the adventures of kp and lv: April 2009

day 4 - march 19, 2009

kp and I woke up at 8am to explore Dingle.

Have I mentioned yet that all these fabulous photos are kp's? And this is only a fraction of them. There were too many pleasing things to photograph. If you want to see all of them, buy a bottle of wine and bring it over when you've got 4 hours or so to spare.

I love going into churches, especially when they are in another country. The architecture is always interesting, but it's also about it being a place of worship. I'm not religious, but I feel a bit of awe for a lone building that is the repository for all that faith.

kp's favourite store. Five bucks to anyone who can guess why.

Once B and Ciaran were awake and we all had had something to eat, we went on a drive to find some Irish landscapes.

Ireland sure did deliver.

We climbed down to this beach and put our feet in the water. It was COLD.

So we warmed ourselves on the rocks.

In my mind, Ireland is a country of green, rolling hills, low stone walls and sheep, sheep, sheep.

It's all true. The one thing I didn't know was that the sheep couldn't CARE LESS about people. I thought we'd be able to pet their noses or at least feed them grass or something but no. They keep to their own kind. Racists.

We drove along the coast of the Dingle Peninsula and stopped at Dunbeg Promontory Fort. The archaeological site, dating back to the Bronze Age (as in, 800 B.C.-ish... that's older than I can fathom) is on the edge of a sheer cliff, surrounded by wind blown hills with not a tree in sight.

Up the street there was also a cluster of beehive huts. I walked around trying to imagine people living here in this barren landscape, sleeping in stone huts, trying to start a fire in the blustery wind coming off the water.

I was very struck by the cross (in the above picture, on the right hand side of the photo) carved into the rock. Someone who lived hundreds of years ago put that there with their hands, maybe worshiped at it daily, and now that faded etching is all that is left of them. I think that's amazing.

We stopped at a few spots along the coast to get out and take photos because everything was just so beautiful. In the below video you'll see one of those spots.

You'll also see the following:

Me being very woodsy
Me being a bit clumsy
Me being proud of myself for not making a mess
Me asking a direct question and not getting a direct answer from kp

After driving along the coast and getting almost lost in the misty hills, we returned to Dingle for a late lunch before heading back to Dublin.

But first we had to visit this bakery and eat this delectable deliciousness:

Apple. Cream. Heaven.

Our bellies full, we said "byebyebyebyebyebyebye" (how the Irish, or maybe just B, say "bye") to Dingle and made the long drive back to Dublin.
Thanks for everything, Dingle.
You are cute as hell.

day 3 - march 18, 2009

Good thing we didn't get ruined on St. Paddy's day, because the day after we set out on a wee road trip. We wanted to see more of Ireland than just Dublin in our limited time on the island so we chose a place called... DINGLE. Purely on its name. And the guidebook said it was quite lovely. And kp wanted the chance to refer to the locals as "Dingleberries". So, decision made, we hit the road.

The Dingle Peninsula is on the southwest coast of Ireland. To get there, we had to drive through Limerick where we stopped for lunch.

It was delicious, but in retrospect, I wish we had stopped at the Obama Cafe, which we passed on our way. Did you know that Barack Obama is Irish? It's true. Ask any Irishman.

We were confined to the car for the day, so we worked on learning new Irish words.

knacker: Irish gypsy
Barry's: black tea
white tea: Barry's with milk
leg it: run really fast, like if your ride is leaving without you and you need to leg it in order to catch up

And we took photos from the car when we saw things we loved. Which was pretty much constantly.

I love dogs. kp loves lens flares.

We love a thatched roof. (thatched roofs? rooves?)

We love ruined castles.

The sun started to set the closer we got to Dingle. We decided to take the more scenic route through the Conor Pass, which is the highest mountain pass in Ireland. The views from the road are breathtaking with a side of terrifying since the road is rather narrow and very high up.

Here's a short video of Ciaran driving up the road.. you might want to turn the sound down because there is a lot of wind noise.

We stopped at the top and took some photos in the fading light of the day.

We arrived into Dingle itself with no idea of where we were going to stay for the night. B, in classic B form, made us assess all of our options before choosing where to sleep for the night, but in the end we ended up at the Hideout Hostel. It was affordable, clean, and quiet, with an en-suite bathroom in our room and the merest hint of the smell of a nice old lady. It was like staying at Grandma's house--she even turned down the sheets for you.

Once we had dumped our stuff, we went back out to explore the town. We asked a few people on the street where we should eat dinner, where we should grab a pint, etc. and by far my favourite recommendation was to check out Foxy John's--hardware store by day, bar by night.

Upon entering, to your right is the hardware bit and to your left is the bar bit. Both sides have stools to sit and either dig through a box of bolts or sip your guiness. Or both.

This is what kp's bar would look like, if she ran one.

We ended up at the most Irish pub on the street, "An Droichead Beag", where there was live Irish music complemented by Irish set dancing. We spent the rest of our evening there sipping Guiness and wishing we could do this:

After a while, I realised that the patrons had gone from being Irish to obnoxious Americans (they may have been Canadians, but I would like to blame their drunken behaviour on another country because it was just embarrassing for all involved). Was it a trick? Were the Irish townspeople (Dingleberries) there early on just to convince us this was a real, live, authentic Irish bar? And then once we were fooled we would stay and buy a ton of pints of Guiness? Well, we were fooled. It worked. And we drank Guiness until the wee hours. And yes, it does taste much, much better in Ireland.

day 2 - march 17, 2009

Yes.
You have that right.
St. Patrick's day in Dublin.

We spent the first part of the day doing this:

We sort of meant to go see the parade, but instead loafed around and watched about 7 minutes of the parade on TV. It was enough.

We walked down into the centre of the city to meet up with some of B's friends. No matter where she lives in the world, B always seems to find other Swedes to be-friend. And they are always really, really lovely too. Dublin is no exception to this rule. Lena (Swedish, lovely) and Joyce (Irish, lovely despite not being Swedish) were immediately good companions for whatever trouble St. Patrick mixed up for us.

Walking through the city, we saw the aftermath of the parade. Smeared face paint, cranky kids, drunks spilling out onto the sidewalks. It was 3pm.

My favourite moment happened at a corner near a fairly full pub while B consulted with her pals on where to start our celebrations. I watched as a fairly attractive young lady stumbled out of said pub to join her friends for a mid-pint cigarette. After lighting up, she strode over to a group of young men, likely to chat them up. I assume this because she was tossing her blonde curls that were, unfortunately, not as nice as she thought they were. Here's the best part: she was wearing a pink thong on the OUTSIDE of her jeans. And by that I don't mean that her thong was sticking out of the top of her jeans. No. She had dressed herself in this order:

jeans.
thong.

It was 3pm.

This girl gave me a standard by which to judge my evening: if I can keep my panties on the INSIDE of my pants, that means I have at least retained my dignity.

The bar we went to didn't seem to have a name, but it did have a sign shaped like a snail above the door. If you're ever in Dublin and you see the snail, go in. It's a good little spot.

We drank:

And our senses of humour became less... refined:

B's bf Ciaran was born on St. Paddy's, so once he arrived we embarrassed him by singing the traditional song for a birthday boy or girl very, very loudly. Happy Birthday: we got you drunk Canadians.

Now that we are older and more mature, we are not without some sensibility, so we decide to pause the drinking and get some food. The place we landed at is called Shebeen Chic.

Ciaran (who is a wealth of Irish knowledge) told us that a "shebeen" was sort of like a speakeasy, but usually in someone's home. An illicit pub that sold alcohol without a license when the English government outlawed drinking in Ireland. The decor certainly tried to give the impression that you were in someone's house. And if kp had been Irish during their prohibition of alcohol, this would have been her home.

The last place we went to was the Foggy Dew. Sounds like a quiet meadow, doesn't it? What we found inside was a very classic low-ceilinged pub with dark wood throughout, full of drunken revelers. I have never in my life been surrounded by people so determinedly hell-bent on getting just absolutely shit-faced. It started off being fun, but quickly became not as fun when the air of contained violence started asserting itself and the lid of the container didn't seem as trustworthy, like tupperware that's been put through the dishwasher.

kp! who's your new pal?

We didn't want to get beaten up, so we didn't stay long. We retreated to B&C's apartment, underwear still closest to the skin, and had tea and birthday cupcakes. On the way home, we got a cab driver with an overwhelming mental library of bad jokes, one of which I will happily give to you, dear reader.

What's the definition of embarrassment?

Walking into a wall with a hard-on and breaking your nose.

And that was St. Paddy's day.

day 1 - march 16, 2009

I just came up with something. I think there are two main classes of friendship: Lasting and Fleeting. Fleeting friendships are usually the friendships that fulfill a role in a certain time and place and then die off, sort of like a petunia. Afterwards, you go your separate ways and that's pretty much that. Lasting friendships are the ones that hang around even if you're not putting much maintenance into keeping them alive--more like a cacti than an annual. You can pick up with a Lasting friend pretty much where you left off with no awkwardness, very little re-acquainting yourselves, you just hit the ground running. Of course there are different subclasses in each of the main classes (ie. Obligatory Lasting, Fleeting with Benefits, Lasting when not Loathing) but I won't go into depth here. My point is that kp and I are very lucky to have a wonderful Lasting friendship with B and from the moment we saw her in the airport (thanks again for picking us up, B!) we were singing REUNITED AND IT FEELS SO GOOOOOOOOOOD!

Unfortunately B's face is partially obscured by the dream catcher hanging off her rear view mirror (hippy), so you don't get the full effect of her Swedish loveliness.

B lives in Dublin with her bf in a messy wonderful flat that kp documented quite extensively on her camera. Here's a couple of glimpses:

I am very jealous of this fireplace.

You can't hear it, but we're listening to Irish radio in this photo.

This is mb (who is always with us, even when she's not), kp and me in 2001 when B lived in Toronto in the same house as us. She had this framed photo just sitting out in her home!
See? Lasting.

B is learning how to play the cello.

We spent the first few hours napping and giggling and doing a quick catch-up on the past seven years. It's a funny thing to sum up seven years to someone in 15 minutes or less. Try it sometime. My favourite part was listening to B's new accent. When we knew her in Toronto her accent was Swedish/English which gained a side flavour of Canadian over the year we hung out. Her years in Ireland have shaped her words into an Irish lilt and her Irish slang was new and exciting for us to decode. We learned things like:

press: cupboard
givin' out: tellin' someone off. Not bein' a slut, as we initally assumed. ie. You came into the room and were givin' out to us because we were all drunk. (you can see how we mistook the meaning there.)
get on his/her/my/your/each others' tits: be annoying. I suppose because it's annoying to have someone get on your tits when you don't want them to?

After our language lesson, we wandered into Dublin city. We stopped at B's pal's studio in a very old house that was mostly empty with few working lights. If any place is haunted, it's this place. Because we love old things (and because we are nosy) we snooped around the abandoned bits and saw these rooms: