Thursday, April 26, 2012

I'm still alive, guys.

It's been a damn long time since I've touched this blog, and I think I can attribute the absence to problems relating to uploading pictures. For some reason, iPhoto won't recognize my picture format (jpeg...COME ON. JPEG.), and seeing as how I like to visually represent the ongoing surreal adventure that is my life overseas, this blog has come to a screeching halt. I've embarked on some serious travelling, however, and when I come in contact with computers in hostels such as the one I'm using right now, I'll be intermittently updating this thing.

So, anyway...school ended last week and I was thrown into a mad rush to get my shit together and leave Barcelona. Naturally, I didn't pack until a few hours before needing to leave the damn place. I had to get my luggage to my amigo Juan Luis's nuevo piso -- new flat -- and I don't do well with last minute shit that isn't related to academics. School, I can handle an ominously approaching deadline. Travel and such, it stresses me out. Funny how I'm still always late. Did I get that from you, Mom or Dad, or is it some mystically developed phenomenon? Ehh, who knows.

Point is, Tracy and I went to Dublin and London for a few days. It was Will's birthday on the 18th (happy 20th, sir!); he got into Ireland with some girls in his program on Thursday. First, though, was dealing with the impending doom of baggage fees from RyanAir. A little about this fine airline: They are the unholy cyberus of air travel, with the three heads being comprised of Hitler, Mussolini, and Stalen. Cheap flights, but they fuck you in any way possible -- my Dad tells me they even tried to charge for bathroom usage in the past. BATHROOMS. Really? I'd be so pissed if they pulled that shit off (hah...puns). Ahh, capitalism. So, there we were waiting in a long line of Irish and Spanish travellers in El Prat, gate 52. A cold sweat ran across my brow as I tried to keep my sleep-deprived, anxious mind at ease. Not to my surprise, the stewardess (flight attendant? Not PC?) called me out of line and I had to do the jump-through-the-hoops routine in which I stuff the next month's worth of possessions and clothes into the regulation sized luggage rack at the gate. Some Irish women gave me tips, and suddenly I had the whole front of the line cheering me on. Jesus, it was like pre-op Star Jones settling into a Smart Car. I'd packed terribly, and due to this had a few articles of clothing in my bag I could have done without. 'Flip it upside down!' one woman said. 'Shake it, rearrange the side pockets!' cried her husband. And suddenly, it fit. RyanAir employees looked on scornfully, and I walked back to my place in line with a newfound swagger. Suck it, air Nazis!!

The flight went smoothly, and Dublin was great. I wish I could have spent more time there, and it defintely merits a return trip. We had from Saturday night until Monday afternoon to pack in some pubs, music, Galway, the Cliffs of Moher, and the Jameson distillery. Wouldn't you know it, though, we didn't make everything work. HOWEVER, shit was great. Tracy and I caught the bus from the airport to O'Connel street, the city center. It was definitely strange to walk down the street and hear ENGLISH being spoken, of all things. We wandered for a while, and found Four Courts -- our hostel for the night. Great place, great location a little ways from the Temple Bar area, and reasonable priced around 15 euro per night. We got into a little Jameson which we'd bought on the way, and headed out to meet Will and his amigas to watch El Clasico at a nearby sportsbar called Buskers -- overpriced, tourist ridden spot, but we didn't need drinks or food as we had Jameson and cheaper street food (doner kebab, naturally). Plus, they had giant screens. FORCA BARCA.

And...we lost. Shit. Hate. Depression. Couple that with the fact that I'd put a crack in the lenses of my RayBans upon moving my things around the hostel dorm, I was in a sad state. But, sunglasses are material things which can be fixed, and I couldn't let sports completely ruin my first night in Dublin. It was back to the hostel to change, then out to meet the Irish. And Jesus, they're a friendly bunch. Hospitable drinkers and jokers, the whole lot of them. We hit Fitzsimmon's and THE Temple Bar -- again, both a little pricey, but we made sure to get our money's worth. Return visit pending to Dublin, likely in a few years when I can make it back to Europe, I'll be sure to visit some more out of the way spots. However, I really did enjoy the spots we hit. Great live music everywhere, and friendly strangers everywhere I turned. The next day, though, was even better. We took a bus trip to Galway and the Cliffs of Moher, which quickly became my new favorite spot in the world. Like I said, I'm on a hostel computer right now so downloading and uploading photos is a bitch and a half. I advise you all to check my Ireland facebook album if you haven't yet. It's viewable for everyone.

Monday afternoon, we tried to hit the Jamo factory but the tour would have caused us to cut our flight a little close. I opted for enjoying the 12 year distillery reserve, only available at the factory in Dublin. Good god, it was an orgasm in a glass. Walking through the gift shop was just damn painful, as the 40, 50, 60, 100, 200 euro bottles were calling my name, wishing to sit triumphantly on my shelf for years, only to be drank on ultimately special occasions. However, I'm travelling. Good scotch, unfortunately, does not take precedent over hostels, food, and water. Turns out I need food and shelter first. Who knew?

We took another RyanAir flight to London that afternoon, with no luggage woes. It was cold, dreary, and rainy when we stepped out on the tarmac, but who gives a shit. We're in the UK, isn't that always the case? Turns out the place has two qualities for backpackers: terrible weather and a worse exchange rate. I shall overcome.

We stayed at St. Christopher's Village the first couple nights, which was a great place. Your typical self-advertised party hostel, which almost always equates to a great staff, hostel bar, and generally nice faciltities catering to the younger travelling crowd such as ourselves. The place was the bees goddamn knees. Again, I have a load of pictures, and promise to put them on FB or here as soon as I can. This might not be until I get back to my laptop in Barcelona, but trust me...you'll enjoy it more when I have over 1000 images of pure European ecstasy rather than a slow trickle of snapshots of monuments here and there.
Our first night, we were flat out destroyed from the rapid pace of travel in Dublin. It's hard to adjust from the typical Barcelona schedule we'd gotten into of being out all night and sleeping half the day. I'm still working on that. Anyway, we spent the first night at Belushi's, the pub next to the hostel. Had some fish and chips, naturally, and put back a few beers before doing karaoke. I got after a little 'Sweet Caroline,' and later 'Come Together.' KILLED IT.

The next day was all about seeing the city, tourist status. We got some great Mexican food as directed by a map/guide we picked up from reception, and hit up a free tour around the Westminster area. Tips suggested, and we ended up giving James, the dude, a 10 pound note. Great dude, great tour. We saw Buckingham, Green Park, St. James Park, Big Ben (the name of the bell, actually...not the tower. who knew?), the government buildings, parliament, Westminster Abbey, etc. etc. Pics soon...or later...I promise. That night, we had serious business to attend to: The fucking Champion's League semis. Or, as I now refer to them...a steaming pile of horseshit.

We put away two in the first, much to our excitement. We were in the hostel pub again, surrounded shoulder to shoulder by Chelsea fans. Mostly, at least. A lot of Brits, like the two guys we stood next to -- Mark and Nigel (what an English name) -- were just there for some quality football. Great people, though, those redcoats. Bought us rounds all night. I couldn't get a word in when it came to buying the next. However, Ramires had a markedly wonderful goal at the end of the first, Messi somehow missed a PK, and fucking Torres of all people put away the unneeded dagger for Chelsea. We met more friends -- one guy offered his couch if we returned to London, some Indians and their friends bought us beers and chatted sports, and the only other Barcelona fan in the joint shared our pain. Hit up some terrible fast food called Chicken Cottage after that, and it was off to bed as we had to check out by 10 the next day.

We woke up, and headed to our next hostel -- the Hyde Park Inn. Guess where? HYDE PARK. Cool shit, but not really...as the hostel turned out to be shit. But, for the cheapest spot available that night, I was not one to argue. We dropped out things and headed out into the terrible weather. We'd made plans to check out a spot for a quality English brunch, walk the city to a used bookstore, then stop by King's Cross for a Harry Potter photo op before getting after some other places we found on the hostel map.

And then came the rain. Fucking pouring -- cats and dogs is an understatement. It was more like some genetic ancient hybrid of a blue whale and brontosaurus abusing our spirits and dry clothes. We walked for over an hour in this unrelenting acquatic torrent, stopping briefly under doorways along the way only for me to pause, wipe my face, and bitch a little. Okay, a lot. But we got there, and the food was great. Sausage, baked beans, fried eggs, bacon, toast, coffee, and this odd brown sauce that I couldn't quite place the flavor of. I didn't ask questions, although maybe I should have. Soilent green, housecat, I could have eaten anything at that point. We dried off there, and headed out toward the British National Museum. It's free...all the time! Quality. Funny thing, though...I've been overseas for months, and I've had more than my fair share of museums and galleries. It was notable phenomenal to walk around for an hour and see the history of the world (my favorite part being the Rosetta stone), but there was a lacklaster who-gives-a-shit mood to the whole thing. Really, Tracy and I were fucking soaked, and it was a great place to walk around, see the world, and dry off. From there we headed to the whole in the wall bookshop; found one of my uncle Don Winslow's booked -- Savages -- which I was tempted to buy and reread, but I figure I'd let the Brits enjoy it. Movie coming soon, read it and be on the lookout. I picked up Capote's 'In Cold Bood' and Hunter S Thompson's 'The Rum Diaries.' I think they'll carry me through the next few weeks of travel.

Walked around the King's Cross area after that -- which I'm pretty sure is, or is nearby Camden, where we found this place called Drink, Shop, and Do. Awesome little indie bar/shop/dancefloor. Bar and tearoom upstairs, with art everywhere, where literally every piece of furniture, salt shaker, and paintings are up for sale. Seriously, if you get a chance while in London check this spot out. They had a cherry old fashioned they advertised, which sounded awesome given the fact that I can't find any quality bourbon or rye in Spain, but I didn't feel like shelling out the 9.50 pounds. Anyway, the place was great. They have music most nights downstairs, and a great shop out front as well.

Found out King's Cross didn't actually have a platform 9 3/4 after that, much to my disappointment. Tracy was bummed because we didn't go to the Harry Potter experience outside of the city, and we had to settle on heading to the Chinatown/Soho/Piccadilly area. Ended up having a beer and watching Madrid lose, which eased the pain of the past three Barca matches...but not by much. Bayern will undoubtedly crush Chelsea.

Anyway, I'm out. I'm meeting a friend and her parents for FREE lunch at their hotel, which is awesome. And free. And then I'm off to check out other parts of the city. Maybe a pubcrawl tonight in Camden. Pics and new posts to come soon. I'm fucking back at it.

Adios!


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