Ireland

Suffice to say I didn't hit all the high points in my last post about Ireland.  You, dear reader, should know I learned a new language on vacation, or, rather, a few new words on vacation.  On Monday, as I wheeled my luggage approximately 20 blocks to a bus stop (no joke), I was lumbering along and this woman (dressed a touch a la homeless) steps in front of me, backing up, towards a bus across the street.  I go around her (because she is officially In The Way Of My Progress) and my reward was to be called a fouking khunt. 

Fouking khunt.  Yep.  There's some new vocab words for ya kids.

Also on the trip -- driving.

While I didn't drive in Dublin, I did drive FROM Dublin on Wednesday as we headed out to Cashel, home of the Rock of Cashel, a rather famous castle.  The Rock is where Brian Boru was crowned king of Ireland kind-of famous.

To describe driving in Ireland as anything less than a video game would be to give it a disservice.  It seemed like "Frogger" the early Atari-edition, as it seemed that I was the Frog and every few hundred yards another object would require me to go around.  Dogs, old men walking, children on bikes, old women on bikes, old men carrying packages, mopeds, motorcycles passing in and out of traffic, cars careening to a stop on cross-roads, you name it, I maneuvered around it.  Add driving on the left, shifting with my left hand (oh yes, it was a stick-shift) and my inherent fear that eminent death was coming and you get one hell of a combination. 

So we get to Cashel.  Apparently in Cashel, addresses are not what you and I know them as.  Our bed and breakfast address was simply put as "The Rock, Cashel."  I might also tell you that every-fucking-thing in that town was Rock-SomethingorAnother, at least as far as B&Bs go.  After making a wrong turn, confusing another carload of tourists (who, stupidly enough, followed my make-your-own-detour route), and turning into the Rock of Cashel's "parking" lot, I had reached the upper limits of my patience. 

"Parking" in Ireland can be roughly described as "put your car in park just any old place, no, no, don't bother with lined spaces, just STOP THE CAR AND GET OUT." So entering the Rock of Cashel's parking lot was similar to a clusterfuck on a grand scale.  Now picture every single person in one of those aforementioned parked cars wandering around like they've never been out of the mental hospital before. 

Then I discover that we have to pay 4 euro to get out of this Godforesaken hell of a Parking Lot and I blow the first of a few gaskets.  I shout at Angela to find the euro and then I tell her I am pulling over and "see that man there, that guy sweeping?  Go ask him where in the HELL we are supposed to be!!!" 

Angela talks to the man, who directs her to another man, one driving a streetsweeper.  As she and he approach the vehicle, I am absolutely boiling over with rage at the utter clusterfuck of humanity that has now surrounded the car.  Add a few people honking their horns behind us (although I am pulled over and not in the way) and you can imagine I was ready to kill.

Angela opens the car door and is greeted with my rage.  "FUCKING FUCKERS WON'T GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY FUCKING WAY!!!," I shout.  She looks at me rather incredulously and tells me to calm down.  Meanwhile, the street sweeper guy tells us to "follow the yellow lorry" as he has deduced that telling me directions at this point is fruitless.  Smart man.

Angela gets in the car, basically starts laughing at me and then, THEN, our little car decides it wants to die. 

I gun the engine. 

Just as a little old lady steps in front of the car.

She leaps a mile, her husband looks at me and smiles/laughs and soon we are on our way, following the yellow lorry, escaping from the hell that is the Rock of Cashel parking lot.

Needless to say, the Guinness never tasted so good.

(International Incident Avoided, BARELY)