Torro!

I try, when visiting other countries, to immerse myself in the culture as much as possible. In Ireland, it meant drinking copious amounts of Guinness. In Amsterdam, it meant mocking sex tourists with my friends as we watched them look over their shoulders on the way into brothels. In Istanbul, it meant eating way too much schwarma and in Greece, gyros. In Rome, it was drinking wine on the Spanish steps after a pizza/pasta dinner and watching the assembly of different nationalities basking in the world's most historic city (I guess Roman culture is touristy).

In Madrid, we knew there was one thing we had to do, irrespective of our beliefs on the issue: we had to watch grown men dress up like 19th century flamboyant clowns and then torture innocent bovines with a slow, bloody death. No trip to Spain would be complete without seeing a bullfight (or at least Hemingway always made it seem that way).

Needless to say, we were rooting for the bulls, a couple of which actually put up a good fight. The fact is, though, that the fights are more fixed than Commodus's gladiatorial escapades in Rome. It was sad to watch, but at the same time mesmerizing; as fixed as it is, the bulls still have a chance to gore the matadors. One just barely missed as he threw his torturer high in the air, and the entrance to the stadium contains a memorial for a bullfighter who died there in the 1980s. It was worth seeing, but hearing one bull cry for his life as blood pours out his mouth is probably enough for me in this lifetime.

Other Madrid highlights: the Prado Museum, which we zipped through on the way to the fight; it wasn't quite the Vatican museums, but...wow. Also, a dinner with my friend James's host mom from his time abroad in Madrid. She spoke no English, but invited us in, cooked for us, and talked up a storm. A homecooked meal in a foreign country: what more could I ask for?

My crew departed back for the states and real life the next morning, and I turned my sights on Sicily.

The Packing Dilemma

(A nod to The Yuppie Dilemma for the creative inspiration)

There is one great challenge that every backpacker faces, far exceeding that of pickpockets, missed flights, or language barriers. I'm referring, of course, to the packing dilemma.

If you're a typical leet griller backpacking through Europe immediately after your college graduation, you usually leave your hostels within ten minutes of a far-too early wakeup, either to check out or catch a flight/boat/train, and you are rarely in a fully clearheaded state of mind. There is a natural but tragic consequence to this fact: things get lost.

Since the start of this trip on June 1, I have lost: my adaptor (€26 to replace), one of the two pairs of shorts I brought to Europe with me, my rain jacket, and my favorite sweatshirt. (I have, surprisingly, retained my dignity, even in Amsterdam). All told, the total replacement value is probably around $100. I've learned a lesson from this experience: I could have packed more lightly; I'm doing fine with just one hoodie and one pair of shorts.

Beyond that, though, I'm struck by the realization that, with each passing day, college slips further and further into my past. My hoodie and rain jacket were both BC Bookstore products, purchased way back in 2006 when the bookstore was still independent. They were staples of my wardrobe during my four years at BC (and I dare say I looked stunning in them). I wore them to display my school pride (and to accentuate the color in my eyes) at football games, parties, classes, and long walks through the rain. Now they are gone, and I am fully aware that the day will come when my BC wardrobe will have dwindled down to nothing. Sure, I can always purchase more BC gear, but it will be the wardrobe of an alumnus and not a student.

I can only pray that I look as good and feel as comfortable in alumni clothing as I did in my dear departed sweatshirt.

Ryan Air Part II

Flew Ryan Air for the second time this past Saturday, from Rome to Madrid. Three of us sat in the very back row, myself on the aisle, and I was lucky enough to evesdrop on most of the conversation between the flight attendants. (Actually, evesdrop probably isn't such a great description, since they were yelling across the back aisle to each other to be heard over the sound of the engines). So, if any of you have ever wondered what goes through the head of Ryan Air stewardesses (bearing in mind that the airline prides itself on its efficient professionalism), it's my pleasure to offer you a quick synopsis of the major conversation topics:

1) The woes of English soccer; one described her frustration as such: "Kick the ball in the fucking net if it's wide fucking open. I mean come on!"

2) The high quality of the sex (or, as the British call them, "bedroom") scenes in True Blood. One told the other, "you've got to check it out, it's seriously unbelievable. It's my favorite thing about television these days."

3) The value of having a...(What's the right term for a family-friendly blog like this?)...male friend with physical benefits and no attachments. One snapshot of their dialogue on the matter:

Attendant 1: "I see him every couple of weeks. He was starting to talk serious and I was like, 'Alex, No!'"

Attendant 2: "Good for you. You need that. I'm not too, too loose so it's good to have that option."

Somewhere, I thought, poor Alex was waking up alone, wondering why he couldn't get this girl to like him. 30,000 feet above the Mediterranean, I had the answer in hand.

Rome

Of all the cities I ever wanted to visit, Rome was the top choice. I love history, I love Italian food, I loved the TV show and I have an Italian last name. It just seemed logical.

Just like Ios, Rome met and exceeded my expectations. Some quick highlights of the trip:

-The food, from the first dinner of Spaghetti al Pesto to the last slice of pizza

-The Spanish Steps, where we joined an international ensemble of people on our first night to drink wine and soak in the summer air

-The Roman Colosseum, the place I most wanted to see before I died. Simply mindblowing to walk around, and full of interesting facts. Like this one: Emperor Commodus, the basis of Joaquin Phoenix´s character in Gladiator, killed more than 12,000 men in the colosseum, plus hundreds of bears and lions, to earn himself the title of greatest gladiator in history. Of course, the animals were drugged and both arms of every man were broken, but it's still pretty impressive. No mention on the tour of whether or not he was really in love with his sister.

-Palatine Hill, the ancient seat of power in Rome, which we walked around for literally 30 minutes while looking for an entrance before realizing we had seen the entire things already from the road that overlooked it.

-Museum of the Reunification, where I was struck by two things. One, there is a semi-decent possibility that a great-great-(great?) grandpa of mine fought in the wars to reunify the country. And two, that most of the heroic paintings of Italian soldiers in WWI, being dated from the 1920s and 1930s, were probably commissioned by the fascists. Apparently they have a longer staying power than I thought.

-The Vatican Museum, best museum I've ever seen. It's not just the size or the skill of the artwork, but the diversity of it (greek sculpture to modern art and entire wings of everything in between) that makes it so incredible.

-The Sistine Chapel, where I finally appreciated Good Will Hunting to its fullest extent but was disappointed (though not surprised) to find myself unable to move due to crowds. I imagine that if I go to heaven upon my death, I'll be greeted in a recreation of the chapel with a private picnic.

-St. Peter´s Basilica, which took 120 years to build and is the very heart of the Roman Catholic world. One of the most beautiful buildings I have ever seen, its combination of size and splendor blows away both the Hagia Sophia and the Blue Mosque (indeed, it was so expensive to build that it was financed in part through a surge in the sale of indulgences, helping to spark the Reformation). Besides the church itself, one can descend into the crypts below where St. Peter and dozens of popes and saints are interred (as well as members of the exiled Stuart dynasty from England, who were referred to as kings by the Vatican). We also made the decision to ascend to the cupola, which offers views of all of Rome. It didn't seem so high up at first, and for some reason the roughly 550 steps didn't deter us. Only later did we find out that we climbed almost half the height of the Empire State Building. Most of the steps were in circular staircases, which meant that as we climbed for what must have been 15 minutes or more we were simultaneously walking in tight circles with little room to breathe. Needless to say, I probably won't ever go up there again (though that being said, it was well worth it).

-The Pantheon, which is in very good condition due to its medieval conversion into a Catholic Church. There were many signs asking for silence and respect, but most of the hundreds of tourists didn't seem too worried. Rafael is buried there, though I didn't see Michelangelo, Leonardo or Donatello.

-Sant'Ignazio Church: I admit I'm a little biased; I love the Jesuits, was educated by Jesuits, and am Catholic today because of the Jesuits. Moreover, I hate being in a crowd when visiting something extraordinary. In any case, I found this church, dedicated to St. Ignatius and the central church of the Jesuit order, to be every bit as impressive as the Sistine Chapel and St. Peter´s. The frescoes are mindblowing in their grandiosity and beauty, the walls are lined with chapels dedicated to Jesuit saints interred under the altars, and the crowds are almost non-existent. So far on my trip, this church is THE HIDDEN GEM of all of Europe.

I wish I could have had more time in Rome, but I'm confident I'll return one day. As of now, it's quite possible my favorite place in Europe (minus Ios, which is barely real life).

Turkey Followup

Tom Friedman wrote a couple of reflections this week on the cultural and political situation in Turkey that are worth checking out in light of my earlier post. They basically contain a lot of substantial information that (unfortunately) seem to be in line with the observations I made on the street ten days ago.

Paradise Found

When I was four, I went to sleep on Christmas Eve anxious for what the morning would bring. I fully expected a treasure of presents that would bring unbounded joy.

To this day, walking down the stairs the next day to see a train chugging along a circular track around the tree is one of the best memories of my life. The feeling you get when you have way too high expectations and then get them exceeded by the actual thing is quite possibly the rarest known to man.

Since December 25, 1992, I have not known that feeling. I've had many joys in life, but that one? It was fleeting.

Until this week. Ios, in the Greek Islands, was alternatively described to me as a cross between Cancun, college, Hawaii, and Greece. I was told there would be an abundance of beautiful women, beaches, water, buildings, mountains, and footpaths, not to mention wild bars and clubs.

That was exactly what it ended up being. It was paradise on Earth, no doubt about it, and I was sorry to leave it behind; I actually wanted to change my plane ticket and just work there for the rest of the summer. There isn't much else to say about the island. What can you say about heaven to someone who's never seen it? Those who have don't need words to describe what it's like.

We were only in Athens for a few hours; on the way to and from Ios, we got into town very late and then had to leave in the morning. If you've heard about the unrest there, I have only this to say: it's very real. We left our hostel with little time to spare on the way to the airport and found the subway locked shut; the workers were on strike. We had to rush into taxis, and our drivers were freaking out because a massive march was about to shut down all the major roads in the city center. Things are not good there.

But at least things are cheap and the people are beautiful. And because of the unrest, we had the island largely to ourselves.

A Word on Turkish Islam

Most of my posts on this blog tend to be light-hearted; this one is not. I was extremely disappointed in the supposedly progressive Turkish culture that stands apart from much of the Islamic world.

I volunteered in (Muslim parts of) Bosnia three years ago and experienced a strain of Islamic culture that was very much married to modernity and the West; people wore American-style (if a bit ragged), watched American and British TV, listened avidly to musicians from across North America and Europe, devoured the internet, and saw no contradiction between their identity as Muslims and their place in the modern world.

For many Turks, especially (and most notably) those of my own generation, this did not seem to be the case. To highlight just a handful of examples from my brief time in Istanbul:

-The midday call to prayer sounded while we were in the Grand Bazaar: Having spent time in Bosnia, it was not unusual for me to see dozens of people rushing about to be at a mosque in time. When we were initially fenced into a corner of the bazaar by faithful who converted the alleyways into prayer spots, I was not particularly taken aback and was actually quite impressed to hear the hustle and bustle of the bazaar shut down almost instantly. But after a handful of minutes I noticed a few things: 1) it was all men praying, and 2) most of the older people in the bazaar were still minding their shops and ignoring the whole process; it was the younger ones, people my age, who made up the bulk those facing toward Mecca. After I finally found a way around them, I noticed one woman shopping for candy with her children while wearing a full burqa, with all of her daughters in hijabs. I wondered if she was required to leave her home by her husband with one on, but away from his glare was not so faithful as many of the men were.

-Walking along the Bosporus later that day, we stumbled upon what we lightheartedly labeled "Istanbul Beach": on the large boulders that made up the shore all the way around the Old City, people were sunbathing, fishing, and jumping into the water. It was not unlike what one might find in any city on a hot day. Except that as we continued walking, we noticed that of the literally hundreds of people sunbathing, not a single one was a woman. It was clear that it was not yet socially acceptable for women to shed their clothes by the water on a hot day.

-Indeed, of the many, many people who sought our business, in front of restaurants, shops, and stands, not a single one was a woman. Not one woman was inviting customers in, waiting tables, involved in the transaction of money, or anything else you might expect in a modern cosmopolitan city like Istanbul.

-Perhaps most shocking of all, though: when I tried to link to Youtube in one of the posts I wrote while in Istanbul, I was shocked to discover that the website is blocked by the Turkish government.

None of this meshes with the brand of Islam I saw in Bosnia and that I was led to believe predominates in Turkey. I found there a culture where women are not just second-class citizens but are often an entirely separate underclass. I found a place where religious extremism seems to be stronger among the younger generation instead of weaker. I found a place where the government controls what information their people read, and where propaganda reigns supreme (I didn't need to know Turkish to know, looking at signs or observing TV, that the reaction against Israel's recent raid on the aid armada is fierce and furious and that the Israeli side of the story wasn't often being presented).

It's worth pointing out that many Turks would fit right into Sarajevo culture, and New York for that matter (and many do upon their emigration); most of them enjoy nightlife, drinking, and conversation. Most women do not wear burqas, and many do not wear hijabs. Some are bikini models, and many are flirtateous. (Moreover, many women choose to wear burqas or hijabs on their own; it is their faith and it is important to respect that).

But the Istanbul I was led to expect was progressive, a shining star in the Islamic world. It is hard to know for certain after just 48 hours, but if such an Istanbul ever did exist it does not now. The city I visited seemed to be in constant clash between secular modernity, religious fundamentalism, and a middle ground that seems to be increasingly silenced. I can only imagine what rural Turkey is like.

In any case, the European Union's continued denial of Turkish applications for membership is not just based on discrimination; there is a very real and (I now know) wellfounded concern over human rights. Turkey has the potential to lead the Islamic world into the modern age, especially as prosperity in the country increases over the coming century. But it also has the potential to slip backwards (and perhaps pull the rest of the Islamic world back with it), and that fact is well worth the attention of power brokers in the international community. Something is stirring there, and it is not necessarily good.u

Istanbul in 48 Hours

I'm a nerd. All through school, from third grade on, I was always the kid who loved social studies and history. Istanbul always called to me because of how imporant a role it played in many of the events I loved reading about: it was the seat of power for the late Roman, Byzantine, and Ottoman Empires, and arguably the center of the Islamic world for hundreds of years.

If I ever get the chance again, I'll spend at least a full week in the country; there was so much we didn't get to do in just two days. But we did get some stuff done, and here are the highlights:

-The Blue Mosque: regarded by many as the most beautiful mosque in the entire world and it did not disappoint. My first reaction when I walked in was a simple "wow." The detail involved, on such a gargantuan scale, is simply mind-blowing. Even more beautiful was the view at night from the rooftop bar on our hostel (minus the belly dancer), when the minarets were illuminated and hundreds of seagulls flew circles above them.

-The Hagia Sophia: across the street from the Blue Mosque, we went there immediately afterward. The transition was like watching Auburn-Alabama on a Saturday and then watching Jets-Patriots the day after: the former was mindblowing, the latter was something else altogether. The one-time basilica, one-time mosque drained the treasury of Emperor Justinian in the 500s, and at any one time more than 11,000 people were working on its construction (that's proportional to about 350,000 current-day people in terms of the global population). Words cannot describe the place in terms of size and beauty.

-The NBA Store: We wondered in here during a walk through the new city, and were disappointed to find that shoes and jerseys were just as expensive as they are back home. Obviously, the sport is extremely popular in the city, and at least a sizable population of Istanbul has some spending money on hand.

-Galata Tower: an old lighthouse overlooking the Golden Horn, offering 360 degree panoramic views of the entire city. It's unreal. Hearing the call to prayer echo from what seemed like hundreds of mosques in every direction while overlooking Istanbul is an experience I'll never forget.

-Walking: Istanbul is very old, very crowded, and very difficult to navigate. Being guys, we obviously just assumed we could conquer the terrain, and consequently it took us a LONG time to find our way back to the hostel on Thursday afternoon (we later figured out that we were walking large circles around our street). Our cause wasn't helped by the three separate women who walked past us without reply when we asked for directions (whether it was rudeness or a lack of English, we couldn't tell). But getting lost in a city is in some ways the best way to experience it; the smells, the sounds, and the people. In a place like Istanbul, it also allows you to stumble upon buildings that are historical treasures; we later found out that one wall by the sea ended up was a sea fortress that was built by Constantine in the 4th century. That walk was one of my favorite parts of my entire European experience to date.

-Haggling: Turks seem to enjoy the art of negotiation, and many seem to assume that Peter Griffin is representative of all Americans' ability to haggle right back. In front of every stand and restaurant someone BEGS you to come in and buy their product; they usually start out with straight outlandish prices and then rapidly lower it as you express your desire to go down the street. Once you buy from them, though, they treat you like family; they're hospitable, kind, and generous. One restaurant owner, who we haggled with for some time before coming in, ended up giving us free bottled water, free apple tea, and additional money off our meal.

-The Basilica Cistern: built by Justinian in the 500's to give Constantinople a water reserve, it's deep underground beneath the old city and a staple of late Roman architecture. Walking into it is like walking into another era. There's also massive fish swimming around.

There's so much more we could've seen. But between not coming at all and rushing through on a whirlwind, I'm very happy we picked the latter.

Belly Dancing in Istanbul? Sure!

We landed in Istanbul for our whirlwind tour on Wednesday night, unsure of what to really expect. Technically, we landed on the Asian side of the Bosporus before the very long drive to our hostel, so I can cross that continent off.

When we got to our hostel, our reservation was nowhere to be found in their records. The clerk told us to just throw our stuff on five open beds they had - the ones we had actually reserved - and to hurry to the rooftop bar with him, where a belly dancer was preparing to perform and the whole hostel was having a big party. He told us to just pay him for the room whenever and ran upstairs. Though it was late and we were hungry, we followed him up for what we assumed would be a seductive introduction to Turkish culture.

So we were a little surprised by what actually unfolded. A belly dancer came out, wearing the requisite revealning clothing, and things got real weird real quick. As a quick aside: I have no problem with girls who are overweight, do not view weight as a particularly important barometer of a person's worth or attraction, and respect those who are comfortable with themselves no matter what. But belly dancing by its nature does require strong stomach muscles, and without going into detail its important to note that the dancer before us didn't have them; let's just say she didn't look like the girl pictured above. She did have large cleavage though, and the routine very quickly descended into her grabbing guys out of the crowd, accentuating that cleavage through particular hip gyrations (which rarely could be defined as belly dancing), and then demanding tip money (in no small amounts). I avoided the fate by pleading poverty, but most of my entourage was not so lucky. The whole scene was like some sort of Turkish mix of belly dancing, a bad strip club, and that part of prom in high school when everyone's just a little to tipsy: some very aggressive dancing and some very uncomfortable people.

Basically, we were the victims of a money-collecting scheme within an hour of our arrival. We walked out of the bar before she was finished, $15 poorer, confused about what had just happened, and (for some among us) a tad emotionally wounded. It was the kind of experience we never would have had in Western Europe, and I went to bed that night extremely satisfied that we had made the foray into the east.

Amsterdam

I wasn't able to access a computer while in Amsterdam; in fact, most of the neighborhood I stayed in was dominated by sex shops and coffee (weed) shops. So I apologıze for thıs delayed and far-too brıef revıew of my tıme ın the cıty I lıke to call Old New York. (and for the Turkish letters that sneak their way ınto thıs post)Here are the hıghlıghts:

-Walkıng from the traın statıon to my hostel ın the Red Lıght Dıstrıct, I passed seven sex shops, three brothels (where the hookers are on dısplay ın wındows lıke manequıns and try to lure you ın wıth fertıve taps on the glass), and well over a dozen coffee shops, whıch help to gıve the entıre cıty a rather dıstınctıve aroma. The city sure made a quick ımpression

-Coming from Ireland, ıt was nice to be back ın an English speaking country again

-I really enjoyed traveling alone but ıt was nice to meet up with my friends. The best moments in life are those you share wıth those closest to you. (We'll see how I feel after 2+ weeks with them)

-On our first full day we went on a free walkıng tour ın the morning. I went on one ın Dublin as well, and both were great ways to see the city's hıghlights and decide what to focus on later. Also, they were both great ways to meet female travelers. And they were both free. So overall they were good.

-After the walking tour we visited the Heineken Brewery. We had a blast there, but having seen the Guinness Storehouse just a few days earlier I didn't feel that it quıte measured up. For one thing, there was no panoramic view of the city from the top.

-Traditional Dutch food would traditionally be described as horrible (or at best bland) by most of the developed world. We ate a lot of McDonald's and schwarma during our time there.

-On Tuesday morning we got up early to visit the Anne Frank House. It's hard to joke about that, so I'll just say this: visiting the house really made me appreciate her story on a deeper level than I did before. The amount of ısolation combıned wıth a lack of privacy (couldn't escape her family, couldn't see anyone else) that she experıenced at such a young age, coupled with nonstop, ıntense fear, ıs honestly unımagınable to me. Her contınued sense of hope ın humanity and the world, and for herself, ıs awesomely ınspırıng but even more depressıng; a friend of hers from Bergen-Belsen saıd she lost that hope after her sıster died, and she lost her own life shortly after. There were photos of her throughout the house, but the one that struck me most ıs that of her smiling; she had a truly beautiful and radiant smile that seemed to indicate her overall outlook on this world. One other note: Otto Frank, her father, was the forger of an extremely inspirıng story himself. He returned home from Auschwitz to find that his wıfe and daughters were dead. It had been Anne's dream, whıle ın hiding, to publısh a memoir of her experience when she grew up. When he found her diary, he made sure her dream came true, and in doing so allowed his daughters to live forever in the minds of the millions who read it.

-Most of the group didn't want to go to the Van Gogh Museum because of ıts steep entry fee, so two of us went alone. I'm very glad I did; the man has to be one of the most talented artısts the world has ever produced. He taught himself at an advanced age and ın just ten years produced a large and dıverse stock of paintings that continue to move people more than a century later. It's tragıc that a man who could produce such beauty took hıs own life; I can only imagine what else he might have done ıf he'd been mentally healthy. Oddly enough, the museum made no mention of his ear (a pıece of which he cut off and gave to a prostitute).

-Speaking of prostıtutes; did I mention that Amsterdam has a lot? And that they're ın dısplay wındows wearing lingerie? It's a fun city, but I probably wouldn't brıng my kıds there; some 20,000 women make their living in humanity's oldest trade.

In fact, the Dutch have ıt kınd of rough. They live under constant fear of floods, endured Nazi invasion and occupation, and are subjected to a constant ınflux of stoners, frat bros and perverts lookıng for pleasure ın the Red Light District, whıch ıs essentıally the Mecca of Western vice. Their best painter left the country and then killed himself at age 37. Nobody speaks their language, whıch is exceedingly harsh on the ears, and they are becoming ıncreasıngly Anglıcanızed. And their food stinks.

And in spite of all that, I'd live there in a heartbeat. Amsterdam is one of the most beautiful places I've ever seen. The people are the most open and tolerant in Europe (a trait they passed on to New York during their brief time there), in spite of recent gains by anti-immigrant right-wıng parties ın the Dutch parliament. The city is extremely easy to navigate. On top of everything else, the women are beautiful (and fluent in English), the people enjoy a good party, and the city closes late. And they have pretty good coffee (or so I'm told).

Ryan Air

I joked in one of my opening posts about the perils of flying Ryan Air and compaed it to landing in Normandy on D-Day.

Well, Sunday was the 66th anniversary of the Allied invasion, and like the Band of Brothers before me I boarded a plane bound for the continent unsure of what would come.

Ryan Air was a bit terrifying. The plane was late getting into Dublin, and to minimize delay we had a 20 minute turnaround; boarding the plane (which is open-seating) was like a high-stressed competition to avoid a middle seat, even for a 90 minute flight. The seats are small and uncomfortable with minimal leg room; six seats crammed in side to side with an aisle that seemed narrower than the seats themselves.

We got stuck over Eindhoven (where the men in Band of Brothers actually jumped into several months after Normandy) waiting for a storm to pass, and when it did we came in through heavy turbulence, flying faster than I ever recall having exprienced on an approach. When we landed, our three wheels came down individually several seconds apart, and the force of the brakes in against the high speed we came in on made everyone on board fly forward (I felt a nice solid burn in my quads as I held myself back; my workout for the month). When the plane finally reached a slow speed after a very extended 6-8 seconds, indicating that we would not crash into a fireball at the end of the runway, at least ten people in the front began clapping enthusiastically. I looked around and wondered if I had just come close to an early demise.

My somberness was broken by the playing of a bugle sounding a cavalry charge over the cabin speakers, just before a robotic British voice congratulated us on being part of yet another on-time Ryan Air flight. I turned my phone on to see we had been on time by about 40 seconds.

I'm glad I have two more flights with them. At least they're cheap, and though they're uncomfortable and slightly dangerous, they do their best to avoid delays.

Ireland Dids and Didn'ts

Sorry for the long delay in posts; it's been hard to get on a computer in Amsterdam.

Looking back on Ireland, I think I accomplished most of what I had hoped to when I landed there. There was a list of things I wanted to see/do. Here's the final tally and analysis.

Things achieved:

-Fish and chips in an Irish pub (had as my last dinner)

-Extended conversation with multiple native Irish

-Guinness tour (unbelievable experience)

-Get in touch with some of my roots (didn't get to Meath, but gained a much greater appreiation for the way Irish culture influenced my own)

-Get comfortable with being alone (more on that in another post to come)

-See a ton of the city (helped in part by a free 3 hour walking tour)

-Befriend fellow travelers (will be meeting up with some later in the trip) and strangers different from me (I had a blast every night, including with Canadians and frat bros)

-See Irish mountains, cliffs, and beach (done thanks to Howth and the gravity bar at the Storehouse)

-Book of Kells (saw before my flight on Sunday; everything it's cracked up to be but probably not worth the steep price of admission; the experience is pretty short)

-Learn more about the struggle for independence from the UK (done, thanks to the walking tour and a visit to Kilmainham Jail)

Things unachieved:

-Kilkenny, Cork, Galway, or any place beyond the Dublin suburbs (not enough time)

-Limited spending (pints are expensive)

-Avoidance of gingers (the place is like a post-apocalyptic dystopia in that regard)

-Showering on a daily basis

All in all, a very successful leg of the journey.

Seals and Guinness in a Single Afternoon

Today was undoubtedly the best day of the trip so far.

I woke up bright and early (i.e. 9) to check out of my hostel, which had no room for me tonight, and moved to a cheaper, grimier hostel down the street. Much as I had wanted to squeeze in a visit to Cork, Galway or Kilkenny, there was still much to see in Dublin itself and it would have been too much.

I did, however, manage to sneak out of the city on the DART (something in between a subway and a commuter train) to Howth, the last stop on the line. Howth is a small, historic fishing village that has gradually transformed into a suburb (it's less than 30 minutes from central Dublin). It's harbor is lined with small cliffs, and there are two large islands in the middle of the bay. It may not be the cliffs near Galway, but it was something special to take in. I walked through the central village and got a lunch of fresh crab spread, where an elderly Irish couple celebrating the Mrs.'s 82nd birthday sat next to me making fun of the crowd of tourists across the street who were seemingly taking pictures of the hill beyond the slip over and over again. When I finished my meal, I crossed the street to see it from their vantage point and saw their real object of affection: a pack of seals was literally just frollicking around the water directly beneat me. Just legit hanging there like a bunch of bros. (Which makes sense; they must have been drunk to be relaxing in the oil runoff from the fishing boats).

After the seal adventure, I walked up a nearby hill to Martello Tower, which turned out to be a "vintage radio museum" that charged €5 for entry. There was an old Irishman hanging out in a beach chair by the door intently reading a paper; he told me I could just walk around the outside for free. I could see all the way back into Dublin, and the cliffs, the water, the village, harbor, and islands. Literally one of the best views of my life.

But not even the best of the day. I got back to the city early enough to finally check out the Guinness Storehouse, probably the first super-touristy thing I've done. It was completely worth it; the tour was interesting, and a nice followup to my last post. Two interesting facts stuck out: 1) the Guinness family was part of the Irish Protestant aristocracy and opposed home rule, but all the decades of sectarian strife never broke the island's attachment to their beer, and 2) 2/3 of all the barley grown in Ireland is purchased by Guinness for their brewery at St. James' Gate; a Guinness bankruptcy really would devastate the local economy.

But the best part of the storehouse is the gravity bar at its top. It offers a complimentary pint of the black stuff and - far better - a 360 degree panoramic view of the city and its surroundings, with no buildings close by to block any of it off. Not only could I see the entire city, but I could also see the Wicklow Mountains, rolling green fields, and the Irish Channel. At various points on the glass are quotes from James Joyce's work that allude to sections of the city (which was nice since I've been reading Dubliners since I got here).

I topped the day off with a plate of fish and chips and a pint of Guinness (the tour made me come around) before calling it a night. There's a long month ahead of me and Amsterdam beckons tomorrow; people tell me I should conserve my energy for that city. I'm going to try to see the Book of Kells before the airport tomorrow, where I'll be flying Ryan Air for the very first time. Should be interesting.

P.S. My hostel has two toilets for about 100 people on my floor, and the water supply is messed up. Many of the girls here are displeased.

P.P.S. I saw some Irish kids playing basketball today. There are hoops everywhere and on the surface the game seems popular enough here, but there is no mention anywhere of the Finals, and judging by the game I saw today the Irish won't be watching one of their own vie for a title for some time to come.

Bros Icing Tourists

So I spent last night with some of the frattiest guys I've ever come across. Two of them were frat brothers at the College of Charleston, and the third was one of their twin brothers from real life.

Upon noticing my American accent, they immediately invited me to drink with them in the hostel kitchen, where they had a copious amount of alcohol for three people. I told them I had to finish up some emailing but would be up shortly.

Boston College doesn't have any frats, so I worried about how I could ingratiate myself into this foreign and strange social group. But I've studied the ways of the frat bro from a distance since I was a teenager; I've observed their ways, their strengths and weaknesses. And I knew there was one single action that would automatically win me their permanent favor.

I had to ice one of them. For those of you not familiar with the process; it involves surprising a "bro" with a Smirnoff Ice (a notoriously girly drink), after which their honor necessitates getting on one knee and chugging the entire drink down. My strategy worked to perfection. I knocked on their door to find them chewing tobacco and alternating spitting with drinks of beer. Upon the icing, tears of joy were let loose, and I was firmly hugged by all three before my target descended into icing position.

I did, of course, get iced in return later, but it was a small price to pay. They paid for all my drinks for the rest of the night, at every bar we went to (no small expense in Dublin), refusing to take my money. And we engaged in interesting conversation.

One of them, the only one actually from South Carolina, launched into a long conversation with me about the differences between the south and the north, before eventually telling me, "Look, I say this as a pretty conservative person racially speaking, but most people in my state are just ignorant." (He soon after told me how it took them 15 minutes to get served a beer in JFK, possibly because of the darker complexion of the bartender's skin). He was a nice enough kid - very nice actually, although I am white - but it definitely does seem like the Civil War is still raging.

In any case, it seems as though the phenomenon of bros icing bros has crossed the Atlantic. It's unknown and unlikely if I'm the first to ice a bro in Europe, but if I am...I'm almost as ashamed as I am proud.

Company Town

I'd heard jokes all my life about how much the Irish love to drink, and every St. Patrick's Day at Boston College drove home the attachment of Guinness to national identity. But I never appreciated, prior to my arrival here, the strength of that attachment. The way GE is for Schenectady and GM once was for Flint is how Guiness is for Dublin.

Personally, I've always thought Guinness to be a nice accompaniment to a meal or a nice quickstart to St. Patty's day, but as a drink of choice it is thick, black, expensive and filling (and extremely high in calories). The Irish, though, often drink it the way American college students down Busch Light. They drink it with meals, at pregames, ingames, and postgames, at pubs and night clubs alike. The brand name is plastered on almost every single pub window and sign in the city, on busses and tourist maps and even on a bridge over the River Liffey. I took a bus past the brewery today and found an extremely massive, walled complex; from a distance I thought it was a medieval castle plopped into the middle of the city. The biggest tourist attraction in all of Dublin - bigger than Dublin Castle, Kilmainham Jail (where many of Ireland's leading freedom fighters were imprisoned or executed, not to mention many thousands of petty criminals), the Book of Kells or literally anything else - is the Guinness storehouse, a museum of the old brewery and the highest point of the city, offering the best views. Many of the statues around the city were commissioned by the Guinness family at some point over the past two centuries.

I don't know how big their economic footprint is on Dublin these days. But if they ever closed down, I think Roger and Me would seem like a prequel to the anger and sadness that would fall upon this city.

By the way: I've always been told that you can never appreciate a Guinness until tasting it in Dublin, on draft, served by a bartender who knows how to give the perfect pour for its unique consistency. I can now say from experience: Guinness, when done right and fresh, is delicious.

(Im)perfection

Interesting news from the homeland today: an unknown young Venezuelan pitcher from the Tigers had a perfect game robbed from him on an errant call, on the same day that Ken Griffey Jr. called it quits.

Nobody over here knows shit about baseball, but I take meaning from both stories. According to ESPN and Tyler Keppner of the New York Times, Armando Galaragga had the absolute perfect response in the game's aftermath, especially after umpire Jim Joyce tearfully approached him to apologize once he saw the replay. He talked about how he threw a perfect game and will always know he did, regardless of what the record book says, and that's enough for him. Regarding Joyce, he said with a smile, "Nobody's perfect."

Griffey, batting below the Mendoza line and hardly playing, retired after one of the most remarkable careers in sporting history. He was so young when he started dominating the game that he once hit back-to-back home runs with his father. When I was a kid, I hated "the kid." But as I've gotten older, I've come to hold him in high esteem; he left many millions on the table by skipping free agency to play for his hometown, boyhood favorite, small market Cincinnati Reds. Injuries derailed his career once he got there, but he still finished with 630 career home runs, while never once being mentioned in conversations regarding PED's. In an era when nearly every major star sold their steroid-enhanced services to the highest bidder, his career stood out as something nobler than what we find in everyday life.

Beyond that, his retirement is the last of my childhood villains. Jordan, Miller, Mourning, Marino, Elway, Garciaparra and now Griffey have all been felled by age, and I feel as old upon that realization as I did when I graduated college last week.

What's all this have to do with Ireland? Not too much. For me, it's just a reminder of two basic facts. 1) I'm a college graduate traveling across Europe with nothing but a backpack; I've come a long way since Griffey reduced me to tears with his mad dash to beat the Yankees in the 1995 ALDS. 2) For the duration of this trip, and through my adult life, I will find that perfection is unattainable. But if I perform to my absolute best, then I'll be good enough to be proud of myself. I've been worried about missing something on this trip, about seeing the wrong things. I think from now on, I'm just going to enjoy myself instead. There's no way to complete a trip perfectly....

Made some friends in the hostel last night and saw much of Dublin on a free walking tour today. And I've spent a couple of hours in St. Stephen's Green being cliche reading Dubliners. Trips going great so far.

Alive in Dublin

I landed in Dublin earlier today, making it through my first two flights without being strip searched. A few initial impressions:

1) About 150 years ago, some ancestors of mine and a few dozen million other Americans left Ireland because they were dirt poor and starving to death. All this time later, I can see why: Dublin is very, very expensive. Mcdonald's value meal french fries may end up being a steady source of nutrition for me, and in the event of a potato famine I may not be able to survive here.

2) All those movies I saw growing up with rolling green fields, constant drizzle, pious Catholics and miserable people don't seem to have been set in Dublin. The people here do seem to enjoy drinking, but aside from that they seem prosperous and happy; the city (at least near my hostel) doesn't have very much greenery; and in light of recent events, the Church isn't overly popular or visibly present at the moment.

3) Traveling alone (as I am for this first leg) is fun. It would be nice to be exploring this city with my friends, as I will do for most of the trip, but there's a certain freedom and excitement to setting out by yourself. The first place I went here (after walking through Trinity College, across the street from my hostel) was the first place I saw offering a meal for under 5 euros: an actual Irish pub, where I was the youngest person by at least 10 years (25 if you don't count the bartender), could count all the other patrons on one hand, and couldn't understand a word any of them said (it might be harder to communicate with the English-speaking Irish than any other people I come across this month). I ordered a 3 euro roast beef sandwich with "stuffing" on white bread - I'm still not exactly sure what stuffing consists of - and a pint of guiness and struck up a conversation with the bartender, James, about where I should be visiting in Dublin. I spent probably 45 minutes talking with a complete stranger, and at the end he told me the coffee was on the house and to enjoy myself in the city. While it's possible he was simply stricken by my boyish good looks or American charm, I think he was just being kind to a solitary traveler in a strange place who was polite to him. Talking with him in the bar for 45 minutes might be the most authentic immersion I get on my entire trip.

Among other interesting tidbits I picked up from James: the EU is great for Ireland, but it expanded too much (in his words: "what the fuck do we have in common with Bulgaria besides we're both white? The fuck's the point?") and is facing the consequences; Dublin's fun but most of the stuff worth seeing can be done in 1-2 days, and much of the rest are tourist traps; and most intriguingly, there's a great Irish comedy festival in Kilkenny this week that's absolutely worth seeing.

Personally, I don't know what to go see. James told me the Book of Kells (which is literally across the street from my hostel) isn't that exciting and is a waste of money. I had been interested in Cork and Galway based on what some friends had said back in the U.S., but so far most Irish people I've spoken with heavily recommend Kilkenny instead. I had thought about seeing the countryside, but James said that cows are mostly the same in America and Ireland so I shouldn't waste my time looking at them.

What are your thoughts? If you've been to this island before, tell me what I should go see and do.

(Thanks to Allposters.com for the photo.)