a cup of tea

i've poured myself a cup of tea, found a wonderful function on thehip.com and settled down on the table that matty and i spent yesterday creating.

hmm, that's a story worth telling.

we have a coffee table thinks it's a kitchen table. really, we have no one to blame but ourselves for this poor object and it's potentially harmful and obviously unhealthy identity crisis because that is exactly what we use it for. and, again, we have no one to blame but ourselves when 1/2 the legs found better things to do than to stay attached to the base.

needless to say dinner was an awkward acrobatic act, especially when more that no people attempted to eat around the dinner table. two months of dealing with this was all it took for matt and i to take matters into our own hands.

so we did what two ex-students can only do: made one out of what we had lying around.

our new table wasn't as welcomed as we would have liked.

"i don't think the landlord will like it" was the aussie's two cents.
"that's weird thing to think, seing as he doesn't live here and you're not him".
"are you guys going to buy a new one?"
"a new what?"
"table"
[at this point matty paused in an attempt to determine the point at which they had lost each other and why he was having as much trouble, or any trouble at all explaining this to the aussie. he was also curious why he had to explain anything at all. i mean, just look at this thing matty said to himself what isn't awesome about it. when himself and matty came to the conclusion that neither had anything short of brilliant they continued the conversation with the aussie. this process took three seconds.]
"why? we made this one."
"it's just not my cup of tea, that's all."

in the end matty and i had fun making a table that looks totally awesome. and, in the end, isn't that all that matters?

hopefully soon our three legged table will become four, but that was all we had lying around the house.

stuffed

christmas isn't christmas without ...

... stuffing. everyone needs a good serving of stuffing, sometimes people need more. occasionally people take too many and are told by their body that one serving less than eight would have been six too many. unfortunately, the body has a rather rude way of communicating this, and most often hiding little from anyone around you because, really, who can ignore food on their plate that isn't theirs and wasn't just inside them, despite resembling that which recently existed inside someone.

... watching christmas vacation. i did get to watch it here, twice for that matter, although i did not catch the first few minutes involving actually getting the tree and audrie's eye's being froze shut. classic, simply classic.

... a tree. we have one in the main area. i am taller than it, and not in the dad saying he's taller than me way but in a way that is real and exists in a logical universe. that sentence previous isn't so much a christmas story but a cheap excuse to wind dad up about being shorter than i.

... a new tooth brush. mom, thank you for the travel-sized brush, paste and floss.

happy holidays!

education

this is neat, and i feel that a few readers will find it interesting. don't worry, it doesn't change my mind because i still want to be a professor.



... merry christmas.


an added thought

i was going to tell a few stories of christmas day, the evening before and how st. steven's day (boxing) went (including midnight mass, matty and my stuffing adventure and how much conversation differs here and at home) but i've spent too much time messing with the layout, changing my picture and being a nerd in general.

my appologies. after some sleep i'll make it up to you.

two thirds

there are also two franks, and both drink budweiser which makes it rather difficult to distinguish between the two in conversation.

that's not really true. we call one big frank because he's six three two fifty and works construction; the other we call frank. i guess it's actually the clearest concept with all things considered.

big frank shares with me all the faults of the owner, who should be served next and why i am the best canadian bar man named brad he has ever had. other frank has no problem parting with his money, or so it seems with the way he plays poker.

i have more stories about big frank, but they'll have to wait until i've thought about them more experienced them. stay tuned though, cause they're going to be grrrrrrrreat.

the second two

there are two 25 year olds at the pub. i am one, and ahmed is the other. he pronounces my name as bread and, because of this, the witty scottish guy at work has taken to calling me toast.

amhed doesn't bartend, he busses (gathers glasses, wash-up, etc). since he doesn't do any serving the patrons often grow impatient and regress to their terrible two's, therefore ensuring immediate service from one of the barstaff.

one night beamish john was in with a woman; she was beamish john drunk. she got a bit confused, as most do, and told ahmed what she wanted to drink. ahmed, understanding that explaining to her what is written above would get him no where, told me the order instead, which i double checked with her.

whoops.

she told me what she had told ahmed, and was upset that she had to remember what it was she had ordered a few moments earlier and wondered why i hadn't remember it.

"i just told you" she replied, testily. apparently she hadn't noticed that i was two inches shorter than ahmed, wore glasses and was not a black guy. unsure how to clear this mess up, i decided it would be best if she simply had another drink. john sat still, looking at me with all the wonderment of a person who is curious how a pink elephant is able to put on a black dress shirt and speak his language.

i brought them their drinks.

it was clear that i had made a big mistake because she looked at me the way someone looks at a person they have never seen before offering her a drink she didn't know wasn't a squirrel.

"what are those?" as far as i could tell she was referencing the drinks i had prepared, but it could just as easily have been the reasons for my having come to work in the first place, which i was, at that moment, attempting to determine.

then, from the other end of the bar i heard "toast, get back to work." and i smiled.

the first two

there are two of some things at the pub.

there are two john's. one drinks beamish, and the other drinks guinness. john beamish is not as nice as john guinness. sometimes he goes by john kilkenny because that is where he is from.

beamish john drinks a lot, but so does everyone else at the bar ... i'll need to describe other characterists of him to set him apart. he has long hair. that is longer hair that i and i have a brush cut. he will often look a person over with a passing glazed look. this is because he is drunk. he is often short with people. this is also because he is drunk. he often comes in with a different woman. i don't think this is because he is drunk, however the fact that the same woman does not come back with him is likely because he is drunk.

kilkenny john does not have a glazed look, he is not short with people and he does not have many girlfriends. his is not drunk, however it is difficult for me to use the word drunk when describing kilkenny john because beamish john is drunk, and kilkenny john is not beamish john drunk.

have i lost you yet? i do appologize. let me make it up to you by ending this post and trying again tomorrow.

a familiar smirk

she did what? was steve's reaction. he then began his own journey through the stages of post-confrontation that i had just been through; the difference being mine would have made the script for jungle book while his would have to be cut from bad boys three.

i was sent back up the street armed with a bottle of dry gin, whiskey and a new pair of pants when lo and behold who was there at the door to usher me in ... but ruth. she tapped her cigarette, smirked at me and said my, my, my. you did get a scolding from that ol'bat, didn't cha!

she continued to tell me how it wasn't my fault and that was just the b***h person she was and she had no right blah blah blah. i smiled. i thanked ruth. i hugged ruth. i walked in to the pub.

where's the brandy? the old bat snarled. i held my bladder ground. it'll be here tomorrow i lied now give me the damn ice i thought. just a minute then.

i rested my elbow and forearm on the bar, all non shalant like, and looked off to my left at nothing in particular - the way someone who is really uncomfortable does as they try to compensate for the uncomfortableness of it all - when out of the corner of my eye a certain hat catchs my attention.

brad said charlie with a tilt, wink and a smirk. i guess you'll get your ice after all.

it was relieving to know that the two of them had been behind me, with me, the whole time. i hadn't been alone. i returned the smirk (i can't get the tilt and wink quite right).

we'll be down to see you in a few minutes, brad. then he rolled his gaze around the room as if absorbing it all in. get out of this place if you know what i mean.

sure thing charlie. sure thing.

edicate is not proper etiquette

one night we were running out of ice at the pub.

this happens on occasion. it happens more often when the ice machine is broken. for a week.

this particular night i was elected to go begging for ice from the neighbouring pubs, which isn't so much of a daunting task since it is ireland and neighbouring pubs are more numerous than numerousness itself. put more finitely: eight on mccurtian st which is about the length of two soccer football fields.

two weeks previous i was elected to go begging for brandy, gin and whiskey because we had none. a good enough reason to go looking for some. it is an even better reason to order and have it delivered, but who am i to judge the organizational skills of my employer? i'm the guy elected as the begging face of the pub, that's who. it puts me in no place to say anything.

on with the story brad
fine

on the search for liquor i ended up a Galaghers on the corner. they had one bottle of each. i returned to work victorious.

two weeks later i end up back at galaghers on the corner. knowing they helped me out before i was already planning my walk home: i would walk out the door and down the street fifty paces.

i asked her in a way one might expect a question involving the borrowing of ice from one person on behalf of another. her response resembled something one might expect of the devil him herself if Herself was pouring a pint of beer and asking where her booze was from two weeks ago.

my face went pink, my pants dampened and the entire bar turned to look at me as if i had a pink face and wet pants.

when she asked a second time i realized i hadn't answered and thought about how rude i must appear to be. after she asked the third time i replied in my best confrontation voice

i don't know.

her look told me that what i had said wasn't enough to get me the ice.

the walk was as unenjoyable as it could have been. i muttered to myself what most people mutter when they don't perform up to hollywood's standards of confrontational etiquette. if only we had one more take was i thought as i crossed the shel's threshold.

ham and cheesey humour

i've a new destraction. those who know me, and you do because you're reading this, will understand this to be a tuesday; those who don't know me won't find this funny.

and rightly so, because it isn't.

this morning i had tea while a techie from the tv company installed the cable and internet. i would have offered him a cup but i didn't think of it until now.

i have to work very hard to get away from spending all my time ... sorry, i just lost my train of thought - i got caught watching the episode of scrubs that came on after the one that pulled me away from writing this post.

in other news ... i made a ham tonight for dinner, and tried my luck again with roasting potatoes. by made i mean boiled and by tried my luck again with i mean made. i had never heard of boiling ham before, but i suppose i had never read the packaging before either.

before going to the supermarket to buy the pinapples i never put in the roasting pan i didn't use i stopped at a book store to buy the first cook book containing a ham recipe.

i couldn't find one.

and i think i'll have some of those pinapple bits now.

in a fix

not having my glasses created a some difficulties.

for people who don't wear glasses life changed very little. there's a person who works with them who has, for some unknown reason, decided to change his appearance. perhaps he got a hair cut or removed a piercing or not worn his pen to work today.

for me everyone has come to work as a darkish blurry area.

ruth told me that i should bring the spectacles into her office and have them fixed. i say to myself no they are under warranty and i will fly them back to canada. then i say to my thought that that is silly because i don't know which of the blurry areas around me is a post office and i would be better off getting a new pair getting them fixed buying some glue.

everyone around me has taken to letting me know how much better i look in contacts. i thank them politely and make a mental note to remove them from my christmas card list. i make a second mental note to write a christmas card list to later remove them from.

three days go by and more and more people are asking about my glasses. i have never spoken to most of these people before, why on earth do they feel as though they need to comment about my glasses? i have a strange feeling that once i have my glasses glued back together we will have exhausted our mutual interests and have nothing more to say to each other than thanks, yes and do you want a pint.

buying the glue was a whole other adventure. not so much getting it, that was straight forward, but i learned a lesson about storage.

glue comes from a store. it comes in a tube that needs, for some unknown reason, to be assembled. the tube is assembled, applied to the glasses and stored safely in a matter of minutes. as the glasses dry i watch a movie from the couch read a book held in my hand.

when my glasses are dry i proudly put them on, quite glad that it only took me a few euro and a matter of minutes to fix them rather than the six to eight weeks allowed for delivery.

when my glasses dry i realize that my pocket has also dried, and in it the tube of glue that was improperly disassembled and stored. i sit there wondering this wasn't a written warning until i realize it is described clearly in a series of pictures on the packaging i shredded while getting at the glue.

i suppose you have learned a lesson in storage.

making a spectacle

i recently broke my glasses.

i have had the same pair of glasses for three years now, or, more specifically appropriately, the same style. they haven't been the same glasses because the frames are total crap, made of cheep plastic and will not stand up to regular wear and tear or feet.

they are warrantied as long as they weren't run over by a car or stepped on. in the nine times they have been broken, they have never been run over by a car (or a foot, as far as the shop knows).

the ninth break somewhat agitated me, but we'll get to that in a moment.

one - i took off my sweater and they came off with it. i then stepped on the sweater.
two - i had them on the top of my head which i threw back in a fit of laughter. in that same fit of laughter i took a step back.
three - at work they fell to the ground and lost them. they found a coworkers boot.
for, fifth, 6, seaven, ate - i stepped on them.

the ninth somewhat agitated me, and we'll get to that in a .. now.

Cork, Ireland. Dec 11th, 8:00 pm.

i was at work discussing my tendency to prop my glasses on my head.
i have them up there because i am near sighted.
i have them up there because when i am close to someone/thing i can see them/it without glasses.
i have them up there because they generate conversation.

ruth works in a spectacle shop called Crowleys where they make glasses of themselves, not spectacles. she says that people my age don't do what i do until they get beyond my age. i asked if she meant abandon responsibility and she furrowed her brow in confusion. i smiled to tell her that i knew what she meant.

then the pen behind my ear fell to the ground. at least, that is what i thought until i realized a) i hadn't heard it hit the ground and b) i never had one there to begin with. at the second realization my glasses slid from my face and a third came to mind: i had recently broken my glasses.

for one more book list

the first time since my first time i have read a book in one day. mitch albom's for one more day. mom, you'll know him because dad read tuesdays with morrie; i think leanne and mandy have both read that one too.

for one more day was good. i enjoy these kind of reads because i'll find myself examining what i'm doing and if i'm happy with it, what i'd like to do differently, what i'm doing right .. and so on. it makes me feel bad about wasting time and gets me thinking about how to make the most of the time i've got.

there's a part that i like in a conversation between the ex-ball player and another character; the ballplayer has realized he might die soon.

have i much time?
i don't know
not a lot then
what' a lot?

it's all relative. makes me think. make sure not to miss a chance to blow, as a pop artist once said.

that will all seem very arbitrary to those who haven't read the book. i don't know if you'll like it, but i did; and i liked tuesdays with morrie as well. i haven't read five people you meet in heaven. the one chance i had i lost because i gave it away as a gift too quickly; should have bought it a day sooner, i would have had it for one more day.

the first book i read in one day was the old man and the sea. ironically the friend who gave me this title to read was given tuesdays with morrie to read from me ... he lost that book and, as far as i know, never read it.

i don't like lunches

i don't like the lunches. i don't talk about them when i don't have to.

i like the evenings. i talk about them when i can.

one of the reasons i like evenings, which i will now refer to as the bar because we both understand that i when i say the bar i am not talking about lunches because i don't talk about them when i don't have to, is charlie.

charlie has proud white hair with proud streaks of varying greys that he sometimes keeps under a hat with which he brings sexy back. he wears a long coat and a dark scarf. he would remind me of humphrey bogart if bogey was irish, a patron of my bar and, most importantly, alive.

a barman seldom has the opportunity to have conversations with the barpeople. that's just the nature of the job, a job of soundbites. quick, smart, snappy comments to keep them interested in me long enough to buy another round and to keep them interested in each other until i return to recharge the drinks.

not really charlie though, but about them in general. in fact, that isn't charlie at all.

charlie is the one who has the quick, smart, snappy comments that keep me going while i work the room until i return to him so he can recharge me. he loves to accent his clever remarks with a tilt of his head, a naturally rehearsed wink and a smirk that knows something more.

a woman named ruth comes in to the bar with charlie. she has a glass of wine while charlie drinks his gin and slim line tonic because it's a healthy choice. it is because he has proud white hair with some varying greys that hold my tongue and think to myself that a glass of a drink that is soft is a healthy choice.

but he drinks his drink that is not soft and entertains me while i entertain others and he gives a tilt and a wink and a knowledgeable smirk while i enjoy the evening because i enjoy being quick and smart and snappy.

adventures in corkville

i went on an adventure today and had to ask directions three times. it's something i've learned is a necessity when traveling around, because most of the time i don't have a clue where i am.

the adventure was to pick up a couple of packages that have been waiting for me at some sorting depo somewhere that i am afraid can't be walked to son. thanks man-behind-the-glass-who-thinks-he-is-my-dad.

it took me all of two hours, nearly four times longer than i had thought, and had me walking along places that were very unpedestrian. i could tell they were unpedestrian because of the increase in major highways next to me and the decrease of footpaths under me.

one man told me to walk for a bit until i saw some green trucks (irish post trucks). i thought to myself thanks, that should help.

one man came in the door after me and muttered to himself, but mostly to me, that this package had better be an important one because of all the trouble went to to get to the place.

turns out his was so important that they had kept it in the truck for the remainder of the day and wouldn't have it at this particular office until tomorrow. he'd have to wait one business day until it was ready to be picked up.

i knew this because i read the slip of paper he was holding three weeks ago when my package came in the mail.

he walked away with shaking head and rolling eyes; i walked away with a letter from home, medication and a new book which i am almost done. my package was very important and quite worth the adventure.

[i have signed up for this couch surfing site that i heard about from a friend a while back. i didn't get much of a chance to write something. hopefully i will get to a computer again soon.]

miss you all,

--b

here's to you

i was just in galway couch surfing of all things! it was another canadian i met the week before, her and her partner were in kilarney traveling. they are both from toronto. anyways, turns out this girl had a spare mattress in the living room and her roommate, three irish guys and another american girl, didn't mind that people stayed over. so i had my first couch surfing experience. it made a difference having a contact in the city i was traveling to. someone who knows the ropes and places to go and cites to see.

my first hour involved meeting a drunk in a bar. he told me that i was doing well by getting out and traveling around. at least that is what i assumed he was trying to get across to me, he was quite drunk. he invited me to another pub to by him a beer after the barlady told him he had had enough. i politely declined saying i was happy here, but that he should enjoy himself away from me. he said in restless dreams I walked alone Narrow streets of cobblestone. know who said that? simon of garfunkle.

later that day i stopped at a pub that said there was live trad music. i chatted with a man leaned 'gainst the wall. small talk about life, the universe and everything ... mostly about traveling though. the music came on shortly after he left, almost like they were waiting for him. the music played in the background as another man entered the bar and took up residence in the spot my old friend had vacated. he spent too much time talking about other people passing by behind their back in a manner that proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that he wasn't trying to talk behind their back.

the barman brough him a sandwich and he thanked him politely. he told the next man, behind his back but not really, that he wasn't thanking him because he did nothing for him. the same goes for you he said to the man that passed by next. the sandwich came with a tea and he sipped on it quietly, but only because he mouth was otherwise occupied.

he turned to me and caught my eye. before i had turned away he snapped at me what are you looking at paul simon ? hu !

to the bar's delight he performed, as he apparently usually does, a poem he made up on the spot. it was about barmen named brian and the sandwiches he made and about christmas, fiddles and the like.

later that evening at a live performance the band closed with Mrs Robinson. i think someone was trying to tell me something. the next day i went to church and thanked God for peter and art and the wonderful music they made, and for making people see them in me.

killarney

i took a trip to killarney and toured the ring of kerry.

then i took a trip to galway and toured the cliffs of moher.

both were beautiful. both were worth seeing. both were done from a bus

both were out of focus. both were grainy. both were in low light.

both will be seen again from the seat of a car when they are in focus, well lit and summery.

sweater and shirt

packing for paris was scant i had to carry my machine*, which goes with me everywhere, which leaves little room for much else. three shirts, the pair of pants i was wearing, underwear and socks to last five days (3 of each), a book, a camera, a journal and a pocket full of dreams.

(some dude just dropped his smokes on the floor)

my sweater, the sweater, was not on the list. it was on the list until the pack was too heavy and i took the sweater off the list. i should have just lightened my load by first not writing the list on granite rock and, more importantly, subsititing the list for the sweater it's self as it wears substancially less than a list written on granite rock. i wouldn't have done it if simon birch hadn't sold me on the idea, highlighting the versatilty of the product.

(some dude won't listen to me get his attention so he can have his smokes back)

not having the sweater meant that i wore my winter coat everywhere with just a couple of t-shirts underneath, which was fine except that i was hot on the street and cold in the shops. i should have packed my sweater, the sweater.

(some dude the third notices the smokes and i throw a thumb in some dudes direction)

as i was checking out of paris i made a few last friends at the terminal while i went through the scanner system. to get through the scanner system i had to my carry-on, keys, wallet, change, belt and my coat even. i successfully set off the scanner and was then subjected to that test they do to see if you're magnetic. the wand didn't stick to me as they waved it around and i was free to go about my day. i suppose i am thankful that they do these tests because i wouldn't want magnetic people getting on the plane and messing with the controls or causing my wallet cards to demagnitise.

i hadn't thought about it that morning, mostly because i don't register thought until about the noon hour and morning had somehow found me at around the 6:30 mark, but i had really dressed to impress. i hadn't noticed until i had successfully fooled the magnet detector and moved towards my gear to reassemble myself. i felt an arm on mine and was turned around and thuroughly examined by a french (female) guard. she looked at me and smirked a bit and kind of did a little jig. i kid you not, a jig.

smirking, she called to another guard. french french french she said, to the best of my knowledge, to her. french french french came the reply. the french (female) guard did her jig again this time singing what was written on my shirt. she then asked me what it meant and carried on doing the jig. by this time i had assembled myself, with left over parts for some reason but that always happens with things you assemble yourself, and was awkwardly moving towards my nearest exit.

as i smiled to myself everybody poops, everybody poops, everybody everybody everybody poops followed me down the hall.

havelock jamboree

at the havelock jamboree i packed an assortment of shirts, yet i only wore one. somehow, unbeknownst to most, i managed to unpack my entire bag into the entire campsite. Greg spent an entire hour once pointing to different spots where i had left clothes.

i'll explain who greg is some other time.

i had a blast. walking around, talking to people making new friends with my favourite shirt ... sometimes my shirt took more of the credit for making the friends. midway through the weekend i came upon a group of people who shouted "hey everybody-poops, do you know what time it is?" turns out we had all met the evening before and i had lectured on how no one in our generation wear wrist watches anymore and to prove my theory we asked the next ten people what time it was. everyone of them. EVERYONE of them said wait a second and then fished around in their pocket and pulled out their cellphone. i dismissed the class and said we would reconvene at the same time the next day, which was just then and i had absent minded-ly stumbled into the right place at the right time. i had given them a homework assignment to ask people they met what time it was and count the number who wear watches, which no one had done but everyone produced proof of having done it.

i think i'll be a teacher... no, not a teacher but a university professor.

at the end of the weekend i left the shirt sitting on the hood of a truck; it was waiting for me at work the next day.

four shirts to choose

canada day long weekend was spent at a cottage in bayfield, ont. most events that weekend where of the genres of hammer-whacking, hammer-hammered, wedding-going and street-walking. another genre, one might want to include in the list is bathroom-going, however that is not all that special considering that is, more or less, the story of my life.

there were a few points, of which i will spare you, that could be noted, but i won't, that would set those string of three days apart from the other (approximately) 8910 days . those events, needless to say, inspired one of the street-walking expeditions to include a novelty shop, of no particular note, to become a stop, for no particular reason. four of us purchased a shirt that had a picture of a stick man seated on a toilet with the caption everybody poops. we were going to get our names on the back with the number 2 but ran out of time, money and attention spans.

the wise man, upon seeing the shirt adorned by his only son questioned my reasoning for wanting to wear it out in public on a saturday night to a community party where people would see me in it and question the reason my father let me leave the house dressed like that. mandy, upon seeing after having been asked to give a second opinion, stopped laughing around tuesday.

the shirt has since become a bit of a conversation piece, like a coffee table book, and has helped me make a vast amount of friends. a few times it has even sparked language lessons with the backpackers of Cork.

all in all i am very fond of my shirt, and i always bring it with me when i go on extended day trips.

my stupid mouth

has got me into trouble again. at least it did, or rather threatened to.

i know french. that is to say i know enough french to know that i don't know enough french to say that i know french. but i know french.

a math teacher i had in high school once said that he knew enough piano to know that he wasn't very good at it. that applies to my knowledge of french (if someone want to tell mr. ort that he was featured here you are more than welcome to).

i was in a shop in france and i was looking at a hat. a ball cap, a nice one ... but that is rather relative because i have a lust for all ball caps. this one had a patch on it that i couldn't make out. so, being the brilliant man that i am i turned to the shop keeper and said to her

esc scuuz eh moi, kesk keu say?

and i straightened my back and smiled a big grin and felt good about myself. for about two seconds. because after my sense of accomplishment passed i realized that i wouldn't have a sweet clue what it was she said to me explaining what it was the patch meant.

and i didn't. so i bought a different hat.

the view

atop the arc was where i found my most favourite view of the city. the climb was worth it, although at the time i wouldn't have thought so. 242 (or something, should have brought kim with me she would have counted them) stairs later we, laurel and the auzzie girl, arrive at the top which turns out to be a bit of a museum which turns out to not be as much open as it was closed for updates ... which all turned out not to be the top at all and was just a resting spot for the final ten or twenty stairs.

atop the arc was where i found my most favourite view of the city. yes, that does bear repeating. the viewing deck (if that's what it's called which it may or may not be i don't pretend to know what i am talking about) allows for climbers to enjoy a panoramic view of the city, in my case was the night skyline, with all the lights and cars and sparkling towers of effiel and glowing notre's of dame and the people moving around down below and cars jockeying for position in the chaotic roundabout that surrounds the arc's base. *note* there are no cross walks by which to get to the arc, one must follow the underground path that ducks below the chaotic roundabout laurel took a video of a traffic jam and if i can convince her to post it to the web i'll link it here (btw ... did you watch that other video linked here a little while ago! funny stuff. thanks dan!).

i have a love of taking panoramic shots of skylines and upon seeing my most favourite view of the city i knew i had to get one here. so after i felt comfortable there was no guard around i climbed atop the rail that surrounded a viewing platform in the middle of the deck ... no where near the edge, not to worry mom. i turned from my left to right, composing shots and working the shutter over time and just as i got the last of the shots i heard the sound i had expected to here before my photo shoot: something yelled to me in french by someone who was an obvious authority figure. i climbed down, apologized in english and found my fellow climbers. they had found the traffic jam that would eventually become a video that will hopefully be posted for you to see.

... and after all that, the photo's didn't turn out. it was too dark. as much of a professional i felt i was balanced atop the view platform rail, i really wasn't and that is that.

the arc

i meant to get out to the coast for the remainder of my days in france but apparently the public transportation staff would rather spend the last three days of my trip marching through the streets of paris, hanging off each other while yelling vive la france and drinking one and a half times their body weight in expensive french booze. however, because of the strike i was able to spend some actually time around the great monuments i had rushed over the past few days. and instead of viewing paris through the lense of my camera, i enjoyed them the way most of the people around me weren't ... sober.

[the next bit of this post was going to discuss counting the pictures of notre dame ... but i got bored and didn't want to finish it. if i got bored, you surely wouldn't have made it through. i except your thanks, chocolates can be sent to my home address in Cork; if you don't know it please ask because i want those chocolates. read it here, if you dare, but you will be bored - i promise.]

that image above is the arc de triumph and was built by Napoleon to honour his troups. Just as Roman soldiers marched home under an arc after a victory, so too would Napoleon's men. However, the arc wasn't finished until thirty years after it's intended date and thus the men did not get to march home following their victory.

... there's more, but i'll be late for work. take care!

nothing draws a crowd better

the mona lisa painting was the size i thought it might be, as i was told, and so might you be told, that the painting isn't the size you'd expect it to be. but if you were to be asked what makes a person more allert in the morning, an apple or a cup of coffee... what would you answer? the crowd around the mona lisa was much larger than i expected it to be.

I was on a bike tour the day before; well, two actually. they went all sorts of places, highlighting all sorts of buildings and telling me all sorts of things that may or may have registered because i was happier than a pig in poop to be back on a bike. i hopped on my beach cruiser named johnny depp and beached cruised the asphalt shores of paris missing most of what the tour guide had to say.

back to the bit about the louvre ... which i suppose i haven't mentioned yet. the Mona Lisa is hung in a room in the Louvre Museum, Paris, France.

on the bike tour the day before i met four canadians, the tour guide dubbed us Team Canada later that night. we ended the trip on a boat at night with a gaggle of Boston women who were entertained by yours truly for a good hour and a half after yours truly consumed a good one and a half times my weight in cheap french wine. it was while we consumed the remainder of wine that the guide gave us our name.

a girl from Chatham, Ont. was also on the trip and i am sure we would have bonded over the fact that a wise man i know once worked in that particular city had i have been able to remember then names of people he worked with. there were a pair from BC, and another guy from St. Thomas Ont.

that following morning the two dudes from BC and i made our way to two closed museums. to celebrate the fact that they had ruined the last day of their european trip they treated me to lunch for which i paid my share. I was pleased that the nice man sitting next to us chose to share his cciggarrette with us. i thanked him for the opportunity to which he replied i'm gonna eat your soul ... not give you a tip ... stare at you and make you feel uncomfortable if you don't shut up now. I thanked him for his time and he told me I was number one. I shrugged my shoulders to let him know i didn't know the proper way to respond back in sign language.

while walking to the closed museums we were stopped by laurel, whom you know as Chatham, Ont. who was on a walking tour. While at the louvre later that afternoon, by myself because the BC boys were still cornered by the angry cciggarrette smoking man, i was enjoying the end of a da Vinci Code tour that i had paid too much for, my arm was grabbed by Chatham and i was dragged through the louvre again with her and an australian she met on the walking tour and then later climb the Arch de Triumph - which was beautiful and well worth having my arm removed.

paris isn't that big right! everyone runs into people from southwestern ontario ... three times ... when they travel there.

Murray's Law states:

the metro is organized very well. this became apparent to me several days after my first. on my first day the metro was a terrifying french place and i was in no way prepared for what followed following my little friend. as he led me through the labyrinth beneath the city we passed by buskers and bag-people and other characters that seemed to have jumped from the pages of a neil gaiman novel. Little Friend jumped and wove through the crowd and before long we came upon the great gates of the subway world: the turnstiles. a friend of mine took me on the toronto subway ... rather he took me to the toronto subway ... he left me with a bit of wonderful advice:

turnstiles are bad

and to this day that still runs through my head every time i come by one. he told me this because going through a turnstile means you are leaving the system and i'd have to pay to get in again.

to make this story shorter than it will be if i don't take evasive action i shall abbreviate it by highlighting the main points, appropriately enough, in point form.

• he had a metro membership. i did not. he used his to get me through. and used mine to jump over the turnstile.
• we took a train for a bit. in the end i didn't want to get off. i was happy, didn't want to leave and was perfectly content.
• we changed trains.
• please see point 2 for how i felt about train 2
• after train two and said our goodbyes Little Friend and I were at station 3, still very much at a loss for the inability to communicate. An American was near by and heard our difficulties and came to my rescue.
• as American was helping me along I was very much unaware that Little Friend was no longer at my side; alas, I did not get to thank him.

my stop came two trains later but brought me about as near to my bed for the evening as a person is near to discovering which end of the garbage bag they are holding is the open end. Murphy says it is never the first end, and then goes on to say that it is always the first end just never the first time you try it. I walked to both ends of the street and spoke with several people few of whom knew of a hostel on that road, all of whom felt i was heading the right direction and none of whom could agree on how far i should walk until i might catch it. my favourite was the woman working at a real estate agency who told me to go 500 m up the street and then ask someone who turned out to work across the street from the hostel i was booked at. i was told this 500 m up the street by the someone i asked.

i dropped in to tell her where the hostel was so she could be of more help to the next person but she no longer spoke english.

my little friend

i was standing outside an opera house that was circled on my map with a strong desire to be back in the airport where i felt strangely at home, and after my german friends had walked away i felt as if i may not find somewhere that could feel like a home for a few days. so i did what anyone in my situation would have done.

i walked up to a strange little man who had been standing on my corner. i did this reluctantly, i might add, because this corner had become my corner after everyone i knew on it had vacated it.

i was happy at this corner.
i didn't want to leave.
i was perfectly content.

but because the strange little french man was not carrying a backpackers bag that he had borrowed from a friend back home he was the perfect candidate to show me where i was to go. but when i went up to say hello to my little french friend he reacted in a way that i was not prepared for.

he spoke portuguese - which was fine, i wouldn't have known had he have spoke french - and french but very little english. enough to let me know that he didn't speak any english. and after several failed attempts to show me/tell me/pantomime for me he threw his hands up in the air (throw your hands up - in the air ... ha, now your singing), said something and walked away from me. i stood there with my backpack and murse and map and wondered what i had done to deserve this.

***

before university i went to australia for three weeks. i learned a lot and now plan my trips to have more direction. however i didn't realize how much i had learned until i returned home. one particular day before a shift at the pub i worked at i was at a shop developing pictures. i left the shop and a little man came up to me and asked in broken english something that resembled a bit about phone cards. without missing a beat, and knowing that anything i said would be lost in the lack of translation, i motioned for him to follow me and took him back into the store. i asked jeff at the desk (because i knew jeff at the desk because i gave jeff at the desk pints of moosehead after work) for a phone card and he pointed to next door. so i took my new friend next door and he thanked me for longer than i stood there to listen.

***

my little french/portuguese friend turned back around and looked at me and it was then that i noticed he wasn't walking away and that the Something that he said was not something said in disgust ... he was preparing to take me to the train and get me to my hostel. i looked around my corner and decided that we had had enough time together and after realizing what i had done to deserve this i prepared myself to leave the airport for the second time.

this is not france, but it is still funny.

jig'ity jig

it wasn't until i landed in France that i learned how much i didn't like change. as far as i was concerned i was able to deal with change with a fluid, adaptable patience adjusting to my environment like a chameleon. i was concerned that far, that is, up until a week ago.

mandy, only a short year ago, one year from my adventure in fact, set out for France on her own and it is becoming more apparent everyday just how difficult that must have been for her. as i left the arrival terminal in france it became very much apparent that i was not in a place that i could get around easily, however, being that adaptable person i though i was i quickly became comfortable with my environment. so comfortable, in fact, that i felt as though i could have stayed there long enough to catch my flight home six days later. perhaps i could pick up a job helping that man out over there sweeping i would say to myself.

i was happy at the airport.
i didn't want to leave.
i was perfectly content.

but the man with the broom directed me to a man at a desk who knew a little english, who directed me to man at a desk outside who knew a great deal of french. Desk Outside told me something that wasn't in english. I purchased a ticket from Desk Outside because Desk Inside told me to do so.

with my ticket in hand i got on the bus that the other two people at the stop got on to and it took me to a big place that my map told me was an Opera house. I knew this because Desk O had circled it in english; i'm not sure what i would have done had he have done this in french. At the opera house i lucked upon asking a pair of German tourists who had clearly arrived on the same bus as i and who were clearly at more of a loss than i because i don't believe they found a German Desk Inside. I knew this until they politely told me they didn't know how to help me and confidently parted ways with me in a way that left me standing staring at the large Opera house that was circled in english.

i would have liked to stay at the airport.

my goodness

i have to run to work shortly, but i would like to make a quick mention that a photo i took at the guinness storehouse in dublin was posted to kenneth's blog uncommonphotographers.net. they are taking a picture of the inside of one of the barrels the stout is brewed in. the barrel was two stories high and was an interesting photo op; however i couldn't help myself and took advantage of the photo op you see. in my excitement and rush to take the picture i never took one of the popular subject they were all capturing. matty might have one of it from the bottom up, i'll check with him.

cheers ken, thanks for posting my picture. i am honored!

--b

he knows best

have you ever watched Harper on television, especially when he is addressing the camera? i haven't seen him in person, there's always been a sizable buffer between us, but i am sure he is quite similar. it almost seems like he's not quite comfortable in his own skin. a wiser man than i once said that he looks like he knows he's supposed to smile but doesn't now when smiling is supposed to happen. i think dad he is onto something there.

our tour guide yesterday had a similar style. matty turned to me part way through and asked if i could see any strings controlling her. i laughed and then stopped because that smile was directed at me. not in a please serve me a drink canadian bartender kind of way, more of a i've been waiting a while for a drink and i might eat your soul ... not give you a tip ... stare at you and make you feel uncomfortable if you don't come over here now kind of way. she did earn points though when she battled an american over the definition of filtered. in the end she was wrong, but it was the way she told the american that if he wanted to guide the tour he was more than welcome step into her shoes and go visit the jack daniels distillery and sip on inferior whiskey. in the end, like i said, filtered does not mean the same as diluted but as that wise man also once said to me

it does little good to prove yourself smarter because in the end you'll look quite stupid.

matty got to ring the old bell that tolled when lunch was to be eaten and bosses where avoided. having done this he was awarded the honor of tasting the difference between american whiskey (distilled once), scotch whiskey (distilled twice) and the wonderful magical irish whiskey (distilled thrice). there was a local guy about our age (on his fourth tour of Jameson) who faced off against matty for the challenge. he was there as part of his warm up exercises for work that evening. lucky for him his buddy was driving, which meant that he would get to his destination safely as well as enjoy the shot of whiskey that the driver would have consumed. that wise man would have had a few words for Irish Taster as well.

we ended the day with a pub crawl down main st. Midleton and caught a bus home. matt got food poisoning and has taken the day off work. lucky guy had a four day weekend; unlucky guy didn't sleep last night.

slainte!

it is also raining

i'll be in france on saturday and i'm pretty excited. mandy, as you will remember, spent seven months there this past winter and this week marks one year of having departed from cananda. i'm going to try and make it to the pub she worked at and say hey to the staff although i am sure they will all be too green to know who mandy is/was.

matt and i tried to tour the beamish brewery (again) this mornnoon marking the third time we've been to see the guard at the front entrance. this time he told us that the one weekly tour ended five minutes ago and we'll have to wait another week until the next one. it was useless explaining to him that this was information that would have been useful yesterday because he wouldn't have cared, nor heard me either as he had already started into his afternoon session at the pub across the road. next time we'll try the back entrance and make a tour of our own.

we're set to travel to Midleton this afternoon to tour the jameson distillery. hopefully we don't have to make three trip because the trip resembles one from seaforth to mitchell.


View Larger Map

matt will take pictures and i'll share them with you.

tips and tidbits

new rule. when i make a tip i'll use that tip to get on the internet. today i made nearly €4 in tips. that'd give me four hours, but really .. who needs that much time to get over new emails, facecrap, upload pictures, faceblast, new blog post and change my status on foolsbook?

apparently me.

so it's november, eh! my goodness how the time flies. i have to start saying i've been here for a while instead of a few weeks, as well that i am staying until august, not for a year.

i've posted a few pictures that i've taken over the past several weeks. most of them are from the guinness storehouse and i promise to explain why i went trigger happy capturing images of the tourist practicing their gaze, but for now simply enjoy the candid shots, appreciating them for what they are: the tourist in it's natural habitat. as well, take a few moments to explore my favourite photoblog - photographing the photographer.

matty has supper ready, so i'd best be off before he eats it all. he's pretty excited about it too because he's been marinating the pork bits for two days.

can't wait! mmmmm

as well, stay tuned for a happy story about the jazz weekend. i feel i owe you something less morbid after the last post was so upsetting. it'll be about the Bartenders Ball and how the past few days have shown just how much fun i had. until then i leave you with a picture of the dogpark a top st patricks hill.

slainte,

--b

it's the jazz baby!

was what roy kept saying for weeks before this past weekend. it's the jazz baby, everything changes.

well, what the biggest build up to a weekend i've experienced since i was eight and watching the 1990 new years countdown on City TV, turned out to be somewhat overrated. i can remember telling my dad how i was SO excited to watch the countdown and how devastated i was to find out that the biggest event on television was nothing more than a series of crappy, lying television ads. he smiled in a way that only a father can, and the only way that a son can recognize years later, he realized that his son was just as observant as he wished and could hope.

this is my blog and i'll be as nostalgic if i want to. as far as i am concerned i am unbiased. in fact, i am the most unbiased, so there.

in effect the jazz was another excuse for the staff to get overly stressed, pissed at each other (which at the time felt not so much like each other as it did me) and, at times, reduced to tears immediately following brad having stacked the empty kegs in such a way that:

it pissed me off - so says steve the manager.

and then as i went back upstairs to the bar with a case of corona he tossed at me he cried and threw kegs around the cellar. at the end of the night he looked at me over his pint of gin and tonic and looked at him over my cup of carlsberg and we stared each other down. i said steve. he said yank. i said are we still friends. he said no no we aren't, i am not friends with yanks.

it was then i knew that we were still friends and that we would always be friends. at least until the next jazz, or until the next time we worked together.

at the end of it all the cork jazz couldn't hold a candle to the Toronto jazz festival. that is a bit too harsh. the jazz fest wasn't what i expected it to be because it wasn't to much a jazz fest as it was an excuse for Guinness to monopolize beer sales and for the population of Cork to expand ten fold for the duration of 72 hrs and for everyone to get so drunk that they get sick everywhere in their new bathroom.

what i mean to say, is that the weekend wasn't really about jazz. sure the bands played jazz, a bit of jazz anyways, but it was more about being out in mass amounts and doing mass amounts of drinking. but it's the jazz baby, and apparently the jazz baby is all about working ridicules hours for little pay and tricking yourself into thinking that it is all worth it.

what i did learn is that this trip is not about work, i'd rather be traveling and the first chance i get i'm getting out of Cork and going to galway for a few days. and maybe to france after that.

how rude

cross cultural conversations can create certain ... circumstantial chaos.

take the term toilets.

(enuf with the alliterations)

at home we say " i have to go to the bathroom/washroom/restroom/pee/poop etc...". with exception to the last two in that list, these are all acceptable ways to communicate to someone what your intentions are without actually telling them what your intentions are. going to that particular room communicates the need to address an issue that can be solved with the amenities that exist with in a room of that name. here people say they have to " go to the toilet". i have had considerable difficulty explaining why this would be rude to say at home. a person simply does not draw attention to the particular bit of the room they intend to use because it is communicated through a mutual understanding and the knowledge that the person you are telling has experienced what you are experiencing at that moment.

i still have trouble saying toilet. i think this has to do with the way i was raised.

as kids, by that i mean when there were four of us ages six and under, we would not say "bathroom" and mom couldn't, for the life of her, get us to say the proper word. in an effort to fix it she wrote on a piece of paper "i have to go the bathroom" and posted it on the fridge. when ever we told her we wanted to go pee she would wordlessly point to the fridge and we'd correct ourselves.

i suppose it worked. but mom didn't expect the peice of paper to affect other people entering the house. on occation we would have visitors and on occation they would come into the kitchen and on these occations they would usually reciet out loud in a sort of question what was written on the paper. mom grew to enjoy this quite a bit and would usher the new arrived guest to the bathroom.

english 101

today marks the day that i no longer reside in a hostle. Sheila's has been a ... nice spot to hang my hat, had i had a hat, but i am happy to be moving to a more permanent spot where my hat, had i had a hat, can be hung with more consistency.

the new house is located right near a pub i was at last night, as well as right near the house of a canadian girl from toronto named sue. sue from toronto is half my height plus a foot, four inches and can make her way away from a bar with the greatest of ease which makes up for the difficulty she has getting to the bar. equilibrium is always maintained.

we were at the pub to see an italian friend play the drums at nine thirty. we arrived promptly at ten to discover that he arrive promptly an hour and a half later to never play. he played wonderfully, had he of played, and was invited back again next time they have a jam night that they need a drummer not to play.

on a return trip from the toilets i overheard a conversation i wasn't listening to. A girl whose name was soon to be forgotten said to a girl whose name was soon to be known as amanda and a boy whose name was soon to be known as devin "i wish i had of brought my coat to cork". This particular comment caught my attention because of two very important notes that should be noted:

1. people from cork don't wish to bring coats with them because they are already in cork
2. people from cork don't wish to bring coats with them in an american accent.

i asked the girl whose name was soon to be forgotten where they were from and i was told wisconsin. they told me i would spell it wrong and i agreed. i told amanda i would remember her name because i had a sister named leanne who has an older sister named amanda. devin then asked if i played the fiddle (he didn't really, i just needed his character to move the story along for me) and went on to tell me he had a father, or uncle .. i can't remember .. , who toured around ireland for two year collecting irish tunes with his fiddle. he will be visiting this christmas with devin's brother and suggested that i meet them and bring my fiddle.

everything is turning up millhouse at 723 evergreen terrace!

some good news

yes. lets talk about something that involves good news.

- i sucessfully avoided spending €400 on a camera that i really wanted but new i couldn't have. this might be the first time i've avoided a purchase such as this one. i don't know if that means i am growing up, learning what money actually is or simply enjoying the luxury of eating too much.

- one of the glengarry cast, pete, offered me a job in washington dc as a bartender in the event that my travels were to take me there. i never once thought that being a bartender could take me around the world, but now that i know that ...

- i went dancing after work on saturday night with the glengarry crew. they left the following morning, so this was a sort of goodbye party from me to them that i never told them about. i didn't know that the golden compass was set there; that certainly is magical and i am excited to see what's in store there.

- we get our house on friday pending my ability to get to the office and file the paper work. having a bed of my own that i don't have to move out of every few days will mean the world to me. elliott is looking forward to spreading his stuff out all over the room. him and i have decided to bite the bullet and take the single rooms because they'll be cheaper.

- since i've added the clustrmap to the side bar there have been 268 hits to salutmaman from four different countries, with over a hundred of those from southwestern ontario. thanks for tuning in, i only hope i can keep you entertained.

shit happens

yes it does. bad days happen. yes, they do. last night i broke three glasses and tried very hard to break a third, at which point, had i been successful, someone likely would have been severely injured.

today is a good day. i slept until two. put on sweat pants. had grilled cheese. drank a few cups of tea. wrote this post until half three. yesterday was not a good day

somehow, last night, being told that shit happens didn't make me feel better. so i had half a cigarette.

boy, was that ever dumb. this morning i feel as though a porcupine has taken up residence in my throat, two accountants on adding machines are pounding away in my head and all the while Gord Downie is flailing away on stage, kicking over his mic stand doing a classic freak out except instead of a stage it is my stomach. not to mention the memory of the guilt i felt gripping the fag as it burned a hole in my soul the previous night.

but let us start at the beginning. yesterday i worked twelve hours. this was unbeknown'st to me until i calculated it at the end of the night. had i have known that i may have been able to pin point the cause of my angst and work towards a more rational solution. but i didn't and i did what i did because at this point doing anything is entirely impossible.

i broke the first glass taking it off a shelf. i broke the second rounding the inside bar. i nearly broke the third using a wall mounted pourer; the glass fell behind a lower row of pourers and stayed there as i closed my eyes and collected my thoughts and calmed the beast that was about to guide the head of the person who just told me that shit happens through the wall on which was mounted the shot pourer that was at this moment the bane of my existence. having sorted myself out i completed the list of drinks that my american friends had ordered, smiled politely, and died inside.

after last orders the barmen all went outside. it knocked the socks off colin the scot when i asked for one. it is curious how smokers react when someone who doesn't smoke asks for one, like there is pride in getting a new recruit. i had three or four drags over the course of ten minutes and quietly tossed it away. the beast had been neutralized, but not by nicotine. all that was needed was minutes away from demanding stares and week long drink orders.

not to mention i would have enjoyed my break a lot more without listen to my fathers voice in my head telling me how terribly bad this was and how terribly stupid i looked right now.

creatively yours

as of tuesday, today i would have been homeless. i wasn't too worried, matt might have been a bit more worries however he solved the problem by leaving me for kilarney for the weekend ... jerk; but i wasn't worried because i could couch surf courtesy a few of my new found friends.

as of yesterday evening i had a bed again thanks to a new found friend behind the desk. a polish girl, asia pronounced asha, who has been named war lady by two Swedish fellows because she was to be their land lady. having never heard the term land lady they got excited thinking it meant she was a person of power - i thought it was because she seldom smiled. turns out that's just how she roles.

work is the only excuse i have. however you will notice that i have back-posted a few stories from this week. i wanted to conserve space, as well as your attention span because reading too much in one post is overwhelming - and i know that every word doesn't get read either. for what ever reason digital text doesn't catch a persons eye as much as hard copy text. most people do it, and i thank you for taking the time to read what followed the bolded text more closely as that was my intention.

in short my week has been largely dominated by work. monday brought some welcome visitors, and those visitors lead to making more friends and new contacts, which lead to a delightful night out and the rekindling of old friendships. i took it upon my self to solve a problem, in fact a couple of problems, and i even rid myself of an unwelcome guest.

that unwelcome guest was Decision and I am happy to report that he has receded almost beyond knowledge of ever having existed. a few times a day he will pop up and remind me, but were enjoying our not so trial separation. there doesn't seem to be a need for therapy.

723 evergreen street

we have a house. five beds, €1500/ mth. we move in next friday.

not a moment too soon. hostel life is exhausting.

the really good news is i have two french roommates. they are cute [yeah] but with partners [boo]. the good news out of that is that they know french and are willing to share that knowledge in exchange four hour noledge ov inglesh. this should be grand.

matt the ozzy is our fifth. his name is matt. matt is an ozzy. he is our fifth roommate.

we think we will rechristen matty as Elliott. he is excited about that because he's called that at home. i made the obvious reference from Berg's E.T and it was the first time anyone had done that ... ever. and that is no joke. that's just how we role.

...

in other news i made a mail bag. i couldn't find one i liked aka didn't want to pay €65 for so i went to a sally anne and paid six euro for an old pair of pants, one euro for an old belt and another 4 euro for some sewing supplies. 15 man hours later and i have my self a mail bag. matty elliott thinks it lacks several things that make it a male bag - namely that everything about it lacks anything male. i said he was spelling it wrong. he said how could that be, we're having a conversation.

i like it and i think i am the most talent me there is. deal with it.

glengarry glen more

the cast came in again. this time i invited myself for pints with them tomorrow night. i have been thinking about the play a great deal and telling everyone who wants to listen about it. it made it easier to understand since don explained it to me.

i like knowing people in the bizz. makes me feel important.

glengarry glen friend

today on my way to work i wished the cast of glengarry glen ross "break a leg". after the show they all came in for a pint, ... and then several more. it is great to know people in the bizz; makes me feel important.

several split shifts coupled with late nights, working behind the bar as well as holding it up on the other side (a few times, i must admit, that the bar was doing more of the holding up), has made for one exhausted bear. i did get a few cultural treats though. monday brought some welcome visitors. Don and Anne Melady, friends of the family, were in the country and came to Cork to visit dear old me.

They carried with them a speacial little package that i hope to get more use out of. My fiddle is now touring with me, and while i am very, very, very rusty with it i do hope to get much, much, much better with it.

Don and Anne were in a mood to walk around but that only lasted for half a block because we walked past a billing for Glengarry Glen Ross, a production put on by an american acting co, a play that he studied at school and had always wanted to see.

the show is difficult to perform. the dialogue is written so as to resemble how people speak in the real world. to understand what i mean pay close attention to your next conversation, particularly to: how often thoughts are actually completed; the number of times you interupt/are interupted; the number of times the converstion jumps between topics. there is a movie as well, which is good apparently, but if you get the chance see the play.

we had pints at my pub afterwards. it was all grand.

that's corny

Blarney Castle Grounds - €6
bus to Blarney - €5.25
apples and juice - €2.41
late night coffee - €2
internet/hr - €1

spending the day as a stupid tourist/mountain goat - €16.66

... and so worth it.

Blarney, apart from being a quiet breakfast spot in Stratford, Ont., is the name of a town north west of Cork City, Ire. It is also the name of a castle. I am not sure why it is named as such mostly because I can't remember all the placards I read this afternoon during my walking tour of the castle grounds.

Kissing the blarney stone wasn't as exciting as i expected it to be. the creepy old man, whom i had heard so much about from several girls along the way, wasn't as creepy as i thought he would be. however that might be because i lacked the proper equipment because the two the Kiwi's, who where visiting from Dublin for the night (partly to visit Matt and I and partly because because their hostel was booked up for the night) where going off about how he, the old man, was with them. Teresa (who's name i spelt wrong previously and i apologize for and celebrated her 20th birthday on friday) was convinced that the old man ... very much enjoyed having helped her lean, very awkwardly, backwards and downwards to reach the stone. Earlier that day I had told Chelsie, who you will remember i described as being bubbly and full of energy, that she was not allowed to kiss the stone.

The stone, legend has it, gives the gift of gab to everyone who endures the difficult task required to kiss it. I learned a bit more about the lore behind the stone, how it got there and other neat things which to your benefit I am unable to recall, however I will share with you what i learned about the word blarney.

One of the kings or princes or someone who resided in the castle at sometime before it was named Blarney was a bit of a political flip flopper. A queen or duchess or someone involved in the story before the castle was named Blarney said that the king or prince or someone was "all blarney, none of what he says holds true"

A placard later on said: blarney is asking a woman her age so as to know the age at which women most beautiful. Baloney is telling an 81 year old woman she looks 18. In other words:

blarney ... to lay a compliment thin enough so as to be enjoyed.
baloney ... to lay a compliment on so thick it is sickening.

touring the grounds uncovered a vast array of twisted trees and inviting rocks that made me and my out of practice climbing legs where able to let loose for the afternoon. i might make the trip back to the town just to get that work out again. matt has some pictures that i might get to post to my flicker, but he'll have to faceblast them first.

i named my rash

life has been rather quiet the past few days. i have been taking it easy because of an unfortunate run in I had with a rash. i am not sure where i had this run in, but the evidence of this run in is unavoidable. so unavoidable that i've given him a name: Decision. Decision has moved off my face but is holding ground on my neck and chest. and BOY is Decision making his presence known; visually and .. itch-illy (?). fem doc from emerg put me on some meds and cremes, very masculine to be applying this twice daily, and hopes that i'll be on the mend in a few days. the "good news" she had for me was that it wasn't to be worried about; bad news being that she wasn't too sure what it was that i wasn't supposed to be worried about.

hmmm... perhaps try another semester at school and then get back to me on this. as soon as possible would be nice. i'd rather not come back if this treatment isn't working.

my first lunch shift went off quite well today (pause in typing to scratch my chest), allegedly it wasn't as busy as it usually gets and i had it easy today .. which is nice to know since i was running my a** off. for a first day with it i hope i did well.

i met the owner, or as he was introduced to me the man-who-pays-me. i said hello to Phil twice, the second being more enthusiastic because it followed the whopaysme remark. Phil was grand as owners usually are the first time you meet them and before the first time you severely screw something up. i'll let you know if Phil and I still get on in a month or so after i've spoiled a lunch dumped a pint in his lap.

all is well. take care of yourselves.

quartet

it was only an hour into scarface when i began feeling guilty about laying around watching a movie instead of enjoying an irish afternoon. true, i am here for a year but if i keep saying that sept 15th, 2008 will be on my doorstep saying time's up, get out of here, pack up and go home.

so after an hour of scarface i went out for a walk. st Patrick's street hill is just around the corner of the hostel i am staying at. to climb it takes 10 minutes and puts a considerable ache in a persons calves, but it's worth it for the view and sense of accomplishment. looking out from the crest of the hill reminds me of looking out on Huron County from the top of the corn silo. the city scape of cork lies, for the most part, in a valley. this makes Cork City appear to be contained in a bowl. The landscape beyond the city is spotted with developed farmland and hills and trees and houses ... but mostly green. green is what inhabits everything around me.

at the top of st pats hill is a dogless dog park save for the two school girls playing with their dog. i know it is a dog park because dogs have their own way of telling you it is their park when they are not their. after finding a spot that a dog had not claimed, or at least appear to have not claimed in a while, i had a seat and just sort of looked. ahead of me is St. Anne's church, to the left is St. Finbarr's Cathedral and to the right of St. Anne is another Church whose name escapes me mostly because I never knew it. To the right and to the background up on another hill is Christ Church.

to my right is a barbershop quartet who are warming up for their practice. Scarface can't hold a candle to this afternoon, neither can his little friend.

i've nine mintutes

lets see what i can get accomplished.

8 now.

last night at the pub was a great deal more fun than the night previous. i was starting to get my bar legs back again and moving around got easier as i remembered where everything was, had to go as well as what the hell everyone was saying to me. - the Cork accent is a hard one to understand.

i don't know if i've said that already, but it is and bears repeating.

7

we might have a house. it isn't likely though because 25 other people also think they have a house.

6

i finished reading there is a house. it was about a house and a guy that had a drinking problem. he was a writer and couldn't write anthing more than the words there is a house. he was a very entertaining writer.

5

i spoke with a girl from ireland just now who lives in france and is back here travelling. (4) she has a friend who lives on the coast who lives in a bus converted to an appartment on wheels. he is a grown up camp councillor (not the therapy kind if that is what i spelled, nor the gov't kind either). she has her undergrad in arecheology (terribly spelt) (3) and wants to do her masters in heritage management.

very cool.

2

time to go, love you all. talk again soon.

1