Happy Anniversary!

     Last time I wrote, it was raining. This time, well, it still rains occasionally. But less and less every day. For the past two months, I've been exploring Ireland. At times with a backpacker tour, and at times on my own. Who knew there was so much to see in such a small country? Myths and Legends, Giants, Heros, Martyrs, and of course, Leprochauns.
     Giants are the reason for the Giant's Causeway in Northern Ireland that stretches all the way to Scotland. There's no other explaination. Who else would have -- or could have --made these rocks look like this, and sit in this formation, and then do the same all the way over there on the Scottish coast? Sometimes the easiest explaination isn't always the wrong one.
     The Burren, in the Northeast. So clearly a Leprochaun habitat that in my mind it's no longer a question of whether or not they exist, it's a question of why can't I see them? Obviously they live here. Why won't they come out and play with me? I mean you no harm! There are even small Leprochaun headstones for the ones who have passed on to the little shamrock field in the sky. Over the Rainbow, and safe from those trying to steal their pot of gold. Personally, I didn't spend too much time searching for the gold. But I'll admit, I was after their Lucky Charms! No such luck, though.
     Derry, Northern Ireland. The Bloody Sunday Memorial. The Hunger Strike Memorial. The Murals on the walls. I wonder how there will ever be peace in this part of the world when children walk to school every day reminded of the violence by the paintings on the buildings. Idolizing the Martyrs. Glorifying the fight. Painted images of guns right outside a bedrooom window, or surrounding a football field like giant ghost fans pleading to keep the game, the violence, alive. I've been in Ireland for two months now, in and out of Northern Ireland, taking tours and learning the history, and I'm just starting to figure out what all the fighting is about. Just another part of humanity trying to make sense of the paradox of war.
     Back down south in the Republic, we stopped at Blarney Castle, where I kissed the Blarney Stone. Me and about 500 others before me that day. I hope I didn't catch anything (the Stone was damp with the kisses of those who went before me when I pressed my lips to it. Eww!). All of us hoping to recieve some of the powers offered by the stone. According to legend, kissing the stone (while hanging upside down) will give you the "gift of gab." The ability to talk flatteringly to anyone you meet. My, that's a nice shirt you have on. I really like the way the green and orange swirl together to bring out the brown in your eyes. You should have seen the line of people waiting to snogg this rock!
     Doolin, in the West. The Trad Music capitol of Ireland. Sat in the pub (the only one) and took in the tunes. I probably could've stayed longer, but the five mile hike to the nearest internet cafe was just too much. Besides, I had things to do.
     Now off the backpackers tour, I found my way to a town more or less in the middle of Ireland called Thurles (pronounced tur-liss) where I had one of the most sureal experiences of the past year. Thurles, you see, is home to a place called the Dwan Brewery. How cool is that?! I walked in, took a seat at the bar, and ordered a pint of Dwan's Irish Stout. And as the bartender poured, I noticed that the tap was set right beside the one for Guiness. As it should be. I noticed a firefly zipping around the pub, but paid it no mind until it nailed me in the back of the head as I took my first sip. What an interesting sensation.
     There are five different types of Dwan to choose from... Let me rephrase that, there are five different types of Dwan BEER to choose from. An Dubhain (The Dark One) 5% ABV. Black Pearl, a Stout, 4.3%. Rich Ruby, an Ale, 4.6%. Cool Amber, a Pilsner 4.3%. And Silver Frost, what they call an American Style Lager, at 4.1%. I tried three of the five. The other two were not offered. But still, the only thing cooler then three pints of Dwan would be if they decided to call one of them Dwanimal Ale (or maybe even DwanimAle!). But somehow, I don't see that happening. At least not just yet. If you'd like more information on Dwan's Pub/Brewery (to which apparently I am no relation) then go to this website: www.dwan.ie (editor's note: This website is no longer active)
     A few days later in a town called Carrick on Suir, I found my homeland. The underlying reason for the whole lengthy excursion to Europe. Find the headstones of the Ancestors. And there they were, in the churchyard. Repaired at some point by someone. Edward and Catherine Dwan. My great, great, etc. grandparents. Laid to rest, up on the hill overlooking the town and the grassy green countryside. Quiet, with clean air. It was nice to see that my roots are dug into such a picturesque landscape, even if it does rain once in a while. It was also nice to see that threre was actually a headstone to see, as many of the stones from that time have fallen over, been rendered illegible by erosion, or simply stolen for use as building materials. To find an intact Stone, still able to be read, and still standing is quite a remarkable find. And I found it!
     Just about that time, my six months in the UK was up. So to avoid another international misunderstanding like the one I encountered when I flew from Norway to England (see "Look Ma, I'm an International Felon"), I decided to leave the country. And since technically I never entered the Republic of Ireland (I flew into Northern Ireland, which is part of the UK) according to my passport, which they never stamped when I crossed the border into the Republic, I decided to play it safe and leave the country from the same place I flew into. Back to Northern Ireland for a quick flight to Holland. The perfect excuse to visit a certain dark-haired, light-eyed Dutch girl I met in Scotland. Besides, April 30th was Queens Day in Holland. Yet another celebration I just happened to be present at. I've told you before, I don't plan to be at these things, they just sort of happen around me.
     But in other news, May 8th marks an anniversary for me. One year ago, I was packing a bag and telling my friends that I might be gone for as long as four months, six at the most. A year ago I thought Europe was a big place. Until I landed in Geneva I had only ever dreamed of going to Switzerland. I never thought I'd meet the people I did. I didn't think they'd affect me the way they did. One year ago, I thought it took a certain type of person to just pick up and leave everything behind and just wander around with no real plan.
     That was a year ago. 12 months and 22 countries later Europe is much smaller then it was before, and the world is much closer.
     It's been a busy year. I've seen a lot. I've done a lot. I've been homesick. I've been in and out of love. I've been kicked out of Europe and told not to come back for two years. Only to find out three months later that they didn't really mean it.
     I've been closer to the Equator then I'd ever been before. I've been north of the Arctic Circle. Skinny dipping in Italy, and rolling naked in the snow in Finland. I was in England when Princess Margaret died. I was in Ireland when the Queen Mother died. And I was in Holland when Pim Furtyun was shot.
     Then, like a firefly to the back of the head, something unexpected happened. A few weeks ago, I woke up and felt like I hadn't really been gone for that long. I've never been away from my friends and family for more than six months in my life. It's been twice that since I've seen some of my oldest and best friends. Yet somehow, it doesn't seem like that long ago that I was packing my bag and wondering how many pairs of socks I should bring, or if I should even bother to pack any winter clothes.
      The second most common question I get asked these days via email (after "where are you now?") is "where are you going next?" Well, I'm on my way there now, actually. Trouble is, I can never seem to get there. Because once I get there, I'm here. Meaning 'there' is somewhere else. But I'm determined to get there somehow. Meanwhile, I'll just be heading Out There.
     And that was going to be the end of the letter this month. Until I flew back into Northern Ireland from Holland today. And that's when it happened again. The lovely folks at Immigration didn't seem to think I had a good enough reason for coming back to Ireland after I'd already been there. After three months, I must have seen everything. Why could I possibly want to come back? Geez, where's your national pride guys?
     Note to Self: Don't write 'unemployed' on that little survey slip they give you at the passport check. And then don't tell them that you don't have any money!
     This time I was searched. They went through my day pack, my bum-bag, my beloved CDs, and he even skimmed through my journal! I felt so violated! I guess that's what I get for being honest. Yes, I've been here before. No, I haven't been working. Yes, I plan to stay for a few months. No, of course I don't plan on working on the sly at a small town pub. That wouldn't be right.
      Somehow, I was granted entry! Although, I don't think I would have granted myself entry if I was in his shoes. I was having enough trouble believing what I was telling him, and I was the last person I should've been doubting!
     So now I've got one month in Northern Ireland (where I plan to spend exactly one DAY), and then three months in the Republic, provided I get the appropriate stamp on my Passport. And remember, NO WORKING. Hmm, where have I heard that before? I wonder if they'll forget about this one too...

Props to My Peeps, and Peace on the Mothership,
Chris

thedwanimal@hotmail.com