of Cork" which, adjusted for the name of course, is also one of Portland's nicknames (along with beertown, bridgetown, soccer city usa, stumptown). Plus, Cork has several breweries including Beamish, Murphy's and… and one other I can't remember. I never figured out if they had any smaller breweries, though. I figure they will soon enough since even Dublin has gotten into the organic microbrews scene.
The night after the soccer game, I went to the pub that gave discounts for the hostel I was staying in. The rugby World Cup was on, and I was mildly interested in watching it, since having learned some of the rules, I was starting to find kind of exciting. Ireland wasn't even playing, but two teams in there group were, so there was enough interest that more than a handful of people turned out to watch, too. I ended up talking with a couple people until closing which was nice, since when traveling alone I can go for long stretches without saying more than "thank you" and "pint of ___, please."
Next morning, nicely hungover, I checked out, found some food at a diner right in front of the Airlink bus stop, and began the whirlwind trip to England, which I'm sure I've blogged about somewhere. Yep, there it is! More pictures of Cork:
Doolin, 17th
I'm such a bleeding heart. As I was out walking yesterday a man waved me over from his car. An old Irish farmer, he was obviously lonely and wanted to chat a bit. So I did, and he offered to give me a lift over to the cliffs, which sounded alright. I don't normally get in cars with strangers, but he seemed harmless enough, but by the end of the journey, if he'd asked me to marry him, I'm certain he wouldn't have been joking; he just got a little too friendly, and all those creep alarm bells began to go off. He tried to get me to agree to let him drive me to the neighboring town for the festival they're having that evening, but I only agreed that I might run into him at the nearby pub.
Thankfully, I met some Americans at the hostel that were headed to the same pub (there was supposedly a good group of musicians in town, set to play there) and told them about the guy, and we all figured their presence would be a deterrent. Well, it was. He said hello, but wouldn't talk to me with everyone there. Now, I'm pretty sure – and the Americans would agree with this – that he has slightly dubious intentions. What they are, I don't know, which is even more alarming, but if he just wanted company he wouldn't have shied from chatting with my companions. But despite this knowledge, at the end of the night when he approached me and asked forlornly, "so do you still want to go to Lisdoon?" I really felt bad. It was already midnight, so he knew it was probably not going to happen.
"No, not tonight, it's already late, and I'm kind of tired," I answered, apologetically.
"Oh. Ok," he said, clearly disappointed. "Tomorrow, I can pick you up at one o'clock and we'll drive around the coastline, ok?" Why do these people have to be so goddamn nice?
"Well, I'll probably be out hiking then. I kinda wanted to hike all day, that's why I came out here."
"Oh," more disappointment. "Well, you'll be around then?"
"Yeah, I'll be around tomorrow."
"Ok, well perhaps I'll see you then?" his voice cracking.
"Perhaps, Tommy. I'll be around." And then he hugged me and tottered towards the door, leaning heavily on his cane.
I'm a terrible human being. I've made some sweet, lonely old man very sad.
Tralee, and Limerick, enroute to Doolin
The following combinations of sandwich fillings were available in Limerick Monday morning. They are, unfortunately for the hungry American, common.
On a sandwich? How do they even THINK of these things? The selections in England are even more bewildering. I'd have taken a picture of the ones at the York train station, but I was too tired and hungry to be amused by what appeared to be either terribly ill-conceived experiments conducted by aliens on what humans eat, or a joke conspired by sandwich makers and the operators of CCTV cameras in stores. On these sort of occasions, I usually settle on "Chicken BLT on thick, chunky bread." Sometimes it's funny later.
Yesterday, Kerry won the football final. As I was in Tralee, the capital of Kerry, things were expectedly crazy. Every car that came through the main drag laid on the horn, and any passengers waved air horns out the window at passerby who returned fire, so to speak. By 7pm, there wasn't a sober person on the street, save for me, who was trying to take pictures of pretty things, but I then decided that I was more likely to get a can of Bulmers thrown on my camera than a decent shot of anything. Instead, I walked out of town a bit and took roughly a million pictures of a sunset. On the way back to the hostel I was accosted by at least three extremely drunk men, one of whom was probably 80 years old. The pub I'd watched the game at said that they'd have a band in, so I stopped in the doorway to listen but heard a cover song and decided I didn't want to put up with bad covers AND drunk slobs, so I tried to find a shop open on a Sunday night for a sandwich. Besides, I was sick of every male I walked past slurring, "Heyyy-eyyyyy," at me. (And no I don't even know how you can slur a nonword like "hey", but they managed.) The only thing open was a fastfood joint named "Supermacs". The counter was staffed by the only cute - and coincidentally, the only sober – boy in town. It didn't hurt that he kept smiling at me. While that was probably due to my funny accent, I'll take what I can get.
I had to get up at 5:30 in order to catch the 6:15 bus out of town, which was my only chance in getting to Doolin before 8pm. I didn't sleep well either, due to the text messaging from my youngest sis (YstSis, until I find a better acronym) and Tim (who doesn't get an acronym), who wanted to talk about the Timbers game. Any other night, guys. Poor Tim is IN Portland, but can't follow the games due to work. So YstSis texts me the latest halfway 'round the world, then I text Tim. Communication these days is strange, isn't it? (btw, Timbers 3-0! 3-1 on aggregate! Bring on the next round!)
Irish towns are hard to identify. I mean, I know when I'm in one, I just don't know the name of it. This is a problem when riding the bus, as the driver sure as hell doesn't inform anyone of where we are. In small American towns, everything is named for the place. You'll have the Newport Bank, the Newport Insurers, the Newport Police Station. Here, everything is Paddy's Pub, Diarmuid's Shoes, and O'Shea's Groceries. In every town! This meant that on the ride to Doolin from Limerick, I couldn't sleep for fear of missing my stop and ending up in Bogville in front of Murphy's Pub where there's no ATM, no place to stay and noooo bus on Sundays. So when the old lady at the front of the bus who had been shouting into her cellphone for the whole journey began to have technical difficulties, I was the one she approached.
"Do you speak English?"
Sigh. "Yes."
"Of course you do. Now, could you tell me why my phone isn't ringing? It's only vibrating and I CANNOT afford to miss calls today, it's urgent."
So I gave it my best shot, but for the life of me, I don't know why it wasn't ringing. It really should have been ringing. But after fifteen minutes or so she gave up and tried the boy across the aisle who merely looked at the thing, with visible disgust I might add, and it rang. This is why I never got into fixing cars.
BUT the trip got immensely better when we hit a traffic jam in some tiny town called Lisdoonvarna (we got stuck in front of the sign labeling it as such, that's the only reason I know the name). A delivery truck parked on the wrong side of the road couldn't pass us, and after consultation between our driver and the other, it was decided that the bus would back up. Meanwhile, traffic was piling in from both directions. The bus driver (known from now on as Best Bus Driver Ever, or BBDE) was already getting excited. "Making ME back up? He could've. He should've. He's the one going the wrong way! He got scared though. He had room, he just got scared." After the truck was past, it was a matter of dealing with all the cars that were following the truck, all of which had decided to follow the truck's lead by driving on the wrong side of the road. So we hiccuped through town, jamming on the brakes so hard every few seconds that people's faces kept bouncing off the seats in front of them, and BBDE less and less successfully stifling his shouts at the other drivers. Finally, in a tirade I could hear all the way near the back of the bus:
"OCH, fuck.. fff… *mumbles* AGGGHHHHGGGH! DIS IS WHY I DON'T HAVE ANY HAIR ON ME HEAD!" (btw, I think I came to Ireland just to hear someone shout that)
"THERE ARE PEOPLE HERE WITH LICENSES! I WOULDN'T LET THEM DRIVE A PRAM!" He was a short man, with a high-pitched voice which made it all the sweeter. Even people in the restaurant next to us were laughing.
About an hour and 8km later he saved me a walk to my hostel by dropping me off right in front of it, but not before I'd nearly gotten off the bus earlier. Told that he'd get me closer to where I was going, I hopped into the front seat, with full view of the road ahead. Big mistake. Sure, we only went like a hundred feet, but it was a hundred feet of terror. There is no way that vehicles that large should be on roads that small, especially when there are other cars and pedestrians. But for entertainment alone this guy won the close race for the highly coveted best bus driver title.
