"Someone told me long agoThere's a calm before the storm"

I know. It's been coming for some time.



See. This is why I go in the winter. No expectations: no disappointments!

ALLLRIGHT!!!!! "Oh, oh big ol jet airliner, Don't carry me too far away"

Direct flight to Dublin finally set

After four years of trying by city officials to establish a nonstop flight between SFO and Dublin, Ireland, San Francisco Mayor Gavin Newsom said Friday that the airline Aer Lingus is expected to begin a five-day-a-week, direct flight by the end of the year.

Joined by Supervisor Sean Elsbernd and Martin Cullen, the Irish minister for transport, Newsom said it was an important milestone for the 11 percent of Bay Area residents who are of Irish descent. He said it would prove an economic boost, providing more than 900 jobs and bringing in $6.8 million in taxes each year to the city and state.

The European Union's Council of Transport Ministries must approve the flight -- which it is expected to do at its meeting next week

Hey Heathrow!!! B*te me!

“Vertigo is the conflict between the fear of falling and the desire to fall.”

Previously on our Trip to Cork: It is a bank holiday weekend and our flight to Cork has become an extended tour of circling the airport for nearly an hour and then flying off to refuel at Shannon. At Shannon, a deserted airport lounge is our home for the next couple of hours or so. Dinner has become a priority over missed entertainment. Fortunately, I have discovered that the vending machines at Shannon accept US dollars. (It's because of the military flights, my husband explained later. Well, Yankee Doodle Dandy!) And now: Part the Second of

MY FIRST VISIT TO CORK
or
THE AMERICAN TOURIST & THAT F**KING STONE
Part the Second in a Series of Three

Before going further I should explain, in 2002 I was traveling on business to Europe quite regularly. We were involved in a major programming effort with the subscription fulfillment software and the whole thing was based in Bognor. I was identified early on as the one person here who could represent our interests and be responsible for the testing. In retrospect, I was woefully unprepared. But we made the deadlines. And now I generally go over just once a year for upgrades or enhancements.

But it was on these trips that I could take a Friday night flights over to Ireland and enjoy a weekend. The first trips had been to Dublin – the first one would be officially B.H. (before Horslips) in summer of 2002 – but even the June 2003 trip was still before I knew many people in the guestbook and my plans were my own to make.

So I thought I'd branch out from Dublin a bit. I identified Galway and Cork as other possible weekend spots. I flipped a coin. And Cork it was.

And you've already heard about the flight over from Heathrow.

But by midnight, we were finally on the ground in Cork and I went out to catch a cab to the hotel. Mossie Daly was the cab-driver's name. I have his card somewhere.

Because revenge is a dish best served cold.

I wasn't, as you can guess, in a cheerful mood. But I quickly explained the whole business traveler on a weekend jaunt and been to Dublin and everyone says Cork is very nice, etc. etc. Then Mossie said "Are you going to visit Blarney Castle?"

Oh. Shit. That's here? I gave an inward sigh. Should have gone with Galway.

"Oh! Wow! That's here?" I enthused politely. "To think I nearly went to Galway!" And the Bernard Hermann score from Vertigo started playing softly in the background of my imagination.

(Backtracking for a moment: I have a fear of man-made heights. My earliest memories are of the terrors of down-escalators in shopping malls. I tend to avoid window offices in tall building, high balconies, or modernist stairs where the treads are held by metal risers, allowing you to look down and down and down the flights. I believe that my eyesight, which plays tricks on my depth perception, is part of it. But there's also just a primal response beneath all that. And whenever I mention that I'm going to visit Ireland, someone will invariably say "Are you going to kiss the Blarney Stone?" And then because it is not nice to say "Sure, when Hell freezes over" I usually change the subject.)

Mossie went on for a bit about the area and offered his services for a day's tour of all the regional highlights. Something he does for the visiting Japanese golfers. I suggested I was more of a 'find my own path' sort of tourist and probably would be too busy enjoying the many attractions of Cork throughout the weekend.

So by 2 p.m. the next afternoon after I had thoroughly savored the many attractions of Cork, I called Mossie. "Okay, you're on. But that Castle is out of the picture."

To his credit, I did see much more of the area than foot travel or mass transit would have given me. Cobh, in particular, was the highlight of the day. And through the radio station in Mossie's cab, I discovered the whole genre of Irish country and western. So there was my money's worth right there.

But he would not let up about that Castle. Finally I agreed that it would be a shame to come all this way and not just go see it. From the ground. Get a few photos for the album. While he checked in with his sons who were keeping a running report of the day's football game going for him via cell phone.

And when I was standing at the Tower's base I looked up to the highest part and saw the hole with sky beyond suddenly fill with the head of some foolish tourist – for all the world like Marie Antoinette at the guillotine – and Bernard Hermann cranked it to 11. I looked back down to ground level to steady myself and found Mossie holding two tickets for the climb.

"They come as part of the package," he smiled apologetically. "I'll be right there with you. It's all right. It's very safe!"

Really, I still can't remember how he convinced me, but it might have been a play on my innate sense of competitiveness. And the climb up was quite a bit like hiking a particularly rocky trail. (Natural heights are not a problem. I'll peer over the edge of a volcano with no fear at all.)

But the shock of the Tower's hollow core at the top – the rook in my chess set isn't hollow! – seriously unsettled me and early signs of full panic were beginning to manifest. My ears began buzzing and it became very, very important that I not look over the edge of the railing into the interior of the tower's depth where I imagined I would see the broken bones of some poor Japanese golfer...silken tropical shirt faded by the elements...at the bottom. It was also important to not see the stones of the parapet's edge in the foreground. Instead I kept eyes focused on the distant horizon and followed the ant-trail of tourists around to the exit tower.

Mossie tried pushing his luck one final time when we reached that hellish spot where the hole in the crumbling masonry allows people to slide out on a cardboard mat and do what they think they need to do. There's someone there too, with a tip jar, and he offers to spot you and help with the process. He looked up at me expectantly. Mossie looked at me expectantly.

"You know," I turned to Mossie, trying to keep my voice low and steady. "It's a good gig. God knows the mouldering bones of P.T. Barnum are rotten green with envy. But I'm not kissing that damn Stone. I'm in marketing. I think I'm fine as is. I also think I'm going to need to sit down soon."

I did nearly break into complete panic at the exiting stairs. The uneven and worn stones that would require close foreground attention and the little frayed rope railing for gripping pushed me dangerously close to the faint I was trying to avoid. Only the press of tourists at my back and the thought of what sort of rescue effort would have to be mounted to get my unconscious body out of there kept me anchored to alertness.

By the time we reached earth, I think Mossie was finally convinced that I wasn't just being an obstinate American tourist. He let me sit down on the grass until the buzzing in my ears stopped and my heart rate slowed.

Later he bought me an ice-cream cone and didn't even add it to the day's bill. And we drove back to Cork listening to T.R. Dallas and Margo on the radio.

Stay tuned for Part the Third:
"One foot in the grave, one foot on the pedal
I was born a rebel..."

"That clinking, clanking soundCan make the world go 'round"

Consolidating some of my older website essays to here where Google can have its merry way with them. Also, as an acknowledgement that it was my company's IT department that made my Horslips addiction possible, these old travel stories are fair game for inclusion here. This was originally written in Autumn 2003 and recounts

MY FIRST VISIT TO CORK
or
"YOU NEVER GIVE ME YOUR MONEY"

Part the First in a series of at least Two

On January 1, 2002, twelve countries sharing the centuries of common history that comes from proximate geography, apposite culture, and occasional bouts of intra-nationalist animosity took it upon themselves to unite behind that symbol of humanity which we all value.

I refer to, naturally, money.

And so as it was written, so was it done that Mac and PC programmers were set to the task of creating a ALT key shortcut, which – when executed – delivered the following:

€

And, lo, the Euro was born.

Yes indeed, for the Yank tourist traveling between Belgium, Germany, Greece, Spain, France, Ireland, Italy, Luxembourg, the Netherlands, Austria, Portugal and Finland, life was no longer the border-crossing ritual of learning new coinage, new denominations, and new terms. Harder it was for the locals to hide the fact they overcharge for the regional warmed-over variant of cerveza; easier it was for the cosmopolitan traveler to breeze through the airport not passing the Monetary Exchange booth and not collecting 200% in currency conversion fees.

Twelve countries. It could have been a baker’s dozen…but for one nation state that decided it would opt out of the new currency and remain with the monetary unit that saw it through the glory days of the Empire and the no less glorious, if slightly refracted through the prism of Washington D.C., days of New Labour.

I refer to, naturally, England.

Sure, Denmark and Sweden opted out too. However, as they aren’t directly responsible for my nightmare Friday night in Counties Cork and Kerry in Ireland, this rant is dedicated to the one nation in the three that does NOT contribute significantly to tasteful interior design or the international porn industry. In for a penny, Chancellor Brown, in for a Pound.

Now I’ll be the first to say that there’s something pretty damn satisfying about walking into a pub somewhere down in Sussex County and slapping a fistful of Pound coins down on the bar. Their weight, their thickness, that Latin or Welsh scratched into the edge like some Elven inscription waiting for Gandalf to decipher – Spend Friend and Enter – the Pound coin can take you back to the age when six people hauled trunkfuls of similar stuff ashore to some Caribbean fever-ridden swamp and only one person returned to the ship tucking up his sleeve the freshly drawn map made from what the rest of the crew hopes is just vellum and red ink. Why just the ring of those coins on the counter at the Dorchester Arms or the Prancing Pony! “Rum, Jim, rum!” I’d bellow. “Tell me when I’ve worked my through THAT, woman,” I’d say, throwing the leather coin purse at the landlord’s doxy. Yarrrgh….

And when pub talk was dull, nothing could kill a few minutes of time like lining up all the coins in chronological order and tracing the sag of the Queen’s chin line through the years. I think they should do one more coin for each monarch showing their final corporal state. A memento mori, if you will.

True, America’s got this one quarter for every state thing happening now, but it doesn’t compare to the fun of wondering exactly what that Welsh phrase is saying about its role in the United Kingdom. What is the Welsh word for Langer, anyway?

But for every pleasure, there is a price. And in the case of those of us who work a week in England followed by a weekend of vacation in Ireland, that price is carrying around TWO separate pirate hoards of coin and currency.

And for God’s sake, Europe...why so much coinage? Both Euros and Pounds have a TWO DOLLAR coin! Lovely, yes, and fit for presentation as a medal, but haul around a pocketful of them and you feel like some Vegas granny that won’t cash in her chips because she thinks it’s more valuable that way.

So, after my fourth business trip, I had a small haul of both pounds and Euros which I kept in separate bags for obvious reasons. Also, when leaving England, I kept a portion of the pounds with me in carry-on, but checked the other two bags of surplus poundage and the Euros in my check-in luggage.

Why would I do that, you ask? Let’s review the situation. Solitary American tourist, late Friday night weekend flight from island to island, and – why, what’s this on the X-Ray? - a mass of metal bits in a loosely shaped container hiding in the carry-on luggage. Spent a lot of time at the ‘special search’ area getting acquainted with security guards those first few trips that way.

So the routine was: taxi to Heathrow with trip and tip in pounds; one last English beer at the airport’s hostelry, a competitor with TGI Fridays for charm and authenticity, again in pounds; candy bar and paperback at the last English airport newsstand in the Irish departure terminal with the astounding collection of porn (and what’s up with THAT, Mr. Irish business traveler?), once more in pounds. Fly to Ireland, claim baggage, and commence the weekend...in Euros.

It all works like a charm, until one bank holiday weekend in June 2003 when the Cork City Airport tells your pilot that he can’t land until the runway lights are fixed. And then, after two hours of circling get the fuel to the point where a side trip to Shannon commences, a long evening of wandering around the deserted Shannon airport terminal teaches you the lesson of what Ireland would be like if there were no pubs at all.

A handful of English pounds, a planeful of fairly grumpy people who are not living up to that Tourist Board image of welcoming Yank strangers like myself and enfolding them to their bosom (or just maybe sharing their goddamn package of crisps, anyway), and a terminal full of shops and restaurants that closed hours ago. "Still," I thought, "at least you get a chance to see another part of Ireland" and I hurried over to the windows to see what could be seen before the gloom of darkness dropped its curtain. No lights, no hills, no buildings, no features of any kind except Vladimir and Estragon hanging out under a blasted tree. And at that moment, I knew their chances of having a fulfilling evening were better than mine.

It gets to the point where I eat all the cough drops and breath-mints that I have. I make a half-hearted effort to get the flight attendants to go back to the grounded plane and get something from the cabin kitchens, but since this was supposed to be a fifty minute (HA!) flight, there’s nothing doing with that. Then, on my way to the bathroom, I spot a vending machine with that universal red and white logo of carbonation and caramel water. "Don’t know what good that will do," I say to myself, "because it’s just going to want a Euro" but wander over any way. There’s a whole bank of vending machines back there it seems: peanuts, Oreos, candy bars, fruit drops, cheese-its, licorice...a bacchanalian vision that Epicurus would savor. O, for a Euro!

Then, I see him! Engraved near the coin slot--showing the direction his paper banner is to be inserted—is the father of my country, the only George to hold a certain leadership office with any merit, that old cherry-tree chopper himself: General Washington.

Here, in the farthest western reaches of air travel in Ireland, with the dark wilderness of bog and mountain held back by the thinnest veneer of late-twentieth century plate-glass windows, is a vending machine that Takes U.S. Dollars!

And, Mark or Yen or Euro or Pound, I ALWAYS carry Uncle Sam’s greenbacks! Five of them later and I was fit and full, ruminating comfortably over my paperback porn in an airport row chair, waiting for the announcement that Cork Airport found their D-Cell batteries and we could all get on that plane and back to our weekends.

A weekend in Cork, I thought, will more than make up for this unfortunate beginning.

Stay Tuned for Part the Second: Blarney Stoned Again...

Venus and Mars: Valentines Weekend in Dublin, 2003

Husband: It's late Sunday. Mardi Gras is hours away and you're still grinding your gears on Valentine's Day.
Me: True. But you know...supposed to be resting my eyes this weekend.
Husband: Are you sure that's all?
Me: I don't want to write up that argument at the church.
Husband: It wasn't a big deal. We got lost walking there and when we showed up they were in the middle of something. And so we left without the ring blessing thing which I wasn't too hot for in the first place. There. Now it's written up.
Me: And my mother did like the gift we found for her at their bookshop.
Husband: Fifteen minutes later, I was already in a better mood.
Me: Oh, now I remember how that came about!

***
"She Died of a Fever"

We were back on Grafton Street and walking toward O'Connell Bridge. Suddenly the bulk of my husband's presence was no longer keeping pace with me. I turned to see what snagged his attention.



Husband: Well hey! Where do they keep the ones like her?
Me: In a plastic surgeon's office in Beverly Hills.
Husband: Can we grab a picture of this?
Me: Oh goodness. Let me deconstruct this moment of 'culture' if I may. That happens to be there courtesy of a company called Jury's, which is in the hotel business. So what you see here is the local variant of the grass-skirted hula girl icon designed to evoke pleasant associations in the visiting male psyche.
Husband: Well yeah!
Me: O come on! What person would walk around half-exposed like that in damp weather? No wonder 'no-one could save her!'

On my last visit, my camera was not handy to catch a charming shot of a local youth reclining on the barrow of cockles and mussels, smoking a cigarette and using the ample cleavage at arm's reach as his ashtray.

***

"The faces seem familiar,
And I know those songs they're playing."

My husband has a hard time keeping track of me in the crowds on Grafton. He's actually even approached another woman of my build and color, thinking she was me. But we negotiate the obstacle course from Jigsaw to Bewley's and other stops. I've been fighting a sore throat from my week in England and want something to sooth it. My husband remembers that he's forgotten to pack something indispensible for our weekend of romantic abandon. Both needs are met easily.



At one of the record stores, I find a copy of The Book of Invasions by Horslips. It has been recommended by those who would know as one of the first albums to move along to after the double CD of greatest hits. Much later in the day, I'll accidently buy the same album again from a different store. That copy is later given away as a gift.

I buy clothing wantonly. There's even a temptation to buy slacks, which I never do, because they look as if they will not require hemming.

Living in a tourist town ourselves, we easily ignore the more aggressive vendors of the usual in t-shirts, postcards, mugs, and china figurines. We do not even consider joining our fellow Americans on one of the tours designed expressly for our kind.



It's funny how my world goes 'round without you -
You're the one thing I never thought I could live without.
I just found this smile to think about you;
You're a Saturday night far from the madding crowd.

***

Merrion Square





***

After three years, it is hard to remember what day we visited the museums and galleries. It seems improbable that we did all of these on Sunday, but our Saturday plans swerved into an unexpected direction at midday.

The day before, on February 14, 2003, Hans Blix had delivered his latest report on Iraqi compliance with Resolution 1441 to the UN Security Council. In part he said:

How much, if any, is left of Iraq's weapons of mass destruction and related proscribed items and programmes? So far, UNMOVIC has not found any such weapons, only a small number of empty chemical munitions, which should have been declared and destroyed. Another matter - and one of great significance - is that many proscribed weapons and items are not accounted for. To take an example, a document, which Iraq provided, suggested to us that some 1,000 tonnes of chemical agent were "unaccounted for". One must not jump to the conclusion that they exist. However, that possibility is also not excluded. If they exist, they should be presented for destruction. If they do not exist, credible evidence to that effect should be presented.

We are fully aware that many governmental intelligence organizations are convinced and assert that proscribed weapons, items and programmes continue to exist. The US Secretary of State presented material in support of this conclusion. Governments have many sources of information that are not available to inspectors. Inspectors, for their part, must base their reports only on evidence, which they can, themselves, examine and present publicly. Without evidence, confidence cannot arise.

If we'd picked up a copy of the Guardian that morning, we would have seen the following article:

A case for war? Yes, say US and Britain. No, say the majority

Britain last night insisted it would press ahead with framing the resolution. An official said it was unlikely that a draft resolution would be circulated over the weekend. Instead, it would be pushed back until Tuesday at the earliest. "If you slap down a piece of paper right away, it doesn't look like you were listening."

The French and Russian foreign ministers were given rare applause in the council chamber yesterday when they demanded more time for inspections, in striking contrast to the stony silence that greeted hoarse and irritable insistence that time had run out from Colin Powell, the US secretary of state.

Me: I had forgotten that the march was today. I saw them organizing a bus for the people in the village to get to London last week. They'll be travelling from all over England for it.
Husband: They were already covering it in San Francisco before I left.
Me: Do we have anything scheduled this afternoon?
Husband: We do now.
Me: Alright. Let's go.

Next: "When we got to Yankee land..."

Venus and Mars: Valentines Weekend in Dublin, 2003

Valentine's Weekend 2003 was the one. After a week of work on a transatlantic project that still looms in office legend, I was off for the usual extra day or two in Dublin. But this time, after much persuasion and the fortunate alignment of a three day US holiday weekend near the traditional day for romance, I had convinced my husband to join me.

For me, it would be my fourth visit. For him, the first time travelling outside the United States. For both of us, the last time visiting this place in the pure, heedless state of tourism: knowing no-one and no-one knowing us.



As the advance scout, I had already discovered the Georgian on Baggot Street. The Harcourt Hotel, of my first visit, is fondly remembered for several reasons -- one of them being its appearance in Patrick McCabe's The Dead School and therefore part of the personal Horslips walking tour for me -- but it was one long trek to and from anything. And though closer to the action, the Comfort Inn on Talbot Street was an experiment not repeated. So the Georgian, where you go outside to get back inside, where a double set of Winchester Mystery House stairs misleads you every time, and where suspiciously rounded humps in the carpet seem to shift location during the night, won out in the end.

And in 2003, registering at the front-desk with a man in tow, I was rewarded with a vast, top floor suite and a high wide-mattressed bed fitted out in soft white linen and down-filled duvet. And a shower of unimaginably warm and ceaseless water. That first afternoon, I lost one of my earrings in the bedding.

It was a shame, actually, that we had so much sightseeing planned for the weekend.

The next day we followed the advice of the taxi-driver and set off to find the Church with the relics of Saint Valentine. Apparently, we were told, they'd bless our wedding rings for us at the place.



Me: Remember that church?
Husband: I remember we got into that bad argument there.
Me: Yeah. I was remembering that too. What were we fighting about?
Husband: Can't remember. Remember the museum?
Me: Which one? The Art Gallery or History museum?
Husband: I was thinking of the Dead Animal Zoo.
Me: Remember the guys at the Cobblestone?
Husband: And that dinner after the march?
Me: Remember the march?
Husband: That was like four percent of the population there.
Me: We found that other place...not as good as Cobblestone. What was that?
Husband: We went to Trinity too. Remember?
Me: We did a lot!
Husband: You could write some of that up.
Me: I'd have to do it over a few days. That's a lot to write up.
Husband: Use pictures too.

So, yeah. Three years ago, we went to Dublin and saw some sights. It might be something I could write about over the next few posts. Not as exciting as some. But there'll be pictures.

"I awoke in California, many miles from Spancil Hill"

The last of my Euros is paying for a bit of time online, but I'm coming home tomorrow and will repay all the kind visits from Brownie, Count Screwloose, Guy Wonders and others.

My 72 hours in Dublin can't rival the Duke De Mondo's, but a last minute inspiration and a good (new) friend got me to the Phil Lynott statue. Pictures may not be the best, but they were taken.

All in all, a fantastic trip.

More to follow.

"For Dublin keeps on changin' and nothing seems the same"

Well DAMN, but isn't Smithfield the wi-fi hotspot these days? When someone like me -- who has only been visiting for the last few years -- can tell that things are not what they were, you know that we're moving at a rapid pace.

I'd call it the South of Market of Dublin, but it is on the Northside, where I've spent the entire day today.

The lone ice-skating rink that was my landmark to the Cobblestone is now a full-blown Christmas Carnival and community meeting point. Buildings that weren't there last year...or indeed, when I went into the bar for a drink...are crowding the skyline. And any Bay Area realtor will tell you that these babies ain't cheap.


(Photo thieved from www.sherryfitz.ie)

Part of it must be that Luas Red Line running down
Jervis Street. And every passing train I see is filled to the gills with townbound and homebound shoppers.

Also along the Luas line, an internet cafe that has just knocked the Grafton Street internet cafe out of first place in the "most hip and functioning Internet Cafe ever" competition that I run for my own benefit. And the Grafton Street joint held that title for three years running.

The only disappointment is that my Saturday night entertainment would have been much improved if I had found the energy to get over here last night. For, at the Cobblestone, Leo Kelly, one of the members of my new enthusiam Tir na nOg (Good Lord! To have missed it by that much!) packed the back room at the Cobblestone. Tonight Grada does much the same. On New Year's Eve, New York City band The Prodigals will be in the house, and that's pretty fine because I caught them a few years ago too on Third Avenue and they play a hard and fast set. Indeed, one of their songs is partly responsible for me always choosing Baggot Street for my hotel when I'm in town.

So. Yeah. Smithfield! Not too bad at all...