Snapshots: Ireland (Dublin, Galway, Killarney, Cork)

Dublin. The Euro-fied metropolis of the Republic of Ireland. Stately, historic, costly, and cultured. It was cloudy and wet, yet the city was fast-paced, and personal. I met more people from other parts of Europe than from Ireland. Crass British who loved to tease American women, and Swedish folks who talked too close.

Dimly lit pubs with wooden bars and metallic taps serving the tastiest beer I've ever had. Cobble-stone streets by the quays, pedestrian bridges that stretched over the River Liffey.

Trinity campus was the heart of the city. Moss-covered buildings and ancient cars. A pub on campus at the end of the cricket green, and steps to sit on and watch the clouds move over the city. The library was more like a museum, and the bookstore was more like a library.

Pints of Guiness, Smithwicks, and shots of whiskey. World Cup matches in every pub, store, and restaurant. The words of James Joyce etched onto every wall, every statue, every sidewalk. History present and scorned. A post office as a living memorial, the columns still riddled with bullet holes. Cemeteries championed for grave robbing. Syringes discarded behind shrubs.

And of course, so much Fish 'n Chips I nearly puked.


Galway. Calm, friendly, and humble. The sun was out constantly. Street performers from across the world played banjo songs outside of the pubs and restaurants. The River Corrib gleamed in the sunlight and allowed fishermen to walk the water by the bridge.

I spent five hours and forty Euro at a crowded pub watching the World Cup Final, then stumbling through the streets to watch banjo players, drum circles with Brazilians dancing, a fan painted up as the Hulk, and then Italians parading through the Market streets. I stumbled the mile home, weaving through the streets, then woods, then campus. I helped a friend walk back home after he made a failing attempt to match his 21st birthday in drinks. I sang "Danny Boy" with a student from Donegal who loved American accents. I spent fifteen Euro on a glass of whiskey. I interviewed Galway residents about Wal-Mart, watched a friend dance with the Mayor's wife, and played soccer with Italian high-schoolers.



The Aran Islands. Killarney. Cork. Archaic geographic and tectonic marvels, all so fucking green. Catholic tombs and churches and cemetaries almost every footstep. Stone walls weaving through the green hills, grass stretching tall and tossing in the wind. Rivers and lakes carve through the rocks, isolated and clean. I drank water directly from a lake in Killarney. Walked hot, melting asphalt through a valley to the a small fishing boat with a motor and an elderly man wrinkled from the sun. I biked from end to end of Innish Moore. I rode a ferris wheel in downtown Killarney.

The Blarney Stone was a joke. The County Cork was gravenly serious. The River Lee reminded me of Pittsburgh. Cork accents were harsher, more real. The streetlights dissolved all color. I carried friends back home. I watched others stumble amidst their own fluids.

A country so fucking green. Brazen and friendly.