AUGUST

1 AUGUST - BARCA BOUND (BOMBS AWAY)
Tomorrow I head off the green isle of Ireland for the first time since early March.  The morning greeted me in fine Irish fashion - dull misty grey skies that haven't been around in some time.  This weekend was drop dead gorgeous - blistering temperatures (high 70's) that made me sweat and actively seek out water and shade as I accomplished some painting in the oppressive heat on Saturday.  It's a bad sign when my body has become acclimated to the climate to such a degree - the 90's and hot sun in Barcelona may very well kill me.  In about 24 hours from now I'll be at CRK waiting for the BA flight to wisk me away to LHR for my eventual landing in BCN on Iberia Airlines.  There's something mildly upsetting about writing that last sentence, perhaps it's the jaded pretension so thick you can cut it with a knife- but the more I fly the more I feel like a little coat check tag, with my own four digit little number imprinted on my forehead, as i get moved from one people processing center to another.  It's an easy tradeoff really, four to six hours of agony sitting in uncomfortable plastic seats reading strange signs in stranger languages for six days on the Mediterranean.  I wish I could report all I have left to do is throw my toothbrush in my packed bag and head out, but I've got some laundry to get to and even some accommodations to find.  It seems finding a room before leaving would have been a wholly responsible act, so I've foregone it in search of the unexpected.  Plus I'm preparing for the all night club and party scene, so who needs a place to crash?

When I get back on Tuesday, I'll have only a few days to spend in the People's Republic of Cork (best t-shirt in town) before driving up to Dublin to fly out on a weekend junket to Glasgow, Scotland to catch a Scottish Premier League Soccer Match - Celtic take on Hearts.  Since I'm missing the entire New England Revolution season this summer (judging from their record, I'm one of the fortunate ones), I'll be rooting for Celtic's green and white, which is Ireland's most popular soccer club.  The big, murderous mobs really show up when the two soccer clubs of Glasgow - Celtic (Catholic) takes on Rangers (Protestant).  Literally, Glasgow usually has a couple game related murders when those two clubs meet up.  Yankees-Red Sox eat your heart out. 

 I'll try to drop a line from Barca if possible.

4 AUGUST - HOT TIMES

 I'm loving every moment in Barcelona.  It's got such a relaxed party atmosphere in great surroundings and hot, hot (33 C) weather (hot, hot women too - las morenas estan muy bonitas, y las rubias, ah las rubias).  It's another city where it seems people know just how to live.

 I arrived in Barcelona and shortly after getting my passport stamped and picking up my wet bag (the great folks at Heathrow decided to leave out all the luggage in the typical London rain), I ran over, grabbed some pesetas and bought a chocolate ice cream cone.  I know this sounds mundane, but the ice cream was melting before it was in my mouth.  I can't recall the last time I was in heat like that.

 Barcelona has a great buzz in its air at all times - the city is marvelously beautiful, filled with lush palm trees, surrounded by green hills that point everyone's attention back to the Mediterranean.  It's magical, and it's got a lively pulse that adds a relaxed air of excitement to everything going on.  I wanted to take my first night in town easy - I had to wake up the next morning and find some cheaper accommodations - but that went out the window and I made it in around 5:30.  I fell upon an Irish pub and went in just for a laugh - I ran into a Russian living in NJ and three girls from the UK.

I spent most of Friday at the gaudiest cathedral you can ever imagine - Gaudi's Temple of the Sagrada Familia.  Honestly, it took me hours to just comprehend and come to terms with its existence - and I still don't think I have a very good grip on things just yet.  It was started in the late 1880's, taken over by the otherworldly architect/sculptor/visionary Gaudi, who began to transform his vision of a spiritual rebirth of Catholicism in Spain into a giant stone cathedral with twelve spires, all over 100 meters tall (only 8 are complete at this point - the tallest one will top off around 170m).  The facade he built can't be described in words, it's seemingly thrown together in the most amazing way to show the nativity scene complete with a giant tree about 60m up.  I climbed one of the spires - a tiny spiral staircase that wound its way up - all the way up - with a few Gaudi touches along the way - a few select viewing points - basically, ledges three feet square that allow you to muster enough faith in his experimental building techniques to survey the existing structure, the current work being done (the Cathedral is still very much a work in progress), and also offers a birds eye view of Barcelona.  A strong case of vertigo sets in fast as you lose all perspective trying to absorb the detail and intricacies and totally unreal but completely natural mad vision of the cathedral.  When that happened, every muscle clenched, and the slightest breeze would make some scary thoughts appear fast.  There's no turnaround point for the weak of faith until about 50m, and at 60m Gaudi plays another ruthless joke on everyone - the slats of the stone spire change, and the pattern of light and dark entering into the ever narrowing staircase column (also without a central pole, so you can see all the way down) makes a dizzying affect.  It's absolutely marvelous and reassuring such a mad vision can progress forward like this.  Although the new work being done uses concrete and a lot colder and more geometric sculptures than I would like to see, it's still an amazing project.  I had flashbacks to Cologne around 1700 when they were in the mid point of the construction of the Koln Cathedral.  I'll stand by the fact sculpture died when sculptors discovered how nice geometry is.

The night life here is unreal - it really starts up around 2 am - and there's nothing like heading home in a giant crowd after the sun rises.  Clubs are at a high fevered pitch till dawn - and the streets and filled with restless souls and laidback Spaniards out to just enjoy things.  The one drawback has been the unusually large amount of Americans spending time here - it's just unfortunate to have to be around so many kids.  They have gotten worse too - in addition to their convenient guide book stories and unabashed naivety about almost everything, they now almost all carry digital cameras and deluxe camcorders.  As if Blair Witch 3 European Vacation ever needs to be filmed.  The crew at the hostel headed out yesterday to a restaurant called a 'vegetarian's delight' found in the guidebook to the screams from a couple American girls that said, 'That's soooo cool -I love falafels!!!!'.

Last night was a crazy one - some warm up drinking at the hostel, before escaping the scene with a blondie Dutch girl and heading over to some touristy discos on the pier.  We got to watch the sun rise over the Mediterranean when we finally escaped the sweatbox disco for some fresh air.  Tonight's a new night- I'm off to totally soak up the complete Spanish atmosphere - I'm going to take a siesta - and then start on some sangria.  My Spanish is unfortunately so fragmented after seven years on the shelf that I can understand numbers and some simple phrases, but have giant holes where knowledge once was filled with verbs, verbs and more verbs.  Also working against me is the fact Catalan is probably spoken more than Castilian Spanish is.  The two are close, but Catalan is a lot more like French than Spanish.

Que sera sera.  Anyway, I'm off for the siesta - I may head up to the beach and rest there as the waves roll in.

11 AUGUST - HEAD WRECKED IN SCOTLAND

The week started on Sunday in the hot sultry sun of Spain, taking in the unnecessary gore of a bullfight, now it's Saturday, and I'm in Glasgow drying off after watching Celtic blank Hearts 2-0 in a constant misty rain. 

Somewhere between there I'm almost convinced I was in the office in Ireland, my passport carries a stamp that says I at least arrived in Cork Airport, but I'm still not certain... 

Glasgow has already blown me away - I didn't have nay expectations, but it is surrounded by some beautiful countryside and the city itself is a collection of domes, church steeples and spires that dot the skyline, boxed in by some incredibly beautiful human scale stone buildings that carry with them the perfectionist and tireless decorations of the tradesmen who built them over the past 600 years.

The city has a surprisingly vivid and trumped up social scene, club after club line up the streets, each with a doorman dressed to the nines and a bit beefier than the one before.  Of course, the clubs are broken up by some pretty upscale pubs too, and the scene at night is electric.  I found my way into a blue collar pub (complete with Eagles as the soundtrack) and had a couple beers as I tried to make heads or tails of the local's language.  I was told it was English, but I would have the same chance of deciphering it as I would if I stepped off a plane in Mainland China.  I feel somewhat cheated having been in Ireland for 6 months now and not once having been asked to join the IRA.  First pub in Scotland and I was propositioned.  I played coy, and politely declined, although it would be nice to be a card carrying member.  (On a side note, I do support the Republican cause up north and on that same night the North's government was disbanded by London, making all self rule for the Northerners a thing of the past while the Unionists bicker about when the IRA will disarm.) 

I continued on, hitting a couple pubs before the midnight (midnight?!?) closing times - and then hit a club up the same road.  It was packed, the girls knew all the moves, and the dance floor was covered in an obnoxious smoke.  Things started going pear shaped as I was exhausted from the 6 hour journey from Cork to Dublin (a whole other story for another time), but soon perked up when some of the locals started dancing around my weary bones.  Needless to say, I ended up staying until it closed, aw ome crazy stuff take place, and woke up groggy this morning.

 I also was thinking about this week and how crazy it's been - when I got back to Cork, the city seemed so deserted, dark, damp and cold compared to Barcelona, and the girls dropped a few notches compared to the Spaniards.  There was some novelty in returning to Ireland from vacation, but that quickly wore off as I downed a few pints with some folks at the Old Oak.  Travelling should do nothing but wreck your head in some way, making your mind function in ways you never thought possible - the only thought I had in

Spain that was outside everything that was happening within a five foot radius of me at the time was how I couldn't believe I have a job.  It seemed (s) completely mindblowing that I actually work.  Today I realized just how little of anything I've seen - there's so much undiscovered country out there - what exactly does it feel like to take a three month trip on a giant freighter and walk off weary and somewhat for the worse in some foreign port?  I'm not sure if thoughts like that are crazy anymore.... 

Anyway, the night is till young - and I have a whole day to explore Glasgow tomorrow as well.  I'll report back any new findings when I get back to Ireland.

 "LA's fine but it ain't home, NY's home but it ain't mine no more."
Neil Diamond, I Am I Said

14 AUGUST - HEAD CHECKED

 After rolling through customs and passing the foot and mouth checkpoints, I headed through the car park to hit the open roads back to Dublin.  My plane ran a bit late, and not much time can be made up in the air in a 35 minute flight, so the long drive back to Cork started well after the sun went down.  It gave me some time to relax (as much as one can while devoting loads of concentration to the winding dark Irish roads) and try to put the last couple of weeks into perspective.  Going from the sunny expanse of Barcelona to the northern grit of Glasgow and settling back into the dreary late summer rains of Ireland is not the easiest of transitions to make.  The Dublin radio stations are a refreshing change of pace from the rest of Irish radio - usually filled with mindless club/dancey pop drivel - it reminded me of New York City’s stations.  The drive started with some sweet long play acid jazz filling the airwaves, but my short attention span and a weakening signal conspired to make the change when some commercials commandeered the airwaves.   

I soon found some old standards from the 40’s and 50’s - punctuated by some classic Sinatra.  The music was turning into the perfect lead-in to the driving music I picked up before I left Glasgow - a Jack Kerouac spoken word album.  He reads from On the Road as well as doing some singing that reminded me too much of William Shatner’s musical odysseys.  His readings were not in the same league as Ginsberg - although their was some experimental enthusiasm that was picked up on the recordings - the backing music was some sweet jazz that fit the dismal rain and the circuitous roads.   

I kept myself going on the 3 ½ hour drive home with the buzz off some Lucozade energy drinks and the remnants of the Dr. Peppers I drank all day in Scotland.   I indulged in some American pleasures not found in Ireland this week - Dr. Pepper was a treat in Glasgow and my hunger for doughnuts was satisfied when I ran across a Dunkin Donuts in Barcelona.  Nothing seemed really strange until I was about to take a bite of my Boston Crème when the soundtrack to Twin Peaks started playing.  The feeling of just how small Ireland is was reinforced by getting off this island.  As my mind wandered and tried staying alert, here's some of the things that passed through my mind at 60 mph... 

Bullfighting is one nasty event, I don't think it's possible to add the word sport to the whole affair - there's no sporting chance involved.  It's a merciless slaughter (and I'm not a PETA wacko either) that just doesn't seem to end fast enough.  I went on a whim, I hadn't planned on going, but thought I never saw anything die in my life, so why not give it a whirl.  It didn't take long to see death - the first fight was in progress when I got there and the bull was already on his last legs.  He wass cornered by a couple of toreadors and the matador moved in for the kill.  Distracted, the bull stood still, and the matador expertly cut one of his nerves in the back of his neck and the black beast fell to the ground in a heartbeat.  Luckily, there was plenty of San Miguel beer around to drink as the other five bulls slowly bled to death before your very eyes.  Basically, the band plays as the bull is let out, who makes a few laps before the matador leaps out and draws his attention with the cape.  A few not so dramatic charges later, and the band plays again, as two men carrying staffs on armored horses head into the ring.  The bull is coaxed into charging one of the horse, and as the armor is bent (it sounds like a Coke can being crunched), the man sticks the spear deep into the bull's back.  The blood starts pouring out, and the rest of the time the bull slows to a crawl as more things are jabbed into its back.  The matador is judged by the crowd in how effective he is in killing the bull.  It should die an honorable death, and not suffer more than it already has, but its a fine line to really concern yourself with at this point.  There's really not much to cheer about either, for the bulls never are so overpowering and threatening that there is a chance one of the guys will get gored.  So it goes, I got a good poster out of the whole deal anyway.

Some of the things I learned while there:
                Flesh wounds lead to massive bleeding, which leads to death.
                Matadors can never stab a bull with a dirty sword (if it falls out of the bull's back, it has to be wiped clean in the cape)
                Accuracy counts (otherwise, bulls suffer longer and the crowd whistles in disgust)
                Bull caracases can easily be removed by a spirited team of horses.
                The dumbest thing a bull can do is make a charge at a man on an armored horse.  (the spear in the back does the most damage)
                Bullfights are not as fast and furious as depicted in Bugs Bunny cartoons. 

The soccer match at Celtic Park was deluxe - I hit a bunch of Celtic pubs on the walk in (a sea of green and white stripes surrounded me) and the drinks flowed liberally and I still couldn't understand a Scottish word.  My seat was fifth row, midfield, I don't know how I scored such a ticket, but sometimes, things like that just happen.  The game was fine - Hearts wasn't much of a match for the European powerhouse Celtic - Celtic won 2-0 - Hearts played 10 men back the whole game. It was nice to see the Catholic bhoys do well - they even sell scarves outside the park with a picture of John Paul II and the phrase ' the Popes Eleven' (sic) - and the crowd was a lot of fun.  No hooligans, just some good old fashioned drunk soccer fans who had some pretty imaginitive comments for the poor officiating that favored Hearts.  The crowd was impressed when I joined in and shook my head at a non-call and called the ref a langer.  (Kids, don't use that one at home)  A couple of the Irish folks around me did a double take at the off the cuff use of some good old fashioned Cork slang. 

While in Glasgow I ran into a German from Stuttgart named Christian who was on a three week tour of England to watch 4 soccer matches - the Celtic match was first on the list.  His English wasn't spectacular (a rarity for Germans) but his sense of humor was (a rarity for Germans).  We were exchanging stories and somehow, the fact he knew a Schliefke in Germany leaked out - it was one of the strangest things to hear.  It turns out Folker Schliefke is a heavy drinker who makes his presence felt at the town's wine festival each year by ending up passed out.  When Christian would return to his hometown, he'd see his old schoolmate passed out and just think to himself, without anger or ill will, 'That's Folker Schliefke'.

Glasgow also has the best variety of late night chippers and food stands I've seen in a long time - not only are all of them greasy wrecks to start soaking up the alcohol, but they were off the charts for variety and held a pretty high standard.  I had a chicken tikka roll at one chipper called the Diablero that was doused in a spicy red sauce that made me sweat as I was eating it.  It was easily the spiciest food I've had in six months - I devoured it across the street from a crazy stone building that looked like a cross between a library and a Greek temple - it was converted into a hip club and had a line that disappeared past the corner.  It was amazing watching the doormen hustle the lucky entrants in - they had to climb the stairs in pairs and enter the doors that were set just behind the giant columns holding up the piedmont.  It reminded me of high school prom. 

There's probably a lot more to tell, but my mind's beginning to concentrate on some food right now, so I'm heading home.  I've also got to catch up on a bunch of email that's sitting in my inbox, I'll hopefully reply to a bunch of that soon....

16 AUGUST - ELVIS WEEK '01

It was four years ago today in Memphis, Tennessee I celebrated the twentieth anniversary of The King's Death.  Fresh off my four year stint in Kansas City, I was only a couple days into my three week journey across the States in Van Go.  Who knew four years later I would be sitting in Ireland with my Elvis Week '97 pin on my PC?

I made it to the Hairy Lemon in time to catch the tail end of Happy Hour (pints 1.85) and just before the start of the Ireland-Croatia soccer match.  I happened upon a conversation with a hurler from Cork who was wearing an All-Ireland GAA shirt.  The coversation started with hurling and the GAA, but spread out to include other sports, politics, and culminating with Johnny Cash and Elvis Presley.  Without even realizing the date, I had inadvertently spun off the tale of my time spent in Memphis that fateful day.  Later on I would realize the significance of the date - and today I felt obligated to make sure everyone took a moment to revel in some fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches. 

The American quote of the night last night also occurred at the Lemon - a couple in their late 40's wandered into the pub and sat at the end of the bar next to an older Corkonian.  They struck up a conversation, asking some general questions about Ireland, the weather, etc.  This was timed when I had started rolling - I had three pints of the Black Stuff down and the skids were greased.  I was already engaged in conversation, by this point we were already talking politics, and I was telling my Irish friend the story I've heard of how Clinton got the Protestants and Catholics up north to agree to a peace treaty.  I saw out of the corner of my eye that the husband was slightly bored with the conversation his overbearing wife had struck up with the local (weather can only hold any sane person's attention for so long), and could tell I was on a roll, so he was listening to the stories I was spinning as the words started jumping out of my mouth.  He wasn't alone- there was a older Irish couple sitting down that had more than a passing interest in what I was going on about.  So I started in and told the Irish kid next to me how Clinton got the Catholics and Protestants in the North to agree to a peace treaty.  He sat the Protestants down and told them straight to their faces, 'You know, the way I see it (bite lower lip here), it's just a number's game now - the way those Catholics reproduce without birth control, it's only a matter of time before they become the majority.  You can make things a whole lot easier now by agreeing to this'.  The rest is history, and the stories continued to roll on...  But back to the relevent story at hand - the American quote of the night - I had heard the man from Cork who was keeping the wife occupied had mentioned he was from West Cork.  The woman was interested, and asked, 'West Cork, is that to the north?'

Such is my fear of running into Americans while abroad.