Wibbly Wobbly Timey Wimey... Stuff

It's safe to say that May kind of got away from me. That's okay, though, because once I build my TARDIS I can just go back and write posts closer to the days that I actually think of these topics and you'll all be none the wiser... except then I'll have to erase this post.

Gosh, time travel is so confusing!

Any excuse for a Doctor Who clip

This won't be a coherent post, but I wanted to get a few thoughts down while they were still relatively fresh in my mind. Random? Yes. Important? Probably not. Going to talk about them anyway? Hells ya!

There has been lots going on in my life at the moment. Biggest change? I got a new job. I'm still with the organisation but a new higher-up position. As my brother said when I told him my new title, "you've got 'co-ordinator' in there. Nice!" It's handy when your family are also bureaucrats, they get what titles mean.

Being honest, I love the bathrooms on my new floor!

After my pub board game night with 106 and T, 106 found a Monday night board game meet up here in Victoria. We've been twice and it's awesome! He even bought one of our favourite games from this past Monday and I pretty much had to physically restrain myself from just inviting myself over to play it. It's called Guillotine and it's super simple, super quick, and super hilarious. Also, board games rock. I just wish they weren't so freakin' expensive.

Euro 2012 starts on Friday. That might not mean much to most of you, but it's huge for me. It's the first time in 24 years that Ireland has made it to the Euro. (In fairness, it's only held every four years. It's not like they've missed it 24 years in a row.) The last time Ireland went (which was also the first time, we're a young soccer nation) this happened:

It was kind of a big deal for us. They even wrote songs about it. Never ones to let a moment pass without signing about it, there's an official Ireland song for Euro 2012 as well.

(Snarky me adds a 'unless you score with a handball' at the end.

Yeah, I'm still bitter. Stupid France.)

Speaking of Ireland vs. England, people were chatting in the lunch room today about the Queen's Jubilee when one of them turned to me and seriously asked "you're Irish. Are you excited about the celebrations? Is your family doing anything special?" I was slightly dumbfounded at the question so I just said 'no' and left the room.

I don't have anything against the English, and good on the Queen for sticking in there, but Irish people aren't exactly known for our love of England or the monarchy. In fact, we're kind of known for disliking them. We fought a war of independence over it. The resulting separation of the island of Ireland made a few of the papers. So did the ensuing Troubles. While I don't expect this non-Irish coworker to be able to list names and dates from the last 100 years of Irish history, I would expect that somewhere in her brain would be the understanding that Ireland won't be celebrating this Jubilee. Or any Royal Jubilee.

I'll have to remember to ask her what she's doing for American Independence Day in July.

I have made no secret of my love for Phil Plait, aka The Bad Astronomer. If you love science, you should check out his quote turned into awesome graphics by Zen Pencils. It gives me chills reading it. If you want to get me something nice just because, I'll take a print of that comic. Thanks.

I had a crush on a guy in high school who I always thought was way too cool for me - it was the classic nerd-girl-likes-jock-a-year-older-than-her crush. While I thought I always played it cool, I'm sure he knew. How could he not when I just randomly always seemed to be hanging out in the hall near his locker? Or sitting by the field when he was practicing soccer? He was nicer than some of the crushes I had and politely tolerated me but we had nothing in common. Nothing! Except we both liked 'Ocean Pearl' by 54-40.
While I liked the song, crush-boy loved it. He had all of 54-40's albums, he went to a few of their concerts, and he talked about wanting to meet the band.

This song still gets me dancing.

My crush ended suddenly one day. His friend made fun of him for his geeky hanger-on and his previously tolerant demeanour changed. In front of all his friends, he made me feel about two inches tall. I was devastated.

Skip forward 18 years to this past weekend. My friends, Justin and Ian, played Friday and Saturday night with their recently acquired drummer, Matt Johnson. As in, Matt Johnson of 54-40. It wasn't my first time meeting Matt, but it was the first time we had a conversation between us without Justin or Ian instigating it. Despite friends with him both nights, he made a point of coming over and say 'hello' and asking how I was doing.

As I nursed a hangover of epic proportions on Sunday (more from lack of sleep than the four beers the night before), I thought of that high school crush for the first time in more than a decade. Man, did I ever wish I could tell 14 year old me that some day one of my crush's hero would laugh at my jokes. That would have stopped a few of those tears.

It Was Going To Be a Post About May the Fourth...

Like all good little sisters, I borrowed my brother's personal items when he wasn't home. When I was younger, it was his G.I.Joe's. As a pre-teen and teenager, it was his tapes and, later, CDs. The only cool thing about me by the time I got to high school was that I knew the lyrics to every song on the License to Ill record.

I felt numb when I read the news today that Adam Yaunch, better known to most of us as MCA, had passed away. I broke the news to my unit at work. It says a lot about the Beastie Boys that despite a 25 year age difference in our group and different socio-economic upbringings, we all had a Beastie Boys story to share. They crossed genres and generations in a way that very few other groups have.

And singing along with Fight For Your Right will never go out of style.

Memories of a Mzungu

I am spending my Friday night watching the 1962 John Wayne movie Hatari!

Don't worry if you have no idea what I'm talking about. Five years ago, I had never heard of the movie and I went through a period in high school of watching a classic movie a week. I had watched more John Wayne films than I could name.

But then I went on safari in Tanzania and visited Tarangire NP. Everywhere around the entrance guard hut were signs about the movie being filmed there. Hatari means danger or caution. Baby Bro and I found it hilarious to yell "HATARI... THE MOVIE!" at each other for the rest of the trip.



We usually made this hand gesture as we yelled it...
although that was just coincidental.



Obviously, we had to watch the film when we returned home. Now it's my 'I miss Tanzania' film.

This round of nostalgia started when E and I ended up in Munro's Books in the language section. A Swahili book caught my attention and soon I was pontificating about how even a small knowledge of the language goes a long to increasing the willingness of the locals to help you and decreasing the opening quote on items in shops. I bored entertained E and the lady browsing down the aisle with stories which illustrated my point. (You're welcome for the travel tips, by the way, lady-who-kept-staring-at-me.)



The local mode of carrying goods.
The girl on the left is carrying an axe on her head.

Three days later, I found The White Masai on clearance for $5. Once I started reading, I couldn't stop. The writing isn't great and some of the decisions made by the author frustrated me to no end but the story just drew me. While the book is set in Kenya, the two countries are geographically similar and the bureaucracy is exactly the same. (A better term would be bribeaucracy.) As I read about Corinne's frustration with getting immigration papers sorted, I recalled how my low cut v-neck shirt got me a visa renewal when only a day earlier my scoop neck shirt was told it had to leave the country to renew my visa. (That's the power of the boobs, ladies!)


The beach at Kendwa, Northern Zanzibar



Memories I hadn't thought of in years came flooding back. The simple memories I don't pull out for dinner parties because there's no set story to entertain or inform those around me. Memories like the contentment of sitting on the shaded stoop of Susie's shop on a sunny day, drinking a coke baridi and chatting with the passersby I know. Or how looking at Mt. Meru as I left the baby home made the day complete.



The eastern wall of the Great Rift Valley. You can almost reach out and touch it.

I started dreaming in Swahili which is amazing because a) I haven't done that since five months after I came home and b) the only Swahili I remember when I'm awake is what I had to yell say to the children 18 times an hour - Stop it! Come here! No! Sit down! No hitting! Lunch/Dinner time! Go potty?, pretty standard toddler sentences - or basic greetings. In my dreams, however, I recalled a lot more. Although I'm more than willing to concede that most of the 'Swahili' I was dreaming in was probably my mind making up appropriate sounds. But there were a few actual words I was able to recall upon waking up.


The streets of Stone Town, empty during Ramadan.

Invigorated by these six relearned words, my Swahili hip hop* and Bongaflava downloads found their way back into my music rotation. Because obviously, if I'm dreaming in Swahili, I'm f*cking fluent! Baby Bro interviewed me for his paper on the education system in Tanzania while another friend invited me over for Ethiopian takeout and a movie set in Kenya (based on a true story... and you should totally watch it). The Amazing Race - the only reality show I would ever want to be on - headed to Tanzania and even went through a town I remember fondly, Mto wa Mbu (which is not what you'd expect someone to say about a town named 'river of mosquitos'. And for the record: mmm-toe wa mmm-boo). All these little reminders of Africa kept popping up.


Hard at work teaching me Swahili patty cake rhymes.



So here I sit with John Wayne humanely catching monkeys in the background while I stare at travel brochures for East Africa advertising trips I can't afford. Oh, to stand up in the jeep as it bumps its way down to the Ngorongoro Crater floor. To jump out of the dhow and wade ashore with my bag on my head as old fishermen fix their nets in the shade of the old Portuguese fort at Kilwa Kisiwani. To watch the sun set on cloudless Kilimanjaro as I eat dinner with Mama Musa, Hadija and the rest of the nannies. To barter with a stall keeper and then watch him charge the other tourists more because they don't greet him in Swahili.

To sit on the shaded stoop of Susie's shop on a sunny day, drinking a coke baridi and chatting with the passersby I know.



View from the ridge of Ngorongoro Crater after our game drive.



*The Hip Hop group I linked to, X Plastaz, is known because they rap in Swahili and Maa (the language of the Masai). The song I linked to doesn't have a video but it's the first X Plastaz song I ever heard and I love the use of the Masai throat singing in the background.

Februarch

My calendar tells me it's March. I think it's lying to me but my phone tells me the same thing.

*sigh*

Another month down. Granted, it was a short month but it still seemed to fly by. I made the mistake of starting choice to begin a couple of projects in January which, coupled with returning to work, made February a busy, busy month. My fun time was one episode of The Walking Dead a night until I caught up with the series.

My willingness to get over my natural tendency to avoid anything graphic

might have something to do with these two guys.

Love me some Daryl and Rick!

I enjoy zombie movies but I usually enjoy them for the camp-factor. The Walking Dead is anything but camp. In fact, it's disturbingly realistic in its portrayal of decomposing dead (yet ambulatory) bodies. Just debating whether or not to watch the show gave me a horrible nightmare. I woke up three times, once I was crying, and every time I fell right back into the nightmare. I was sweaty by the time I woke up and emotionally distraught over having to shoot a few of my friends in the head. Since I actually started watching the show, I haven't had a single bad dream. Note to self: it's never as bad as you imagine it to be.

February was also the month that I committed to attending the Emerald City Comicon in Seattle at the end of March. Why yes, it is just as nerdy as you think it is. Nerdy and dorky and awesome. I can't wait. Finally, my dream of stalking awkwardly-staring-at-while-waiting-for-his-autograph-because-I-can't-think-of-anything-to-say-meeting Wil Wheaton will come true!

I've read a lot of books lately which I may or may not talk about at a later date, but most recently I started reading Playing with Fire by Theo Fleury. By recently, I mean Sunday. It's good. I can't put it down. For those who are not familiar with Theo Fleury, he's a Canadian hockey player who struggled with various addictions throughout his career. After cleaning up in the mid-2000's, he came forward and spoke out about the sexual abuse he suffered at the hands of his junior hockey coach. While I've never been a huge fan of Theo's (um hello, he played for Calgary! Automatic 37 strikes against him!), I fell a little in love with him when he posted this on his blog during the Penn State abuse scandal back in November 2011. I made a decision then and there to read his book. So glad I did.

I caught a travel show on Switzerland a few days ago. Suddenly, I find myself looking at flights and googling gondola trips up various mountains. You may find a couple of Swiss photos sneaking into future posts along with trips down memory lane about the proper way to prepare a cheese fondue or what it's like to experience an Alpabzug (bringing the cows down from the mountain pastures for winter). Oh Switzerland, I miss you.

I'm hoping to get back to writing on here more often, but I make no promises. Game of Thrones was just released on DVD today...

Pressure On!

Two weeks ago, Under Pressure randomly popped up on my music list. I love Queen and when it started playing, I walked down the street with a grin on my face. I tend to list to the Greatest Hits I more than the II so I don't hear Under Pressure all that often. I switched to repeat and listed to the song five or six times in a row.

I was a child of the late 80's/early 90's and my first introduction to Under Pressure was through Vanilla Ice's Ice, Ice Baby because it was everywhere when it came out. The first time I heard that familiar riff and it wasn't Ice, Ice Baby I almost fell out of my chair. You mean this addictive riff is actually part of a good song?!? YAY!

It was the lyrics of this song which helped propel me to commit to going to Tanzania in 2007 (the part about love daring you to care) so it only seems appropriate that five years later, I start the year by having this song on repeat.

I Wrote What?

I wasn't going to specifically write a Year-In-Review post as other than Ireland (which feels like I just finished writing about), I don't really recall 2011 being a great year for recapping. I did, however, figured I'd mention a few moments in my "Hello 2012, I dare you to out-crap 2011" post I'm working of for tomorrow. As I reviewed a year worth of posts, I noticed something: I crack myself up.

I noticed this when I switched to the new timeline on facebook (and had to edit almost five years worth of status updates), and found myself chuckling alone in my apartment at my own willingness to be an idiot. So instead of a recap of "the best of 2011" or "highlights of 2011" or "the amazing things I did in 2011", I give you instead: the posts I most enjoy from 2011.

Don't brush and eat

I judge you based on the movies you watch

I still love you


Geeks need love too!

When I was sweet sixteen seventeen

I'm still younger than the Doctor

This is why I'm not allowed out in public

Then this happened... so I look into becoming a nun

Then this happened... so I look into become a cricket fan

I blame my dad for my whack sense of musical taste

I nerd out about ST:TNG again

I meet a lady who knew my dad when he had hair!!

I nerd out about Pluto having another moon

Canada lost an amazing man

I willingly posted a video of my singing

I need to learn to keep my mouth shut

If I put up pictures of Deanna Troi, I triple my number of page hits (true story)

I'm takin' it back to the old school cuz I'm an old fool who's so cool


Is mise AndreaClaire. Is as Canada dom. Conas ata tu? Pog mo thoin. Slan ge foill! (And that's about all the Irish I know!)

I love Christmas

That pretty much sums up me and it sums up my 2011. I had a late night last night thanks to a friend visiting from Switzerland so after much debate, I'm spending my New Years with a short guitar practice then one serving of ice cream and my Doctor Who DVD. Little Miss Wild-n-Crazy over here!!

Happy New Year!

CMC: Canoeing on Thetis Lake

This is part of my Christmas Memory Challenge, a goal I set for myself to recall 25 things I love about Christmas. You can also check out Shannon's memories here.

It started as a way to get us out of the house and out from underfoot while the dinner cooked. Decked out in Santa hats and carrying various bells, we'd strap our red canoe to the top of the car and make our way over to Thetis Lake (the closest lake to my dad's house).

We'd put the canoe in and paddle both the upper and lower lakes. Save for a few walkers we'd see from afar, we usually had the place to ourselves. When we did chance near enough the shore to speak with the walkers, we'd wish them a Merry Christmas and sing a carol as we parted ways. It never failed to elicit a smile from those we met. Then we'd stop in the middle of the lake and just enjoy the calm and silence... until one of us got antsy and we'd start shaking the bells and singing another carol.

Of course, our favourite year was when my dad got a little too excited about the bell shaking and sent our pole of bells flying into the lake and then almost tipped the canoe tyring to grab them before they sank to the bottom. We call that the jingle, jingle, oops! incident!

CMC: The Nativity Scene

This is part of my Christmas Memory Challenge, a goal I set for myself to recall 25 things I love about Christmas. You can also check out Shannon's memories here.

I've mentioned my dad's nativity scene last year, but it bears repeating. The scene is nothing spectacular, it's not fancy, it's not even particularly nice looking. It's rough wood frame and glued on moss does make it a bit more authentic looking than some of the clean, plastic ones you see, but in my dad's house full of clutter you could easily miss it.

I never quite got the story straight - my dad either got it before going to Australia, when they were living in Australia, while they were backpacking back from Australia - but the important thing to remember is that my dad started to notice fewer and fewer pieces to the nativity scene every year. If you're doing a nativity scene correctly, you're supposed to add certain people on certain days. Jesus, for example, is supposed to be added after you return from midnight mass on Christmas Eve.

It's one thing to lose a wise man or a shepherd, but what point is there to a Nativity scene if you lose Jesus? Wanting to make sure this didn't happen, my dad took matters into his own hands... in the form of a hammer. Our baby Jesus is now nailed to the manager.

I have gotten so much mileage out of telling people that story, and I will never not find it funny.

CMC: Carolling

This is part of my Christmas Memory Challenge, a goal I set for myself to recall 25 things I love about Christmas. You can also check out Shannon's memories here.
Once a holiday season, my dad would bundle us all up and take us around the neighbourhood for a round of carolling. We lived in a semi-rural area with lots of small farms or very large lots so we knew pretty much everyone within walking distance from our house. Occasionally, we'd hook Rowdy the donkey up to the trap* and use him to get from house to house.

We'd always sing two songs: one my dad would chose as we walked up the driveway, and We Wish You a Merry Christmas. We probably sounded more akin to a group of drunken frat boys than those professional carolling groups that roam the malls each Christmas, but it was always a fun night out and the recipients always had smiles on their faces (if they weren't joining in with the singing).

Over the years, the area around us became fairly developed and many of our neighbours moved away, looking for the semi-rural life they were used to, while my brothers and I got older. Wasn't high school hard enough without being that uncool kid who went carolling with his or her parents? Now my dad just waits until we're all together and makes us sing to the neighbours over the phone.

Hmm, some thing's a little lost in the updated tradition.

*type of carriage, not some cruel animal-killing device

CMC: Christmas Music

This is part of my Christmas Memory Challenge, a goal I set for myself to recall 25 things I love about Christmas. You can also check out Shannon's memories here.
The first thing that happens after my mom brings the Christmas decorations up from the basement or my dad brings them down from the attic is that the Christmas tapes (yes, tapes. In fact, a few are even on records) would be pulled out and played. It's not Christmas until I hear those familiar melodies!

By far, my favourite version of this song.

Johnny Mathis, Bing Crosby, the Chieftain's, Canadian Brass Christmas and many more are pretty much on repeat from the moment we put them on to the moment we pack them up for another year.

Picked this video because my dad still has this record.

Over the past few years, I've slowly been building my Christmas CD collection so I don't have to hang out at my parents just to hear them. (Not that there's anything wrong with hanging out at my parents, I just don't think they'd appreciate me moving in for three weeks just to hear these songs.)

I'm not going to lie to you Marge, this song makes me cry.

This year's addition was Bing Crosby (and was only $5!! Thank you, sales!!). Now I'm stuck in that awkward point where the CD songs are in a different order than the record order and I keep telling my CD "no, no, that's not right! Get it right!"

This song always gets me dancing!

Part of my need to get my own versions of these records is because I've spent a Christmas or two without them and it's never quite the same.

Mahalia gives me chills. Love her!

And what you've failed to see by simply reading this blog is that I've spent over an hour drinking tea, searching YouTube videos, and dancing around my apartment feeling all Christmas-y. My Christmas season has officially begun thanks to this post! I'll leave you with a song from my favourite Christmas album.

This whole album makes me happy and if you've never heard it, you should.

Question: Any 'must hear' Christmas songs or albums for you?

The Final Countdown

While Al spent the final Friday taking a guided tour of Bru na Boinne and the Boyne Valley, I spent it catching up with family. I know I've said this before but I have a lot of family in Ireland. I could have spent the entire three weeks just seeing family and I probably still would have missed someone. Still, I'll take as many family meet-ups as I can get especially now that some of my cousins have kids and they say adorable things like "hi-ya!" when I walk through the door. Seriously, nothing cuter than a 19 month old with a Dub accent saying 'hi-ya'!

Saturday was run-around-buy-souvenirs-take-pictures day. Despite some very nasty rain clouds hanging about, we lucked out and managed to stay dry for our final day. It was a welcome change to the weather we had been having. We started the day by wandering O'Connell St on the north side of the Liffey. The street is named after Daniel O'Connell so it's only best that he stands prominently at the south end.

I think Ireland personified is telling you who to complain to if you have a problem.

It's that man, up there, above her. Complain to him!

O'Connell St is probably best known for being the location of the General Post Office (GPO).

The pillars are still pockmarked from the 1916 Rising. History nerd here finds that kinda cool!

The GPO acted as the headquarters during the Easter Rising of 1916. In the early hours of Monday, April 24th, members of the Irish Republican Brotherhood, the Civilian Army, and the Irish Volunteers seized various buildings around Dublin* (most of which they felt were signs of British oppression), after which Padraig Pearse read out the Proclamation of the Irish Republic from the GPO where two rebels flags had replaced the Union Jack.

After six days of fighting, the inside of the GPO was almost completely destroyed and the men stationed there, including five of the signatories on the proclamation, surrendered unconditionally to British troops. It would be another 24 hours before the rising was completely put down. The leaders were taken to Kilmainham Gaol, found guilty of treason and executed.

One of the things I love most about the Irish is their wit. If you put up a monument to anything, they'll have a nickname for it before the paint is dry. The prick with the stick, the hags with the bags, and the fluzzie in the jacuzzi are all nicknames Dubs have giving to various statues around town. My personal favourite is the the tart with cart, better known as Molly Malone.

Just one nickname won't do. Molly's also known as the flirt with the skirt,

the dish with the fish, and a couple of other nicknames as well.

For the first time in a long while, I had new nicknames to learn thanks to this guy:

Ladies and gentlemen, meet the stiletto in the ghetto, the stiffy by the Liffey, the nail in the Pale, the erection at the intersection, the, well, that's probably enough. The official name has something to do with light... I don't know, I didn't actually pay attention to that part, I just wanted to hear the nicknames! It seemed like everyone I talked to had another one to add to the list. Oh Dublin, I hope you never change.

Try as I might, I couldn't get all my family visits over and done before the Saturday night. We had to be up at 5:00am and a night out wasn't really what I wanted. Still, sometimes that's just the way the cookie crumbles. I had missed meeting up with my uncle in Armagh so he was coming down** to see me on my last night. There's not way to excuse yourself from that, is there?

Al and I had dinner with uncles Lorcan and Kevin and aunt Betty before doing a night time tour of Dalkey. The tour was part of a "let's see who's home" (answer: no one) which then turned into a "Bono lives there, Enya lives there, Neil Jordan lives there, Van Morrison lives there" drive. Of course, we had to stop at the beach by the Canadian ambassador's house and take a picture. That's just the patriotic thing to do!

Oh flash, why do you wash us out so?

Our evening ended with a drive up into the Wicklow Mts. I was sad that I never made it to the area during the day because it really is lovely but these things happen sometimes. We started the night at Johnny Fox's and all it's "traditional pub" touristy glory (although the stuff on the walls does make me laugh) before we moved onto The Blue Light. If you can get to it, definitely check out the Blue Light. Live music, amazing views over Dublin, friendly patrons, and incredibly relaxed. My kind of pub!

This is just proof that I can't take my uncles anywhere!

Look at all the Guinness Kevin wasted!

As much as I had hoped to avoid a Saturday night send off, I couldn't think of a better way to say good bye to Ireland. We told stories, made jokes, laughed until we cried, sang songs, and reminisced. The end of the night came too soon. We rounded ourselves up and headed out to the car. The next day, Al and I would be up before sunrise; we'd pass through Dublin in the dark and half asleep; we'd watch the sun come up as we ate breakfast on the top level of the airport; and we'd watch Ireland slip beneath the plane as we flew to Amsterdam, but our last real memory of Dublin was on that Saturday night.

*It should be noted that they were not successful in capturing all the buildings they went after.

**I wrote that he was coming 'down' because geographically looking at a map, Armagh is north of Dublin, hence, down. If you are ever in Ireland, it is important to know that everything is down from Dublin. We're going down to Donegal for the weekend. We're going down to Monaghan for the night. We're going down to Mayo in a fortnight. You do 'go up to the North' but if you're specifying where in the north, then it's down again. We're going down to Derry next week. Obviously, if everywhere is 'down' from Dublin, then everyone else comes up to Dublin for a visit so when I was talking with my uncle on the phone, he said that he was coming up to Dublin. I giggled because that will never stop being funny to me.

CMC: Grandma's Molasses Cookies

This is part of my Christmas Memory Challenge, a goal I set for myself to recall 25 things I love about Christmas.

You know that Christmas is coming when my mom and I start to plan when we can make Grandma’s Molasses Cookies. The cookies are legendary in our family and with our friends. I can’t tell you how many Christmas potlucks I’ve brought a plate of cookies to only to find them completely cleaned out before the other guests have arrived. We double the recipe and the process becomes an all-day event with my mom making the dough in the morning so it can chill before I get there. When I arrive, we put on a spot of tea in grandma’s silver tea pot, throw on Johnny Mathis* and then we start our assembly line of baking. Roll, cut, bake, cool, ice, decorate, taste test, repeat.

I can not image the Christmas season without these cookies. On the years when my mom is away over the holiday season, I pull out her recipe card and make these by myself. They're good but never as good as when we make them together!

*trust me, I'll be talking more about him later

Christmas Memory Challenge

Hello, my name is Andrea. I'm an atheist and I love Christmas. I shouldn't love it as much as I do given that it's a religious holiday (or at least, once upon a time it was) but it just makes me so frakkin' happy. I'm one of the biggest Christmas-aholics that I know. Despite this, I have two things that bother me about it:

1. People who start decorating prior to December 1st
2. When people are more concerned with gifts than the hanging out with loved ones

In my 31 years of celebrating Christmas, none of my important memories have anything to do with the gifts I received. I'm not going to pull a holier-than-thou-I-don't-need-gifts attitude because who doesn't like free things (assuming free things don't involve follow-up trips to the clinic and a round penicillin)? But at the end of the day, what I love most about Christmas has very little to do with the material aspect of it. So imagine my frustration when I start reading blogs in November which not only discuss Christmas* but also list items they'd their readers might like for Christmas. It made me stabby.**

Instead of travelling to various locations and stabbing people, I set myself a challenge: I will post 25 Christmas memories which will have nothing to do with gifts. You're all smart people, so I'm guessing you've already figured out that this will mean daily posts from the 1st to the 25th. If you're a blogger and what to join in, let me know. I'll gladly link to anyone else who wants to highlight the non-material side of Christmas.

I know that not all my readers are Christmas people but please note that some of the posts will be about alcohol. Surely that's got to count for something, right? And again, atheist writing here so God/Jesus talk will be kept to a minimum... and will usually involved alcohol ;-)

*I'm all for craft blogs talking about Christmas in November because they're giving you ideas which you can use in December. Any other blogs doing it can kiss my mistletoe'd butt.

**This is totally not a Christmas gift suggestion link. Although the shirt is pretty awesome so I wouldn't turn it down if you did get it for me.

Peat and Rhythm

When Al and I first talked about going to Ireland, high on my list of places I wanted to go was Donegal. I had nostalgic memories of Donegal in the 80’s—huge family gatherings at my aunt’s cottage, games of soccer-tag (also known as ‘quick, make up a game that all ages of our family can play’) on a near deserted beach in the middle of July, scrambling over rock walls as my cousins and I explore the fields around us—and I knew that I wouldn’t find that Donegal again (firstly, good luck getting all my cousins together at the beach) but I was hoping that the landscape was still as breath-taking as I remember.

Well, it was really hard to see the landscape when it rained the entire time we were there. Not just rained... POURED! My poor shoes never did fully dry out and took on such a funky smell that I ended up just binning them and buying a pair of cheap boots. (Thank you Dunnes!)

We arrived at the Diamond* in Donegal Town and I wondered if I had made a huge mistake in dragging Al here. Co. Donegal had been my request after all. Once-a-day bus times meant that we couldn’t go to Bunbeg, the area of my childhood memories, without eating into a lot of our precious travel days, but I was hoping that a day trip to Slieve League and Killybegs would be just as lovely. Donegal Town, however, wasn’t really living up to my hopes.

The Diamond in Donegal Town. Don't be fooled by all those cars, that's the taxi stand.

We arrived at the hostel to find the owner (the lovely Linda from the county Cork) in the middle of starting a peat fire. While Donegal Town still had yet to win me over, the hostel was getting major bonus points!

There's something about a big pile of peat which makes me insanely happy. It reminds me

of visiting my granddad's friend with my dad who lived in a thatched cottage with a peat fire

and he boiled the water for tea in a pot hanging from a swinging arm over the fire.

After we had warmed up and somewhat dried off, Al and I walked back into town for dinner and a drink. We partook in the ‘traditional’ fish and chips from an actual chipper before making our way to the Reel Inn. Rumour had it that there was music every night and the one thing that Al wanted before she left was to hear Irish music in an Irish bar.

Our Saturday night at the pub turned out to be a lot of fun. We arrived well before the music started so we pretty much had the place to ourselves for the first hour. We made small talk with the barmaid (the fabulously sarcastic Emer) and tried to decipher the comments from the drunk regular who I think might have been speaking Irish at one point. The place slowly filled up and by the time the band started, it was standing room only. Still, you can always find room to dance!

We learned later from our new friend, Helly** that Al’s

dance partner was single and owned 80 acres of land!

We left the Reel Inn at 1:30am with the realisation that everyone still in the pub was older than us. That’s right, the 45 – 80 years old age group totally out partied two 30-somethings. Welcome to Ireland!

The next day was still raining. We had hopes of going to Slieve League but everyone we talked to said they were fogged in (later confirmed by other tourists who had gone), so we went with our back up plan of the Donegal Bay Waterbus Tour. The first indication that perhaps this wasn’t the great idea was the booking agent who replied to our request for two tickets with ‘really?’ The next indication was the bus loads of seniors that were being dropped of as we boarded the waterbus. It was a full tour and save for ourselves, a family with three kids under 12 and couple who looked much like Al and I felt (that would be ‘horrified’ for those of you who need an actual word for that moment), everyone was 65+. The minute the bar opened, Al and I hightailed it to the alcohol.

We thought the guide telling jokes which had nothing to do with the tour was bad—we groaned, we rolled our eyes, we giggled at how silly the whole thing was—but when we got to the end of the bay and it was time to turn around, they pulled out a keyboard. Nothing, I repeat, NOTHING is as bad as cheesy songs with synthesised drums. Al and I beat a hasty retreat to the top deck... where the music followed us. It was like some bad horror film. No, don’t go upstairs! He’ll just follow you!

Oh well. At least we got to take pictures in between our bouts of laughter.

The bay is very shallow so at low tide you can walk to most of the islands from the mainland.

And just so you can hear exactly how bad the music was:

Um, it won't let me play this video to check it before I post it but

if the colours are as wacked as they are in the draft photo... oops!

On our way back into town we passed the ruins of the friary where the Annals of the Four Masters were written. Having wasted €4 on Donegal Castle earlier that day we decided to check out the free ruins. If you ever find yourself in Donegal Town, skip the Castle and just go check out the friary. I would have rather paid to see the friary (which is now a cemetery so double score for me!).

Being Canadian Thanksgiving that weekend, we decided to get dolled up and go for a nice dinner. It was surprisingly hard to find anything turkey related so had to make due with lamb so perfectly cooked that I touched it with my fork and it fell off the bone. It’s a tough life, I tell ya! After dinner, we headed back to the Reel Inn to see what Sunday night would provide in the way of music. While Saturday night had been fun, it had felt touristy. Sunday night reminded me of my dad’s parties growing up.

The owner (on the accordion) and a few of his friends sat around and played whatever song they felt like. If one of them felt like taking a smoke break or heading to the washroom, the others kept playing. If they weren’t totally sure of the song, they’d fake their way through it. If someone wanted to get up and join them or sing a song, they were welcome to it. It was about as authentic an Irish music night you’re going to get in a pub.

There was supposed to be two videos here but after 37 minutes of waiting for just one to upload (I'm not joking, old computer...) you're just getting a picture instead.

The banjo player was amazing! Even more amazing was the man hiding behind the mic. His name is Frankie and Al and I love him. I found someone else's video on YouTube so you can understand why.

PS. That's the owner on the accordion.

He  had such a lovely singing voice that we loved him in spite of what appeared to be a very gruff demeanor when we first met him. Then he threw a couple of smiles our way when we responded positively to the songs. During a break late in the night, he sat down beside us and we got to chatting. I asked if he knew Sonny's Dream and he admitted that he didn't know the words, but if I wanted to sing it he'd back me up. Small problem: I'd had a bit to drink and couldn't remember the words. He wanted to know if we were going to be around the next night. We weren't but he was willing to bring in the words and sing Sonny's Dream for us if we were. I love this man more than I can express in writing.

We saw none of the things we wanted to see, we spent more time wet than we did dry, and we wasted money on the stupid castle and the waterbus, but Donegal had won its place as our favourite stop. “We could always go back to Donegal” became the mantra of the rest of our trip. When we hit up a music pub in Galway, we looked at each other, agreed it was no Reel Inn and beat a hasty retreat. And any singers we heard? Well, they’re no Frankie!

What I would give for this pub to be my local!

*many northern Irish towns call their town centre or square ‘the Diamond’ but it’s usually a triangle. I get the feeling Irish people probably fail geometry ;)

**I can not, for the life of me, remember his first name but he spelt his last name for me so it kind of stuck. It’s what Al and I referred to him as for the rest of the trip.

Hello November!

The hard thing about writing about Derry is that the post almost always ends up sounding political. Truthfully, that could just be me reading my own opinions about Northern Ireland into what I wrote. Maybe other people wouldn't read it that way. Or maybe they would. Anyway, I wrote a post, sat on it for two days, rewrote it, sat on it again, reworked it... it's an on going struggle but I will get it up eventually; I think the one I've most recently wrote is probably the version I'll end up with but I want to sit on it and make sure.

In the meantime, it's November! Not only that but it's the fifth of November! When I was young, my dad always had a bonfire for Guy Fawkes day. The property is surrounded by a forest so we'd accumulate a lot of cuttings and underbrush* we had to get rid of. By November 5th, it was damp enough to have a bonfire. Two birds, one bonfire so to speak.

We don't have bonfires anymore because as the development around us grew, firefighter visits became more frequent (this is more a complaint from my dad and brothers. I usually called the fire department... joking!) so permits had to be obtained and that tends to be a pain in the butt. If I had thought far enough ahead to realise that this year it fell on a Saturday, I might have made an effort to get the permits sorted. Oh well, I guess I'll just have to rely on facebook to commemorate the day.

November is Adoption Awareness Month. Now that I've made you aware of that, my work here is done ;-) And I may or may not blog about it later.

I'm being crafty again and will hopefully have something soon to show you. Also, does anyone have any tips for getting spray paint flecks off of a wood patio? These two things are most definitely related.

*Nothing makes me feel better than watching broom burn. Burn motha-frakker, burn!**

**Um, the spell check wanted to change 'motha' to 'mothra'. I always knew my computer was a nerd!

From Dublin Culture to Culchie Culture

Obviously, the morning after a pub crawl requires one thing and one thing only: coffee. Copious, copious amounts of coffee. And who can resist when it comes in an awesome to-go cup?

Noted!

And I want these cups in Victoria.

Due to most Irish museums being closed on Mondays, our Tuesday ended up being very, very heavy on the education-front so we started with a wander through Trinity College. What better way to get our learning on than wandering through the hallowed halls of higher learning... hungover?

Perhaps I should have checked out Careers Week while we were there.

Trinity is actually part of the Pub Crawl given that so many of the writers attended school there, but it was nice to come back during the day and actually see it. Like many European universities, it's located right in the heart of Dublin and is open to just wander through the campus.

We did not bother with the Book of Kells at my suggestion. I had done the Book once before and just found it a waste of money when you consider you only get about 10 seconds to view one page of the book. The displays leading up to the Book are interesting but for the low, low price of free you can visit the Cheaster Beatty Library with books just as old and the National Museum of Ireland: Archeology and History* which has even older artifacts and bog men! That's right, BOG MEN! Four of them!

After we finished our coffees, we hit up both the Chester Beatty and NMI:A&H. Sadly, you can't take pictures inside either of them but they were both awesome. Both could easily be an entire day on their own if you're geeky enough (I totally am. Al, not so much) but two hours at either one should be more than enough time to get your fill.

A school group was leaving as we arrived at the NMI:A&H... Best. Timing. EVER!

We had an early night on Tuesday due to an early morning on Wednesday. Wednesday was when our adventure really began with a trip to the rip-roaring craziness which is Monaghan! Monaghan, of course, is where my culchie family comes from. (Culchie was originally a derogatory term for people from the country--ie. not Dublin--but there's been a bit of a reclaim on for the word. I'm doing my part to show those Jackeens that words can't hurt us!) There's not much family left there now but I always make sure I stop in to say hello to the town which I always remember fondly. Thank goodness Armagh isn't that far away so it's not usually a problem.

Perhaps not surprisingly, this is exactly how I remember Monaghan's main street.

Every trip to Monaghan involves a visit to the cemetery where granny and granddad are buried.

This is followed by a trip to the Cathedral.

 

Many a Sunday of my childhood was spent here

After I dragged Al on a whole 15 minute tour of downtown Monaghan (you think I exaggerate but I really don't. We walked the whole length of Monaghan in less than 30 minutes and that included stopping for photos), we said good bye to my uncle (and his inability to hear us) and jumped on a bus to Armagh.

Ten minutes outside of Armagh the skies opened and thundered down. Even though it stopped as quickly as it started, we kind of lost our appetite for actually seeing Armagh and instead just checked out a pub until the appointed pick up time. Hey, look at that! I sat in a pub just like I did the last time I was in Armagh!

My usual Armagh contact was out of town so stayed with the step-side of my family in Blackwater Town. I challenge you to pull out an atlas and find it on a map. No cheating and using goggle maps! To be honest, we didn't even stay in Blackwater Town. We kept driving, crossed into Co. Tyrone and spent the night in the middle of nowhere.

Apparently the middle of nowhere has an intersection!

The rains held off long enough for Al I to go for a walk around the neighbourhood farms and meet the local cows.

Shortly after I made friends with this horse, the rains returned and we had to make a beeline back home. Still, who can complain about a little rain when you're staying in a location other tourists would pay top dollar for? 

Question: Ever stayed somewhere so small and/or remote on your holidays that it's not in the guidebook? What brought you to that location?

*There are four NMI locations with different themes. They're all free and they're all worth checking out. The National Gallery and the National Library are also worth checking out but when you have limited time, you have to pick and choose :(