Warning: This post contains brain violence and emotional nudity. Also, it is ridiculous.
Last night, I was taking a mercury bath and had a thought, maybe. I don't remember. But I guess what I'm trying to say is that I wish I knew how to talk good about my feelings. Like, I want to be able to go from feeling a feeling, to noticing that I am feeling it, to figuring out what feeling it is, to deciding whether or not I like feeling the feeling, to being able to make the words with my brain that would stick to the feeling and make it so that when someone asks me what I'm feeling I can say something that makes sense like, 'hungry' or, 'my heart hurts because I missed the Golden Girls on the TV box.'
That was a bad example. I should come up with a point before bringing forth the examples.
See, I wish I knew how to make points. They told me in school that it was like whittling an arrowhead from a piece of obsidian. Not a big clumpy piece like one you would find buried in a river bed but the nice flat smooth pieces you find in cowboy skeletons that were once part of the circle of life on ocean floors 50 hundred million years ago.* Case in point: I was having a conversation on (in?) the subway and a dude came up to me and told me to get to the point. It was none of his business, so I was like, 'why don't you get to the point?' Really. I wasn't talking to him or to anyone in that car so it was none of any of their businesses. I was having a great conversation nevertheless. Mobile phones don't work in (on?) the subway.
So I gave him the old Garrison Keillor, 'No, no, it's a different story, about a pontoon boat.' And then my studio audience laughed. With me, not at me. 'Ha ha' and not 'hee hee,' as it were.
So to get back to what I was talking about before: some people have what those same people like to call 'emotional intelligence.' As far as I can tell, it's like the force, except it is missing some forcey things the most lamentable of which are levitation and deadly (but peace-loving) skill with a hybrid light saber.
Sometimes I wish I were able to identify the things that I know I must be feeling and to describe them in the same way that I can describe other things that I like such as juice. (Oh my gosh have you had it? It's delicious.) People who have this emotional intelligence feature are ever-aware of their own emotional climate--and they can sense the emotional meteorology of others.
Even though it sounds like a load of goat cud, I wanted to raise my 'emotional IQ,' as it were. One of my good friends claims that he is one of these feeling Jedis. Let's call him 'Linda.' I thought that, since I've been calling him by a girl's name, this might have something to do with why he's so good at keeping in touch with himself. (Don't even.)
So for two weeks, he called me 'Janet' at my request. We would go out for sushi, and I'd say, 'Hey Linda, pass the wasabi.' Then he'd say, 'Janet, I think you're being passive aggressive.'
'Can you shut up and grab me that white tuna** from the conveyor belt? You always get the good seat you bastard, where you get to see what's coming upstream while I have to keep asking you to feed me like a fessacchione. Ooh, wait, is that a $4.00 plate? Forget it. By the way, that's active aggression, right? How'm I doing? Good?'
I guess what I'm trying to say is that I wish I had wider shoulders so that I could wear a double-breasted pea coat without people thinking that Manute Bol had an albino midget son with a homeostasis problem.
* Note: this is not true at all.
** My second favorite variety of sushi in the world, after eel kabayaki nigiri.
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
Ireland, Part V
Tuesday, 13 April
I slept for so long last night; I was extremely tired. I woke up, had a small breakfast, and then went across the street with my clothes from the weekend’s hike to get them washed at the laundromat. Including my shoes. A while later, I’d changed into the more comfortable (and now clean and dry) pair and was able to walk around much less painfully. In fact, after an hour or so, the blisters weren’t bothering me in the slightest. I decided to visit Trinity College, since I’d only walked around the edge of it the last time I was in Dublin. Once inside the campus, I was surprised that I was still in the same city. It’s not a huge campus, but one that is pleasantly spacious in that everything’s not crowded together. There were lawns everywhere, rows of trees, flower beds, benches, people kicking a ball around, and the buildings themselves were beautiful. The library, a relatively massive structure with shelves twenty feet high and tracked ladders to match was most impressive. Again, this could just be my reaction to something so starkly different from what I’ve been getting used to living in London, LSE’s campus being a claustrophobic maze of dirt-caked behemoths lining a narrow street that effectively limits the sun’s reach.
Speaking of sunlight, there was plenty of it, and I decided to try and lose myself in the city for a while, thinking of what to do next, both in the short and long terms. I did get lost, but I only noticed when I found myself at the port. I guessed I’d been walking for more than I’d noticed, taking random turns here and there. It was a lot more difficult finding out where I was than I’d thought it would be.
This is mainly because of Dublin’s deliberately confusing street naming and numbering 'convention.' Streets change names every one or two blocks in Dublin, and the numbering goes up along one side, and down along the other. So while I might have thought I’d be on Dame Street, for example, five minutes later, I’d be on College Street. Personally, I can never remember whether or not I’d accidentally turned somewhere, and the fact that the street name just changes on me like that doesn’t help me find my bearings (which are more often than not misplaced). So it was the better part of half an hour that I spent toiling over my map and asking people what this street was called further down that way. Of course, this being perfectly normal for them, people were amused that I was confused by it. But they don’t know that I could get lost sitting on a park bench.
Anyway, I did find my way back from wherever it was I’d ended up. But I got to see a lot of Dublin, and I did notice that I was still south of the Liffey, the river that runs through the city (I’ve been known to cross rivers without noticing). I made a mental note of some buildings and other things I’d be likely to come back and photograph, depending on whether or not I could find my way back here.
I'm sitting at St. Steven’s Green, since I’ve managed to lose sight of my planning for tomorrow, or even tonight for that matter. I think I'll go to Sheep’s Head peninsula. No, maybe Cork? No, I’ll go to the Dingle peninsula and bike around there. No. It’s going to be Sheep’s Head. Oh, it depends on when the bus leaves. No, no. There must be a bus that leaves quite early to each place. Why don’t I go and find out? Tomorrow morning there will be time.
For now, I was able to catch the museum before it closed (oddly enough for a museum of Celtic heritage, they still couldn’t resist including a sizeable Ancient Egyptian exhibit). More interesting was the Natural History museum, with an immense collection of many known (and stuffed) species of fauna running around Ireland. Later, I walked around Temple Bar, went into a café, and sat and read more of The Wasp Factory.
To be continued.
I slept for so long last night; I was extremely tired. I woke up, had a small breakfast, and then went across the street with my clothes from the weekend’s hike to get them washed at the laundromat. Including my shoes. A while later, I’d changed into the more comfortable (and now clean and dry) pair and was able to walk around much less painfully. In fact, after an hour or so, the blisters weren’t bothering me in the slightest. I decided to visit Trinity College, since I’d only walked around the edge of it the last time I was in Dublin. Once inside the campus, I was surprised that I was still in the same city. It’s not a huge campus, but one that is pleasantly spacious in that everything’s not crowded together. There were lawns everywhere, rows of trees, flower beds, benches, people kicking a ball around, and the buildings themselves were beautiful. The library, a relatively massive structure with shelves twenty feet high and tracked ladders to match was most impressive. Again, this could just be my reaction to something so starkly different from what I’ve been getting used to living in London, LSE’s campus being a claustrophobic maze of dirt-caked behemoths lining a narrow street that effectively limits the sun’s reach.
Speaking of sunlight, there was plenty of it, and I decided to try and lose myself in the city for a while, thinking of what to do next, both in the short and long terms. I did get lost, but I only noticed when I found myself at the port. I guessed I’d been walking for more than I’d noticed, taking random turns here and there. It was a lot more difficult finding out where I was than I’d thought it would be.
This is mainly because of Dublin’s deliberately confusing street naming and numbering 'convention.' Streets change names every one or two blocks in Dublin, and the numbering goes up along one side, and down along the other. So while I might have thought I’d be on Dame Street, for example, five minutes later, I’d be on College Street. Personally, I can never remember whether or not I’d accidentally turned somewhere, and the fact that the street name just changes on me like that doesn’t help me find my bearings (which are more often than not misplaced). So it was the better part of half an hour that I spent toiling over my map and asking people what this street was called further down that way. Of course, this being perfectly normal for them, people were amused that I was confused by it. But they don’t know that I could get lost sitting on a park bench.
Anyway, I did find my way back from wherever it was I’d ended up. But I got to see a lot of Dublin, and I did notice that I was still south of the Liffey, the river that runs through the city (I’ve been known to cross rivers without noticing). I made a mental note of some buildings and other things I’d be likely to come back and photograph, depending on whether or not I could find my way back here.
I'm sitting at St. Steven’s Green, since I’ve managed to lose sight of my planning for tomorrow, or even tonight for that matter. I think I'll go to Sheep’s Head peninsula. No, maybe Cork? No, I’ll go to the Dingle peninsula and bike around there. No. It’s going to be Sheep’s Head. Oh, it depends on when the bus leaves. No, no. There must be a bus that leaves quite early to each place. Why don’t I go and find out? Tomorrow morning there will be time.
For now, I was able to catch the museum before it closed (oddly enough for a museum of Celtic heritage, they still couldn’t resist including a sizeable Ancient Egyptian exhibit). More interesting was the Natural History museum, with an immense collection of many known (and stuffed) species of fauna running around Ireland. Later, I walked around Temple Bar, went into a café, and sat and read more of The Wasp Factory.
To be continued.
Saturday, July 28, 2007
Ireland, Part IV
Monday, 12 April
(Continued)
No, I’m kidding. We headed north. We joined another little road, left it again for another forest walk, and then joined a road deeper inside the forest. It was still raining and we had little shelter from the rain because there were no trees on the road. Its edges were impassable, going sharply up a hill on one side and down a steep slope on the other. We were now descending the mountain we’d been climbing on its opposite side so far, and it had been five or six hours since we'd left Knockree.
After another look at the map, we found that we were getting quite close to our destination. I think we had crossed the county border by this time, or were about to cross it at the foot of the mountain. But either way, from then on we were walking along rural roads rather than dirt paths and trails. On the way down, we caught some amazing scenery through gaps in the trees; the clouds were so low, we had been walking through one, or a group of them, for most of the mountain, which is why it was raining the whole time, and it served to make the view all that more inspiring by dithering the light. It made everything look so vibrantly alive and fresh through the mist, light playing off of the vapor and shimmering whenever the sun came through the cloud cover. Eventually, we could see Dublin’s outskirts in the distance, and Melissa commented on how from here it looked a little like Fremont, sprawled out, colorful, and lightly built up.
At the bottom, we had definitely crossed the county border because we found a sign that told us were on the edge of Marlay Park, where the Way originates, somewhere within. On the map there was an ancient burial site not far from where we were, and we started looking around for it. A man walking his dog came up to us (extremely friendly, the Irish) and asked us if we were all right, and we asked him if he knew of the burial site. He said, “of course!” and pointed to a place on the edge of the slop upwards where we should begin our climb, and that they were about 50 m in from there. He was so keen on helping us, in fact, that when we reached the slope, he called back to us excitedly, indicating that we were in the right place, and to have a nice day.
It was a refreshing departure from the stark bluntness and sometimes rude interactions one has with the English, but that’s a whole other journal.
We found the site, and actually there were two. Apparently built one thousand years apart (well, I couldn’t tell just by looking at them, there was a plaque). The older one had also been reused when the newer one was built, the old remains and artifacts pushed aside but the lithic provenience was preserved, or so the archeologists thought, because of the difference in design between the two sites. But it was quite difficult to examine the sites well because of the amount of littler around the place. Someone had had a party or something, because there were packages, wrappers, cans, bottles, toilet paper, socks (socks) and shoes, just everywhere. All kinds of stuff. And it was recent, nothing was faded. Shame.
The last stage of the walk was nice, through Marlay Park, which used to be the Marlay family's gardens. In front of Marlay House, we sat on a bench; our hike was over.
We just sat quietly in the sun, leaning on our packs, looking bedraggled and tired. This was it. My feet started to hurt, and I remember smiling to myself -- not a moment too soon. They were probably in pain the whole time, but I’d just started to really notice it then, as I sat, the memory of the walk piling up and finally forcing some of my body’s complaints up to the podium. I looked down at my shoes, in horrible condition, and my jeans, although dry, still had the dirt from yesterday's bog wade and were brown up to the knees.
It was almost five. We barely caught the bus back into Dublin, running after it as it was about to leave. We sat sitting upstairs, still silent. Fifteen minutes later the bus ride came to an end, and we hurried downstairs and jumped out. I slung my pack over my shoulder, she extended her left hand as I extended my right. That didn’t work, so I freed my left hand and we shook hands, said goodbye, and headed in opposite directions, she to Trinity College to meet her friend, and me to Avalon House hostel to spend a few nights' rest.
By now my feet really hurt and my back ached from carrying my pack for two days in difficult conditions. But I felt good, and I would hopefully meet more people. After all, I had another eight days ahead of me.
I checked in and went upstairs to shower, and just lied down in my bunk and fell asleep. I woke up at around 8 pm, by now quite hungry. I went downstairs with the intention of just going out and finding somewhere to eat, but I noticed people in the kitchen, went inside, and was impressed with the facilities. So I was inspired to make my own dinner. All I can really cook is pasta. So I went and bought pasta and some sauce and vegetables, soda bread and spread, and fruit. I had a huge dinner, but I hadn’t eaten anything really substantial for a long time. Then I went for a walk, stopping for a while at a café in Temple Bar opposite the museum of art to write some of this and then slept at around 11.
To be continued.
(Continued)
No, I’m kidding. We headed north. We joined another little road, left it again for another forest walk, and then joined a road deeper inside the forest. It was still raining and we had little shelter from the rain because there were no trees on the road. Its edges were impassable, going sharply up a hill on one side and down a steep slope on the other. We were now descending the mountain we’d been climbing on its opposite side so far, and it had been five or six hours since we'd left Knockree.
After another look at the map, we found that we were getting quite close to our destination. I think we had crossed the county border by this time, or were about to cross it at the foot of the mountain. But either way, from then on we were walking along rural roads rather than dirt paths and trails. On the way down, we caught some amazing scenery through gaps in the trees; the clouds were so low, we had been walking through one, or a group of them, for most of the mountain, which is why it was raining the whole time, and it served to make the view all that more inspiring by dithering the light. It made everything look so vibrantly alive and fresh through the mist, light playing off of the vapor and shimmering whenever the sun came through the cloud cover. Eventually, we could see Dublin’s outskirts in the distance, and Melissa commented on how from here it looked a little like Fremont, sprawled out, colorful, and lightly built up.
At the bottom, we had definitely crossed the county border because we found a sign that told us were on the edge of Marlay Park, where the Way originates, somewhere within. On the map there was an ancient burial site not far from where we were, and we started looking around for it. A man walking his dog came up to us (extremely friendly, the Irish) and asked us if we were all right, and we asked him if he knew of the burial site. He said, “of course!” and pointed to a place on the edge of the slop upwards where we should begin our climb, and that they were about 50 m in from there. He was so keen on helping us, in fact, that when we reached the slope, he called back to us excitedly, indicating that we were in the right place, and to have a nice day.
It was a refreshing departure from the stark bluntness and sometimes rude interactions one has with the English, but that’s a whole other journal.
We found the site, and actually there were two. Apparently built one thousand years apart (well, I couldn’t tell just by looking at them, there was a plaque). The older one had also been reused when the newer one was built, the old remains and artifacts pushed aside but the lithic provenience was preserved, or so the archeologists thought, because of the difference in design between the two sites. But it was quite difficult to examine the sites well because of the amount of littler around the place. Someone had had a party or something, because there were packages, wrappers, cans, bottles, toilet paper, socks (socks) and shoes, just everywhere. All kinds of stuff. And it was recent, nothing was faded. Shame.
The last stage of the walk was nice, through Marlay Park, which used to be the Marlay family's gardens. In front of Marlay House, we sat on a bench; our hike was over.
We just sat quietly in the sun, leaning on our packs, looking bedraggled and tired. This was it. My feet started to hurt, and I remember smiling to myself -- not a moment too soon. They were probably in pain the whole time, but I’d just started to really notice it then, as I sat, the memory of the walk piling up and finally forcing some of my body’s complaints up to the podium. I looked down at my shoes, in horrible condition, and my jeans, although dry, still had the dirt from yesterday's bog wade and were brown up to the knees.
It was almost five. We barely caught the bus back into Dublin, running after it as it was about to leave. We sat sitting upstairs, still silent. Fifteen minutes later the bus ride came to an end, and we hurried downstairs and jumped out. I slung my pack over my shoulder, she extended her left hand as I extended my right. That didn’t work, so I freed my left hand and we shook hands, said goodbye, and headed in opposite directions, she to Trinity College to meet her friend, and me to Avalon House hostel to spend a few nights' rest.
By now my feet really hurt and my back ached from carrying my pack for two days in difficult conditions. But I felt good, and I would hopefully meet more people. After all, I had another eight days ahead of me.
I checked in and went upstairs to shower, and just lied down in my bunk and fell asleep. I woke up at around 8 pm, by now quite hungry. I went downstairs with the intention of just going out and finding somewhere to eat, but I noticed people in the kitchen, went inside, and was impressed with the facilities. So I was inspired to make my own dinner. All I can really cook is pasta. So I went and bought pasta and some sauce and vegetables, soda bread and spread, and fruit. I had a huge dinner, but I hadn’t eaten anything really substantial for a long time. Then I went for a walk, stopping for a while at a café in Temple Bar opposite the museum of art to write some of this and then slept at around 11.
To be continued.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Ireland, Part III
The Wicklow Way, day 2.
Monday, 12 April
It's still raining this morning, although the wind, which I heard whistling all night, has calmed down. The sun comes out in between patches of cloud and it makes the windows glimmer.
We had a small breakfast of some more steamed nutella mixes and cookies, using up a lot of milk from the grab pile that you often see in hostel kitchens and refrigerators. We poured over the map book tracing the day’s upcoming trek, my feet aching as my finger followed the path across contour lines that were getting ever closer together. It was 9 am.
My shoes haven't dried, but I think that if I wear them and the sun spends a little more time out from behind the clouds, they will dry as I walk. We thanked the hostel owners and set out, trying to find the path we’d left amid rain and gloom the evening before. The wind had twisted the signpost so that the signs for both Knockree and Enniskerry were pointing the same way: over the cliff, more like a windvane than something we'd follow. But soon with the help of the earth’s magnetism we were going the right way, and no thanks to gravity we were going up. Over the hill, which I hesitate to call either a hill or a mountain -- it was somewhere between the two -- we descended into another valley with sheep bleating and bouncing away when we came too near. Sheep look amazingly silly, like they’re heavier than they look, and they have thin legs that perfectly enhance the comedic effect. The rain had slowed to a light drizzle and the sun still came out minutes at a time. We stopped for lunch some hours later and I nursed some of my blisters (the rain wasn’t helping). But anyway, we trudged onwards.
The Way parted with the road, as we’d come to expect it to do, and into some dense forest. There was no obvious path this time, no trail of trampled foliage or dirt, and we had to resort to the compass to show us the way out. We also began to see, strangely enough, more and more litter, and our trash bag, which we’d been filling with litter we were picking up along the way since yesterday, was filling up. It was really getting to me that people would just throw away their wrappers and cans and bottles here. Melissa, a hiking veteran, was telling me that she and the friends she hikes with are always picking up after other hikers. Either way, I never thought hiking could be this rewarding.
Well, anyway. We came out of the forest on its north side, and still saw no little yellow man. Ahead of us was a vast moor, sloping slightly up at about 5 degrees maybe. To the left and right (west and east respectively) the forest’s edge went on as far as we could see, since it curved southwards on the eastern side, and northwards in the west. We settled on heading east to what looked like an old fencepost about 500 m away, crookedly set in the mud. I had my doubts, but as always, we didn’t see that we were in any hurry and if we happened to walk for long then it didn’t really matter because we’d see more. But she was right, and behind the fencepost, in a little dip in the ground, was what we were looking for. He pointed north, so we headed south.
To be continued.
Monday, 12 April
It's still raining this morning, although the wind, which I heard whistling all night, has calmed down. The sun comes out in between patches of cloud and it makes the windows glimmer.
We had a small breakfast of some more steamed nutella mixes and cookies, using up a lot of milk from the grab pile that you often see in hostel kitchens and refrigerators. We poured over the map book tracing the day’s upcoming trek, my feet aching as my finger followed the path across contour lines that were getting ever closer together. It was 9 am.
My shoes haven't dried, but I think that if I wear them and the sun spends a little more time out from behind the clouds, they will dry as I walk. We thanked the hostel owners and set out, trying to find the path we’d left amid rain and gloom the evening before. The wind had twisted the signpost so that the signs for both Knockree and Enniskerry were pointing the same way: over the cliff, more like a windvane than something we'd follow. But soon with the help of the earth’s magnetism we were going the right way, and no thanks to gravity we were going up. Over the hill, which I hesitate to call either a hill or a mountain -- it was somewhere between the two -- we descended into another valley with sheep bleating and bouncing away when we came too near. Sheep look amazingly silly, like they’re heavier than they look, and they have thin legs that perfectly enhance the comedic effect. The rain had slowed to a light drizzle and the sun still came out minutes at a time. We stopped for lunch some hours later and I nursed some of my blisters (the rain wasn’t helping). But anyway, we trudged onwards.
The Way parted with the road, as we’d come to expect it to do, and into some dense forest. There was no obvious path this time, no trail of trampled foliage or dirt, and we had to resort to the compass to show us the way out. We also began to see, strangely enough, more and more litter, and our trash bag, which we’d been filling with litter we were picking up along the way since yesterday, was filling up. It was really getting to me that people would just throw away their wrappers and cans and bottles here. Melissa, a hiking veteran, was telling me that she and the friends she hikes with are always picking up after other hikers. Either way, I never thought hiking could be this rewarding.
Well, anyway. We came out of the forest on its north side, and still saw no little yellow man. Ahead of us was a vast moor, sloping slightly up at about 5 degrees maybe. To the left and right (west and east respectively) the forest’s edge went on as far as we could see, since it curved southwards on the eastern side, and northwards in the west. We settled on heading east to what looked like an old fencepost about 500 m away, crookedly set in the mud. I had my doubts, but as always, we didn’t see that we were in any hurry and if we happened to walk for long then it didn’t really matter because we’d see more. But she was right, and behind the fencepost, in a little dip in the ground, was what we were looking for. He pointed north, so we headed south.
To be continued.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Ireland, Part II
The Wicklow Way
Sunday, 11 April
8 am, taking our leave of Jim and the hostel staff, we set out in the wrong direction. After about a mile, we looked at the map and compass and realized what we’d done and headed back. Ok, so now we've figured out how to use this very detailed large scale map (it was very confusing at first, as the compass points on the map change with every page so that the Wicklow Way is always going up and down the length of the page). But we got the hang of it soon enough. On the right path, we became acquainted with a little yellow figure on a wooden post with an arrow. We liked him.
Anyway, by 9:00 we were well oriented and going the right way. After an hour, we got lost when, instead of going down the other side of a large hill, we went along it and mingled with some cows and bulls along the way. When we couldn’t find anymore little yellow hikers at what we thought was a fork (but really there wasn’t even a path), we took another peek at the map and started posing suggestions as to where we actually were. We decided to go down the hill flanked by a pine forest and landed in some pretty heavy bog, which looks perfectly dry ten meters away, but is very perfectly wet up close. Anyway, we had figured out somewhat where we were, since the map had contour lines and forested areas marked, and we speculated that we’d missed the trail that went down the hill earlier, before the pines and cattle. So, we tried to navigate the bog without getting wet, but that would be of no use since it went on for about 1.5 km. I was knee deep in muddy water very quickly, trying to keep on top of the floating bushes. There was no way around it. It’s like floating ground. You step somewhere, and the ground nearby bobs up and down with the ripples.
Thoroughly soaked to the knees, we reached the road after having been barked at by a dog on a farmer’s land which we could not avoid stumbling through. We climbed over a fence, which seemed to satisfy the dog, and walked along the road. As we’d expected, we ran into our yellow friend again and were relieved to say the least. We sat down for a lunch of corned beef and cheddar sandwiches, some slices of jelly rolls, and Nutella, which we’d happily discovered we both really liked and so had bought a supply before we set out. I changed into a dry but very uncomfortable pair of shoes which I've worn for a good part of the way now.
The Way joined a public road for a while, and then we overshot the Way which was supposed to curve off to the north. We continued east on the road, thinking we would find the right way, until we came to a fork we weren’t supposed to hit. Sitting down, we had an apple each and tried to figure out where we were. We finally decided that we weren’t that used to the scale on the map and that instead of 1.5 km on the road, we went about 5. If we followed the northward fork, we’d hit the Way again, and we did.
We reached a lookout point along the way part of the way up a steep slope. Our trail parted with the road and we were soon going up the rest of the slope through dense forest while the road wound down the other way towards Lough Dan. We reached the summit of White Hill, a 650 m peak -- not very high, but we could see the valley far below nevertheless, and Lake Tay (Lough Té) at its floor. There is a memorial to J. B. Malone up there. We continued along the path towards Djouce, the next peak, at 730 m. We went down the side of White Hill, then started up Djouce.
The wind started up and eventually became the strongest wind I’ve ever encountered. We could, with our packs, lean into it completely, as if falling down, and it would blow us back the other way. It kept blowing us off the path as we trudged uphill. The Way swerved out and around Djouce, but we wanted to go up to the top, so we left the path and went up the rest of the way, about another 1 km up. At one point, the map book flew out of my hands and I practically glided after it down the slope and landed on it in the weeds, my pack still on my back. Almost to the top, the wind got even stronger. We ditched our packs in a little hole we found, and continued up, running the rest of the way and getting blown around almost like paper. The wind, coming in from the side, helped us get up the mountain while we ran.
At the top, the wind was the strongest, and we had trouble staying in the same place. We looked out from the summit, though, and realized why it was so windy: we were looking out over the Irish Sea, towards the Welsh Mountains on the opposite shore.
We sat in a little alcove we found in the rock to avoid the wind and rest a while. Then we headed down again, hoping we were going the right way. We found our packs and continued down the mountain, the wind still blowing, now with a little bit of drizzle. We joined the path and were eventually completely over Djouce and into the valley on its eastern side.
The rain came down in quick periodic torrents, and the wind kept up, as we continued for about two more hours. By 7 pm, the rain hadn’t stopped, and we had rejoined a road and arrived afterwards in Knockree. It was completely deserted except for the couple who ran a hostel in their converted farm buildings; they were hospitable in that way I’d come to expect from the Irish by this time, and the place was very well kept with surprisingly good facilities for a self-catering hostel, even before considering where we were -- on the side of a mountain in a tiny town, which was just a collection of two or three small farms. We changed and hung our soaked clothes, since it hadn’t stopped raining since our descent from Djouce.
There was a steamer in the kitchen, something we were very happy to see, so we started to make all sorts of bizarre hot beverage cocktails using any combination of nutella, strawberry jam, milk, rice crispies, cookies, and jam rolls. We also had a can of soup and some ramen noodles, and some bread and cheese (not for the drinks). Although it may sound unappetizing now, for some reason it was perfect. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that anything tastes good when you're hungry and tired and when there's a fire nearby. It certainly felt like we were camping as we ate and drank at a huge table in the dim stone-walled sitting room filled with smoke from two log fires at either end.
We finished our small dinner while reading the remaining bits of a days-old newpaper that had been used as kindling for the fires. Tired and aching, we slept, hoping the morning would bring better weather (and I was hoping my shoes would dry).
To be continued.
Sunday, 11 April
8 am, taking our leave of Jim and the hostel staff, we set out in the wrong direction. After about a mile, we looked at the map and compass and realized what we’d done and headed back. Ok, so now we've figured out how to use this very detailed large scale map (it was very confusing at first, as the compass points on the map change with every page so that the Wicklow Way is always going up and down the length of the page). But we got the hang of it soon enough. On the right path, we became acquainted with a little yellow figure on a wooden post with an arrow. We liked him.
Anyway, by 9:00 we were well oriented and going the right way. After an hour, we got lost when, instead of going down the other side of a large hill, we went along it and mingled with some cows and bulls along the way. When we couldn’t find anymore little yellow hikers at what we thought was a fork (but really there wasn’t even a path), we took another peek at the map and started posing suggestions as to where we actually were. We decided to go down the hill flanked by a pine forest and landed in some pretty heavy bog, which looks perfectly dry ten meters away, but is very perfectly wet up close. Anyway, we had figured out somewhat where we were, since the map had contour lines and forested areas marked, and we speculated that we’d missed the trail that went down the hill earlier, before the pines and cattle. So, we tried to navigate the bog without getting wet, but that would be of no use since it went on for about 1.5 km. I was knee deep in muddy water very quickly, trying to keep on top of the floating bushes. There was no way around it. It’s like floating ground. You step somewhere, and the ground nearby bobs up and down with the ripples.
Thoroughly soaked to the knees, we reached the road after having been barked at by a dog on a farmer’s land which we could not avoid stumbling through. We climbed over a fence, which seemed to satisfy the dog, and walked along the road. As we’d expected, we ran into our yellow friend again and were relieved to say the least. We sat down for a lunch of corned beef and cheddar sandwiches, some slices of jelly rolls, and Nutella, which we’d happily discovered we both really liked and so had bought a supply before we set out. I changed into a dry but very uncomfortable pair of shoes which I've worn for a good part of the way now.
The Way joined a public road for a while, and then we overshot the Way which was supposed to curve off to the north. We continued east on the road, thinking we would find the right way, until we came to a fork we weren’t supposed to hit. Sitting down, we had an apple each and tried to figure out where we were. We finally decided that we weren’t that used to the scale on the map and that instead of 1.5 km on the road, we went about 5. If we followed the northward fork, we’d hit the Way again, and we did.
We reached a lookout point along the way part of the way up a steep slope. Our trail parted with the road and we were soon going up the rest of the slope through dense forest while the road wound down the other way towards Lough Dan. We reached the summit of White Hill, a 650 m peak -- not very high, but we could see the valley far below nevertheless, and Lake Tay (Lough Té) at its floor. There is a memorial to J. B. Malone up there. We continued along the path towards Djouce, the next peak, at 730 m. We went down the side of White Hill, then started up Djouce.
The wind started up and eventually became the strongest wind I’ve ever encountered. We could, with our packs, lean into it completely, as if falling down, and it would blow us back the other way. It kept blowing us off the path as we trudged uphill. The Way swerved out and around Djouce, but we wanted to go up to the top, so we left the path and went up the rest of the way, about another 1 km up. At one point, the map book flew out of my hands and I practically glided after it down the slope and landed on it in the weeds, my pack still on my back. Almost to the top, the wind got even stronger. We ditched our packs in a little hole we found, and continued up, running the rest of the way and getting blown around almost like paper. The wind, coming in from the side, helped us get up the mountain while we ran.
At the top, the wind was the strongest, and we had trouble staying in the same place. We looked out from the summit, though, and realized why it was so windy: we were looking out over the Irish Sea, towards the Welsh Mountains on the opposite shore.
We sat in a little alcove we found in the rock to avoid the wind and rest a while. Then we headed down again, hoping we were going the right way. We found our packs and continued down the mountain, the wind still blowing, now with a little bit of drizzle. We joined the path and were eventually completely over Djouce and into the valley on its eastern side.
The rain came down in quick periodic torrents, and the wind kept up, as we continued for about two more hours. By 7 pm, the rain hadn’t stopped, and we had rejoined a road and arrived afterwards in Knockree. It was completely deserted except for the couple who ran a hostel in their converted farm buildings; they were hospitable in that way I’d come to expect from the Irish by this time, and the place was very well kept with surprisingly good facilities for a self-catering hostel, even before considering where we were -- on the side of a mountain in a tiny town, which was just a collection of two or three small farms. We changed and hung our soaked clothes, since it hadn’t stopped raining since our descent from Djouce.
There was a steamer in the kitchen, something we were very happy to see, so we started to make all sorts of bizarre hot beverage cocktails using any combination of nutella, strawberry jam, milk, rice crispies, cookies, and jam rolls. We also had a can of soup and some ramen noodles, and some bread and cheese (not for the drinks). Although it may sound unappetizing now, for some reason it was perfect. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that anything tastes good when you're hungry and tired and when there's a fire nearby. It certainly felt like we were camping as we ate and drank at a huge table in the dim stone-walled sitting room filled with smoke from two log fires at either end.
We finished our small dinner while reading the remaining bits of a days-old newpaper that had been used as kindling for the fires. Tired and aching, we slept, hoping the morning would bring better weather (and I was hoping my shoes would dry).
To be continued.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Ireland, Part I
In April 1999, I took a two-week trip to Ireland. I was living in London at the time. I came across the journal I kept from that trip while I was rummaging around in my old stuff recently. It's one of only two journals I've ever kept and now I'm wishing I'd kept more journals.
I started flipping through it and couldn't help but read it all the way through because it evoked so many vivid memories that even photographs couldn't match. I had such fun reliving the brief trip that I wondered if it could be at all interesting to a stranger reading it as well. Anyway, I'm posting it here in a series, exactly as I wrote it (so pardon the youthful nonsense).
I may post some pictures I also found, which I'll have to scan when I'm done studying for boards.
Friday, April 9
I arrived here in Dublin at 3 pm and checked into a hostel called Avalon House not far from St. Steven’s Green, both the hostel and park very nice indeed. Anyway, at a loss for what to do exactly, I walked all around Dublin and got to know the central area pretty well, with my map and Lonely Planet. I walked all around the Temple Bar area and saw some of Trinity College, but of course in one day I couldn’t see everything I’d wanted to. I was tired and went back to the hostel for the night.
Saturday, 10 April
I got up at 7 am intending to go to Newgrange. But I’d asked the night before and the hostel was full, so I thought I should secure some accomodation elsewhere first. Failing this, after three hours, I ended up at a less than helpful (but very hospitable and cheerful, mind you) student travel office (USIT: Union of Student Irish Travellers or something similar). I did learn that to get a day tour to Newgrange I would have to wait until Thursday. So that was out. I went to the bus station and asked there. No luck with Newgrange, but an idea hit me: I could just go to Glendalough! It’s in County Wicklow, and almost in the middle of nowhere so people don’t usually stay there overnight, and that meant that I might find accommodation. So, I found out where the bus left from and hurried there. I caught it by five minutes at 11:25 am (the next bus would’ve left at 6 pm).
At Glendalough (Gleann dé Loch; glen of the two lakes), there’s a monastic site, one of the best preserved in Ireland, founded by St. Kevin in the 6th century AD. It was very nice, but I still had the nagging thought of where I would sleep that night. I went to the Glendalough hostel and they were full. The lady there was really pleasant and told me that the hostel in the nearby village of Laragh was not full. She showed me the way and I was off for the 3 km walk up the road (there being no other transport) with my pack, after calling and booking a place just in case...
The Wicklow Way Hostel is a delightful little self-catering place, right next to the convenience store (and that’s about all there is in Laragh, aside from this one house that doubles as a tea and scones shop). A while after I had begun to settle in I left again for Glendalough for a better look with an eased mind. It was breathtaking as I walked past Lower Lake and sat down for some lunch on the bank of Upper Lake. The two were joined once. I had by this time figured out the what the deal was with the rain, essentially that the clouds move quickly overhead, raining on what they pass over, but keep moving. So, walking against the wind, in this case up the path away from the monastery towards the valley, I was able to avoid getting rained on for long, while everyone else was walking back, the cloud following them and raining on them the whole way. I tried to tell a few people but they seemed to distrust my theory and kept going, the cloud on their heels.
I was having lunch while it started to get a little bit cold as the day wore on. I headed back towards the road after a last look at the valley and mountains at either side. Back to Laragh. The distance walked on today was about 14 km (a little over 8 miles, maybe 9). At the hostel I met a newly arrived old Irish man (this hostel had no age restriction) named Jim. He’d walked all the way down from Enniskerry, a distance of 20 miles, that day, along the Wicklow Way, a path opened in 1982 by J. B. Malone, and was Ireland’s first long distance trail. It is about 130 km in total, and goes straight down the county, north to south, beginning and ending in the adjacent counties on either side, the northern one being Dublin. Anyway, another person had arrived in the hostel, a girl who was asking people about hiking along the Wicklow Way. Jim and others in the dorm offered to help out with her planning (which she really needed, since she’d only just heard about it), and a short while later they had pulled me into the conversation, lurking though I was on my upper-bunk bed in the corner reading. After going down to the pub for a meal, and a very jolly one to say the least (Jim really likes his alcohol), we went back up to get ready for bed. Jim went back down for a night cap (whiskey, double), and Melissa and I decided it would be best if neither one of us hiked alone, so we planned to head out together northward towards Dublin the next morning. I had been thinking about doing this, earlier in the day, while she had been thinking about going south to Glenmallure. But we couldn’t find any accommodation there. So we thought we’d go north and stop for the night at Knockcree, where there’s a hostel right off the Wicklow Way. We talked for a while longer, and I discovered that she’s from Fremont, goes to UCSD, and is spending a year abroad in Toulouse studying various world cultures.
To be continued.
I started flipping through it and couldn't help but read it all the way through because it evoked so many vivid memories that even photographs couldn't match. I had such fun reliving the brief trip that I wondered if it could be at all interesting to a stranger reading it as well. Anyway, I'm posting it here in a series, exactly as I wrote it (so pardon the youthful nonsense).
I may post some pictures I also found, which I'll have to scan when I'm done studying for boards.
Friday, April 9
I arrived here in Dublin at 3 pm and checked into a hostel called Avalon House not far from St. Steven’s Green, both the hostel and park very nice indeed. Anyway, at a loss for what to do exactly, I walked all around Dublin and got to know the central area pretty well, with my map and Lonely Planet. I walked all around the Temple Bar area and saw some of Trinity College, but of course in one day I couldn’t see everything I’d wanted to. I was tired and went back to the hostel for the night.
Saturday, 10 April
I got up at 7 am intending to go to Newgrange. But I’d asked the night before and the hostel was full, so I thought I should secure some accomodation elsewhere first. Failing this, after three hours, I ended up at a less than helpful (but very hospitable and cheerful, mind you) student travel office (USIT: Union of Student Irish Travellers or something similar). I did learn that to get a day tour to Newgrange I would have to wait until Thursday. So that was out. I went to the bus station and asked there. No luck with Newgrange, but an idea hit me: I could just go to Glendalough! It’s in County Wicklow, and almost in the middle of nowhere so people don’t usually stay there overnight, and that meant that I might find accommodation. So, I found out where the bus left from and hurried there. I caught it by five minutes at 11:25 am (the next bus would’ve left at 6 pm).
At Glendalough (Gleann dé Loch; glen of the two lakes), there’s a monastic site, one of the best preserved in Ireland, founded by St. Kevin in the 6th century AD. It was very nice, but I still had the nagging thought of where I would sleep that night. I went to the Glendalough hostel and they were full. The lady there was really pleasant and told me that the hostel in the nearby village of Laragh was not full. She showed me the way and I was off for the 3 km walk up the road (there being no other transport) with my pack, after calling and booking a place just in case...
The Wicklow Way Hostel is a delightful little self-catering place, right next to the convenience store (and that’s about all there is in Laragh, aside from this one house that doubles as a tea and scones shop). A while after I had begun to settle in I left again for Glendalough for a better look with an eased mind. It was breathtaking as I walked past Lower Lake and sat down for some lunch on the bank of Upper Lake. The two were joined once. I had by this time figured out the what the deal was with the rain, essentially that the clouds move quickly overhead, raining on what they pass over, but keep moving. So, walking against the wind, in this case up the path away from the monastery towards the valley, I was able to avoid getting rained on for long, while everyone else was walking back, the cloud following them and raining on them the whole way. I tried to tell a few people but they seemed to distrust my theory and kept going, the cloud on their heels.
I was having lunch while it started to get a little bit cold as the day wore on. I headed back towards the road after a last look at the valley and mountains at either side. Back to Laragh. The distance walked on today was about 14 km (a little over 8 miles, maybe 9). At the hostel I met a newly arrived old Irish man (this hostel had no age restriction) named Jim. He’d walked all the way down from Enniskerry, a distance of 20 miles, that day, along the Wicklow Way, a path opened in 1982 by J. B. Malone, and was Ireland’s first long distance trail. It is about 130 km in total, and goes straight down the county, north to south, beginning and ending in the adjacent counties on either side, the northern one being Dublin. Anyway, another person had arrived in the hostel, a girl who was asking people about hiking along the Wicklow Way. Jim and others in the dorm offered to help out with her planning (which she really needed, since she’d only just heard about it), and a short while later they had pulled me into the conversation, lurking though I was on my upper-bunk bed in the corner reading. After going down to the pub for a meal, and a very jolly one to say the least (Jim really likes his alcohol), we went back up to get ready for bed. Jim went back down for a night cap (whiskey, double), and Melissa and I decided it would be best if neither one of us hiked alone, so we planned to head out together northward towards Dublin the next morning. I had been thinking about doing this, earlier in the day, while she had been thinking about going south to Glenmallure. But we couldn’t find any accommodation there. So we thought we’d go north and stop for the night at Knockcree, where there’s a hostel right off the Wicklow Way. We talked for a while longer, and I discovered that she’s from Fremont, goes to UCSD, and is spending a year abroad in Toulouse studying various world cultures.
To be continued.
Saturday, July 21, 2007
Insurance
If you like dishonesty, frustration, and emotional turmoil, then you need to call a car insurance company now.
This week, a nice caveman at GEICO spent an hour shaping rocks into arrowheads and collecting sticks and acorns around my slightly injured 9-year-old car before telling me to sod off with my evil fire-wagon from the future (and to pay a salvage fee for re-excavating it). When I insisted that it was in fact simple human technology and that the damage should not really warrant a total loss, he said, 'Grrr, Uuk mad!' and chiseled me an obsidian check for the cost of turning my car into a usable hearth pit (minus deductible).
Before leaving him to his fecal sculpting and cave mural, I asked how badly this would impact my premiums. He said, 'Grrr, Uuk not sure about that but--how futureman say in twenty-first century--drop loincloth and bend over?'
This week, a nice caveman at GEICO spent an hour shaping rocks into arrowheads and collecting sticks and acorns around my slightly injured 9-year-old car before telling me to sod off with my evil fire-wagon from the future (and to pay a salvage fee for re-excavating it). When I insisted that it was in fact simple human technology and that the damage should not really warrant a total loss, he said, 'Grrr, Uuk mad!' and chiseled me an obsidian check for the cost of turning my car into a usable hearth pit (minus deductible).
Before leaving him to his fecal sculpting and cave mural, I asked how badly this would impact my premiums. He said, 'Grrr, Uuk not sure about that but--how futureman say in twenty-first century--drop loincloth and bend over?'
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