steven o'flynn

steve and i have a healthy relationship, at least as far as i know. he calls me a yank but i know he does it because he likes me. he says it like it's supposed to be an insult but i know it's not, he's just taking the piss out of me.

that means to make fun of a person.

if we close together he gives me a ride home which is always welcome because in ireland it rains a lot and most times you are outside it is raining. since i have to be outside to walk home i usually end up getting rained on.

one particular day he gave me a ride home it had not been raining, it had been snowing. but snow in ireland doesn't stay for long and by the time we had finished up the snow had melted and froze again and made ice on the windshield of his car which was made worse by irish weather because it had decided, again, to rain.

being a canadian i knew this was easily fixed by the ice scraper that everyone keeps in the entrance of their houses for just such occasions like this. as an irishman he knew nothing of this practice, called me a yank and asked for the bottle of water at my feet because the whipper fluid wasn't working. i thought, for a moment, but only a moment, how he knew there was a bottle at my feet only to realize that my car would likely have had a bottle on the passenger side; not because i had remember putting it there but simply because passenger sides always have water bottles on the floor (check for yourself, but i know you know it's true).

he sprayed the water on the windshield and the ice began melting and in the same moment that i was thinking "wow, this is the greatest idea ever why didn't i think of that" he hit the whippers and i realized that it was also the worst idea ever. not because he didn't have those dumb canadian tire ice-muncher things that only work because the whole commercial is shot indoors but because he was now covered in icey-shush water that was much better off safely contained in the water bottle he was still holding.

in as many movements that he takes to make a trip around the bar he frantically grabbed for the switches, stop the cold from getting to him and will the past three seconds out of existence. in the car, covering my mouth and thinking unfunny thoughts i sat trying not to get fired for laughing hysterically at my boss.

laugh it up, yank. laugh hard. this is the only time you'll ever get to do this. so laugh good and hard.

for whole trip home the incident was my fault.

steve

my manager's name is steve. you remember steve, don't you? he's the one who was in tears over my keg stacking during the jazz fest.

well, quite often he gets rammy. he'll go running around the pub, making himself more worked up than he was before feeding his ulcer with a cup of coffee every few minutes. i keep telling him he should lay off the caffeine lest it stunt his growth. he keeps telling me that at 27 five foot five is as tall as he gets. then i'll make a joke about being a leprechaun, he'll call me a yank and then run circles round the pub.

a wise man once told me that a wise man once told him that he never repeats a step he's taken. he takes his time and makes sure to bring with him the tools he needs. i don't think that was meant to be a metaphor or anything, but i still like to think about it sometimes and how it, you know, like, makes thoughts think.

while my thoughts were thinking about whether i was to share this bit of knowledge with him they all generally decided that it is better not to share advice that was not asked for. this, also, came from a wise man i know. at least, that is what they would have concluded had steve not interrupted my day dream by asking why the sink was over flowing and the pint i was pulling had filled the floor. he handed me a coffee and a bit of paper that said getyourheadinthegame. i smiled and failed. i tried again and failed again.

steve was looking at me.

i pictured steve in a green suit with a little green hat and a little bowl of lucky charms and smiled. he shook his head, took a bite of the charms and walked away.

simple and snowy

happy groundhog day!

the irish lift their heads briefly from their pints to take the piss out of the dumb yankee and his silly traditions. Ha, i say to myself ... little do they know ...

Prior to the conversion of the Irish Celts, Saint Brigit's Day was known as Imbolc, one of four seasonal junctions in the pagan calendar of Ireland. It was the start of spring, and its name refers to "ewes' milk" and to the birth of farm animals. Imbolc was dedicated to the Celtic goddess Brigit, who was associated with learning, poetry, crafts and healing. Many of her pagan characteristics were retained when she was made a saint. [source]

but try bringing that up in bar conversation without more ridicule. i guess i'll just have to just bask in my own brilliance and ability to perform simple internet searches.

it snowed here yesterday morning, in big meaty flakes. a yard in canada would have been covered in a thin fluffy sheet, ready to be tramped or shaped or folded into boulders. however, the concrete covered yard in ireland ate them, all of them. they fell to the concrete reluctantly joining the growing water slick. it was odd, disappointing almost; seeing the snow, knowing it's potential, and then ... nothing. like irish soil rejected the idea of snow. all that snow falling and nothing to show for it. waking up an hour later i wouldn't have believed it had snowed at all.

the snow fell harder. my view from the kitchen window cut out the yard floor and, unless i stepped out into the yard, it looked like the whole world was snow white. it was great, a bit of home. one of those things eh ... don't know until it's gone. i had my moment though. seeing a bit of snow recharged me more than a week of sleep.

i've given my one month's notice at which time i'll depart on my trip around europe and maybe ireland. before i left i was told i should travel without flying.

i'll let you know if it's possible since i've failed so far.

complete concern

[occasionally i cheat to make it look like i've been more diligent with posting stories than i actually have been. if you happen across a story when you're scrolling down the page that you can't believe you didn't see before because you've been checking daily and nothing slips by you ... then chances are that it wasn't there before and i've just added today.

not to worry though because i'll also likely have posted something on the 'real' day and linked back to it.]

a few days ago i went to the pharmacy next door to pick up some tools for the surgery i was about to undertake: it was time my stitches came out. a few short minutes pasted as i circled round the displays. the beautician came up to me and confirmed my suspicions that i was in the wrong section because it was very likely that i did not want coverup or ... whatever else it was i was looking at. it all looked like scissors and tweezors to me.

i explained to the pharmacist what my task was and asked what tools she felt i might need. she answered me with a look that told me she had never been more concerned before in her life and she had seen her seven children through diapers, school and their own births. my desire to remove my own stitches trumped them all.

sniff, sniff

today i woke up with a foggy head, a stuffed nose and a clock that said twenty minutes left to get to work.

whoops.

luckily i`ve learned a few things while on the road: always pile your clothes in the same spot every day, know how long it takes to get to work if i don't have to wait at cross walks and brush your teath the night before to save time in the morning.

(st)itching to tell a story

life, in general, is good. i've gone so far as to get a fiddle teachers number; all i've to do now is call it. i'm excited. there doesn't seem to be too much committement needed because she's always moving too. i'll keep you posted what comes of it.

my glasses have decided that they'd rather been a pain in my life than do anything constructive. they live the remaining days of their life either tucked away in a pocket or, in the rare occasion that i wear a touque to support the arms behind my ears, on my head. i think i'll have to break down and ses a doctor since the mailing system won't get a script to me until well after i had ground my glasses into a thick pulp and made a few new friends who would later turn out to be lamp posts.

"but they were such good listeners" i would later say
"your not talking to anyone but yourself" would come the reply from no one because matty would still be in spain.

with those glasses in my pocket i spent my post-spectacle-shopping day pulling pints, avoiding the regulars and chatting with an american couple who kept me entertained all night. susan, another of the barstaff, made fun of me last night for being "prejudice" because i only talked to the foreigners. i didn't know where to begin telling her what was wrong with what she said ... so i agreed.

the american couple said good evening at the appropriate time (something other patrons might want to learn) and we closed up shop. the final task of closing up shop involves arming the alarm and making a mad dash to the door. on the way there are lights to turn out and massive handless doors to trapease through. the act of closing the very last door usually isn't followed by a gasp from susan, nor a sudden realization that i left something behind, nor the onset of a pain that can only come from having a massive handless door close firmly on my middle and other-ring finger.

so in the end i was able to spend some nice quality time with the night watchman at the cork emergency waiting room with the doc prepped the O.R. for a silly canadian boy who had less than agile hands. two hours and three stitches later i am on my way home.

i'll have to set up a video conference with mom when it comes time to remove the stitches as it will cost me 50 quid to visit a doctor.

sacred steps

we didn't actually have tea at the Frank's house, because it is a museum and they don't serve tea at museums.

finding it was a challenge. the kiwi's, as it turned out, don't do "getting lost" as well as matty and i. none of the streets were written in english and therefore were unpronounceable, meaning nothing to the lot of us. as tourist we were forever looking for that street that has a Vij in it or started with an L ... having evolved from the realization that following our favourite street, the one that ended straat, did us as much good as following Rue Street in Montreal.

then the house found us the day started looking good.

we spent several minutes in the antiroom reading an outline of the family, familiarizing ourselves a bit with the history and waiting for the tour guide to round the group up. fifteen minutes later we realized there was no tour guide, just a group of people who can't read the sign that says: please proceed on your self-guided tour.

What i was impressed with most was how sacred the place was to everyone there. Quotes from the diary of anne frank guided me through the house. Through them she stressed the danger her family was in, how trapped she felt within the walls and how important it was for all of them to remain absolutely silent during the day; the workers in the warehouse below were not aware of the family hiding and may have given them up to the Germans. No toliets or steps, no laughing or crying, no talking or chewing moving at all.

The house had three floors to be toured, a fourth, the attic, was sealed off. Save for a few whispers between tourists, the place was silent. As groups moved about it was clear just how difficult it must have been for this family. Above me i heard the every floorboard creak under every heel that passed. Everyone moved with such care, with a common understanding that something out of our grasp had happened here. Occasionally a blasphemous flash would disrupt the out focus and furrowed brows would assault the perpetrator. Very people took more than one photo, it just didn't feel right.

It was incredible to have walked through the place that once served as a safehouse for so many people.

ol'vanny

we visited the van gough museum, but they didn't have starry night. i was all excited to see it because, really, it was the only one i knew of his without being prompted. of course once walking past a few of his others i started to remember them as well, but i was still a wee bit disappointed.

i took the audio tour which turned out to be for people who couldn't read the plaques that hung next to each painting. i suppose it was also for art fanatics who enjoyed being lead around by a breathy female. it's been a while since i've heard my celebrity narrator, yet this was a welcome change; as well, i could watch the painting reveal it's self, if you will, as my female friend described it to me.

part of the tour took us through some of van gough's doodles. it was neat to see how his works progressed; what made it, what didn't and what changed.

the girls came with us, however we learned early on that museums weren't really their thing and pretty soon they had run ahead, finished the tour and were taking elevator rides. we hadn't thought to bring any toys with us to keep them occupied while we went about our day. i suppose those are the things you learn as you travel.

we finished off the tour, as one always does, with a trip to the souvenir shop (which, as i am sure you all know, is french for cheep-trinket). i picked out three postcards of mini van gough paintings. that i am sure ol'vanny would have been very proud to see his work trivialized, but i cared only until i saw that prints of the real thing were going for thousands of euro.

the lovely young woman who worked the check out was doodling on a bit of paper. cleverly i remarked that perhaps someday they'd be hanging somewhere with people doting over them. she smiled, thanked me and checked me out.

i walked away with a big stupid grin on my face which quickly turned my face red as i caught eyes with the group of three tourists who had watched the whole thing. all matty could do to hold back his laughter was smile and stifle his chuckle through his nose. the kiwi's pointed and i turned pink.

damn this cleverness

i collected my bag at the coat check and we went on our way. we were due at anne frank's house for tea at four.

embarassed

we visited a sex museum and it was exactly what one might think it would be.

the word museum is a very stupid word to use in this sense.

i never want to go to one ever again.

bearded

i carefully planned my shaving schedule to be at the threshold of "brad you should shave soon for work" and "hey, you look like a hip backpacker who leaves his troubles and shaving equipment at home". matty has a few pictures, i hope i was successful. unfortunately i had to go back to work, despite my desperate attempts to find away to survive without actually going to work or doing any actual calculations failed and my personal hygiene was called into question.

the beard had to go.

it was just getting to the nice comfortable bushy stage where the red was peaking through and the itch hadn't settled in. my reflection and i, after a long stare off which, after several tie breakers, had to be called a draw, ceremoniously shaved our beards together.

the week played through my mind as the beard was pulled off my face. i had to return to the pub, a reality with which i am avoiding another reality. a very funny feeling it is to return to a holiday from holiday, even though that holiday has lunches and mean ladies.

i remembered the little shops that populated every street. where the people sit at foggy tables with other people they may or may not know. the people and other people do is sit, not talking staring with blank faces at the television, coffee cups or walls, which ever is closer or clearer.

i remember the security guard at the airport who called me by name. however it wasn't until i was through the magic beeping doors that i realized he hadn't called me by a name of mine at all but mr gordon downie. i turned back to shout thank you at him but he was already enveloped in being cute with the next tourist in line. i felt honoured that he thought i resembled the lead singer of my favourite band, however i suppose it helped that i was wearing my only favourite sweater.

i remember other things too, but the time has run out.

(matty left for spain just now and he'll be back on the 23rd)

hung shingle

gone to amsterdam, back in a week.

--b

fear and clothing

We sat quietly in the cab of the truck for a while.

The truck was big and red and loud. He loved take it round the house in the winter to see how much snow it would go through. I would sit high up in the seat, hands perched on the dash to get the best view. My little head moving like a child in the front row at the cinema, quickly from side to side to take everything in: the snow rushing over the hood, past the doors, swirling away behind us. We cheered as the snow drifts coward away. I was on top of the world.

Not today. Today i was small. Today i sunk deep into the seat and never wanted to be seen again. With my hands were tightly at my side stared at the cab floor because i hadn't disappointed it, at least not yet.

He had brought a change of clothes with him, but he wasn't worried about the truck. He was doing his best to help the situation. He was thirty two and his only son and oldest child had just pooped his pants.

you couldn't have gone to the bathroom, could you?

He wasn't angry, he was confused. i shrugged my shoulders but my eyes didn't leave the floor for fear it would disappear. i didn't want to explain myself, it wouldn't've made sense anyway.It was easier for me to do what i did than to have the other boys make fun of me. They were always in the bathroom laughing at the toilet if something was "left behind". So instead of subjecting myself to that humiliation I did the only thing that made sense to me and I kept it to myself.

The truck roared to life and we started for home.

Well, will we try again tomorrow? he offered as we drove down the road.
I looked up at him with raised eyebrows. I'll have to i thought i'll be behind in the field work.

I can't wait until my son poops his pants at school. I only hope I've got a big red truck so I can bring him home.

five and three quarters

[this memory came back to me after i had re-read a post i made over at "slatfatf" two and a half years ago. the post was wishing dad a happy birthday, which is ironic because i am sure dad has never read it. the post is a favourite of a close friend of mine, i hope you enjoy it too. as for this story, it is one that i think about semi-often. not to worry though, i have long gotten over the phobia. it will be told in three installments, at least i think it will ... i haven't finished it yet. please be patient.]

* * *

It was early summer. School was in and we were in the school yard playing with our tractors. There were four of us, the same four who always turned up. We were experts in school yard farming, but then so was every five and three quarter year old kid. We lived for the time in the yard where we would clear the twigs from the "fence lines" and pebbles from the fields. Plowing and planting, plowing and replanting.

However, this day was not be remembered for the tractors, nor the planting, nor stone picking. This day was to be remembered for a scrunched up face, a big truck and small boy who made a poor choice of location. I remember this day because I was five and three quarters and my dad had come to pick me up from school early. I had pooped my pants.

2 txt a :)

on thursday matty and i fly to amsterdam with the two kiwi's with whom we visited blarney castle. this trip has sort of been planned since we arrived in dublin nearly four months ago. The Kiwi's are flying out of dublin, and matty and i out of Cork and the foursome are set to meet up at some airport in amsterdam ... or so i am told because it was matty who set the whole thing up.

[the key to successful travelling, or so i've discerned thus far, is to be as prepared as possible with places to stay, transportation means arranged and packed lunches; however, if that is not something you're capable of find someone who is and stick close with them.]

matty and i exchanged several text's the day of the booking making sure of important specifics like my name on my passport, the price of the ticket and not to mention the right days i was to take off work. matty was planning unemployment so it wasn't as big a deal for him.

With all that done, the tickets booked and paid for, matty was on his way home. i got this text from him:

$20 cheaper she didnt chrg me tx feel bad tho.

i sent back:

karma police might get ya

later he sent me:

i went back she wz cute it wz worth it 2 c her smile

what a softie.

deceivingly obvious

An old man approached the bar and stood patiently. His beard had greyed years ago, his sober marooned much the same. Next to him stood a young man. The younger man looked as though he would have like to be at a different pub in a different city, instead he found himself here. The young man stood as still as possible, not making any sudden movements.

I looked at the old man and sighed. i spoke first to young and sober. The old man could wait, and what he would hear from me wasn't going to be new; he had heard it from every pub on the street tonight.

Usually situations like this, this one included, end on a good note. The soberless person will muster whatever senses are left to muster, find their feet and subsequently the door.

i think you've had enough for tonight, come back again tommorrow.

If a barman tells you it's time to go home, it is time to go home.

no if, and's or but's.
no please's, thank you's or throwing chairs.
no telling me ... "go back on the banana boat you came on",
... "you're a langer" or
... "we've never had enough" while you show me your man-u chest tatoo.

If I've told you it is time to go home you should have left for home an hour ago.

The old man returned two hours later.

"Weren't you in here before."

He swayed a bit and his eyes moved from the floor to the stool, the bartop to my tie and rested on my face trying to figure out which of them had spoke, to whom they were speaking to and what it was they had said. He began to shake his head 'no' but stopped short because he couldn't decide for sure what his answer was, or should be.

"I think you've had enough tonight"

He replied by raising his eyebrows, which appeared to be an internally misscommunicated smile.

Glassesless Brad

Quite often i'll round the bar and come face to confused face with a customer. they look as though they want to ask where their drinks are, but all they can get out is the first part of "you don't wear glasses." Then out of nowhere, rounding the other side of the bar, is an armful of drinks and a glassesless Brad named Roy.

Roy is a writer. An actual writer, not a character who plays one in my imaginary world of imaginary patrons who have imaginary, romantic professions that justify my fueling their alcoholism.

Roy is a father. At twenty five he had a wonderful woman whom with he would have a five year old daughter five years from then; at twenty five i found a wonderful red wagon with whom i've avoided life (The wonderful woman is still wonderful, however she is marrying another man in a few weeks).

Roy is the assistant manager at the Shel, five years older than i and is constantly mistaken for my brother, although no one guesses which of us is older.

[i made a resolution]

christmas memories

this story was meant to be added a week ago, but with time moving the way it does and holidays coming and going as they do i didn't get the chance. perhaps a few of you have memories of your own you'd like to share.

the kids would do a gift exchange at christmas. this would be a process of mandy bringing the topic up every week from september until the first of december, and then daily from then on until end of december when we would decide to exchange gifts at new years, or at the feast of Epiphany on January 6th (for those of you keeping track you'll know that is after new years and thus allows more time) which can be credited to mom and her way of bringing the church back into the holiday season.

epiphany celebrates the arrival of the three wise men to bethlehem and how Frank sent gold and mir.

the year of our story had the gift exchange running on time which meant that mandy had been able to organize us enough to have us pull names well before christmas day, have us get to a shopping centre as well as have it figured out in full exactly whom had who.

i would have been fifteen i think, meaning everyone else fell into the age range of either 14, 13, 9 or 7. i went shoping with one of them and there where two other groups. sometimes through the day the groups would meet up, chat, swap members too keep everyone but mandy thinking. at one point i was in the check out of a store behind heather. she got to the cashier and didn't have enough. i handed her some money but she didn't want to take it. there we were, the two of us in the check out having a quiet fight about the money i was giving her. her being nine and wanting to do things on her own, me being fifteen and the big brother wanting to make sure little sis was ok.

eventually she gave in, the family reunited in the food court, universal meeting point of all families during the holidays, and loaded up for home. a few days later the time came for the exchange and for everyone, except mandy, to reveal who they had. being the oldest, my gift came last, and being last it became very obvious who had me.

of course you, dear reader, have already figured out who had me, haven't you! dad thought it was the funniest thing that could possibly had happened. i had, without knowing it, offered money that would pay for a gift that was coming to me. and what's more, i had forced heather to take what i was offering. the poor girl had no choice but to take it from me because she couldn't reveal to me who she had.

... i thought i was being noble.

the re-solution

a funny thing, new years resolutions are. it's always the big question, too. what's yours? seldom do i have an answer for the day of, in fact most often i don't get mine, like many other things, until the feast of epiphany; but i think that just has to do with being a murray.

i wasn't going to make a resolution, i never follow through with them anyways. instead, i'll make a list of things i'd like to improve in my life. i think that'll make it easier.

this year i'll read more, watch less and make more music.

To help me in all those departments is an every expanding library, a couple of music books and ... well, the last bit will be tougher since the only living room has a tv. any suggestions?

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.


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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