So this may be four months late, but better late than never, right? I wrote 99% of this on my flight back to the states and procrastinated hitting the upload button until right... now. Enjoy!
Hello old friends. I would like everyone to sit back, grab a coffee (AKA alcoholic beverage), and get comfortable because we have a lot to catch up on. Truthfully, I may break this post into two parts, simply because there is so much to tell and I may be too antsy to do it all in one sitting. But then again, I did just sit through a 12 hour flight and I’ve got 6 more to go on the next one, so my stamina may be better than I’m giving it credit for.
So I’m officially back in the states. And while I'm well-aware that I never gave my Tel Aviv experience the attention it deserved, I just have to tell you all about my trip to the land of the Irish. Disclaimer: If we’ve discussed any part of that journey, I can promise you it will be repeated in this account because each and every moment was too precious not to mention again in this version, Bridget can attest. And just in case anyone was wondering, I did, in fact, plan this little excursion two days in advance, so that may help explain the haste, and the plethora of struggles that follows.
So I’m going to describe this in excruciating detail because that’s how I like to do it, starting from the airport. This description is actually going to be combined with my experience from earlier today (last night? yesterday? whatever...) in the Ben Gurion airport, Tel Aviv. I flew out of that airport twice in one week which I, under no circumstances, would recommend to anyone in their right mind. It is a beyond painful experience and doubled it was almost too much to handle. So my trip out to Dublin began with hours of waiting in line, getting the third degree from young, attractive airport attendants surrounding my Jewish identity, observance level, and my Hebrew school education that took place approx. 10 years ago (wtf). Heading to Dublin was, however, the easier of the two exchanges because once I was on my way back to the states, I stupidly packed electronics such as my laptop, and my lethal cuticle clippers. Silly me. The questioning was repeated, verbatim, followed by a complete baggage check of both of my pristinely-packed and over-stuffed pieces of luggage, all in all totaling to 9 check points. Can you just think about that for a minute? My passport and ticket (and patience) were checked 9 times. Like... what on earth could be the point of that? Who’s idea was it to suggest after being tested 8 times that OH maybe we should check a 9th time JUST IN CASE this reasonably intelligent (or in my case, slightly-functioning) traveler slipped through the cracks. OK sorry I just had to vent. All my fellow New Jerseyite flight passengers were sure to do so--loudly, repeatedly, annoyingly (yaay USA), so I wanted to take my moment in the spotlight too.
Alright moving on, really to Ireland now.
I would love to tell you that after my months abroad, and international travel experiences, my intelligence in those departments would have improved in any way. I’ve always thought of myself as someone who has pretty good street smarts, you know, good instincts, that kind of thing. Well as it turns out, all along I was just telling myself that to make me feel better about being so weirdly bad at science. In reality, I actually suck at everything (at least this has been a journey of self discovery!). That became plainly apparent in my little excursion over to the green isles. Before the trip began, I was stoked to be traveling to a country that speaks English. I thought I’d at least have that on my side. But I was wrong again--I would honestly say it’s easier to understand Spanish than English spoken with an Irish accent. So that relief went out the window pretty quickly. But I’ll get back to that. So the first thing I saw when I exited the Dublin airport (aside from a wide array of freckled-faced red heads, cursing Guiness drinkers, and jolly old people) was a bunny rabbit, snacking ever so Irishly on some very green grass (see facebook image). I seriously thought it was a joke. I literally looked around to see if other people were stopping to take pictures too, thinking we must be crossing through some sort of tourist-welcoming show, but shockingly, that was only me. I then found that that special image was really a foreshadow of the week to come.
Update: I’m currently in the Newark airport, minutes from boarding my second plane to Portland, drinking a latte the size of my head and sitting with Israelis. I just want to point out that the latter two list items are severely lightening the blow of being back in my home country and the depression is sure to set in any time now, just a heads up.
Anywho, Basically, Ireland is like Disney World. It’s like this campy, animated version of a country; except it’s actually the real thing. It seems like the entire population is just putting on a play for their tourists, and hitting their performances out of the park. Star of the show: Limerick, Ireland. My home for one week and quite possibly the most ridiculous place on the planet. Back to day one: my incompetence had a real opportunity to present itself all over this day. So after arriving to the picturesque airport, I hop on what I thought was a direct bus from Dublin to Limerick, but instead it went to a train station where I was suppose to wait, switch buses, and then continue my journey. Well, with about 9 hours of traveling already under my belt, and being thoroughly entertained (and entirely distracted) by the hilarity that is Ireland, I missed the memo on that whole bus-switching thing and instead just hopped off at the train station, in order to get further instructions from these insanely kind Irishmen I’d heard so much about. So I’d like to blame screw-up numero uno on one of those people, because that makes me feel better. So this goofy, Irish ticket seller told me directions on how to get to Limerick via a train to downtown Dublin and then via bus to Limerick. The only problem was, I couldn’t understand a damn word he said. And you know how that repeating thing goes--after you’ve misunderstood someone for the third time in a row it’s officially your fault and now you're the bitchy American who can’t understand simple English. So I just nodded, said thanks a mil, and bought the ticket. Fast forward ten minutes and I’m sitting next to a second Irishman who so kindly fit in directions to Limerick between his lectures on why Israel really shouldn’t be a country. Thanks for the lesson dude! Fast forward an hour and a half and cue me chasing a bus down the rainy streets of Dublin doting our good friend, the awkwardly over-sized backpack, waving a ticket in my hand and officially on the verge of tears (after 24 hours of sleep deprivation, 20 minutes of waiting in the wrong bus line, and already feeling Irished-out for the day, this was a reasonable reaction, believe me). So I return to the ticket office, realizing that if it wasn’t for my blunder at the train station I could already be in Limerick by this point, and desperately throw my ticket on the counter, telling the ticket seller my sob story of a day and proceed to beg for a refund and a ticket onto the next bus, whenever that will possibly be. She stared at me blankly, raised one eyebrow and responded with: “Listen lady, the ticket works for any bus today and the next one will be here in 10 minutes.” (subliminal message: you’re nutso. Chill out). If anyone was concerned that I was unaware of the following sad truth, worry not. I am in fact well aware that I contribute to the negative stereotypes of which foreigners believe to be true of North Americans. Not only do I help carry out the whole 'we’re not the smartest tools in the shed' thing, but also, over the course of this trip I helped to convince them that we may be slightly insane as well. You’re welcome. So, long story short, I arrive to Limerick 6 hours later than planned and reunite with my beloved Bridgy. We, in turn, meet up with her friend Jon, and the three of us pub crawl the night away because a) we were in Ireland so we had to do the pub crawl thing and b) we were in Ireland, so we literally had no choice but to do the pub crawl thing. There are only Irish pubs in Ireland. And P.S. by pub crawling the night away I really mean almost passing out on the table after three Guinesses from pure exhaustion and being in bed by 1am.
I told you we’d be in for the long hall here, and believe me, we will, but in the interest of time I’ll quickly summarize the early parts of day two. Bridget forces me out of bed at 8:30am for a trip to the Milk Market in her lovely little town. It was filled with great food, random nick-nacks and pointless souveneirs, and plenty of stereotype-satisfying depictions of Irish people. We then got in a car and drove along some of the most beautiful sights I’ve ever seen. Lush, green, rolling hills, beaches of deep, blue water crashing into huge, moss covered cliffs, quaint homes nestled between farm lands filled with cartoon-like cows, all with the sun setting over these stunning scenes. We saw old men driving tractors among cars and waving to farmer friends, boarder collies trotting happily down streets as drivers patiently waited, waving them on, friends hanging out in a motorcycle and side car combo, thatched houses, newsboy caps, pastel-colored bakeries, people canoeing... I’m seriously not kidding. We actually saw all of this. I’ve never been more confused in my life and it was at that point I came to the description I’m now sticking by and ruling as a fair assertion (warning-graphic depiction to follow): you can’t just dip into Ireland. You don’t get a taste, or a preview or hint of Ireland. Go to Ireland, and Ireland will throw up all over you.
Moving on... So in the midst of our ludicrous car ride, we made a pit stop to do a fun little hike. Fast forward 2 hours and I’m kicking and screaming my way straight up the side of a mountain. Cue the second time that day that my dear Bridgy is forcing me to do something against my will. She essentially dragged me up this hour-long stair stepper of a hike until I got to the top and eventually stopped wining. The view was of course, breathtaking, it was all worth it in the end, thank you Bridget, blah blah blah. We then worked our way down the mountain, through the forbidden forest, across middle earth, said what’s up to some leprechauns, and after a sprinkle of fairy dust, were on our way.
Now I previously misstated that Limerick was the most ridiculous town on the planet. But after arriving to our destination, I soon learned that our home base was really just a close second to the glimmering coast town of Dingle, Ireland.
Update: (Remeber, I told you I’d break this into pieces) I’m now sitting in my mother’s house all the way back in good ol’ Eugene. My trip to Ireland seems like it happened a decade ago, but I love all you valued readers too much to leave ya hangin’. So here goes... the remaining pieces, in the abridged version:
So on to Dingle. The three of us were blessed to get introduced to this gem of a town. This place was actually designed for tourists (right?), and in keeping with the rest of Ireland, right out of a fairy tale. I don’t know how else to describe it because I can’t think of any more synonyms for quaint. It was also mini and filled with more ridiculous people that looked like movie characters straight out of a movie all about Ireland. So anyways, after successfully sneaking me into the hotel room, we headed to Murphy’s Pub where we drank Murphy’s beer, then ate a meal of wonderful sea food, followed by dessert at Murphy’s Ice Cream Shop. Shout out to the Murphy clan. But after dessert was when the real fun began. We had plans of seeing a few talked-about pubs in this glorious little town but upon arriving at our first stop, we knew we would not be leaving any time soon. I realize that I’m repeating words like crazy, but I really don’t know how else to describe this pub besides entirely ridiculous and confusing. Random, bizarre, strangely unique--they just don’t do it justice. It was weirder than weird, OK? So first we walk into what we thought was the only room, the main bar. This alone would have been stand-out enough, as it was already a converted hardware store with beyond confusing paintings (I swear to God there was a picture of a nun drinking beer... like, why?), but alas, our bewilderment continued as we moved on. We quickly learned that what we thought was a one-room little bar was actually an entirely converted ground floor of a house, with each area offering a whole new level of confusion. The very next room had not one, but two ancient looking pianos, a prehistoric miniature oven, a well-used fireplace, more eccentric paintings, and, naturally, 3 buckets of coal. Over the course of the evening, this room saw a table of 75 year old men who had to be planning some sort of secret event or crime, two separate groups of bachelorette parties (apparently we had discovered the hotspot in Dingle, score!), and a plethora of other question-raising Irish pub attendees. The next stop was an outdoor area, complete with large picnic tables overlooking the cobblestone building filled with all the normal clientele. This area was stationed in the perfect spot, just close enough so no one could hear a word over the blaring music from inside, and just far enough away so their cigarette smoke could still billow through the doors of the building, defeating the entire purpose of having a space outside. The grand finale was the disco themed mini dance club room. There were probably eleven people standing in the room, none of whom were dancing, but instead trying to talk over the strange assortment of music choices, between the flashing multi-colored lights (is this sounding reminiscent of middle school dances to anyone else?). All in all, it was (say it with me folks) confusing.
I could, obviously, go on for days here. Every moment in Ireland could be transformed into one of my overly-detailed stories, but I feel like this was a sufficient preview. Just know that my remaining days were a blast filled with oh so many cow-filled rolling green hills, ridiculous and impossible accents, and enough overall hilarity to last me a lifetime. And as for my never-ending struggle-fest, rest assured my trip back to Israel was just as embarrassing as always. Let’s just put it this way. The next time you’ve sat on a bus for 4 hours straight after drinking a large coffee and bottle of water, and have reached your absolute wits end, and bladder capacity, nothing will stand in your way of finding the necessary... er... relief. (We’re talking verge of tears here people, for a second time in five days, yes). At that point, not even a bitchy Irish woman with adult braces will be able to stand in your way of using a bathroom, even if it is for “employees only”. Just take my advice, get those tears to well up in your eyes, pull out your best pleading voice, and graphically, threateningly, let her know you have a serious urinary infection that needs immediate attention or, to put it plainly, you will simply pop a squat on her precious office building floor.
Hope all is well kids! Next time I go international, you all will be the first to hear about it!
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