I quietly opened the door to my hostel. I was exhausted, physically and mentally. I hadn't been this tired since LDAC. Something about walking so much of the day, lack of sleep from the anticipation, and four hours of high-energy "sarging" had left me completely depleted.
My one and only roommate in the hostel was still awake in the same position I left him in when I went to leave me things: laying on his side, watching television. His bald head facing the door.
"You want... I should turn this down?"
"No man, whatever you want to do, it's cool."
He turned the television off.
My first guess was India, the accent, the few features on his face I could see. I wasn't going to assume anything. After all, I just desperately wanted to go to bed.
"So, you-you-you were at a bars or someting?"
I took a long intake of breath, the reverse sigh, "Yeah, me and my buddies went out to a couple of bars."
"Did you... have fun?"
"Oh yeah, it was a blast. You know, had a couple drinks, hung out with my friends."
This, like so many other things I had said that night, was a lie. They were my friends, I suppose, now at least. Until about twelve hours previous, they were just guys who were bad with women.
"So what brings you to New York, pal?" I interjected,
"I am visiting my seniors here," by seniors, he meant those who were senior to him, like the Japanese use the term "sempai", not seniors in the term we use it, like a senior class at a college, "They all have jobs here now. I am meeting up with them."
"Good stuff, man"
"What... brings you to? City?"
Here we go.
"Well, a bunch of my friends, we are all over the country now, so we get together every once in a while. Reminisce about old times, check on the wives and kids, you know what I mean?"
"Yes, yes. So you have wife and child?"
"Uh, me? Oh no. I'm single, some of the other guys do," Jesus, this guy is like a conversational parasite.
"Oh, oh. So you enjoy the bars?"
"Oh yeah man. I go, I meet women, got a few numbers."
He perked up, "So you 'Got Lucky'? And got a number?" It sounded so mystical when he said it. It sounded some treasure locked deep in a temple in the Amazon.
"Hah, yeah man. I got a few numbers."
"Oh, so I shouldn't be surprised if you don't come back tomorrow night?"
"God, I hope so," we both laughed, though mine was polite. One of the things we were trying to accomplish was to not "get lucky", or course, this wasn't a cultural nuance, this was a sub-cultural nuance, maybe even a sub-counter-cultural nuance, if you really want to think about it.
There was a pause. I rolled over. I thought I was done. I was wrong.
"So, what do you, do for work?"
I fought the urge to tell him that I was a Disposable Lighter Repairman. That was my line all night to the ladies, but he, even less than the targets, would understand the joke.
"Uh," another reverse sigh, "I'm a soldier."
"Sol...dier?"
"Yeah."
"What do you think of... the political policies? Would you change them?"
Oh Christ.
I gave him some answer about how we should love babies more, and how it isn't really my job to second guess the commander-in-chief. I have a paycheck to get. This seemed to satisfy him.
"You know, I'm glad I'm here. I feel like, I can be honest. Like after two days from now, we will never meet. I can tell you anything. I can be honest. Frank."
"Yeah, I know what you mean."
I didn't of course. I'd been lying to strangers all night.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
A Historical Echo
It started in a pub.
That's how all good stories start, right? Especially when they start in Ireland. In fact, if that isn't the start to your story about Ireland, you're probably making it up.
So, it started in a pub.
When I met him, I was pretty unimpressed. He had short, spiky hair, a collared button down shirt and a hemp, seashell necklace. He looked like half of the guys that were in my English class Senior year.
When he opened his mouth, his voice was both blessed by an Irish accent, and cursed by a gamer lisp. I looked him over.
"So, tell me, I'm clearly not from around here," I said, "What is there to do in Galway on a Sunday night?"
"Well, you know Race Week started today, but ya know what I do, mate?"
"Lay it on me pal."
"I'm a pick-up artist, like that show on VH1"
"Uh-huh," he certainly stood out in Ireland. Prep hadn't caught on, but he looked like an average guy to me. Hell, I was pretty much wearing the same thing, "Like that creep, Mystery?"
"Yeah-yeah," His double agreement affirmed quickly.
"So what, you can like, pick up a girl..." I was at a loss for words, "Tactically?"
"Something like that, come upstairs."
I followed. We sat down at a table for an hour and a half while he asked me about my romantic history and explained something he called "The Emotional Progression Model".
"Relationships," he pontificated, "All share three common stages: attraction, comfort and seduction,"
The conversation diverted from mechanics of "The Game" to his own relationship past:
"I was in a relationship for two years, then she cheated on me and I was left back where I started. I was okay with women, but I heard about this book, and it changed everything."
I realized that my friend Lorcan, Erik Von Markovik (A.k.a. Mystery), and Neil Strauss (A.k.a. Style), all shared a common bond: discontent with their romantic lives, and a will to change it molecularly.
"Me and my mates are going out to a club later, you should come with us," and with that I was the American on another Irish adventure. Lorcan and his friends looked like any preppy kid you would see in America, and I fit in, but that made us all stand out.
"American fashion sense," he told me, "was still yet to really pick up in Ireland. It makes you stand out, and that's good for women." He called this "Pea-cocking". I, however, doubted this in a society which dresses its soon-to-wed members of society in awkward costumes to be paraded about Dublin. I, however, was the student.
We stepped into the club. It was surprisingly empty for a club, but given the lack of a club scene in Galway, Lorcan figured this to be a good night. One shot of Goldschlager later, we were crowded around a table. Slamming his hand on the table, he exclaimed, "Let's do this!" and turned to face his prey.
He spied a girl against a pillar, and pulled her on the dance floor. Within a minute, to The Fratelli's "Chelsea Dagger", no less, he was making out with her on the dance floor. Maybe there was something to all this after all.
"You've got to perform, otherwise you're just talking shite."
Fair enough.
I jumped onto the dance floor and pulled a girl to dance with me. Mirroring every move that Lorcan had done, to The Killer's "Mr.Brightside", I kissed a girl I had not shared a single word with. It was "vibe", or an amalgm of raw charisma and body language. I had vibed my way into a kiss-close.
I learned bits and pieces of their lexicon: DHV, IOI, vibe, kiss-close, seduction, state break, and most importantly: Lorcan. Lorcan was his real name, not a moniker like most other pick-up artists, but is also the Gaelic term translated as "Cruelty". Fitting.
At the end of the night, I was reeling. I was a lightweight, especially compared to the Irish company I kept, even though I had at least twenty pounds more on me, and as a result, I retired, but not before exchanging information. He was my one friend I had kept in touch with i Ireland.
I thought I was done with it all, just merely an amusing chapter in the book, but I was wrong, as I so often am.
I had told my Ireland stories at parties. I was the bard, the diplomat, who had excellent adventures in a far away land. The best of all was when I seduced a girl by explaining the very progression of a relationship, as Lorcan had explained to me. Piece by piece, I laid every stage down, giving examples, and being "in-state". I vibed. I story-told. I negged. I kino'd, and most of all, I escalated.
But this was just a distraction, I told myself. There was already mutual attraction. It was nothing. This was all hocus-pocus.
During my correspondence, I received an e-mail.
"Hey mate!
I know you're a little skeptical of this Pick-up thing, so I had something arranged for you. I'm good friends with one of the teachers in your area, so I had him make a little exception for you. If you're available, he'll let you sit in on his "bootcamp" for free, because I know you.
Don't worry about thanking me, the Guinness will be on you ;)
-L"
And just like that, I was on another adventure, only this time I knew exactly where it would end up, I just wasn't entirely sure how I'd get there.
That's how all good stories start, right? Especially when they start in Ireland. In fact, if that isn't the start to your story about Ireland, you're probably making it up.
So, it started in a pub.
When I met him, I was pretty unimpressed. He had short, spiky hair, a collared button down shirt and a hemp, seashell necklace. He looked like half of the guys that were in my English class Senior year.
When he opened his mouth, his voice was both blessed by an Irish accent, and cursed by a gamer lisp. I looked him over.
"So, tell me, I'm clearly not from around here," I said, "What is there to do in Galway on a Sunday night?"
"Well, you know Race Week started today, but ya know what I do, mate?"
"Lay it on me pal."
"I'm a pick-up artist, like that show on VH1"
"Uh-huh," he certainly stood out in Ireland. Prep hadn't caught on, but he looked like an average guy to me. Hell, I was pretty much wearing the same thing, "Like that creep, Mystery?"
"Yeah-yeah," His double agreement affirmed quickly.
"So what, you can like, pick up a girl..." I was at a loss for words, "Tactically?"
"Something like that, come upstairs."
I followed. We sat down at a table for an hour and a half while he asked me about my romantic history and explained something he called "The Emotional Progression Model".
"Relationships," he pontificated, "All share three common stages: attraction, comfort and seduction,"
The conversation diverted from mechanics of "The Game" to his own relationship past:
"I was in a relationship for two years, then she cheated on me and I was left back where I started. I was okay with women, but I heard about this book, and it changed everything."
I realized that my friend Lorcan, Erik Von Markovik (A.k.a. Mystery), and Neil Strauss (A.k.a. Style), all shared a common bond: discontent with their romantic lives, and a will to change it molecularly.
"Me and my mates are going out to a club later, you should come with us," and with that I was the American on another Irish adventure. Lorcan and his friends looked like any preppy kid you would see in America, and I fit in, but that made us all stand out.
"American fashion sense," he told me, "was still yet to really pick up in Ireland. It makes you stand out, and that's good for women." He called this "Pea-cocking". I, however, doubted this in a society which dresses its soon-to-wed members of society in awkward costumes to be paraded about Dublin. I, however, was the student.
We stepped into the club. It was surprisingly empty for a club, but given the lack of a club scene in Galway, Lorcan figured this to be a good night. One shot of Goldschlager later, we were crowded around a table. Slamming his hand on the table, he exclaimed, "Let's do this!" and turned to face his prey.
He spied a girl against a pillar, and pulled her on the dance floor. Within a minute, to The Fratelli's "Chelsea Dagger", no less, he was making out with her on the dance floor. Maybe there was something to all this after all.
"You've got to perform, otherwise you're just talking shite."
Fair enough.
I jumped onto the dance floor and pulled a girl to dance with me. Mirroring every move that Lorcan had done, to The Killer's "Mr.Brightside", I kissed a girl I had not shared a single word with. It was "vibe", or an amalgm of raw charisma and body language. I had vibed my way into a kiss-close.
I learned bits and pieces of their lexicon: DHV, IOI, vibe, kiss-close, seduction, state break, and most importantly: Lorcan. Lorcan was his real name, not a moniker like most other pick-up artists, but is also the Gaelic term translated as "Cruelty". Fitting.
At the end of the night, I was reeling. I was a lightweight, especially compared to the Irish company I kept, even though I had at least twenty pounds more on me, and as a result, I retired, but not before exchanging information. He was my one friend I had kept in touch with i Ireland.
I thought I was done with it all, just merely an amusing chapter in the book, but I was wrong, as I so often am.
I had told my Ireland stories at parties. I was the bard, the diplomat, who had excellent adventures in a far away land. The best of all was when I seduced a girl by explaining the very progression of a relationship, as Lorcan had explained to me. Piece by piece, I laid every stage down, giving examples, and being "in-state". I vibed. I story-told. I negged. I kino'd, and most of all, I escalated.
But this was just a distraction, I told myself. There was already mutual attraction. It was nothing. This was all hocus-pocus.
During my correspondence, I received an e-mail.
"Hey mate!
I know you're a little skeptical of this Pick-up thing, so I had something arranged for you. I'm good friends with one of the teachers in your area, so I had him make a little exception for you. If you're available, he'll let you sit in on his "bootcamp" for free, because I know you.
Don't worry about thanking me, the Guinness will be on you ;)
-L"
And just like that, I was on another adventure, only this time I knew exactly where it would end up, I just wasn't entirely sure how I'd get there.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Day 2 - The Un-Dubliner
An early start greeted a temperate Dublin day. Gearing for a walk, I made way for the St.James gate and the Guinness storehouse. It should be noted, however, that one should not under any circumstance visit the Guinness storehouse, which features four bars, one of which gives a complimentary pint, and then visit a culture hallmark such as Kilmainham Gaol, the prison used to hold Irish Revolutionaries. This is bad for business.
After the three click trek back, I then decided to wander aimlessly about Dublin, which brought me to the National Botanic Gardens by Glasnevin. Honestly, I was there to see the cemetery, as I heard they have some beautiful gravestones, but I figured that I am more like Heller than Poe, so perhaps going the road less morbid might be a good idea for a vacation.
The gardens though were absolutely spectacular. At one point I was greeted by a group of Irish kids. Despite only just being outside of the main areas of Dublin, they stood agape when I replied to their question. At first I thought that they must have been asking it to someone else, then I realized that these kids, way aways out from Dublin’s heart, have probably never heard an American except for in the movies.
Walking back was an adventure, as it always was. I made sure to stop in at every little store I could make an excuse for: ranging from convenience stores for a drink, pubs for a Guinness, to an old church turned into a lighting store, which was just weird. I chatted up everyone I could, usually females, who would light up, whether at the presence of my razor wit, or at the novelty of talking to an American. I don’t know for sure which was actually the case, but I know that it was mutually enjoyable, and that I drank a lot of Guinness.
Of course, I was doing well for myself until night started to fall. After finally making it back to Grafton street, where I felt most comfortable, I dropped my extra gear and decided it was time for me to work my game. On the way to the famed Temple Bar area, I ran into a group of guys, some wrestling, most watching and cheering. They were dressed like hillbillies: flannel, suspenders, straw hats, fake mullets, and fake bad teeth. Now the Temple Bar area, which has been likened to, by an American grad students studying James Joyce named Emily, the French Quarter of New Orleans, does not have a “no shirt, no shoes, no service policy,” so my good friend without either managed to do just fine.
But that is later, I am getting ahead of myself. Right now, these men are writhing on the ground. Being a glutton for talking to strange characters, I decided to ask what was going on. What followed was largely in comprehensible drunken Irish blarney,
“Oi! Itzaparrteefermmeematesitzastagparrtee.”
“Uh…. Huh.”
“Oi mate! Are you from Ah-merrrika?” As it turns out, I found the one Scot in Ireland.
“Yeah, yeah I am.”
“Oi! Where ya from mate?”
“Uh, Washington D.C.”
“Ah! D.C. United! D.C.! D.C.!” They all started cheering. Everyone began high-fiving, “Tell me mate, are they even a real team?”
“That’s the rumor.”
“Oi! All they got is Beckham, and he’s English!”
“Yeah well-“
One of his large, even drunker friends at this point interrupted by dragging him away, “Wir goin’ tu ah strip cluob layter. Yu should come!”
And just like that, they were gone, off to cause trouble in some other part of town.
Now, it is worthwhile to note that the Garda, or the Irish Police, do foot patrols about every city block, which might be reassuring, if they all did not look like they were picked from their college chess teams. I never sawone intimidating looking Garda in my stay in Dublin.
I say this, but I was always on the right side of the law. Being an officer in one form or another, I took the chance to talk to one particularly unintimidating Garda who was being harassed by sizable drunks who were grabbing his hat and making faces behind his back. Credit where credit is due, he had a lot more patience than I would have. He managed to vibe it off, which was impressive. He began walking away from them towards me.
“Does that kind of thing happen a lot?”
He chuckled, “Weyll, it’s a Saturdayee naight in the Temple Bar.”
“I got to admit man, you’ve got a lot of patience. Where I’m from, they would have been pistol whipped and handcuffed to a post if they had done that shit.”
“Hah, and where’s that? Iraq?”
“Well, yeah,” I paused, “There too, but there I am the one doing the handcuffing and the pistol whipping,” Cue laughter. Good, he laughed, “But I meant New York,” I am just going to say I’m from New York from now on. Its easier.
“Oh is that so? Is it rough there?”
“Eh, it’s a city, ya know? There are bad parts, but there are good parts.”
“Aye.”
“Say, is there anything to do in this city except for drink?”
“Heh, on a Saturdayee naight? Not really. You maight try tomorrah, there is a club down the ways on Harrrcourt Street, it’s mainlee nurses dere and the like. Open reel late tu.”
“Oh yeah? Sound awesome man. I’ll have to check that out. Hey look, I’ll let you get back to your job. Thanks for the info.”
“No problem mate, enjoy your stay in Dublin!”
After parting ways from the Garda, I wandered again around Temple Bar, trying to work up the courage to stay gaming. Starting was always the hardest part. Fortunately for me, it was Guinness Time, which they say is from “10 until 2”, but I am not sure which “10” and which “2” they are referring to there. Given the amount of Off-license stores, and the fact that there really is a pub, or at least a “restaurant and lounge, with a bar” every three to four store fronts.
So I set my parameters. No getting sloppy. One drink every hour. One Guinness per bar. Oh how plans change quickly. Looking for the Stag’s Head Tavern, on a recommendation from Emily, the grad student, I ran into the International Bar, which was surrounded by what would have been considered the concert going audience from a Pavement show. I step in, order my Guinness, and try my luck starting a conversation with the bartender about the stickers on cigarettes. No dice; this bar is called the International bar apparently because they only hire German barmaids. Well scratch that goal for Cat. No flirting with Irish barmaids here. I finish my beer and walk out with my tail between my legs. Fuck it. It wasn’t my crowd anyway.
Next stop. I have the O’Connor’s pub on the left, and the Auld Dubliner on my right. The Auld Dubliner also currently has the party of Hillbillies I saw earlier. Never made it to the strip club, I guess. Now, a logical person might say, “Ya know, I should probably just avoid them, it might not end well for me,” but I am in Ireland to have an adventure, and the Guinness probably helped, so I chose the Auld Dubliner, which, by the way, I would refer to as the Auld Lang Dubliner as the night progressed.
So I went in, actually managing to sneak past the ogres at the door in straw hats, and made my way to the bar where I ordered another Guinness. Sure enough, one of the party stepped up to the bar next to me.
“Ey mate, could I get a Guinness?”
I looked up at the man leaning over me, “Oh shit,” I said, exasperated.
“Oi! Its D.C. Boy!”
This started another conversation, where he told me about his time in America when he was twenty and not able to legally drink. It was interesting to talk to him, but I was more interested with the females that were right behind him. I stayed through the conversation to be polite.
“Oi mate! Wir go’an tu a strip cluob latar. Yu should join us!”
Recognizing that they had already invited me, I obliged, saying that I would need another drink before this adventure. Guinness number three.
Having to piss, I had the honor of using the urinal trough next to a guy who was wearing a polka dotted apron: another stag party. I love this city more and more. It turns out that unlike in the US, where they celebrate a bachelor’s fleeting days of fun in one mediocre night of debauchery, the Irish usually celebrate for a good week before hand. I would later meet a man whose friends are each getting married on weekends for the entire month of August. How does the entire country function?
In a moment of better judgment, however, I decided that going to a strip club with a bunch of big, burly, as well as small and burly, Irish and Scottish men just might not end up in being the best night in the world. Feeling it was time to bounce, I slipped out the door unnoticed by the Irishmen who were currently trying to work their best drunk game,
Temple Bar. The Temple Bar. I was here the day before, and it was a lot more packed. From what I could tell, there were three or four stag parties, as well as two hen parties. Hen parties, I’m told, are the opposite of Stag parties, or as we might know them: bachelorette parties. There is the same sort of revelry in their debauchery as their male counterparts. Ireland gets better and better.
Interestingly enough, I have the hardest time meeting Irish women. The night before at The Temple Bar, I ended up chatting with a group of French exchange students. Unfortunately for me, the only female in the group, who was digging me, was also the linguist for her two friends who had just dropped in country. I spoke a little French, she spoke a little English. It was a romance for the movies. Sonia, if you ever read this… scratch that. I honestly hope that for what follows later in this story, that you never read this book, and more importantly completely forget we ever met.
Moving along, I straight line it to the bar in the back. Unsure whether or not this place is actually chartered for a particular group, I pretend to be following someone who is dressed like everyone else. Upon reaching the bar, I am just about to chat up these two females to my left, when they engage me first by asking for the time. Irish? No, American. These two lovely young specimens were actually from California. A true East Coast – West Coast romance. It would never work. Regardless, I chatted them up but whether it was personal inexperience or Guinness four, I was unable to move past the attraction phase. It was a shame, the one was a solid eight, or at least she was with my good friend Guinness. I will never know. They excused themselves off to a club nearby.
I dropped the ball on that set, but it would have been hard to isolate anyway. There was one of me, two of them, and that would have left one girl sitting them in the wildest bar in Dublin, alone. Not an enviable situation, especially not from the American mindset.
Moving right along, I opened a three set in a nearby room, spinning a lot of the same lines from before. Are these girls Irish? No: Australian. I need to stop visiting these touristy places. Seriously, fucking tourists. Anyway, I introduce myself to everyone, and they are getting a kick out of my stories. Olivia, Scott and the name of the other girl which was something to the effect of Jayden or some such were the three. The third, we’ll say Jayden for the sake of simplicity, was actually the knockout here, but given on attempt three I still did not get her name right, as pointed out by the laughing at me, I decided I would try a greener pasture.
I worked on Olivia, and tried to maintain good rapport with Scott, asking the whole, “If you could be anything in the world, what would you be?” gig. The problem with that gig is that it really often takes a long time for people to come up with an honest answer, which leads to awkward pauses. I spun some more of my stories, and took the old Mystery line of saying that I would be a magician, and that I was good at making things disappear, like Guinness and virginity. Great work, Thom. Guinness makes you more of an asshole than you already are. America is proud.
I had them rolling for a while, but the set wound down and I dropped the ball. I could have isolated Olivia, because it was actually whats-her-face who pulled her and Scott away. Live and learn.
“I’d be a rally car driver,”
“Huh?”
“The answer to your question: I’d be a rally car driver,” Scott said as he was being pulled away.
Well played, Scott.
By this point, my opened set tally is most than halfway to my mark, which is what is important. So, undaunted, I sit back at the bar. Now, somewhere between the Americans and the Australians, I met Joe. Joe Thomas Something. The details of that were lost in the noise. Another drunk Irishmen, we started with small talk and moved onto talking about America. If it is one thing that people in Ireland are fascinated by, or so it would seem by the amount of times I was asked the question, it was who I was voting for in the next election. Given that I did not think that there would be a particular opinion one way or the other, I went with honesty. This was perhaps the first choice to talk about myself that I had that I did without any re-creation of my character.
I was right. There was no fiery opinion one way or the other, except that Bush was an asshole. Got it. So we talked politics and he asked where I was from, when I told him New York, he mentioned how he had been there to visit, and how “fecking harrrd it is tu find ah pub”. I laughed and told him that New York is built to keep insiders in, and outsiders out. We laughed.
No surprise here, but Joe was part of a stag party. The uniform, though I don’t think it was intentional, was white button down shirts with vertical stripes. I wore mine yesterday, shit.
“Ey mate! Yu should come out with mah boys. Wir go’an to a strip cluob layter.”
You have go to be shitting me.
Okay, okay, God, I get it. You want me to go to a strip club.
Of course, I did not know that half of the adventure would be wandering drunkenly around Dublin trying to find this alleged lapdance bar. Somewhere around Guinness seven or eight, I have managed to make it outside where I meet the lucky man, who is quite possibly the most Irish looking man I have ever seen in my entire life: red hair, roman nose, weighed about 250 and looks like he could intimidate steel bending. I don’t remember his name, but I am going to call him Patrick, because in my mind: his name was Patrick.
One of their friends also bore a striking resemblance to Dante Hicks. It was uncanny, and I regret not having my cell phone or my camera on me. Of course, when I brought up the Clerks movies, they likened him to Silent Bob. Trust me, ringer for Dante Hicks. It seems he was also a former Royal Marine. Shit, stay on this guy’s good side. No problem there. They were all stand up guys.
Dave was trouble however. I actually had met him earlier in the bar when I tried to open a set.
“’Ey! Where are yu from, mate? You from Ah-mer-ika?”
Christ, everyone has the same amount of canned material that I do, at least when they are drunk.
“Yeah, New York.”
“Oh fuckin’ New York,” he tried to affect his best American accent, which was only a slightly less Irish accent, “Fuckin’ Sopranos an’ shit.”
Yeah, and Bruce Fucking Springsteen. That’s New Jersey, asshole.
“Oh, don’t mind me, mate. I’m a bit drunk.”
“No problem, no problem.”
Well, flash forward an hour, and what do I hear?
“Fuckin’ New York!”
I chuckle and continue my conversation with Dante and Patrick, “Oh I love the way you talk man!”
“Would ya preefar I talk like this, mate?” I tried in my best Irish accent, which, gauging the reactions of the crowd, was only a slightly less American accent. They laughed. Hard.
After finally collecting all eight of us, we go walking back down Grafton street, over past St.Stephen’s Green, and by a bunch of places I had never seen during the day. Of course, while I was talking with everyone, all I was thinking about was: please God let me be able to find my way home.
I remember doubling back at least once, or at least I think we did because I remember saying, “Oh good, it’s near Grafton street. I’ll be able to find my way back.”
An hour into the search, we wind our way to a corner where we debate, at length, whether or not this lapdance bar even exists. The weediest guy of the bunch insists that it is right up ahead, and that we are so close we can taste it.
Anything you have ever heard about the Irish loving their beer, is absolutely true. In the middle of this debate, we decided that it is not a good time to get a pick-me-up drink. Also, I have to drain Guinness’ three through nine. I am not going to drink more. I’m not. I am going to be responsible.
Patrick motioned to me, “Hey, aintcha got something ta drink?”
“Nah I didn’t get anything.”
“There, I got that for my mate, but he wandered off to the club, its yours. Jack and coke.”
Good. Excellent. Once you start introducing names into the mix, you know it is going to be a long night. Right I was. Now, I had reached the point where a drinker feels invincible. Great. You know, no matter how grounded you are, the whole impaired judgment thing really does terrible things.
We did eventually make it to the club. Apparently it was one of the more legitimate clubs: no hands on, no sex, no blowjobs. What's the point? I was just going to play it cool and close to the chest.
The first dancer saw I was not actively engaged in the conversation at the bar that my mates were having. After politely declining, I realized that if I was going to survive this without having to wash my soul, I was going to have to get my head in the game.
Now, nothing against these girls, because they were drop dead gorgeous, but they were not interesting to me. I was a big game hunter in a zoo. My prey was right there, but they were just as useful to me as I was to them. If anything, the advantage was out of my hands. The lion was mocking the hunter, unable to mount its head over his mantle.
The second girl, a beautiful German girl (again, no Irish girls, what the Hell?), approached me.
“Vould you like ah dans?”
“No thanks,” I said, returning to Heineken one.
“Oh! You’re American.”
No shit.
“Guilty as charged,” There was a pause. I chuckled, which cued her to do the same. I think the one thing I have learned in this country, or I suppose while travelling abroad, or even anywhere that is noise, is the importance of mirroring. Specifically, if they are laughing, you should laugh too. I cannot think of any situation where everyone else laughing could possibly be an indication not to laugh as well.
“Vere in America are you from?”
“New York.”
“Oh yah! I spent some time in Las Vegas a few years ago actually.”
Fascinating, were you a stripper there too?
“That’s pretty cool,” I said diffidently, looking over to the other side of the bar.
I really thought she would get it. I was not interested. I guess she thought I was shy, but I thought the glamour of drunk Irish money would be more appealing than a quiet, silently disturbed American.
“So vat do you do? Vat ees your job?”
“I’m a soldier.” I said coldly. Here was where I was going to lay the deathblow. If this next topic of conversation did not get her kilometers away, and in a hurry, then I am doing the wrong stinking thing.
“Oh ya? Do you like it?”
“It is what it is. You like it some days, and you don’t like it others. You end up with a lot of shit on your mind. Issues and shit,” I laid it on thick, “You get nightmares sometimes. All the things you do, all the things you couldn’t, but at the end of the day, its just a job; a means to an end. Slainte”
Immediately she looked very uncomfortable. Good, run away, as far as you can. She wrapped her arm around my waist before asking me again:
“Are you… sure you do not vant a dans?”
“Yeah, thanks. I need to make sure my buddies don’t get in trouble. Got to stay lucid,” God was that a joke. I had not been lucid for about six Guinnesses.
She walked away and I had to wonder though: do you stick 1 Euro coins in a stripper’s G-string over here?
I rejoined the mainstay of the group, and Joe, who appeared to be the heaviest drinker with the worst tolerance of the group, was looking to bounce from the club. Paul, and the littlest Irishman also joined us. Where did we go? Back to the bar, of course. So we return to the Temple Bar, and the crowd looks exactly the same two and a half hours later.
Joe and I talked about nothing in particular for the remainder of the evening until the lights shone brightly, the international sign for, “Okay you rotten drunks, get out of my bar”. We mainly talked about how beautiful Irish women were, and he tried to convince me that in Northern Ireland, the women are even more beautiful, and that Americans are regarded with the same sort of mysticism that Australians and Irishmen are seen with stateside. During all of this, I refrained from mentioning that I felt that Northern Ireland was “Fake Ireland”. God save the Queen and all that.
Somewhere along the line, we switched from Guinness to whiskey. Bushmills. My old friend. That church door shaped bottle had helped me get through a lot of rough times in college, but for the sake of my host, I allowed him to Christen me to the experience.
“Dis shit. Dis is da good stuff, mate. Four-hundred years and they are keepin’ everythin’ da same. Yu know dere doin’ somethin’ raight.”
This, however, was not the whiskey I was used to drinking. This was the sixteen year old whiskey. It burned, but how exquisite of a taste. As a bit of a whiskey snob, I was only mad that I was far too drunk to truly appreciate the nuances of the taste.
The lights came on and we prepared ourselves mentally for the trek back to our respective hostels. He got my email address, promising me that I would have a place to stay when I go to Belfast. Of course, even my drunken eyes could tell that he botched my email, and instead of being able to fix it, my clumsy hands just hit “save”, or it could have been “delete” who knows? I would not expect him to open his house up to me, but it would be an interesting time none the less.
I stumbled back to my room, where I stripped and passed out in a heap. Day two in Ireland: huge success.
After the three click trek back, I then decided to wander aimlessly about Dublin, which brought me to the National Botanic Gardens by Glasnevin. Honestly, I was there to see the cemetery, as I heard they have some beautiful gravestones, but I figured that I am more like Heller than Poe, so perhaps going the road less morbid might be a good idea for a vacation.
The gardens though were absolutely spectacular. At one point I was greeted by a group of Irish kids. Despite only just being outside of the main areas of Dublin, they stood agape when I replied to their question. At first I thought that they must have been asking it to someone else, then I realized that these kids, way aways out from Dublin’s heart, have probably never heard an American except for in the movies.
Walking back was an adventure, as it always was. I made sure to stop in at every little store I could make an excuse for: ranging from convenience stores for a drink, pubs for a Guinness, to an old church turned into a lighting store, which was just weird. I chatted up everyone I could, usually females, who would light up, whether at the presence of my razor wit, or at the novelty of talking to an American. I don’t know for sure which was actually the case, but I know that it was mutually enjoyable, and that I drank a lot of Guinness.
Of course, I was doing well for myself until night started to fall. After finally making it back to Grafton street, where I felt most comfortable, I dropped my extra gear and decided it was time for me to work my game. On the way to the famed Temple Bar area, I ran into a group of guys, some wrestling, most watching and cheering. They were dressed like hillbillies: flannel, suspenders, straw hats, fake mullets, and fake bad teeth. Now the Temple Bar area, which has been likened to, by an American grad students studying James Joyce named Emily, the French Quarter of New Orleans, does not have a “no shirt, no shoes, no service policy,” so my good friend without either managed to do just fine.
But that is later, I am getting ahead of myself. Right now, these men are writhing on the ground. Being a glutton for talking to strange characters, I decided to ask what was going on. What followed was largely in comprehensible drunken Irish blarney,
“Oi! Itzaparrteefermmeematesitzastagparrtee.”
“Uh…. Huh.”
“Oi mate! Are you from Ah-merrrika?” As it turns out, I found the one Scot in Ireland.
“Yeah, yeah I am.”
“Oi! Where ya from mate?”
“Uh, Washington D.C.”
“Ah! D.C. United! D.C.! D.C.!” They all started cheering. Everyone began high-fiving, “Tell me mate, are they even a real team?”
“That’s the rumor.”
“Oi! All they got is Beckham, and he’s English!”
“Yeah well-“
One of his large, even drunker friends at this point interrupted by dragging him away, “Wir goin’ tu ah strip cluob layter. Yu should come!”
And just like that, they were gone, off to cause trouble in some other part of town.
Now, it is worthwhile to note that the Garda, or the Irish Police, do foot patrols about every city block, which might be reassuring, if they all did not look like they were picked from their college chess teams. I never sawone intimidating looking Garda in my stay in Dublin.
I say this, but I was always on the right side of the law. Being an officer in one form or another, I took the chance to talk to one particularly unintimidating Garda who was being harassed by sizable drunks who were grabbing his hat and making faces behind his back. Credit where credit is due, he had a lot more patience than I would have. He managed to vibe it off, which was impressive. He began walking away from them towards me.
“Does that kind of thing happen a lot?”
He chuckled, “Weyll, it’s a Saturdayee naight in the Temple Bar.”
“I got to admit man, you’ve got a lot of patience. Where I’m from, they would have been pistol whipped and handcuffed to a post if they had done that shit.”
“Hah, and where’s that? Iraq?”
“Well, yeah,” I paused, “There too, but there I am the one doing the handcuffing and the pistol whipping,” Cue laughter. Good, he laughed, “But I meant New York,” I am just going to say I’m from New York from now on. Its easier.
“Oh is that so? Is it rough there?”
“Eh, it’s a city, ya know? There are bad parts, but there are good parts.”
“Aye.”
“Say, is there anything to do in this city except for drink?”
“Heh, on a Saturdayee naight? Not really. You maight try tomorrah, there is a club down the ways on Harrrcourt Street, it’s mainlee nurses dere and the like. Open reel late tu.”
“Oh yeah? Sound awesome man. I’ll have to check that out. Hey look, I’ll let you get back to your job. Thanks for the info.”
“No problem mate, enjoy your stay in Dublin!”
After parting ways from the Garda, I wandered again around Temple Bar, trying to work up the courage to stay gaming. Starting was always the hardest part. Fortunately for me, it was Guinness Time, which they say is from “10 until 2”, but I am not sure which “10” and which “2” they are referring to there. Given the amount of Off-license stores, and the fact that there really is a pub, or at least a “restaurant and lounge, with a bar” every three to four store fronts.
So I set my parameters. No getting sloppy. One drink every hour. One Guinness per bar. Oh how plans change quickly. Looking for the Stag’s Head Tavern, on a recommendation from Emily, the grad student, I ran into the International Bar, which was surrounded by what would have been considered the concert going audience from a Pavement show. I step in, order my Guinness, and try my luck starting a conversation with the bartender about the stickers on cigarettes. No dice; this bar is called the International bar apparently because they only hire German barmaids. Well scratch that goal for Cat. No flirting with Irish barmaids here. I finish my beer and walk out with my tail between my legs. Fuck it. It wasn’t my crowd anyway.
Next stop. I have the O’Connor’s pub on the left, and the Auld Dubliner on my right. The Auld Dubliner also currently has the party of Hillbillies I saw earlier. Never made it to the strip club, I guess. Now, a logical person might say, “Ya know, I should probably just avoid them, it might not end well for me,” but I am in Ireland to have an adventure, and the Guinness probably helped, so I chose the Auld Dubliner, which, by the way, I would refer to as the Auld Lang Dubliner as the night progressed.
So I went in, actually managing to sneak past the ogres at the door in straw hats, and made my way to the bar where I ordered another Guinness. Sure enough, one of the party stepped up to the bar next to me.
“Ey mate, could I get a Guinness?”
I looked up at the man leaning over me, “Oh shit,” I said, exasperated.
“Oi! Its D.C. Boy!”
This started another conversation, where he told me about his time in America when he was twenty and not able to legally drink. It was interesting to talk to him, but I was more interested with the females that were right behind him. I stayed through the conversation to be polite.
“Oi mate! Wir go’an tu a strip cluob latar. Yu should join us!”
Recognizing that they had already invited me, I obliged, saying that I would need another drink before this adventure. Guinness number three.
Having to piss, I had the honor of using the urinal trough next to a guy who was wearing a polka dotted apron: another stag party. I love this city more and more. It turns out that unlike in the US, where they celebrate a bachelor’s fleeting days of fun in one mediocre night of debauchery, the Irish usually celebrate for a good week before hand. I would later meet a man whose friends are each getting married on weekends for the entire month of August. How does the entire country function?
In a moment of better judgment, however, I decided that going to a strip club with a bunch of big, burly, as well as small and burly, Irish and Scottish men just might not end up in being the best night in the world. Feeling it was time to bounce, I slipped out the door unnoticed by the Irishmen who were currently trying to work their best drunk game,
Temple Bar. The Temple Bar. I was here the day before, and it was a lot more packed. From what I could tell, there were three or four stag parties, as well as two hen parties. Hen parties, I’m told, are the opposite of Stag parties, or as we might know them: bachelorette parties. There is the same sort of revelry in their debauchery as their male counterparts. Ireland gets better and better.
Interestingly enough, I have the hardest time meeting Irish women. The night before at The Temple Bar, I ended up chatting with a group of French exchange students. Unfortunately for me, the only female in the group, who was digging me, was also the linguist for her two friends who had just dropped in country. I spoke a little French, she spoke a little English. It was a romance for the movies. Sonia, if you ever read this… scratch that. I honestly hope that for what follows later in this story, that you never read this book, and more importantly completely forget we ever met.
Moving along, I straight line it to the bar in the back. Unsure whether or not this place is actually chartered for a particular group, I pretend to be following someone who is dressed like everyone else. Upon reaching the bar, I am just about to chat up these two females to my left, when they engage me first by asking for the time. Irish? No, American. These two lovely young specimens were actually from California. A true East Coast – West Coast romance. It would never work. Regardless, I chatted them up but whether it was personal inexperience or Guinness four, I was unable to move past the attraction phase. It was a shame, the one was a solid eight, or at least she was with my good friend Guinness. I will never know. They excused themselves off to a club nearby.
I dropped the ball on that set, but it would have been hard to isolate anyway. There was one of me, two of them, and that would have left one girl sitting them in the wildest bar in Dublin, alone. Not an enviable situation, especially not from the American mindset.
Moving right along, I opened a three set in a nearby room, spinning a lot of the same lines from before. Are these girls Irish? No: Australian. I need to stop visiting these touristy places. Seriously, fucking tourists. Anyway, I introduce myself to everyone, and they are getting a kick out of my stories. Olivia, Scott and the name of the other girl which was something to the effect of Jayden or some such were the three. The third, we’ll say Jayden for the sake of simplicity, was actually the knockout here, but given on attempt three I still did not get her name right, as pointed out by the laughing at me, I decided I would try a greener pasture.
I worked on Olivia, and tried to maintain good rapport with Scott, asking the whole, “If you could be anything in the world, what would you be?” gig. The problem with that gig is that it really often takes a long time for people to come up with an honest answer, which leads to awkward pauses. I spun some more of my stories, and took the old Mystery line of saying that I would be a magician, and that I was good at making things disappear, like Guinness and virginity. Great work, Thom. Guinness makes you more of an asshole than you already are. America is proud.
I had them rolling for a while, but the set wound down and I dropped the ball. I could have isolated Olivia, because it was actually whats-her-face who pulled her and Scott away. Live and learn.
“I’d be a rally car driver,”
“Huh?”
“The answer to your question: I’d be a rally car driver,” Scott said as he was being pulled away.
Well played, Scott.
By this point, my opened set tally is most than halfway to my mark, which is what is important. So, undaunted, I sit back at the bar. Now, somewhere between the Americans and the Australians, I met Joe. Joe Thomas Something. The details of that were lost in the noise. Another drunk Irishmen, we started with small talk and moved onto talking about America. If it is one thing that people in Ireland are fascinated by, or so it would seem by the amount of times I was asked the question, it was who I was voting for in the next election. Given that I did not think that there would be a particular opinion one way or the other, I went with honesty. This was perhaps the first choice to talk about myself that I had that I did without any re-creation of my character.
I was right. There was no fiery opinion one way or the other, except that Bush was an asshole. Got it. So we talked politics and he asked where I was from, when I told him New York, he mentioned how he had been there to visit, and how “fecking harrrd it is tu find ah pub”. I laughed and told him that New York is built to keep insiders in, and outsiders out. We laughed.
No surprise here, but Joe was part of a stag party. The uniform, though I don’t think it was intentional, was white button down shirts with vertical stripes. I wore mine yesterday, shit.
“Ey mate! Yu should come out with mah boys. Wir go’an to a strip cluob layter.”
You have go to be shitting me.
Okay, okay, God, I get it. You want me to go to a strip club.
Of course, I did not know that half of the adventure would be wandering drunkenly around Dublin trying to find this alleged lapdance bar. Somewhere around Guinness seven or eight, I have managed to make it outside where I meet the lucky man, who is quite possibly the most Irish looking man I have ever seen in my entire life: red hair, roman nose, weighed about 250 and looks like he could intimidate steel bending. I don’t remember his name, but I am going to call him Patrick, because in my mind: his name was Patrick.
One of their friends also bore a striking resemblance to Dante Hicks. It was uncanny, and I regret not having my cell phone or my camera on me. Of course, when I brought up the Clerks movies, they likened him to Silent Bob. Trust me, ringer for Dante Hicks. It seems he was also a former Royal Marine. Shit, stay on this guy’s good side. No problem there. They were all stand up guys.
Dave was trouble however. I actually had met him earlier in the bar when I tried to open a set.
“’Ey! Where are yu from, mate? You from Ah-mer-ika?”
Christ, everyone has the same amount of canned material that I do, at least when they are drunk.
“Yeah, New York.”
“Oh fuckin’ New York,” he tried to affect his best American accent, which was only a slightly less Irish accent, “Fuckin’ Sopranos an’ shit.”
Yeah, and Bruce Fucking Springsteen. That’s New Jersey, asshole.
“Oh, don’t mind me, mate. I’m a bit drunk.”
“No problem, no problem.”
Well, flash forward an hour, and what do I hear?
“Fuckin’ New York!”
I chuckle and continue my conversation with Dante and Patrick, “Oh I love the way you talk man!”
“Would ya preefar I talk like this, mate?” I tried in my best Irish accent, which, gauging the reactions of the crowd, was only a slightly less American accent. They laughed. Hard.
After finally collecting all eight of us, we go walking back down Grafton street, over past St.Stephen’s Green, and by a bunch of places I had never seen during the day. Of course, while I was talking with everyone, all I was thinking about was: please God let me be able to find my way home.
I remember doubling back at least once, or at least I think we did because I remember saying, “Oh good, it’s near Grafton street. I’ll be able to find my way back.”
An hour into the search, we wind our way to a corner where we debate, at length, whether or not this lapdance bar even exists. The weediest guy of the bunch insists that it is right up ahead, and that we are so close we can taste it.
Anything you have ever heard about the Irish loving their beer, is absolutely true. In the middle of this debate, we decided that it is not a good time to get a pick-me-up drink. Also, I have to drain Guinness’ three through nine. I am not going to drink more. I’m not. I am going to be responsible.
Patrick motioned to me, “Hey, aintcha got something ta drink?”
“Nah I didn’t get anything.”
“There, I got that for my mate, but he wandered off to the club, its yours. Jack and coke.”
Good. Excellent. Once you start introducing names into the mix, you know it is going to be a long night. Right I was. Now, I had reached the point where a drinker feels invincible. Great. You know, no matter how grounded you are, the whole impaired judgment thing really does terrible things.
We did eventually make it to the club. Apparently it was one of the more legitimate clubs: no hands on, no sex, no blowjobs. What's the point? I was just going to play it cool and close to the chest.
The first dancer saw I was not actively engaged in the conversation at the bar that my mates were having. After politely declining, I realized that if I was going to survive this without having to wash my soul, I was going to have to get my head in the game.
Now, nothing against these girls, because they were drop dead gorgeous, but they were not interesting to me. I was a big game hunter in a zoo. My prey was right there, but they were just as useful to me as I was to them. If anything, the advantage was out of my hands. The lion was mocking the hunter, unable to mount its head over his mantle.
The second girl, a beautiful German girl (again, no Irish girls, what the Hell?), approached me.
“Vould you like ah dans?”
“No thanks,” I said, returning to Heineken one.
“Oh! You’re American.”
No shit.
“Guilty as charged,” There was a pause. I chuckled, which cued her to do the same. I think the one thing I have learned in this country, or I suppose while travelling abroad, or even anywhere that is noise, is the importance of mirroring. Specifically, if they are laughing, you should laugh too. I cannot think of any situation where everyone else laughing could possibly be an indication not to laugh as well.
“Vere in America are you from?”
“New York.”
“Oh yah! I spent some time in Las Vegas a few years ago actually.”
Fascinating, were you a stripper there too?
“That’s pretty cool,” I said diffidently, looking over to the other side of the bar.
I really thought she would get it. I was not interested. I guess she thought I was shy, but I thought the glamour of drunk Irish money would be more appealing than a quiet, silently disturbed American.
“So vat do you do? Vat ees your job?”
“I’m a soldier.” I said coldly. Here was where I was going to lay the deathblow. If this next topic of conversation did not get her kilometers away, and in a hurry, then I am doing the wrong stinking thing.
“Oh ya? Do you like it?”
“It is what it is. You like it some days, and you don’t like it others. You end up with a lot of shit on your mind. Issues and shit,” I laid it on thick, “You get nightmares sometimes. All the things you do, all the things you couldn’t, but at the end of the day, its just a job; a means to an end. Slainte”
Immediately she looked very uncomfortable. Good, run away, as far as you can. She wrapped her arm around my waist before asking me again:
“Are you… sure you do not vant a dans?”
“Yeah, thanks. I need to make sure my buddies don’t get in trouble. Got to stay lucid,” God was that a joke. I had not been lucid for about six Guinnesses.
She walked away and I had to wonder though: do you stick 1 Euro coins in a stripper’s G-string over here?
I rejoined the mainstay of the group, and Joe, who appeared to be the heaviest drinker with the worst tolerance of the group, was looking to bounce from the club. Paul, and the littlest Irishman also joined us. Where did we go? Back to the bar, of course. So we return to the Temple Bar, and the crowd looks exactly the same two and a half hours later.
Joe and I talked about nothing in particular for the remainder of the evening until the lights shone brightly, the international sign for, “Okay you rotten drunks, get out of my bar”. We mainly talked about how beautiful Irish women were, and he tried to convince me that in Northern Ireland, the women are even more beautiful, and that Americans are regarded with the same sort of mysticism that Australians and Irishmen are seen with stateside. During all of this, I refrained from mentioning that I felt that Northern Ireland was “Fake Ireland”. God save the Queen and all that.
Somewhere along the line, we switched from Guinness to whiskey. Bushmills. My old friend. That church door shaped bottle had helped me get through a lot of rough times in college, but for the sake of my host, I allowed him to Christen me to the experience.
“Dis shit. Dis is da good stuff, mate. Four-hundred years and they are keepin’ everythin’ da same. Yu know dere doin’ somethin’ raight.”
This, however, was not the whiskey I was used to drinking. This was the sixteen year old whiskey. It burned, but how exquisite of a taste. As a bit of a whiskey snob, I was only mad that I was far too drunk to truly appreciate the nuances of the taste.
The lights came on and we prepared ourselves mentally for the trek back to our respective hostels. He got my email address, promising me that I would have a place to stay when I go to Belfast. Of course, even my drunken eyes could tell that he botched my email, and instead of being able to fix it, my clumsy hands just hit “save”, or it could have been “delete” who knows? I would not expect him to open his house up to me, but it would be an interesting time none the less.
I stumbled back to my room, where I stripped and passed out in a heap. Day two in Ireland: huge success.
Day 1 - The Portrait of An Author as a Young American
I reached my hotel after a half hour of looking. The furnishings were not like a hotel, or a motel at all, merely a bed with unmaid covers. The accommodations are… Spartan… enough that even Spartans might complain. As it turned out, I had arrived before the housekeeping did. Oh well. I used to wonder what the difference between a 50GP hotel room and a 10GP hotel room in video games. Now I know.
I experienced my first which I believe to be one of nine Ireland rains I will experience on this trip. It drizzled, and then rained, and then ceased with a quickness. For the first time, it was quiet. Even the streets outside of the park were peaceful after the rain, and then, as if suddenly made aware of the absence of the timpani call of water droplets, humans began filling up the spaceagain.
At The Temple Bar was the first time I experienced the concept of Bodhrain, or to summarize an abstract concept, the ability to appreciate good spirits and cheer. The songs these men sing in the bars: old and young men singing old drinking and folk songs paint the picture of Ireland’s history as vividly as Ireland could herself.
I experienced my first which I believe to be one of nine Ireland rains I will experience on this trip. It drizzled, and then rained, and then ceased with a quickness. For the first time, it was quiet. Even the streets outside of the park were peaceful after the rain, and then, as if suddenly made aware of the absence of the timpani call of water droplets, humans began filling up the spaceagain.
At The Temple Bar was the first time I experienced the concept of Bodhrain, or to summarize an abstract concept, the ability to appreciate good spirits and cheer. The songs these men sing in the bars: old and young men singing old drinking and folk songs paint the picture of Ireland’s history as vividly as Ireland could herself.
Prologue Part Deux - The Flights
“I looked down, down, down, and down some more,
I looked and saw clouds that sat like ice floats on the ocean,”
Prologue-
After a bit of looking, I found my seat on the plane. The Irish don’t mark their seat numbers as readily as American airlines do, so it was a small chore in basic arithmetic to figure out where I was actually supposed to go. My two “single serving friends” were an older white family with an accent I could not quite place.
With age, and probably language against me, I chose to take the opportunity to instead attempt to sleep after three delays that had kept me from the Emerald Isle. Ironically, this was the one flight where I was not the annoying flyer who talks to everyone, but instead the annoyed who can’t get any sleep on the plane.
“Where. Are. You. Travelling? From?” said the old woman.
“Uh, I’m from the US.”
“Hah. Hah. Hah. Americans”
I narrowed my eyes. How insulting. I guess half of what they say about peoples’ opinions of us is true, “And where are you all from?”
“South. Africa.”
I chose the route of the higher man, though I really wish I hadn’t. “Oh,” I replied uninterested. And that concluded quickly our conversation on the plane.
I looked and saw clouds that sat like ice floats on the ocean,”
Prologue-
After a bit of looking, I found my seat on the plane. The Irish don’t mark their seat numbers as readily as American airlines do, so it was a small chore in basic arithmetic to figure out where I was actually supposed to go. My two “single serving friends” were an older white family with an accent I could not quite place.
With age, and probably language against me, I chose to take the opportunity to instead attempt to sleep after three delays that had kept me from the Emerald Isle. Ironically, this was the one flight where I was not the annoying flyer who talks to everyone, but instead the annoyed who can’t get any sleep on the plane.
“Where. Are. You. Travelling? From?” said the old woman.
“Uh, I’m from the US.”
“Hah. Hah. Hah. Americans”
I narrowed my eyes. How insulting. I guess half of what they say about peoples’ opinions of us is true, “And where are you all from?”
“South. Africa.”
I chose the route of the higher man, though I really wish I hadn’t. “Oh,” I replied uninterested. And that concluded quickly our conversation on the plane.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
One Adventure Begins - Exposition
"What's there for you?"
What is in any adventure for anyone?
"Who are you going with?"
Myself? Alone? Anyone I can find along the way? What is the right answer?
"You're so lucky."
Luck has nothing to do with it. This is an adventure hard earned. Here we go.
-----------
He stepped into the airport. The taxi drove off behind him. People were coming and going through the airport, utterly unconcerned with him or his travels. All he had now, was what he had on him.
He had a list of requests ranging from typical to ridiculous that he knew he would not be able to return without fulfilling.
What is in any adventure for anyone?
"Who are you going with?"
Myself? Alone? Anyone I can find along the way? What is the right answer?
"You're so lucky."
Luck has nothing to do with it. This is an adventure hard earned. Here we go.
-----------
He stepped into the airport. The taxi drove off behind him. People were coming and going through the airport, utterly unconcerned with him or his travels. All he had now, was what he had on him.
He had a list of requests ranging from typical to ridiculous that he knew he would not be able to return without fulfilling.
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