We're a long way from Brooklyn Toto.

Here goes, a foray into the annals of memories. It's now late January but this took place some time in November. Excuse me if it's fragmented but the memories start to fade a bit. Nevertheless, these are some of my thoughts from those times in France.


One of the truest values I found in my time in France was my trip the la campagne, or the countryside. I had the amazing chance to spend time in a tiny village in Southern Burgundy. This was simply something out of a story book (an elaborately illustrated one at that.) Quaint little houses sprinkled across vast green fields filled with grazing cows.

It was hear that I had the opportunity to eat, all in the same meal, Organic Beef that was raised about 500 ft. away, vegetables from the garden outside the house, cheese produced locally, bread baked in town and of course Burgundy wine, also made in the region. For those noticing a trend of my posts leanings towards the gastronomical when writing about France, you are most correct. That is not all however.

The average French farmer seems to understand far more about the world and the way it works than the typical Texan, at least based on my limited experience with both. As my first night unfolded sitting around an old wooden table with 10 other people whose English amounted to my French, I was pegged with numerous questions ranging from American politics to culture.

Of course, as I said before, the buzz about Obama was huge and many felt that aside from being a big step forward for America it could amount to a big step forward for nations developed nations in Western Europe as they too will have to look inwards.

It was also on many of these nights that I started forming my theory that the French are socialists! Sure they won't admit it, especially with a (as they profess) right wing president in power who demands the French actually work more! How strange...

The truth is, after centuries under Monarchy and many more years of revolutions, the urge to protest and fight for rights or just plain desires is now woven into the fabric of French life. This desire for quality of life can actually be observed in their day to day conversations. The way a Frenchman talks about food, work or politics will tell you just what he values in life.


At the time, still being a bit fresh from the States it was nice to notice this contrast compared to the work absorbed for no purpose other than survival mode that I had be raised with. Worry not, I haven't lost ALL desire to work ;)

Yes, not everyone can live like this and I'm sure many people do this in the States as well, but it was nice to be seemingly dropped into an alternate world. A place with blue skies, green grass (though not quite as green as Ireland), a slower pace of life, a devotion to food and yet an ear to the world.

A few more pictures at http://public.fotki.com/Dimakay/travel/mornay/

France, Is it time for assiette du fromage yet?

Und so ... Way behind on updates am I. I'm currently in Germany but my lappy is unfortunately, dead. This will probably reflect a slight shift in the length and detail of these posts as I will now only be writing from Internet cafe's or the odd kind soul that lends me their computer. I even had a whole long post all ready about France but I guess it's good that now I shall have to be brief and perhaps write more often.

France, in short was an adventure in many palettes. From food to politique, I can say that my mind has been opened, expanded and snapped back with the French perspective. I visited a few places in the country and while it's impossible to detail it all, I'll give a few highlights. First off was, Lyon.

Lyon as a city was simply dead to me. The streets seemed devoid of life. The two rivers that bordered rushed through as if careening on their way to something better. They did their best to reflect the gray buildings, aging in line. Yes, this was an old European city and all of the architecture and to an extent the people were doing their best to make sure it always appeared so.

I am told the city is far more vibrant in the summer months, but the fall seemed to bring with it only gray. Not quite sure if it was the sky reflecting off of the buildings or the people reflecting off of the sky. Despite this I was able to find warm in the confines of a 5th floor apartment on the outskirts. It was here where I was able to look out onto the city, expand my ears on french music, discourse on politik and of course get my first exposure to the wonderful french kitchen.

Here's the one thing they don't want you to know. Ready? The secret to a large portion of French cuisine is a combination of a few key ingredients. Typically, they are Eggs, some sort of cheese, Cream Fraiche (or some sort of sour cream} and lardons. This last ingredient is probably the only one you can't really find stateside. It is typically little cubes that are half pork and half lard, aka fat. They are fatty and salty but are a key ingredient.

Then all you have to do is beat them together with a mixer, throw them together in a pan or some other form of combining them and then bake, fry or place them on a pie crust. Of course there are variations and most French people would be quite upset at this over simplicizing of their cuisine, but when is a French person not upset? There you have it, the secret is out. Go look up recipes for staples like Quiche Loraine, Tartiflette, Raclette or even a Carbonarra which is not French but next to the Döner, might as well be the 2nd national dish.

This is in no way a rant on French cuisine, quite the oppossite actually. The truth is the average person their has a far better understanding of food then the typical label reading, calorie counting American. It blew my mind to know that some of these wonderfully delicious dishes were created with the simplest of ingredients and procedures.

Then there is assiette du fromage or Cheese Plate. That's right, this a plate usually with 4-5 different types of cheeses that every French person has in the their fridge at any time. The wonderful thing is that typically, this plate is brought out AFTER the main dish and before dessert. So there you are, eating your wonderful main dish which probably already has some sort of cheese and boom, they bring out yet another plate of just cheese.

Of course, one adjusts to this style of dining rather quickly, especially when it's coupled with fantastic wine and bread. I was told by my friend that I must've been French in another lifetime because of how quick I took to these foods and way of living. I'm not sure if I fully agree but to say that my attitude towards food hasn't been adjusted would be a vicious lie.

More to come

Here's a quick jam I had with a brilliant Pianist/Guitarist in Lyon. The Savvy can find another video in the same place.

BCN lights the night ... Part 2

So it's a bit late, at least the rainy weather described here matches the wet skies of Bergen in Western Norway where the past three days were spent. Off to Germany I go.

10/17/2008

The days of endless sunshine would have to come to an end as I traveled to the northern neighborhoods of Barcelona in pouring rain. Shirt drenched and guitar in tow, I was greeted by a skinny character with what seemed like a permanent 5 o’clock shadow, cigarette in hand, Antonio Banderas accent and an endless smile.

After some brief introductions we got right down to business, music. It is these things along with smokes and beer that will always be my first memories of Marti. Quite a contrast to the newly re-employed, sober, non-smoking, responsible and tired Marti that he was to become the following week.

Random jamming led to a rumba which resulted in the video and a friendship. The arrangements were to stay for one night, but after hanging out, it was made clear that I could stay as long as I’d wanted.

It so happened there was a festival going on in his neighborhood of Sarria. Apparently, each neighborhood in Barcelona has it’s own week-long festival at some point in the year, this is in addition to the main festival that happens in all off Barcelona annually as well. Marti had organized a bit of a party at his flat where he invited his friends both local and foreign, many of which happened to be musicians.

Being on his balcony, gave us a good vantage point for the Correfoc. Pale in comparison to the larger one that happens in the main festival, it is still something to behold. It’s a long-standing tradition. Essentially, groups of people dress up as devils and run around the streets shooting fireworks which equate to giant spinning sparklers. They march through the streets followed by a drum corps which provides a menacing beat to the sizzle of the sparklers. There are about 8-10 such groups which form a sort of parade with each group trying to out do the other.

The startling part is that all of the kids and young people in the neighborhood
dress up in hooded sweatshirts, don gloves, cover their faces with bandanas and jump under the sparks. Apparently this is the normal! The kids compete to see how many of these you can jump under without getting burned. Inevitably, people walking away from this have hundreds of little holes in their clothing from the burning sparks.

Most of these kids are very young and are often accompanied by their parents. A
stark contrast to NYC where fireworks have been long banned for the very practices that are encouraged here. Our vantage point above the street fortunately allowed us to be mere spectators but everyone at the party assured me they did the very same thing as children. The rest of the party was a roughly four hour jam of various genres as is poorly documented in the video below.

An early rise the next day led us to yet another activity as part of the festivities, Castellars. For more than 200 years groups all over Spain perform this spectacle in which people are stacked on top of each other to build what amounts to human castles. There is a national competition as well as various local ones. I was told the record is 10 men high. Today we were to witness three groups with an average castle height of 8 people.

Each group has roughly 40-60 people, the bulk of which are forming the base of the Castle. Often members from other groups will actual help to form the base. After this, people in decreasing weight form the ensuing levels. Towards the top will usually be the lighter men and women, but the true feat is the fact that the very top is always formed by a child of what appears to be 5-8 years old on average.

Like all of the other levels they must climb the structure of people until they reach the very top. The last child will then climb on the shoulders of one of the other children and raise one hand to the sky signifying that the structure has been completed.

To top it off, once the 2nd level is formed there is always a group of three to four musicians playing a snare drum and what appears to be some flute/pipe type instruments. The music increases in tempo and tension as the structure is just about to be completed further adding to the anxiety already gripping the stomachs of all present.



Once the structure is complete, they must all come down. This is often the most dangerous part as many of these people have now been supporting hundreds of pounds for as long as 10-15 minutes. Therefore, each level must climb down simultaneously and swiftly so as to maintain the lower levels while rushing to alleviate the burden of those at the bottom.

This particular event consisted of three rounds in which each group would construct a castle. A large crowd gathers around the square which is usually that of the local city hall where city officials and team leaders will watch from the balcony. There is also typically a team leader on the ground who directs the strategic placement of each person based on a carefully planned out diagram based on height, weight and aesthetic.

We witnessed a few different structures including one that had four people to a level and stood eight people high as well as the most complicated structure of the day which was a three person per level castle that also had an internal castle of one person per level which went six people high The people in the internal castle had to balance on each others shoulders with no other people for support.

The tension can be felt in the crowd of hundreds of people as the final children (in soft helmets) ascend barefoot the structure of men and women. Unfortunately, on this day one of the castles actually fell just as they were beginning to descend. No one was hurt as there was a sufficient amount of people at the base to break the falls of the Castellars, though one man at the base was rushed to the waiting ambulance clutching his wrist.

As usual, the event finishes with the local group assembling a castle right in front of the balcony with the child at the top being pulled up onto the balcony via a very long scarf which all Castellars tie around their waists as a back brace. With the child’s ascension onto the balcony the festivities are concluded.

The results are true feats of ingenuity in human architecture. Though the teams are separate and typically from various parts of the country the sportsmanship displayed when other teams lend members to help brace the structures is a real testament to the communal spirit of the activities.

As a side note, I’m told that every two years they hold the national competition of Castellars in Spain. However, the best group in all of Spain has always refused their invitation on the grounds that Castelling is never meant to be a competition with sanctioned winners rather a cultural tradition.

After some tumultuous times in Barcelona it was time to simply take it easy. The rest of the days consisted of mellow wandering around the various neighborhoods. The sweaty heatstroke inducing ascent of the Olympic mountain where the 1992 diving competition was held as well as an old fort which now holds a military museum but provides an wide angle view of all of Barcelona and the Mediterranean.





Barcelona truly proved to be a surprise. Despite the undulating hype the town commands, ones love affair with the city consisted of the amazing people met .It was with whose interactions that the city proved a lively, colorful and often surreal backdrop. It had occurred to this wanderer that it was necessary to leave before the temptation to stay permanently sunk in. It was time to say goodbye to Sun, Sand, Café con leche, Gaudi, bottifara and Estrella and say hello to the wine and cheese swilling lady they call La France.

Fotki as usual @ dimakay.fotki.com

Oh Barcelona ... Part 1

Sorry for the tardiness as this was written about a month ago while sitting on a plane heading for Lyon, France after an 18 day tour of duty in Spain.

The trip to Barcelona aboard an early 7.5 hour bus ride from Madrid proved to be quite facile once one was distracted by the magnificent landscape flowing by in the window. From graffiti interlaced with concrete to jagged mountains to stark deserts, it was hard to believe that just hours prior one was sitting in a veritable forest amid a bustling city of cobble stones and buzzing scooters.

For the second time on this excursion, the services of a hostel were to be utilized for the first few days of the trip as a host could not be secured in time. Despite the stress this caused in Madrid, one was quite excited about the prospect of meeting some fellow travelers and possibly fellow city explorers. Upon arrival one located the hostel and settled into a cheap smelly room. Iit was time to head out and seek sustenance.

On a tip from some polite Canadians (truly the best nationality to encounter whilst traveling) it turned out I was staying within walking distance of the Sagrada Familia, a gothic cathedral on acid. For those not familiar with it, it is a surrealist Cathedral designed by famous Spanish architect Antonio Gaudi.



It was started in the early 1900’s and still hasn’t been completed. Despite it’s unfinished state it is truly a marvel and I would be spending more time with it later. Regardless, being in a weary dumbfounded state, the gargantuan spires and cubist Jeebus on a steel beam crucifix was something to behold.

Further exploring led to La Rambla, the main touristy strip of shops, restaurants, bars and other fare such as human statues, illegal street beer vendors and the omnipresent working girls. Mind you during the day this is a far different place where families stroll around carelessly while being seduced by well dressed waiters pedaling paella.

Wandering brought one to the beach where there happened to be a big Soca concert featuring some famous Puerto Rican singers right by the water. When in Rome, etc. etc…do. Nothing left to do but buy a can of Estrella, sit on the sand listening to music and hope some stars would shine through the light pollution.

After a morning trip to the beach and a dip in the warm water (perhaps Global Warming is nice sometimes? I kid.) I’d decided to return to the hostel to regroup and plan. It was here that one met what would become the gang for the next couple of days. Among them were a Brazilian vagrant, a Ukrainian Aussie and true Italian Paesano of Milanese extraction (being from Brooklyn that makes us 3rd cousins, twice removed, no?).

Upon heading out to buy produce for our Carbonara (ok his, we just ate it.) We discovered yet another strange fact about Spain, the wine is dirt cheap! God bless Southern Europe. Debauchery ensued. *Further details would discredit their author resulting in one being dubbed with names of bad conscience*

A slow start the next day resulted in a fine march up a hill to Park Guell. Yet another brainchild of Gaudi, the vantage point was meant to be a retreat for the city’s aristocracy. Nowadays it provides a marvelous view of all of Barcelona as well as some amazing mosaics which cover the park, buildings and the textured
ceilings.

Walking through Park Guell it was easy to get lost in what appeared to be the realization of one man’s astonishing dreams, a manifestation that occurs rather infrequently as such thoughts tend to be relegated to ones own mind or to the sphere of the two dimensional medium.

The evening was concluded with a trip to the Champagneria, a famous traditional Catalan Cava bar. With no sign out front, it is denoted by a giant open door in the middle of street. Inside is a bustling bar which only serves various forms of Cava (Spanish sparkling wine) by the glass along with hot sandwiches and the ever-present tapas.

Amid the dark smoky interior, lined with hanging legs of pork, one mostly hears Catalan. A language which to these ears sounds like a speedy mixture of Spanish, French and Italian. Indeed they say “merci” for thank you. The glasses are small and run an average of 75 cents each. They add up! By the time you are kicked out at 10pm the effect is noted.

The next day brought a more intimate interaction with the Sagrada Familia. After a breakfast of some Spanish coffee (con leche) and croissants the gang decided to actually enter the mammoth structure. At this point I would suggest that people actually look up proper photography of the Cathedral as mine would never do it justice.

It is simply impossible to convey the sheer amount of detail put into the structure. In every nook and cranny is another surprise, another sculpture or twist to bend the mind. Gaudi was supposedly obsessed with nature (and a virulent drug addict) so these elements were woven into the design. It is said he used many of the flowers and fauna of the Mediterranean city in his concepts. Apart from palm trees and vines one can also see a plethora of lizards which is both natural and yet awkward considering Christianity’s use of reptilian and serpentine imagery to denote evil.

As much as I avoid the touristy stuff in my travels, there was one temptation we could not avoid and that was taking the elevator to ascend to the top of one of the spires. From here you can descend on a spiraling staircase with small windows allowing for a close up view of some of the ornate detail work and mosaics done at the top. It is also possible to enter onto a veritable catwalk connecting two spires which takes you out into the open air with yet another view of the city and the monstrous spires themselves.

The rest of the day could only be spent conversation about the surreal structure. To us the Sagrada Familia showed us why we loved Barcelona. The clash of the old world with the world that is often reduced to ones mind, fantasy. Its intention was to be a functional cathedral but the result is an everlasting work in progress in the true Southern European sense of the term. It doesn’t seem like they are in the biggest hurry to complete it and that’s ok.

Part 2 will come soon. As usual photos are at http://public.fotki.com/Dimakay/travel/barcelona

Rumba New York & Barcelona

Just a quick post. Barcelona has been nothing short of amazing. Before the monster post I thought I would post this quick link to a little jam I did with my host here Marti. He taught me a cool rhythm called a Rumba which is an Afro-Cuban style that was and is still quite popular here in Catalunya.
Of course it doesn't touch the masters but has been quite fun to play.



The following night Marti through a party and invited a bunch of other musicians. The result was a jam that lasted for almost 4 hours and traversed genre's like Gypsy, Bossa, Jazz, Funk, Merengue and Salsa. This is a one minute clip of it which has poor sound but shows off the vibe. There were other videos taken that night which I'll post if I get my hands on em. Ciao for now.

Madrid: Siesta is Real!

Hola. I kiss you all on both cheeks, of course. I believe I’ve finally come to the point where I’m ready to leave Barcelona, in about a week or so. However, let me not get ahead of myself. After a fulfilling and eye opening two weeks in Ireland I’d arrived in sunny Madrid where I was to be staying with my friend Vicente and his family. Due to the fact that he is indeed a working man, there was plenty of time to wander the city alone.

One doesn’t truly feel like he is traveling until he hit’s the brick wall that is a language barrier. Madrid, outside of the very touristy center, is not a city for non-Spanish speakers. Unlike NYC, you will find that most of the people inhabiting Madrid have lived there their whole lives. This both enriched and complicated my experience with Madrid. The complications are the fun part.

Walking the elegant streets one noticed the regal air to the city. Each window in every apartment building had the proper Spanish exterior shutters. The cobble stone streets were surprisingly clean. Aside from the obvious royal structures of days past, the true spirit of the city lies in its people. The beautiful women, men & children walking the streets to and from their daily activities were the final piece to the puzzle. Of course, just about the only language heard on the streets, outside of the tourist area, is Spanish. Spanish, Spanish, Spanish. Never having studied the language, I suddenly found myself trying to remember every word in the language overheard, borrowed or stolen in NYC.

Unfortunately, the crude kitchen slang and rudimentary tourist jargon would be of no use in conversation with locals, thus I hit my wall. Despite this, great pleasure was taken in one of my favorite pastimes while traveling. Drinking in dark, smokey bars frequented by old men. Madrid you did not disappoint

The streets were littered with these little Cervecerias or Cafeterias as they are sometimes called. These are wonderful little places where you could get a beer, a café con leche, a sandwhich, some tapas and a face full of smoke. The best thing, is with every drink you are always served a piece of food! Though I couldn’t quite converse with my fellow bar patrons, I took great pleasure in trying to guess exactly what their conversations were about and just soaking in the atmosphere.

After wandering around the streets, bars, historical structures, gigantic parks and what seems to be a million and one hills I found myself quite glad that I didn’t hear a word of English. Madrid is perfect the way it is. I’m told other parts of Spain are often questioning the domineering role Madrid chooses to play in the decisions made around the country. For it’s part the, city truly aims to play the role of a capital city. Ones mind can easily imagine a time when it was a capital offence to kill a Spanish rat! Anyone saw that movie?

Other than the wandering, there was of course bossa jamming, attendance of Rock en Espanol concerts and of course Oktoberfest. That’s right there was a little Oktoberfest action in Madrid as well. The whole thing took place in a Church (Hey! Monks brewed the first beers) and was replete with a beer, brats, dessert und a German band. Somehow this event drew just about all of the German speakers in Madrid, allowing one to imagine himself to be in Munich. Only for a second though. The beer was Estrella and served ridiculously cold, another standard in Spain.

Barcelona next....

As usual more fotos @ http://public.fotki.com/Dimakay/travel/madrid/

The Murals of Belfast

Just wanted to clear something about some of the things I write. For one, these posts are in no way meant to summarize a location, it’s people or culture. Furthermore, they don’t summarize everything that I’ve experienced in these places because most experiences simply can’t and shouldn’t be recorded in any tangible form.

I felt it was necessary to put that out there as I write about Belfast. For those who don’t know I suggest you read up on the history of Northern Ireland. Up until the past couple of years there was great strife in the city between the Loyalist Protestants and the Republican Catholics, with many innocent casualties on both sides. Nowadays the peace seems to be holding and the time of troubles has ended. However, the relics of this fighting is evident in the murals, peace walls and over all feel of the city.

Belfast is no war zone. At the center it appears to be a bustling city of the United Kingdom with well dressed cosmopolitan inhabitants on their way to work or school. Busses, taxis and cars crowding the streets. Electric advertisements, beeping crosswalks and fast food restaurants line the streets. The buildings also have the air of the Royal style so often personified in the media’s depiction. This was truly a different country.

This was the City Centre, but my real interest was elsewhere. After getting some directions from my hosts, I decided to head to West Belfast, the location of some of the more publicized aggressions between Catholics and Protestants.

The walk up to Shankhill Road was a quick one but you realize where you are very quickly once you start seeing the British Union Jack and the white and red English flag draped from houses. The real evidence is off of the main street onto the side streets and alley ways where you can see the giant murals painted on the sides of houses. Though most are commemorations of people who have died, others are powerful images of masked gun men, Oliver Cromwell and many feature the image of a red hand.

When traveling one has to remind himself to not judge, merely observe and try to understand. The truth is, standing there in a row of houses looking at such powerful images and thinking about their meaning was a bit surreal, considering this was a modern British city. Granted, at no point did I feel in danger standing in this place, but it did occur to me that a Catholic person would not dare step into this neighborhood as a protestant wouldn’t dare step onto Springfield Ave the adjacent Catholic area.

Towards the end of the main thoroughfare on Shankhill Road you come up to Lanard Way which crosses perpendicularly and leads through one of the main gates in the Peace Wall in that area. I was told there are roughly 17 such walls separating neighborhoods all over the city. With the most recent one only going up a few years ago, this one is one of the older ones. The wall, as shown in picture, goes rather high and is littered with graffiti. Facing such a wall in such a modern city makes one think of other walls separating people in other cities worldwide.

Springfield Avenue as a neighborhood quite resembles Shankhill with the difference being the content of the these murals. Avoiding all bias, there is a clear absence of gun men in these depictions. Rather, memorials of people who have fallen in the troubles, along with some Catholic imagery. Here there is also a presence of Celtic style pubs and the Irish tricolor hanging from businesses. Though this imagery appears to be quite less violent it behooves one to know that this is the domicile of the I.R.A., a group that has committed an equal amount of violence to the opposition.

All in all the experience was quite eye opening. Having decided to make a loop around the Island I’d come expecting to find a city somewhat similar to the other places I’d visited in Ireland. What I found was a completely different country with it’s own story to tell. Let me remind you that different doesn’t mean bad. The strangers that started talking to me in the pubs after hearing my American accent were no less curious and friendly then those in the pubs of Donegal. They all wished me a happy stay in the North and were free with their laughter and recommendations. It was this warmth and kindness which created the strange juxtaposition to the suffering sowed here.

Sorry if this seems a bit disjointed, it's so hard to put something like this into words especially when you're surrounded by sun and palm trees.

As usual more photos at dimakay.fotki.com

The Hawthorn of Donegal

Welcome to October, I’m writing this sitting in Dublin Airport, just arrived from Beflast having just completed somewhat of a circle around the Island of Eire. Next up is sunny Madrid where I’ll meet up again with Vix a bossa loving couchsurfer I’d met in NYC this summer.

The departure from Galway was bittersweet as the days were blessed with great weather and even greater people. However, the trip up to Donegal in the northwest of the republic proved to be one of great interest. Sprinkled in amongst the various fields and towns are mountain ranges as well as lakes and bays opening to the ocean. Times like these one can just stare out the window for hours with no need for any other stimulation.

In Donegal I was met by Robbie my host, a lifelong resident of the area and rambunctious world traveler, he also cooks a mean shepherds pie. Folks, I’ve met the Irish Hunter S. Also of note, despite arguments with other travelers I find the Donegal accent with its elongated enunciation and Scot-like R’s easier to understand than say your run of the mill Cork accent. That is of course until you witness a drunken conversation between two of them and are grasping for the remote to turn on the subtitles. Though I’m quite aware that it is I that has the accent here.

Donegal itself is a very small town by the water. Though it sits on a bay it still some ways to the open ocean. Most shops are situated around the town center which also features the historic Donegal castle and the wonderful Castle Pub across the street which I got to know as well. Nothing but good craic with friendly people, good pints and a fireplace the burns turf (the standard up here apparently).

Though this post has been quite long so far I actually did quite little there, a blessing. Just a bit of wandering and of course some music and trying to pick up on the local humor. One point of interest though was the fairy tree in Robbie’s backyard.

In Ireland, the Hawthorn tree/bush is considered to be the dwelling of fairies. So deep is this belief that there have actually been highways re-routed around such trees because it’s believed that bad things befall upon those who try to disturb them. Just about every Irish person you meet will have a story or other to verify this.

This one in particular was described to me as a consumer of soccer balls, babies and just and overall mean bugger. The tree as shown in the picture, sits along the water edge at the end of Robbie’s backyard.

Initially, there were many small trees and a few big ones. Robbie’s father had apparently been cutting down all of the small trees with a chainsaw in order to make for a better view of the waterside. All was going well until he got to the thorny Hawthorne beside the big tree on the left. As he started to saw, the chainsaw had slipped from his hands and fell into the bushes below, missing him by inches. Being an Irishman and not wanting to tempt fate he took that as a sign to cease.

However, upon recanting the story to his German friend, the man decided to try it for himself. He was not so lucky. This time the chain saw slipped but didn’t miss his leg and the man was taken to the hospital. The tree still stands.

At this point I must confess I too tempted fate when I went to retrieve a soccer ball that had been lodged under the tree. Calm and collected as I was when I reached out to get the ball, I pulled my hand back to find two small thorns lodged in my fingers. Lesson learned. After apologizing to the fairy tree I wished it well and went on my way.

Good Craic in Galway

For those wondering about how to pronounce the title, it's "Crack" just like the stuff touted on some NYC streets. Only here the word means "fun." Some people even greet eachother with expressions like "What's the Craic?" Try asking a NYC policeman of Irish origin next time you see one. They'll understand .... no really. Onwards to the post.
Goodbye Cork, Bonjour Galway. A much smaller town than Cork on the West coast of Ireland, Galway is a youthful place. With the large amounts of Universities in the area it seems all of the kids congregate either in the main park, Eyre Square or by the water. Yes water, because Galway is right on the Atlantic Ocean! At last we meet, on the other side.
The main river in town flows out into the bay leading to the ocean. All around here are little peninsular type formations which jut out into the water. Covered in grass they make great congregational spots for the areas youth. Though, there are no guardrails so one wonders exactly how many inebriated souls end up swimming by the end of the night.


If Cork had a few buskers than Galway is loaded to the teeth. From harpers to guitarists to drummers to fire dancers to an elderly Irishman who rants and plays the spoon by the James Joyce statue. Outside the main tourist area the place reminds me of an Irish Virginia Beach or Ocean City, Maryland.
Beach front property appears to be hot commodity with gray little houses filling winding lanes with a pub or two sprinkled in for good measure.
Surprisingly though, despite the high tourism, one was able to find complete silence by the water. You’ll find this post shorter than the rest as promised. Though it is mostly because I’m doing almost no touristy stuff and mostly just walking and playing guitar. Not to mention the barrage of amazing music I’ve just picked up from my great host in town Célia. J'ai pratiqué aussi mon français un peu, sorry George.

Photo overload at dimakay.fotki.com

Escape to Inishmore

Though I spent a few days in Galway, this trip deserves it's own post. Monday the 22nd was the trip to the Aran Islands, a group of three Island in the Atlantic Ocean just off the coast of Galway. We were only visiting the biggest island, Inish Mor. After waking up rather early to catch the bus to the ferry we were on the Island. My host, Celia, was accompanying me. Once on land, bicycles were rented and we were off. Perhaps a taste of the Irish luck, the sky was clear with the sun all day, not a touch of gray.
The Island itself is small, only 12 miles by 2 miles approximately. Though the island is inhabited and there are some shops and bars near the docks, most of it is barren with only about 3 to 4 inches of topsoil. Aside from natural rock formations there are many traditional Irish fences made up of thousands and thousands of elaborately placed stones. In the more desolate parts, set against the landscape, they give the Island the look of an alien planet.
Inhabiting many such plots are countless cows, goats and horses grazing or just lounging in the fields which are rich with the aforementioned Irish grass. Another highlight are the beaches around the Island. Though they were too cold to swim in the water was as blue as any tropical beach, with grey-whitish sand to boot.

After a bit of riding around we found some coastline to explore. The Island had decided I needed to get my feet wet, literally. As I approached the coast walking on what I thought was rocks covered in seaweed, I stepped onto a piece that was just seaweed and water underneath. Fortunately, I was wearing water resistant shoes which are apparently quite good at keeping the water in the shoe as well! That wasn’t going to stop this traveler though.
In no particular hurry (we’d arrived at 11 and the ferry was at 5), we stopped for an extended lunch by the water. Having worked on our tans in the Atlantic breeze we set off. Upon trying to make it to the other side of the Island, we’d realized there were no roads around so we had to double back. This put us on a rocky uphill road that brought us to the highest point on the Island. From here we could see both mainland Ireland and the open ocean.


Lost in the Island frame of mind it had dawned on us that our ferry was leaving in no more than 45 minutes (not true, I find the Irish time approximation is more akin to Italy than Germany) and we were on a rarely used road with crappy bikes in the middle of the bloody Island. Fortunately, the nice climb meant that all that was left was a bumpy descent. We actually made it back in time and caught the frigid ferry ride back, satisfyingly exhausted and dreaming of hot tea.

As usual more photos available @ dimakay.fotki.com

Decompression in Cork

Alright here it is, the first entry. Since it’s the first it’ll be verbose and self-important. I promise to work on that and trim all that is to follow. I’m writing this on a bus heading from Cork to Galway out on the west coast of Ireland.

My flight left JFK on Tuesday evening. After a bit of concern over whether or not my guitar would be allowed onto the plane, I boarded the plane and even had a empty seat next to mine. After drifting in and out of consciousness for about 6 hours we touched down in Dublin. The temperature was a brisk 50 degrees but it was a welcoming change to the muggy NYC summer which had decided to stage a last stand in the days before I left.
After taking care of essentials, I hopped a bus to the City Centre where I was to catch the bus out to Cork. For the uninformed, I was in Dublin back in 2005 with some friends and basically spent 4 days running around from bar to sights to bar. Though I met a few great locals in many of the small pubs we popped into, I’d really wanted to get out of the city and see the actual Irish countryside. So this time I made it a point to avoid Dublin.
The bus ride was about 4 hours long, but it wasn’t until we were two hours into the journey that the driver pulled over for a 10 minute break. The air hit me as soon as I stepped out of the bus. Most country people laugh at us city kids when we are excited about simple things like cows, horses and sheep grazing in the fields, super green grass and that air that somehow finds the forlorn crevices of your sinuses that have been long blocked by the dust off of office air conditioners.
That combined with rolling hills and charmingly half dilapidated farm houses really helped to rally my body to wake up as it had now been about 25 hours since I’d slept. We descended into a small yet bustling city with a river going through and numerous bridges. I didn’t have to meet my host Benny for a few hours so it was deemed some wandering was in order.
If you are ever curious to find out just how much you’ve over packed, go walk up some spiraling Irish hills. On the upside, I did get a great view of the city of Cork. After a bit of people watching I met Benny at pub called An Brog. Benny lives in a nice little house not far from City Centre with two German girls. After a spot of dinner we went out and hit some pubs. The thing I love about an Irish pub is that it’s a place where anyone and everyone can just slip in for a pint and a chat without being worried about wearing the proper attire for that particular place or part of town. The music, if there is any, is never obnoxious and you can actually hear each other talking. Just another one of those things that a New Yorker finds quite refreshing.
The next day was my one touristy thing in Ireland. I was heading out to Blarney Castle, home of the Blarney Stone. They say kissing the stone gives you the gift of gab. Actual Irish people will tell you all of the supposedly disgusting things people do to said stone to make fun of tourists. No one I’d spoken to has seen this happen, or really even been here. Note: I’ve never been to the Statue of Liberty or the Empire State Building and would probably scoff in a similar manner at such things, but hey when in Rome.
After a quick bus ride, only about 15km, you arrive in little town centered around their landmark. The thing I didn’t expect was that the castle sits in the middle of a beautiful estate. Complete with a little brook, gardens, fields and a few of the surrounding hills it was worth the trip alone. After a go up and through the Castle and some awesome mucky caves, I spent the rest of the time just walking around the estate, just breathing in the air and watching life. I’ll let the pictures do the talking about the castle.
The rest of the day included more wandering and some dinner. I think in two days I’ve seen enough of the city to start seeing some of the same faces and knowing my way around. I guess to me that is the charm of Cork. The fact that it has the infrastructure and culture life to keep one entertained but is small enough to not swallow you.
The next day I had to and meet Jim, my next host in Cork, with whom I unfortunately only got to spend one night due to my own blunders. He lives at the top of a giant hill which the call Blarney Street, supposedly the longest street in all of Ireland. Climbing it with my pack and guitar left me drenched. Fortunately, this would be the only time I’d have to climb this hill as Jim was kind enough to lend me his bike.
Jim had an photo exhibition he was participating in that night so I accompanied him. Full of free wine and sandwiches we hit some great pubs with two of his friends. The last of which was Sin-e which had a bunch of people playing traditional Irish music between pints at a table. Last call had us going back up the hill slightly tipsy and looking for take-away.
The morning was the ole rush as Jim had some bike event to go to, so we saddled up and I rode the bike with my pack and all down the hill. We parted ways and I caught my bus out to Galway where I’m hoping to spend a few days before heading up to Donegal. For those still reading, yes I kissed the stone.

I leave you with one picture, the rest are at
http://public.fotki.com/Dimakay/travel/ireland-2008/