Ireland, Part One

Jet Blue has ruined airplane travel for everyone. They give each passenger its own satellite radio and television with multiple channels. You’re never bored on a Jet Blue flight, and you don’t have to bring your own DVD player or MP3 player.

I, however, was not on a Jet Blue flight to Europe. I was on a United, then a United, then a Continental flight to Europe. So when I realized I was expected to watch a 5” TV screen hanging from the ceiling 3 rows in front of me, I thought I’d never make it across the ocean. And thanks for providing me with exactly one hour of music on your music channels, United, when the flight is 8-hours long. Thank heavens we can fit a gabillion songs on an MP3 player the size of a thumbnail.

And why can’t I listen to my MP3 player during takeoff and landing? I still don’t see how a Gameboy is going to take a 777 down.

For the most part, the people I sat by on my flights were pleasant. Prior to this flight I would have told you that southern accents are adorable and I would never get sick of hearing them. I am no longer of that opinion, especially when the southern accent belongs to half-drunk woman constantly offering Twizzlers to people and laughing at her own jokes.

I flew into Shannon Ireland. Yep, it’s green. The Irish countryside has as many shades of green as the Utah countryside has shades of brown.

At the Shannon airport I stood by the baggage claim for quite awhile. One by one my fellow passengers wandered away with their bags until there was only one other guy and me standing there. A nice airport worker stopped by and said, “That’s everything from Newark, if you don’t have your bag yet, it’s because it’s not here.” She was very nice and had me fill out a missing baggage form. She asked me to describe the bag to her…I said it was big and black and had wheels. Like that was going to distinguish it from any other bag…

I left the airport and hopped on a bus with a bunch of hippies and a 50-something business woman. Also on board was a girl in her early twenties reading Twilight. Yeah, they read it there too.

2 hours later I was in Galway and met a native “Galwegian” taxi driver who told me all about the town. It was nice, except that I had been awake for over 24 hours, and therefore wasn’t as interested as I should have been.

I hit the hotel, fell on the bed, and fell asleep. Sometime while I was asleep, my bag showed up in my room. Little Irish luggage fairies, I suppose.

The next few days were filled with … sigh … work.

A few other random things about my week in Ireland...

What is it with Europeans and bathroom weirdness? Glass doors into the bathroom and see-through doors in the shower? Because everybody wants a front-row seat into what’s happening in the bathroom. My bathroom in Ireland took it one step further by having a full-length mirror next to the shower. Yeah, that’s what I want to see when I’m showering: me. If I wanted to see me naked I’d just look down. There was another mirror over the toilet, which when combined with the mirror over the sink, meant that while sitting on the can, I could gaze into eternity.

One night I got back to my hotel and found a sheepherding competition on TV.

American Express cards are useless in Europe. I know because the corporate card I was supposed to be using was an American Express.

Nobody uses credit cards (of any kind) to pay for fast food. Even if the restaurant is equipped to swipe credit cards, I dare you to try to pay with a credit card. You’ll get some very blank stares.

Not only do they drive on the wrong side of the road in Ireland, but they walk on the wrong side of the sidewalk. You know when you’re walking toward someone, and you inevitably have to decide which way you’re going to step so that you don’t run into them. Well, we Americans instinctively step right, but the Irish instinctively step left. This led to some embarrassing American ugliness as I ran into Irish folks, or ran them off the sidewalk. USA! USA! USA!

They race their horses clockwise. CLOCKWISE! I'll just sit back for a minute while you let that marinate.

Everybody uses stone walls in Ireland. Everybody. No picket fences, no vinyl fences, no wooden fences, no barbed wire fences. In Ireland, you ain’t cool unless you’ve got a stone wall. Also: kudos for your use of hedges, Ireland. You’re the bomb.

It was funny that Irish soccer fans are still mad that France got into the World Cup tournament over them via a dubious hand ball in a game between the two countries. A nationwide movement, called “Anyone But France” was in full force while I was there, selling all kinds of merchandise with their logo: A French flag with a black handprint in the middle of it. Since they couldn’t cheer for their own team, Irish soccer fans were encouraged to cheer for whomever they wanted, as long as it wasn’t France.

Irish cemeteries are awesome. None of those boring, flat headstones. They’re all a couple of feet tall, crooked, and creepy. Ireland does cemeteries right.

The Irish countryside is littered with castles. Most of them are in disrepair. It’s no big thing to them.
Me: “Look! Part of a castle! Amazing!”
Irish: “Meh.”

Some homes still have thatched rooves. I'm not sure why. According to the bus driver -- the most reliable source of information there is to a tourist -- they are quite expensive to maintain. There is a lot of vegetation around the countryside, so I guess it makes sense. If they ever come up with a way to roof your house with old Dr. Pepper cans, I'm set.

Next post: my bus tour to the Cliffs of Insanity. Oh yes, the Cliffs of Insanity!

Quinn