I wish I had time to write, but since I owe no less than seven good emails to friends (including some bloggers), I don’t really feel guilty about neglecting this little space.  I’m not the type of person who leaves emails unanswered, unless I am specifically trying to space my response so the recipient doesn’t think I am a loser freak for the quick turn around.  So…yeah.  My point is that I’m busy.  Definitely not a loser freak.

(And TG?  I do realize the irony in wondering why you never responded to my last email and then leaving you hanging for a week.)

Life is…pretty damn good when it’s not entirely overwhelming and stressful. 

I have my first test on Thursday.  I feel adequately prepared, although nothing will tell the truth of that statement like Thursday noon.  I am a little frustrated that it’s on Thursday because I have my lab from 6 to 9 PM Wednesday.  After Mondays my week is very much catch-as-catch-can with studying until Thursday afternoons.  Luckily, the rest of the tests are scheduled for Tuesdays.

That 6 to 9 lab?  Brutal.  There is just no good way to lay out my day.  I go out to the sanctuary, but that means leaving the house between 6:30-7:30 AM.  And not seeing it again until after dark.  It also means showering at random places, and grabbing a bite to eat at inconvienent times (I prefer to eat later) and locations (both for my diet and my wallet).  Oh, and there’s the fact that I suck in lab environments.  Let’s forget the fact that I have been an experimental nuclear physicists and run tandem-LINAC accelerators.  I am powerless with fear at the idea of drawing onion cells as 1000x magnification.

ST and I are spending as much time together as possible, which has meant that twice he was almost late to work because either my alarm was set too low to hear or I turned it off and we both fell back asleep.  He tells me not to apologize, but how can you not feel like shit when someone has lost an hour of their morning schedule and have a forty five minute commute?  I’ve installed a second alarm clock on his side of the bed.

The same clock I bought for the new boy, whom we saw this past weekend.  We were getting out of movies at the same time, him walking by with friends (girlfriend?) while ST and I waited for our group.  I wish I had something eloquent to say about it, but I don’t.  He looks the same (which is to say good).  He wasn’t surprised by my new plans, although questioned whether I really was happy quitting my job because he remembered it getting better.  (Um, that was over two years ago.)

I’ll admit, part of me wanted to flaunt ST.  Can you blame me, considering my behavior last time we bumped?  (Which…that totally does not explain to you how I let an elevator door close in his face and ended up sitting behind him not saying one word through an entire play.  Does anyone remember if I wrote about it?  If not, I’ll put it in the queue.)  Honestly? I was just proud of myself for using complete sentences this time.

This is from my archive folder, written around the end of April.  Three days before ST and I said we loved each other for the first time.

I remember that day, that outfit.  He actually wasn’t quite at my condo when I got home, and I was pissed about that.  I didn’t want to have any time to pace the floors, growing more and more nervous. 

I am amazed that I ever felt this way around him.

I’m wearing the nicest outfit that has graced my cubicle this year.  Black pants that hug my ass and swish the exact amount around my ankles.  Blue button-down shirt that actually fits my body instead of hanging off it.  My favorite black sandals, clicking through the hallways.
 
And all of this is just because someone will be there when I get home today.

I’ll admit, I feel I’m flunking the relationship portion of all of this.  I don’t know what I want, can’t read what he wants.  The minute I label something exclusive and admit somewhere in my dusty brain that I want it to have a future, I become a paranoid, insecure mess.  Which of course is exactly the type of woman people crave to be around. 

Just some recent photos I like….

The sunrise from my porch:

Lately my condo has felt like a drag.  I will have to sell it sooner or later with my school endevour, and it is not conviently located for ST, school, or most of my current schedule.  But I got up on my Munday, saw this, and remembered how much I love it.

Sheba and Busch:

The introduction of ST’s dog, Busch, and the cats went fairly well.  With one exeception:

“Hello.  My name is Frisco, hater-of-dogs.  I shall sit on the steps to the loft and sulk all night.  Except when I am beating up Busch.”

(Yes, I keep Magnetic Poetry and Magnetic Portraits around for people to get creative on my steps.  These stairs are horrible to actually climb, but I want to take them with me for creative value.)

And lest you forget I have three cats…

The truth is, Roark is often last on the list of favorites.  I’m afraid it’s true for me, even though a mother shouldn’t choose.  He and Frisco lived with me and M, so it was perfectly reasonable for us each to have our “baby”.  I have a very soft spot for men in my life whom choose Roark.

And, um, did you check out that back?  And those legs?  Damn.

I have had a migraine for two days now.  It started in lecture on Thursday.  I drove to ST’s, made it through Target without killing anyone, cleaned up after the dog, and promptly spent my study time moaning in bed.

He came home a few hours later and immediately started tending to my bidding.  Backrub.  No, lighter.  Now brush my hair.  Yes, I was a whiny spoiled brat but damn.  I needed some sort of sensation other than searing pain.

It was raining when we went out to dinner.  Afterwards, I suggested a walk in it.  I wrapped my dress up in one hand, shucked off my shoes, and away we went.

“I wish I’d brought a tape recorder.  We’ve had about five conversations I deemed bloggable.”

“Whatever.  You have perfect memory.”

“Not today.  There was the one where I called you a twat and you resembled that comment…but I’ve forgotten the beginning.”

“Sorry, I didn’t bring the recorder.  I didn’t think you’d be wrong today.”  (A girl just happens to point out that she’s always right and everyone gets up in arms to prove her wrong.  Hurmph.)

Back home, it was back to bed.  Curled up together, it’s right.  It’s where I want to be.

He was up at 3am for work.  When I got up later, I saw the lid to my lunch box was closed.  (With my current schedule, I am working with no fewer than four bags per day.  Almost always my school bag, a clean clothes bag, my sanctuary bag, and a lunch box.)

This was inside:

After exercising this morning, I went to put my dirty socks in the laundry basket. I walked into the kitchen, opened the cabinet underneath the sink, and…has the laundry basket always been so tall? And full of food refuse?

I also tried to floss with q-tip and determined that while brushing my teeth I 1) can put a tampon in although I really don’t want to, and 2) cannot blow my nose. Although perhaps if I stuck the tampon up a nostril it would have all worked out.

And while I’m one hundred percent positive I did not attempt to blow my nose with my toothbrush, Colgate got up there somehow. Or else my snot is now coming in minty fresh flavors.

Hi. How is your life?

(The title? Refers to my precious little brain cells. Send sangria. And a five-to-seven page paper on the conservation threats of neo-tropical Costa Rica.)

Mondays are now my Sundays.

I’ve been looking forward to this since March, when I gave up having two days off every week in exchange for the chance to pick up serval shit in the increasingly steamy Saturday AM.

Today I woke up, had coffee, made an ice cream sundae for breakfast (it’s leftover from the party - I have to be frugal in this time of umemployment!) and headed out for a 2-mile hike and then the gym.  (See: breakfast)

Then I came home, showered, studied, made a slightly more nutritious lunch (celery with spinach dip, bruschetta, and four slices of Healthy Choice chicken deli meat), attempted to strike some phone calls (cell not working correctly and mail order item not sent yet), and now it’s after 2pm, my official goof-off time.  I’m brewing tea, typing, and contemplating a nap.

 ST just called; we’re going to try first introductions of his dog (a dachshaund) and my cats.  Since only Sheba doesn’t outweight him, this will prove interesting.  They all managed their first baby with flying colors (or, more specifically, no flying fur) yesterday, so fingers crossed.

I realize this is incredibly mundane.  But I am enjoying every minute of it.  I want to remember this come tomorrow and Wednesday, which I have somehow decided to schedule as 12+ hour days.  I must hate me.

Ireland photos are up.  I didn’t add much description.  But if you view them individually, the titles are semi-useful.  (Jessica In Progress, where we strive for semi-useful by 3pm!)

Here I am in the gardens at Blarney.

What I’ve been doing:
 
Attending class.  Remembering the old saying, “Biology is chemistry, chemistry is physics” and thanking God it’s true.  Realizing I no longer have a hang-up over shouting out answers in class and worrying about being wrong.  Time is money people, answer the man and let’s hear his point on the subject.
 
Driving.  Four plus hours on Wednesday by my calculation.  Over an hour of that was just sitting in rush hour to make my 6pm lab.  From now on, I’ll be volunteering at the sanctuary Wednesdays and coming to campus early to hit the gym, shower, and study so I don’t get stuck in traffic.  This week was special as I had just settled ST in to bed post-LASIK.  (He’s doing fine, extremely happy with the results so far.)
 
Begging.  I will be in Costa Rica during the final week of class.  I need the professor and my lab TA to make some sort of alternative arrangement for me.  If I don’t, and just skip the last exams, I can pass the lab but not the class.  There also has been some pity-partying going on here, as I’ve felt quite downtrodden with having more and more obstacles put in my path.  My TA seems quite willing, and everyone agrees it’s a worthwhile cause, but I haven’t quite got the 100% nod from the professor that he can have things ready for me so early.
 
Party planning, of the non-pity variety.  D and P are moving.  After years of bureaucracy, started when P quit his job in New York to return down here for school and tried to work contract, he has received the dream job in his old government department.  It’s in Oregon, which is where D’s family is.  We have all definitely drifted apart with marriages and babies and whatnot, but many months ago as things settled down D and I returned to our strong connection, just in alternative forms.  I know I haven’t adjusted to the idea they won’t be around and I will miss them terribly.  This will be the first party I’ve thrown that includes wee ones.  Where the hell do you get baby corona bottles?
 
Beating ST at Scrabble.  Baking oatmeal raisin cookies in a lab coat and 3-inch heels.  Doing, um, other things in a lab coat and 3-inch heels.  Having dinner on the patio.  Saying things I’m sure I’ll regret later and not regretting them.  Saying things I’m sure I’ll barf over and not barfing.  Wondering if I’m losing my edge and not caring.

I apologize if this seems flatter than my first recaps.  I’m running a bit ragged and just want to get them done before I forget the trip entirely and replace those memories with covalent bond theory…

Day four started off late.  Very late.  I know I woke up around 7:30 or so, thinking I’d start my day in an hour or so.  I woke again at 9:30.  15 minutes before my bus tour was supposed to start.
 
You might wonder what the fuck after my bragging about being able to wake myself up.  Well, remember I was working off a major sleep deficit at this point.  And I had taken some medications the night before to stave off major pains.  I had not set my internal clock because it is very rare that I can sleep past 8:30.  I don’t think my internal clock even has setting that late in the day – the hands all just point to, “Why aren’t you up, lazy ass?”  Since it happened, I obviously needed it.
 
Necessary or not, I was seriously pissed at myself.  But also groggy.  I grabbed my guide book and ran to breakfast to fuel up and re-strategize.
 
Mmm…breakfast.  I like the grilled tomatoes in a full Irish breakfast.  I’d take them, the bacon, and make a nice toast sandwich.  And coffee!  Real, fresh ground coffee in its own French press at my table.

 
The staff printed out the train schedule to Wicklow for me, but when I got back to my room I rooted through my pamphlets and found that the Irishrail Tours had a trip to Wicklow and Glendalough that left at 11:45.
 
I consoled myself that since I didn’t have a reservation for the bus tour, I might not have been able to get on it anyway.  But, take note people, bus tours are cheaper.
 
This tour left from the Connolly station rather than Heuston, so I crossed the Liffy and walked around that neighborhood before it was time to depart.
 
Our first stop in Wicklow was Avoca, home of the oldest hand weaving mill in Ireland and the site of the evidently famous soap opera Ballykissangel.  This site was chosen in part because the church was the only one in the area that would allow filming inside.  Evidently the church needed a lot of repairs and saw this as an opportunity.  I went inside and it obviously had a fresh coat of paint and some newer statues, but I didn’t like it that much.
 
The hand-weaving mill was more interesting than I had expected.  I would try to explain some of the process, but I would just butcher it.
 
From there, we went to Glendalough.  Now that was beautiful.  The only issue here was time.  It was hard to judge how long the walks would take, so I felt a bit rushed.  But this was more of the Ireland I would like to see, and more of what I think the other coast caters to in terms of touring.
 
I got back, had an OK dinner at an Italian joint near my hotel that had been tempting me with smells my entire time, and then went to my room to clean up and back.
 
LeeAnne and I were to meet at the Temple Bar Music Center at 10.  There was a cover, which I didn’t know so I waited outside to see if she’d prefer to go to O’Shea’s Merchant which she remembered from a bus tour, couldn’t remember the address, and I had found on my walk home from the train on Day #3.
 
But at 10:15 I decided to go ahead, pay the cover (student ID), check if she was inside, and at least have a drink at the bar.
 
His name was David.  A bouncer.  Completely tattooed and pierced including 8-6 guage plugs in his ear lobes.  Typical flirting attempts started with a quick tongue ring flash, then walking by and grabbing my cheeks to make me smile.
 
LeeAnne never showed.  I had planned on heading to O’Shea’s since the music at the club wasn’t traditional.  But the place was kinda slow, and I got up the courage to ask for my favorite drink, one I was worried would label me tourist.
 
“Do you have cider?”
 
Nod.
 
“Do you know what a snakebite is?”
 
“Yes!”
 
Oh.  My.  God.  Cider there is not some carbonated bottled drink.  It is liquid candy dispensed from a liqueur bottle like regular spirits.  A snakebite there is heavenly.
 
David stopped to make himself a cup of tea and flirt.  He asked if he could have my email (yes), approved of my drink, thought I was dumb for quitting my job (checked for blond hairs), almost moved to Tampa once, and took my nose several times through out the night.  Actually, he never gave it back.  My nose is somewhere in Dublin.  Huh.
 
I decided with such entertaining company and such good drinks, I’d stick around there.  I went into the club area to listen to the band.  Around midnight they were done, as was I.  David begged for a number to reach me at so he could take me for a pint when he was done.  I had none, but took his and promised to call around 1:30.
 
At any rate, I missed my opportunity.  I woke up at 2:30, dehydrated and groggy.  I didn’t bother trying to get in touch since I knew he’d just beg me to come out and I was definitely in for the night.  (So David, if you wondered, that’s the reason.)  But it was certainly a great way to end my last night in Dublin.
 
(ST is reading nothing he didn’t know already.  I thought about it, early in the evening, if this was inappropriate.  But this is me, a huge flirt, a part of who he loves.  And David was a complete gentleman, even if he possibly didn’t want to be.  I know that if ST had the opportunity to see the local side of things on travel I’d want him to do it even if it was with some pretty girl.  Just as long as hands were kept on the table.)
 
Day Five started on a much brighter note, as I was motivated to try and see one last thing before I had to catch an Air Coach at noon.  I had my breakfast, complete with roughly five glasses of water that seemed to baffle the staff.  Maybe the Irish stay drunk all the time because they never drink anything else to flush it out their system.
 
I decided to head to the Guinness Storehouse.  I knew it was on the way to Heuston station and felt confident I could get there without my guidebook (the purse I had packed was a tiny, dainty thing and by now my backpack was 6.2 kilos).  I was wrong, kind of.  I knew when I passed St. Patrick’s cathedral that I had missed a turn, but at least I got to see the church and I had taken note of where it was in relation to the storehouse so a quick correct of course, a few minutes completely lost, and viola.
 
(This would the day when I really wished I’d taken transportation.)
 
If I had known how big the Storehouse was, I would have done it on Day One when I had more time.  It is very interesting and they have floors describing the history, the process, the transportation (lots of horses), the advertising, etc.  I also would have done it later in the day if I had the choice, because Guinness at 10:30am is just a bit much.  But a free pint comes with admission and who turns down free drinks?
 
I also wish I had come later though because the gravity bar at the very top (which has the most awesome skyline of Dublin) only serves Guinness draught.  Very bitter, and is what we drink in the states.  I wanted to try the foreign extra stout, the oldest recipe, but it was only served at the brewery bar which doesn’t open until noon and I had to be checked out by then.
 
I noticed a row of taxis waiting outside the Storehouse and briefly contemplated taking one, but decided to leave them for those truly inebriated.  I would simply point myself towards St. Patrick’s and then retrace my steps from there.
 
Here’s the thing.  Do not point yourself towards a church steeple.  It will not be the church you think it is.  Nor will the next one, nor the next.
 
I was against the clock to checkout and about to flag a taxi when I saw a church I did know, the Christ Church Cathedral, and ran back to the hotel.
 
Quick bathroom break, quick checkout (do not expect an itemized bill.  Although it was right to the Euro exactly what had been quoted to me, so there wasn’t anything wrong with this.  I’m just used to the ream of paper that comes with an American hotel bill), and I was on an Air Coach right on time.
 
Checking-in for my flight was a bit hectic; one queue for about five attendants but with no nice stalls created for us to know how to line up.  I feel much more calm when I am treated like cattle properly.  I was incredibly pissed that 1) she made me check the backpack (over the weight limit, although the flight wasn’t full) and 2) she didn’t ask what sort of seat I wanted.  I fought with her a bit on both of these, but the area was so crowded and loud, I just gave up in exchange for getting out of there.
 
There also weren’t great signs regarding where to drop off my VAT Tax refunds.  Nor was there anyone at one of the counters to help me, but for those forms I had already been refunded in-shop and just was required to fill out the paperwork.  Hopefully all was in order.
 
At the gate, I got my seat changed to a window.  On the plane, I found I had the row to myself again, but a family with two boys (one INCREDIBLY whiny) and a little girl were behind me.
 
These kids weren’t really that bad.  But my patience was shot and I was ready to go home.  I also seethed over the fact that the mother went to sleep in three of their seats while the kids were allowed to roam the aisles, take up free seats, and crawl all over the place.  I wanted to shake her and explain that if I couldn’t sleep, neither could she.
 
And the older boy tried to steal on of my pillows!  He walked by and nonchalantly just picked it up.  I grabbed it back.  The younger boy tried to make conversation including asking me, “Well, if you’re traveling alone, then who paid for yer?”  I am ashamed to admit my answer was, “I paid for myself.  I am thirty-one years old.  It’s time for you to go away now.”  I know I missed an opportunity to mold a young mind and open him to equality of the sexes, but I just didn’t give a fuck.  (I am also ashamed that I didn’t have a snappier comeback, but damn was I tired.)
 
The reason I was against checking my backpack is because my connecting flight departed only an hour and a half after we landed.  I’m not the sort of person who needs to get the airport early and I usually don’t stress over things like this, but this was O’Hare and damn if I didn’t just want to be done and home.
 
So I went into full-on pushy traveler mode going through customs, only to find my flight was delayed by weather for two hours.  I was near tears in the check-in line when I realized that my sisters-in-law-once-removed(?) (Francesca’s sisters) were right in front of me, checking in to fly out and help George and Francesca move back to Chicago.  That was a wonderful small-world coincidence (her sisters are awesome) that helped me buck up and accept my traveling fate for the day.
 
You know the rest.  Quarter pounder.  Phone call to the sweetest man on earth.  Cramped flight back because like hell I was checking the pack again.  And then home.

Since being home, I’ve had exactly one day I could sleep in.  And zero days that weren’t full of lists and chores.  And now?  Homework.  Sigh. 

I woke up at 5:30 on my own.  There was no clock in the room so I assumed there was no alarm.  Later I would be moving things around on the nightstand and find directions to make the phone ring for an alarm.  Note to self:  examine every inch of hotel room.
 
Actually, I can wake up pretty easily on my own.  And I did this day; I just didn’t want to actually get up.  I had had roughly twelve hours of sleep in three days.  If I hadn’t already paid for the day trip, I might have just lain there.  Which is of course why I had booked something – so I didn’t waste time lolling about the hotel.
 
The worst thing perhaps about this wake up was that I was going to have to walk roughly two miles to the train station without caffeine.  The hotel came with a lovely breakfast, but it wouldn’t start until 8:30.  And on my walk nothing was open.
 
So I arrived at Heuston station in a very surreal state.  Which meant I had just enough bad judgment to order a coffee and breakfast roll (sausage, egg, rasher of bacon, cheese, and…mushrooms?) from the fast-food joint there.  The coffee machine was on the fritz, I could never get myself to each the fatty, un-American part of bacon, and overall the sandwich was just gross.  But at least I had something in my stomach.
 
My tour was through the Railtours Ireland.  They set up a little stand with a sign near the train platform doors and wear bright yellow jackets so they are hard to miss.  I grabbed my packet and waiting with everyone else, then the tour guide led us down to a car where they had reserved enough seats for the group to sit together.
 
I was sitting with a couple – the woman American and man Irish – and an Australian girl who was also traveling alone.  LeeAnne and I would end up getting friendly and spend the rest of the day as tour-mates, but for now it was too early for everyone.
 
The train went down to Cork, stopping a few places on the way.  Half the group got off to change at Limerick for a different tour.  It was about a three and a half hour train ride.  It was pretty, and nice to have that much travel-time so early in the morning.  We saw jockeys exercising the horses at the stables near the Irish Derby racetrack.  And sheep.  Lots of sheep.
 
The guide did not really have a set shpeal.  He talked to those near him, and wandered the cabin to address everyone at least a bit.  I got the feeling though the guide was pointing out things he liked and if we’d had someone else we would have heard about different things.  Since I had booked the tour more for the convenience of transportation (buses to take me to locations after the train), I didn’t mind.  But if you want someone to really teach you a lot about Ireland, find a different tour company or stick to the guide like glue and ask lots of questions.
 
We got into Cork and immediately transferred to chartered bus.  We drove around Cork while the guide explained different sights, buildings, and the river.  Then we made our way to Blarney castle.
 
I had chosen this tour because I had wanted to see a castle in general, not because of the stone.  I had also heard the gardens at Blarney were beautiful.  But really, unless you are deathly afraid of heights (which, I am to some extent but remember I’m all about facing my fears) you should just count on kissing the stone.  How can you come all this way and NOT kiss the stone?
 
The stairs up to the top of the castle were steep and narrow with only a bit of rope to hold onto.  I suggest not thinking about falling and killing all the other tourists struggling behind you.  It doesn’t help your balance, trust me.
 
 The view from the top is gorgeous.  All holes that you could fall through have been lovingly fitted with thin metal bars to assure you will just hurt yourself and have the scare of your life.
 
There is a professional Blarney-stone-person-holder up there, as well as photographers.  There’s even plastic put down where you sit.  You lean backwards, grab some more thin metal bars, stick your head completely perpendicular to the ground (the stone is right above one of these metal bar fitted openings), and viola.
 
LeeAnne tried to get my picture, but it happens pretty quick.  I paid for the professional photos and I think it was worth it.  No worse than what you might pay at Disney for your picture on Splash Mountain and a tad more historic.  Plus the photos themselves are nicely done, large (5×7) and in a quite pretty jacket with some of the legend on it.
 
The trip down is much easier than up.  The stairs are wider and there was a metal railing.
 
LeeAnne and I then walked the Rock Close, a rock garden from the beginning of the 19^th century on the site of Druidic remains.  Signs were put in place so you knew you were at the Head Druids Cave, the Fairy Glade, the Wishing Steps, or the Witches Kitchen.  A little cutesy, but very pretty.
 
Then we went for a bite and some shopping.  The Blarney Mill had a great deal on wool sweaters, so here’s where I picked up my most significant gifts for people.
 
The timing of our trip was a little difficult, just because we were so starved we didn’t want to wander the castle grounds any more, but the only place to eat is outside the exit.  So with some time to kill before the bus left, we walked into the town of Barney to the post for stamps and then wandered around the church graveyard.
 
From Blarney, we drove to Cobh (pronounced Cove), also known as Queenstown.  We stopped along the way at a graveyard where many victims from the Lusitania were buried and also a church that’s significance I never did grasp except that it was incredibly high spires and it looks out over the bay.
 
Cobh was a port where many Irish emigrants left for new worlds, and it was also the last port for the Titanic.  The historical exhibition at the old railway (which is still in service underneath the museum) was fascinating.  I snapped a picture of one of the plaques which I particularly liked that talked about how Irish women were encouraged to emigrate to Australia after so many convicts were shipped there and the ratio of men to women was so high.  The plaque stated: “They received a mixed reception and many were criticized for their poor training in domestic tasks and their lack of subservience.”  (For those unaware, I am of Irish descent and very much lack in subservience and domestic training.) 

 
LeeAnne and I had planned separate tours the next day.  She was going with the Railtours Ireland again to Galway bay.  This interested me, but getting up at 5:30 again did not.  I instead planned a shorter, cheaper, bus tour to Wicklow and Glendalough that would be a bit more of a nature hike and didn’t depart until 9:45.  She was tempted, but had already paid for the other tour.  We didn’t try to convince each other to abandon our plans, but did say we’d meet up at Temple Bar the next night.  (We were way too tired to do any drinking that night.)
 
I walked back from the station despite my tiredness because I wanted to walk along the Liffy (main river through Dublin).  I stopped at a Dunne Store and picked up some wonderful chicken salad, cheese, and crackers for dinner.  This is by far the cheapest and in some ways most fun way to eat while abroad.  It’s always interesting to see what foreign grocery stores carry, and many have delis with a few hot items as well.  I mostly ate in restaurants when I did because I was traveling alone and wanted to minimize the time I spent holed up in my hotel room.

One word of warning: bottled water is salted there.  I found this out from another tourist on the trip that day.  I hadn’t thought to look at the bottles – it’s water, right?  Both days I had felt a bit under the weather and thinking back there was a tight, sore tingling feeling in my hands and feet.  I’m used to drinking 96-160 oz. of straight water a day.  Not only was I not getting that amount, but it was partially dehydrating me as well.  Unfortunately, the tap water in my hotel room was not very tasty although this is not the rule and many people said they filled up just fine from the rooms.  I learned to ask for glasses of water everywhere, and check the salt content of any bottles I purchased.

(I do have pictures, even one of myself to prove I was there!  I’ll try to have them up by the end of the week, but it’s pretty hectic around here.  I did manage to get into my biology class, it starts tomorrow, and ST goes in for LASIK Wednesday so I’ll be playing nursemaid.) 

I realized at take-off that I’d forgotten my flying talisman - a junky chain necklace with three items strung on: a key to a bike lock that I never owned, a 1993 Cook County rabies tag, and a $1.99 gray stone cross from the ROCK BAIT MINNOWS store in Eagle River.  The meaning of all of them is an entire post on its own.  But I always wear it when I fly (and during times of great emotional turmoil).

I managed with out; the only time I really missed it was landing back in Chicago from Dublin.  That was rough.

I made it through the flight to O’Hare just fine, and Mom and Dad picked me up right away.  We headed downtown for some breakfast and then to the Art Institute.

Mom needed to see the Monets.  I needed time with NightHawks - my copy doesn’t do it justice, especially with the greens and yellows.  Dad wanted to look at the funky architectural furniture; I think it reminds him of his houses growing up.

From there we went back home, ordered up ribs, and watched sports.  I admit, I have a bit of a crush on Crede now.  If you saw the Sox game on the 7th, you know why.

The flight to Dublin was painful.  Babies screaming painful.  TWIN babies screaming painful.  Twin babies PLUS their older, whiny brother screaming painful.

The only highlight was the lady sitting with me complained and got moved.  She got away from the noise and I got two seats to stretch out on.

I slept maybe two hours on the flight (headphones).  A big worry of mine coming into the trip was that I arrived in Dublin at 8:30am and planned to take in a full day.  I was concerned I’d be too out of it and overwhelmed.

Happily, that didn’t happen.  The Dublin airport is very easy to navigate coming into the country, (leaving is a different matter) although part of that might have had to do with the day/time.  I had packed everything in a Columbia backpack - this being a test run for using it Costa Rica - and that worked out great.  So with no luggage to wait for, all I needed was some Euros and an Air Coach.

One thing I would have done differently would have been to not change so much at the airport.  I’m sure I could have gotten a better rate elsewhere, and there are many banks/ATMS around the city center.  I’d say you can probably get away with about 30 Euros for a day if you don’t splurge for dinner and only do one or two entrance fees.  Instead, I changed all the money I used on the trip.  So at least I had that over and done and didn’t have to worry about it.

Another thing I would have done differently - that I didn’t even realize until I got back and thought about the guide book I used for Europe - is to find a guide book that has the major bus routes mapped.  I kept trying to put my finger on why I used more buses/metros in France, Spain, etc.  Although thinking back now, perhaps I just picked up pull out maps at tourist centers?  Gack.  I am old and senile and obviously have no business gallivanting to foreign countries.  Except that I just did.  So Nyah.

Regardless, Dublin seemed to have great public transportation but I didn’t really use it.  I liked walking everywhere though; I got to see a lot of the city.  But in terms of time management, hopping a bus here or there would have been better.

Anyway, I used Air Coach versus a bus to get into the city.  And if you have luggage, it’s probably the way to go.  I noticed several Dublin natives using it.  (This is always my test as to whether I’m falling into the complete tourist profile or not – the more locals I see, the better I feel.)

I got off right at Trinity College.  My hotel (Grafton Guesthouse) was right around the corner but wouldn’t be ready for me until after 1pm.  So at first I just walked around the neighborhood, soaking in the city.  I stopped at Lemon, a crepe shop suggested from my guidebook (Lonely Planets).  I had a crepe suzette and a macchiato.  I found it delicious and affordable but I’ve never met a crepe I didn’t like.

Fortified, I decided to go back to Trinity College and tour.  The Book of Kells is interesting, but crowded.  What really made it worth my time/money was the Long Room.  All those books!  So old!  So beautiful!  The smell turns me on, I swear.  Um, so, you know, it might not be for you.  But I loved it.  And a nice docent explained how they are cataloged by row letter, then shelf letter (in Latin, so no js…I will have to ask Dad what my name would be in Latin), then the # of books in from the end.  I…I can’t explain why I found that fascinating.  I just did.

From there I wandered to Dublin Castle.  A strange place where the old castle is abut with newer architecture.  It is still used for government business and I wasn’t moved to pay for a tour, but the castle garden is quite beautiful and worth a stroll.  I took several photos of plants to ask Dad or ST what they are.
 
It was raining now, so I meandered back to the Grafton Guesthouse, stopped in a Dunne Store nearby for grapes and water, and tried to check-in early.  No luck, but I did leave my pack in the lounge; I could have stayed there and waited but I didn’t see the point.  So lighter on my feet, I explored George’s Street Arcade and St. Steven’s Green Shopping center.  Looking back, I wish I had gone to the National Gallery.  My Day #3 didn’t happen quite as I imagined.  But oh well.  It was interesting people watching.  And I was map-less at this point so I was relying on limited brain cells to navigate.  Actually, limited brain cells for everything.  I probably couldn’t have appreciated anything art-wise at that point anyway.  On my way back I picked up a used book in the arcade (The Devil Wears Prada…enh) as I did not pack enough fluff reading.
 
I cannot tell you how happy I am that I chose this place to stay.  The rooms are clean and fun.  The bedding clean and comfortable.  My room was very spacious and in such a good location.  A little noisy outside the window for a 2pm nap, but oh well. 
 
(A little noisy outside for anything earlier than a 2am bedtime I discovered later.)
 
I slept for about two hours, sat in a stupor for one more, and finally headed out to Gruel for dinner.  I had an incredibly penne pasta with sun dried tomatoes TO DIE FOR (seriously, I am writing this from the grave) and goat cheese.
 
I headed straight for The Long Hall afterwards for a pint.  It was very early, but that meant I could gaze around the pub.  I was a little disappointed that they didn’t have any of the ales on tap that had been recommended to me.  I mean, they had Budweiser.  Um, no.
 
I settled for Beamish, a Guinness competitor.  And I have to say, while I don’t drink stouts in general, I much preferred Beamish.
 
Then it was 8:30 and time for me to turn into a pumpkin.  Unfortunately, I had booked a day tour to Cork and Blarney that meant I’d have to get up around 5:30.  So even though my back was cranky from the trip and my legs sore from the walking, I didn’t feel comfortable taking any medication for fear of being too groggy in the morning.  The discomfort plus being right outside Hogan’s meant I watched TV and read for five hours, slept for four.  Not the greatest night of my life, but certainly comfortable.  And what did I care about a little jetlag?  I was in Ireland…