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July 2001 Sent: Tuesday, July 03, 2001 1:48 PM I woke up last Saturday early enough to get a start on the day - I was out of the house by 11:30, a rarity, and headed into Cork to pick up some things. It's amazing how many people were out and about, still wiping the sleep from their eyes, as the city dried out from the soft rain that fell the night before. I always get the feeling on those mornings, early enough most shops still haven't opened, late enough the harder party goers have made it home already, that the city itself is wiping away the sins of last night with the rising sun and the shallow puddles. My mission was to find a new pair of shoes - I picked up a few things here and there, and finally found a pair of size 46s that fit - in the fourth store I tried. I'm not too finicky about black shoes, and at this point I was desperate - my black shoes I bought in Slovakia had worn down sizable holes on the ball of the feet. The fact I had days before my feet were to break through was lent an even greater sense of urgency when my favorite brown shoes (with a lovely polished patina on them) were inadvertently destroyed in an unfortunate incident involving Emma Bunton (Baby from the Spice Girls). That story is Cork folklore in some parts already. While doing all this shopping around, I have begun to swing my personal orbit into the realm of pure euro trash. Tired of wearing the same 13 shirts I packed for my three month tour, I decided to buy a couple of shirts. The prices were fine, the clothes great, the styles, dangerous. Stripes in places they don't normally go, most shirts reminded me of new (bad) designs of football uniforms, but had some endearing swankness to them. The real folly was buying a pack of undershirts - I didn't realize I would get the Euro-cut (wide neck, and instead of sleeves that go down over your biceps, these sleeves are cut like a V almost down to the armpit. Laughing uncontrollably when I looked in the mirror, I showed off the new style to Michael, who was just shocked. He said in a few months I'll be comfortable going out in public in one of those shirts. I felt like I should have a brother named Anthony and should be helping to cook some spaghetti and telling people to fuggedaboutit. Speaking about Michael, his time was growing short. The last two weeks he was here I battled a fierce hayfever and even fiercer mornings. I pushed the pace on a few nights, making sure the next round was never far off. Our American Cricket rules solidified quite a bit, combining baseball, hurling, drinking, cricket, and rugby into a neat package that was a blast to play. Even the naysayers and doubting Thomases out there were convinced after a short half inning of play. I tried a second hamburger at another American BBQ (and send off for Haulie) - and was horrified. The first burger got lost in the anticipation of Arthur Bryan'ts divine sauce, but the second one had no excuse - it didn't stand on its own at all. I no longer have any such cravings for red meat, although the chicken diet is getting tiresome. I have perfected the art of cooking quesadillas, and have had some strange urges for waffles, pancakes, french toast, and fried bologna. Take that for what you will. Friday night came, Haulie and I (Haulie Do for the rest of the night) headed into Cork to enjoy his last meal in Ireland - Hillbilly's Breast in a Bun. We then stopped off at the Lemon for a Black Russian, soaking up the ambience and getting prepared for the night to begin. A few pictures of some watering holes later, and we were fully engaged in a deadly match of American Cricket at 66 Manor Hill. The drinks started coming, and no sooner did we finish than Johnny Clifford comes racing into the house, collecting us for the big night out. We ended up at McGann's, a nice pub surrounded by a lot of EMC folks. I was outpacing the crowd on a ludicrous drinking pace and got almost everyone I was with to raise a few eyebrows. One of the eyebrows raised belonged to Noel, Johnny Morley's tall blonde (platonic) friend who lit her room up with her smile. I liked her immediately. We started swapping travel stories, and at one point I had told her there were other ways for Irish girls to get American green cards. The smooth flood gates opened, pouring out a rush of lines rarely seen this side of the 70's. The crowning achievement was not only remembering my phone number, but finding a way to advertise like no other. I took a Guinness beer mat with the Guinness moto - 'Live Life to the Power of Guinness' and tore off the top layer of paper that said Guinness. In it's place I wrote Haulie Do (scoring more points for including the Irish accent over the long 'o') with my number below. The rest of the night was a blur, but I remember telling Haulie about my plans to transform some 1998 Mike Piazza starting lineup baseball figures into American Cricket figures. Johnny Morley would send Haulie a text message later on, 'Mike Pizza rocks' It's amazing what standing under running water can do for your body the next morning. After an hour of horizontally fighting off the ill affects Friday night sometimes leaves behind, I took a shower and was revitalized. Haulie seemed to be doing fine, but had officially entered into Dead Man Walking stage - he knew most things he was doing was for the last time in Ireland - and had a removed glimmer in his eyes. Johnny Clifford and I headed up to Shannon Airport with him, killing Haulie's final few hours in Ireland in a black BMW with a driver. After dropping him off, Johnny and I had both crashed on the ride back into Cork, but found the stamina for a mid day pub crawl that resulted in some Haulie stories to be exchanged. They were kept to a minimum, but were reminiscent of those stories about Andy Dufresne those cons in Shawshank Redemption would tell after his big escape. All of them started with an incredulous laugh, a slight shake of the head and then a 'Remember the time....' The Murphys were bittersweet. Sent: Tuesday, July 10, 2001 6:10 AM Subject: Fortune Favors the Few When I got home Sunday night on the 1st of July, I checked my phone messages, knowing exactly what I would find. Sure enough, two messages from Jim O’Sullivan - the first saying he hoped I hadn’t left yet - he lost the ticket he offered me the night before to the Murphy’s Irish Open. The second was a couple hours later, and he was even more apologetic over the whole incident. As things turned out, there was never anything to worry about. I got the original phone call about 10 - it was to figure out a drop off point for the ticket to the final day of the tournament. Jim suggested I go to the Silver Springs Hotel - and ask at the reception desk to pick up the goods. Jim was working the weekend as a steward -keeping folks in line and out of the golfer’s way - he had come across a few tickets and distributed them as he saw fit. I made my way out to the hotel, asked at the desk, and came away empty handed. Undeterred, I spun around, thinking perhaps Jim hadn’t arrived yet - when an Australian produced three extra tickets he handed over. Back on track, I headed up to Fota Island to catch the tourney. I gave the other two away at the door, (the couple even said I was ‘quite a gentlemen’ when I refused any pounds for them), and headed into the concessions area. My wariness of chicken combined with my complete lack of interest led me to the veggie burger stand. I’m digging the non-meat alternative diet these days. It felt like a real summer day - hot - 68-75 degrees, blazing sun, dry wind blowing across the greens. The course itself was magnificent - a few deadly water holes and surrounded by the rolling green hills that are the hallmark of this little country. I trailed a few golfers from hole to hole, then jumped around, and watched four hole action from one vantage point for a bit - and actually seeing three tee shots drop with three feet of the hole on the 7th green. As the day went on, it was easy to tell that my initial plan - to head up to Pairc U Chiamh to catch the Munster Senior Hurling Final between Tipperary and Limerick - would fall by the wayside in the summery delight of the green fields. I caught up with the leaders - Colin Montgomerie was way out in front - and when they got to about the 11th hole, I headed up to the grandstand under the blazing sun at the 18th hole. You needed a ticket to get a seat, but somehow, I snuck my way up to the middle of the stands and baked under the sun for the final 5 pairs of golfers. When Montgomerie dropped a 12 foot birdie put to finish off the course -18, I headed down to the clubhouse area where the golfers themselves were headed. There was an usher ushering away people without passes, so I hung back. A woman was leaving and handed me her pass. I flashed it as if I’ve been there before, and walked right in, standing three feet from Colin. I quickly got my bearings and ran into Darren Clarke - the co-Irish leader and runner up, and shook his hand. He was asking into the clubhouse for some cigars. I made my way into the swank clubhouse bar, noticing most of the other folks in the clubhouse were wearing badges explaining their status - Member, Friend of Member, Player’s Family, Caddy, etc… none of the badges said anything like Art School Graduate. The Murphy’s was also cheaper in the VIP section - 2.50 instead of the price gauging 3 pounds out on the course. After mingling to watch the Awards Ceremony, I headed over to the second bar to order a drink - and standing about four feet away was Jim. Shocked and surprised to see me - I can’t remember if he asked how I got there or if he started explaining what happened - but he kept shaking his head as I told him the whole story. A couple days later, on the Fourth of July, I drove in to work listening to some George Jones (Fightin' SIde of Me). It made me somewhat uneasy when he started rambling on about America and people should 'love it or leave it'. I'm fearful of the ex-pat tag that is bandied about so often whenever I talk to some fellow Americans. I like to think of myself as 'living abroad', its seems much less permanent and respectful to the country I was born in. To celebrate Independence Day, I brought in some red, white and blue banners into work to offset the grey misty skies. I was greeted with some colorful political satire on the radio (impersonations of Bill Clinton and our current president), followed by 'Born in the USA'. Ah, home again. The day passed without too much fanfare, a few well wishes here and there, some sarcastic remarks about America, and some disbelief I went to work (I'm saving days off for Barcelona). I was ramped up on the whole anti-European meat banner I've flown the last couple years traveling in Europe. I had watched Dan Rather's news at 1:30 on SkyNews and they had a story about the scourge of mad cow that is running rampant across this continent and they ended the typical American newstory with the classic line, 'Americans will be celebrating Independence Day tomorrow - Independence from mad cow disease.' God Bless America. It was nice to rile up the Irish troops - they replied with the pat European response - American meat has more steroids than the Tour de France. Petty arguments aside, I headed into town that night, and as fortune has it, capped off the night playing a few hands of seven card poker at the Hairy Lemon. Starting with an ante of 20p, I ended up winning about 7 of the 10 hands, stepping into luck like no tomorrow. Even battling ignorance and the rust of not playing poker in a couple years, I still managed to win - I almost folde a hand, before I realized I had a pair of fives to match the pair of sixes I was already showing. I ended the night with more money than I started with (including the cost of drinks), and a pretty good buzz to boot. The only American related reveler I saw all night (I wasn't looking too hard) was a drunk Irishman with a stars and stripes bandana. He was being carried away by the gardes as I left the Lemon to spend some of my hard earned winnings on some all American Hillbilly's chicken. There's never a reason to believe once the floodgates open the water won't stop. Last Thursday, on an absolutely gorgeous day, I was driving back into Ballincollig from Cork along the Straight Road (unique to Ireland). As I flipped through the radio, 'Is She Really Going Out with Him?' came on the radio. This sappy drivel was on long enough to hear the following lines, 'Pretty women out walking with gorillas down my street/From my window I'm staring while my coffee grows cold/Look over there! (Where?)'. Taking the song's advice, I looked out to my left, and walking along the sidewalk along the River Lee were 7 gorgeous girls in bikini tops and Daisy Duke shorts. I couldn't believe what just transpired. The lucky streak continued - I managed to not drive off the road or hit the car in front of me as one of them waved at me. When I told this story to Gearoid when I got back to work, he turned to me and asked me how gullible Irish people are in the eyes of Americans. He flat out refused to believe this happened, and he's now entirely convinced I've lost my mind. He may have good reason to believe that - A few weeks ago when we went go-karting at a track that hosts the Euro-karting championships, I heard voices around lap 26 (of 32) encouraging me to drive with all caution thrown to the wind. Taking the advice of this mysterious stranger in my head, I floored it and made the final six laps my fastest all day. Who needs sanity anyway? To add to this chain of luck that's seemingly showered out onto me from nowhere, I heard they added a second U2 show at Slane Castle just north of Dublin. That's where the Unforgettable Fire was filmed - it's an ancient castle built during Norman times that holds 80,000 lucky folks for a few concerts each year. I logged onto ticketmaster.ie, ordered up four tickets, and got Noel to make plans for September 1.Rockin. Sent: Friday, July 20, 2001 10:53 AM Subject: Pearse Hall Experience Friday 6 July, 2001 In what was supposed to be the start of a quiet Friday night, I was heading up Oliver Plunkett Street to a new pub near the bus station when I heard ol’ Johnny Cash pouring out his soul through the speakers in the Ovens Tavern. I sipped away the Murphy’s in front of me over the course of three songs and met up with everyone in Purnell’s Pub. A few more pints and we were heading back up Oliver Plunkett Street with the night in full gear. We engineered a reverse pub crawl, hitting four or five places up the road without having a pint in one, trying to find the right place. The An Brog was the final stop of this tour, and even that was too busy, so we rustled into the Hairy Lemon. Orla’s Mix was in the stereo, and Orla was behind the bar, coincidentally it was my round to buy. After a couple drinks, we headed up to Rearden’s to take in the some of the best sights Cork has to offer. The place was full of hot beauties, and somehow I jumped tracks and got on the vodka train. Vodka is one of those drinks that delivers missions that need to be accomplished. Sometimes, you set off on them without realizing it. My mission began, unannounced, at the Oriental Restaurant after closing time. I was waiting in line patiently for my skewered chicken and chips, when a pushy girl cut in line in front of me. I asked her what she was doing and she said her boyfriend was waiting in the queue for ten minutes. I disagreed and, realizing things could get ugly fast, dropped it when she started telling everyone loudly, “I don’t know where you’re from, but we don’t treat women like that here.” And on and on. Finally, when she got her food for her fat boyfriend and herself, I meekly went up to her and told her I was sorry for the trouble I caused her, and told her where I was from people don’t cut in line at all. I was dripping with insincerity, but tried making my meek and pathetic apology believable. I also began the sentence with, “I’m from Canada, and…” She took the bait and told me I was genuine. Now it was time to begin that mission - I marched home to Ballincollig from Rearden’s - starting the journey somewhere around quarter to 3. It ended with the first signs of dawn around 4:30. The Straight Road that leads home never seemed so dark and long in my life. All I saw for most of the four miles was the blackness all around me, with the perfectly straight and unbending white line of the road disappearing yards ahead of me. The next morning I suffered through the aches and pains of the walk but got ready for the big event of the weekend - the trip up to the Dingle Peninsula to stay at a house at the base of the north end of Conor Pass. Driving in Ireland is so much more relaxing when you aren’t behind the wheel. Without having to concentrate navigating through every wild curve, corkscrew, sheep and pothole that are so plentiful in Ireland, you can rally begin to take in the awesome sights. We got up to CastleGregory around 4, a bit later than planned, but not entirely Friday night’s fault - we took some time just outside Killarney to admire the two to three thousand Harley Blackwings assembled from every country in the world for a Motorcycle Rally. It was an impressive sight, but the animal skins displayed got a bit over the top - not only was everyone in leather, but the Danes, Swedes and Nords all draped over the top bear skins over everything - bikes, helmets, jackets, boots, and even had their kids dressed the same. It was somewhat weird to see some Germans with sidecars on their bikes too. We didn’t bother making it up to the American section, instead we got our overload around the Canadiens and continued on to Dingle. The blues that inhabit the sea around Dingle make for a good counterbalance to the incredible greens covering the hills. Conor Pass has to be one of the most amazing spots on earth too - it makes you just want to walk for days through all its undulating hills and cliffs. We hiked up a bit and ran across a lake surrounded by a steep rocky mountain on three sides - it could've been the moon if the green patches of grass and goats and sheep suggested otherwise. On the way up to the top of the mountain in the middle of the Pass, Gearoid and I passed a blonde American girl talking with her pretty boy American boyfriend. She kept repeating 'I don't understand - I just don't - understand'. We had a good laugh over it, but the phrase soon became our mantra for the rest of the weekend - the word 'experience' (first used by a 18 year old at a pub that night) only begins to describe the events that unfolded. After settling on haddock for dinner (I'm officially off the meat eating bandwagon when fish becomes a palatable option), we headed up to a couple pubs for some afternoon drinks and pool. We cooled back down at the house, and prepared for the night by polishing off some wine and beer. After a missed rendezvous with the only cab in town, we finally got shuttled off to the pubs for the night, with word there was an all ages disco that ran after-hours. Our night laid out, the 6 of us headed up to Fitzgeralds Pub - a tiny room with a small bar and some cantankerous music coming from the back door - we walked through and found teenage heaven in County Kerry - a giant bar, a DJ, pool table, and loads of Kerry farmer's daughters and their dodgy boyfriends hanging on and making their teenage moves. We quickly ran into two of Gearoid's friends we ran into the night before in Cork, and the giant picture on the wall was of the swans swimming on the lough - the lake in the center of Cork Gearoid lives across from. At this point, Gearoid turned to me and asked what the odds are of these things happening, in addition to a thousand other coincidences that have accumulated over the past couple weeks. I told him the odds of anything happening must be 3:1 for everything, since it seems everything in the world is so unbelievable and yet always happens. We requested some rock and roll from the DJ, and got a two CD set with some rock staples - 'It's all I have' said the DJ. We chose ZZ Top's legs as the anthem for the night, and the DJ obliged, but with the voice over intro - 'This is for the lads at the bar - enjoy these two minutes, that's all you'll get'. He corrected himself fifteen seconds later - 'Oh, and this is also for the lass at the bar too' when he noticed Gearoid's sister was among the lads at the bar. Surrounded by teenage makeout sessions, we asked around how to get to the disco - The advice we got: 'Pearse Hall is where you need to head - it's up the road, but make sure you bring some cans in with you. You need to sneak them in, but once you're in, you're cool.' We each bought 3-4 cans at the bar at closing time, threw them into our pants and jackets, and headed out the door. Steven, Gearoid's sister's boyfriend, looked a little worse for the wear but the rest of us were going strong, amazed and amused by the sights surrounding us that night. There was a strong garde presence in town, and one man agreed with us and shared the fact that this was the only town in Ireland with two female gardes. Gearoid asked if they were hot, and the man looked up into the sky, pondering, perhaps filling his head with lustful visions, and let out a long sigh... The long thinking 'Ummmm' ended with an abrupt 'no' and some insane laughter. We made it into Pearse Hall and Steven tied himself up at the door, pockets filled with cans of beer, with the bouncers to his left, the ticket man to his right, and two handwritten signs in front of him - 'No alcoholic beverages permitted on the premises. All beverages will be confiscated.' All of us amazingly made it through the door, as the bouncers were willing to overlook a lot. Pearse Hall, a run down concrete barn, did not let us down - some gentle farmer turned this former farming hall into a dance club by adding some disco lights and a sound system. If you build it, they will come, and the kids sure did - every teenager within 3 miles was in there, bouncing in rythym and showing off for their prospective mates. Gearoid turned to me and asked if I saw anyone else drinking. I scanned the place, noticing no alcohol at all, and reported my results - 'Does your sister count?' Elizabeth was at the center of the dance floor dancing away, chugging a Bud. A few other people did have some beer, and I overheard a typical conversation for County Kerry while in the jax - one kid walked in and asked the other already there, "Fitzy, where's your bird?'. Fitzy, without turning his head, replied, 'She's not my bird, she's yours now.' The night ended at a chipper, where the salt and vinegar chips satisfied our hunger and we waited for a teenage riot to break out just outside the door. The crowd only had two moments when things could've gotten ugly, but we crawled into the cab before anything happened. The nightcap was a few beers at the house overlooking the Atlantic as it met the Irish coast - the sky was already lightening by the time we called it a night. CLICK TO CONTINUE TO AUGUST...
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