Happy Anniversary

Elton John (and later Ewan McGregor) once said, "My gift is my song, and this one's for you."

I'm a terrible singer, and I can't write songs (as far as I know...), so this is the best I can do, which is good on one hand, because I'm an OK writer with more sincerity than sense, but not as good on the other hand, as my essays will probably never be tapped for their use in Cameron Crowe films where people read them out loud together and exchange meaningful looks.

Today, three years ago, Lindsay Singer became Lindsay Flanagan. It should be noted that I didn't ask her to do that, because I knew she was accepting a lifetime of people just barely misspelling what should be a very simple name. But she did, and it turns out that today when I say "Lindsay Singer" it sounds odd and foreign, like wearing shoes from several years back. They were once comfortable, but are now alien and anachronistic.

Either way, I often refer to my wedding day, August 27, 2005 as the best day of my life. I do that because it is true. Never have I had a better day, and never have I been happier. This is slightly surprising because I put off getting married for a good 2-3 years after it seemed like a foregone conclusion. But then, when I was ready for it, I didn't have a doubt in my mind, and I haven't had one since.

Lindsay is my perfect partner. When people say their spouses are their best friend, I used to scoff, but the fact is Lindsay's been my best friend for the better part of a decade and I literally begin to fall apart and erode without her around, sort of like when Marge went to prison, and Homer wore the devil costume, but more emotionally than sartorially. Much the same happens to her, from what I can tell. We're so used to living together that the house without the other one for longer than a day is just frightening and empty. These days some people call that co-dependency. I call it the most sincere and deeply felt form of love I can imagine. Sure, there are differences, but the similarity in how we traverse this world together is weird, and in the ways we are different, we are so opposite that we really do tend to balance each other out. Where Lindsay is cautious, I am careless. Where I am uncouth, Lindsay is dignified. It goes on an on, and basically gets more personal and embarrassing for one or both of us, but you get the point.

The last three years have been ones of exceptional tumult. We uprooted from Los Angeles (and we are rooters, believe me) , moved to New York, and that was only the start. Lindsay left her job, and started a new day job at an advertising agency, which has had its ups and downs. I quit my job of 4 years and started doing iFanboy full time. Lindsay started, and is succeeding remarkably, a business as a photographer. I'm awed by her incredible progress, and looking at her work makes me amazed that I know someone who can make things from the real world look that fantastic. I'm also incredibly impressed that the girl I know is the same girl who is putting her head down and charging forward with this endeavor in such a fearless way. It's inspiring to me, because I have no doubt that in no time, she will be earning a living doing something she both loves and excels at. I'm also looking forward to the time where I can console her when she gets in a bad mood by saying "Look what you did! Most people can't do that!" and using her own success to thwart the inevitable bad days we all have. At the same time she's dealing with that, she's also helping support me in my current pursuit of a dream to talk about comics as a living, which is a ridiculous goal now that I'm writing it out. Either way, contrary to what you might think, living in a world of comic book discussion is not all carefree and fancy. Since I began in February, I've taken maybe 7-8 days total off, including weekends. Something's always happening. Someone is always emailing, and something is always in production. Like the mail, it's constant. On top of that, we added George to the household, and many of the otherwise spare moments are spent exploring greater New York for just that perfect spot to poop (Nope, not there...next? Can't wait for winter!). Can I also add that George was the greatest birthday present ever? My best friend got us both a new best friend, if that follows.

Anyone who's been in a long relationship will know that these things, and marriage have their highs and lows. And most of the lows, and the things I've been upset about end up being my own fault after time and perspective have set in. This isn't to say that she's perfect, but she is perfect for me. And later, the idea of being upset with a person who has such a perfect and loving face is abominable. The fact is, when I think back about our time together since 2000, I remember nothing of the bad times, and think only of the exceptional amount of laughter over the silliest things. One such example would be when the dog got his upper lip stuck on his tooth like Firemarshall Bill. Laughing till hurt ensued. And I'm not the greatest person to live with either. I'm constantly talking, all the time, and only about 35% of the time in my regular voice. I know that when Lindsay falls asleep when I'm talking, it's because I'm boring her to death with minutia no one in the world should be commenting on. We drive down the road, and I start blabbing on about whatever tiny thing I just saw, and I can now, in my thirties, admit it must be exhausting.

Right now, things are tight. There's not a lot of extra money to go around. If it were up to me, I'd lavish my wife with gifts, but at the moment, the best I can do is to say, right now, in front of as many people as I can, that I love you more than anything in the world, Lindsay. There is objective evidence that I am a better man because of you. Making you laugh is without a doubt my absolute favorite thing to do in the world, and nothing brings me greater contentment than when you are happy. I literally cannot imagine my life with anyone else, and I say that with the greatest joy.

My brother, recently broken up from a relationship called me and asked, "What would you do if you weren't married right now?" He was looking for me to help convince him that there's all sorts of great stuff to be acheived without the albatross of commitment around your neck, but I wasn't much help. I paused a second, and answered 100% truthfully that I had no idea. I couldn't think of what I'd do different. I suppose I'd still be living with a bunch of other dudes, with a bunch of stuff I couldn't afford and a big credit card debt, aimless and probably more overweight than I am now. The thing is, I just couldn't or didn't want to picture it. It wasn't a lack of imagination, but a pointless exercise in imagining a bleak life.

The fact is, when Lindsay and I are together, it doesn't matter what we're doing. I'm told this is no excuse for not doing anything, but regardless, we have fun together all the time, no matter where we are, or what we're doing, and provided Lindsay hasn't fallen asleep. We're particularly good at making up conversations between babies, animals or inanimate objects, but....well, I've already said too much.

Anyway, the point is, thank you Lindsay. Thanks for being my partner, my love, and my life. Marrying you was the best thing I ever did. Happy Anniversary.

The Who Are the Best Rock Band Ever

The Who make me want to play rock music. Even in their latter stages, with big laser stage shows, and backing tracks of sythesizers, at the heart of things, you’re still talking about basic rock music. I feel like musicians, and music nerds give them enough credit, and the general public know “We Won’t Get Fooled Again” from decades of ceaseless play on classic rock radio, but really, was there ever such a combination of talent to ever record or perform?

Look at the individual components. You’ve got the best rock guitarist, best rock drummer, best rock bassist, and the best rock voice, all mixed in one band. Taken one step further, the greatest guitarist was also the greatest rock songwriter ever. The combination of these elements is unmatched in rock history. It is all that is essential to rock music. There are beats that pound you over and over again. There are rises and falls, and crescendos which became clichéd only after the Who made it so.

The Beatles might have been the greatest musical rock act ever, but really, when it comes down to it, no band ever made rock music like the Who. Those four components, Townsend, Moon, Entwhistle, and Daltrey were literally unstoppable. They were a force. Compared to them, the Beatles sure are pretty, but they don’t make you blood pump. The Rolling Stones don’t even stand a chance in comparison.

Heavy Metal, punk, hardcore, and anything thumping and vital owe the Who a tremendous debt, and though many may aspire to match their greatness, it simply isn’t going to happen.

I’m writing this as I sit on a plane, and watching a VH1 Classic program on the making of Who’s Next, an album synonymous with “arena rock” and regardless of the fact that I’ve heard these songs a million times, and they’re not even really my favorite Who songs, I’m bouncing my seat, wishing that I had a guitar in my hands, and an amp cranked up so I could play along with them.

A loftier part of my brain wishes mightily that I could learn to play drums and even attempt to reach the relentless power of Keith Moon’s beats.

In my guitar playing history, I’ve never had as much fun as I did playing the guitar parts of Who songs we’d covered. At one point, I met this guy David, a recovering drug addict, who was an incredible drummer. He’d played professionally in rock bands for a while before he blew it with substance abuse, and ended up working a normal boring job. His idol was Keith Moon, and it showed in his playing, and apparently in his lifestyle. It so happened that my favorite guitar player was Pete Townsend, and on the few magical times that we managed to get together, and play, I’d never experienced anything like it.

David was good. He literally could have toured with the Who after Moon died, and if Ringo’s son was unavailable.

At one point, he gave me what might have been the greatest compliment I’ve ever received, when he told me that I played more like Townsend than any guitarist he’d ever played with. I remember that every time I pick up my instrument, which is far more rare than I’d like, to be honest.

Part of the reason I know the comparison to Pete is valid is because I was never that good of a technical player. I don’t really think Pete was either. He was a brilliant musician, a claim I’d never make of myself, but when he just plugged in and played along with the guys, it was all about feeling, and never about technique. It was about attitude and a strong undeniable beat. The fact stands that there’s very little in this world more satisfying than the sound and feel of an electric guitar channeled through a crunchy amp, and striking a single, resonant A chord. It’s one finger, laid out flat. Anyone could do it, but there’s something special about the way Pete did it, and the way I love to do it that is so expressive that I fail to describe it in words. It’s why rock music works.

And the Who is the best rock band ever. Other bands will communicate better, or write better lyrics, or make prettier sounds, but no one ever encompassed rock like they do, and no matter how many times I’ve seen it, whenever I see any footage of them performing, it sparks a deep desire to do the same.

George and I

I am a daddy.

I’m sort of a daddy. A couple of months ago, Lindsay and I finally achieved a very long held desire to add a dog to our lives. Neither of us have ever owned a dog, and really outside of a couple cats, we really had no idea what we were in for.

We’d spent years discussing the type of dog we’d like, and coming up with names and idealizing our lives changed by canine companionship. Sure, it would be tough, but the end result will outweigh the challenge, and we’ll all be happier for it in the end.

We’d put it off for years because it was never the right time. We both worked all day, and didn’t have a yard, or any way to really give any kind of a quality existence to an animal. But it turned out that I was going to start working from home, and at that exact time, a family friend of Lindsay’s had had a litter of French bulldog puppies. Coincidentally, the French bulldog was exactly the type of dog we’d settled on as the perfect pet for us. The stars aligned a bit, and while it was scary, this was one of those moments where you either do it, or don’t, and live forever with the consequences. It couldn’t be that bad, could it? There were people all over the city with dogs, so if they can do it, why can’t we?

So we said OK, and sorted out the money, which was perhaps more than we should have rightfully spent, but the opportunity was right there, and it really felt like the right time. We could make this work, with just a bit of sacrifice on our part.

Cut to D-Day. Lindsay went down to Florida to pick up our boy when he hit 8 weeks, which is the right time to separate a puppy from the little. We bought some books on raising and training puppies, and crossed our collective fingers. We were going this alone, because we didn’t really know anyone who had, or even really liked dogs. But we were pretty sure we did, so after buying a lot more stuff, and spending more money, I went to the airport at around 9 PM on a Saturday night to pick them up. There was a bit of fear to be sure.

French bulldogs are not the easiest dogs to own. They’ll love you for sure, but they’ll challenge you just as much. They don’t tend to have the best health, and while we did our research, there was still a lot of finger crossing and hoping for the best going on.

I hadn’t yet realized that the next 2-3 weeks would be among the toughest I would experience, maybe ever.

She unzipped the bag while I was driving home, and George (as in Clooney, his full name) poked his head out of the bag. I told her, I couldn’t look because I was driving, and I really wanted to make sure I was paying attention to him when I met him for the first time. I did sneak a glance, and a little part of me melted when I saw those giant ears sticking up, and that wrinkly face drooping a bit more than a little.

We got him home, and dropped him in the little fence we’d bought and set up with potty pads, where he immediately peed, much to our glee. Then, since it was pretty late, and we’d all had a big day, we got him to the crate, where we slept on the floor next to him, and got very little sleep on the unforgiving hardwood floor.

Early the next morning, it started. We praised and clapped, and kept our cool, and had a pretty good day. We also cleaned up a lot of poop and pee. We learned very quickly that our patience was not yet adjusted to the task in front of us. We also learned that a puppy has almost no ability to tell the difference between soft things on the ground he’s supposed to pee and poop on, and things he isn’t. The nice dog bed and bedding we’d put down was instantly soiled, and would be done repeatedly in the coming days until we realized we’d just have to do without it. Communication between the species was also slow in coming, except for the idea that he absolutely hated to be left alone or penned up out of reach from us. We were alerted to this by a sound I’ve since come to know as the frenchie death yodel. It was like if you mixed a jet engine with the unhappiest baby in the world. Immediately, you start projecting life lone habits of this sound, rather than seeing it for what it is, which is a confused and scared baby animal, who will, in all likelihood grow out of it. He continually reminded us to walk when we tried to run. For me, any progress was usually followed by me expecting the next step instead of enjoying the small victories, something I’m still learning.

The first Monday where young George and I were alone was fun for a while, but I slowly started to realize that, at this rate, I was never going to get any work done. Furthermore, you can’t take a puppy outside for a long time after you get them, until they’re immunized, so it became a sort of house arrest scenario, and there were a couple times where I’d wondered if I had made a huge mistake, and communicated as much to Lindsay, who was a bit freaked out, because my usual attitude had been demolished by a 7 lb dog.

In the coming week’s we began a gradual learning process. Thanks to the help and advice from a couple of people who assured me that things would be OK, things got better. While it’s cute and lovable to have a puppy, the chaos they can cause at first is very daunting to someone who really has more order in his life than he’d realized. Before I realized it, I’d worked out a schedule. I knew when he would sleep, and when he would eat. He mercifully figured out that he was supposed to pee and poop on the puppy pads much quicker than he should have. This was a blessing and a curse, as he was going through the pads very quickly, and they were much more expensive than you’d think. The feeling of house arrest was slowly dissipating over the course of the first month, where I slowly learned how to leave the house for small amounts of time. The first few times out of the house were horribly stressful. Perhaps they were nearly as stressful to the dog, but I learned that I’m a very attentive parent. I wanted to be perfect, which I’m sure is the downfall of many parents with their human children. The real solace through it all was the calm and peaceful snore when he slept, and I just wanted to make sure he was happy. You’d think that snoring sound would be annoying, but I really loved it, because it meant that, at least for now, everything is OK.

Today, as then, there are victories and setback every day. He learned “sit” with almost no effort on our part. “Down” is still a hit or miss prospect. They also say that French bulldogs, which are bulldogs at heart, are stubborn, and they aren’t kidding. You have to demand every inch from him if he doesn’t want to give it to you. But other times, he’s obedient and sweet and loving, and everything you’d want from a pet.

Even now, every time something different happens with him, I worry that we’re going to have some long term problem, either behavioral or medical. I worry about separation anxiety, both for his sake, and for the idea that we don’t want to have to find a new place to live. But outside of two incidents, He’s been left alone repeatedly, and without incident. Finally, after about 2 months, we could put bedding in his crate, and on the ground, and he doesn’t pee in them. The first time he peed in the crate, I thought it was a lost cause, because the one constant I’d been told is that dogs won’t pee in their crates. Well, they will. They might stop eventually, but they will. The next big challenge, which is sort of ongoing, is that he wont’ walk with us when we try to leave the apartment. I’d trained him to walk on a leash in the apartment, but try to leave the block, and he’ll fight you. That’s getting better too, and the one reminder I need to constantly be given is that he’s still a young puppy, and that he’s already way ahead of the curve.

There’s a man at the park, where many dog owners go in the morning, who has three dogs, and clearly has a long history of taking care of animals, and he took me aside one day to tell me that I was doing a really good job. You don’t need an animal trainer if you have sense and patience. And I think it’s true. I might be cursing myself later, but I think I have to have confidence that everything will be OK, or that dog will know that I don’t believe in him, and so I do. When he told me that, it gave me a lot of confidence in myself that I wouldn’t screw this up, or I hadn’t so far. Basically, Lindsay, George and myself were working in a vacuum, with no context, and it was so helpful to hear from an outside, experienced place that things seemed OK.

Since then, I have a routine, and George has calmed down a good deal. He sleeps when I want him to, and he plays when I want him too. We’ve let him into all areas of our house, and other than an incredible desire to eat every little thing off the floor he can, he’s pretty good inside.

There have been problems sure. He’s got cherry eye, which is where the tear gland pops out of place and has to be put back through surgery. He’s either got a cold or allergies, and it’s been about a week with a runny dog nose. But he’s eating and sleeping and playing normally, and we were led to believe that we don’t need to worry unless that changes or the snot turns green. A constant in my life is monitoring the status of my dog’s poop, watching for changes and unwanted consistency. There are some genuinely great walks, and some really horrible walks. He has bonded more with me, who he spends all his time with than Lindsay, so she has a little harder time controlling him than I do, but generally, he might be the smartest, most well behaved puppy two first time dog owners have ever raised. He even seems to be mostly housetrained at this time, but I’m not saying that out loud.

And right now, I’m not with him, and I miss him. I’m concerned about him, and I hope he’s happy. I know he’ll be looking for me in the house, and likely ignore Lindsay more often than he should while I’m away. But that might all be in my head. He’s awesome, and he’s my best friend, and he’s taught me patience and responsibility, and we’ve got a lot of good and bad times ahead of us. It scares the hell out of me, because if I’m this way with a dog, our kids are going to kill me when they come along, and Lindsay is going to have to calm me down quite a bit.

An End to Tourism

We awoke early in the hated West County Hotel. We wanted out, and we wanted it bad. However, our Bed and Breakfast, pre-booked for that evening wouldn't be able to receive us until late that afternoon, and as we had driven far more than planned the day previous, we were only about 30 minutes away. No matter what, it was time to get the hell out of there though.

It was at this point I decided to hop in the shower, and we learned that the West County wasn't quite done with us. I'd originally walked into the room, and noticed some plastic parts soaking in a half a soda bottle sitting on the bathroom counter. While I noted it, I only did so in the sense that the room was crappy and weird, and this only added to that. Turning the faucet on, it suddenly occurred to me that those parts were actually the interior workings of the showerhead, without which, water shot straight out of the shower, and onto the floor, not really leaving us with the ability to effectively clean and rinse, and making a hell of a puddle.

Defeated, we put on clothes, brushed teeth, and made for the front desk. We did some complaining, and asked to have the room discounted because of the various awfulnesses of our stay. We were told that they could take a little money off, but not much, because if there was a problem with the shower, we should have told them. Now, checkout was at 10, and we noticed the problem at about 9:30. We didn't want to wait around for them to fix it, and have to stay longer, or move to a separate room with 20 minutes to go, but either way, the Best Western corporation deemed it was our fault. But who wants to focus on a crappy hotel during an otherwise magical trip? Not I.

I believe on this morning, like all victims, we sought to punish ourselves, and rather than trying to find somewhere to eat breakfast in Ennis, we stopped at the nearest convenience store/gas station and bought muffins or tiny donuts and something vaguely related to a juice product. It was fast eating and convenient food for two people who wanted to be anywhere by where they were as soon as they could be. Covered in crumbs, we left Ennis behind us, perhaps forever.

A quick, and very internationally expensive, phone call confirmed that we could indeed drop our things off at the Bed and Breakfast, even though the room wouldn't be ready until 4 that afternoon. We didn't want to drive our car laden with possessions into Limerick, because we'd read that that is a very stupid thing to do, and we're nothing if not cautious. The lodgings were conveniently located just about 10 minutes from Shannon Airport, from where we'd be leaving the next day. Just before arriving, we saw yet another castle, this one Bunratty, and parked the car before deciding that we really had no desire to see another castle, which was just as well because this one was more tourist trappy than all the rest, being situated next to the motorway coming from the airport. Ironically, we opted instead to go to the Blarney Woolen Mills, situated across the road, a store full of more Americans than actually live in our neighborhood.

This was a mighty estuary of schlocky retail wonder. If your overpriced souvenir or choice wasn't here, it wasn't anywhere. We spent a good hour picking out gifts whose origins we hope are never discovered. From t-shirts to hats, to frames, to jewelry to anything you can slap a sheep or a shamrock on, this place was nearly absurd. After sorting out some strange tax-back scheme the Irish have going, we took off in search of our lodgings.

We ended up driving down some tiny road way off the main path wondering who would ever start a business in a place you couldn't find. I kept asking Lindsay if we'd in fact "missed it" and she assured me that we hadn't. Finally, just before giving up and going to wait at the airport, we found the place, and were quite surprised to find that we had our own little room with a private entrance and a little porch. This place had been recommended specifically and highly by my aunt, who has done more Ireland travel than most. And she was not wrong. The proprietor, another woman named Mary, was as lovely and affable as the others, if not more so. It seems as if people got nicer as we traveled, but that can't be proven scientifically. A quick conversation, and a few tips about going to Limerick, and we were off to meet with our tour guide, Michael O'Donnell for the Angela's Ashes Walking Tour.

I recognize that this is a very touristy thing to do, and, for a moment, I recoiled at the idea, but then, I really liked the book, so we went for it. After a quick lunch in a cafe (beef and chips again!), we met Michael outside the Limerick Tourism Centre, and waited for the rest of the group to show up. After about 15 or 20 minutes, we gave up on the rest of the group and began the tour/book quiz.

Michael's favorite method of showing things from the book was to ask us "Do you remember the story of the _______" from the book. Lindsay and I answered the same every time, which was to say, "No, we don't really remember exactly what happened." This caused him to eventually ask if we had indeed read the book at all, to which I replied, "Yes, but apparently, I remember nothing about it at all, save the tone, and the fact that it was in Limerick." You'd think this would stop him from asking that question over and over, but it didn't and we all settled into a nice routine.

That doesn't mean that it wasn't interesting. Michael knew the book very well, reciting bits verbatim, despite claiming to have only read the book the once. We saw where McCourt went to church, school, and about 3 of the places he lived. Limerick, it should be said, is much nicer now than it was back then, and where there were once lanes full of filthy impoverished people, there are now Irish yuppies in German cars.

Michael did have one trick which was repeatedly impressive. He'd walk and talk in such a way that you were unwittingly positioned in a specific spot, and on the way, he'd ask if we remember such and such in the book, and we'd say no, or guess and get it wrong, and he'd sigh, and eventually just tell us. And at the point of the story where it mattered, he's saying, "and that school is right behind you!" and you'd turn around, and smile, and take pictures and so forth. He did this well, and it was impressive each time. I'm saying, if you're in Limerick, go on the tour. It's a good time.

Our feet tired, and the afternoon waning, we decided to go back and avail ourselves of our tiny porch. Lindsay, ever the prepared one, wanted to have some time to rearrange our baggage, and make sure there was room for the goods we'd be taking home with us, and I just wanted to not search for something entertaining.

Where normally, after you find someplace that's hard to find, and you go back, it doesn't seem so out of the way, this was not the case. It was still way the hell out there. But then, at the same time, it was quiet and beautiful, and relaxing. It was also the most beautiful afternoon one could wish for. I sat at the table on our little deck and read while drinking tea, and Lindsay made volumes of items fit into container that defied physics. They had a small dog with a missing lip who came over to inspect us, and only tried to bite me once. I forgave him, because missing one of your lips would make anyone testy.

At this point, we did the "re-pack all your stuff, and get ready to get out of town" thing. We were kind of in the middle of nowhere, so there weren't many options for food. Contrary to our prior avoidance to pub food, it only seemed appropriate to spend the last night in a pub. As it turns out, that was our only option, because at the end of the very long road where we were staying was the only place we could find, and it was, indeed, a pub. It seemed a normal pub on a normal night, but as it was our last night in town, we decided to do it up. As much as possible anyway. I got a steak (you get better steak in America to be honest) and Lindsay got some pasta dish that wasn't actually that awful. Then it was chocolate cake for desert, because we're on vacation dammit!

As we were eating, an Irish National Football game started up, and the place actually came a bit alive. Ireland went up early against Slovakia, and then Slovakia tied, and then Ireland scored an incredible goal, and of course blew it right at the end, when Slovakia scored the tying goal. It was a qualifying game for the Euro 2008 tournament, and as yet, they haven't won any games, just some draws. Ah soccer, where you try real hard and then you tie. But it was a ton of fun to be there. I don't really love sports all that much, but national teams are always fun to watch, because everyone has to be behind them. Lindsay had a Guinness, and I had an Irish Coffee, which I don't think I was prepared for. The whiskey was strong. Mighty strong. My hands got tingly, and I stopped partially out of the desire to be able to drive back, and partially because I thought that if I kept it up, I might never taste anything again.

After a quite satisfying evening, I offered Lindsay the chance to drive home, as she hadn't experienced right-hand driving, and her time was running mighty short. But do you know what the best time to learn driving on the other side of the road is? It isn't in the pitch black night of Ireland's country on a dippy narrow road with no streetlights. But she did it anyway, and we missed that oncoming car by at least 4-5 inches. With much relief and an incredible sigh, we pulled into the driveway of the B&B unharmed, collapsing into sleep a short time later.

In the morning, we got up and dropped the car off by 9:30 or so, and made our way into an extremely crowded Shannon Airport, and the airport was arranged like London, where you end up in a central holding area with all the passengers from all the flights, and with one pub-like stand with food, which is the only food you can get in the airport. And there was a line of much magnitude and girth, filled with lots of American soldiers who were there for some reason I don't know. They called us through customs, and we went through a series of long halls to some chairs with access to a hidden bathroom, and broken vending machines. I don't think either of us were looking forward to the extremely long flight, but we did want to be back home again.


And that was really the end of the whole thing. I can tell you know, writing this, I could certainly see myself going back several more times. I could even live there given the chance. But that might just be a "grass is greener" sort of statement, which is quite literally true. The grass really is greener, and the skies are bluer. We were ready to go home, but were already missing the place.

Actually, I think I could deal with a trip up Ireland's west coast right now.

The Bad Day

We were up early again, even though we had nowhere to be. This was to be the day that we winged it. We'd stop somewhere inland after traveling as long as felt like it. The breakfasts at this point were basically me eating around the edges of weird Irish bacon, taking in as much brown bread, and toast with jam as we could manage, and foraging for citrus fruit that didn't taste weird. And tea. Oh the tea. At this point, both Lindsay and I were turning into tea fiends. Taking it whenever offered, finishing with sugar and whole milk, and appreciating it greatly.

Our only business left in Donegal was to visit the Donegal Castle, which we somehow didn't notice the day previous. This is odd because the castle is directly situated next to the town centre, where we'd spent a good deal of time. Just like at the Rock of Cashel, we just missed the start of the tour, and ran to catch up. Unlike the Rock of Cashel, and of course no offense to the young lady giving the tour there, Donegal Castle's tour was hosted by perhaps the best castle tour guide ever. It's a small field, but one of greatly varied talent. As we caught up with the group, he was explaining how they'd keep their cloaks hanging just over the area where they dumped the chamber pots, as it was believed that the fumes from the urine would keep pests from taking root in the clothing. After that, we got a good explanation of how the narrow, and winding staircase was built to favor the swordsman on the high ground, rather than those invading from below. Now, other tour guides had this sort of information, but few of them presented it with such practiced enthusiasm. The man would pause dramatically quite often, and look the crown in the eyes. He was smooth alright, and full of local aphorisms and charm. Sure, if you were from there, you might roll your eyes, but despite my best attempts at ironic detachment, I could hardly help but be entranced. A little over-the-topness is what any tour group really needs, which is why I'm clearly never going to lead tours. Unfortunately, my list of possible careers keeps growing ever shorter.

The first goal we had was Roscommon, thinking we'd travel inland for a while, since we'd been on the coast for a week. So for the first time, our scenery took a downhill turn. This is not to say that it wasn't beautiful, because it certainly was. There were green hills, dotted with sheep and cows, and most ridiculously blue skies and fluffy clouds you could imagine. But let's be honest; we've seen that, and often paired next to breathtaking cliffs and an ocean. There also wasn't as much to do inland as along the coast. Sure there were more castles, but we already did one castle today, and honestly how many castles can one do in one day? Well, surely more than one, but either way, we didn't want to.

We ended up in Roscommon must sooner than we thought, so it was just after noon, and we'd hit our destination for the day. But there wasn't a lot going on in Roscommon, and we didn't want to waste the day, so after an "italian" lunch, we pressed on. Oddly, it was nearing 80 degrees farenheit, and the sweaters we'd started the day wearing were becoming too warm. I got the sense that people there weren't really used to these temperatures, since there was still a lot of wool being paired with red faces everywhere. That might be just what they look like though. We noticed the heat when taking a little walk to look at the ruins of Castle Roscommon. The temperatures made me grimace.

Moving on south, we went towards Athlone, which the book described using such buzzwords as "artsy" and "youthful," which usually sound better on paper than in practice. One of the Bed and Breakfasts listed in Athlone was supposed to be the best thing to hit Ireland since St. Patrick, so we made a shot for that. Then we hit, for the first time since leaving Dublin, actual traffic. We found ourselves crawling through Athlone, which was, for some reason, completely packed. Of course, that meant that the B&B was all booked up, and the others they checked on were booked as well. Our perfect streak was starting to come to an end, and in the middle of the afternoon, both Lindsay and myself secretly wondered to ourselves if this would be the night where we finally would be forced to sleep in the car for lack of accommodation. And if that was in fact the case, where do you park a car for such things when in Ireland. The answers to these questions would elude us, but we decided that Athlone just had bad vibes, and we should move along to Ennis, which was basically the last town before our destination for the next day.

As it turns out, Ennis was kind of a shithole. We checked with the Bed and Breakfasts around town, and they were either booked, or just didn't answer the door. They say you can't really get a B&B after 5-6PM, and it was about 5:30. So we decided to eat the cost of a hotel, so we'd have somewhere to sleep. There was a main street running through the place with a couple of hotels that were well reviewed in our book, but as luck would have it, they were booked up. Weddings are truly the scourge of the improvisational vacationer. The last option was a hotel located just outside of town that was recommended as being "recently renovated" and "modern." We called the West County Hotel, and asked if they had rooms. They did (hurray!), and it would cost about twice as much as a B&B (boo!). But that wasn't a big deal, because it's fun to stay in hotels, and it wasn't going to break the bank. Then again, at this point in the trip, I think we were both starting to think about what could be accomplished with surplus vacation money on our return home, where everything doesn't cost twice as much as it should. Regardless of all that, we were pretty much out of options, so off to the Hotel it was. The book wasn't wrong that it was just out of town, but upon pulling in, we were surprised that the West County Hotel had become the Best Western West County Hotel, which we weren't expecting.

You'll remember that it was a very hot day, and our room was situated, apparently on the sun, with only a clanking pre-war desk fan to provide any solace. The room smelled of something...other, and we weren't all that happy about it. But with no other options, we decided to make the best of it, and ignore the fact that there were plumbing parts on the counter of the bathroom; a bathroom where you could either shut the door or use the toilet, but not both. Clearly it was time to get out and go back to town for some dinner.

This was about when the cracks began to show. We walked around the lanes of Ennis, which was getting sketchier and scarier as the sun went down, in a way we had yet to experience in Ireland. It was something intangible, but we both noticed it, and for some reason, neither of us felt the carefree safety we'd been used to, and the familiar city instinct of keeping our guard up returned as we looked for somewhere to eat. And when the earlier part of the day was frustrating, other things can become frustrating much faster than they should. Neither of us wanted pub food, or more faux -italian, or really anything else we walked past. There was one restaurant that was pretty nice looking, but also very expensive, and as we'd already ponied up for the expensive room, that didn't sound like a great idea, but the only other option was Supermac's, which you may remember from the Aran Islands post. We then proceeded to settle, and choke down just of bit of food, before admitting defeat, and bringing candy bars back to the hotel room. We just needed the day to be over.

Our saving grace proved to an airing of X-Factor back in the room, which is the UK version of American Idol, a show I will not watch in the US, but quite enjoyed when swapping out Americans for rural Britons. At about the point when we wanted to go to sleep, the wedding really kicked in, and perpetual thumping reverberated throughout the establishment.

I'm not sure when we went to sleep, but it was not with ease, and it was not as early as I'd hoped.

The hotel had one more surprise for us in the morning, and you'll hear more about that soon.

Now, THAT is nice.

We started off with a fantastic breakfast in Sligo, at the Pearse Lodge. This may have been mostly because they gave us the most familiar tasting pancakes we'd managed to have since we we'd been in Ireland. It may have also been that we really liked the owners of the B&B, which is enough in some cases. We actually stopped and talked to Mary (87% of all Irish B&B proprietors are named Mary) to a good long while before taking a walk into town, and it was actually really nice. It was probably the first time I'd felt any of that Irish hospitality we'd heard about. But then, she was pretty familiar with America, and maybe it was just that familiarity. No matter the reason, she was really nice, and told us some good places to go shopping. We were looking for something to buy that we could put up in the house, but something that wasn't cheesy like all the tourist crap we'd been seeing everywhere. Mary made sure to tell us where we could go to pay "local prices" as opposed to "tourist prices."

We went and walked around a little, and went into some of the shops she'd pointed us to, and ended up buying some wooden thing you hand on the wall with a tree on it. As mentioned earlier, the Flanagan family seal is pretty much a tree, so it seemed like a good fit. What we didn't know is that from that point on, every time we stopped from then on, we would see the exact same display, with the exact same wooden "hand crafted" wall plaques. We didn't ever see the exact same one we bought, so I guess we did pretty good. I could probably walk over to it right now, and tell you what it says on the back about what it means, but it's way over there, and once you get going with this writing thing, it's probably best for me to move on.

We decided to take off because as nice as our lodgings were, Sligo was a little bit of a working town, in that, there wasn't much to really do outside of walking through the main area where we'd already done a lap or two. We had a short drive north to Donegal in front of us, so we got going. I think the most telling thing about Sligo was that we only took once picture the whole time, and it was of an orange Volkswagen Beetle. This is because I'm a fan of orange cars, and I'm a fan of Volkswagens, so it was sort of a must. This picture has no real significance however.

The plan was to stop at a place and go horseback riding between Sligo and Donegal. I've got this thing that when I go on vacation to someplace more rural, I like the idea of riding horses. It turns out that the Irish are wild about horse trekking. As such, it appears that you can't just show up, and you should have an appointment. Oh well, moving on. I did see a very tiny pony tied up outside of the place, supposedly to bring in passersby, which is odd, since they didn't take walk-ins. Either way, tiny ponies still poop plenty, so watch your feet.

Our evening's lodgings were procured and selected by myself. It was a little place outside of Donegal town, situated on a hill beside a lake. After a couple of wrong turns, we started up a much longer and more windy road than we'd anticipated. The loch (lake) was stunning, and the day was again totally clear and beautiful. We finally found the place, and as luck would have it, she had no idea who we were. A moment of confusion, and some checking of the book revealed that she had written us down for the next night, and she was totally booked tonight. But it was still early, about noon, and she was nice enough to call a whole lot of places before finding one that had an opening just outside of town in Donegal. We were told to scoot down there as they were tentatively holding the room for us. This was a little bit of challenge, because, as you know, all directions in Ireland are not really based on roads and exact distances, rather by approximations and vague generalities. It's part charming and part annoying, but mostly it worked out.

The B&B was called the Lake View house, or something like that, which was funny, since you could really only see the lake from one specific angle through a long corridor of trees. From that specific vantage point, it was a nice view, but you really had to lean oddly against the window to see it. The guy who checked us in was a middle aged man who was very gentle and quiet, which according to every creepy movie ever, made us think he was probably a killer, so we left for lunch as soon as we could.

Donegal Town is basically a big roundabout with a bunch of shops around it. It's a bigger roundabout than most, so it's a bigger town centre than most. But it's never as big as you'd think it would be. We used our book to find a little place called The Blueberry, with the hope of eating some of their blueberry pie, which looked fantastic after the lunch. For some reason, I decided to order an asian stir fry, which wasn't bad so much as A) not at all Asian, and B) it came on top of spaghetti, which threw me off. But it was actually normal enough that I enjoyed it. It was a neat place, and if you were looking for lunch, and you happened to be in Donegal, I'd tell you to go there. The unfortunate postscript to the story is that they sold their last piece of blueberry pie just before we tried to order it. Sweet irony!

I was still without Irish Sweater, and as Donegal was famous for their Irish sweaters, so we went into a sweater shop, which turned out to be perhaps the biggest mistake of the trip. We ended up in a place with a man who spent a great deal of time telling us that Aran Island sweaters were in fact a load of "codswallop" and nothing ever really gets made there, and people who buy sweaters there are in fact fools. Then he proceeded to make me try on a bunch of sweaters that, were I an actual fisherman concerned solely with warmth, I might have liked. Yet as a someone fashion conscious American, New York City dwelling male, I was forced to concede that there might just not be the man for an Irish fisherman sweater. Lindsay couldn't figure out why I kept indulging the man, and putting on sweater after horrible sweater, and honestly, I couldn't tell you. Finally, a mailman came in, and we used the distraction to leave. Before that it was a tractor beam I couldn't escape. Banana Republic might be an evil corporation, but it never made me feel guilty.

We decided to drive off to Slieve League, which I have to admit, I didn't really know what I was going to. But there wasn't much else to do, but go drive around and look at things, so we went. Honestly, at this point, it just seemed like, "what else could there be to see?" We'd seen so much natural beauty, and of such diversity so far that we may have been a bit burnt out on the idea of it. Yet we were both kind of surprised that there was still more goodness to be had. As such, we took more pictures here than we would anywhere else. That might have been because of the sheep though.

We go around the edge of these cliffs and little towns, and then at one point, there was a tiny little sign pointing us seemingly away from the cliffs, so obviously we drove right past it, and had to come back around. Then it was through some very rural looking areas with tiny, sort of poor homes. This might have been the only place in Ireland that didn't have a brand new car in every driveway. Slowly and surely we wound up and up, until we got to a gate, where there was room for one car. I had to get out, open the gate, drive through, and then go back and close the gate. There was a small parking area at the bottom for those who wanted to walk up to the cliffs, rather than drive what was promised by our trusty book to be a harrowing drive. Apparently, it was a couple of kilometers up to the top, and it was late in the day, so we elected for the road. This was a good move for several reasons. It took about 20-30 minutes to drive to the upper parking area, and I'm fairly certain we would have turned back and missed the whole thing. We also would have missed the scariest, most narrow, most right-next-to-the-edge-of-a-giant-sea-cliff road ever to exist in the history of driving. My insurance company would cancel my policy right now had they any idea what I was doing. There were parts where the top of a crest would be so steep that you literally couldn't see over it until that roller coaster like moment when you drove over it. Add to that the fact that there was the previously mentioned one car's width, and two way traffic, and I'll admit, I'd slowed way down from what we were used to on the trip. We crawled up the hills with a few butterflies in the stomach, but no life altering incidents.

The view at the top was indescribable. Well, I mean, there was a cliff, and some green hills, and a gorgeous sky, and I guess that's describing it, but really I'm doing the scene no justice. From the car park, you could keep walking up the cliff, seemingly forever, which I thought about doing. Eventually, Lindsay refused to go any further, and the ground was a bit muddy and slippery for my to deal with in my sneakers, so I turned back. Had I been wearing more rugged footwear, it's possible that I might still be wandering around up there, but we'll never know I suppose. Had I stayed, I'm sure I wouldn't have tired of the view.

Another curious feature of the area were the sheep. As you know, there are sheep everywhere in Ireland. But this was just nowhere. The idea of someone actually tending to sheep here was crazy. The place was huge, and I don't know how the sheep got everywhere, but there wasn't an area of un-nibbled grass anywhere. It was the best lawn maintenance I'd ever seen on an area impossible to mowers. Granted, the sheep poop was prolific. There's always a downside. Lindsay was finally in a position to shoot pictures of sheep close up, with no one around to scare her away. Of course she learned that sheep are in fact the most timid creatures in the world. Any slight movement in their direction causes them to start in the opposite direction. This didn't stop her from shooting about 8 dozen pictures of them. She made physical contact with them only once, and it was a fleeting contact. The sound of their nibbling is unceasing, and much more rapid than you'd expect, by the way.

After draining the camera batteries, and shooting every possible view of this monolithic natural wonder, we headed back down the road of very probably death, and safely made our way back to Donegal Town.

Back at the giant roundabout, we set to find a place to eat, and finally, at long last, decided it was, at long last, time to go back to the pub food well. Since leaving earlier in the afternoon, tour buses full of retirees had taken over. We went into one restaurant, and there was one of those movie moments where someone walks in the door, and a record scratches, the music stops and everyone looks up. We went in, took one step through the door, and saw the largest group of septuagenarians possibly ever gathered in Europe. There was a brief moment of realization, and it's very likely that we actually slowly backed out, not moving a muscle. They, like dinosaurs can sense motion, or so I've heard.

We went a couple doors down, and ate in a slightly more youthful pub, while we watched a match from the US Open, which was located very near where we live in Queens. We noted, with delight just how ridiculously hot and humid it was back at home at the time. This night was all about beef, and the return of the ubiquitous chips. Lindsay made with the beef and guinness pie, and I with a classic steak sandwich. Enough with this futile attempt at cuisine in Ireland. It was a night for roots.

After the dinner, it was pointed out that I had gotten off track with the Guinness, and we went to a local pub. It was maybe the most local of all the pubs we'd been to, with real regional accents, and a vague sense of "should we be in here?" Of course nothing happened, and while I, for reasons really unknown to me, turned down a local's offer for a game of pool, I was pleased that he'd offered. Shyness will kick you in the ass if you let it, which I did, and I'll likely regret not playing that game for the rest of my days. For the record, he put the quarters in and cleared the table by himself with such skill and accuracy that I was a bit pleased to be spared the embarrassment of my ineptitude at yet another bar game. Some locals started singing, not badly, but not particularly well, and we made our exit to go back to the creepy man's bed and breakfast with the nearly non-existent view.

The upcoming day would be one with nearly no plan or goal, off the coast for the first time, and down through the middle of the country. Things did not bode well.

So do we just wait for the cow to move?

After the prior day's events, this day was just for taking it easy. We didn't rush to get up early, or anything like that, and owing to the size of the giant meal the night before, it was nearly impossible. However, when staying in hotels and like, there's only a limited amount of time to take advantage of the breakfast you've already paid for. We held off as long as possible, but eventually we would miss the whole thing. So ready or not, it was time to eat again. For this is the way of things when traveling in Ireland. Plus, let's be honest, the dinner was pretty fantastic, so it would be a shame to miss out on good food right?

It was pretty much more of the same Irish breakfast stuff, but notched up a little in the quality department. The jam was ridiculously good actually, and I ate what some might call too much toast. Plus they had good juice that was perhaps as fresh as one could expect citrus to be in that part of the world.

After that, we trundled back up the 3 flights of stairs spiraling up the middle of the hotel to our room, and feeling vaguely uncomfortable with the level of manservantude, we carried our own bags down, rather than ringing for the bellman. By the way, it should be noted, that it was the same bellman from yesterday. He was clearly there until at least midnight, and now he was there in the morning. Several of the servers and busboys from the late dinner were also on breakfast duties. I realize you pay a lot for the luxury of this experience, but there's a little part of me that thinks, "if I was that guy, working his face off, I'd hate me for enjoying myself in his midst." Apparently, that's some working class angst I'll have to work out before I can truly live the life of the wealthy bon vivant. Of course, that's likely some time from now. It may also be likely that I never get over that. Maybe that's a good thing.

The other great thing about Ballynahinch is not just that there's a hotel, but these beautiful grounds, along side the loch and a couple of streams. This place is all about fishing, which we're not so much into, but it makes for beautiful scenery. We left the stuff in the car, and took one of their walks along the loch. It's not a whole lot different from Maine, and the lakes and woods I was used to growing up, except that there are no mosquitos, and the greens are all just a little brighter. Nearly every direction you turn, there's something else that's beautiful. I've said the same about the rest of Ireland, but it was never more true than it was in the Connemara area.

The whole time we were walking, the rain would start up and mist us, and then go away. For some reason, you just sort of ignore it. There wasn't the blind panic that the sky was about to open up and drench you, but you just sort of knew it would pass. We annoyed some fly fishermen (who wear far more equipment than I understand the need for), and were shooed away from their fishing spot, and just enjoyed a walk through the woods, which we don't get to do very often. In fact, I'm fairly certain Lindsay and I could count the number of times we've walked in woods on one, maybe two hands at most. This is just wrong.

We hopped back in our car, which was starting to get quite a crusty exterior at this point, and took off through the streams and bogs. Just outside of the gates of the hotel, we slowed quickly to a crawl when there were numerous sheep in the road. We got past them, went another short stretch, and encountered a large number of lumbering cows, and there's really no way to get them out of the road. I can tell you that beeping doesn't work. It's even possible that they're deaf, because there was no recognition. They finally moved out of the way, but Lindsay made me drive through them slowly so she could take pictures of them. There's something about the way they drive in Ireland that made me want always want to be going as fast as possible when on the road and driving. So on the one hand, I was terrified that someone would come up behind us at the speed of sound, and on the other hand, I was picturing a very slow moving cow atrocity. In the end, there were no such events.


At this point, it was fairly late in the day. We were headed for Sligo, which can be pronounced Sleego or Slygo, depending on who you are talking to. But we had no real plans for the day, so we basically drove up along the coast some more, and looked at really pretty views, over and over. I'll just show you some of what we saw that day, because I'm basically out of ways to describe things at this point. I realize this is no way for a writer to be, but there you are.


Around four in the afternoon, we decided to stop at Kylemore Abbey, which is basically the former castle/retreat of a rich English family from the late 1800's, which was later donated to an order of benedictine nuns, who now run a boarding school for girls, as well as a tourist trap/beautiful building for passersby. When I saw this place on a brochure, I immediately said, "We should go there," because it was so picturesque. Then I could say I was a little disappointed, because A) it's not really that old, relatively speaking B) It's sort of a symbol of rich English people living in enormous splendor among who knows how many poor Irish people, and C) It was sort of expensive, and we didn't realize that we didn't really have to pay for looking and taking pictures until after we did so. But then I read about it a bit, and the literature, which could certainly be biased, suggested that the family who built the place weren't horrible people, and created lots of local jobs by building the place.

There were these Victorian gardens you had to take a shuttle over to see, and for some reason, I decided that we should go see them, since we paid I guess, despite the fact that I had no real desire to see the gardens, and Lindsay repeatedly suggested as much. As such, we took the shuttle over, got out, looked around, and got back on the bus ten minutes later. Now, this isn't to say that they weren't nice gardens. They certainly were, if you're into that sort of thing. Oddly enough, the thing we found the most interesting was the vegetable garden, where we looked at the plants of such things as peas, tomatoes, various herbs, and other completely run of the mill vegetation. I realize we could see this almost anywhere, but we were here. But not for very long.

Then you go into the castle/museum, which actually only had 3 rooms open to peruse. This is because the place is an operating International girls boarding school, as mentioned previously. That meant there were these really stark signs around every corner expressly forbidding entrance to anywhere. It was like a military compound, protecting nuclear missiles, except it was a bunch of nuns protecting a bunch of 13 year old girls. Of course, I understand that, but it was still odd to see some of the girls outside, looking like normal kids. I figured they would keep them under lock and key, exposing them to as little light as possible.

On the way out, there's a small hill, with like 3 sheep just chomping away at the grass. This was easily the closest Lindsay had gotten to one so far, and she got as close as she could for pictures. I would say they're a little ugly close up, as well as being an animal devoid of almost any personality. There's some merit to the idea of calling people who just go along as sheep. But then, sheep don't really go along with anything, unless that thing is eating grass. Constantly.

Sligo was perhaps the first place where we got lost. In every other place, we just followed the signs and drove the roundabouts towards the "city centre," which we did in Sligo, but it didn't get us any closer. Or so we thought. We were looking for a place called Pearse Lodge, located on Pearse road. It may sound odd, but we hadn't had to deal with street names and addresses in almost a week. And for good reason, because there certainly weren't any street signs, or numbers on anything. We turned around a couple times, thanking god that I'd gotten used to the left-hand driving by this point, and saw the word Pearse a couple times, but eventually, I had to stop and ask at a local mini-mart place. He had no idea what the place was, but asked me if I knew her name, which I didn't. But he pointed to the road in front of me, and said, "well, that's Pearse road, so it should be right there." It turns out we were pretty much there already, and just didn't know it. So once again, we found it without really trying, but we just weren't quite aware of it. So I'm adding to our tally as a win.

Mary and her husband Kieran run the Pearse Lodge, which is basically just another Bed and Breakfast, but if you look them up on the web, you'll find glowing reviews of their place from all sorts of people. There was a good reason for that. They're very nice, and they run a nice place. This might have been the first time in the whole trip where someone was genuinely above and beyond nice and helpful to us. Don't get me wrong, the others were nice, but Mary was really invested in talking with us, and making sure we were OK, and she talked to us, and I hate talking to strangers, but I liked her a great deal. She told us all these places we could go in town and all kinds of different restaurants, and had maps and all sorts of stuff. Plus, they had a huge number of things to choose from for breakfast.

For dinner we learned that, no matter what it looks like, for the most part, the best Italian food in Ireland is going be less than you'd expect in America. The servers were very friendly, and they tried their damnedest, but really, it was just kind of average. But it's funny, where in the rest of the world, had I converted the money to dollars and known how much I spent for average food, I might have been unhappy, at this point, Lindsay and I were having so much fun together that we really weren't disappointed with average food. It might sound cheesy, but for once, I sort of knew what it was like to not be picky, and just be happy with the experience. We then had some chocolate cake that was not really anything special either, but we were having a good time, so it was pretty good all the same.

Sligo at night felt a little more rowdy and raw than many of the places we'd been . That's perhaps because it wasn't a town so focused on tourists, but rather it was more of a regular place where working people lived. So it was a little more shady walking around at night than most of where we'd been. That's not a bad thing at all, we walked with a little more alertness that we'd been using. We decided to call it a night though, and went back to our brightly painted room, and got to bed. Not exciting no, but it was a big day.

In the morning, we'd make the final leg of the trip in a northerly direction, and be off to Donegal. We did not know that waiting for us would be, perhaps the most spectacular view we'd ever seen. Or course, what Lindsay will always remember will be the sheep.