A Homegoing

After my time in Cahersiveen, arriving in Dingle (pop. 1,900) felt quite metropolitan. I imagine it was mostly due the fact that it was bustling with revelers in for the holiday weekend. I hopped in the car with my hosts, and we drove out Slea Head Drive, quite a bit farther than I thought we’d be from town. That’s the way it goes, however, when in haste you read 5km instead of 5m. At least in the States we know we use the imperial system, and that’s that. In the British Isles it’s a smattering of both, and I haven’t quite figured out when to use which. I hopped back into town and rented a bike for the week so I could have a moderately faster method of transportation.

Not wanting to face the hill between town and me a second time that day, I wondered what to do with the evening. Which is when a small group of musicians showed up to stay at the same place as me. I finished my dinner hastily as I heard them to preparing to leave, and ran out the door after them asking for a lift in. They kindly obliged.

Their band, Attention Bébé, was in for the weekend to perform for the festival. I asked about their music, and Susan explained to me that they perform either for loads of money or loads of crack, but prefer playing for crack. I didn’t ask which one it was this time, but started thinking if they were getting crack that night, that I should find a different ride home for the evening. It wasn’t until well later into the night that I discovered that “craic,” is common Irish slang for “good fun.”

In the meantime, however, I wandered round Dingle town, looking for a place with good drinks and good music where I could sit and write for a while. I wandered in and out of a few pubs, none with the right vibe for writing. Finally, driven in by rain, I found a place that seemed to fit my needs. I walked in, looking for an open table, when my eyes lighted upon Fr. Steve, my boss from the Salesians eight years ago who I haven’t seen since. Instead of spending the evening writing, I ended up chatting for a bit, then joining him and his family singing along to traditional Irish tunes.

I met back up with the band at Dick Mack’s, Dingle’s most famous pub. Discovering that they weren’t just in town to get massive amounts of crack cocaine, but rather to play for the enthusiastic holiday crowds, I decided I didn’t need to spring for a taxi. I went to their performance the next afternoon. Good craic indeed. There are certain things in life you can’t anticipate. I’m not talking about sudden loss or love – though unexpected, the stories are common enough. I’m talking about staying with a band on the outskirts of a town of 200 in the Irish countryside, then going to watch their 10 piece band perform nineties mash-up covers to a packed house. When the first strains of the Jurassic Park theme sounded from the stage, I knew I was in for a treat. And I was. They had amazing talent and energy. And because of my ska days, I really appreciated their heavy brass section.

Set of Episode VIII in the distance

We went our merry ways after the show. I enjoyed the beautiful weather and all the Star Wars talk. Usually, I am the one getting excited about Star Wars when most people couldn’t care less, or at least half as much as me. But as I’m currently residing a few miles below one of the sets for Episode VIII and they begin filming in a few days’ time, the peninsula is abuzz with talk of the movies. Little figurines dot the inside of most stores, pubs, and cafés. It’s kind of a surreal experience to hear so many random people talking about one of my favorite things with as much enthusiasm as I have for it.

I know this isn’t much, and I have many more stories not only from this past week, but from my travels in general. I think, however, that this will be my last post to you for some time. My travels are soon at an end, but when I see you next I can fill you in on some of the stories that never made it here. Perhaps when I next undertake to venture forth, I will write once more. Let us hope that is not a too distant future.

May the Fourth be with you!

The Brevity Report:

“Roads go ever ever on
Under cloud and under star,
Yet feet that wandering have gone
Turn at last to home afar.
Eyes that fire and sword have seen
And horror in the halls of stone
Look at last on meadows green
And trees and hills they long have known.”

The Brevity Report

I know it’s been some since I’ve written. The truth, however, is that I’ve little to say beyond a laundry list of various hikes. Instead of waiting for the inspiration to strike to give you a fuller description of the last ten days, I have elected instead to share with you some photographs with captions of my adventures. My lack of words does not mean I found the adventures lacking, only that I am currently not up to the task of providing an intriguing narrative to describe days spent in silent splendor. When you see me next, ask me for stories, I have plenty.

Ancient round fort

Another, with Balleycarbery Castle in the distance

Lesser Skellig covered in nesting birds

Skellig Michael, the rock on which monks lived for up to eight centuries, and most recently was home to Luke Skywalker

Portmagee

Ballinskelligs beach and castle. I scaled the ruins and had a nap atop the walls

Balleycarbery Castle

I've quite grown in fondness for these little guys

Beentee Loop hike

Sunset from the other side of Beentee

And to sum up my time on the Iveragh Peninsula, I share this quote with you:

Ophelia

Whether for better or for worse, nothing ever goes exactly according to plan. On travel days in particular, this is one of the reasons I tend to avoid making definitive plans. The one exception was when I went to see Les Mis, and even hustling, I only arrived with fifteen minutes to spare before the curtain. Such as it is, I hadn’t planned anything for my one night in Dublin.

My expectations were well-founded. All of my research about how to get to my hostel from the airport was wasted when I approached the bus and the driver told me they weren’t going where I needed to be and directed me to another bus. Later, I saw that same bus line stopping exactly where I needed to be. Though it saved me €1.70, it also put me an hour behind my indeterminate schedule and about a mile out of my way. Nonetheless, I arrived in my hostel and was pleasantly surprised by the accommodations. My last hostel experience was a decade ago, and my memories of it are mostly of dark dingy discomfort. By the time I had everything stowed and was changed out of my travelling clothes, it was 7pm. I had two options, I decided. I could either get dinner somewhere, or go try to scalp tickets to the Lumineers concert which already was startin.

As I was haggling with the scalper, I looked up and made eye contact with Neyla Pekarek (the group’s cellist) as she made her way into the theatre. What was I supposed to say though? “Oh hey, for a second I thought you were Maisie Williams, but you’re actually just the famous person I was looking for!” In the end, I waited until right before they were supposed to come on stage, and got the ticket for about €25 less than they were originally asking. If I had played hardball, I probably could have saved another ten, but if I had done that I probably would not have ended up getting my seat of choice in the center front row of the mezzanine.

A few months back, we sat wondering if The Lumineers would ever release another album and when they’d tour again. As such, I keenly felt the absence of the Sisters Lawson and their respective husbands – even you, Keenan, despite how you got shafted the last time we saw them. Alas, I had to content myself chatting with a girl from California as we waited for them to come on.

The Olympia Theatre was packed, and they put on a fantastic show. The barefoot hipster playing the piano made me feel like I was back in Colorado, and the energy of the crowd rode high the entire set. During the period of which I’m unsure whether it was just short break or if it was an unconvincing attempt at a finish to prompt a contrived encore, the crowd treated the band to their first “ole!” Naturally, the next song was the slowest and saddest of the night. In the small theatre, we were gifted an exceptional rendition of Darlene done without the aid of any sound equipment, just the pure tones of voice and instrument mixing naturally, filling the small space and drawing us in.

Having decided against asking my new-made almost friend out for drinks, I headed back after the concert and instead enjoyed a cider in the comforts of the hostel bar. Which is where I met Carla, the professional South African netball player who flew to Dublin just for the concert and was flying back to England in a few hours. I found it concerningly odd at first when she asked me if we had a free bunk in my room where she could crash. Then I found out that she accidentally booked a mixed-dorm and it was just her and four men in her room. “Dodgy,” she called it, and she planned on sitting in the common room all night. Remembering the guy who had called me “baby doll” in the elevator, I was moved by her plight and offered her the spare bunk. I don’t suppose I really had a right to, but I’ve slept in enough public places in my life to want to help someone else avoid that unpleasantness if possible.

The Brevity Report:

• More lying bus drivers
• Lumineers in concert
• Rogue South African roommate

Luck Be a Lady, Part II

Once upon a time, in a moment of extraordinary generosity, Drew poured me a glass of 18 year-old Macallan. At the first sip, I fell in love and it became my whisky of choice. Quite by chance, I found myself within an hour’s drive of the distillery, and I booked my tour for Friday. Although I left myself extra time, I was caught in an unfortunate traffic situation. Walking up to the distillery door in the swirling snow, I fretted about the five minutes I was late, if the tour had already started, would they let me hop on late? Or would I have to reschedule, and were there any openings?

As it turns out, very few people book distillery tours at 10am on weekday. That is to say, I was the only one. I was treated to a private tour. First off, Emily was delightful. It’s not a word I generally use, but it is the most apt description of all of the people I met. Well, except that one surly guy at the ice cream shop. It took me a bit to adjust to the luxuries of the private tour. Usually, I’d hang in the back, taking it all in in my own way, poke around a bit, and not ask any questions. I knew, however, that in an hour and 45 minute private tour, I’d have to speak. Slowly I moved from mute to questioning to conversational, and in the end I thoroughly enjoyed a tour tailored to my interests.

In an estimated two years' time, the new distillery will be functional, and you will no longer be able to tour the facilities I saw, which date back 200 years. I’m quite fortunate to have stumbled in to tour when I did, they're already booked solid most of the summer. What I learned was fascinating, about the history, time, work, and love that goes into every drop. I tasted the fresh rain water, smooth, clear, and cool which is used in the still, but had to decline the barley. Luck still on my side, fresh new make spirit was running through the glass pipes and I was able to dip my finger in and have a taste. Remarkably smooth for 73%, I must say. Since I was on my own, Emily pulled a few strings and I was upgraded to the VIP tour and showed me some areas which are generally restricted.

First was the filling station. With the scale of The Macallan, one might guess that it is near-fully automated. Walking into the large shed, empty but for casks and workmen, I was privileged to a view of the manual labor that is still a part of the process. Cask after cask was being filled then tipped over and rolled away by hand to sleep like Rip Van Winkle. It was in this very shed that the head whisky maker at The Macallan got his start thirty-five years ago. I was shown the tipping station, where mature casks are tipped out and drained to be sent to the marriage pots. The marriage pots were our last stop of the VIP section, where whiskies from different casks and barrels spend six months to a year getting to know one another before being bottled.

Emily cheerily removed the bung from a cask of 18 year, and dipped her finger in. She invited me to do the same, to taste the difference between whiskies which have yet to fully blend and those which have undergone the marriage process. And it’s true, it’s quite different from the smooth flavor of the finished product. “But still I have to say,” she said with a smile, dipping her finger in for the third time, “it’s not bad.” I was inclined to agree.

I took my time enjoying drams of different varieties of The Macallan. Over good whisky, I got to thinking. Sometimes I feel like I should have had more, well, any qualms about taking a good portion of my life-savings to go discover the world. But with a fire in my belly and a smile on my face, I was nothing but happy about the decision to go a-wandering.

The contentment continued as I set off for the Isle Skye. On my drive, I was treated to the sight of wee lambs gamboling about verdant pastures, and my heart melted like rich Scottish butter. I was in high spirits, even though I had no idea what I was in for. I had been told by many that I should go, so I did. Fortunately, I met yet another delightful and helpful woman at the gas station just before Skye Bridge. They get a lot of famous people in these parts, she told me, in fact Princess Anne was in just last week to use the toilet. Kanye West was in the day before, too, but she prefers 50 Cent. Above all, she gave me a piece of advice which ended up being one of the highlights of my whole trip. Visit the Fairy Pools, she told me, it’s a bit of a walk, but they’re worth it. Off I went, in search of magic.

After miles on a single-lane winding mountain road, I at last came to the trailhead. Not knowing what to expect, I followed the path, insensible to the freezing rain ripping through the glen. The Fairy Pools are a series of waterfalls and their resultant pools. It doesn’t sound like much, but I understand how they got their name. They are enchanting. The clear water runs swiftly through the mountains, carving its way through hard rock and smoothing it. Pools form, deep and crystalline, taking on an ethereal blue hue, seeming still and calm despite the violence around them. The water is beckoning, in the winter cold they seem to promise warmth and rest – a mischievous trick of the sprites for whom they are named. I almost went for a dip, but after an hour I realized that my legs were entirely numb and I still had about six hours of driving ahead of me. With a sigh and a promise to return, I put the Fairy Pools at my back, my Scottish adventures nearing their end.

I was not ready to leave Scotland, but time heeds no one. It was with certain melancholy that I left the Highlands, making my way back towards Edinburgh. Having ridden near the top the wheel of fortune for the week, I should have expected the turn which would bring me to the bottom. That’s her way after all. Driving south, I was caught in construction almost the whole time. It didn’t bother me, except for the fear of being charged extra for a late return. Then a truck kicked up a stone, and instead of just bouncing off like so many do, it drove straight into my windshield, pocking it with a large chip. Oh Edinburgh, you really are not keen to impress. Here’s hoping that Capital One is as good as their word and the rental insurance covers it. I’m just hoping to ride luck a little longer and not have to pay to replace the windshield of the renegade Fiat out of pocket.

Though not wanting to leave Scotland behind, I head for the promise of Ireland, for two weeks wandering the rocky coast of the Emerald Isle.



 The Brevity Report:

• I saw a passenger bus consumed by roiling flames

Luck Be a Lady, Part I

Not that I’m particularly misfortunate, but when it comes to the day-to-day I would not describe myself as someone predisposed to excess luck. There was one time I found five dollars in the snow and bought bacon, but usually I am centered levelly in the wheel of fortune. So, when I arrived in Inverness and my single room had been upgraded to a triple, I was a bit more excited than I really had cause to be. It was a turning, it seemed to me, after the Edinburghian doldrums. Walking along the banks of the River Ness in the sunset with a nip in the air and the sound of gulls on the wind, I was filled with delighted expectancy – the pursuant days would hold great things, I was sure, so long as I sought them out.

The following morning, I decided to explore the city. And by “explore,” of course, I mean that I wanted to find a good bookstore and preeminently find a decent roastery and replace my depleted coffee supply. Walking into Leaky’s Book Store felt like the scene when the Beast gives Belle his library. Books on books on books. Mountains of books. Shelved and stacked in lovely disarray floor to ceiling in the old Gaelic church, a wood fire crackling merrily in the center as I made my way to the wrought iron spiral staircase. I don’t know how long I spent in there, but I am just now remembering that I forgot to go back to pick up the first edition Agatha Christie. Finally, my caffeine headache drove me a few blocks down the street. I sat for a while, chatting with the barista. The last American they’d had in there, she told me, was a writer – science fiction, she thought – and set up in the Highlands to make it the backdrop of his book. From this, I infer that he was actually a fantasy writer, but considering how the two genres are lumped together, I wasn’t surprised. She was also happy to give me all sorts of advice on where to go and what to see.

Despite of all the new information, I knew what was necessarily my next stop. It’s still unclear to me as to whether the locals actually believe in the Loch Ness Monster or if they just enjoy having a go at tourists. In either case, Nessie is spoken about with an extreme level of familiarity, like a household pet that everyone knows. Sitting on a jut of stone with my feet dangling in the frosty waves of Loch Ness, I held the alar of Nessie’s existence firmly in my mind and searched in earnest for a glimpse of the legendary leviathan. Although I met with no success, watching the mist roll in over the expansive waters was itself a sight rare enough to content me.

I continued driving my circuit, occasionally pulling over to enjoy the view. That’s when I spotted it. A hiking trail just off the road with views over the loch. After changing into my hiking clothes which I fortunately had had the foresight to stow in my daypack, I took off into the woods. How quickly day turns to dusk under the boughs of thick pines. A green gloom spread out before me, pierced by occasional shafts of yellow sunlight. I followed the path upwards along the sound of the waterfall, and I was overcome (and not for the last time) by the awareness that although Jackson chose to film in New Zealand, Middle Earth was modelled on the British Isles, and I felt that I was there. Previously, I wrote of my dislike for running. I shall now clarify. I dislike running on flat in the open. In the forest, however, with roots and rocks below and trees twisting above, I become sure and fleet of foot. And so it was that I bound through the forest trails overlooking Loch Ness singing “Colors of the Wind.” If you’re wondering how I managed to sing while running since I barely manage a wheeze, you have good reason. The solution to this is the same as to the problem of my uniquely displeasing singing voice. I sing in my head. I never run out of breath, and I sound like Susan Egan. Truly, I’m good enough to bring you to tears, if you could hear it.

After my hike/sing/run, I decided to take the high road home. I followed the mountain road on the eastern side of the loch. The winding mountain road brought with it beautiful vistas and more impromptu jaunts. When the sun was hanging low, I found myself unexpectedly at a mountain lake, and I pulled over to take it all in. It was one of those serene existential moments in which everything seems to make sense, even if you can’t understand it. Standing there in that timeless moment, my thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a car slowing. Nothing strikes fear in my heart like a stopping car, my mind immediately jumps to the Zodiac killer and all sorts of sordid stories. So I turned and faced an instant of bewilderment. Surrealism shifted as serenity turned to “oh shit.” My car was gone. Its parking spot was empty. Eyes wide and mouth agape, I discovered why the approaching car was slowing. There was my car, 50 meters away in the middle of the road, rolling slowly away. I couldn’t ask for a better example of why I tend to be a luddite. Automatic electronic parking brake they tell you, excited with their new technology. Guaranteed to make everything simpler, everything better! That is, of course, until your car blows away in the wind. I again felt unnaturally lucky. Lucky because, to paraphrase one Michael Scott, if you trust technology it’ll drive your car into a lake, and I somehow escaped that eventuality.

The next two days were spent exploring more of the country and more of the city and eating a liter of raspberry ripple vanilla ice cream. Scotland knows how to do dairy. Kerry Gold pales in comparison to the butter here. I licked it right off the knife and didn’t even care. It tastes like buttercream icing. Drinking the milk was an entirely new experience, unlike anything I’ve ever tasted Stateside. Happy cows don’t come from California, they come from Scotland.

Warmed by the thick cream coating my arteries, I decided to venture yet further north, despite the snow we had that morning. Like most good things, I stumbled upon the empty beach of Dornoch quite by accident. Although the sun shone down on the frozen coast, when I took off northward I was bundled against the cold: coat, hat, and hiking boots. The lack of sea gulls should have seemed conspicuous to me, but ever since I saw that kid in a stroller get attacked and lose his toast to the bird a few days earlier, I found them rather sinister and was happy for their absence. In the six miles that followed, I lost count the number of times my coat, hat, and gloves came on and off. I think we use the term “intermittent” rather loosely. Intermittent means three different snow showers, four rainstorms, wind, sun, and calm in a two-hour period. What is one to do finding herself alone on the coast of the North Sea in wintry weather as the clouds roll in? There is only one logical conclusion, I surmised, and that is to run pell mell into the waves. Legs numb and dripping wet, I drove home with a smile on my face and a rainbow dancing in the snow behind me. 

 The Brevity Report

• Chilled with Nessie
• Utterly disregarded my lactose-intolerance

A little fall of rain

Two days of low spirits is nowhere near long enough to steer me away from a chosen course of action. Ill-advised uber rides and a Netflix binge? Sure. But let’s be honest about something. I’m a Jarocki: we’re an inherently stubborn breed. If two days were going to wreck this trip, I would have been home in those first rainy days trapped in my lair in France with nothing but cheese and Grey’s Anatomy for my friends.

Though I was ready to move on, Edinburgh hadn’t had its last with me yet. My spirits were buoyed by Magda, the car rental agent. “Do you have Polish family?” she asked, “I recognize your last name.” For those of you with recognizable or even simply pronounceable last names, you won’t understand how significant a moment this was. Whenever I give my last name, I say “Jarocki, with a J,” and whenever anyone asks for my last name, I just start spelling it. Forget people pronouncing it unaided, not going to happen. This is my normal, and I don’t remark upon it any more than I remark upon tying my shoes. So when for the first time in my life someone recognized my last name it was that which was remarkable. She was also quite pleasant, giving me suggestions of where to visit. I kept the conversation going for as long as possible because the blend of the Scottish and Polish accents was so intriguing. I hadn't often thought about the fact that when someone learns a new language, it is marked not only by the accent of their native dialect, but also by that of the region in which they learn it, and very distinctively so.

On this subject, I find that being in Scotland is a similar linguistic experience for me as being in France. When someone is speaking directly to me, I understand between 90 and 98% of what is said, and can infer the rest. When I am not a part of the conversation and lack context, however, if I don’t focus a particular effort, it is just background noise. And when I do make an effort, my success rate is still alarmingly low. I’ve developed a game, and before you say anything, I am aware of how creepy it is, I just don’t care.

When I’m out, I pace/position myself so I am within earshot of a conversation. If I understand immediately, I move on, I’m not actually interested in the content. Here’s the fun – I first have to discern if it is English, and second I attempt to understand it. It took a full three minutes in the souvenir shop before I was sure that English wasn’t the language being spoken. This all started when I was wandering around Edinburgh and inadvertently adopted the pace of the couple in front of me. We walked the same path for about half a mile and I was able to catch maybe 5-10% of what they said. Its an odd sensation to be unable to comprehend your native tongue.

Back to Magda, however. Despite her somewhat boosting my spirits, I also ended up paying roughly $200 more for the car than the initial estimate. So in the way of spirit-boosting, kind of a wash. Granted, I did agree to upgrade to the diesel engine, but they forgot to mention the daily surcharge and 20% tax in addition to the upgrade price. To put it plainly: I was bamboozled. I was ready to be on my way, but I couldn’t even get the car started. Having to go ask Chris how to simply turn over the engine did not seem like an auspicious start to the next leg of my Scotland adventure. Turns out, if I had just moved the steering wheel a bit, all would have been well.

I had a few tense moments getting out of Edinburgh. I will admit that adjusting to driving on the left side of the road combined with learning to drive a manual transmission left-handed and both of these interspersed with heavily trafficked roundabouts caused a few expletives to slip out. Soon however, I was comfortable with the situation, and it began to seem odd considering the inverse. It was somewhat astounding that I could so easily transform a skill with certain ingrained habits of a dozen years in a matter of minutes. To me, it speaks volumes of the amazing adaptability of the human mind, or it means that my pursuit of ambidexterity which began in 1998 has actually paid off with practical application. I can’t be sure.

In either case, I drove north, my spirits rising commensurately with each mile I put between Edinburgh and me. You know that feeling when you get really close to something you want, but don’t achieve it and it makes it even more disappointing - like waiting in a long line for something, and it being closed, sold out, or full by the time you get there? I think that was Edinburgh for me. Somewhere deep inside of me, I knew it was simply an in-between, a place-holder. Close, but insufficient.

My heart, you see, was made for the Highlands.

These stories, however, must wait for another day. I leave you only with the knowledge that I am well and alive, and fully so.

The Brevity Report:

• Left Edinburgh for the Highlands

The Capital Tour

I don’t know how long it’s been since I’ve written to you, but I do understand I’ve been remiss. Time simply got away from me in my travels. I will do my best to fill in the gaps without being over-lengthy, but the two do seem a tad mutually exclusive considering how much has passed in the interim. Given my fatigue, I will travail to err on the side of brevity, but, as is already evident, when I write my innate taciturnity turns to garrulity. Alas, let us commence.

When I last wrote, I think I was still fat and happy with reblochon and red in France. How to wrap up a month in the French Alps? My days passed much the same, only I started spending them exclusively at the café. Two espressos in the early afternoon, two glasses of wine in the late afternoon into the evening, and I’d head home after I’d finished the chapter of the day. What can I say? I already liked there, and when the baristas started giving me free drinks, I liked it even more. I must say, on this side of the counter, I see that it is quite nice to be a regular. At least a regular who is liked. Unfortunately, when you become a regular, other regulars think you want them to talk at you. 

Here are a few things I learned in France: Apparently, I bear the entire weight and sole responsibility for the political mess in which we are currently immersed. I, and I alone, have managed to turn the entire population of the United States to the pursuit of authoritarianism. Never mind that I swore up and down that I don’t support Trump. What else? Oh yes. In the US, there exist exclusively the extremely impoverished and the extraordinarily rich, and if any of the people who spoke to me moved to the US, they would certainly die in the streets within months because we all hate foreigners and there are no social services to support them. Obviously, the French have heard of our growing wage gap and pay inequality issues, and in conjunction with the current politics a certain number of them have surmised that we are regressing to a state of feudalism while simultaneously craving anarchy and a dictator. This is not just one conversation, but is the summation of many. As I said, a myriad of people assumed I had naught to interest me but to sit and listen as they waxed ineloquent on all the deficiencies of my country. So although I came to love it there, when I made the final egress from my subterranean lair, I was quite looking forward to what was next.

The plane ride to Rome, albeit short and bumpy, was comparatively enjoyable even though I became engrossed in conversation from which I was unable to extract myself. Fortunately, the focus had moved from the inadequacies of the States to another. I was in a row with Jamila from Oman and Zara, who had the best opener: “I’m from Iran, ever heard of it?” Fresh off of being blamed for all present and potential problems of a country, I just nodded, but Jamila lost it. After that conversation, Jamila told us she only had a weekend in Rome and was planning on visiting the Vatican on Sunday morning. A long while was spent trying to convince her that this, in fact, was a terrible idea and mostly impossible since it was Easter Sunday. Although she couldn’t really get a grasp on what Easter in Rome means, I finally convinced her that there would be fewer people on Saturday, but did not even broach the topic that she would be unable to simply stroll into Vatican City and explore. I figured the Swiss Guards with their poleaxes would get the message across much better than I would be able to express.

After roughly 14 hours to travel about 400 miles as the crow flies, I finally made it to Rome to see Mom and Sal. I did what you do in Rome. I ate a ton of gelato and drank more espresso than is altogether healthy. This being my sixth or seventh time in Rome, I thought I might finally take the opportunity to do some things I’ve never done. I ascended to the cupola of St. Peter’s. When you finally are inside the actual dome, the walls are skewed, pushing in above you. “Wonky,” was the word that came to mind as I ascended the seat of Peter, and then I laughed aloud because it reminded me of the homily in which Fr. Peter compared the Throne of God to the Wonkavator. For those of you who do not geek out over both etymology and theology (i.e.: probably all of you), I suppose I will just have to put it plainly and admit that I was actually amused by a pun. 

At the top, my impression of the views were mitigated by my continual struggle to dampen the surges of violent rage which generally come upon me when I am in large groups confined to small areas. I made my obligatory round of the cupola and got out of there as quickly as possible. Which was not quickly at all, considering the single-file-sized hallways and that I think the woman in front of me may have been suffering from vertigo. Nonetheless, when I reached the roof of the cathedral, I was quite content. Did you know there is a café there? I got an ice cream and an espresso, found a little uninhabited niche, and just sat for a while. I have always had peculiar predilection for rooftops, and sitting atop the home of Catholicism overlooking the eternal city ranks among the best rooftop experiences I've had. It lost a few points due the fact that unlike many other roofs, I knew beyond a doubt that I was absolutely allowed to be there, but there’s always a catch, is there not? 

I also decided to brave the Vatican museums. I’m bad at museums. Remember the violent rage in crowds of people? The Sistine Chapel was a bit of a trial in that manner, but I managed to spend a full ten minutes there and I’m glad I did. In addition to viewing the Last Judgment and Creation of Man, I had the opportunity to engross myself in cuneiform tablets. For a moment I lamented that I’ve lost the ability to read cuneiform, but then I remembered that even if I had maintained my grasp on the phonetics of it, I don’t speak ancient Sumerian, and I’m okay with that. I also thoroughly enjoyed the horribly distorted and inaccurate maps of the New World.

After near a week in Rome, I boarded the double-decker Flix bus to Trento to visit Emmy and escape the city crowds for a weekend. I try to avoid making blanket statements about an entire people or nation as I could never have enough data to support a claim as such, nonetheless I will say that poor signage does seem epidemic in Italy. How are you to know where to descend from the bus when none of the stops are marked? Counting stops doesn’t work, because you don’t stop unless someone requests it, and you can’t request it if you don’t know it’s coming. Fortunately, Armando came out on his bike and found me walking down the mountain highway after his wife told him I wasn’t at the train station. I’m a bit unsure how I gleaned all of this information, considering we didn’t share a common language, but that’s what happened. 

This lack of signage also led my and Emmy’s Sunday afternoon walk to transform into bushwhacking our way to a mountaintop when the trail simply ended. Fortunately, I had decided to put on my hiking boots which Mom was kind enough to exchange for my tennies, but otherwise I hadn't changed from my church clothes. LNT #1 – Plan ahead and prepare. Fail. Though did we? Because the only sign we found for the castle clearly indicated that we follow the terminal trail. We did find the ruins of a tower for our efforts, and when we finally made it back down into town, the castle was there sitting amidst all the other buildings. After returning and doffing my sweaty and dirty "nice" outfit, we went out for dinner and had wine, GF pizza, espresso, and limoncello before lying on a lakeside dock stargazing and singing the song from The Lizzy Macguire Movie. I'm not defending it, I'm just telling you it happened.

Shakespeare's Globe in the background

Back to Rome, where I took a picture of JPII’s tomb before I was told that I wasn’t allowed to. I hadn’t realized that the prayer and picture areas were exclusive. I suppose I figured that ten minutes  of prayer got me access to one picture, but that’s not the way it works. I think the guard(?) only didn’t kick me out because I was crying. Come on. It’s Saint John Paul the Great. I’m just content that I didn’t have to knowingly break a rule to get the picture, because I’m pretty sure I would have.

LONDON. For reasons unbeknownst to me, I somehow let myself be swayed by insidious lies regarding the nature of London, and almost did not go. Pure foolish rubery. Mercifully I am a sucker for a cheap flight and went anyway. London may very well be one of my favorite places in the whole world (that I’ve visited), and generally I don't even like cities. Oh London, our time was too short, but it was nothing short of magical. And I do not say that only because I visited Platform 9 ¾. Les Misérables on the London stage… For those of you who love musical theater, that statement is enough. For those of you who don’t, nothing I say will matter, so I leave it there. When I got back after the show, I opened my window and heard the strains of Zimmer’s score to Sherlock Holmes drifting up from below. It was delightfully cliché and I couldn't have been happier. 

In the 47 hours that followed I went to King’s Cross Station and bought my first souvenir of the trip (a Platform 9¾ key ring), visited St. Paul’s and Southwark Cathedrals, walked the Millennium and London Bridges, saw the Tower Bridge, visited the Tower of London and saw the crown jewels, visited the Victoria & Albert museum, the National Portrait Gallery, and the National Gallery, visited Trafalgar Square, stopped by the recreation of the Globe Theatre, and saw Big Ben. Oh, and I saw Buckingham Palace. I didn’t care for it. Perhaps it’s the anti-monarchial side of me, but it was the singular disappointing moment of my days there. 

Since a young age, I have favored British Literature. I would have graduated with a degree in English if I hadn’t decided to forego the requisite American Lit in favor of “British Drama through the Ages.” Due to this inclination, walking around London was like walking through my personal literary history. Wandering Covent Garden, I imagined Eliza selling her flowers, every street name I recognized, every landmark I saw, seemed familiar in way inexplicable except to those who understand what it means to not just read, but who vicariously experience a story. At the Charlotte Brontë exhibit I shed more than a tear reading over the first edition of Jane Eyre and found both solace and poignant understanding in her handwritten letters. It was actually deeply personal and moving, and I shall say no more of it. Alas, I had to tear myself away to go catch the Night Bus. Yes, truly, from London I took a sleeper bus with bunks to Edinburgh. It wasn’t the best night’s sleep, but I imagine that it beats the Knight Bus as the driver was much more deliberate than Ern, though slower. Don’t worry, if you don’t read Harry Potter, you should be lost.

After the splendor of London, this past Saturday I awoke to a grey dreary day in Edinburgh. My hosts were nice and welcoming, I found a good cortado, went to the movies, and wandered around. And I hated it. So much. Perhaps after spending so long with family and friends and the thrill of London, I was simply lonely and bored finding myself alone again. The people I was staying with seemed like they’d be people I’d be friends with if I lived there. I base this solely on the fact that they’re nice, have a vintage Star Wars poster on the wall, have an entire shelf of fantasy novels, and have Catan and War of the Ring on their game shelf. However, the odd fact that they reminded me of friends but weren’t actually was unexpectedly depressing. Wandering outside, the dull monochromatic greys of the city were oppressive, and the only way to describe my impression and my mood is “bleak.”

Sitting inside alone with Netlfix as company, I remembered reading something like the following on a travel blog before I left: “It’s okay to stop, to change your mind. Maybe travel isn’t everything you thought it was, and that’s okay. Maybe you planned for too long, going home early doesn’t mean you failed.” Although I already purchased my non-refundable flight home, I started thinking that maybe it is simply time to cut my losses and go home a few weeks early.

Perhaps it's the legendary Jarocki frugality in me, but I don't like paying for convenience. I'd rather drive the 15 minutes round trip to the movie theater to pick up tickets than pay $3 a pop to reserve online. I can't help but run the math, and when I do, I do not often find it worth it. But Edinburgh weakened my pragmatic resolve. And so, the next morning, instead of walking eight minutes to the tram, I got an uber to the airport. Not only did I transgress a hitherto sustained precedent of not downloading any apps which request unnecessary access to my phone, but in choosing the uber, I paid roughly 75 cents per minute saved if my card gives the market value conversion. Hourly rate: $45. Steep for a jobless vagrant. Like I said, my mood was as grey as the Scottish sky, and I didn't even care.

The Brevity Report:

• America, but me specifically, is ruining France
• Easter in Rome
• A visit to Trento
• London: all the things
• Edinburgh: bleak

Fresh Air

The largest lake in France should not be this difficult to find. Alas, sometimes your bus driver pulls over on the side of the road and says “get off.” You don’t really have a choice. For those of you already incredulous that I simply did something wrong or didn’t plan well enough, I would like to cite several factors. One – the final stop on the bus line I took is called Plage (beach) and the map shows that it’s actually right next to the beach. Two – I’m sure I was on the right bus because the destination marquee on the front of the bus read “Plage.” Three – the bus driver literally pulled over in the middle of some campus, not even at a bus stop mind you, and kicked us off. This is not normal bus driver behavior. I’ve ridden to the end of enough bus lines, both on purpose and accidentally, to know they only let you off at approved stops, even if you ask. Usually they tell you that you’re at the end of the line, that it’s the last stop. Not this guy. In the middle of the road he just says, “I’m done, get off.”

My theory is that he was seriously jonesing for a cigarette. This is not just idle speculation, but an informed hypothesis. You see, I’m fairly certain someone forgot to tell France about lung cancer. Seriously, it’s baffling. When I go to a bar or a café, I generally choose to sit inside to get fresh air, and even then people have cigarettes hanging in their mouths because they can’t wait. Pass a school at lunch time, and it’s a cloud to rival Boulder on 4/20. I’ve seen my bus be late because the driver was smoking. I was there sitting on the bus, watching the scheduled departure time come and go while he sucked down carcinogens.

This speculation however, is irrelevant. Not knowing where I was, I decided to follow the stream north which took me into a small town. It was lunch time, i.e.: sometime between 11am and 3pm, so naturally everything was closed, including the Office of Tourism. I took a path into the woods, which, as best as I could tell by the extraordinarily inaccurate map, would take me to the beach. It didn’t. It did take me to the ruins of the Castle of Thomas II, Duke of Savoy. Walking the forest path, with pebbles dancing merrily in my Birkenstocks was when I had the thought, the largest lake in France should not be this difficult to find. As it turns out, it really shouldn’t be. There is a bus stop about a twenty second walk from the entrance to the beach. I had a much easier time getting back from the lake than I did in getting there.

Aside from my ongoing struggle against the buses of Chambéry in which I always lose, day to day life has taken on predictable rhythm. Work out, have brunch, espresso and writing at Café de l’Horloge, cider and writing at O’Cardinal’s, dinner, Grey’s Anatomy. It used to be dinner and Grey’s Anatomy together, but the doctors are always messing up and it had a negative impact on my appetite. I also think I might be losing weight, perhaps due in part to not being able to finish dinner thanks to aortal spurts, but I can’t be sure. I only mention it because it’s rather confounding considering my diet: cheese, butter, cheese, sausages, cheese, wine, cheese, and Brussel sprouts.

I was in the midst of said predictable rhythm, writing over a cider at O’Cardinal’s, when something changed. It was Saint Patrick’s day, and there was to be an Irish singer performing at the pub that night. The outside area was packed, and I was fairly certain that he’d be performing there. However, I was early and decided to get some fresh air inside while I waited. Then a man strolled in and started setting up his equipment. I have long considered myself shy at heart. It’s under much better control than it once was, but it’s still there. However, when you find yourself in a foreign city with a veritable paucity of expats, the fact that someone speaks your native tongue is enough in common to strike up a conversation.

Tim O’Connor and I sat sharing a pint at an Irish pub in a medieval town in the French Alps. We talked about music and travel and commiserated about the wall of formality which makes it so difficult to meet people here.

Throughout the night, I enjoyed lively music, listened to a Frenchman complain for twenty minutes about how America is ruining France (just stop, please stop talking to me), watched an Irish step dancer, sang along to the Beatles with a bunch of French people, and had my name announced to a packed pub. The last of these was an odd experience. Tim had introduced other people throughout the night, but had had a reason for each. There was Bejamin, his fiddler. Next was Ricky James, Tim’s friend who sang a few songs with him. Then there was Maeve, the Irish girl who danced spontaneously and on request accompanied Tim with vocals on a traditional Irish ballad. Then there was me, who had absolutely nothing to offer. “There’s an American here: Elizabeth!” he called into the mic, introducing me. An awkward smile. A half-wave. A confused silence. And then a French hippie took off his Guiness top hat with a rolling flourish and bowed to me as he shouted my name. Thank you, stoned white guy with dreadlocks. If it weren’t for you, who knows how long we would have sat awkwardly before Heart of Gold got started. 

All in all, it was probably one of the best St. Patrick’s Days on record.  

The Brevity Report:

• Lac du Bourget
• Castle of Duke Thomas II
• St. Patty's Day festivities

Shambleshanks, Conqueress of Banks

Due to a completely avoidable and thoroughly inopportune sequence of mishaps, I found myself in the uncomfortable position of owing a dead person 53 cents.

Ah, but I forget myself. Let me take you to the beginning…

I arrived in France with roughly 43 euros and bag of assorted change in my possession. I was not bothered by this circumstance since you get the best exchange rate with credit card transactions anyhow. I figured if I needed to, I’d be able to change some dollars after I’d settled in. I was unscrupulously frivolous with those 43 euros, and soon found that I had only a fiver and a few coins left. Again, not much of a problem, except that everywhere I have been has a minimum requirement for credit cards purchases. My only daily expense is espresso, and I have reservations about the prudence of consuming enough of it to meet the minimum for a credit card transaction.

After my second cider at O’Cardinal’s – had to meet the minimum, after all – I decided to visit the cathedral. O’Cardinal’s has become my favorite bar. I know I’m in France, and maybe should be checking out all the different brasseries available, but there’s something undeniably comforting about an Irish pub. And it is adjacent to the cathedral, which makes it the perfect place to wait on the bus after mass. I was wandering in the church, marveling at the extensive work of tromp l’oeil, when I caught sight of a hand. It has been some time since I’ve been in Europe, and I forgot about the proliferation of incorruptibles in churches. Therefore, I was a bit surprised to see the quill-wielding hand on display. Naturally, my reaction was something along the lines of, “Oh sweet, whose is that?” Well, as it turns out, no one really knows. The sign says simply, “hand of the exhumed saint of Annecy.”

I find this a bit perplexing. The only thing that makes sense to me is that when the former Franciscan chapel was being converted into the cathedral, the graves were dug up and the bodies moved. Someone must have stumbled on the hand and thought the same thing I did, “Who does this belong to? Eh, don’t know, but we should definitely keep it out.” Okay, it makes sense so far; there have been other reports of only certain body parts being incorrupt, like St. Vincent de Paul’s heart. Here’s the thing that really gets me though. Who decided to put the quill in the hand? Why, having no idea who this person was, do you assume writer? Why not confessor? That seems likely. Or cook? Well on second thought, a hand holding a chef’s knife in a glass case might be pushing the line. I digress, however.

Continuing my circuit, I decided to light a candle. Instead of one collection box for buying the candles, the instructions say to drop payment in the box beneath the statue in front of which you light the candle. Joan of Arc doesn’t have a box, so I was saved having to choose between her and Thérèse. After lighting my candle and saying a prayer, I put my hand in my pocket to pull out the requisite euro. Which is when I remember I am a bit strapped. I pull out all my coins – I have 47 cents. I realize I could have been magnanimous or taken out a line of candle-credit and dropped in my five, but prudence urged me to keep a hold of my last bill. “Alright Saint Thérèse,” I bargained, “I’m getting more money tomorrow, I’ll pay you back then.” It seemed so simple. How wrong I was.

The next day, I met with absolutely no success. There is no “Bureau de Change” in Chambéry. All the banks turned me away. Some didn’t even let me in. And nowhere online or in print can I find a clear answer about where to change cash. Remember the sequence of avoidable mishaps? One of them was forgetting my debit card. I can take a cash advance on my credit card, but that immediately starts accruing 25% interest. It would be cheaper to take the bus to Geneva and change my money in Switzerland. It says right on their tourism website, “exchange your money at any Swiss bank.” And let’s be real, who doesn’t want a good excuse to go in a Swiss bank? So, after hours of walking, several extraordinarily rude French bankers, and nothing for my trouble except for getting called “sir” over the intercom, I still couldn't pay Saint Thérèse back.

The best way I can describe the feeling of finding myself in monetary debt to a saint is that my heart felt itchy. I figured I’d pay back the next day, so I hadn’t bothered to negotiate any sort of interest rate. Also, strictly speaking, I’m fairly certain you’re not supposed to only pay for half of something then come back later. Unless you’re in Ward, then they’re happy to be paid back their $7.92 a year later. I went to bed that night thinking that Switzerland would be my best option. I’ve been wanting to get over there anyhow, why not sooner rather than later?

The next day, however, I awoke with an unparalleled optimism. I had this crazy thought, “what if you don’t go to Geneva today? What if you go to the post office instead?” And I was somehow cheered by this. I can’t explain it. But it was the kind of morning where you believe the world is your oyster. After my morning calisthenics, I even decided to go for a run. I am unsure whether it was a moment of inspiration or a moment of vanity, but I laced up my shoes and was out the door, stretching my stride like a gazelle and breathing in the fresh mountain air. Or, rather, I was for the two minutes before my lungs decided that they wanted none of this running business and my weak ankle thought it would be a good idea to join the rebellion my lungs were fomenting.

What is the difference between a run and jog? Is there some definitive speed that delineates the difference? Is it form and grace? Is it the amount of physical exertion required? Because if we’re going by speed, I was likely jogging. If we’re going by grace, then I think “shambling” would be the proper verb. But if we’re going by physical exertion required, then I was world class running, and that’s what it felt like. You know, besides the whole crumbling apart and not breathing thing.

Before departing my subterranean lair, I remarked that it was an exceptional hair day. No “sirs” for me today, no way. Arriving at Les Halles, I walked confidently to the post office. I was so certain it would work, that I didn’t even pose it as a question. “Bonjour!” I said brightly, “I’d like to exchange my money, please.”

“No,” at least she’s nice, not like the jerk bankers, “not here, but you can at the big post office by the train station.”

Nailed it.

I imagine she must have been a bit confounded by my profuse thanks, but I didn’t bother explaining what an ordeal it had been thus far. Furthering my world-oyster-success, walking back from the main post office I finally managed to find a place with good espresso. It’s a little cart attached to a bike – the roast is good, the barista is competent, and it’s one euro. And now that I have cash at hand, I don’t have to buy ten shots to meet the credit card minimum.

Oh, and I should mention...

...I paid back St. Thérèse. With interest. 

The Brevity Report:

• I changed dollars to euros