The Reckonings
Before I say anything this month, I'll say this: Big Ups to my man Steve for
throwin' up this website for me out of the kindness of his heart. Thank you,
Steve. I now no longer have to forward these whole long letters to everyone
each month. You will now only recieve a neat little weblink to take you to the
Dwanimal homepage! Kick ASS!! You can now read all the past updates if you want
to. And if you don't want to, the most current one is at the bottom, as you've
already discovered by getting this far.
I've been reckoning things lately. I
reckon I've been on the road for almost 11 months now, not counting three months
in Mexico before that. I reckon that makes me a traveller, and no longer a tourist.
It's come back around to the 'high season' for backpackers in Europe. I reckon
that means I'll have to start making reservations ahead of time again. The people
I meet now have mostly been "over here" for about two weeks. Since
arriving in Ireland, it's less Aussies (although they're still around--everywhere),
and more Americans. And lately, Americans on Spring Break. They all seem to
have the same questions.
"How long have you been travelling?"
"What's
you favorite country so far?"
"When are you going home?"
"Have
you been working?"
"What do you do?"
"Yeah but..."
"How do you..."
"What do you ..."
I reckon I've had the
same conversation about three times a day for the past 6 months. I've started
making things up, just to keep it exciting for me. Unfortunately, that sometimes
causes problems. "I won the Lottery" doesn't work because they expect
me to buy them drinks all night, and then get upset when I don't. "I'm
an astronaut waiting for my mission assignment" doesn't work because I
don't know enough about science. And why would an astronaut be travelling Europe
anyway? "I work for the government" hasn't worked since September
because it's hard to make friends when people are afraid you might toss them
in Camp X-Ray for saying the wrong thing. When I "plead the 5th" the
Americans assume I'm a terrorist-funded spy on a fact gathering recon mission,
and no one else knows what the 5th ammendment is! So I have little choice but
to stick to the truth. I'm a traveller. I'm not the first, and I reckon I won't
be the last.
Pamplona, Spain for the running of the bulls. Biarritz, France
for the surf festival. Malaga, Spain for San Ferria. Munich, Germany for Oktober
Fest. Edinburgh, Scotland for Hogmanay. And now Dublin, Ireland for St. Patrick's
Day. I don't plan these things. Not really. They just sort of happen around
me. These past ten months, I've just been stumbling into the biggest festivals
and parties in the world. And frankly, it's starting to get in the way of my
knowledge enhancing travels. Here I am trying to learn about the history and
cultures of all these different countries I've been to, and it turns out the
whole world is just having one party after another! What's a guy to do? Run
away and hide? Close my eyes and stick my fingers in my ears waiting for it
to all go away? The only option left to me is "if you can't beat 'em, join
'em." So that's what I've been doing.
Recently, there's been a new development
to my little trip. I have been joined by (sorry for the cliche, but it's the
truth) an old college buddy. As with many of my friends from college, he has
many names. Bung, Mad Mike, the Jungster, Chemical Mike, and probably a few
others I can't think of. The point is, he's here with me, and now there are
two.
But I didn't wait for him to show up before I did something that I'd been
putting off and looking foward to for months until I got to Dublin. The heart
of it all. I had to have some of the Good Stuff straight from the source. Straight
from the cow's udder.
Ahh, the Good Stuff. And when I say 'the good stuff,'
for the first time in a long time I don't mean Natural Light. I'm talking the
original Good Stuff. The Blonde in the Black Dress. My Goodness, My Guiness.
Oohh, that's good Squishy. And as I sipped my first Pint sitting in the Sky
Bar at the top of the Guiness Storehouse with the theme song from the X-Files
playing eerily in the background looking out over the fair city of Dublin, I
realized where I was. Dublin, the home of one of the great rock & roll bands
of my time. Full of poetry, soul, a love for their homeland, and always up for
a good party. Of course, I'm talking about The Boys. Thin Lizzy! The Boys are
Back in Town! And I reckon if the lead singer was alive today, Thin Lizzy would
still be topping the charts.
After a sample of the Good Stuff at the Guiness
Storehouse, there was more good stuff to be had. And I don't mean beer. The
Good Stuff isn't always beer. There was Trinity College, home of the Book of
Kells, one of the oldest bibles in the world. Good stuff.
We took a trip to
Newgrange, to see a stone altar type thing along the same lines of Stonehenge
that was older than the ancient pyramids of Egypt. Good stuff.
We saw the power
and felt the impact of the murals in Belfast, and the Bloody Sunday and Hunger
Strike memorials in (London)Derry. Pro-IRA Graffiti, police patrol cars that
were fully armored and bullet-proofed, Police Stations surrounded by steel cages,
barbed wire, lookout towers, and CCTV cameras that would feel right at home
in a Mad Max movie, or in the future-Earth scenes from the Terminator movies.
Good Stuff? It depends on how you look at it, but...yeah. A not so subtle reminder
of the terrorism that plagues the world, and doesn't just breed in the Middle
East.
We stopped off at the "Peace Wall" in Belfast. The wall that
seperates the Protestant from the Catholic areas of town, and we took the time
to write our own well thought-out messages of peace to the world. I couldn't
think of anything more appropriate then my own trademark signature phrase, "Peace
on the Mothership." Signed, dated, and proudly in Belfast until the next
time the wall gets painted over.
We went to the Aran Islands. We hung our heads
over a 300 foot cliff that looked into the sea. There was no barrier. No rope.
Just the straightest vertical cliffs I've ever seen. Good stuff.
But (excuse
me while I try to get back on track here) with all the excitement and build
up of St. Patty's Day in Ireland, it turned out to be nothing to write home
about. Ironically, here I sit writing home about it. I had heard time and time
again that the real Patty's Day parties were in Boston, Chicago, and --according
to a guy from Virginia-- Savanah, Georgia. From what I have seen, I have no
doubt that this is probably the case. It started off promising enough. A weekend-long
festival with fireworks, a parade, bands in the park, something called 'the
glimmering', and tourists from around the world were all planned for our entertainment.
Except the tourists. No one actually plans tourists as entertainment.
To kick-start
the festivities on Friday night, we went to the river that runs through town
and stood in the very cold , but light rain for about an hour anticipating 'the
glimmering.' It was to be a dazzling display of flaming stars and circles and
who knows what else floating down the most polluted river in Europe. We put
up with the rain and cold for about 45 minutes past the scheduled start time,
hoping that the final display would be worth it. And when the time came, the
music built up, and the button was pushed to kick the whole thing off...it didn't
work. The first two stars in the line flickered and eventually caught fire,
but the rest of the line of about 15 shapes just floated dead in the water,
like a sad little boy whose 4th grade science project volcano fails to erupt.
We didn't wait around to see if they were going to try to salvage it or not.
Strike one. We were wet, and there were warm pubs waiting for us with good craic
to be had by all. Besides, the Fireworks display on Saturday was the big thing.
Saturday. We lined the street by the river again with the mass of other people
to watch the fireworks. Again, the evening's event was late to get started.
And when the fireworks finally did begin, the entire display was hidden from
view by a cluster of buildings, unable to be seen by the entire population of
the most populated area of Dublin. Strike two. Back to the pub. Back to the
Craic. Sunday. The parade was meant to be the real crowning achievment for the
organizing comittee. We put up with the light rain, again. The parade was 20
minutes late getting started, but by this time we had expected that. What we
hadn't expected was the 15 minutes we had to wait between each group in the
parade. Strike three. I'm sorry Dublin, but after growing up watching the New Year's Day Rose
Parade and the 4th of July Fireworks at Dodger Stadium, I guess I've been spoiled.
Off to the pubs for one last time to fight our way through the crowds of American
tourists to finally get our hands on a green pint. Not exactly what I had expected
from Ireland on St. Pat's day, but like I said, I had already been told that
the real parties were in the U.S. However, if St. Pat's Day was less then what
I expected, most other things in Ireland have been as good as or better then
what I expected.
And during these trips by train and bus, we constantly find
ourselves surrounded by something else Ireland is known for--rolling green hills.
Everywhere you look, there are lush grassy hills, pastures, and fields broken
by small brooks, streams, puddles, ponds, bogs, and wetlands caused by the nearly
ceaseless rain that falls. Rain, drizzles, sprinkles, whatever you want to call
it, it's water falling from the sky. And it's starting to get old! I know, it
wouldn't be green if it didn't rain, but come on!
Growing up in LA, I used to
love the occasional downpour that was an excuse for sitting inside on a Saturday
with a cup of hot chocolate and a book or a movie. Or the storm that could be
watched through an office window or the windshield of my car as the wipers sloshed
it away with that soothing tempo. I used to love walking to class in my shorts
and sandals during the summer monsoons in Arizona, because they only lasted
1/2 an hour at the most, and then the sun came out and dried you off again.
But I reckon rain causes quite a different set of emotions when it starts the
minute you step out the door of the bus station, and gradually gets heavier
as you walk a mile to a hostel with a 22 kilo pack on your back, a 10 kilo pack
on your front, and a nice gentle, freezing wind in your face. And when that
rain turns to hail, boy how I long for those days when I can just sit in my
Lay-Z-Boy with a hot drink and a book. But I reckon I'll have that chance again
someday. And I reckon gettin' a bit of hail blown in my face is worth it. For
the Good Stuff.
Besides, lately a strange thing has been happening. The sky
is occasionally a strange color. Not always the flat grey or white that it normally
is. Sometimes it almost appears (and if I didn't know better, I would swear
this was true) blue. I know, it's just as strange seeing it in person as it
must be to read about it. But I'm tellin' you, the sky actually looks blue some
days! Good STUFF!
Meanwhile, I've missed the Superbowl. I've missed the Oscars,
again. I've missed March Madness, again. It's just not the same reading about
it the next day on the internet. But it's impossible to find an American College
Basketball game on TV in Europe. But I reckon that's a sacrifice I'm willing
to make. In exchange for the Good Stuff. And I wouldn't trade it for the world.
Props to my Peeps and Peace on the Mothership,
The Dwanimal