Sweden 2010

Friday, May 7th

Today would be my second attempt to remove my body from the island of Britain.  A few weeks ago, I made efforts to encounter Italy via an airplane but this silly cloud of ashtrays that was created by the eruption of that lame, community college dropout volcano in Iceland halted all air travel in the European airspace for six days.

My plan now was to visit Sweden and enjoy the indescribable comforts of my dear friends, Margaretha and Cebe (pronounced “say-bay”) Fransen.  But first, I had to wake up which was challenging as the previous night was a late one due to the fact I had a show at the King’s Head Downstairs in Crouch End.  After the show, I socialized adequately.  In particular, I spoke with a fella that very much looked like the Dude in “The Big Lebowski”.  Even his voice resembled Jeff Bridges (more like “The Fisher King” Jeff Bridges) but his demeanor was not like the Dude.  It was more like a respectful intellectual.  That was probably the closest I’ll ever get to meeting Jeff Bridges so I had to make the most of it.

So when I did wake, I got my belongings together, walked to the Piccadilly Line and traveled to Heathrow airport.  I boarded a plane to Copenhagen and then a train to the town of Höör (pronounced slightly like the ancient profession).  And there he was, Cebe himself in his green rubber boots, commanding an older red Nissan pickup truck.  It was a moment both natural and amusing.

After a couple miles of driving, we arrived at their quaint, beautiful farmhouse that was built around 1760.  Surrounded by woods and a couple small fields, this lifestyle speaks of easygoing and restorative possibilities.  I opened the front door and was greeted, gloriously, by Margaretha.  It had been eight years since my last visit but as we spoke, as I knew it would, this chasm of time dissolved immediately.

Within moments of my arrival, we were chatting loosely and I was bombarding my body with such a diverse collection of toxins: scotch, wine, cheese, little cigars, cake and brandy.  Somewhere in this dense fog of vice, I managed to call my sister Jennifer (who is the one that initially befriended the Fransens in France years ago).  Margaretha and I spoke to her for a while and carried on with the night.

Things became so free that I encouraged them both to watch one of my favorite videos that I made: “Creepy Cowboy Chops Down Tree”.  Let me tell you folks something, you haven’t lived until you’re standing next to a Swedish couple in their 60’s while you watch a video of yourself chopping a tree down in silver pants and no shirt that is accurately set to Madonna’s “Hung Up” (Decide for yourself: http://www.funnyordie.com/videos/42a3d024c3/creepy-cowboy-chops-down-a-tree).

As the video ended, we all realized the night had reached its full potential and it now being one in the morning, we knew that sleep was the only sound decision.

Saturday, May 8th

Today I awoke and enjoyed a simple breakfast with Cebe in the library.  Afterwards, the two of us headed into town to buy meat, alcohol, medicine and food (in this logical order).  In the main square, we noticed some sort of humble market/festival.  The weather was cool and gray so the crowd was light.  What struck me was the young, broken-down school band that was playing “New York, New York” in a tent.  There were many rebellious notes in their rendition and the resulting sound was one I could only compare with that of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang crashing into a drunken circus band.

This troubled circus music persisted as we entered a supermarket where there was a trio of three young women playing recorders.  I have absolutely no idea why they were playing in a supermarket.  All I can tell you is that the music’s dissonance evoked visions of clown murders and indigestion.

We then got in our car, we discovered it did not start.  I blamed the bad music.  I think the car heard these tortuous human sounds and wisely decided to have nothing more to do with people.  Fortunately, Cebe’s mother lived very close by so we walked to her apartment in order to borrow her car.  We passed by the band tent and although the band was gone, there was one solitary person playing “Killing Me Softly” on keyboard while an awkward, spread-out crowd of 12 people watched.  All of this music provided the perfect sound track to the mild misfortunes and oddities we were enduring.

The two of us then walked along a path where we passed by a strange event.  A mother and child and their medium-sized dog stood by as a woman and her small dog approached them.  The small dog then buried its face in the backside of the larger dog and just went to work as if it was some gruesome canine medical malpractice procedure.  What makes this occurrence really bizarre is that the larger dog just stood there calmly while all three people watched, smiled and talked.  Not knowing if this is some strange Swedish Saturday afternoon custom, I turned to Cebe and said, “Someone needs to stop that.  Why are they allowing this to happen?”  Cebe also shared my negative reaction to the foul nature of the dog interaction, a reaction that restored my faith in Sweden.

We then made it to his mother’s, conversed for a while and drove her car back to the house.  After lunch, I followed Cebe back to town in his mother’s car.  For giggles, we pulled up to the ailing auto to see if it would start and it did so we dropped it at a mechanic, returned his mother’s car and drove back home.  Some people like to visit museums or famous sites when they travel.  I, on the other hand, like to do errands and feel the brisk sensation of what it might be like to be a taxi driver in a small town.

After a brief doze and some high-powered writing, I descended to the common living area and into more gustatory decadence that started with some members only, 16-year old, single malt scotch.  As I smelled it, I almost began to close my eyes and recite important events of 1994 as if I were Christopher Lambert drinking a 200-year old liqueur and eerily dropping specific factoids of the year that the liqueur was born.  This of course happened in the movie “Highlander” which I hope I am but since I don’t have the brass to get stabbed and test it, I’ll just have to wait until I’m 180 years old when I can say, “Indeed.  It appears I am an immortal Highlander.”

From here we dined on fine, thin strips of choice beef that we grilled at the table on a small, electric grill.  The beef was then bathed in blue ribbon sauces, creating an eating experience that should be documented and placed into a time capsule.  This meal morphed into a dessert with tea, brandy and more petit cigars.  I was slowly turning into a 19th century aristocrat that lived in a castle, ran a profitable cologne trading business and solved mysteries in his spare time.

During this great evening brew of relaxation, we looked at photo albums of various vacations that Cebe and Margaretha had in the US.  Wisely, Margaretha collected various pamphlets from hotels they stayed in.  My favorite was one for a hotel they visited during their trip to Key West.  It showed a picture of a guy in a red Speedo, standing with a cocktail in his hand intently listening to a smiling guy sitting in a chair that was playing guitar and looking like a young Jimmy Buffet.

This reflects an amazing priority of the mid 80’s Key West traveler.  They don’t care about the view or the quality of the room, they want to know if they can get drunk enough to wear a red Speedo and listen/stand next to a Jimmy Buffet cover artist.

She also took a menu from an extremely fancy restaurant that was now 25 years old.  I desperately wanted her and Cebe to travel back to the same restaurant with the old menu and demand the food at the prices quoted on the old menu.  It never ceases to amaze me how my fantasies parallel that of a 60-year old virgin that grew up without toys or a television.

We also discussed, at length, the tender manner that Cebe and Margaretha initiated their space mission to the galaxy of Eternal Romance.  And as it always seems to be, it was merely a matter of the fella coming to his senses.  Oh boy!

Sleep was the final option we exercised on this day.

Sunday, May 9th

During my sleep, I dreamed that a bird flew into a room that I was in.  When I awoke, I went downstairs and ate breakfast with Cebe.  At this moment, a bird flew into the house.  Although it was neat that I foresaw this in my dream, I lamented that I did not dream of more profitable matters like a dramatic rise in the shares of a company that makes a spray that smells like the 70’s (a mix of the following crucial aromas: wood paneling, sweat, a cookout, leather and carpet).

Another thing to note was that during the previous night, I dreamt that I was walking outside near some interesting vegetation when Margaretha came over and started gathering it.  “What’s this?” I asked.  “Oh, it’s marijuana,” she answered.  She then walked away and I wondered if this substance would find its way into our dinner.  So far this has not happened but you’ll know if it did if I start writing about, well, there will be no discernible difference between my current writing and any drug-induced scribbling.

After some professional-strength hanging around, we ate a lunch of salad, bacon, eggs, bread and red wine.  Cebe then decided to take me over to the house of a Danish couple at the edge of his property.  The Fransens sold the couple a couple of acres that included a barn.  As we walked over, we met up with another neighbor, Anders.  The three of us looked around the edge of Cebe’s property for dead trees that needed to be cut down because that’s what men do when they’re not busy eating whiskey-soaked French fries or pummeling somebody.

The three of us walked to the barn of Jasper and Gitte which was being gradually transformed into a neat house.  The fine couple showed us around the place and brought note to their most recent architectural advances.  Soon after, we were involving ourselves in impressive qualities and quantities of red wine to celebrate some lovely building milestones for Jasper and Gitte.  Soon Anders went back to his house as Margaretha tagged into this festive match.  Jasper, Cebe and I began to discuss fine beer, healthcare, politics and too many other jazzy concepts to mention.  Suddenly, multiple hours had passed, pipes/cigars/cigarettes had been smoked, Japanese whiskey somehow snuck its way into our presence and bodies and even Enya had the audacity to creep into the random music mix, clearly signaling that things were escalating to a dangerous level.

Margaretha, Cebe and I therefore bid farewell and went back to the house to eat.  And yes, I did manage to savor some nice Chilean wine, small steaks and a spot of brandy.  As we dined, Cebe told us an interesting story of the wine we were drinking.  Apparently, although made in Chile, the grape used in the wine originally comes from France.  Hundreds of years ago, the grape was sent to South America since the grape began to die out (and eventually did completely) in its native France.  The grape then began to die out in South America and was thought to be extinct until ten years ago when some master-tongued wine taster researched some wine he encountered in Chile and discovered it to be the grape thought to be extinct.  It’s nice to hear a happy ending to one of those “Have you seen me?” pictures you see on the side of milk cartons.

By this point, I had to accept the Leaving Las Vegas nature of my day.  All that was missing was my Elizabeth Shue but something told me she would not be found in this Swedish countryside.  The three of us dug further into the conversational mine shaft that we had been working on as I made the bold decision to drink two espressos.  Shortly after, we retired like old employees.

Monday, May 10th

Note to the world: If you typically don’t drink espresso, please refrain from drinking two before bed or you will end up being the key subject in your own, extremely successful sleep deprivation study.  I perhaps took in three hours of sleep last night.  In addition to the fatigue, I was also disappointed in my lack of juicy dreams that I was having.

After breakfast Cebe offered me a guided tour of some desirable locations in the south of Sweden.  We equipped his old pickup with our bodies and headed first to Söderåsen National Park to view an ancient volcanic lake and valley.  Wowed by Mother Nature’s generous gifts, we drove west to a peninsula of land that was home to many lovely seaside villages and Kullaberg National Reserve.

On our way back and clearly running out of conversational topics, Cebe and I talked about fighting.  Ironically, the both of us had not been in a fight since our extreme youth but put two fellas in a red pickup truck and it’s just a matter of time before slugfest stories take center stage.

Once home, I made the physical decision to change my Leaving Las Vegas script for the day by avoiding drink so that my stomach could achieve peace.  Cebe then grilled some fine hamburgers and we ate them in fine style, leaving me to find sleep soon after.

Tuesday, May 11th

Today’s mission was to head south to Malmo so Margaretha could visit her dentist.  While her teeth were being investigated, Cebe took me down the street to look at what was Scandinavian’s tallest building upon completion in 2005, the 54-story Twisting torso.  It is a white building that looks like a giant grabbed the top of the building and twisted it slightly as the bottom remained fixed into the ground.  To maintain this look, all the windows are parallelograms.

Not being fan of modern architecture, I kept my excitement far away from this moment.  In fact, I kept my excitement far away from this entire area.  It was clear that the local government was trying to completely reshape this once industrial area.  But from the overall appearance, it looked like the person in charge, halfway through the project, either developed short-term memory loss or simply died and got replaced by a stray cat.  None of the buildings really flowed together and nothing seemed to get finished.  Imagine paying about two million dollars for the penthouse unit in the Twisting Torso and having to park your gold-dipped Ferrari in a crummy, dusty, cinder parking lot.

Thankfully, poor urban development did not foul our day for we decided to pick up some food at a fine sushi establishment that would be savored for dinner.  From here we went to a shopping area to buy a stool, area rug, small candles, a vase and some fabric.  Obviously, these items were not for me.  I’m not the type of guy that travels to other countries to buy stools.

We drove home and I took a long walk through the woods because I AM the type of guy that travels to other countries to walk through the woods like an international animal.  As I walked, I came upon areas of the forest that had been completely cleared out.  Cebe had told me that an insect infestation had made it necessary to cut down large areas of the forest.  This seemed a bit extreme to me.  I believe that they could have hired a few ninjas or some excellent snipers to take care of the problem (snipers that could nail a bug in the face from a mile away).

Later, we ate our sashimi salads and began to talk about business, salesmanship and my father.  Cebe said, “Your father, like me, is a very good salesman.  But I don’t mean like some type of salesman in a furniture store, I mean someone who can sell a product with intelligence.”  It is indeed a good thing my father did not sell furniture or the world would be one huge couch.

Cebe also discussed his business trips to Japan and how he ate globe fish.  Perhaps this doesn’t sound too dramatic but when you realize that if you incorrectly cut open a globefish, you cause a poison to be released throughout the fish’s body, thereby quickly killing whoever eats it, the drama intensifies.  For a restaurant to serve globefish, they must have a special certification to serve it since roughly 100-150 people die each year from incorrectly preparing it.  Why these folks simply don’t stop eating such a dangerous food and switch over to something more benign like pancakes or carrots is beyond me.  You can cut a pancake any way you like without fear that a deadly toxin will be released that will bring your body to bad town.

We then moved into the living room where all that remained for us to do was the enjoyment of brandy and petit cigars.  Sleep then ensued and all was lovely.

Wednesday, May 12th

After breakfast, Cebe and I left to pick up his mother and bring her to the train station.  As we arrived to the station, the weather worsened.  The wind began to blow strongly and a nasty, cold rain fell steadily.  As I walked with Cebe’s mother, Cebe went ahead of us and looked down a set of stairs and greeted the 95-year old lady friend of his mother.  When she made it to the top, a fierce wind caught her and blew her over, causing her to fall down twelve or so stairs.  The woman’s daughter was with us so we all ran over to help her.  The old lady was lying motionless on her stomach on a small landing with her head hanging over the edge as her daughter cradled it in her hands.

The rain grew heavier and we did our best to comfort this tough old lady that now began to move and speak a little.  An ambulance was called for but it was 30 minutes before one arrived.  We did not move her for fear of causing further injury.  Finally, an ambulance arrived and took her to the hospital.

As Cebe and I drove away, I remarked on how terrible it was that an ambulance took so long to arrive.  Once home, Margaretha told me this was because there is no longer an ambulance in Höör, making it necessary for one to come from Eslov, the next town over.  This is especially frustrating since taxes are so high in Sweden.  You would expect that in a town of 15,000, as Höör is, and in a country where you pay high taxes, that a 95-year old woman that just fell down a flight of stairs would not have to wait half an hour in the pouring rain for an ambulance.  Do those in charge think that all 95-year old ladies happen to be as tough as nails like this lady and able to take a tumble down concrete stairs and then strong enough to hold on for 30 minutes as they lie on the ground, getting soaked by ice water?

Fortunately, we were able to put our gravity-related troubles aside and enjoy a dish brought to life by Cebe that he and Margaretha encountered in Florence years ago.  It involved an egg over some asparagus that bathed themselves in a shallow pool of melted butter and willingly accepted a soft coat of sprinkled cheese.  This and a glass of red wine guaranteed a culinary victory.

Cebe and I then left the house to take care of various errands like two responsible males.  One of which was stopping by a farm of a metal worker.  We went inside and viewed all of his amazing pieces of work that included candle holders, door knockers, chairs, platters and even a few swords.

When we returned, Margaretha told us that she received news on the old lady’s injuries.  Thankfully, her only injury was a broken arm.  Old power!  This was indeed comforting news and left me feeling like Mr. Glass finding Bruce Willis’ almost Unbreakable Scandinavian equivalent.

The other reason this incident was terrible was that something very similar happened two weeks ago in London.  I was walking down a very busy Oxford Street in the afternoon when an old woman, three meters ahead of me, tripped on the sidewalk, dove into the cement and began bleeding heavily.  Fortunately, her grandchildren were with her and helped her.  So perhaps old ladies with questionable balance should avoid my presence.

As it always should, the night was again initiated with a glass of fine scotch.  This evolved, naturally, into a dinner that will not soon be forgotten.  Earlier that day, Cebe and I picked up some fresh perch fish that was caught from a large lake near their house known as Ring Lake.  The fish were ever so lightly breaded and fried with a little butter, leaving me to be ever so passionately satiated.  This edible pinnacle was followed with some dessert, a coffee liqueur, a small glass of brandy and a Romeo y Julieta, Number Three Cuban cigar that I collected in London for Cebe and I.  This trip was surely turning into death by pleasure.

Thursday, May 13th

After breakfast, I bid farewell to Margaretha and headed to the train station with Cebe but not before dropping off an outdoor table to his mother’s place.  He then dropped me at the station and I mustered up my best goodbye (you really should have seen it).

As my flight did not leave until the evening, I decided to walk around Copenhagen for a few hours.  I wish I could tell you that something exciting happened but it really didn’t.  I wish I could tell you that I played laser tag with a Danish princess or that I bore witness to the Festival del War Doll but it did not.  Coincidentally, the Festival del War Doll occurs in 27 different countries and celebrates the War Doll’s unstoppable ability to consistently get it right (in the general sense).

I then took a train to the airport and took flight to London.

And that’s that.

Ireland 2008

Wednesday, August 13th

When someone wins $25,000, they are expected to attend a friend’s wedding in Ireland.  The following excuse doesn’t hold much water:

“I’m a starving artist.  I can’t afford to fly over to Ireland.  Believe me, if I could starve my way over there, I would do it in a second.”

So, due to my well known earnings, there was no way for me to turn down my former college roommate Dara’s wedding invitation.  Of course, there was also the fact that it would be a wild honor to take part in my good buddy’s wedding.

In the morning, I called my doctor’s office.  I had been feeling sluggish the past few weeks and after three blood tests, he had some news to share with me.  It turns out I have Mono also known as “Kissing Disease”.  Sadly, some rudimentary math made it clear to me that I did not contract this sleepy disorder from any brutal make-out sessions (unless the incubation period for Mono is one year).  I don’t know how I got it but I’m sure it was in the lamest fashion possible.  When I wasn’t looking, some ant with Mono probably spit into my cereal.

Dr. Burns informed me that I could still leave on my trip, but I would not be allowed to drink or stay up late…and no horseplay!  That’s correct.  He actually wielded the serious medical term “horseplay” in our conversation.  Well thank goodness I was never really one to play with horses in the first place.  Their large size and terrible manners make them lousy playmates in the sandbox.  I think the only thing I was allowed to do was to sit under a tree and be sad.

After this unsavory news, I picked up a check from my good chap Thomas in Dorchester and headed over to The Other Side Café in Boston to make lunch with a fella known as Dave Walsh.  He was back from LA to successfully propose to his lady Colleen.  With well-built sandwiches in front of us, we discussed the industry of professional laugh-making among other lighter matters.  To ensure proper digestion, we embarked on a chat-stroll through the Back Bay.  I bid farewell to this freshly engaged guy and he bid farewell to a historically single guy.

Once home, I gathered my things and publicly transported myself to the airport.  I walked on to the plane and took my seat next to a lovely young woman whose name escapes me.  She had just finished her PhD in a biology-related field and was on her way to England to complete a five-year research project.  The purpose of this project would be to see how global climate change would affect plants.  I told her that global climate change would indeed affect plants and that she should save herself an expensive airfare and five years of her life and just stay home.  She did not comply so we were forced to exchange in more lovely conversation (lovely young woman = lovely conversation).

Thursday, August 14th

Curse this flight for leaving Boston so early in the previous evening.  Due to the flight’s relatively short duration, I was now at Shannon Airport at 5:20 AM.  To be in a town with little activity in an airport on the decline at 5:20 AM in the morning is to bury your head in the sand in the Beach of Lost Hope.

All I could do was to stumble around these Halls of Boredom in a chocolaty daze until it was time to pick up my golf cart-sized rental car.  These cars keep getting smaller every time I rent one.  My Toyota Yaris was little more than two mopeds welded together, side by side.

The next part I love – a guy that drives automatic in America that has had no sleep now gets into a manual shift auto that requires left-handed shifting and drives on the left side of the road praying that his fatigued mind doesn’t lead him back to the right side of the road where oncoming bad times await him.

Fortunately, I made it to my B&B (bed and breakfast) in O’Briensbridge, a small village outside of Limerick on the Shannon River.  This location was just 3-4 miles upriver from where the reception and ceremony would be in Castleconnell.  The name of my B&B was the Scapaflow House and it was run by the friendliest of ladies named Antoinette.  Even though I was massively early, she still took me in, cooked an Irish breakfast and let me have a room.

Are you familiar with an Irish breakfast, friend?  It contains a fried tomato, sausage, Irish bacon, eggs, brown bread and blood pudding.  Although blood pudding does indeed contain animal blood as a main ingredient, it is tasty.  Most B&B’s include this breakfast in their rates so I do feel compelled to tackle these deadly meals that even in a small fractional dose could give a Blue Whale a fatal heart attack.

After this diabolical feeding, I went upstairs and napped for a few hours.  As a precaution, I set an alarm so I didn’t sleep too far into the future…so far that I awoke to a world where the President was a bug…a lady bug!

I pulled myself out of such a deep sleep that it felt as though I was that very same lady bug president trying to pull herself out of a bed of flypaper.  But if I was truly this lady bug president, I would make a new decree that from this point forward, all female lady bugs will still call themselves lady bugs while male lady bugs will call themselves fella bugs.

I walked down to the Shannon River and decided to walk along a path on the river’s edge.  On my journey, I ran into this Turkish guy that was fishing with a rod so ridiculously long it looked like he stole a flag pole and attached a reel to it.  I don’t know if he was expecting to catch a saber tooth tiger or the entire year of 1989 in there but he seemed to have been over-equipped for this fishin’ mission.  Fishin’ mission!

Later on, I drove to Dara’s family house in Castleconnell for a grand dinner.  This beautiful old house built in the 1700’s was situated right on the Shannon River and would also be the site for Saturday’s reception.

One of the first lads I ran into was another Boston College alum known to the world as Mark Francetic.  Along with his charmworthy wife, we soon found ourselves dangerously involved in a discussion about George Michael.  Mark told me about the concert of said performer that he recently attended and how he saw Andre Agassi and Steffi Graf.  I don’t know if it’s a prerequisite for tennis hall of famers to attend George Michael concerts.  Either way, it’s pretty weird.  Whipping caution into the wind with great force, I confessed my like of George Michael.  For Mark, he has a lovely wife to guard his image.  For a single, heterosexual male like myself, I must exist precariously and far out on the limb of this Wham Rap tree.

Along with his fiancée Christine, Dara appeared finally at the house, as he was delayed by an afternoon pub experience.  It was great to see the guy and even better to enjoy my introduction he gave to his other friends and family members.

“You see this guy!  He just won 25 grand by dancing in his underwear!!”

I looked around the party and it was loaded with people that were loaded and it made me laugh that among a crowd of people where 25 grand is what they would spend for fancy pants, they still were amazed at my absurd accomplishment.

Also floating around the dinner party was Chris.  Chris is a good friend of Dara’s from San Francisco and dynamically appears in my 2004 San Francisco journal.  We reviewed the more noteworthy contents of our lives over the past four years and joined the rest of the group on a walk to Guerin’s pub.  Here I bathed in fine conversation, traditional music and against my doctor’s orders, one pint of precise Guinness.

I did, however, abide my doctor’s advice of getting to bed somewhat early so I left the pub by 11:00 PM and restored myself with sleep.  Good night, children.

Friday, August 15th

At the breakfast table, I was joined by another guest, an Irishman in his fifties named PJ.  PJ spent at least one night a week at the Scapaflow House since his job of providing farming supplies brought him to the area frequently.  After witnessing PJ’s breakfast strategy, I never wanted to eat again.  He would put two runny eggs on to a plate and mix that in with some yogurt.  His final step would be to unload almost a full jar of jelly into this wicked stew and stir it around quickly.  Stranger than being the type of person that would consciously decide to eat such a mess was the way he may have stumbled upon this recipe.

I imagine he created it but who, in any sort of a trustworthy mental state, would think, “These eggs are wonderful but they’re lacking something.  Yogurt!  That’s it!  Oh, that is pristine.  But another ingredient that will complete this experience lurks in the shadows.  What is it, I wonder?  Of course!  An entire jar of jelly will surely take this dish to where it needs to be.”?  Watching PJ’s frighteningly foul routine scared the urine out of my body.

After my bitter sweet breakfast, I drove to the Shannon airport.  It seems that in my sleepless stupor of the previous day, I left my credit card at the Hertz Rental desk when I was picking up my whisper of an automobile.  I collected my crucial piece of plastic and as I drove away, I realized that if the higher-ups at Hertz had any brains, they would immediately call up John Mellencamp and ask his permission to use his classic hit in a commercial and change the title to “Hertz…So Good!!”  I envision people in the commercial who speak terrible English with huge smiles on their faces, pumping their fists, singing, “Hertz…so good!!!”  As an aside, I love that John Cougar Mellencamp removed the “Cougar” from his name at the point in his life when he started to look like one.  With that long hair and tough skin, he might attract some frisky drunk college boys in a dark bar.

The weather yesterday was decent and actually involved sun.  Today was filled with far more clouds and rain.  In terms of the weather, I was warned that Ireland’s current summer had been brutal.  Roads were constantly flooding and crops were being destroyed due to heavy rainfall.  I therefore decided early on to be a guy whose travel desires would not be deterred by rain.

It was this personal declaration that led my Toyota Matchbox Car and I north along the Shannon to the nice little town of Killaloe.  I walked around, looked at an old church and headed north further along the Shannon as it became Lough Derg.

At one point, I noticed a small sign on the side of the road that read “Nun’s Island”.  Perhaps an unexplored island full of wild, native nuns?  I had to investigate.  I drove over half a mile on a very narrow road that ended at the shore of Lough Derg.  About 100 yards away I could see a small island with some sort of old ruin in the center.  Tied up to a dock on my shore were two faded yellow paddle boats.  Written in black marker on the boats was a note that directed interested parties to call a phone number should they want to use the boats.  I didn’t have a cell phone and I was a far away from a public phone.

I looked out towards the island and I could not see any nuns but who knows?  Maybe they were hiding, waiting.  I looked at the paddle boats and then around me and I saw no one.  Who would know or care if I took one of the boats across?  In terms of the importance of this potential scientific, cultural and religious discovery, my mild and temporary boat theft would matter little.

All of the sudden, several cars started to appear within minutes of each other.  And these cars had people in them!  And these people got out of their cars and started walking around.  The odd thing was that they didn’t seem to be connected to each other.  It was as if all these touristy peeps just popped up out of nowhere to spoil my wonder.

Bummed out, I took one last look at the magical Nun’s Island and saw some sort of landing on Nun’s Island that would allow for adventurers to secure their floating vessel to.  This meant that pioneers and adventurers probably had already reached Nun’s Island.  This lukewarm consolation provided me with a tad of relief and allowed me to leave the site a little easier.

I traveled north again, finally making it to the top of the Lough and drove south all the way back to O’Briensbridge.  I cleaned up and met the rest of the gang at the Limerick Country Club for dinner.  Our next stop was Guerin’s for more pub-related activity.

At the pub, I began speaking with Mark.  Since he was one of two best men, he had to put his speech together for tomorrow night’s reception.  He asked me to review the work he had already done on the speech.  Mark shared some funny Dara moments and touched upon the existence of Dara’s long hair when we were all at college.

When I met Dara, I too had long hair and was gearing up for a semester in Galway, Ireland in a few months.  Dara was pleased to hear this and urged me to keep my long hair for my trip.  He fortified his advice with tales of traveling to many Irish villages with his drinking buddy.  He claimed that many lasses in these small villages found Dara’s overabundant hair inventory to be very attractive while his short-haired friend was dismissed like some leper dipped in skunk juice.  Sadly, I did not heed the counsel from the Celtic Fonzie and cut my hair so I was never able to determine the validity of his strategy.

I gave Mark a hefty thumbs up for his speech preparation and said goodnight to him.  All that remained for me this day was a short drive back to my B&B and hopefully a journey laced in sleep.  Good night tenderonies.

Saturday, August 16th

Last night’s sleep took a long time for it to be true.  It was also peppered with the sounds of what felt like dozens of idiotic dogs barking.  I will do my best to refrain from rambling on about my genuine and acute disgust for barking dogs but know this – we must elect a President of the Universe to wipe out this all too common of an issue.

After a breakfast that included a wonderful meal, an Irish couple defecating on George Bush and one more final round of witnessing PJ’s abysmal slop, I walked north along the Shannon.  The weather gave me clouds and more light rain.  The walk gave me an up-close look at the Shannon River’s hydroelectric dam.  Approaching this large structure through the woods gave me the feeling of being a spy that needed to blow up the dam because it was now under control of some evil dude nation.  Not finding any explosive devices on me or the ability to recollect such an agenda, I enjoyed the view and walked home.

Once back, I took gold in the event of napping.  When I came back to life, I readied myself for Dara and Christine’s wedding.  I put on my suit and walked out the door.  Right when I reached the end of the driveway, I heard Antoinette open the door.

“Chris, come here.  Let me take a look at you.”

I laughed at this request and had no choice but to walk back for her enjoyment.  I even added a graceful spin to my presentation for her supplementary amusement.  Antoinette smiled and exuded a sense of pride that is often detected in a mother seeing her son off to his first prom.

Miraculously, the rain stopped for the ceremony and the cocktail function afterwards.  A spot of sun even willed its way into our celebration from time to time.  The ceremony took place at the local church in Castleconnell.  For music, we all got to listen to one of Ireland’s most prominent harpists, Janet Harbison.  During the course of the ceremony, she had the stunning and welcomed audacity to play “The Rose” by Bette Midler.  With a single song, Janet ensured all of God’s angels were present in this highest of romantic rituals.

After we all filed out of the church, we walked the quarter mile or so to Dara’s family’s house for the reception.  After cocktail hour and pictures, we made our way into a large tent for food, drink and whatever other merriment was to be found.  It seemed like once the last person entered the tent, a steady rain began to fall.

With hurt feelings, I looked around at people enjoying a fresh keg of Guinness.  To restore my good nature, I allowed myself one pint and later on, a cigar.  I don’t know if my American naughty license is valid in Ireland but I’m sure acting like it is.

After savoring fine food, music, Mark Francetic’s fine speech, conversation, and the most involved and elaborate outhouse I’ve ever seen, I decided to head home as my Mono was calling.  It was a great night that deserved a great sleep.  Until tomorrow, mysterious peeps.

Sunday, August 17th

After eating, I settled the bill with Antoinette.  My plan was to now drive three hours east to Bray, a coastal town that was just south of Dublin.  My purpose was to visit a friend of mine I had not seen 12 years.  Chris Kane is a gent that, even though we went to Boston College together, I did not meet until we were both studying in Galway in 1995.

Before I left my B&B, I brought my map out so Antoinette’s husband John could take a look at my potential route.  As this happened, I realized a funny thing.  It’s interesting how comfortable many people feel drawing on your map as they give directions.  John started to fire away his thoughts, “Well, you want to take the N7 to Kildare…” and as he did, he carpet-bombed my poor little map with all kinds of lines, circles and X’s that gave my once pristine document the look of a four-year old’s treasure map.

I didn’t care that much, especially because I got this map from Hertz…So Good! but what if I really didn’t want him drawing on my map?  What if I was going to add this map to the “maps I’ve gotten from car rental companies” quilt I was assembling back home?  Where would I be then?  I never understood why people assume it’s okay to start scribbling like someone in mid-seizure on your map.  John’s intentions were pure and for the best so I was not even the least bit annoyed but I feel the occurrence of this event obligates me to reflect on this remarkable phenomenon with you.

Once in Bray, I drove along a beach front road with all kinds of shops restaurants, some fast food spots and amusement-based joints.  At the end of this road was my hotel for the night, the Crofton Bray Head Inn and Bray Head itself (a very large hill).  The road was busy and cars fought to find parking.  The Bray Head Inn capitalized on this congestion by charging non-guests to park in their lot.  The gatekeeper guarding this precious resource was an old man in a bright neon green vest that ominously waved all passing traffic into the lot.  Although I didn’t know it at the time, this ancient creature with his rhythmic, comatose, beckoning wave perfectly foreshadowed my time at the Bray Head Inn.

I pulled up and told him I was a guest.  A small trace of disappointment flashed on his face as he realized no toll would be collected from me.  A slightly awkward silence followed as he tried to compute my immediate parking destiny.  Finally, his human circuitry reactivated and he was able to supply me with instruction on where to place my Barbie Doll car.  I thanked him for his help and he ambled back to his parking post.

I walked inside to a very large, dark and musty lobby.  I could tell that this 130-year old building was originally well-built and boasted of fine craftsmanship but years of neglect, tasteless modifications and poor management left a very creepy and eerie feel to the place.  The odor throughout the building smelled like the locker room of Team Puberty.  To be more precise, if Team Puberty had a really big game, went back into their locker room, left all their dirty laundry everywhere, and then had someone professionally seal of the room, and then opened it up 40 years later, that’s what the Crofton Bray Head Inn smelled like.

I approached the front desk and noticed that A) no one was there and B) there seemed to be no way to get behind the desk (the desk area was in a little cubby that was surrounded by a counter, two walls and a stair railing).  Finally, a young German man walked over to the desk and with excitement, I watched and wondered how the hell he was going to get behind the desk.  He headed for the side where the stair railing was, grabbed the upper handrail and flung his body through a small opening created my two removed posts like the Duke Boys whipping themselves through the windows of the General Lee.

He popped up from behind the desk and asked, “Do you have a reservation?”

I laughed to myself thinking I wouldn’t need one since I felt to be the only guest stupid enough to risk their life in this massive old structure.  I was asked to pay right there (also weird) so I gave him my card.

He grabbed my card and stared at it as if he were a gay man that only played checkers and had just been handed a deck of playing cards with naked ladies on them.

“Ohh…you pay with card?  I have never done this before.  I’m not sure what to do.  Let’s see here…”

I bit my tongue and avoided saying anything that would make him feel worse than the situation already had done on its own.  Besides, I was still so impressed that he was even able to get behind the desk.  That step alone probably took weeks of training.

He eventually pulled out some sort of card machine and figured out what to do.  I then ask him how I could make a phone call.

“Do you have phones in the bedrooms?” I asked.

“Uh, I am not very sure…”

“Well, do you have a pay phone somewhere in the lobby?”

“Uh, I am not very sure…”

He finally told me of a phone he knew of down the road and showed me to my room.  We walked up a large staircase that lead not just to another floor but more odor.  We then walked down a hallway, bumping into old furniture since no lights were on, traveled up a somewhat scary elevator, down another hallway and finally into my room.

My room was a tad creepy but not too bad.  The bathroom was actually presentable and what really amazed me about it was the haunted soap.  On the bath tub and sink was your average small, thin hotel soap but it was unwrapped and standing upright on its very thin edge.  I didn’t tell the Bray Head Inn this but I would have paid double for my room had I known this haunted soap awaited me.

I unpacked a few things, didn’t see any phone in my quarters so I headed outside to call my friend Chris on a pay phone.  I called up the fella and he told me he’d be down in 10 minutes.  While I waited, I walked the strip looking for a simple little convenience store and with much frustration, found nothing.

I eventually went up to an ice cream stand and the woman working there told me there was something of a convenience store a couple blocks away called “The Ideal Store”.   What an obscene misnomer that turned out to be.  The Ideal Store was literally a small, hot closet with nothing but chocolate milk, soda, packaged ham, heartache and a huge step-like display of candy bars that was as big as and resembled a section of bleachers from a stadium.  What the heck do people in this beachside Bray community eat?!  Sand?  Hopes of a someday supermarket?

I walked back to the hotel and waited for Chris in the lobby.  As I walked in, I looked to my left and saw a pay phone, almost visible from the front desk.  Should I have gotten upset with the German hombre for not knowing of this phone when I asked for it earlier?  No.  With all the lights constantly off in the building, he probably had no idea it was there.

Chris eventually appeared and I told him I had not seen him in what felt like a lad’s age.  Along with his dog, we decided to walk up Bray Head.  This turned out to be a dodgy experience since all the rain placed a waterfall on the path we were climbing up.  Undaunted, our journey and our conversation pressed on.  This journey, by the way, installed some attractive ocean views for us.

When we reached bottom, we walked along the beach and Chris told me a story of how he was walking his dog along the same beach several months ago, early in the morning, when a pack of young terds started throwing rocks at him.  Amazing, I thought.  Some people’s desire to harm others is so primitive and innate that they will see someone they don’t even know and think, “I have to hurt a complete stranger who’s out walking his dog” and then literally grab the first object they find nearby and start hurling it at you.

I then showed Chris the inside of the Bray Head Inn.  He actually heard rumors of the hotel’s grotesqueness and advised me to cancel my reservation when I told him where I was staying the day before.  I told him I needed this experience to evolve as a man in the world.  He was laughing his guy-arse off as he walked through this creepy experiment.  He also was so moved by the haunted soap he took pictures of it.

We then got in his car and went back to his place so I could say hello to his wife Jen and their new baby boy Milo.  After some effective chatting, Jen dropped the two of us off at a restaurant where Chris and I ate and discussed hilarious stories not fit for public consumption.  Jen picked us up later and dropped me off at my hotel.  Jen, who grew up in Bray, looked in through the windows at the breakfast area.  She commented on how that room used to double as a nightclub back in the nineties.  She always marveled at how she used to see people throw up all over the place and then the next day see people eating their breakfast in the same room.

I laughed but now the reality of me having to sleep in this place started to set in.

“I sure hope this place isn’t haunted.  I don’t feel like dealing with that tonight.”

They told me to call them if I got scared and then laughed as they drove off.  Tender.

I headed back to my room and watched “Brokedown Palace” with Clair Danes and Bill Pullman, a movie so potent and moving you can buy it on Amazon for 1 cent (the last I checked).  Good nocturnal tidings.

Monday, August 18th

Risking such things I hold dear to me like my life, my reputation, my ability to trust food ever again, I elected to eat a full Irish breakfast at the Crofton “There’s a Strong Possibility You’ll Die in Your Sleep” Bray Head Inn.  As I waited, I was nearly blinded by the light that came from my life flashing in front of me.  As I wondered if I would at least make it to the parking lot before the morning food buried me in death, I drank the smallest glass of orange juice I’ve ever faced.  It was literally a shot or the same volume you would use if it was mouthwash or if you were preparing a bath for a flea.  The food came and I ate it like a lad with nothing to lose.

I went back to my room and my vitals seemed okay.  I grabbed all of my belongings and while I walked down the long dark hallways, “Hotel California” started playing in my head.  This melodious mental incident was uninvited and freaked me out.  As I made my way through the maze of hallways and doors and stairways and stench, I began to pick up the pace.  I couldn’t help but wonder if I would be trapped in this haunted time bomb of a hotel, a time bomb whose fuse was lit 130 years ago and would burn for eternity.  Once outside, I breathed in a mixture of air, freedom and relief.

I then drove through the Wicklow Mountains to a well-known monastery named Glendalough.  I wandered through old ruins and cemeteries.  I then decided to do a 5-kilometer hike that took me up alongside a series of mountain river waterfalls.  Due to the excessive rain, the falls were wild and uncouth like their artificial relatives that reside in water parks.

I continued my soggy, rain-ridden journey through a forest where I was greeted by two deer.  One stopped and kept checking me out.  Dirty deer!  In addition to my creature-universal charm, I think it was due to the fact my pants were exactly the same color as their coat.  After carefully studying the deer’s body language, I was able to come up with this translation, “Is that my good friend Slim the Deer?  Why is he wearing a black jacket and holding an umbrella?  Why is he standing upright on two legs?  Why do my droppings look like Coco Puffs?”

This pensive deer eventually moved on and I entered thick, dark woods and climbed up a small, steep path that had been turned into a stream.  At the top, everything opened up and I was gifted with supersonically good views of Glendalough’s Upper Lake.  I walked along a cliff, passed by a well-behaved group of horned goats (rams maybe?) and descended to my point of origin.

Back in the car, I drove south to my next stop, Kilmore Quay, and checked into my B&B.  Kilmore Quay is a very small, peaceful fishing village in County Wexford and provided more of the quiet nourishment that my American soul desired.  A more tangible nourishment was soon found at the great restaurant of Silver Foxes.  During my wonderful meal, a strange bug dropped out of nowhere onto the window sill next to me.  Stranger was that it looked like there as another bug attached to the back of it.

Grossed out by this potential scene of bug sex, I smashed this bug entity.  Grosser still than this insect porno was this white fluid that exploded from the bug/bugs.  I then ripped off a small piece of my napkin and placed it over the bug(s) like people do in movies (with other humans, typically).  I didn’t do this so much out of respect for the dead as I did for the hope I could put this vile and bizarre event out of my head and get on with my meal.

I then pursued a therapeutic stroll around the small village and went back to slumber.  Tomorrow, we chat again.

Tuesday, August 19th 

Once awake, I grabbed another enemy of the heart breakfast.  After settling the bill and packing my car, I made a brief stop at a small toy store to buy a desperately generic GI Joe type of action figure for my buddy Matt.  Matt is a crazy big fella that builds and adores toys.  Before I left, he requested not only a toy from Ireland but a rock.  The second ingredient of his request would be achieved shortly after I placed my figure in my car and drove west along the sea towards Hook Peninsula.  Matt’s mystical rock was discovered in a small beach in the little village of Cullenstown, I believe.  You have no idea the great joy it gives me to have a friend that asks me to procure a toy and rock for him before a journey.  Only a brilliant mind is capable of such requests or a cave baby.

As I drove out onto Hook Peninsula, I made a stop at Tintern Abbey.  This abbey was built by Cistercian monks about 1000 years ago.  The highlight of this magnificent slice of history was an entertainingly awful educational video in one the abbey towers.  The funny thing about the video’s location was that it was in a room that was hard to find and vaguely described to me by a woman in the reception area:

“Somewhere in the tower, you’ll see a door that looks to be locked but isn’t.  Just open this door and you’ll see another set of stairs that leads to another closed door.  Open that and enter the room.”

She didn’t tell me what was in this room or give me any reason to seek it out.  Usually, museums are very clear on all of the areas visitors can go and why.  Maybe Tintern Abbey simply wanted to reward visitors worthy enough to find the quasi-hidden chamber with pure delight.  Or maybe Tintern was under some legal obligation to show this terrible video but was ashamed of it so they crappily hid the video hoping visitors wouldn’t find it but could claim it was on display if the video’s producer asked of its whereabouts.

What was in this room was further proof that the best comedy is born from people that don’t mean to create comedy.  I found the door she spoke of and walked up the stairs to the other room.  I spotted a television monitor with a green button.  As my hand approached this correctly colored button, I looked around.  The room was empty.  The moment was right.

I pressed the button and was given perfection.  On the screen was a dorky-looking bookworm of a guy who pretended to be researching something at his desk.  He obviously spent some time laying out some important looking books although I was so distracted by the most ridiculous and fake monocle he wore that my mind registered little else.  With the acting talent of a pile of sticks, he displayed a sense of surprise once he saw me and greeted me with an accent that was either English or an Irish guy pretending to be English.

Like so many things in life, the greatness of this video was achieved by the little things.  A perfect example was the detectable and subdued excitement he gave off throughout the whole video.  The thought of portraying a historian on camera was making him giddy and it was making me psyched.  Another was his falling out of character by pulling out the monocle, talking for a while, a cut and then back to him talking with the monocle in place.  And speaking of cuts, they were terrible.  They would fade out awkwardly and come back to an unnatural reentry into the topic at hand.  Since this was a one-camera shoot with no other content between cuts, you technically didn’t need any cuts.  Clearly, they were only there because he either rambled on a sleep-producing tangent or forgot what he was talking about.  Either way, I thanked God for their presence.

And what did he talk about?  I have no idea.  Not just because the content was staler than death itself but because I was too busy treasuring the man’s aura and the poor quality of the project as a whole.  He could have been divulging the secrets of women, speed and burritos and I would have never known.

I left the abbey a stronger man and decided I was ready for Europe’s (and probably the world’s) oldest lighthouse that resided at the tip of Hook Peninsula.  Once there, I climbed along the rocky shore.  I came across several “blow holes” that were preceded by warning signs.  Although a term that sounds like unsavory slang for a certain human place, the signs referred to these often grass-obscured holes that ranged in width from 3 to 6 feet.  Most of them were about 25 feet deep and had ocean water on their bottoms during high tide.

At the bottom of one of the blow holes, I spotted a beer keg, clearly the result of some young toughs and a drinking session.

“Hey Jimmy, I’m done with my keg.  Watch me chuck it into this stupid blow hole!”

A crash is heard.

“BLOW YOU, HOLE!!”

I drove on past Duncannon and to the ferry of Ballyhack.  In terms of driving, I couldn’t help but think how Irish roads provided its drivers with so many near collisions.  The roads are tight and wild.  Little room exists for errors in this arena.  My small bit of comfort was remembering I have an airbag although I would hate to use my airbag since it probably hurts.  I bet it feels like the winning blow of the most severe pillow fight imaginable…like if someone taped a pillow to a Louisville Slugger and just let it rip into your face.

An eight-minute ferry ride took me to County Waterford where I drove west to the seaside town of Dungarven.  A large, 198-year old brick structure known as the Cairbre House would be my sleep camp for the night.

I was greeted by a friendly o’fella named Brian that showed me my room and made me some tea.  As I sipped and savored, he marked out on a map and gave me an overview of practically every restaurant in the large town.  He then left the room and returned with a menu for every restaurant he just described.  Not only was it a large number of menus but the menus were real menus you would get at the restaurant, not just a paper handout.  Did he go to each of these restaurants and casually steal each menu?  Was menu collecting a hobby for Brian?  A disorder?  It was a marvelously strange and welcome experience.

I settled on the Mill Restaurant and was body slammed by an absurdly elite meal consisting of pork, squash, potatoes, fries and a dessert that could destroy the band.  It would not be an overstatement to say that deep, forgotten places of me were awakened by this meal.

With a stomach that was packed and stacked with delight, I noodled around Dungarven’s streets in efforts to take in the lovely town.  I drove home then to the Cairbre House (which, by the way, is Gaelic for Care Bear House) and watched an interesting program on the Discovery Channel about a Scottish guy that was attempting to break the overall time record of riding a bike around the world.  I thoroughly enjoyed this program and I invite you to do the same.  Good night.

Wednesday, August 20th

Let me tell you, this morning’s breakfast can only be compared to a first date that exceeded all expectations. Lips kissed when it was thought that only hands would be held.  Shared dreams of future romance were expressed when only conversations of laundry were expected.

The meal was constructed of salmon that was smoked locally, free range eggs, fresh Irish brown bread, and vegetables and herbs that joined in from Brian’s Care Bear garden, literally a dude’s length away.

I thanked Brian for his hospitality and journeyed southwest along the coast into Helvic Head and on to Ardmore along roads that Americans would classify as footpaths.  Once in Ardmore, I went for a beautiful scenic cliff walk that took me along the coast of the town.  This walk took me past Declan’s Well and when I finished the hike, I drove over to Declan’s Church.  Not only was this the site of old church ruins, a great stone tower and a cemetery, it was also the site of my lunch.  Well done.

I then decided it was time to head north to my next destination of Clonmel.  In addition to being a beautiful town of 16,000 peeps along the lovely River Suir, it is also the home of Bulmer’s Cider, a sweet cider beer (they also make Strongbow Cider).  I remain more or less unaffected by this fact but I mention it for all you alcoholic diabetics.

I checked in with Rita at the Hillcourt House and made awesome with a cup of tea in the family’s living room.  As I wildly dipped my biscuits in my tea, I looked at several graduation photos that hung on the wall.  From the looks of the pictures, some of the children seemed to be graduating multiple times.  I’m not sure if this was due to the pursuit of graduate degrees or if there was perhaps some graduation recall that required the student to repeat the process since the first graduation was defective in some way.  Everyone in the photos seemed pleased so I assume the reason was the former.

I unpacked, showered, dressed and walked into Clonmel center.  A satisfactory meal was dealt with at Tierney’s, one pint of Guinness was liquidated at Mulcahy’s and a walk home executed by Christofella.  Good night time, soldiers of the Sleep Army.

Thursday, August 21st

I ate breakfast, squared the bill away with Rita and motored my way to Shannon Airport.  I pulled into the Hertz Rental Return area and was annoyed when a Hertz employee said I damaged the front left tire of my little hushmobile.  He pointed out a tiny bulge on the sidewall of the tire that measured less than a quarter inch wide by two inches.  It was literally the size and look of a forehead vein…people will notice it but you’re not getting turned down to semi formals because of it.

For this tiny business, he charged me 85 Euros or roughly $127.  I made my distaste known to this Hertz minion and how ridiculous it was to charge someone that much for what was essentially a vulcanized bagel.

“Well, I could have charged you 400 Euros ($600 bucks).”

He really said that.  What a dumb thing to say.

And you also could have eloped with a dead cow but you didn’t because that has nothing to do with the true value of the tire.

Well, I left Hertz with a mild yet manageable case of agitation.  But by the time I was on the plane, the symptoms passed.  Other than the guy next to me spilling a beer all over the place, the flight was peaceful and successful.

Once home, I stood in the sun and passionately asked why it saw fit to desert me in the past week.  There was no answer.

I retraced the steps of public transportation I made eight days ago and returned to the comforts of 83 Willow Street.  And with this fellas and felletes, I bid you the most tender and hairy-chested goodnights I can possibly muster.