5th Time's A Charm

Ireland is one of my favorite places on earth so far. I say so far of course because I have yet to explore even half of the continents in the world and I still suspect that I will grow so fond of Australia and New Zealand when I finally visit that I will be forced to marry a Duck-Billed Playtpus. In the meantime, I hop a super short flight to the Emerald Isles whenever I need my fix of stunning landscape and magical folklore. My first year in Paris, I managed to make my way over a total of three separate times. Since my dear Dancer Friend (aka the friend I have known for almost 35 years at this point) lives there, it is a perfect weekend galavant away. 

My first time going to Ireland, however, was over a decade ago with my father, stepmother, and most of my siblings. We flew into Shannon, drove around the southern half of the island, then flew back out of Dublin because my cousin was studying at Trinity College. The whole trip is a bit of a blur at this point, and while there is definitely a box of photos somewhere in my mother's basement, it was pre-smart phone and Facebook hysteria. I have been lucky enough to hit some of those spots again, see some new ones, and every time I go, end up with new tales to tell. 

If I do the math correctly (which is frankly a rare feat), I come to the realization that this was my 5th time floating over to the haven of leprechauns, selkies, banshees and rainbows. Even though Shannon is closer to Limerick, where my friend currently resides, flights to Dublin are almost always cheaper from Paris, so I end up busing it the two hours from Dublin Airport to Limerick center. This time was no different, but instead of heading straight from the plane, I wandered into downtown Dublin for the day. Dancer friend ended up having a dancing workshop to attend, so I would have some company on the lengthy bus ride southwest. 

First, however, some time to wander around town while Dancer Friend was busy engaging in the creative arts. I was able to make it to the city center without too much trouble (another feat considering my abhorrent sense of direction), at which point I went in search of a cozy pub to fill my tummy with well-needed nourishment. From beginning to end of the weekend, the weather proved nothing if not fickle, so I was rained upon in various amounts while I remained endlessly indecisive about where to set up my luncheon feast. Some of the pubs looked too touristy, some too quiet, others too austere. At long last, I chose a spot that ended up being a perfect combo of chill but cheery. I filled up on traditional fish n' chips then headed straight for the Jameson Distillery.

During my first trip oh so long ago I hit up the Guinness Factory. And in fact, when my favorite high school ladies and I had a European reunion two years ago, we attempted to take the Jameson tour as well. However, we hadn't booked in advance and we didn't have enough time to wait for an open time slot, so all we could do was sip some cocktails at the bar. This time, however, I arrived with ticket in hand and enthusiasm bordering absurd. Going on a whiskey tasting all by myself was certainly begging for a ridiculous result. It was definitely an informative experience, though the three shots of whiskey followed by a whiskey and ginger ale went directly to my head, prompting several text messages to friends and family worldwide. I also bought myself a nice little whiskey flask as a memento.

My level of tipsiness was particularly amusing because I was supposed to be meeting Dancer Friend's boyfriend, who had graciously volunteered to leave work early, after the tour. I had never met him before so he was quite a brave soul for doing so. It ended up being a jolly hour of conversation and cocktails as we waited for Dancer Friend to finish up for the day. Then it was off to a fun restaurant called Market Bar, where we tasted tapas and wine with some of Dancer Friend's friends in toe. 

By the time we made it to the bus back to Limerick, there was no end to our level of exhaustion, the result of dancing, travel, dinner and drinks. This may have been the reason why I left my winter hat on the bus when we finally arrived at our destination. Since that was the very worst thing that happened all weekend, however, I was happy to believe that the 5th time you travel anywhere as magical as Ireland can never be bad.

January Jetted By

After finally making it back to Paris from my whirlwind trip to the States and Germany, I expected a pretty sedate month of cold and commiseration. I have long since felt that January is the worst month of the year when you live in the Northern hemisphere. It is dark and cold, and no matter how many resolutionary lists you make, heralding feats and fantasies for the new year, motivation skills are essentially null. One of the many trillions of reasons I must NEEDS head to Australia next year is the fact that I am quite convinced it must be way easier to abide by resolutions when the sun is shining in height of summer. Not to mention the fact that the past couple of Januarys in Paris have been laced with the mundane. I usually come back to my current home very excited to have a rest from travel, but desperately missing my friends and family. There is always that sense of let down when the holidays are over, combined with the utter disappointment of wanderlust being satiated in theory, but already rumbling for more in practice. It is usually a slow month for money, a light month for social engagements, and the days are profoundly brief. 

That being said, this January essentially blew those stereotypes right out of the water. I was still completely exhausted when I finally made it back to my tiny little chambre de bonne, but absolutely grateful for a rest from my travels. I always miss my friends and family, but this year I will be back in the States as soon as May, for one of my very best friend's weddings. I have a job that has been going exceedingly well for many months, so I did not return fearing the depths of poverty saved only by my rent-free cubicle. I also have a fantastic little community of friends, many of whom are always up or a pint or a chat (or a bottle of wine or 4). There was also Australia Day: A holiday rather underrated in my opinion, especially when it involves getting free hats and waxing poetic about tim tams and platypi. I even organized a meetup night myself, and had my first successful date in ages! All in all, a veritable break from the traditional January doldrums. 

Now that February is already in our clutches, I can't help but look around at the global warmingly infused temperate temperatures and smile. I am off to Ireland this weekend (5th time!) for a well-needed taste of the Emerald Isles with Dancer Friend, the girl I have known for a whopping 34 years of my life. I shall drink and frolic and revel in legends with high hopes for the year ahead. There may be leprechauns, there may be not, but I shall absolutely float home on a rainbow.

Double-Edged Bike Tours

Hot-Blonde Cousin and I frequently seek out bike tours when traveling to new foreign cities. The first one I ever actually took was still the best one by far: a stunning magical jaunt through the vineyards of the Wachau Valley outside of Vienna. Despite the deluge of rainfall accompanying our adventure, I left the day sufficiently tipsy and having made friends with the Aussie Tour guide who now has to suffer through word vomitous whatsapp messages from time to time (or daily, not that we're counting ; ) In contrast, we went on another bike tour through the Tuscan hills surrounding Florence, leaving me with nothing but angry diatribes and lungs very much worse for the wear, care of the mountainous terrain and unnecessarily perky Italian guide. So when Cousin suggested we hop on bikes again to see the sights of Berlin, I gladly accepted, conveniently forgetting that it was January and we were nearing freezing temperatures.

En route to our meeting spot the next morning, it became increasingly clear that our surroundings were more akin to windy frozen tundra and that taking a bike tour might be the worst possible idea ever. Happily, a good 50 or so other people were equally as optimistic slash idiotic, so we knew we were in good company. Our tour guide was a verbose and witty Irishman, who did his very best to impart his historic wisdom while trying to prevent us from throwing our bikes into oncoming traffic and racing into the nearest heated building. All in all, I was glad for information on the Berlin Wall, the Holocaust Memorial, and the carpark that currently resides on top of Hitler's Bunker. But I was even more glad that Cousin and I had taken some pictures around town the day before because my fingers were so frozen together I couldn't handle more than a second or two sans gloves. 

Interestingly enough, as we made our way back to the hotel so that we could hide under blankets for a few hours, we couldn't help but stop at the icey inner tube slide we had walked past the day before. Climbing to the top of the frozen chute certainly helped us warm up a a bit, and charging down like a rocket brought my heart right up to speed. Even so, it still took me a 30-minute shower, an hour covered in blankets, and a hairdryer blasting on my face to regain feeling in my toes.

This happened just in time for us to jet off to our dinner reservation for the evening. We chose a place called Pantry, which offered a wide variety of European dishes. The presentation was beautiful and the food delicious. Aside from some creepy paintings of children holding guns on one wall, we were completely satisfied and fortified before our final evening about town.

Now, we had originally planned to scout out a bar or two we had read about, until the same Aussie Tour Guide from Vienna told me to hit up a hostel bar because his friend was a manager. He did not, however, inform me that the supposed friend would be working all DAY, night NIGHT. (Strike THREE for Bike Tour guide advice). When we arrived and asked for this possibly fictional character, we were told he would not be in that evening, and we were left to our own devices. Well, after voice memo-ing Aussie friend several times in jesting reprimand. Happily, hostel bars are quite cheap and we were two hot blondes sitting at the bar for a few hours; a recipe for magnetism if ever I heard one.  I know I chatted with some French speaker at one point, though I do not remember where he was from. We spent a good deal of time with a short Argentinean man. And I was ultimately peer pressured into kissing a 20 year old for a few minutes because he couldn't believe how old I was. Word to the wise? Never party at a hostel bar. Or maybe, never (slash always) go on bike tours.

Communism Means More Wine

After a relatively lackluster New Year's Eve (and I say relatively because come on, I was still in Berlin!) I woke up far less hungover than I did last year in Edinburgh (thank goodness!). While my cousin still managed to tear herself out of bed in time for breakfast, I had no interest in escaping my blankets food or not, reveling in the much needed sleep I was still craving from jet lag and crazy travel. We then switched positions, however, and Cousin went back to sleep for a few hours while I began to stir from my little cradle, wake up, shower, and start thinking of plans for the rest of the day. Unlike last year, I actually had energy and interest to explore the city a bit, and was anxious to fit in some of the sights before the weekend was out.

Cousin was surprisingly up for a little jaunt around town, so we decided to head toward Brandenburg Gate, the main event we never actually got to lay eyes on the night before. The rains had cleared but the temperature dropped, so we bundled up for our afternoon out. Throughout our wanderings, we also hit up Checkpoint Charlie and a remaining piece of the Berlin Wall. The former is absolutely a tourist trap, set up for the delight of us foreigners who want something to gaze and gawk at. The latter, however, was definitely fascinating for me to observe. When I was younger, I had a morbid obsession with WWII and Holocaust history, so being in Germany obviously brought on a lot of historical musings. My research never really extended to post-war activity so it was interesting for me to learn more about the reasons for the wall and how it functioned. We learned much more about it the next day on our bike tour around the city, but I was glad to have spent a few minutes taking it all in on our own.

So of course after settling into a random Irish pub for some afternoon pints, we went to a Communist-themed restaurant for dinner. One of my good friends in London had given us the suggestion. Apparently there are three locations, all within walking distance from each other, which was a good thing since the one we originally chose (Perlin) was closed! Happily, we strolled on over to the other location (Forum) and found it bright and bustling. Apparently during the day, the establishment functions like a normal restaurant. At 8pm, however, the concept and protocol changes completely. There is no menu or prices. You pay €2 for a wine glass and then are shown several bottles of wine laid out at the bar, where you help yourself and take a seat at your table. There is also a table in the back of the dining room where a buffet is spread out and you are allowed to help yourself as well. You can take as much wine and food as you want, refilling as much and as often as you like. Before leaving, you are expected to pay what you feel your meal was worth. I read online that some workers made it very clear that payment was expected while others do not. Cousin and I had several glasses of wine each and thought the food, while simple, was delicious. One of the gentleman, who may or may not have been an owner, was overwhelmingly courteous and kind, so we paid €20 each, thinking that was more than fair indeed for 4 glasses of wine, a plate of food, a lovely environment, and a sweet staff. All hail communism! We ended up making it an early night so we could be well rested for our bike tour the following morning. While the weather was slowly freezing, my feelings about Berlin were certainly warming up.