8/1/07 Day 3 Part 2: Dublin City

It should come as no surprise to any who read this that the Guinness Storehouse was something we were looking forward to. It didn’t disappoint. Seven stories tall, including the Gravity Bar high above Dublin with a 360° view of the city, the Storehouse at St. James’ Gate takes up 64 acres and has its own water and electricity. The place is big. And, seeing how it’s filled with Guinness, it’s pretty much a must-see for Seth and me. Arthur Guinness signed a 9000-year lease on the property back in 1759, ensuring a steady supply of the black stuff for a long time to come.

The entrance to the Storehouse showcases the original lease signed by Arthur Guinness, encased in plexiglass and installed in the floor, so you literally walk over it to get to the admission line. To one side is an exhibit featuring the history of the Guinness bottle throughout the centuries.

Inside, we took a self-guided tour through the Storehouse (free pint included with admission!), where we learned the ins and outs of making Guinness Stout. We traveled upwards through the advertising museum (my favorite part) and saw all the great Guinness ads from over the years, like this one, which I bought on a magnet:

Then it was up to an exhibit called The History of Cooperage, where we were shown the finer points of barrel-making by hand. At one point, the Storehouse employed over 7000 full-time coopers. The three of us watched a video wherein one of these highly-skilled men put together barrel using wood planks, iron rings, a steamer, some kind of really sharp-looking hand tool, and lots of hard work. It was a lot more interesting than it sounds.

Up next we went to the tasting lab where Seth and I discovered, much to our surprised delight, that they make more than one kind of Guinness!!!! We had a small glass of “Guinness North-Star”, a limited batch of stout only available in Ireland. (It tasted an awful lot like regular Guinness. )

We ended our tour of the Storehouse in the Gravity Bar, where we could see a grand view of Dublin and get our free pints. Predictably, Dad almost upchucked his after the first sip. Then (this will become important soon) I bought my brother another round. We hung out up there for a while and enjoyed the view and brew. In addition to (and perhaps because of) my massive nose, I inherited something else from Dad: we have a deep loathing for people who smell. One such fellow was wandering around the Gravity Bar stinking the place up, so we finished our drinks and left, stopping at the Guinness Store for some souvenirs on the way out.

Outside, the three of us wanted to line up under the Guinness sign for a nice picture, but we had to wait about 10 minutes for a group of about 20 German high school kids to take their group shot. Normally, this would take a brief moment, but we soon realized that every one of those kids wanted a picture with their own camera, so what should have taken one minute took fifteen as their chaperone, festooned with cameras, fumbled her way through twenty individual shots. As you might imagine, the kids didn’t exactly stand stock-still waiting for the photos, so there was a lot of goofing off between shots. By the end, Dad was thinking unkind thoughts about kids in general, and German high schoolers in particular. I'm being diplomatic here. Dad wanted to murder them, but I held him back. (Now you know where I get it from.)

We were now hungry, and I couldn’t get the delicious stew from Madigan’s out of my mind. I convinced Dad and Seth to go back there for a late lunch. We hopped back on the bus and, unfortunately, decided to pass on the only other place I really wanted to visit in Dublin: the Dublin Zoo. Consulting our map, we found it would be a while before the bus made it back to O’Connell St., so we decided to hop off early and take a shortcut. What could go wrong?

Well, when you get off at the wrong stop because the driver announces the wrong number, plenty. We found ourselves pretty far from where we thought we’d be. Then it started to rain. A lot. And I, for one, had to piss like a racehorse.

We took refuge in a bar, where, once relieved, we decided to wait out the rain. Seth decided a pint would go down well while we waited, and offered to repay the round I bought him at the Gravity Bar. I told him no; although I love Guinness, I simply can’t drink a huge volume of it because I get full. Usually four or five pints are all I can manage before I’m done. Seth, on the other hand, can drink a seemingly unlimited amount. His bladder can expand to the size of a standard beanbag chair and he can piss like a world champion. But I digress.

I told Seth I didn’t want Guinness, but that I’d take two or three fingers’ worth of Jameson’s. After being told “we don’t do fingers here”, I settled for a double shot. And then, gentle readers, the seed of an evil plan began to form in my head. More on that later.

With the rain coming to an end, we made it back to Madigan’s only to be disappointed. The stew, while very good, was not the same as I had eaten the day before, probably the result of different cook. Dad fell madly in love with the barmaid (too skinny and too blond for me) and I bought Seth another Guinness and one for me as well. We returned to the hotel after dinner, where we decided we would check out some Dublin nightlife at one of the many pubs we passed today. We decided on O’Neill’s, a huge pub on Suffolk St. that advertised live music.

A few hours later, we took a cab there from the hotel. Our driver informed us that it had rained 57 days in a row prior to our arrival in Dublin. Guess we had good timing, as the small shower we experienced earlier was the only rain we’d seen thus far.

Inside O’Neill’s—which is a huge place complete with several bars, a kitchen and sandwich counter—we bellied up to the downstairs bar and ordered a round. Guinnesses for me and Seth, gin & tonic for the old man. I looked around but didn’t see any musicians. I didn’t hear any, either—not that we could hear much over the noise.

“Excuse me,” I yelled to the barman, “when does the music start?” He shrugged. I should have known better. In an Irish pub, the music starts when it starts.

I tried again. “Where are they gonna play?” The barman stopped pulling pints just long enough to point upstairs.

“Any pipers?” I asked with a casualness that belied my fervent hope.

"Huh?” the barman asked.

I repeated the question. His face screwed up in confusion and he gestured to another employee to help me. “Any pipers tonight?” I asked as the new guy came over. He nodded and walked away quickly.

I was thrilled. I was in Dublin, in the coolest Irish pub I’d ever been to in my life. Live music was going to start soon. And there would be a piper!

The new guy returned a minute later with a crumpled bundle of racing forms. I was confused, and it must have showed. “Your papers, mate,” he said, and walked away again to take someone’s order.

My brother has a very distinctive laugh, particularly when he finds something very funny. It’s more of a guffaw. He made that noise now.

Upstairs, we had the good fortune to grab a table close to both the musicians—a trio called Rafferty—and the bar. Traditional Irish music is (obviously) nothing new to me. I used to make a habit of attending seisuns in Boston every weekend. But for Dad and Seth it was another matter. Seth doesn’t even like Irish music (he may have changed his mind by now—we can only hope), and although I’d been trying to drag Dad to a seisun for years, he never accepted my invitation. Although we would hear a lot more music before our trip was finished, this was special because it was the first time we were all experiencing it together. Rafferty didn’t disappoint. After a round or two, the music started, traditional Irish tunes, no vocals. The accordion player was a marvel. The fiddler didn’t show up until about an hour into the set; with muttered apologies he took his place, and with little in the way of tuning joined right in.

The jigs and reels came fast and furious. Soon, I could no longer match my brother in Guinness consumption. Dad didn’t even try. Despite his lofty professions of drinking us under the table, after two gin & tonics he was ready for a nap. I, however, remembered my diabolical scheme. When it was Seth’s round, I told him I’d take another double shot of Jameson’s; and so it went, Seth downing Guinness while I slugged Jameson’s for the rest of the night.

Whiskey costs more than stout. Even in Ireland.

By the rest of the night, I mean until eleven or so. After all, we had a long drive ahead of us the next day. When the band took their second break, we decided to leave and walk back to Croke Park. We all knew we hadn’t seen nearly enough of Dublin for our liking, so we wanted to see whatever else we could through a leisurely walk home. It was a longer walk than we thought, but well worth it, and when we got back, we were all exhausted. Alcohol and exercise- the two best sedatives known to man.

On the way back, I reflected that the only thing missing from the night was the fact there was no uilleann piper in the seisun. Oh well. Tomorrow we’d be in Cork. Maybe I’d find one there.

And maybe not.

8/1/07 Day 3 Part 1: Dublin City

OK, so now that my finger is more-or-less healed up and I can type again, I'm back. Day 3 in Dublin was quite an eventful day for we three intrepid adventurers, so I have decided to break it up into two posts. Quit your whining. I promise I will post part 2 within 2 days. It's already written, see?

So without further delay, here is Day 3 , part 1.

Since it was our last full day in Dublin, we planned on exploring the city as much as we could. We got up early and hit the buffet for the first of many included “Full Irish Breakfasts”. You may wonder what constitutes a “Full Irish Breakfast”. Pretty much every place we would stay would offer the same general fare: eggs, both the watery scrambled kind and the poached-in-copious-amounts-of-oil kind; Irish bacon, which is cured in salt (and lots of it) rather than smoked; rashers, the most disgusting sausages I’ve ever eaten (but not that Dad’s eaten—that would happen soon enough in Killarney); fried tomatoes; fried potatoes; fried mushrooms; and black and white puddings (more on these culinary delights later). If nothing above struck your fancy, there was always Weetabix and/or Irish oatmeal (very soupy wherever we went). Most places also offered a selection of cheeses, fruits and smoked salmon. Nothing really spectacular, but it filled us up until well after noon.

We decided not to use the rental car in Dublin, as it’s a royal pain in the ass to find parking. Rather we opted for the ubiquitous Dublin buses to get us around. We found that several companies offered a “hop-on, hop-off” bus service; it stops at 27 key locations around the city and one pass is good for 24 hours. It’s a circular route and buses hit any given stop about once every ten minutes or so. The beginning of the bus route was on O’Connell St., so once again we hoofed it there from the hotel.

Along the way we stopped at the Garden of Remembrance, a small park in Parnell Square opened by Eamon De Valera himself to commemorate “those who died in the name of Irish freedom”. Within, there’s a somewhat odd-looking statue of people with what appear to be swans rising from their backs. The three of us regarded it in silence.

“What the hell is that supposed to be?” asked Dad.

“People who died for Irish freedom,” I said. “And some big birds.”

“I know what it is,” said Seth, taking a dramatic drag of his cigarette. “I’ll tell you guys what it is, seeing how you’re both ignorant. Those are the people who died, and those swans symbolize their souls rising towards heaven.”

Dad and I exchanged looks. This level of symbolic thinking was uncommon in my brother. Seth grinned smugly.

I had my own theory. “Maybe they’re were-ducks.” Seth looked at me like you’d expect.

(Actually, it turns out we were both wrong. Unlike my brother and my Dad, who obviously couldn't care less, I took the time to look this up. I’ve since discovered the statue is named “The Children of Lir". Lir was the lord of the sea, and his children were cursed by their wicked stepmother to live as swans for 900 years. Lir found out and banished the stepmom, but that didn't stop the next 900 years from sucking out loud for the kids.)

We picked up the bus on O’Connell St. First stop: Temple Bar, where we continued the shopping we barely started yesterday. I had a few things on my shopping list, things I would continue to look for, mostly in vain, throughout the rest of my trip. First and foremost among these was a bangle for my mother; something silver with a stone in it and a “celtic theme.” (Longtime readers of this blog may recall my mother requested something different—a necklace containing the birthstones of my brother and I. Of course, since we were both born in the same month, we both have the same birthstone. Once she remembered this she changed her mind.) I was also looking for old books and straight razors. I found neither. But on Dawson St., a few stops up from Temple Bar, my brother found the Celtic Whiskey Shop and dropped about €60 (roughly $83.00) on a small bottle of handcrafted single malt for a friend of his.

A friend. Not his brother. In other words, not me.

Back outside, we waited patiently or the bus to come pick us up. Soon, a yellow and green bus came around the corner, and my brother moved towards it like a lemming on a fateful course cliffward.

“Hey, boy,” Dad said to Seth. “We don’t want that one. We want the cream bus, not the yellow one.” (Remember: there are several different bus companies that offer hop-on, hop-off service.)

My brother stopped short and took out a cigarette. I walked up to him, making sure Dad was out of earshot.

“You know,” I said, whispering conspiratorially, “‘Cream Bus’ was my nickname in high school.” He looked at me with contempt. Whatever my brother was going to say was lost in the roar of the real cream bus arriving at the stop. We boarded, Dad wondering why I was laughing and Seth was shaking his head in disgust.

(To Dad and Seth: I refuse to tell my faithful readers the sordid tale of how, when I noticed the young lady sitting next to me was wearing a low-cut shirt that very clearly exposed her breasts, I, under the pretense of taking photos of Dublin, casually zoomed my camera lens to encompass her neckline and took not one, but two pictures of her hooters for posterity. My readers may think I’m a dirty pervert, and I have an image to uphold. Good thing I deleted them before Mom saw them.)

We continued our tour of Dublin on the top level of the bus, from which vantage point we could periodically snap some photos of the surrounding sights. Our first stop was Dublin Castle.

We didn’t actually plan on stopping at Dublin Castle. But seeing as how it was on the way, and it was the first castle we would see on the trip, and seeing how it’s the castle in Dublin, we figured a stop was in order. Actually, Dublin Castle was kind of a letdown. It was nowhere near as impressive as other castles we would see on the trip. Nonetheless we walked through the courtyard and snapped a few photos of The Record Tower and the Chapel , neither of which are pictured here, before moving on through.

Once on the other side, we stopped for a quick bite at The Queen of Tarts, the best damn pastry shop in Ireland. While none of us was really hungry after our Full Irish Breakfast, it didn't stop us from enjoying a few tarts. I had something with goat cheese and tomato on it that was fantastic, and because I'm a glutton, I bought a dark chocolate and pear tart for later. It, too, was fantastic.

We traveled through Merrion Square, where the famous statue of a young, not-so-portly Oscar Wilde reclining on a rock (the “queer in the square”, as our driver dubbed it) was just out of our camera range. We drove past Trinity College, where we didn’t stop to see the Book of Kells; past both Christchurch and St. Patrick’s Cathedral.

We got out on Grafton St. to do a bit more shopping. Speaking of tarts, we ended up spending some quality time with the “tart with the cart”, Miss Molly Malone. Molly was a fishmonger by day, “celibate” by night; as one driver said to us: “She’d sell-a-bit here, and she'd sell-a-bit there”.

We didn't find the bangle for Mom. Not for lack of trying. We didn't want to get the typical claddagh crap we could find anywhere in the States, and believe it or not, finding a simple silver bangle with a stone in it is way harder than you would think. One jewelry shop further disappointed me by informing me they didn't carry kilt pins. Soon enough, we abandoned our search and hopped on the bus again with a new destination firmly in mind.

Next stop: The Guinness Storehouse.

7/31/07 Day 2 Dublin City

7/31/07 Day 2 Dublin City
We slept for several hours, waking up around 3p.m. local time. Our hotel is located in the northern part of the city, across from the Croke Park soccer stadium. It was a short walk south from the hotel to O’Connell St., where the Post Office that was the center of the 1916 Easter Uprising is located. On the way, we passed this cool statue of James Joyce. I took a picture of it for Dr. Murk.We stopped at a pub called Madigan’s, not far from the Millennium Spire, for our first meal and our first pint of Guinness in Ireland. It was my first meal, anyway; Dad and Seth ate the ridiculously overpriced breakfast a few hours earlier and were still full.

Madigan’s is as traditional as Irish pubs get, which is to say as traditional as any we would wander into over the next week and a half. All wood paneling and dark corners filled with sturdy wooden furniture in a mixture of styles and shapes. The atmosphere was friendly and there was no television to be seen. No live music, either; we'd have to wait until tomorrow night for that.

The waitress arrived with our pints, and there ensued the longest five minutes of our lives while we waited patiently for the stout to settle. (For all the non-stout drinkers out there, waiting for a pint to settle is essential to enjoying it. As a bartender in Glin—much later in our trip— would say, “You wouldn’t ask Michelangelo to hurry up and paint the Sistine Chapel, would you?” In other words, it’s worth the wait.) At last the moment arrived. “I’m just letting you know, I’m drinking you losers under the table,” Dad said, for the first (but definitely not the last) time of the trip. We raised and clinked glasses and took our first long bite of the pint. It was pure heaven.

For Seth and I, anyway. Not so much for Dad. “Jesus Christ, guys—this shit’s disgusting. It tastes burnt.” Seth and I shook our heads in bewilderment. “Are you serious?” Seth asked. “You realize we’re in heaven, right?”

Dad tried several more sips, after each making a face like someone had seized his scrotum and tugged violently downwards. “This stuff is disgusting,” he said. “How the hell can you drink it?” That’s my Dad—insulting the national beverage of Ireland in an Irish pub in the center of Dublin on his first day in the country. Way to blend in, Pops. My brother and I practically raced each other to finish our pints so we could drink his.

The waitress brought me my meal next. I started with an appetizer of oak-smoked salmon served with lemon and greens. It was really good (Ireland is renowned for its salmon), but nothing prepared me for my main course—Irish stew.

Let me be clear: I had some really good food in Ireland. This stew was not only the best meal I had on the entire trip, it was the best bowl of stew I’ve had in my life. The beef (not lamb) fell apart with every bite. The thick Guinness-based broth was very salty and seasoned with an abundance of thyme and other herbs. It was served with three generous scoops of mashed potatoes, loaded with butter, plopped right in the middle of the stew.

It was not health food.

After my first orgasmic reaction to the stew, Dad and Seth each tried a bite. “Christ, that’s good,” said Dad, “but if I ate that much salt and butter I’d drop dead of a heart attack.”

After Madigan’s (which we were in no hurry to leave) we walked south and crossed the River Liffey via O”Connell bridge. We didn’t tarry long though, as we found to our dismay that most of the shops along the quays had closed. We took some pictures and wandered around for a while before once again heading north, taking the time to get our bearings and absorb some Dublin street life.

Dubliners, for the most part, live in large buildings partitioned into individual houses, much like many housing projects here in America. These do not have the often shabby appearance of projects, however; Dubliners for the most part take pride in their homes and are careful to maintain and individualize each one. Thus one building may contain several doors, each painted a different color as each tenant’s way of personalizing their home. Many units have small gardens or fenced-in patios in front, and at dusk we saw many of Dublin’s residents outside their homes, sweeping and tidying up.

In August, it doesn’t get dark in Ireland until well after 10 pm. The shops close around 6 p. m., though, so there’s really nothing for us to do but return to the hotel and watch television or go hit the pubs. We opted for the second choice.

While Dad and Seth ate their dinner at a chip shop, I bought some bottled water and ran back to the hotel to drop it off. I passed two women on a park bench deep in conversation, speaking Gaelic. When I returned, I found Dad and Seth with full glasses, sitting at the bar in a working-man’s pub.

The place was a dive. We were in what we would discover later was the “outskirts” of the city. Very soon after sitting down I wanted to leave and find a better place. We had one drink each and left, going across the street to another, more inviting pub.

Dad, ever intent upon drinking his sons under the table, ordered his second gin & tonic in four hours and nursed the hell out of it. Seth ordered Guinness, of course, and I ordered a Bulmer’s cider—known as Magner’s here in the States for some reason known only to advertising executives. We sat down in a comfortable alcove and chatted for while, talking about what we wanted to do tomorrow.

My brother sipped his pint. “Oh yeah,” he said. “Better than the last place.”

“It tastes different from place to place?” Dad asked.

“Sometimes,” Seth said. I nodded.

“Gimme that,” Dad said. “I’m drinking you losers under the table.”

Dad took a sip of Seth’s Guinness and made a noise like a cat expelling a hairball. “Jesus, you guys are disgusting.”

Now it's not just the Guinness that was disgusting. We were disgusting for liking it. I took the pint from Dad and took a sip. “Hmm,” I said, giving Seth my best uncertain look, “can’t be sure. All I got was foam.”

I tried to take another sip, but Dad ruined it by laughing. Seth grabbed the glass away. “Fuck you,” he said. I was kind of hoping I would be able to use that trick more often on the trip, but my brother is wiser than he appears.

After a few more drinks, we left the pub. We were all pretty tired; we had only arrived in Ireland that morning, after all. We resolved to do some shopping and hit the Guinness Storehouse the next day. We went back to our hotel and soon after, to bed.

Things I Learned in Ireland

As you all know, I'm back from my long-anticipated trip to Ireland. I thought long about how best to describe what was one of the most incredible experiences of my life. Initially, I had planned to record the trip in a journal I brought with me, but after the first day I never seemed to find the time to write anything down. I was too busy experiencing the most beautiful place I've ever been, rebuilding family relationships, and quite frankly having the time of my life. I did, however, keep accurate notes of where we went and what we did, and between myself, Dad and my brother, Seth, we three took about 1200 pictures.

Don't worry. I won't post them all. Just the really good ones.

I decided I would write about the trip day by day. I'll post a new day of the trip every few days or so until I'm done. Hopefully you'll get a few laughs. Feel free to comment.

And Dad: I know you're reading this. I told you I'd get to it eventually, so get off my back. It would be swell if you and the other clown who went with us would register for Blogger so you could comment yourself. You don' t even need to make a blog. I plan on writing insulting things about you both, so either register or suffer in silence.

Without further ado, here are some Things I Learned in Ireland:

1. The Irish love Boston. However, many Irish seem to believe Boston to be a suburb of New York City. I told a lovely old woman I was from Boston and she replied, “Oh, how nice. My daughter lives in Queens.”

2. For all those curious about how we fared driving in Ireland—where the car, the driver, and the shift are all opposite here in the States—I can only say this: the most experienced highway driver in Ireland would flat-out shit his pants driving in Boston.

3. In Massachusetts, you can’t drive 3 miles on any major highway without passing a State Trooper lurking on the side of the road just looking for any excuse to pull your ass over. Over there we went days without seeing a cop. There is very little police presence in Ireland, particularly outside of the cities and towns.

4. In Ireland, when someone holds up two fingers at you, he doesn’t mean “Peace”—especially if you’re driving.

5. No matter what the law technically says, pedestrians do not have the right of way in Ireland, particularly in the cities. If you are a pedestrian, do not test this. You will die.

6. Smile. You’re on camera, pretty much everywhere, from the busiest tourist attraction to the smallest hole-in-the-wall pub.

7. Ireland is the big boob capital of the world, or at least of every part of the world that I have seen so far.

8. Toilets in Ireland flush. Or they don’t. Finding out is a surprise.

9. There are few urinals in Ireland. Mostly there are walls that you piss against.

10. Contrary to popular rumor, Guinness is not served at room temperature in Ireland. At least it was not served warm at any of the many pubs I patronized, nor was it served warm at the Guinness Storehouse. Guinness does taste better in Ireland, but not for any reason I can explain, except for the obvious (i.e. that it’s Ireland).

11. It is impossible to get a martini. It’s like no one ever heard of one before. The Irish drink their gin straight.

12. Irish gin sucks.

13. Irish television is awful. Not that I watched much of it. The Irish don’t watch much of it either. They go to pubs instead.

14. Ireland is the only country in the world where there are more pubs than people.

15. In Ireland, you can bring your kids to a pub. In fact, it’s encouraged.

16. Despite what you may expect, we saw very few drunken people, certainly less than you would see in any bar in Boston on any night of the week.

17. Irish people are incredibly friendly and welcoming. In fact, I only met one Irish person who was a crab, and that was a cranky old woman at an antiques store with a little dog that was even less charming than her. Despite the fact that everyone in Ireland thinks the American President is a complete maroon (and who doesn’t, really), the Irish seem to genuinely like everyone.

18. Everyone except bagpipers (and the English). Pipers get no respect in Ireland, a theme I will touch upon more than once in coming posts.

19. Ireland is the most beautiful place I have ever been in my life, and I have been to many different places. I’m not saying this simply because it’s Ireland and I’m The Angry Piper, nor am I saying it because of #7, above (although that doesn’t hurt, either). It seems everything man-made is made of stone. The scenery is breathtaking pretty much everywhere you go, you can’t avoid scenic castles if you try (they’re everywhere) and the foliage is more beautiful than New Hampshire in autumn. My brother Seth is a landscaper and a certified horticulturalist. He was in awe.


20. Ireland is the first place I have ever been where I really didn’t want to come home.

7/30/07 Day 1: Boston/Dublin

It was one of the hottest days of the year, and I was to meet my father and brother at my childhood home, where my brother now lives. My brother called me while I was en route to complain about my chronic tardiness. “Why am I not surprised?” he said. “Just get your ass over here. The limo’s waiting.” We had decided to take a limousine to the airport, as parking a car for a week there would cost more than a limo would, and one of us would have to drive, to boot.

I arrived at the house to see my father and brother standing next to the limo diver, whose name I would soon learn was Aziz. All three were soaked with sweat, as was I, as my car does not have air conditioning.

"Oh, shit!" I yelled, slapping my forehead. "I forgot the tickets!"

I was kidding, of course. My father laughed. My brother did not.

It wasn’t much cooler in the limo. Aziz drove us to the airport with all due speed, where we discovered that our supposed nonstop flight to Dublin was in fact scheduled to make a brief stopover in Shannon. In other words, ours was not a nonstop flight. How none of us knew this is still a mystery to me, as Seth and I booked (and paid for) a nonstop flight. It certainly cost enough. Once we checked our luggage, Dad and I got in line at the security checkpoint while Seth vanished to smoke a cigarette, telling us he’d find us on the other side. I looked around idly, and that’s when I saw someone instantly recognizable to most Americans.

“Is that Hulk Hogan?” I asked Dad.

Dad looked over. “Yep,” he said.

In retrospect, it was a pretty stupid question. It was undeniably Hulk; he wore his trademark bandana and wraparound shades. It’s not like Hulk Hogan would be very successful traveling incognito, so why try? He was preceded by a small entourage; some PR guy clearing the way and a guy my Dad would later remember was Jimmy “Mouth of the South” Hart. No bodyguards that I could see, not that Hulk Hogan really needs any. Hulk Hogan is a rather large guy. He makes me look tiny, and I am far from tiny. They ushered him through the security line, and he arrived at the checkpoint at roughly the same time I did.

I don’t go crazy for celebrities. I don’t see them very often. Still, I figured what the hell.

“Hi, Hulk,” I said.

“What’s happenin’, brother?” he replied. He sounded tired and looked like he just wanted to get through security as fast as possible. He hadn’t started to draw a crowd—yet.

Nevertheless, he didn’t have an easy time going through security. They made him go through the metal detectors about ten times. I’m sure it was for the public’s benefit: “Look, everyone! Here at Logan Airport we take security seriously! Not even Hulk Hogan gets a free pass!” Never mind that the guy probably has enough metal in his body to make him wary of magnets, or how incredibly ridiculous the idea of Hulk Hogan hijacking a plane is. When he finally got through security, he disappeared into a VIP room somewhere. I don’t know where he was flying to, but it wasn’t Ireland. Turns out he wasn’t the only one who had a hard time with Logan security.

I was beckoned through the metal detector by a guard about my age. It beeped. “Whoa,whoa…stop right there,” he says, all authority, like I’m about to take off in a sprint. As if I could go anywhere flanked by two conveyor belts. “You forget something, buddy?”

“I guess so,” I said.

“You got anything in your pockets?” he asked, far more belligerently than necessary.

“Just my wallet,” I said.

“I didn’t ask what you had in your pockets. I asked if you had anything in your pockets,” he said. I'm not kidding. He actually said that. His not-nice tone made it very clear that I should know he was single-handedly keeping Boston safe from terrorism.

I almost didn’t make it to Ireland. It should come as no surprise to anyone reading this who knows the Angry Piper personally that I was sorely tempted to tell this asshole to go fuck himself. But I realized that the small amount of power he possesses at this pissant job is as good as it gets for him, and asshole or not, how I answered could be instrumental in getting to my plane on time without a cavity search.

I took a deep breath. “Same answer,” I said, taking out my wallet and showing him.

“Put it in a bin and get back in line,” Asshole said. So I did.

I went through the line three more times before I cleared security (turns out it was my belt). I discovered his attitude didn’t get any better, and that it extended to everyone—male or female, old or young— equally. When I finally joined my Dad on the other side, I explained to him what happened. “The guy’s an asshole,” Dad agreed.

Suddenly I realized we had a big problem. My brother would eventually have to come through that line. Seth is not a patient guy at the best of times, and when confronted with obvious assholish behavior, he tends to respond in kind. Dad and I assumed the trip to Ireland was doomed before we even left Boston, and it was with genuine relief that we greeted him when he finally came through. No problems.

“You see Hulk Hogan?” I asked.

“No.”

He was just here,” I said.

“Bullshit.”

“Whatever.”

We had a quick bite to eat at the airport restaurant and sat in the lounge to wait for our flight. My brother leaned over towards me and sniffed.

“Dude, you stink,” he said.

“It’s 98 fucking degrees and humid and I just carried a 60 lb. suitcase for 45 minutes. What do you want?”

“You not to stink,” he replied. I stared at him. He smiled. I sighed.

It was going to be a long trip.

We left Boston at 7:15 pm and arrived in Dublin roughly seven hours later. On the plane, I read 202 pages of Anthony Bourdain’s The Nasty Bits. Although I brought six more books, I would barely touch any of them for the duration of my stay in Ireland, doing most of my reading on the flights. Try as we might (and I, for one, did try mightily), none of us could sleep on the plane. When we reached Shannon airport, Dad and Seth got out of the plane to stretch and look around. I stayed inside; for some reason that doesn’t make sense even to me, I wanted my first steps in Ireland to be in Dublin. And so they were.

Soon, the plane once again took off for the half hour flight from Shannon to Dublin. From the air, Ireland is a mosaic of green and brown, a jigsaw puzzle of fields and bogs partitioned by stone walls, hedgerows and trees, miles of land with no houses to be seen. We flew over the Wicklow Mountains, brown and lumpy like a rumpled old blanket, then out over the Irish Sea before doubling back to land in Dublin. From my window seat, I saw my first glimpse of Ireland’s grass off the runway. It was clover.

We picked up our rental car, a Ford Focus, and arrived at our hotel at 4:30 a.m. Boston time, or 9:30 a.m. local time. Dad and Seth were starving and availed themselves of the breakfast buffet. I passed. Hotel food at €18, or about $27, was a bit too steep for me. I just wanted to shower and sleep for a few hours before looking around Dublin.