Dramatist, I am with the title, but well-deserved I think. First off, Tralee is absolutely beautiful—probably my favourite place so far. Cynthia’s house is just up the hill from the beach, and since the gulf stream is coming up from the tropics, the water is so warm and delightful.
But sadly bright, sunny, and otherwise gorgeous days are not something I can appreciate when I have a headache the size of Mick Jagger’s lips—which just turned 65 I learned on the tellie. I woke up feeling sort of ill and could barely eat anything for breakfast (coffee is my new friend), and when we walked along the beach I felt iffy and after about a mile had to sit down.
However we have things planned for the day! Can’t spend our time lollygagging about the pretty house. Our first stop was at this home-made cheese shop up the road and up a very bumpy, windy hill, which is one of the mortal enemies of my stomach. But the owner was gone, so we made it down the hill and a little ways before I have that recognisable taste in my mouth. So I toss my hair up in a bun, tell my dad to pull over, and leap out onto the shoulder.
Let me say that vomiting up very strong coffee—or anything, really—into a bush is not fun at all. But oh, it gets worse.
I insist that I’m fine to continue on to Dingle—funny name for such a quaint little town—over Conor Pass—incredibly narrow, windy road up the mountain. We eat lunch at this little pub (I had maybe a quarter of that sorry excuse for a chicken sandwich) where I get sick again in the bathroom.
Okay, I’ve been sick before. Just drink some water and I’ll be fine.
Joanna and I went down a few doors to this awesome hat shop, where I get a necklace and a garnet ring. What? says you. Not buy a hat? You love hats! Well yes, says I, but not ones that cost nearly 300 Euro. Well, actually those are the only kind, apparently, that I do like.
We met up with my dad and treaded over towards this weaver’s shop Cynthia told us about. However sick little I can’t make it farther than a little health food shop/café in a side-alley with a woman out front giving Shiatsu massages. Well that sounds nice, so I ask for one.
And it was nice. Very nice. I’ve got a massive headache, shaky limbs, something like Arthritis in my left-side joints, and a lower back that feels like someone’s slowly dragging a wool-comber down it. Naturally it’s going to feel good.
Until the woman—there was some discretion as to whether she was French or Belgian; I think she was Eastern European—tells me to sit up and I start feeling nauseous again. Just after I ask where the closest bathroom is, my stomach clenches and I rush off the chair. I barely make it around the corner of this alley before *blugh*.
In front of this strange woman, in front of the shopgirl who’s come out to empty the trash, in the view of the patrons eating inside. Throwing up water, since that’s all I’ve got left. As if the side of the road wasn’t bad enough.
Of course, mortification doesn’t hit until we reach the main street and I think, “Oh ye gods, I’m going to be that American girl with the pretty hair and half-an-accent who got so relaxed she vomited.”
And my dad tells me that ten days is about the time my older brother took to get sick when they came to the country. This… does not help. He was ten. I am eighteen. He drank too much river water. I… did something to make myself violently ill.
As I have said before, whoever or whatever decided I should have my bodily processes should be nailed to a wall and have the inside of their eyelids tattooed.
Now it’s the next day, and I’m feeling better, but dreading being in the car for hours and hours and being around people for four more days, since that could be what made me sick in the first place. Cynthia and I talked about it. I’m a very private, solitary person, and I’ve had next to no alone time on this trip. I need alone time; ‘salso why I’ve been so mood. ‘Just leave me alone!’ I thought last night amid the delirium when everyone came back the first time.
My head still hurts, and all I really want is a shower.
31 July 2008
28 July 2008
Pity that all the pretty ones are usually more touristy
“I cry all the time because I’m not the Hulk.”
“So what you’re saying is that Jesus’ clothes were spun by Mothra?”
My brother is a strange, strange creature, but hey, at least he’s entertaining. Last night after driving around a scenic area for literally hours, the lot of us went into Galway city and met up with Conor, a friend whom I haven’t seen in quite some time, for dinner and for him to haul the boys off to his to traverse them to Dublin, where a plane will carry them to London, where yet another plane with take them to Iceland’s capital, which I know I can’t spell so I won’t even try. Reykjavik, says spellcheck. Oh well.
Today was more driving around and a lot more of something about which I had a mini-discussion with my father: tourism. I hate tourists. I hate being a tourist, I hate being around tourists, and I hate feeling surrounded by them. Or any people, really, but that’s another matter. What Dad and I discussed was how right now, there’s nothing I would like less than to spend my elderly years traipsing around in busses filled with other old people and being shepherded around to places ‘I’d always wished I’d gone when I was young and now I have time to visit!’
Stick a fork in my head and call me done. It’s probably something to do with being young and wanted to adventure and experience the world for myself. When I’m out on my own and I’m travelling the world—because let’s face it, I’ve got too much wanderlust to stay in the Bay Area for the rest of my life—I won’t habit the touristy places drowned with people, and if I must I’ll go when no one else is around. I’m more of a night owl anyway.
So right now I’m in the back seat of the car we rented, wishing that I had more legroom, typing away at a dying computer, listening to a dying iPod. I’m going to go stir-crazy if we don’t find an internet connection soon. But Limerick, which we passed through probably a half-hour ago, was surprisingly pretty for a city. And I mean the very urban part.
Now I’m told that we’re in Adare, which really doesn’t tell me much. The buildings are nice though, and I just spotted a sign pointing us in the direction of Tralee, and I do know where that is, so I don’t feel quite so lost.
I hate being lost, and there’s been a lot of it this trip, of more than one variety.
“So what you’re saying is that Jesus’ clothes were spun by Mothra?”
My brother is a strange, strange creature, but hey, at least he’s entertaining. Last night after driving around a scenic area for literally hours, the lot of us went into Galway city and met up with Conor, a friend whom I haven’t seen in quite some time, for dinner and for him to haul the boys off to his to traverse them to Dublin, where a plane will carry them to London, where yet another plane with take them to Iceland’s capital, which I know I can’t spell so I won’t even try. Reykjavik, says spellcheck. Oh well.
Today was more driving around and a lot more of something about which I had a mini-discussion with my father: tourism. I hate tourists. I hate being a tourist, I hate being around tourists, and I hate feeling surrounded by them. Or any people, really, but that’s another matter. What Dad and I discussed was how right now, there’s nothing I would like less than to spend my elderly years traipsing around in busses filled with other old people and being shepherded around to places ‘I’d always wished I’d gone when I was young and now I have time to visit!’
Stick a fork in my head and call me done. It’s probably something to do with being young and wanted to adventure and experience the world for myself. When I’m out on my own and I’m travelling the world—because let’s face it, I’ve got too much wanderlust to stay in the Bay Area for the rest of my life—I won’t habit the touristy places drowned with people, and if I must I’ll go when no one else is around. I’m more of a night owl anyway.
So right now I’m in the back seat of the car we rented, wishing that I had more legroom, typing away at a dying computer, listening to a dying iPod. I’m going to go stir-crazy if we don’t find an internet connection soon. But Limerick, which we passed through probably a half-hour ago, was surprisingly pretty for a city. And I mean the very urban part.
Now I’m told that we’re in Adare, which really doesn’t tell me much. The buildings are nice though, and I just spotted a sign pointing us in the direction of Tralee, and I do know where that is, so I don’t feel quite so lost.
I hate being lost, and there’s been a lot of it this trip, of more than one variety.
26 July 2008
Like LARPing, only more musical
And more entertaining. Tonight we went to a castle for dinner, and of course the serving crew were all dressed in period costumes and sang and told stories. I’m getting really bad; the first thing I noticed is that the “butler” Stephen at the door was really cute, and later noted that he got more attractive as I discovered how well he could sing. Such is the way of the world. The other two actor/servants were very good singers as well, as was the harpist. An absolutely lovely evening, despite how damn hot it was in that room. Castles should be cold and drafty.
More comments on my hair. More packs of bored-looking teenagers walking through towns. The more things change, the most they stay the same. It really isn’t helping me grasp the concept of being half a world away that I keep seeing things that occur at home. People dress the same, stores sell generally the same things. Hell, at dinner the two—TWO!—other groups beside us were from the Bay Area.
And, my most noble lords and ladies-- always how Stephen the Butler drew our attention-- I could totally do that as a job.
More comments on my hair. More packs of bored-looking teenagers walking through towns. The more things change, the most they stay the same. It really isn’t helping me grasp the concept of being half a world away that I keep seeing things that occur at home. People dress the same, stores sell generally the same things. Hell, at dinner the two—TWO!—other groups beside us were from the Bay Area.
And, my most noble lords and ladies-- always how Stephen the Butler drew our attention-- I could totally do that as a job.
24 July 2008
…It’s a rock
Not just a rock. A lot of rocks. Literal tons of rocks. Wednesday we set out from Sword—yes, the town was called Sword—for Newgrange in county Meath. The structure of Newgrange itself was pretty cool, especially when they did a demonstration of the sun shining in at Winter Solstice. I took a lot of cool pictures, as per normal. I’m really a photography whore.
After that we went to Slane Monastery made of—shock—stone. I’m a fan of ruins, personally. You just don’t get them in America. We were actually looking for Slane Castle, which we eventually found after missing the exit three times. Technically we weren’t allowed to take pictures inside, like in Malahide Castle Tuesday, but I snapped a few shots after the curator had moved onto the next room.
According to one of the men in the group with us—a lot of elderly people from somewhere across the island—Cian would’ve been great in “Braveheart”, Rudraigh would make a good warrior king, and I would be the perfect Celtic princess. News to nobody.
I keep staring out the window as we drive, trying to grasp the whole concept of being an entire ocean away from California, but it won’t sink in. So far Ireland’s a lot like home: weather’s the same, greenery’s the same, people are the same pretty much everywhere. Two main differences I’ve noticed are that people seem genuinely interested in where you’re from and there aren’t any German tourists back home. Yes, I thought about all the British comedy jokes about German tourists when I heard them.
One thing I’ve noticed that’s the same is the proximity of redheads. This is not, as many Americans believe, a country full of ginger people who can’t go out in the sun longer than five minutes before turning into a lobster. People still stare at me like I’m dancing around dressed like the Chiquita banana lady; only here they maintain eye contact when I stare back.
Either people around the world are this fascinated by redheads, or I’m one hot sucker. I’m banking on the former.
Next, more monasteries and castles. The lady at Mellifont Abbey was really cool; she was a redhead too. We also when to Trim Castle, but just wandered around the grounds since the tour wasn’t for another forty-five minutes. That’s alright; they probably wouldn’t have let me take pictures anyway.
But yes, lots of driving, constancy of getting lost and having to turn around on the tiny Irish dirt roads, and the dwindling apparently lack of my father’s depth perception. We lost both hubcaps on the left side yesterday and I refuse to sit over there now.
After that we went to Slane Monastery made of—shock—stone. I’m a fan of ruins, personally. You just don’t get them in America. We were actually looking for Slane Castle, which we eventually found after missing the exit three times. Technically we weren’t allowed to take pictures inside, like in Malahide Castle Tuesday, but I snapped a few shots after the curator had moved onto the next room.
According to one of the men in the group with us—a lot of elderly people from somewhere across the island—Cian would’ve been great in “Braveheart”, Rudraigh would make a good warrior king, and I would be the perfect Celtic princess. News to nobody.
I keep staring out the window as we drive, trying to grasp the whole concept of being an entire ocean away from California, but it won’t sink in. So far Ireland’s a lot like home: weather’s the same, greenery’s the same, people are the same pretty much everywhere. Two main differences I’ve noticed are that people seem genuinely interested in where you’re from and there aren’t any German tourists back home. Yes, I thought about all the British comedy jokes about German tourists when I heard them.
One thing I’ve noticed that’s the same is the proximity of redheads. This is not, as many Americans believe, a country full of ginger people who can’t go out in the sun longer than five minutes before turning into a lobster. People still stare at me like I’m dancing around dressed like the Chiquita banana lady; only here they maintain eye contact when I stare back.
Either people around the world are this fascinated by redheads, or I’m one hot sucker. I’m banking on the former.
Next, more monasteries and castles. The lady at Mellifont Abbey was really cool; she was a redhead too. We also when to Trim Castle, but just wandered around the grounds since the tour wasn’t for another forty-five minutes. That’s alright; they probably wouldn’t have let me take pictures anyway.
But yes, lots of driving, constancy of getting lost and having to turn around on the tiny Irish dirt roads, and the dwindling apparently lack of my father’s depth perception. We lost both hubcaps on the left side yesterday and I refuse to sit over there now.
21 July 2008
Traveller’s Woes
I must admit that I hadn’t really begun to think about the trip I’m currently on until I had to start packing—which was two days ago, mind. I don’t think it’s really sunk in that I’m on my way to another country thousands of miles away from everything I’ve come to know. I have no expectations of Ireland, which may be for the best since I won’t be disappointed.
The thing that must be understood about me as a traveller though—and I cannot really use the word to describe myself as often as I’d like—is that despite my vocalised dislike of people, I have an inexplicable love of airports. Maybe it’s the sense of change and progress; people are always moving forwards, even if they’re going backwards. Sure, the food is generally awful, but you can bring your own iffin you like. I don’t even mind all the security and precautions and warnings of “threat-level, orange”. Except for feeling like a spy having gotten caught by the enemy, having to take off my leather jacket, my belt, my shoes, remove all my jewellery and everything from my pockets, show that my laptop is, in fact, a laptop and is not, in fact, a bomb.
Oh shite, I said bomb. I’m probably about to be tackled by flight attendant and passenger alike for being a terrorist.
What I do not like about travelling is what I’m currently doing: being cramped into an airplane seat for ten hours and having my legs cramp and fall asleep. True, I’ve slept through almost a civil majority of the trip—three-fifths—but the time I have been awake has been nothing but dull and achy. And the only way to remedy the latter is taking a walk to the toilet—which is just as cramped, if not moreso, than this seat. At least I’ve got the window.
The strangest thing so far has been the fact that it hasn’t gotten dark. According to the clock on the screen, it is 11:32, but that’s in California, and I am currently flying over the Atlantic. I’m not exactly sure where over the Atlantic, since there’s nothing but clouds and water below us, but I was delighted to wake up in time to watch us fly over the Arctic.
The voice over the speaker system—the first one I’ve been able to understand—just announced that we’re descending (as if we couldn’t tell) and will be landing in Dublin in about a half-hour, just after 8 a.m. local time. Mind-blowing, really. I’ve completely missed Monday.
And that stewardess who told me she liked my art did not have that accent when we took off. Oh well, chances are I’ll have slipped into it by the end of the day.
The thing that must be understood about me as a traveller though—and I cannot really use the word to describe myself as often as I’d like—is that despite my vocalised dislike of people, I have an inexplicable love of airports. Maybe it’s the sense of change and progress; people are always moving forwards, even if they’re going backwards. Sure, the food is generally awful, but you can bring your own iffin you like. I don’t even mind all the security and precautions and warnings of “threat-level, orange”. Except for feeling like a spy having gotten caught by the enemy, having to take off my leather jacket, my belt, my shoes, remove all my jewellery and everything from my pockets, show that my laptop is, in fact, a laptop and is not, in fact, a bomb.
Oh shite, I said bomb. I’m probably about to be tackled by flight attendant and passenger alike for being a terrorist.
What I do not like about travelling is what I’m currently doing: being cramped into an airplane seat for ten hours and having my legs cramp and fall asleep. True, I’ve slept through almost a civil majority of the trip—three-fifths—but the time I have been awake has been nothing but dull and achy. And the only way to remedy the latter is taking a walk to the toilet—which is just as cramped, if not moreso, than this seat. At least I’ve got the window.
The strangest thing so far has been the fact that it hasn’t gotten dark. According to the clock on the screen, it is 11:32, but that’s in California, and I am currently flying over the Atlantic. I’m not exactly sure where over the Atlantic, since there’s nothing but clouds and water below us, but I was delighted to wake up in time to watch us fly over the Arctic.
The voice over the speaker system—the first one I’ve been able to understand—just announced that we’re descending (as if we couldn’t tell) and will be landing in Dublin in about a half-hour, just after 8 a.m. local time. Mind-blowing, really. I’ve completely missed Monday.
And that stewardess who told me she liked my art did not have that accent when we took off. Oh well, chances are I’ll have slipped into it by the end of the day.
09 July 2008
Another Reason (or Five) We're All Screwed
Yes I, due to watching too many movies and playing too many video games, and much like my older brother, fear being torn to shred screaming in agony by zombies. This might strike some as a cause to throw me in the loony bin, but thanks to the jerk's searching around the web, there's now legitimate cause for concern, as seen in the link below. Thought I'd spread the knowledge.
Dammit, man, don't tell me these things!
http://www.cracked.com/article_15643_5-scientific-reasons-zombie-apocalypse-could-actually-happen.html
Dammit, man, don't tell me these things!
http://www.cracked.com/article_15643_5-scientific-reasons-zombie-apocalypse-could-actually-happen.html
05 July 2008
Admiration is an amazing thing
http://www.out.com/detail.asp?page=1&id=23972
Read this. For those of you who aren't familiar, Gabe Saporta is the singer of Cobra Starship, and at this moment, I have nothing but the utmost respect for him. Maybe it's just all the thinking about this subject I've been doing recently, but this really speaks to me.
This is life right here. This is what I want to do, how I want to be. This is the world to me.
Read this. For those of you who aren't familiar, Gabe Saporta is the singer of Cobra Starship, and at this moment, I have nothing but the utmost respect for him. Maybe it's just all the thinking about this subject I've been doing recently, but this really speaks to me.
This is life right here. This is what I want to do, how I want to be. This is the world to me.
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