Scotland and What Else Could I Stick it With?

Scotland and well just Scotland

In this episode, Ryan…

-Takes his Dad to a goth rock concert in the Glasgow Underground

-Orders a second helping of Haggis

-Gets spooked in the haunted underbelly of Edinburgh’s Royal Mile

So here I am back in Canada writing my last entry for my Europe 2007 edition of My Dog Smells Like Coconuts, and while I’m still fighting the numbness of jetlag and university bureaucracy I thought it high time to finish off the last remaining country, Scotland, while it was still fresh in me mind. I’m not sure that I’ll continue my blog while in Canada. It’ll probably go to sleep again like it did after Taiwan, but if you want me to keep updating it, even if it’s just about zany adventures around the land of the Maple, email me at ryscrap@hotmail.com or just let me know. Anyways, let’s get on with the last entry of Europe Blog 2007, the Scottish entry, before some angry highlander comes marching down my door waving a Claymore and telling me to stop this shameless self-promotion. Anyways, on to Scotland, here she goes…

Glasgow

We arrived in Scotland from Dublin via Belfast and using a jet-powered aqua-sled star ship that could also be called a “ferry.” We weren’t supposed to push for Glasgow that night, but it was easier than stopping in the relatively unknown Stranraer, so we did it anyway.

Glasgow itself is a fairly modern city—except modern in the European sense which means the downtown are still filled with detailed old late 19^th century and early 20^th century commercial buildings, and the first thing that struck me as I left the train station was how many young people were there. As soon as I left the train station, mobs of rocky-punky young teens (like Avril Lavigne, except less obviously commercial) jammed the streets for blocks as far as the eye could see. Why they were here was anyone’s guess, but we pushed through to the hostel, and settled into our inexplicably mauve room.

Apparently, Glasgow is something of a music and concert city, a rock capital if you will, but we had not known to what extent this was the case. Dad read in my lonely planet that there was a club called King Tut’s Wah Wah Hut which apparently had been the launchpad of acts like Oasis and Radiohead early in their career. Dad hadn’t ever heard of Radiohead, but he did recall me liking Wonderwall as a teenager, so off we went to investigate this oasis of radio-dom in Glasgow’s local music scene.

To get to the place, we had to walk a fair distance away from the centre of downtown, and I was beginning to think we were lost, until we spotted it under what appeared to be a nondescript condominium complex. It looked rather small, but there was no mistaking the name—who else would call themselves a Wah Wah Hut?—so inside we went.

We entered into a fairly decent though quiet pub under the condos, with a few people having drinks, some music playing over a loudspeaker. There was no cover, so we assumed no music was playing tonight, but I saw a staircase leading up near the back and so we decided to see where it lead to. Naturally of course.

The staircase leads up seeming into the space that should have been occupied by the condos or some extra-dimensional space behind it. And it just so happened that, on that night the space—which indeed was an intimate but still rocking concert stage—was occupied by a Punk Goth act called IAMX, which had a fairly devout fan following. Not only did the band cover themselves, with feather tipped hats, gaudy black make-up, and copious tattoos and piercings, but a vast majority of the audience did as well. The music itself was hardly easy-listening, and my Dad was definitely showing signs of disgust at first sight, but we’d walked a long way to get here and didn’t want to just turn around and leave, so we thought we’d each have a pint of Magner’s and give the band a shot.

As we drank our ciders, though, we slowly got into the music. The band onstage had undeniable energy in their act, not just the 80s baron Samedi-esque lead singer, but also the hot rocker chick on the keyboard and gothic kurt cobainesque bassist, and even the drummer got into each song—unlike any band I’d seen before or since—and rocked their hearts out, bringing the crowd into the frenzy with them. In my Dad’s words, they “put on a damn good show.” They were also deeply in-sync with their audience, with the lead singer at one point even bodysurfing on the crowd while he sang, and we got so into it, that we ended up having another drink and staying until the end. My Dad especially enjoyed it, achieving enlightenment in regards to the music of current youth culture. Indeed, he even argued that this group wasn’t so different from the Beach Boys of his own youth, although he was rather puzzled as to how their guitars worked without heads for tuning.

Other than the concert, we also checked out some outlying parks in Glasgow (apparently the start of the Highlands) and the Kelvingrove Museum, mainly so we could see its full-sized Spitfire. The transport museum was also cool, like a permanent car show filled with English gangstamobiles from the 1930s.

Loch Lomond

Not far from Glasgow is the southern Highlands resort community of Loch Lomond, which is comparable to Lake Tremblant without the skiing (or probably the snow). By the time we arrived here, we were too tired to do much, so we basically lounged on the beach after exploring a bit of the shoreline. Still a peaceful lake with a little bit of nature is not a bad thing.

The highlight of Loch Lomond for me though was the Tullie Inn Pub where we had the best Haggis in Scotland (at least that we tried). The place was a little expensive but I wanted to try the Haggis at least once while in Scotland, and this one came in a whiskey sauce so it was like 2 birds with one stone (not that I ever really hesitated to try Scotch Whiskey on other occasions). They served it like it was a French hors d’ouevre, with haggis on the bottom, a neatly cut disc of turnip or sweet potato on top, and capped with a flurry of potato. Add the whiskey sauce and you got an order of Haggis so good, I actually found myself ordering seconds. “Another Haggis please” is not something I thought I’d ever hear myself say. (at another point on the trip we also ate black pudding, aka blood sausage, but as it was deepfried and from a late-night greasy spoon it wasn’t quite as good)

The pubs in Loch Lomond where bustling with Scots that day (probably because their team was playing and ultimately losing to New Zealand in the rugby world cup). As the Scots first celebrated with a drink and then drowned their sorrows in a drink, the bartenders laughed to the bank, as the locals spoke presumably friendly gestures to us, particularly in the bathroom, although none of the communication was understood. At one point, a bartendress—possibly indignant of someone ordering a rum with coke!—instead filled the glass up with more rum and didn’t charge us anymore (my guess is she was having a little fun with us, but we didn’t mind, it was a steal of a deal on Lamb’s Navy Rum). Another Scotch please…

Edinburgh

The last stop on my trip through Europe before flying back to Toronto, Edinburgh was a very picture-esque town to cap off my grande tourismo. My sister spoke lovingly of this place when she came through, and definitely I had to agree with here. The city seems almost too cinematically convenient to be believed—dominated by a castle perched on a cliff overlooking the city, old merchant shops and snaking cobblestone lanes called “Closes,” and even an extraordinarily gothic churchyard complete with skulls and crossbones, and skeletons engraved everywhere and creepy barred off tombs. Some buildings even had ancient traps—somewhat of a poor man’s burglar alarm—like purposely uneven steps designed to trip up unwanted intruders unfamiliar with the stairs. Thanks to a bloody and disease ridden history, Edinburgh is reportedly tied with Prague as the most haunted city in Europe, and it considers Prague’s case to be a stretch at best. Understanding this, looking for something to do in the evening, and remembering Christy’s recommendation we decided to opt for one of the many ghost tours that were operating that evening, thinking it seemed a tad cheesy but what the hell, it might be fun.

So we signed up for an Auld Reekie tour (Auld Reekie is purportedly an old Scottish nickname for Edinburgh which translates roughly as “Old Smelly.”) Our guide was a drama student in a cape, who for an hour and half meandered in her narration of Edinburgh’s horrific history from gently ominous almost whispers to loud witch-like cackles. The tour started innocently enough on the streets where she explained where infamous murderers Hair and Burke once knocked dozens of the urban poor in order to exchange their bodies for the handsome reward offered by the medical college for any bodies they could use for analysis, or where the Conventers staged an ill-fated resistance for their particular form of Protestantism, or where witchburnings would take place or witch trials which resulted in people being tossed into a sewage ridden swamp to see if they if would float or not (if they floated, there were witches and would be tortured and burnt at the stake along with their families, if they sank, that meant they were falsely accused but well just as dead). To illustrate the fun of witchhunting, our guide selected one Aussie guy to falsely convict of witchcraft and had us all point and condemn him. Good times.

Afterwards, we were lead into a dark series of tunnels under the old city, where apparently the urban poor by the hundreds used to live piled on each other in their own filth and the filth seeping in from the street above. Disease, crime, and death was rampant in these tunnels, and at one point, during a Great Fire of Edinburgh, a group of hundreds got trapped in one of the rooms and the heat cooked them alive, making that parcticular room a Level 3—the highest and most dangerous level—of Haunting (our guides description of the people being cooked was definitely one of the most disturbing stories I’ve ever heard). The hallway itself was a Level 1, someone called the Watcher apparently strolls it from time to time. And there was one room, which apparently was a still functioning modern Wicca temple (it looked pretty surreal from the outside, as we werent’ allowed in) (I was actually rather fascinated by this place and wanted to learn more about what was a serious religious temple and not simply something for the tourists my guide stressed). They apparently hold ceremonies on nights when the moon is full, and since it was that night I rightly asked where they were, and apparently—like other religions attempting to modernize—they had moved the time of service earlier so as to fit in better with people’s work schedules. The Wiccans themselves had previously used another chamber in the tunnels although apparently they had accidentally released an evil spirit into the room, which had attacked people and left marks on their bodies, and the leader of the temple stayed up one night wrestling with the spirit until finally trapping it within a stone circle. The guide warned us not to step into the circle, as the spirit was still trapped there, but invited the skeptics to give it a shot, though no one wanted to give it a go (I sure as hell wasn’t messing with it).

For the most part the crypts were deathly quiet and when the guide’s flashlight flickered and went out—which happened often—it did send a chill down your spine. At other times you could some loud thumping music, which our guide begrudgingly explained was a gothic rave party in a neighbouring crypt. After hearing stories about this, and a group of gothic teens who were caught playing soccer with a human skull in the Edinburgh cemetery, I was starting to believe there might be some truth to idea of an underground world of vampires and werewolves lurking in Edinburgh’s alleys. At any rate, the city itself made you want to believe.

Indeed, if there’s one thing I can say about Edinburgh, it’s that it’s the time of place that your imagination could run wild in, and maybe that’s part of the reason its spawned or fostered so many writers and poets like Robbie Burns, Walter Scott (potentially a distant relative of mine), Robert Stephenson (Treasure Island, ie the guy who practically invented the pirate mythos), and even latter day authors like Ian Rankin and J.K. Rowling. Indeed, I wish I had more time there, as I wished I had more time in Scotland, or in all of Europe for that matter, but alas one must leave some things for a future visit—it just gives you all the more reason.

Although next time I go to Edinburgh, I’ll try to line it up with Halloween, as I can’t imagine another city which would be a more chill place to be.

Thanks to Everyone who’s been reading my blog and to everyone I met along my journeys especially those who helped me along the way. I owe you big time. Let me know if you find yourself in Canada, and who knows maybe our paths will cross again, in Europe or even beyond…

And now before I sign off one last time, let me end Europe with a song—yeah that’s right, I said a song—an old Canadian classic about going off on drunken adventures in Europe and which is a surprisingly accurate description of my own trip… especially after my Dad—a man who loves pubs so much he built one in his basement—joined me. So please enjoy “Home for A Rest” by the Spirit of the West and sing-along if you know the melody. Enjoy and as they say in Europe, cheers!

"you'll have to excuse me, i'm not at my best
i've been gone for a month, i've been drunk since i left
these so-called vacations will soon be my death
i'm so sick from the drink i need home for a rest.

we arrived in december and london was cold
we stayed in the bars along charing cross road
we never saw nothin' but brass taps and oak
kept a shine on the bar with the sleeves of our coats

you'll have to excuse me, i'm not at my best
i've been gone for a week
i've been drunk since i left
and these so-called vacations
will soon be my death
i'm so sick from the drink
i need home for a rest
take me home....

euston station the train journey north
in the buffet car we lurched back and forth
past old crooked dykes through yorkshire's green fields
we were flung into dance as the train jigged and reeled

you'll have to excuse me, i'm not at my best
i've been gone for a week
i've been drunk since i left
and these so-called vacations
will soon be my death
i'm so sick from the drink
i need home for a rest
take me home....

by the light of the moon, she'd drift through the streets
a rare old perfume, so seductive and sweet
she'd tease us and flirt, as the pubs all closed down
then walk us on home and deny us a round

you'll have to excuse me, i'm not at my best
i've been gone for a month
i've been drunk since i left
and these so-called vacations
will soon be my death
i'm so sick from the drink
i need home for a rest
take me home....

the gas heater's empty, it's damp as a tomb
the spirits we drank now ghosts in the room
i'm knackered again, come on sleep take me soon
and don't lift up my head 'till the twelve bells at noon

you'll have to excuse me, i'm not at my best
i've been gone for a month
i've been drunk since i left
and these so-called vacations
will soon be my death
i'm so sick from the drink
i need home for a rest
take me home!"

The Emerald Green and Occasionally Orange Isle

Northern Ireland and Ireland

In this episode, Ryan…

-Observes the North Irish peace process in action

-Gets storm-stayed in an abandoned sod lightkeeper’s hut in the Aran Islands

-Actually presents at the conference which was the original purpose of his whole visit to Europe in the first place

Northern Ireland (aka British Empire Occupied Ireland or the Loyal Patriotic Land of Ulster)

When I first arrived in Ireland, in Belfast which being part of the UK still uses the pound, I asked the bus driver, how much for the ticket, to which he responded “One Pound” but in a thick Irish accent whereby the “oun” sounds more like “ine,” so its more “One Pind” or as I heard it “One Pint.” Now, you know you must be in Ireland, if “one pint” is considered common currency, and one can get a ride anywhere in the city simply by supplying his bus driver with a glass of the finest.

Ireland itself is a beautiful landmass, and the name “Emerald Isle” is appropriate as it does maintain a steady yet pleasant hue of green throughout the entire island. The flipside of this is it rains a lot, and I do mean A LOT. On any given day—or any given hour—you could find yourself “damp around the edges.” In other places known for their rain, I like to joke that it only rains if you forget your umbrella, therefore carrying your umbrella is an effective means of preventing unwanted precipitation as the natural forces that be always enjoy a good mocking of people who overplan for every contingency and have to walk around all day carrying a useless umbrella. In Ireland, its almost if they just say, “Ah, I can’t take it anymore, I gotta go” and the rain comes down whether you’ve forgotten your umbrella or not.

So once in Belfast, I decided to stop being the tourist for a while and prepare for this conference, which ostensibly was the reason for my being in Europe in the first place. So I looked over my powerpoint for a minute or two and then went out for a coffee at “Clements” a coffee-shop chain in Northern Ireland—whose attraction for me should be office—which kinda sells itself as a classy Starbucks with a slogan “We’re religious about coffee” and an emblem of a coffee cup with wings and halo. I’m not sure if this is a irreverent reference to the religious tension in the region or not. Nevertheless, they have good Irish Cream Steamers.

Actually as it turns out, a great deal of my ancestors are from Belfast on my father’s side (ie the Clement side). The other family names on my tree from Belfast, Paisley and Dixon, are still apparently fairly common in the region, and I learned from a Black Cab taxi driver—who was almost certainly a Catholic—that a distant relative of mine, Reverend Paisley, is currently the most powerful man in Northern Ireland and the leader of the Protestant-controlled Ulster Party. Sensing a possible awkward moment in the cab, I said “oh.” Though it seems as far as Protestant North Irish leaders go, this one isn’t bad in the Catholic’s eyes (after all, he apparently is showing more interest in co-operation with Sinn Fein and other catholic groups which previously would’ve been unheard of).So all was well in the taxi cab once again, as we spun through Falls (Catholic neighbourhood) and Shankill Roads (Protestant neighbourhood) heartland of the hardliners of each respective side—and surprisingly only a block or two from each other—where you traditionally find massive walls of “Troubles” propaganda (though these are quickly being painted over), union jacks and ulster flags (prot. Side) and Irish Republican flags (Cath. Side), Ulsterfest (not actual name) parade paraphanelia (prot. Side) and green and white Glasgow Celtic jerseys (cath. Side). Because of the history of violence between these two communities, the British gov’t erected a tall wall (much higher than the Berlin Wall) designed to keep them from fighting, although it is still about a 5 min drive around the wall. The communities are still heavily divided—if you were born Catholic or Protestant, you couldn’t live in the other’s neighbourhood if you wanted to, and you probably wouldn’t want to—but generally speaking, the “Troubles” are over and its clear from a stroll around Belfast that—apart from a handful of hardliners—peace has arrived in Belfast and the majority of people want it to stay that way.

Indeed, much of the economic boom that has exploded in Dublin and London, has also hit Belfast, and the city is feeling better than ever. New buildings are going up everywhere, new immigrants are flocking to the city, and taxi drivers—ever the pulse of the people—are excited and talkative as blazes about their city (if you do go to Belfast, make sure you take a cab, even going from the bus station to the ferry port, I felt like I got a free tour of the city—and the fare wasn’t so bad either). Nah, Belfast folks were very friendly—grateful to see the influx of new visitors after so many years of isolation and fear—and are exuberant in their long-awaited boom. This is particularly evident in the Titanic Quarter (Belfast has been a major shipbuilding and transportation technology hub for over a century, creating the Titanic amongst many other crafts, although as my taxi driver pointed out, it a bit of Belfastian irony that after any countless number of famous ships that Belfast created—and still creates—that float and go on to greatness, the quarter got named after a ship that sank.) Here you can find a new hockey arena (yes, ice hockey) which seems to be run by Canadians yet Belfast is promoting the hell out of their “Giants” and while they ain’t exactly NHL, it’s more than I expected here for sure. Also, the guy who ran the pub at the stadium, and apparently once ran the team, was from Gimli, Manitoba, not far from where I grew up. Small world. Though I guess where there’s hockey, there will be a Canadian.

There was also another Canadian I encountered in Belfast, more closely related to me than Reverend Paisley. My father. Excited about the prospect of me presenting at a conference in the UK, Dad was eager to fly to Europe and see me (my parents don’t travel much, so this was huge). So I skipped the morning sessions at my conference (to be honest, I have a hard time listening to someone read their paper out loud anyway when there is a foreign country to explore just out the door, so I skipped a great deal of the conference, but I stayed for the food). Nah, actually I did meet some people at the conference, most notably a Japanese woman who had moved to Ireland (and consequently spoke English with an Irish accent, but with a hint of Japanese), and a Singaporean/Australian, Belgian Palestinian, and American Israeli (Interestingly the Palestinian and the Israeli (both of which had spent a great deal of time in Jerusalem, were heavily involved with their particular “sides”—the Palestinian girl’s father was the representative of the Palestine in Washington, yet amusingly were bunking together in the same B&B with the Singaporean/Australian.) Indeed, my father and I spent a good deal of time hanging out with the Aussie, the Palestinian and the Israel as we explored Belfast as a group. I should probably mention that 3 girls where all from schools like Harvard or London (there few Oxfords, Cambridges, and of course Yorks at the conference as well), so they were rather smart cookies, although the Palestinian complained heavily that her boyfriend was far too obsessed with collecting transformers (the toys not the electrical devices—and I do have to clarify the difference, because it caused a great deal of confusion for my Dad).

Speaking of which, the conference itself! I did actually do something there, but as I had prepared my presentation before leaving Canada, it had been a couple months before I really had a good look at it, and while I had planned on reviewing the night before, this review resulted in a grand total of 5 minutes look followed by the exclamation “screw it, its not for marks” and then I fell asleep. The next morning I presented first thing, right out the gate, and I think it went over well although there were definitely some raised eyebrows, but then I can raise my eyebrows higher than anyone (but just the left one), so that didn’t slow me down. I didn’t have my paper with me, so I more-or-less just ad-libbed off the power-point presentation, which some people don’t like, but I say it’s more interesting than sitting and reading your paper Blah Blah Blah from the page (and memorizing the whole thing, I’m sorry, is just not an efficient use of time). Anyways, a couple people asked me questions, I enjoyed my presentation, a few people told me that I did well but some people thought I was too ambitious to talk about “macro” theory as a lowly master’s student (apparently you have to be Noam Chomsky or someone) and I guess it didn’t help that I said one of the keynote speaker’s (a Academic Celeb of sorts there, I think his name was Michael Mann) points was “dead wrong.” At any rate, while some of the older profs scoffed at me, the younger generation patted me on the back, and said “hey, why can’t we talk about macro theory? Don’t our opinions on the matter count?” As far I’m concerned, curiosity about the big questions is why people go to grad school in the first place (okay some people just want jobs), and if they’re not going to be asked here, where are they gonna be asked? Besides, we live in a democracy, a person only has to be born to have a right to speak. If you disagree with my arguments, fine, raise a question and we’ll talk about it, but if you disagree with a person in my position speaking as its “pulling rank” let me suggest that if rank is so important to you, you might want to consider enlisting in the military (I hear they’re looking) as they have offer generous payments and exciting travel opportunities.

Giant’s Causeway and around Northern Ireland

As with most places, you can’t say you’ve really seen a country until you’ve gotten out of its major cities. So when the girls suggested a tour of the Giant’s Causeway and rural North Ireland, we thought, let’s giv’er a go.

The Giant’s Causeway—make that, the Gye-ant’s Causeway—is a serious of unusual rock formations along a seaside cliff that take the form of seemingly man-made octagonal columns. Boring scientists will tell you that the rocks were formed after molten-magma was accidentally allowed to cool in a uniform environment many millennia ago, but local legend is much more interesting. Apparently, an old friendly giant named Finn MacCool used to live in these parts, and he used to like to boast about his strength and size, so when he heard about another giant in Scotland, he built a bridge of stepping stones through the Irish sea to get to Scotland and do battle (always with the doing of the battle). When the Scottish giant came to confront him, Finn realized the angry scot was twice the Irish giant’s size, and like a true warrior, ran back to Ireland with his tail between his legs and asked his wife to hide him, which she did by dressing him up as a baby (I’m presuming she was inserting her own editorial comment on his bravery). The Scot chased after him, across the bridge, into Ireland, but when he got to the house, and saw the giant baby, he ran back to Scotland saying “If the baby’s that big, no way in hell am I fighting the father,” except with a much better Scottish accent. He tore up the bridge on the way back, so Finn couldn’t follow him, leaving the giant’s causeway in Ireland and a similar geologic formation in Scotland across the sea. The moral of the story? Big men are babies.

The Causeway itself was impressive enough, and the rock formations do look like something from out of this world (I’m sure someone has used them to prove the visit of aliens or some such thing), but the whole coast is equally rugged, green, and magnificient, especially the area around the Carrick-A-Rede rope bridge which sways between the shore and a rock, and sways over the thrashing sea (and apparently is held-up by velco and duct tape, or so they told me as I crossed it). We also stopped in the town of Bushmills, where apparently there’s a whiskey distillery, but we opted instead to visit a local drinking establishment and try whiskey the old-fashioned way, and I’m glad we did. It was one of the best pubs in Ireland, filled with people in the middle of the afternoon (this is not uncommon in Ireland) and friendly folks. One guy explained I think (his accent was rather thick) that the pub had been newly renovated and that the bar itself was half of an old fishing boat. When I asked him what happened to the other half, he replied rather obviously “Well, it sank.”

Ireland (aka, Southern Ireland, Republic of Ireland, Land o’ me Lucky Charms)

Between Belfast and Dublin, there’s a prehistoric monument called Newgrange that’s apparently a few centuries older than Stone Henge, or even the pyramids of Giza, and is sizeable enough to make me wonder why I hadn’t heard of it before researching Ireland for the trip a few days before. The sites themselves are huge mounds (more like man-made hills, and big enough that an entire monastery was built upon one of them at one point), initially built for funereal/ceremonial purposes although only the elite of the elite were buried here, and surrounded by undeciphered stone-carvings, and one at least you can actually crawl inside (on a guided tour only) and it really gives you the feeling you’ve entered a stone age structure (which is what it is). Nevertheless, these people hauled huge stones (we’re talking 4 tonne or more weights here) from across hundreds of kms to the site to build it (and they made more than one). And the roof of the central chamber, constructed in a rough dome shape strong enough to support a huge mound of dirt above it, and an achievement not unlike the pantheon in Rome (albeit on a stone age scale).

Galway

After Newgrange, we headed to the west coast and Galway, a charming little medieval town, with a thriving tourism industry (for better or worse, but I’ve seen worse). Amongst the cobblestone alleyways, there’s nay a place you cannot find a pub, beautiful designed though nothing like the character of Bushmills. The Claddaugh Ring is the most famous “respectable” local symbol which consists of a heart (for love), held with hands (friendship), and topped by a crown (loyalty). According to local custom, women wear the ring with the heart pointing inwards if they’re spoken for, and outwards if they’re on the market (a fantastic tradition I think we should import to Canada, as it’d make my job a lot easier and avoid a lot of unnecessary awkwardness).

The less respectable symbol of Galway would be the Galway Hooker. First off, it’s a boat, not a prostitute, but that didn’t stop the locals from naming a brew off it anyways, inspiring more than a few colourful expressions like “I’m spending tonight with hooker, “How much does a hooker cost around here?,” and “That Damn Hooker really knocked me out last night.” Needless to say, Dad loved this beer.

He also liked a beer called Murphy’s, although this has perhaps something to do with my semi-witty query, as he drank it, to whether he felt if something could go wrong, it probably would.

We both liked the Magner’s (North Ireland)/ Bulmer’s (Regular Ireland) Cider (It’s the same cider in both places, with the same logo, just a different name)

The Aran Islands

Just off the coast of Galway (and about a couple hours by bus and ferry), lies the Aran Islands, the biggest of which Inis Amor resembles a long shelf of seabed sticking out of the water. The Islands are fairly remote, being on the west coast of Ireland and the last thing standing between the Emerald Isle and the fury of the Atlantic (indeed, the ferry ride over and back was one of the rockiest I’ve ever been on, and my usual nervousness/motion sickness wasn’t helped by the lady who kept screaming “whoaaaa” every time we keeled over on a giant wave.)

Apparently, the first part of Ireland to be settled by humans (odd considering the Islands are nowhere near Europe or any other land mass but Ireland, and Ireland is huge compared to them and blocks the way to Europe, but then supposedly prehistoric Ireland was nothing but forest and considered unsuitable for agriculture… at first) The islands themselves are extremely rugged compared to the rest of Ireland, and it is rather difficult to believe they would have represented a “better” place to settle. Nevertheless, agriculture did—and continues to take place—on the island though judging by the shear multitude of abandoned stone fences it once had a much higher population.

That said, it’s a great place for cycling, with paved roads and ancient stone fences and ruins and the only traffic really is a handful of cars, roosters, sheep, and maybe the odd pony who tries to eat your shorts when you pose for a photo with him. You know pickpocketing is a problem in Europe when even the pony tries to steal your wallet.

The Islands are small and underpopulated, but they’re absolutely soaked in old ruins like 1000 year old Celtic forts, abandoned churches, and above all stone fences as far as the eye can see. Like I said, it’s got a rugged climate (basically takes whatever the Atlantic cares to give it, before it hits Ireland), and when you get tired (or need to seek shelter from a random shortlived storm that can up often) you just pitch your tent in a field or—like me—hide out in an abandoned sod lightkeeper’s house. On that note, here’s what happened. When we rented our bikes the sky was relatively clear, but by the time we reached the top of the hill (and had long left the town), a torrential rainstorm hit us, and we needed to reach shelter. As we had left town, there was nothing in sight except abandoned stone fences and dimly through the fog, what appeared to be a lighthouse. Seeing this as our only option, we abandoned our bikes (theft really isn’t a problem here), and ran up to it. It soon became clear, however, that it was abandoned—and furthermore locked—so no entry could be gained, however there were some nearby ruins of a traditional lightkeeper’s house nearby (one that had been probably done up as an outdoor exhibit of sorts) with sod house and poor insulation, but it was better than nothing so we headed inside finding about 15 to 20 soaked travelers inside having had the same brilliant idea of going biking in the rain. It was something like a Chaucerian Miller’s Tale, except with all the storytellers coming from different countries around the world, everyone exchanging stories while they waited out the storm. Good times.

When the storm finally abated—or at least it seemed to be raining less—we headed out again, reclaimed our bikes, and continued down to the island ultimately reaching an ancient Celtic fort looking out into the heart of the Atlantic. If you have an image of Irish cliffs in your head, chances are they looked something like this.

It kept raining and not raining periodically throughout the day, but we kept along our way, cycling down old country roads, early medieval cemeteries and churchyards, and searching for that ever elusive pub. Eventually though, we had to return to the “mainland.”

Dublin

As far as metropolitan centers go, Dublin is Ireland’s shining jewel in the Celtic Tiger’s crown (Dumb question: Do Celtic Tigers have green stripes?) While there’s a big book and art history here, ranging from the medieval book of Kells up through James Joyce and ultimately to the likes of U2, we tended to focus more on pub entertainment which while plentiful was not as talented, and somewhat touristy, compared with what it had been in other parts of the island. Don’t get me wrong, Dublin has plenty of fantastic and beautiful pubs but they definitely seemed to lack character—although certainly remained popular—compared to other drinking establishments we’d indulged in on the island. Like for example, you can go to distilleries like Guinness or Jameson (pronounced JAMeson) Whiskey, which can be interesting and they give you a free shot, but often they feel like you’re walking through a beer commercial except instead of girls in bikinis there’s retirees from Nebraska. That said, they’re still good experiences, and I learned a lot about whiskey (which I’m getting altogether too used to drinking). Well when I get tired of whiskey I can always switch back to my Magner’s or Bulmer’s Cider (North and South respectively).

We also saw the Dublin castle, which is actually more of a palace, while the place had many ornate ballrooms and halls—as fitting a former bastion of the British Empire—the most interesting part, in my opinion, was the underbelly of the old castle walls and fortifications, and the moat that was filled by the river Pommel which now has been buried deep underground Dublin but you can still see it flowing (it still flows underground) in parts of the underbelly.

Of interest though was the Dublin Fringe Festival, which my Dad wanted to go as he knew I had always gone to the Fringe Festival in Winnipeg and was curious as to what the blazes these Fringe Fests were all about anyway.

Of course, if you’ve never been to a Fringe Fest, I should explain. Basically it’s a theater festival featuring mainly low-budget small cast (ie often 1-3 people) performances on often off the wall material that can range from the spectacularly awful to the spectacularly awesome. As I heard it once, though I could be wrong, theatre companies basically apply to perform, and few are chosen at random and given funding.

At any rate, since this was going to be Dad’s first Fringe show, it could go any number of ways, but I had tried to pick something light and funny but what they gave me was “Harry Bottom and the Jock Strap of Destiny.” When the show began with an out-of-shape guy dancing around the room in nothing but a leopard skin speedo, I knew we were in trouble. That’d be bad enough on its own, but just imagine watching it with your father. Not exactly the kind of male bonding we were looking for.

Jolly Old England and its sidekick Wales

England and Wales

In this episode, Ryan…

-goes theatrical in London’s West End

-has a religious experience at Westminister’s Abbey

-doesn’t have a clue what anyone is saying in Wales

Jolly Old London

Oh what a joy London was after Paris, not just because I could actually understand the language—occasionally—but indeed I noticed things had returned to a relative degree of overall friendliness. Don’t get me wrong, I met my share of snooty British—the guide at the British Museum for one, and the woman who ran my hostel for another—but overall friendliness seemed to have returned to Central European levels.

Speaking of Central Europeans, I met a German biker chick/tax consultant named Sonja here, whom I hung out with most evenings. Nice girl. Frick’n loves Australia.

We saw a couple of things like English pubs (which still close at 11 pm which still feels strange) and an exhibit on Salvador Dali at the Tate Modern (that’s right, I have now seen the original of that Imaginus poster hanging on your wall), but for me the highlight of London nightlife (if not the fine taste of Lamb’s Navy Rhum, royalty please) was the thriving London theater scene. Someone once told me the top 3 centres for English-language theater in the world are Toronto, New York’s Broadway, and London’s West End, with London being the crème of the crop. This is the place were shows like Les Miserable and anything by Andrew Lloyd Webber were born (and often still running 20 years later), and thus I deemed it rather necessary for me, as a student of culture, to “culture” myself like a true Londoner, and attend a performance that would exemplify British theatrical pedigree and character.

So I went to Monty Python’s Spamalot (which I realize came to Toronto, but I missed it). Having been a fan of Monty Python back in my teens, this one was practically a no-brainer, and while they made substantial departures from the original Monty Python’s Search for the Holy Grail, I actually found many of the departures to be improvements. For one, they add in importance the character of the Lady of the Lake (surprisingly accurate mythological reference), who acts as the female lead (and perhaps only character save for an effeminate male) and is portrayed as an over-the-top diva. My only disappointments were the lack of a Pump dance (where the knights all stand in a row and move up and down like a pump) and the lack of the bridge of questions three scene (where you must answer 3 questions correctly to cross the bridge, but if you answer incorrectly you are thrown into the canyon. The questions though then to be “What is your name?,” “What is your quest?,” and “What is your favourite colour?” That said, though, there was a lot more to make up for these missing elements—such as a spoof on Phantom of the Opera, a theory questioning Lancelot’s sexual orientation, and of course what musical could go wrong with a holy hand grenade? What indeed.

During the day, I usually rode the tube (ie metro, “subway” refers to pedestrian tunnels under streets) to get around, unless the attraction was within walking distance—which often it was. The name tube is appropriate as it is actually shaped like one at many stations with posters of KT Tunstall and grimacing rugby players circling around. There is absolutely nothing in the way of a garbage can—or a rubbish bin—in the tube though (security risk), and you can expect to spot cameras and see omnipresent quasi-Orwellian “in order to ensure your safety” type messages all around. Guess I can understand why though. Sometimes though I took the bus, which often indeed were double-deckers—though considerably more modern (still red though).

My Grandma—being British—has been telling me about the British Museum since I was old enough to listen, and probably even before. So when I discovered it was just a short walk from my hostel, I made it my first objective. Like my Grandma says, it is a must-see attraction, despite what your ccnscience might feel about the slight colonial exploitation element of some its collection. That and its free. The stars of the place include the Rosetta Stone (which famously allowed modern historians to crack the code of Egyptian hieroglyphics), remnants of Sutton Hoo (the buried ship that proved the sophistication of Dark Age peoples), and an ancient Greek altar called Panthena which probably is the most engaging Greek monument I have seen (you literally feel the goddesses reaching out). Naturally the Greeks want this one back.

Like Samuel Johnson said, “if you’re tired of London, you’re tired of life.” Indeed I found I had far more that I wanted to see than I could reasonably get to see. Still though I managed to make jolly good jabs at the British Parliament (which while still impressive, might actually be smaller than the Canadian one it inspired), the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace, Hyde Park, London Bridge and the Tower of London.

At Westminster Abbey, I was hoping to just poke my head in and have a look, but the church closed for visitors at that time, but NOT to members of the congregation. Thus I recalled that I was in fact an Anglican, and humbly lined up for the service thinking I could sneak out before it commenced. Instead however, I found myself shuffled by man in a dark robe into the front row and the seat nearest the altar thereby making any attempts at delicate escape that much impossible. Thus I sat in full view of all, in my dirty t-shirt and shorts while everyone else wore suits, and rose and fell as the hymns progressed and service began. About an hour later, the service ended and I emerged dazed and a little holier.

The thing about England (or about any place for that matter) is you should see the sights, sure, but try to get beyond them if you can and reach the beating heart of the populace. In Oxford for example, I was rather disappointed when I initially arrived as the whole place seemed to be a ghost town save for the tourist caravans. Once I got past the main sights like Corpus Christi College and the “Harry Potter” Hall, I found a college at the back called Magdelane (Maudlin) which had far less people (and was far more beautiful), complete with its own ivy-covered courtyards, wooded walkways, canals, and even a herd of deer on the premises. This place was the Oxford I had heard been expecting. A little bit later on, I went into a pub nearby and found a guy who could best described as Bill Gates bastard English son and his cubby, cardigan-wearing, and equally bespectacled buddies, talking all about this and that jerk at Cambridge. I knew this was as close as I was ever getting to Oxford.

So now I leave London, and am riding a train deep into North Wales to a town called Llandudno (don’t ask me how to pronounce that). Virgin rail, yet another company of Richard Branson’s, runs the route apparently, which made the Old Brit in the chair next to me quip “Why’d you want to travel on a virgin? They never go all the way.”

Good ol English humour.

See you in Wales.

Wales

If you want to “go medieval” on someone, Wales is probably a good place to do it. Not only is the whole region represented by a flag of a red dragon, but the place is literally dripping with craggy cliffs and ruined castles (many untouched since the middle ages). . That said, the people are not exactly “feudal.” Far from it. Possibly one of the friendliest regions I have visited, the Welsh go over their top for you. The woman running the B&B I was staying at (I was in a small hostel-less village) was so anxious to please that she was running around like a jack rabbit and speaking so fast and with such an accent that I had no idea what she said but it seemed charming nonetheless. Her and her husband were a talkative and friendly-in-a-small-town-kinda-way bunch, and they’d gab your ear off whether you understood’em or not. On the other hand, they often couldn’t understand my English either as when I asked if they had Wifi. The woman looked at me as if I was speaking Martian, and said “Donna be speaking your double dutch with me, I do me’s email and thatsit.” So I ended up checking my email in a Pub, where the locals were watching a Rugby game where Wales clobbered Canada by 2x its score, though apparently the Welsh told me the Canucks put up a jolly good fight.

The next day, on a mission to find remaining bastions of Welsh culture, I journeyed up into the Snowdonian mountains (more like Canadian shield country than Banff) and a small village called Betswy-Y-Coed. Like the village I was staying—and from what I can tell every village in Wales—the place was picture-esque as hell, with rocky rivers and creeks and mountains and small stone houses and bridges. (The town I was staying in, Llandudno, was bit more developed as a Victorian resort, but still had hills and sea views to rival the Maritimes). A few people here still speak Welsh, called Cymru in their language, and there are many sign postings, courses, and even television channels designed to support the survival of the language—one of the oldest surviving languages in the British Isles and a descendent of ancient Celtic tongues.After having a little fun trying to get the Welsh to say “my dog smells like coconuts” in their language, I hiked up to the Swallow Falls (not exactly Niagara, but impressive all the same.) Then I caught a bus from a mountain fudge factory (why are mountain resorts always selling fudge?) and headed out to Conwy.

Conwy is a coastal village near Llandudno, famous for being one of the most well preserved walled medieval cities in Europe. Indeed, Conway castle still dominates the landscape just as it must have done when Edward the Confessor had it built to tell the Welsh to quit it with that whole rebellion thing. When I think of ruined castles, this is exactly the kind of place that comes to mind. With eroded staircases, moss covered towers, and ravens cawing and flying about, I could have sworn a level of the 1980s vampire killing Nintendo game, Castlevania, was shot here (Of course, video games are rarely shot on scene, especially back in those days.) Because I arrived late in the day, as well, I had the castle mostly to myself, although I had to share the bus to Conwy with a throng of uniformed Welsh school children.

Wales is a surprisingly beautiful place, and is quite a lot like what I dreamed Ireland to be. If Wales can take the cake, than I can only wonder what the Emerald Isle itself has to offer. Either can teach us something about rugby, methinks.

Oh well, I guess I’ll find out soon enough. I’m on way to Belfast as we speak and to the conference I’m presenting at which is ostensibly the reason I’m in Europe in the first place. Tally ho and away we go.

French Fried

France and Monaco

(Paris, Normandy, Monte Carlo and the French Riviera)

In this episode Ryan…

-enjoys traditional French hospitality in Nice

-gets told to put some pants on in a casino in Monte Carlo

-weaves through a maze of a million-rotten skeletons deep in the ancient underbelly of Paris

Nice

After leaving Rome, now I really needed to get back to Paris, but it was a bit far for a single stab on the train, and there just so happened to be on more tiny prinicipality, Monaco, halfway between he two, so well let’s just say it made sense.

With the exception of the Vatican, Monaco is the smallest state in Europe and is basically surrounded by France, except for a small coast on the Mediterranean, though its not far from Italy either. According to my research (ie according to Lonely Planet), the best place to base oneself for exploration of the region known as the Cote d’Azur (Azure coast referring, presumably to the colour of the water, which is a brilliant Mediterranean blue, yet you might be more familiar with the term “French Riviera” in regards to the region.)

Nice (pronounced neece) was one of the highlights of my sister’s jaunt through Europe a few years back, but I guess they are more welcoming of 3 pretty young girls than one gritty semi-cleaned male backpacker. Never in my travels have I found so many people unwilling to provide service or providing shoddy service at ridiculous prices. Basically, all I wanted to do in Nice was go to the beach, but I needed to buy new batteries, and D’Arty (think French Futureshop) the place that was recommended to me, sold me ones with no charge, so I had to start the day wasting a couple hours arguing that selling me a battery with no electricity was a bit of a scam, and finally convinced them into giving me batteries that actually worked.

The beach itself, which did have nice azure-blue water, was actually more pebbles than sand which made it difficult to walk on without banging up your feet. That and, because I couldn’t find a single place to leave my valuables and I definitely needed somewhere secure, as there were plenty of scam artists, including one guy who dropped a wedding ring in front of me and then starting yelling at me when I refused to stick around (apparently this is a typical scam on the Med, basically they get you to handle the ring which you give back like a good Samaritan, but then argue once you touch it that you’ve bought it and must pay for it). Normally, at every other beach in Europe, I could at least find a restaurant who would let me leave my valuables in exchange for the purchase of a beverage, but here no one would even deal with me unless I was wearing something with a designer label on it (or perhaps something clean), so I had to walk a couple kms back to the hostel and leave my valuables there…then walk back to the beach, and then walk back to the hostel after going for a dip. At dinnertime, my luck didn’t improve as my attempt at trying traditional Nicoise cuisine saw me being ignored for 30 minutes or more at least 5 different restaurants, or they tried to charge me for things I didn’t want to order. As a result, I ultimately gave up, broke down and got some reliable old American fast food, and went back to my hostel in a huff. Nice might be a popular resort town, and a symbol of luxury on the French Riviera, but its got a lot to learn about hospitality, as far as I’m concerned Nice ain’t so Nice after all.

On an ironic note, guess which hostel had the most roaches on all my travels? Slovakia? Not one. Italy. Nada. Poland? Okay, maybe 3. But do you know where I encountered the most roaches? The French Riviera! I probably saw at least 10 in the two nights I stayed in Nice, as the bathroom floor of the dorm room would just be swarming with them when you turned on the light at night. I guess some things money can’t buy eh? Like exterminators.

I mean, I prefer to look at the positive side of places, but sometimes enough is enough. Places like the French Riviera which sell themselves as being “playgrounds of the wealthy” or “playgrounds of the wealthy with too much access to their parents’ credit cards” tend not to be the place for me I guess.

Monaco

Monaco—and its biggest city, Monte Carlo—is no less elitist than Nice, but at least I seemed to fare better here. I guess it helped that the city was filled that day with Spanish and Italian soccer hooligans—so even if I didn’t smell any better than them, at least I wasn’t as raucous. As it turns out, the day I picked to venture into Monaco, was the day it played host to the Super Cup Final between Milan and Seville. (Now I know the Europeans get livid when I call it soccer—as if giving it a different name is somehow an act of blasphemy—but where I come from, football means CFL, and they can be just as passionate about that (no, I don’t mean in Toronto), so for my own sense of non-confusion I’m going to stick with my dialectical preference) That said I don’t really follow European soccer and I got some dirty looks when I asked people “So is this a big deal or something?” Needless to say though, the fans—particularly of Seville—basically occupied the country of Monaco, dressed in red and white uniforms, waving scarves, clapping, and giving the many security guards of Monaco endless headaches. Just out of curiosity I checked out the stadium—which unlike Canadian stadiums actually blended-in with its surroundings so I almost didn’t realize it was there—but I just got laughed at when I asked if there were any tickets still available.

Not that I minded really. Like I said, I don’t really follow soccer, and I know Europeans can’t understand this indifference, as they consider it such a “supremely action-packed game to watch” because as they say “so many people are running around.” (if they like running so much, why don’t they just watch Track and Field?). To them though, “American” football, with all its stoppage of plays and safety equipment, is agony to watch, which I could understand if you’re unfamiliar with the game, but then the same goes for any game, including hockey, curling (which a few other Europeans asked me about, as in “What the hell is this game with people sweeping?”), and yes even European soccer can be boring if you don’t know what’s going on and don’t have any specific attachment to the team. That said, it’s the cultural phenomena that surrounds soccer—here and elsewhere in the world, that I find most interesting… not necessarily the game itself.

At any rate, Monaco. Like most dinky little nation-states in Europe, Monaco has a highly defensible position and—by translation—dramatic and picturesque scenery. The whole nation seemed to be perched along a less than 2 km long stretch of Mediterranean cliffs. Indeed, traveling around Monaco, even short distances, you find yourself going up and down, and through tunnels and “public elevators (even the train station is rooted deeply underground in a rock cliff).” The Monagasque, though, can afford these giant leaps of infrastructure—this place has got to have more Mercedes-Benz, Armani Suits, and Diamond rings won in poker games per capita, than any nation on Earth. Only in Monte Carlo, will a downtown billboard read “Need Yacht Insurance?” Needless to say I felt a tad out of place—and got more than a few glares to remind of such--walking around in my stained old t-shirt, gritty shorts, and a plastic bag filled with my soggy towel and swimming trunks (I was determined to give the beach here a try, A) because I was not satisfied with my Mediterranean experience in Nice and B) because going to the beach is one of the cheaper things you can do in a place like Monaco).

First though, I hiked around the harbour—filled with enough private armadas to launch an invasion of Troy—then up the cliffs to the National Oceanic Aquarium (apparently one of the best in the world) and took note of the various sea creatures I should avoid stepping on while at the beach, like the fish that looks like a rock, has a poisonous sting that is fatal 25% of the time, and is considered the most dangerous fish in the ocean. Since it was there, and relatively cheap, I also checked out the Royal Apartments, the residence of the Monegasque royal family, which also had a rather kitchy museum of Napoleon.

Eventually I made it to the beach, but the beach was on the other side of the country (ie. Town) so I decided, instead of walking like I usually do, this was the lap of luxury, and it was time to ride in style. So I took the bus.

The beach was considerably sandier than its counterpart at Nice, so I had a good thrashing about in the water there, before trying—in vain—to see what was the deal with the casinos of Monte Carlo. Let’s just say the casino guards took one look at me and said “You ain’t getting in.” They apparently took offense to my wearing of shorts. Yes the Vatican and the Gambling houses of Monaco may not always be the best of buddies but they both can reach common ground in the strength of their desire not to be exposed to my naked knee-caps. Go figure.

Paris and Bayeux

Oh boy, after complaining about Nice, I was really hoping to have something really positive A) so I didn’t fall into that “French people are snobs” thing and B) so I didn’t look like a whiner about being in France while other poor people in the world are starting classes.

That said, there does seem to be some sort of prevailing attitude in France—or at least the parts of France I visited—that could be construed as a form of nationalist ethnocentrism combined with an obsession with quality, which in turn could be interpreted rightfully or wrongfully (and I must admit I’m leaning towards rightfully) as arrogance. Let me put it this way, when you find the friendliest people in the Algerian quarter—one of the poorest neighbourhoods, populated by North African immigrants of former French colonies, and also incidentally one of the key fire-points of the Paris riots of recent memory—it tells you something about atmosphere of intercultural relations (and possibly why the Algerian communities, in addition to others, felt the need to riot). Well I’m sure there are some unfriendly Algerians as well, the ones I met were extremely friendly (despite knowing full well I wasn’t from around there) and showed real excitement when I showed interest in trying their cultural cuisine.

Now, not every French person I met had issues with attitudes. A few I met on trains were very helpful with directions and what not and some even expressed dissatisfaction with their countrymen/women’s mainstream attitudes towards outsiders, so perhaps there’s some hope for France yet, but in a city like Paris—being at the crossroads of the British Isles, Spain and Portugal, Italy and Switzerland, Germany and the Low Countries—is a tourist mecca, and no doubt the locals have a certain distaste for the throngs that swarm them. Nevertheless, I still believe—perhaps being a “small towner”—that a certain level of tolerance must be maintained, and I caught few people being needlessly insulting and obnoxious to tourists—thinking I couldn’t understand French—who were just asking basic questions. I also made a few friends at the hostel from such far away lands as Brazil, Ukraine, Chile, and the United States. I guess I myself was a little on edge too as the hostel I was staying at had a ton of rules—like you couldn’t be home at certain times, breakfast was very early and consisted of baguettes with no plates and something my Brazillian friend called “baby food,’ they locked the elevator so you couldn’t use it and had to climb 4 flights with all your bags, and had only one key so if you reached the room and no one was in it, you had to climb back down to get the key. My “favourite” oddity was the electronic locker system, which you had to get a token to use (provided the token machine, itself conveniently located on another floor, was working) you could have your valuables stored for 2 Euros a day and if you didn’t come back at exactly 24 hours from that point, you’d have to pay another 2 euros to retrieve your bags. Also, presumably for legal reasons although it made the entire place seem that much more absurd, there were signs posted that read “Don’t leave your valuables in the security locker.” My questions were A) where else were you supposed to put them? and B) what’s the point of a security locker if its not secure?

Okay, so enough about that stuff. I did actually do stuff in Paris. The first night I checked out the Arc De Triumph (spelt wrong on my part) which I was surprised to find out is surrounded by a ginormous traffic circle (apparently the world’s biggest). So if you make it into the centre without getting smoked by a Parisian motorist you certainly feel triumphant. The arc was started by Napoleon but not finished until long after he’d had his pride drained at Waterloo. One of the most interesting aspects of the arc though has to be a wartime speech by Charles Du Galle, which I loosely translated as “Yes, we may have lost Alsace, we may have lost Normandy, we may have even lost Paris and the whole of France, but are we going to give up? Non! We still have Chad.” Ah that good ol French military.

At one point I did a tour of the D-Day beaches in Normandy (I was supposed to be going to Bayeux for the day to see the tapestry billed as “the world’s oldest and longest comic strip” which details the 1066 Norman conquest of England, but somehow I got roped into this instead), and the American on the tour was rather amused by the guides careful insertion of the role of the French resistance in the invasions (despite the fact they actually built the defenses for the Germans). At one point I asked the guide, “Where is Juno Beach?” (Juno Beach is the place where the Canadians landed). He said rather briefly “12 miles that way. Now we go [pointing the opposite direction] American Cemetery!” And slammed the bus door in my face, much to the American’s amusement. I laughed too, though (I didn’t actually expect the bus would go to Juno Beach, but I was just curious as to where it was), at least we could be amused by the absurdity of the curt response. As for the D-Day stuff itself, much of the area has reverted back to normal sandy beach (it has been 60 odd years), but there still are some impressive ruins of bunkers, bomb craters, and even the remains of a floating harbour. One cliff, which was surrounded by barbwire and would have been covered in snipers and mines and all that fun stuff, had a phallic shaped monument to the magnitude of balls the guys had who must’ve scaled it way back when.

Back in the City of Lights though, there was still much to see and do, such as the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, the palace of Versailles, and the Catacombs. The Eiffel Tower is a fairly no-brainer, and while it’s no CN tower, the age of the structure gives it a jolly good uncertain rickety-ness that makes ascending that much more fun—providing you don’t get lost in the hours long line (incidentally on the way down, people seem to forget about the bottom car on the elevator, so use that for a quicker descent). The Louvre I managed to hit on the first of the month (hello free admission) and though it’s bit hard to enjoy the Mona Lisa when you can’t get within 20 feet of her because of bulletproof glass and mobs of Japanese tourists (I swear when I first arrived, the line was long but moving fast, so it looked like someone had turned on a tap and a current of tourists was flowing out yet staying within the banks of the queue-ropes), there are plenty of other famous works in the Louvre that you’d still probably recognize though most folks just walk right by (in any other museum, they’d be a highlight, but in Louvre they’re just some painting on the walls). The former French Royal Palace of Versailles is a bastion of affluent exuberance in such a way only the French can—or would--muster, although the highlight is the extensive gardens around the palace, in particular the ponds on the horizon which are shaped in such a way that they look unreal as if they were painted. The highlight though, as far as I’m concerned, of Paris tourist sights—and luckily underrated as it wasn’t horrendously overrun with tourists—is the Parisian catacombs. Consisting of a network of tunnels reaching underneath all of old Paris, these former mines turned graveyards (or bone depository) are the stuff of legends, I think Neil Gaiman even referenced them in his book Neverwhere which explored the fantasy underworld of London and suggested others might exist in other major cities. I didn’t slip into a fantasy world—unfortunately—but the catacombs were definitely unlike anything I had experienced before. Picture if you will walking down a dank, short, rocky corridor, lit only by the occasional lamp and with water dripping the only sound, when you turn a corner and all of a sudden you turn a corner and come across skeletons—rows upon rows of skeletons all stacked as if they were on sale in a Wal-mart or perhaps a lumber yard, and extending endlessly through weaving and increasingly dark tunnels. There’s apparently millions of skeletons of dead Parisians down here, put here when the cemeteries became over-filed and dangerous causes of diseases in the 1800s. Weirder yet, you have to go down a really long spiral stair-case just to get to the catacombs and when you finally come out you pop out in a random part of Paris.

And speaking of randomness, I’m going to end my talk on Paris here.

I came, I saw, I ate gelati

Italy, San Marino, and The Vatican

In this episode, Ryan…

-does as the Romans do in Italy

-tries not to look down from the mountain fortress of San Marino

-disguises himself as a Catholic at the Vatican

Italy

When Europeans talk to me about traveling through Europe, they always say “You should go to Italy.” I guess that whole centre of Western Civilization for thousands of years thing has really cemented the “all roads lead to Rome” mentality in the European mindset. That and they like to go to Spain.

But Spain was all the way on the Western side of France (ambitious though I might be, there was no way I was gonna be able to justify that one). Italy however, was a conveniently south of Switzerland, and while I was never really supposed to go to Switzerland (nevermind it and every country surrounding it), my visit to Paris had been pushed back again so I thought why not head for southern France in the mean time, stopping at a Northern Italy town, like Torino or Genoa, along the way. As it turns out, however, there was basically only one train leaving at night from Zurich to anywhere in Italy and that where just so happened be a little city called Rome.

Previously I had considered Rome way too far out of the way, but if it was the only place they went in Italy—and it only took one night to get there anyway—why couldn’t I just go right to the Eternal City itself? (there was also a night train to Nice, France from Rome, so I could easily get back on track). So within the space of an hour, I decided “I’m going to frick’n Rome” and started making arrangements.

The ride down consisted me in a 6 bed croquette with 4 Korean guys and a Swiss girl. If you think I’m only stopping in these countries long enough for a cup of coffee, these guys were literally doing 8 countries in 8 days (they planned to spend every night on a train). The Swiss girl, Susanna, like most Europeans, was going to Italy for a vacation. Me, I was just going to rock Rome.

So we arrived early the next morning, I dropped off my bags at the hostel (they weren’t ready for me yet) and like oh so many Romans before me said “ah screw it, I’m going to the Coliseum.” Unlike the city’s antiquarian residents, however, I used the Metro. They actually do have a stop called Coliseo (Coliseum), and one for the Circus Maximus as well (Circus Massimo). Italian metros—or at least Roman ones—are strange beasts. For one, the train that picked me up was the most spray-painted contraption I had seen in my life—and I grew up beside the railroad in a province known for its bored teenagers. They had unusual warning images, such as one where the stick man has his groin caught in the closing doors and a cross-out suggests “DON’T DO THIS.” Don’t think they needed to tell me that wouldn’t be a smart plan. Also, they close early at night (like before 10 pm), which means I got stuck taking a crowded bus back at night and had to fight off another would-be pickpocket (I literally caught this guy, who was dressed better than I was, with his hand sneaking into my pocket, but when I slapped it and accused him, he denied it, avoided eye contact, and then snuck off the bus. Luckily, I caught him so nothing was lost, and this time I didn’t even lose my pants).

The Coliseum was surprisingly easy to find (but then I guess it kind stands out in a crowd). As can be expected, it is a rather impressive structure (though there has been a considerable amount of restoration and the installation of things such as metal detectors, uh well lights, and of course SOUVENIR SHOPS! You can even still get the feeling of the hungry masses waiting outside for their shot at the carnage inside, though now the banners waved generally refer to what tour group you belong to, not which general you think should be made Caesar. That said if you ever wanted to see who would win in a fight between Xena Warrior Princess and Russell Crowe’s Maximus, this is the place to watch it. Like ancient Roman pay-per-view.

Needless to say, the Romans—like many empires who own slaves—weren’t exactly the nicest people all the time. Thousands of people, animals, and god knows what else was slain here purely for the purposes of entertainment—They were also fairly sexist, racist, and built an arch of Anti-Semitism (which today you are actually encouraged to spit on, one of the few centuries-old structures where you can). But they were also pretty nice architects, urban planners, and wine connoisseurs so perhaps that makes up for things… my tour guides seemed to think so.

Yeah I did take a tour (it was gonna be hours before I got in there otherwise). But the tour also, after the coliseum, took us to the old Roman forum and remains of one of the Imperial palaces. These structures are indeed extraordinary to walk through, especially when they’ve been left to varying degrees of disrepair. You can see the evolution of history, from the Antiquarian Classical religion and culture, to the Christian medieval attempt at reclaiming the institutions of the past. (All the churches in Roman, including the Vatican itself, are very “pagan”-influenced). The Pantheon for example (now a church, though originally a temple to all the Gods as you may have guessed by the name), was built with a massive dome with a circle in the centre called “the eye of the gods”—easily one of the few surviving architectural wonders of the ancient world, they’re still not sure how they built this bloody thing.

Everyone seems to have a different opinion as to who actually founded Rome though. Some say Rome was founded by Romulus, a boy raised by wolves. Others say he was actually raised by prostitutes as “Lupin” the Latin term for wolf was also the term for “ladies-of-the-night.” Others say he didn’t do squat except steal the thunder of a Trojan refugee a few centuries earlier who vowed “to found a city that would teach those bloodthirsty Greeks a thing or two.”

Of course, as mighty as it once was, the Roman empire has fallen. Now Rome isn’t the capital of a Roman empire, it’s the capital of Italy, and that means it’s Italian. Some of the more “recent”—and I use the term loosely—architecturally additions to the city include The Trivoli Fountain (I think I spelt that right, it wasn’t running when I saw it, which apparently is incredibly rare, and a bit ominous as my tour guide had just mentioned that sudden stopping of water from the aqueducts running from Pompeii, caused by a volcanic bulge in the mountain, precursed the devastating eruption of Mt. Vesuvius), The Piazza du Venezia (where you can see a bleach-white marble tribute to Italy’s medieval king), and the Spanish Steps (apparently, a spot where different nations, such as France, Spain, and England could lay claim to Rome, and so steps were built to tire them out. Spain got a sunken boat fountain, France a church, England a teashop and a Poet’s Corner where Romantic Poets like Keats, Shelley, and Byron lived life “like a rockstar” before leaving a beautiful corpse).

By the way, there’s one present-day Italian urban planning initiative, which I think out to be celebrated on par with the aqueducts of bygone times. It’s called tones of available drinking water scattered across the city (just put your bottle under the fountain and fill yourself up). Trust me, in a city as hot and muggy in the summer as Rome this is an absolute godsend—and none of the water has those carbonated bubbles that Europeans, but not me, seem to love so much. This idea, along with the free bicycles, needs to be stolen, make that “imported,” by Canadian cities, though perhaps not during winter months.

I know there’s a lot of tourists in this city, but if you look hard enough you can find some actually Romans. I met one girl on a train named Sara, an out-of-work flight attendant/did something for the Milan football (ie. Soccer) team, and there was this guy who I call Super Mario mainly because he was every Italian stereotype rolled into one, and well resembled the Nintendo icon in body structure, hair, and mustache, although instead of working as a plumber and saving repetively captured princesses he serves pasta to tourists in Rome, playfully telling them to “Eat in Silence” and “You come back tomorra, I kill you.” The tourists laugh it up though, saying “ah look at the cute little fellow with Sicilian Mafia connections.” Oh those crazy Romans.

San Marino

The train guy told me not to bother going to San Marino. Lonely Planet didn’t even see fit to mention this tiny independent state in my guidebook. The people at my hostel didn’t even seem to know where it was. So what do you think the chances are I said nuts to them all and went anyway? You’re right.

The train guy, however, was right. San Marino is too far from Rome to do reasonably on a day trip. Up until this point, I’ve managed to avoid “just stopping for coffee” visits to countries—as Ray Silvius would put it, but I don’t think I can get that physically close to a foreign country and not visit it. My curiosity is just too great.

So off I went on a 4-5 hour train trip to spend 2 hours in a country practically no one’s even heard of, and if you pressed them, they’d probably say “an island somewhere in the Caribbean.” Well its an “island” but its not surrounded by the Caribbean sea so much as Italy and in fact isn’t really coastal so much as being perched on top of a mountain (although you can still see the Adriatic Sea from the walls of the old city, “centro storico”). Like many of Europe’s mini-nations, San Marino owes its long-standing independence to an incredibly defensible position—Luxembourg had the cliffs of the Ardennes, Liechtenstein had the Alps, and San Marino is basically one giant fortress perched like an eagle’s nest overlooking Tuscany (or whatever you call the province to the west of Tuscany). I was exhausted just getting up the hill on a bus (the road was snake-like to say the least).

One you get to the old city, everywhere you look the view is breath-taking (and in terms of loss of breath, especially if you look down). The entire old town just feels like one giant castle (which essentially it was and is), though it was not the home of kings and nobles, apparently, but freemen and I believe now freewomen. (San Marino claims to be the oldest surviving democratic republic, dating back to the 800s).

Unfortunately, my time in San Marino was very limited, so I only had time to waunder the old town and castle and venture into one of the towers, but if do find yourself in the neighbourhood it is worth checking out for a day. Don’t try to hit in from Rome though like me, that’s just craziness (although I did justify the long train rides as a chance to see the Italian countryside, including the famous Tuscany which does look considerably different than northern Europe, and quite like it is presented in movies once you remove all the polish), but if you’re in nearby Florence or Bologna, why not pop on by? At the very least, you can add another country to your “I’ve set foot there” list, even if this one is practically de facto part of Italy.

Vatican City (aka The Holy See, don’t ask me why they spell it that way)

If you thought San Marino should just give it up and admit they’re part of Italy, what about 1 km wide independent nation in the center of the Italian capital? The Vatican of course, ain’t exactly your average country (like Namibia?), and is in fact more or less the Pope’s own national playground, where he can do whatever he likes and forget about little insignificant items like the separation of church and state.

The Vatican, which has 2 subway stops for it outside the country, is kinda hard to miss as the rounding big fort-like thing that isn’t the Coliseum. (I wondered about the fortifications, when was the last time someone actually tried to capture the Vatican by force? I’m looking at you Turkey)

The first subway stop leads to the Vatican Museums, which consist of sprawling, make that neverending (they really use that 1 km sq for all its worth) passages and gardens with with Classic and neo-classic sculptures, Egyptian oddities, Religious art, and of course paintings, frescoes, and tapestries by a who’s-who of Renaissance greats (you can see why Dan Brown fans grovel their heads off here). The Sistine Chapel of course, is the crème-de-la-crème of the museums, Michealangelo’s most famous work adorning its ceilings. For me, I have to say some of the other halls were actually more visually impressive, the Sistine Chapel itself left me a tad underwhelmed, but I have to admire the guy for accomplishing such a big work, in such detail, on a curved canvas high up above the floor. Of course, you also got admire him for sneaking naked people into a place where they tell you you can’t even leave your ankles uncovered on one of the hottest days of the year.

Speaking of which, one of the highlights of my visit to Rome—though I’m sure it wasn’t the highlight of theirs—was seeing the quarantine of the scantily clad in the line to St. Peter’s Basillica (which in order to reach, you have to leave the country, walk a few blocks to the south and walk back in). Now the square itself is immediately impressive, the kind of money spent to create it of course being one of the driving forces for the establishment of Protestantism and ultimately the Thirty Year’s War, although they tend not to celebrate this historical tidbit. But to see inside the Basillica you have to brave a ridiculous long line out in the hot summer sun. Now I had been warned before hand, so I was wearing long pants and not a wife-beater t-shirt, but may the mercy of God be upon those lost souls who did not realize the basilica was one of clubs with the tightest dress code in town. “Your ankles are too sexy, cover them up.” They would say.

Once you finally got through the line, which I did at about 5 pm, you can see the forsaken to your right, complete with their bare shoulders, short shorts, and generally pissed off expressions for waiting in line for nothing, waiting in the Purgatory of Promiscuity (my name for it, not theirs, copyright protected) for their more properly family, friends, and accomplices to return from viewing one of the most ornate—possibly the most ornate—churches in the world (it is pretty nice inside, and immense!). Lo upon ye who does not yield to the commands of the Vatican dress code, even if the sign isn’t posted anywhere within visible range of the start of the line. We shall calleth thee the naughty Knights of non-covered knee-caps, the heretical harlots of highly-visible hedonism, and the slutty sculduggerers of sporting seasonal-appropriate attire. Now they know how the whore of Babylon must have felt. Isn’t it interesting though? It doesn’t matter if you’re wearing a turban or a yamaka, you can come right on in to the Catholic faith’s most holy church, but show just a little bit of skin—make that TEMPTATION—and the fancy-pants Swiss Guard will be on you faster than you can say Ezekiel is your uncle. And my they do love their fancy pants, those Swiss Guardsmen. Let me tell you, with costumes like that, it’s almost as if the Vatican had a huge party in the Renaissance and then just hit the pause button for a couple of centuries. Judging by some of the ages of the cardinals at the service in St. Peter’s (Yeah, there was actually a service going on while I was there, but they only used a small part of the massive cathedral) I guess the Renaissance must bring back some fond memories for them.

To cap off my visit to the Vatican, I decided to go up to the cap of St. Peter’s Basilica, called the Cupolary I think. Now to get there you have to take an elevator, and then climb about 3 hundred winding stairs, which take you out over the people having their service in the church below, up in a narrow passageway physically slanted to match the dome of the roof (but making for a trippy experience for the dream-out inclined, not too mention a hazard for the exceptionally tall or claustrophobic.) Once you get to the top, though, you can see all of Rome, with its old Mediterranean style roofs and white walls, looking almost like it did in Caesar’s day, except with a few more automobiles. Nevertheless, who’d’ve thought you’d get the best view of Rome from a foreign country.