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The nice thing about staying in a city for longer than Friday night through Sunday afternoon is that you can get outside for a day and see what else the area has to offer.  This may seem counterproductive – after spending X amount of cash money to get into a city, one would expect that the goal is to cram as much time as possible into the experience.  There is a lot of merit to that argument.  But there are niceties that come with balancing the city with a bit of the countryside.  The scenery is different – instead of gazing up at huge buildings you can check out a mountain or two – plus you can avoid games of dodging traffic and overpaying for drinks.  It was with these revelations in mind that we hopped a DART train to Howth, a small fishing village northeast of Dublin.

I must say…my time in Howth was the only occassion when I truly wished that I would have brought my coat on the Dublin trip.  In a moment of supposed genius I had left the long wool coat of my professional life tossed over a chair back in my apartment.  My logic was thus – we would be spending the majority of time inside bars, hotels, and breweries – and whenever we ventured outside I would inevitably be warmed by the spirits that had only moments ago been in my pint glass.  Plus I wanted to purchase a corduroy jacket, and this was my way of forcing myself to remember.  Everything was going fine until Howth, which – as one may expect from an Irish town right on the water – was cold and rather windy.

Frostbite aside, Howth was a grand time.  The village offered up a market right up on the waterfront and the main street offered a welcoming bar once we were tired of gazing at cheese and bread and fruit.  We spent the morning and mid-afternoon wandering the harbor and small quiet streets of Howth, the tranquility interrupted only once or twice.  One of those times occurred at the Cock Tavern, a hilariously named place where I never recommend purchasing a bag of crisps at while wearing a tuxedo t-shirt.  There may be a trio of casually inebriated Irish fellows who call for the destruction of your prized shirt, or at least your removal from the bar.

The mockery began while innocently purchasing Salt & Vinegar crisps.  Apparently the patrons at the Cock Bar were not impressed by my fancy garb.  I think he may have been embarassed to have been photographically captured next to a tuxedo wearing American.

Despite repeated refusals to my offerings of crisps, I eventually won the respect of the Irish.  Another diplomatic victory!

My favorite place in Howth had to be the top of this little hill that we accidentally came upon.  We had been navigating our way toward the supposed Howth Castle and the train station when we found a little trail and went on up.  There, let me tell you, is the view that all travelers to Howth must seek out.  You can see in every direction – out across the little town, over the boats moored in their places, and across the seemingly endless gray-blue waters of the Irish coast.

The path up to the Howth summit.

The aftermath of a successful tackle at the Howth summit.

The night was capped off back in Dublin by a couple pints of Guinness and a drunken character who was convinced that we all wanted to visit the bar that he owned in Sweden or Norway.  He went as far as to scribble down the address, which – as you may assume from someone who encounters four complete strangers sitting on a couch and automatically knows they are secretly wishing they were in Sweden – was incomprehensible.  He found it necessary to help himself to giant sips of our beer, at which point I was immensly gleeful that I was sitting furthest away from the beer thief.

The Howth castle.

As far as birthday presents go, touring a brewery and a whiskey distillery rank high up on the list along with a shiny new car and a magic dog that will fetch me my weekly Economist and cook breakfast.  All are excellent gifts, and as of the conclusion of Saturday March 15, 2008 I can now scratch two off my list.

The six of us arrived at the world famous Guinness Brewery at St. James Gate in the misting Irish rain, but that alone was not enough to dampen our spirits.  Personally, despite my lukewarm affinity for Guinness, the entrance to the brewery still felt a bit Charlie and the Chocolate Factory-ish.  I was not expecting rivers of Guinness tended by small little creatures, but the potential for that possibility made for an exciting tour.  Additionally, the kind folks at Guinness put out convenient tasting stations throughout the tour.  By the time you had ignored all the plaques about barley and hops, seen the replica of the safe which holds the secret Guinness yeast, taken a photo by the waterfall, and watched a depressing video about a car accident you had already drank several samples of Guinness.  One thing I will say – I vehemently deny that Guinness as a whole tastes better in Ireland, as the rumor goes, but it does taste better within the world’s biggest pint glass that is the central structure of the Guinness brewery.  I attribute that to the environment more than anything, but interpret as you will.  The Guinness tour was a very pleasant experience, a grand way to kick off a birthday morning, and we all ended the tour up in the Gravity Bar (graaaaaaaaavityyyyyyyy….) with a panoramic view of all that a cloudy gray Dublin has to offer.

Next up, the Jameson distillery.  Now, I have never been a huge purchaser of the Irish whiskey.  Jameson was reserved for the occassional car bomb, and that’s about it.  I have been an avid proponent of Wild Turkey for the last several years, and prior to that I bounced around between Jim Beam and Seagram’s 7, with the odd bottle of Crown mixed in.  Recently I have made forays into the world of Scotch, but Irish whiskey had never attained a high spot on my beverage list. 

We had arrived at the Jameson distillery in several phases.  After scrounging for lunch at the Cinnamon Cafe (when questioned upon the name, the owner admitted Cinnamon was chosen for no reason – blatant false advertising, as there was no cinnamon in sight) the guys found a sketchy Irish pub while the ladies went to peruse the Jameson gift shop.  Sadly it was not to be, and before our Kilkenny’s had even been quarterly enjoyed, the beast of miscommunication reared its ugly head in the form of a phone call explaining the tour was beginning immediately.  Off we ran, lamenting full beers and cursing the rain, stopping only when we had arrived halfway through the movie that marks the beginning of the Jameson tour.  Remember the mantra, however, that all things happen for a reason – for after the film was completed I was chosen as one of the lucky few who would partake in the whiskey sampling that followed the tour.  I know not whether to attribute this to divine intervention, my green polo shirt, or perhaps a member of the group mentioning that I was now an elderly twenty-seven years old, but surely my frantic hand waving in the back when asked for volunteers did not hurt.

I must say that I have discovered a new respect for Irish whiskey.  During the sampling I was given three Irish whiskeys, the leading American brand (any guesses?) and a Scotch.  I chose Irish whiskey.  I blame its deliciousness on the method of its creation.  Our helpful tour guide explained that not only is Irish whiskey distilled three times vs. the Scotch two, but Scotch is also dried by burning peat – that gives Scotch a smokier taste, while the malted barley used in Jameson is dried without billowing smoke involved.

The tour-ist phase of the trip over, the guys retreated to a pub down in the Temple Bar district before everyone headed back to the hotel for an attempted nap / Bushmills whiskey sampling session.  Rest was important at this point, because dinner that night was in a restaurant apparently owned by U2. Although no one said it I think everyone was secretly hoping to meet Bono.  Can you imagine having the opportunity to shake hands with Bono and then ask him what he meant by “Uno, dos, tres, catorce!” and then yawn in his face?  The eternal shame would be devastating.

I haven’t seen Bono looking this sad since someone stole his sunglasses.  Perhaps a bilingual Cookie Monster can cheer him up.

The night ended in a hip-hop bar.  Dublin is a confusing place.  I was expecting hooligans fighting in the streets, U2 rocking out on the street, funny limmericks, and bars full of fiddlers and singers lamenting potatos and rain.  Yet I saw none of these, and on a Saturday night I ended up in a bar playing 50 Cent and Tupac.  Quite the difference between expectation and reality, if I do say so myself.  The odd thing about this bar was that somehow, someway it kept us there.  I have no idea why we didn’t leave.  Perhaps it was the slight rain or maybe that we had found a table, but we ended up there for the majority of the night.  Now personally I had a splendid time, although it is probable that other members of my party were not as ecstatic about the Notorious B.I.G. blasting from the speakers and the three incredibly sticky floors full of drunkards.  Even getting brutalized by the bartender during my initial beer buying attempt didn’t impact my intrepid spirit too much.  I will say, however, that this was the first time I had someone actually pour me multiple drinks and proceed to throw them all away out of spite.

Hip hop makes you thirsty.

Since the dawn of time man has yearned to drink beer in Ireland while celebrating St. Patrick’s day.  There really is no rhyme to it, and there is certainly no reason.  It is just something that, when said aloud, sounds like a grand idea, one that must not, can not, be ignored.

The anticipation for a St. Patrick’s Day weekend trip to Dublin was extreme.  St. Patrick’s Day is one of the world’s best holidays – it probably brings more people together than Thanksgiving and Christmas combined – and I had yet to visit the island of Ireland.  There are many places I have yet to visit, actually, but Ireland is especially alluring.  They speak English there, which is a bonus.  It’s a pleasure to order dinner in your native language rather than miming out the actions of the animal it is that you want cooked and served up on a plate.  Ireland also conjures up images of green forests and great cliffs, stormy gray waves crashing below, and to have the opportunity to confirm or disavow my preconceived notions was exiting.  I had been in state of hightened giddiness for several days, the giddiness maintained by the Irish playlist that I had distributed earlier in the week.  It was a remedy without fail – as soon as I sensed my mood darkening or fatigue setting in, a mere click of a button sent eleven songs to my playlist.  Minutes later all was well in the world again, and my desire to sit in a dark Irish pub sipping whiskey had never been stronger.

Unfortunately my companions on this venture bore the brunt of my exuberance, a conclusion they themselves must have drawn after they foolishly allowed me the front seat in the taxi at the Dublin airport.  The taxi driver’s suspicions of buffoonery, alerted after I initially tried to get into his side of the car, surely were confirmed after I engaged him in an endless and – in my opinion, of course - hilariously entertaining interrogation / conversation all the way to our hotel that was to be the base of our weekend operations.  Say what you will about the Irish, but I tell you this – their taxi drivers have a phenomenal sense of humor.

Shortly after our arrival at the hotel we were out on the streets of Dublin, rambling about looking for that first pint glass of black gold, aka Guinness.  The remarkable thing about Guinness is that on most days the taste is - to put it kindly - unappealing.  There is a reason why most people in the USA, when ordering Guinness, get a shot of Baileys or Jameson to chug it down with.  However, when sitting at a wooden table in Dublin the thought of ordering something like a 1664 or yes, even a Bud Light, feels wrong.  I’m not going to join the crowd that claims Guinness tastes superior when sampled in Ireland, because they are liars, but when caught up in the atmosphere and moment that is this weekend, that pint of thick frothy liquid just seems right.

One good Guinness deserves another.

One Indian restaurant later, where several additional non-Guinness beers received their limited time in the spotlight, the search was on again for a good ol’ bar where all sorts of Irish beer could be ordered with reckless abandon.  It was quickly apparent that we were not the only ones who had the bright idea to visit Ireland this weekend, and specifically hit up a drinking establishment or four.  The bars were packed, packed I tell you, and all hope of securing a table were dashed.  We settled for a chair to pile coats on, and celebrated the lack of a table by engaging in the infamous “Rapid Round” photo shots, which were first instigated, I believe, during the great Brazil trip of 2007.  The Rapid Round is truly a great invention, not only because it provides the reward of instant mockery when passing the camera around, but also because it saves you from reviewing an endless supply of pictures from your vacation of you, or someone else in your traveling group, standing alone in front of some building on the street.

Eventually we grew anxious to leave the small basement firetrap that we had parked ourselves in for the last hour or two and poked our heads out onto the street in search of the Hairy Lemon.  This was a bar recommended to me when I first broached the idea of a Dublin weekend.  The individual that recommended the bar uses the terms “frostys” for beers, so I felt the recommendation came from a trustworthy source.  If he tells me I need to go to the Hairy Lemon, to the Hairy Lemon I shall happily go!  It was at midnight at this intriguing little bar, located at Lower Stephen Street in Dublin, Ireland where I celebrated the magic of turning twenty-seven years old.

The interior of the Hairy Lemon was quite a maze.  Per a random website I found while perusing for the address, it is a “…bar occupying three separate buildings, the Hairy Lemon’s interior is packed with bric-a-brac, rickety bicycles and other assorted odds and ends that give the pub a strangely disjointed feel. Nevertheless, the pub is certainly good fun, and particularly popular with office workers in the immediate vicinity.”  I agree.  If you went to the bar to get a beer it was inevitable that you would take the entirely incorrect way back to your seat, ending up wedged between a pinball machine and a table full of rambunctious Irish.  It was great.

Eventually the survivors of the night – down from six to four – settled into a couple of chairs in the courtyard of the Hairy Lemon.  The ‘courtyard’ sounds stylish and nice, but it’s really just the place where the smokers are banished.  Which was fine, because there were cigars to light up.  There were some good times in that courtyard – cigars, some birthday shots compliments of Missy, delicious whisky, and a first-to-second floor conversation with Carol, who we stunningly convinced to put her number into Dan’s phone.

Lookin’ smooth – Dan, Gif, and I.

This is one of the few photos including a birthday shot, and it also includes Carol, who would be a popular subject over the weekend.  Her eyes may be closed, but the one other picture she’s in I’m posing like an idiot.

Rapid Round = You have been caught doing something wrong.  Go.

Sometimes, you just want to chew on a scarf.

After the good times of the Hairy Lemon I scrounged some money off of Dan for a kebob, lamented turning twenty-seven year old, and – just like every guy wishes for on his birthday – fell asleep in a room I was sharing with two other dudes.  Thanks to all who wished me a happy birthday, and wish you could have been here!

The allure of St. Etienne was once again too strong to overcome, and I gave into its sweet seduction for a couple days.  St. Etienne gets a bad rap around the office.  Sure – compared to a project in Marseille or Reims (that’s champagne country!) it may not be able to compete.  But let’s focus on the positives here.  For example, did you know that previously St. Etienne was considered the bicycle capital of France?  Or the city is looked at as leader in tramway design?  It is also the sister city of Des Moines, Iowa, so before you knock St. Etienne remind yourself of the aforementioned splendor.

During my first visit to this city I stumbled upon what at the time was my best dinner (http://windowdrop.com/blog/2007/11/21/day-16-wednesday-november-21-2007/) of my new Paris experience.  To this day I still dream of returning to that restaurant, and thankfully I will have several more opportunities to do so.  Well – lightning stuck twice in St. Etienne.  Food lightning.  This time, however, it took the form of that cuisine which is most elusive to the overseas American - Mexican.

The trials and tribulations that one must go through to find decent Mexican food overseas is well documented.  Actually, I think it is in the information packet that is distributed to expatriates for things to say to friends back home.  Right between “The culture of the people here is soooo amazing” and “I will never drink American beer again” you will find “It is just so hard to find a good Mexican restaurant.”  But truthfully, it is relatively difficult.  When you do find one it is most often a disappointment – pathetic hot sauce, a frozen burrio, and flaccid lettuce.  That is what made El Sombrero, an excellent little Mexican joint buried in a dying town in the south-east of France, so astounding.  My Tuesday burrito was easily the best that I’ve had in France, although I did have to plead quite incessantly for hot sauce and jalapeno peppers.  Europeans just can’t handle the spice, so I think the local cooks are afraid of killing them if they place too much punch into a dish.  The burrito was enhanced by the bottles of Budweiser that I orderd in retaliation for the malicious attacks on American beer by my dinner companions.  It’s not the first time I’ve supported the American brewer here in France, and it won’t be the last!  I hope Anheuser-Busch appreciates my seven euro contribution, one bottle at a time.

A concealed weapon in France.

Of course, the brilliance of the burrito was balanced out by the longevity of what I can only imagine to be a typical French dinner.  That means from 7:15 PM until approximately midnight I was at dinner with eight people that A) spoke French, and B) would have enjoyed staying out even longer.  The perplexing thing that it was about five hours of conversation.  It’s not like we were throwing back tequila shots.  As a simple American I’m poised to head out as soon as I’m finished with whatever it is Chili’s has placed in front of me.  Perhaps I need to gather additional anecdotes or learn better French.  Regardless, I almost fell asleep in my chair. 

I was able to catch a train back to Paris tonight just in time to have a few rounds with Rita, a friend of mine whose time in Paris was up.  When you first move over here six months seems like a long time.  Six months living in a strange country, riding a metro every day, eating different (and sometimes horrifying) food, away from friends and family…but it goes by so fast.  I’ve been in Paris since early November, and I’m stunned at how quickly it has gone.  The quantity of things you want to do and see have a tendency to mount up, until either you give up or spend your whole time running.  As with most things in life, finding that balance is the tough part…

One of the scattered islands that comprise the city of Venice is a cemetery.  The reason, as we had been informed earlier, was Napoleon.  That’s right, the little French general.  Soon after conquering the city in 1797 he realized that Venice floods, and when people are buried in a location where water levels rise…well, folks around town surely lamented the absence of Evian Natural Spring Water.  The Venetians who have passed away since are rewarded with a final ultimate island getaway, and they lie in utter peace and quiet in the San Michele cemetery.  Perhaps we were still in a haunted mood from the Ghost Tour, but it sounded like a good sight to go see this particular morning.  What was interesting to me, besides an entire island dedicated to burial, was the boatloads of living Venetians making the pilgrimage to the tombs.  Most carried bouquets of colorful flowers to place on the graves – an act not only touching, but (from my experience) a rarity in the USA.  The island was also on the way to the glass island of Murano, where ovens had been turning sand into the breakable stuff for more than seven hundred years.  A cemetery and glass – and maybe Home Depot, if there’s enough time.

My interest in Murano had less to do with colored glass and more to do with lunch.  We were staying in a very nice hotel close to San Marco Square, and it billed itself as a bed and breakfast.  What this translated to was a package of cookies and an assortment of teas.  It reminded me a bit of when I took a canal cruise in Amsterdam a couple years ago, which promised food in addition to all you can drink Heineken.  In that case, ”food” was Chex Mix.  Europeans simply have a different concept of food, and I find it odd and perplexing.  One can imagine my joy, my pure unbridled joy, when we stumbled into an Italian restaurant (what else?) and discovered lasagna was served as an appetizer in my lunch formula (appetizer, salad, plate, dessert).  And not a sneaky European appetizer, which may have consisted of a lasagna noodle smeared with tomato sauce, but a full slab of it.  Despite the pasta related good news I was slightly confused once again.  My simple American ways are just overwhelmed by the offering of lasagna as an appetizer.

Discombobulated by all the spikey blue glass.

The rest of time on Murano was spent wandering the streets looking for a place where we could watch artisans craft some glass.  I’m not sure why, exactly, but the ladies did a good job of convincing us guys that all the cool kids were doing it.  Although we struck out on artistic glass making – we did come close when we found a guy shoveling sand into an oven - Murano was a nice little island to walk through.  And very shiny.

By the time the water taxi delivered us back to the central part of Venice, time was running out.  We had to pick up backpacks and snag another water taxi up to the bus station, but there was still some time to venture inside the Basilica of San Marco.  And I’m glad I did!  It’s different than most churches – a different style both inside and outside, which I later learned was Byzantine.  To me, that means rounded tops instead of huge spires.  The floor of the church was one of the coolest things, with patterned tiles covering the uneven ground.  There are mosaics covering the walls, depicting a variety of biblical scenes - an impressive departure from the countless paintings that hang in your standard cathedral.  If you paid the five euros and ventured to the top of the church, which the tourist rule dictates, you are treated to an impressive view of the square.  Highly recommended!

The basilica got me thinking about the array of churches I have seen here in Europe.  I did a quick run through, and here’s an abbreviated ranking of my top five:

1. Saint Peter’s Basilica, Rome ~ Everything about it is impressive.  I’ve seen more intricately decorated chuches but the scale of the build, the plaza out front, and the pure history about the place puts this one up top.
2. Monestary at Mont Saint-Michel ~ Tthe mountaintop entrance overlooking a plain that floods is simply amazing, and the countless compartments cunningly built atop one another is staggering.
3. Sagrada Familia, Barcelona ~ Unfinished yet still beautiful.  Stylishly much different than any church I’ve seen but very cool in its own right.  They have been constructing this church since 1882.
4. Basilica of San Marco, Venice ~ An interior / exterior unlike most churches I have visited, and it made me want to look at floors and walls more than any other church on this list.  The view from the top doesn’t hurt one bit.
5. Sacre Coeur, Paris ~ The gleaming white church perched on top of a big hill in northern Paris looks phenomenal in the evening.

Sorry Barcelona Cathedral, Westminster Abbey, Notre Dame, Berliner Dome, Saint Vitus, Trinity Church, and others – you’re great, but there’s only room for five!