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.