Ireland 2014

[Greg_phpbb3_import1]

THE NUDEY SHOW

The Strand Hotel had a health conference booked for the entire hotel so we were forced to decamp for one night. Since we wanted to go to Dublin anyway, it was no great hardship. My mother was even convinced to consolidate her luggage to one small bag and we got to leave a majority of our bags at the hotel. Huzzah.

Thirty five years ago, the trip to Dublin was along a narrow two lane road that stopped in the dozens of little towns between Limerick and the big city. Dublin was also the home to the only McDonald’s in Ireland at the time. As a teenage, I think that was the most important fact I knew about Ireland. The trip usually took over three hours.

Now that you can pick up the two lane motor way and travel at 120 kph, you can make the trip in about two hours. Which was good and bad. Good because I wanted to get as much sight seeing in around Dublin as I could. Bad because you don’t see all those little towns anymore which were the back-bone of any Irish trip.

After my father’s admonition to drive slower, I did go the speed limit or under the entire way. The only sights of note along the route were the posters of Barack Obama raising a pint and advising us to stop in the Barack Obama plaza in Moneygall, his ancestral birthplace. They even had government signs announcing the historic importance of this spot.

There were are also frequent reminders that traffic would be slow when we got to Laois (pronounced leash) for the Ploughing Championships. Traffic for the Ploughing Championships would be quite heavy, the signs warned.

Every time I’ve turned on the radio, there has been some mention of it or even a live report from the Championship. It was the biggest event going on in the country at the moment. The crowds were huge. Politicians were showing up for photo ops. They had wellie tossing championships and row ploughing and many other events.

My mother had it twisted up in her mind as some grand return to the land celebration as opposed to it just being the national county fair.

You might have heard this one before, but it seems to be a cornerstone of all my adventures.

I figured out our route by checking Google Maps. It looked pretty simple. I had to leave the Motorway for the 110, make a left on the 111 and then a right on Northumberland and we would be safe and sound at the hotel. The 110 even had a cool name, the Long Mile Road. The 111 ran along side the canal, which would serve as a great landmark.

Okay, prepare tears and gallons of aggravation.

At the farthest reaches of Dublin, traffic got heavy around an area where they are building a new bridge to ease traffic. The road shunts to a side street and through a couple of traffic lights before the motorway resumes it’s high-speed glory.

At about this same junction, the signs appear announcing our turn for the 110. Arrows point to the left lane for the road and say take the next left. I do what every good driver does and maneuver to the left and get off.

Too bad the sign was an intersection premature. I turn off into some industrial estate, get stuck making a bunch of turns to find a way back to the motorway and the proper turn onto the Long Mile Road.

I make it back to the motorway, but I’ve come in at a junction beyond the turn. There aren’t any good places to a make the u-turn for a mile. My father sits in the back of the car offering up suggestions. It is early in the game, but I can already feel my blood pressure achieving call the doctor levels.

I find the right turn. I see lovely big signs for the Long Mile Road. I turn. Again, I’ve turned early. I think I’m cursed. The traitorous thought that a GPS device would come in handy floats in my mind.

I do finally drive on the Long Mile Road. Now all I have to do is find my right turn along the canal and everything will be smooth sailing.

We drive for quite a while. Distances become strange around Dublin. Nothing is as close you think it should be. Plus, it’s a warren of shifting street names designed for horse carts hundreds of years ago. Street signs are an after-thought.

I get it in my head, I’ve missed the turn along the canal. So, I decide to make the next right turn. I found myself in a markedly residential area full of speed bumps also known as ramps. Ramps are my father’s bane since they bounce him on the seat causing him pain in the ass wound that won’t heal.

Signs point us to Ballsbridge and Landsdowne road which is the area where our hotel is situated. I’m scanning the area looking for a distinctive landmark to orient myself but find nothing. My father admits to always getting lost in this town and suggests maybe it’s time to ask someone. Not yet.

Suddenly, I see the canal. But it is on right side of the car when it should be on our left. The road dead ends. I turn around and find my way to the other side of the canal. The hunt for a street sign continues. One that says Parnell road would be the best.

That doesn’t happen. I make turns. We find a park which should put us on the road, but I confuse the Merrion park with St. James Green and we continue to wander looking for clues to the hiding hotel. More calls to ask for directions.

I recognize a landmark. It’s an old flour mill that I had photographed when I was in Dublin last year. The landmark is important because it is next to the Google building. The Google building is where my friend John Hurlihy works on the top floor. I also know it is a stone’s throw from our hotel. Proximity to Google was one of the deciding factors in choosing this hotel.

I pull in illegally in front of Google where a taxi is parked. I ask the driver if knows where Northumberland street is located. He says sure. It’s a right turn and a left turn away. Praise be to Jesus.

As we make the turns to Northumberland, we pass Haddington St, one of the few street signs I had seen. We had been in this exact spot a couple of times, always going right. If we had turned left, like we were now doing, we would have immediately seen the Roxford Lodge Hotel sign.
Done, right? Not so much.

Another reason I chose this hotel was the fact it had a car park in the rear which led to an elevator without having to climb stairs. All I had to do was drive around back.

In the back, there was no sign for our hotel and it’s car park. I pulled back onto Haddington again. I pulled up on the curb in front of the hotel, which was a converted row house nestled in amongst lots of other row houses.

The lady at the desk told me I had to go down the alley from the other direction to see the sign. Of course, I did.

Sure enough, coming from the other direction there was a lovely visible sign for the Roxford Lodge.

Our rooms weren’t ready despite my driving adventures having made us arrive after noon. The parents were hungry and agreed to walk to the Jack Ryan Beggar’s Bush pub that was just out the back door through the car park.

The only thing notable about the Jack Ryan was it had the first unfriendly publican I had encountered on this trip. They also sold Jack Ryan Whiskey. I’m sure Tom Clancy would be proud.

My mother wanted to visit the James Joyce museum. Naturally, she asks all the patrons in the pub to check on their smart phones for the location. The Bar host said he didn’t know where it was. She talked to the guy next to us, who was working on his phone, if he was looking it up. No weird embarrassment there.

I told her I would find it once we got back to the hotel and it’s wifi. My father keeps thinking she wants to go to the Martello tower which is out on the water and where Joyce lived for a period of time.

Back at the hotel, the rooms still weren’t ready. The receptionist, possibly owner, kindly looked up the address for the museum and gave us a map. I gave the map to my father and let him play navigator.

Dublin seems to have gathered together a bunch of one way streets that always go opposite the direction you want to travel. We had to make a bunch of lefts to end up going right. We got to cross over the Liffey. The map route told us to turn right on streets that only went left. Good times.

Again, success was achieved after the gnashing of teeth and some not so quiet swear words. I was only half illegally parked since most of the of the front of the car was in a legal curb parking area. Although they did want a parking pass which I did not obtain. My father opted to wait in the car.

Stairs led up to the museum for my mother to climb. Much like the McCourt museum, you would have to climb stairs to visit the displays. My mother chose to peruse the gift shop instead and bother the clerk with inane almost Joyce related questions but focused on certain gifts in the gift shop. The clerk quickly lost interest in us when he realized how little we knew about Joyce’s history in Dublin.

Back at the car and time to find our way to the hotel. I ended up on O’Connell St., the main road through Dublin, because that would take us back to the hotel. It only took me two blocks to realize O’Connell St. was now closed to all traffic except buses and taxis. I pulled off and navigated through side streets to the Roxford Lodge.

Our rooms still weren’t ready, but we could wait in the lounge until they were. I asked if I could just the bags in the unmade room. No. Rooms weren’t displayed unless they were in perfect condition. I didn’t care if they were messy. I just wanted to make sure my parents had their bags while I went for a walk. Still, no. I could bring them in they would be brought in at the appropriate time.

I carried the bags up the tiny stairs to reception. I was told twice that there was an elevator. I said twice I knew that and had made a decision to carry them up.

I wandered around Dublin for a couple of hours, which is always enjoyable even under grey skies. I went to familiar spots like Christ Church and Trinity College. At Dublin Castle, I watched them film a scene for the TV show Penny Dreadful which stars Timothy Dalton. The interior courtyard had been dressed like it was the 1890’s. I did want to point out that two guys were drinking out of Insomnia Coffee cups in the middle of the scene, but I held off.

At the hotel, I get my first look at my closet size room, complete with one person sauna in the middle of it. I determine that I should have brought even fewer bags that I did since there was really no place to put the ones I did bring.

At least my parents room had a fax machine. And quite a big collection of DVD’s to use with the TV.

For the evenings entertainment we were going to the Gaiety Theater to see Brendan Behan’s ‘Borstal Boy’ one of those classics of Irish Cinema. I had long hard fight convincing my father that the theater was off Grafton street, since he knew for sure it was in another part of town.

I won this one when I found a printed map showing the theater right were I said it was.

We met John and Sinead Hurlihy for dinner at Saba, a Thai Fusion restaurant just behind the theater. It was really good and I had that traditional Thai dish of a lamb shank. Photo albums were displayed during dinner and there was lots of talk of the old days in Limerick. John is the son of my father’s friend, Tom who met on Monday. Currently, John is the Senior VP of Sales for Google in Europe.

The walk to the theater was probably a little longer than my parents could comfortably make from the restaurant but we didn’t have a lot of choice since the theater was on a pedestrian only lane.

The Gaitey was one of those traditional victorian theaters you occasionally see in period movies done in red and whites with elaborate filigree work on the faces of the balconies.

We had some good seats down front where I sat between my mother and father. That was a mistake. Not for me. I’m used to my father spilling out of his chair, into my seat so I can only sit in about half of my chair.

I was concerned about the poor woman on the other side of him who was potentially having this large unknown man pushing into her personal space. On top of that, my father didn’t smell the freshest. That must have the made the night miserable for the poor girl.

Borstal Boy is about Brendan Behan’s arrest and incarceration in England after he was caught with bomb making materials. He was sent over to Liverpool by the IRA to set off a bomb but was quickly caught.

The first half of the play is very stark and dramatic, showing Behan’s terrible treatment in prison. He’s beaten constantly by the guards. His prison cell is tiny. Almost the size of my hotel room at the Roxford.

The oddest scene in the first half is the shower scene. It seemed tremendously out of character. I’m watching the play. The guards call “Shower’ and suddenly the entire male cast of about twenty or so young men walk on stage naked. I figured they would keep their backs to the audience, but no. They were turning around and showing all they had while pretending to wash under the shower heads.

At the interval, I made my father switch seats with me. I don’t remember the lame excuse I gave him to switch. I just wanted to prevent further harm to the other patron. I distracted him from my reason by getting him an ice cream.

The second half of the play was completely different once Behan is sentenced to the Borstal or reform school. More jokes. More singing. It was quite the tone shift.

All in all, the play was fine. I think there are many more plays which go through similar themes. But it was revolutionary in it’s time.

[Greg_phpbb3_import1]

Kilmainham Gaol

One of the things that is making me the crankiest is trying to find time for me to do the things I want to do. Then I remember that this is my parents trip and I am just here to carry the bags and help my mother get out of the car. Which only makes me crankier since it should be all about me, right?

I got up early to have a nice walk along the canal in the dark. This would be the same canal I was going to follow to the Roxford Lodge. It would have worked perfectly since the road met the canal about a block away from the hotel.

The other reason to follow the canal was that it led to Kilmainham jail, one of the sights I wanted to see while I was in Dublin. I originally envisioned a long leisurely stroll along the canal which led to the jail. I would tour the jail and then I would have a long walk back through the center of Dublin to take pictures.

Yeah, no. My parents had a lunch date south of the city in Naas. We needed to be there by 12:30, which meant leaving Dublin and it’s traffic by 11:30, which my father then changed to 11.

With those stipulations in place, I couldn’t find a way to have the walks, tour the jail and still make it back to the hotel in order to pick them up on time. For some reason my father was not keen on the idea of sitting outside the jail in the car for two hours while I did the tour.

So, it was an early morning walk along the grand canal, followed by a quick drive to the jail for a short tour. The walk took over ninety minutes and I never made it to the jail. But the trip in the car looked very straight forward. Does everyone laugh or cringe when I say things look straight forward?

It was supposed to be a straight shot along the canal. Towards the end, I would just see the Jail on my right. The hotel clerk gave me a tip about parking at the Hilton across the street.

The jail was supposed to open at 9. The tour was to take an hour. This would give me an hour to get back to the hotel.

Turns out the road along the canal, Parnell St, is a very popular route to drive out of Dublin. We crept along the road at an almost motionless pace. This was the route to the Long Mile Road and I think everyone in Dublin wanted to use it.

I was making myself anxious constantly staring at the clock and doing the math. I have ten minutes to get to the jail. I have five minutes to get to the jail.

Finally, the traffic eased up when we passed the junction with Long Mile Road. I roared ahead and sped quickly to my first wrong turn. According to the map, I should keep to the left. I did. I shouldn’t have.

As the road veered away from my intended direction, I realized my mistake. But I couldn’t find a way to get back to the right road. Then I’m in the line of parents dropping their kids off to school. If I made it to the jail now, I would only have fifty minutes for the tour.

I drove back to the point where I zigged instead of zagging. The jail had to be really close by. I should see it. Or at least see the Hilton where I was supposed to park.
I admit it. I let my temper free and started swearing to everyone with in the confines of the car. I slammed on the steering wheel to show how wroth I was with the injustice of the driving in Dublin. There was a lot of screaming to be heard.

I knew I had missed the jail when I drove over the Liffey. Of course, there wasn’t a simple way to turn around and retrace my steps. If I got to the jail right now, I would have forty minutes to do the tour.

After a couple of roundabouts and illegal turns, I was back on the road. I shortly spotted the Hilton and I made the turn. Across from it was the jail that looked more like a castle, which was probably why I didn’t spot it.

Thankfully, the tradition of really tiny parking spaces was carried out at the Hilton. But at least, I didn’t have far to go for Kilmainhman.

Why Kilmainham Gaol? Well, it holds a pivotal role in Irish History. Every hero of the republic who was jailed by the British, except for two, ended up in Kilmainham. It was the first prison of it’s kind, a reform prison, when it was built in 1796.

If you have seen the Daniel Day Lewis movie ‘In the Name of the Father’, you have seen the inside of Kilmainham. All the leaders who were caught after the 1916 uprising were executed in the jail, including one man who was so badly hurt during his capture, they gave him a chair to sit in when they shot him.

My mother tried to come with me on this journey, but I scared her away with stories of lots of stairs and by the fact we were getting up early.

I raced across from the Hilton to the jail, only to find the front door still closed. A check of the sign showed the jail didn’t open for another ten minutes at 9:30. More math in my head. If the tour lasted an hour, then I would finish with 30 minutes to get back to the hotel. I was praying the tour lasted an hour.

I wandered away to take some snaps in a complete change of pace to what I normally do. When I came back about ten people were already in line. I joined them

The museum docent came out to start guiding us in. The line was informed that we would go in at 9:30 and the tour would start at 10. What? That doesn’t work for me. I asked if I could just wander the jail for ten minutes? Nope. You only get to see the jail if you are on the tour.

I didn’t swear. I wanted to. The docent did say we could leave the tour early if we had to. I had to. I could walk with the tour for about thirty minutes before I would depart.

For the thirty minutes before the tour started, I wandered around a nice museum that gave the history of the Gaol and all of it’s historic prisoners. There were even personal effects and letters written by the executed leaders of the 1916 rebellion.

I was hoping the tour would get right to the good bits. Again, no. We were in a room Parnell might have stayed. Parnell the Irish patriot, the namesake for the road I couldn’t find.
We toured the chapel and talked about how women and men were in this prison but kept separate, a shocking innovation at it’s time. The best feature of the chapel was the door behind the altar where the prisoners were led to be hanged by having a noosed looped over a beam tied to their necks. The prisoners were then pushed out a second story window, so the people outside could witness the execution.

There was no hurry in our guide as we passed cells that held the prisoners including one female leader of the rebellion. Time was ticking away. I was calculating how late I could be with the parents. I reminded myself it was their trip.

We finally got to the iconic half circular area with the giant steel stairs in the middle of the room. I fired off shots as quick as I could because as soon as the docent paused in his tour, I was going to tell him I was leaving.

I was going to be leaving before he got to the infamous spot where the firing squad did it’s work. I wanted to see this spot, too, but what could I do. I satisfied myself knowing I had at least seen the famous interior part.

I raced back along the canal, mournfully looking at the beautiful cloudy sky. I was moments from pulling the car over and taking pictures of the canal and it’s locks and it’s swans. Screw the lunch date

In the most egregious of moves, I snapped a shot out the window with my cel phone camera of some swimming swans who were in this little lagoon near one of the bridges. I so wanted to stop, but there was no place to pull over on this road. There is something about missing an opportunity for a great picture that really scrapes at my soul.

I got back to the hotel about fifteen minutes late and quickly started to load the car. My parents made there way down. They didn’t seem too concerned about my tardiness. I even managed to find my mother’s lost coat which she had left hanging in the closet in her room.

Taking the road back to the motorway was the reverse of how were were to come in, without all the drama of the wrong turns. It was remarkably straightforward. I saw the places were i should have made the turns. No problem. How did I get so thoroughly lost? Grrr. Oh, yeah. No street signs.

When my father was getting directions to Naas on the phone, I figured we would be doomed. They were typical Irish directions like look for the giant ball at the second roundabout and make a right turn there. You should go past the Woodies DYI store.

My father assured me he had been to this place before and would be able to recognize the house when he saw it.

Only a few weird turns that didn’t quite match the directions and we pulled up to the house in Naas. It was a beautiful house with a beautiful garden under deep blue skies. The TV was on showing the Ryder Cup which made my father very happy.

There were two big events snaring every Irishmans’s attention this weekend in Ireland. There was the Ryder cup which pitted the European golfers against their American counterparts and Irish Senior Hurling final. This was the third go round for the Hurling Championships as the first two times Kilkenny and Tipperary played, the matches ended in ties. What they do is if the game ends in a tie, they come back in a week and play another full match.

We had a great lunch in the very hot solar room. I was a bad guest since I didn’t eat fish which looked beautiful but still, not for my palate. Our hostess was ready to find my anything else to eat in the house. “ Are you sure you don’t want this, Greg?” or “Could I get you some cold cuts?” She had a very typical sense of Irish hospitably where every avenue was explored to find something to make the guest happy.

Clouds and sun continued to mock me with their beauty as I drove back to Limerick. I figured if we got back to town in a reasonable amount of time, I could go to one of my favorite spots, Quin Abbey and take some sunset pictures.

Which could have been easily done, until my father decided to take the long way through town and stop at our old house in Castletroy I could hear the clock ticking towards sundown. Once again, it was there trip.

The sun was still a good distance above the horizon when I kicked the folks to the curb at the Strand Hotel. I slammed the car into gear and raced out the Ennis Road to Quin, a place I was very familiar with.

Should have taken that extra second to check a map. That way I would have know to go through Six Mile bridge rather than make the left turn towards Newmarket on Fergus. Thankfully, the sun is slow. Six Mile Bridge is named that because it is the bridge six miles from LImerick. Very literal my Irish forbears. Thats why there is Two Mile Inn and a Jack Russel Terrier named Jackie.

I got to make my favorite hairpin turn under a railway bridge where I always meet a truck coming the other way. This time was no exception. The roads were small and I wasn’t going very fast so I had a lot of cars on my bumper. The cows moving down the road from one field to another didn’t help either. I was torn between getting out to take pictures and making the sunset at Quin.

I finally pulled up. I was right on the knife edge of good pictures. Sadly, the big puffy white clouds had all vanished to the east. A line of mist was making the sun dimmer than I would have liked but I was at Quin taking pictures and that makes for a pretty good end to the day.

I found the wedding party in the Strand Hotel bar when I arrived back. They had just finished their rehearsal and had come by to grab some dinner. I sat with my father’s friend and father of the bride Brendan and had a very good pizza. I know. I should be eating stew or banger’s and mash, but I had a pizza, a really tasty pizza made with Limerick ham.

[Drunk Monk]

You this TMI mini-post:

I would just like to say I have caught entirely too many glimpses of my mother naked on this trip.

Then you title the next major post this:

THE NUDEY SHOW

And you honestly think you can keep a DOOM readership here? hock:

[Greg_phpbb3_import1]

And yet, here you are . . . .

[Greg_phpbb3_import1]

Does anyone think it is a good idea that before we start on a trip to the airport through rush hour traffic with two people who have suspect bladder control that we stop for coffee?

[Drunk Monk]

And yet, here you are . . . .

yea, but i'm only reading headlines now. i is scared.


Hope you and your family get home safely.

[Greg_phpbb3_import1]

We get off the plane at SFO. I opt to drive since I don't have a death wish.

And my father tells me, "You really should take 280 home"

Seriously? I need notes on how to get to the house from the airport in my own home town?

[Greg_phpbb3_import1]

GOING TO THE CHAPEL

Finally, the day which brought us to Ireland in the first place. The day Lisa and Ger were to be married.

I started the day off easy, taking a walk up to the Shelbourne road and then over to Thomond park. I turned left at the park which led me over Thomond Bridge to St. John’s Castle. After going around the castle, I headed back to the walk way along the Shannon River to the Shannon Bridge. I crossed the bridge back to the North side of the river, followed the Callahan Strand to the Strand Hotel. I think of this as the easy walk.

I had another lovely breakfast in the river room, looking out on the sunrise over the Shannon as I consumed yet another round of rashers, Irish sausage and copious amounts of toast. The only downside was listening to the yammering of the Americans getting ready to depart on their Globus tour bus. They really need to put those people in their own pen.

I dropped off the laundry, mostly mine, at the Arthur’s Quay laundry and grabbed a copy of the Limerick Leader for my parents. They had opted to dine in their room again, probably not getting up until well after 9.

Originally, I was going to try and squeeze in the opening of a Kung Fu School off of Williams Street. I was curious how they approached the martial arts here in Limerick. Probably the same as everywhere else.

But the school started their ceremony at 11 and the wedding started at 1:30. Sure there was enough time in there to do both. If you are a crazy person. I decided not to be that crazy person. Although the decision could have gone either way right up until the end.

The wedding took place at St. Joseph’s Church on the top of O’Connell street. The church was familiar to me since it was on the street where my Irish girlfriend used to live.

We arrived early and the parking gods were on my side for a change. I got a real parking spot, something of a rarity in Limerick right across from the church. I only had to make one almost legal u-turn to acquire it.

For the wedding, I played camera boy, running around taking pictures and trying not to get in the professional photographers way. I cajoled the women running the church to give me the key to the balcony so I could get some overhead shots. I told the professional about my access but she never availed herself of the opportunity. I’m sure there was nothing she liked better than another person running around shooting her wedding.

The bride and groom arrived in style in what looked like a 1940’s Roll Royce. All the ladies in attendance wore their finest clothes complete with odd little hats that you might find at the races at Epsom Downs.

I took way too many pictures of the flower girl who was dressed in white and had fairy wings on and carried a wand. The only problem was this little girl wanted nothing to do with getting her picture taken.

I was doing a lot of running from the front of the church to the choir loft since I had two cameras working shooting video. It only took one loud slamming of the choir loft door to realize I need to very softly close that door.

It was a catholic wedding, complete with mass. There were two readings from the bible along with a sermon by the priest. There was a lengthy pause while the bridal party exited stage left to sign the official wedding documents. The mass was conducted by Brendan’s cousin. The priest cousin, I think his name was Richard, announced that this was one of the first weddings he had conducted that came with a note from Pope Francis.

They didn’t do a lot of things you find in the american weddings. The focus was on the mass rather than the wedding. Maybe I was running around too much, but I don’t remember the exchange of vows or the sharing of rings. The big kiss went by fast. The only real similarity was the candle business where they use the two candles to light the one.

For the walk out of the church, they exited under an arch of raised Hurely’s, the stick used to play Hurling. Looking back, this made what happened at the reception much clearer.

There was a lot of milling around post wedding taking photos in the side garden. Again, my job was to stay out of the professional’s way.

The reception was held at our hotel, The Strand, downstairs in the Shannon Room. I would have loved for it to have been upstairs in the City View room but the party was much too big.

There was a bit of time between the end of the wedding and the start of the wedding so I took the opportunity to run across the bridge to get my mother some more of her 100% pure Cranberry Juice that I was unable to get on the morning laundry. I don’t think anybody recognized me in my street clothes as I moved through the lobby of the hotel.

The hotel had set up a nice arrival ceremony complete with champagne. Some of the guests were going to mock the groom since the wedding was listed as the Bradshaw Wedding on the TV monitors.

The Rolls arrived. Pictures were taken. Everyone cheered. I think some people just checking into the hotel thought the champagne reception was for everyone and availed themselves of the drinks.

I would like to say that if you are going to have a wedding could you at least turn on a few lights for the photographer? I’m getting really tired of trying to shoot these events in the dark. Everything was beautifully decorated and you could almost see it in the candle light.

The most light came from the giant projection screen were the All Ireland Hurling Championship aired. To be fair, Lisa had planned her wedding around the sporting events like all good brides do, but the first go-around of the finals had ended in a tie. Rules necessitated complete new games rather than over time periods. But the second had ended in a tie,too, so they needed to play a third match.

Now, they play them on consecutive weeks which meant the third game should have been played the week before in Croke Park. Unfortunately, the annual US college American Football game was scheduled for that week which meant the Hurling finals had to be pushed back another week. Ergo, the Hurling Finals were on during the wedding.

I figured they would turn off the game once the Newlyweds arrived. I figured wrong. The game stayed on until Kilkenny beat Tipperary by one point. The largely pro-Tipperary crowd was disappointed.

The only thing holding up the entrance of the happy couple was an elderly couple who I knew intimately, coming in ahead of them. They were very my patient as my parents found their way to their table.

The affair in the Shannon Room was quite elegant. White table clothes, covered chairs and a royal looking head table with candelabras at each end.

The serving of the food was quite the production number. Each person at the head table had their own waiter deliver their first course under a silver cover. In unison the covers were removed and the waiters marched away.

I figured this production was going to be reserved for only the head table but they did this for everyone. Despite the pageantry, the food was served quite quickly. The dramatic reveal was done for every course of the meal.

I missed a few reveals running around filming. Oddly, the official photographer was not in evidence during the reception. I was the only person filming the cake cutting. Yes, I mounted the GoPro to the table for some POV shots.

My youth flashed before me at the table as I was surrounded by my parents friends including one very drunk one. I remembered countless times being in this situation back in the Seventies, complete with drunk.

It was a long day for my parents so they cut out while the band set up, the LOL’s, before the dancing started. I wanted to at least film the first dances but I was tired as well. I didn’t last much longer. I missed all the dances.

[Greg_phpbb3_import1]

I'M A WANDERER



For this entire trip, I had resolved to walk this trail along the banks of the Shannon River I had seen on Google Maps. I wanted really explore King’s Island, the Island on which the town of Limerick was first settled, which I had never done before.

Since there were no plans for Sunday until late in the day, I decided this would be the time to take the leisurely stroll. I had done a bit of the walk along the canal, but I hadn’t reached the Shannon yet.

I left the hotel with the sun just rising. One of the best things about Limerick, is that it waits for the day to be warm before anything stirs, so I had the city pretty much to myself as I wandered around with camera in hand.

I walked by St. John’s Cathedral hoping to get a different angle, preferably with the sun lighting up the spire. Walking down the street behind the cathedral I spotted our old laundry which had a checkered past.

During the early part of the 20th century leading up until the Eighties, the Magdalene laundries were pretty horrible places to work in. They were a repository for bad girls and unwed pregnant pregnant girls. Basically, if your father thought you were misbehaving he could incarcerate you at the laundries for an indefinite period time.

It was torturous slave labor and the girls were all abused. The Magdalene Laundries in Ireland, much like the pedophilia scandal were a symbol of the wrongs of the Catholic Church in Ireland. But their laundry was top notch and this was the place in Limerick were my father got his shirts done.

To be fair, this scandal only came to light after we had left Ireland. The Magdalene Laundry in Limerick closed in the Eighties and has since been converted into, well, a laundry.

So, I walked by and took some more pictures. I don’t know what attracted me to the large field in the middle of the row houses, but I did find three horses cropping the grass untethered. Seeing free horses in the streets is one of the enduring Limerick symbols for me. I always figured at some point that you wouldn’t be able to find them on the streets. But I guess that day still hasn’t come.

I shot a lot of pictures of the horses. I especially liked the one that was living in the front yard of one of the houses in the Garryowen section of town.

I made my way to the canal, happy not to see the collapsed drunk I had seen lying sprawled half on a bench, half on the ground. Yes, it had been several days, but I did see this guy walking around town and thought this might be his hang out.

On the one hand, the canal area is quite pretty with the ducks and herons nesting in the grass covered banks. There are plenty of 19th century bridges crossing the water providing excellent subject matter for pictures.

But the water is filthy, filled with all the detritus the Limerick people can find to thrown in it like bottles and old shopping carts. Swans don’t look very pretty when they glide through the brown scum of pollution. Angry graffiti covers all the concrete surfaces closer to town.
I tune this clutter out as I make way along the asphalt path. Although if I lived here I would give serious thought to Saturday afternoon civic clean-up. I still take pictures.

I eventually made it to the Shannon. I was happy to see the footbridge that I saw on Google Maps satellite view actually did span the canal. If it didn’t, I would be walking North up to the University of Limerick rather than South towards the Corbally road.

Plenty of friendly people passed me on the path. One women suggested I photograph a heron out on the river which I would see just after I got out of the tunnel of trees. A lot of people walked their dogs. None of the dogs wanted to help me with my dog fix and scampered away from the scary camera man.

Probably the oddest sight, were these four bright yellow contraptions that were on an isolated section of the path but had a great view of the river. They rose from the field near where the photogenic heron was hanging out. From a distance, I had not clue what they were. I thought they might be some sort of electrical sub-station because of the bright color and bent steel posts around them.

As I got closer, they finally evolved into exercise stations with leg presses and bar pulls and bicycle stations. Wow. Limerick finally moves to the exercise forefront. Except these were the only stations I saw on the entire walk and they were at least half a mile away from the nearest egress point to the trail. I walked by them on two occasions. No one was ever near them. Sure, not a representative sample to make a judgement but I’m making one any way.

I must say the path builders were also quite clever in the bench placement along this stretch of the path. Some of the benches faced each other. Others were arranged in a circle. It was like the planners gave some thought to people coming to these places and how they would like to sit when they got here. Again, never saw anyone on the benches.

I crossed the Corbally road and it’s big stone bridge to a much older path along the river. While the path up to this point looked freshly paved, this older path had an old stone wall alongside it and was paved with old concrete squares.

The path continued behind what looked like an abandoned toll booth for the bridge or perhaps a long disused pub. The local hooligans had peeled away a fence and broke some boards at the back in order to gain access to the interior. They also had a fierce thirst as evidenced by the pile of beer cans littering the ground near the broken opening.

I was startled by this large thrumming sound coming above my head. I couldn’t figure out what was making this disturbing noise until I saw the flock of five swans fly over my head. I don’t think I have ever seen Swans fly. God, do they make a racket with their honking and flapping. And no, I didn’t have time to get the camera out to photograph the white formation.

The walk gave my inner child a chance to do something stupid. I noticed stretching out into the river what looked like a man made pathway. Plants and trees grew out of it, but I could see very definite square bits in amongst the foliage. The path extended quite a ways out into the river, making a great vantage to photograph the numerous waterfowl.

It also looked slippery and treacherous. On many occasions, I have ventured forth, particularly when I was younger, out onto such precarious ridges and found myself in the water. I remember vividly such an occasion at Vasona park in Saratoga.

As I got closer, I saw that long ago this area had been cordoned off to make a swimming area on this stretch of the river. Cement steps lined the bank all the way down below the top of the river. There was also a sign saying this water was now deemed unfit for bathing due to contamination.

So, slippery rocks, poisonous water and a wrought iron railing followed by a two foot drop stood between me and the man made path out into the river.

I did what any mature adult would do. I took a picture of the rain slicked rocks and resolved to tell everyone about what I almost did. I even turned to continue down the path.

But then the ‘what-if’ voice kicked on. What if it is really cool out there? What if the great pictures are just on the other side of that greenery? Oddly, the what if you fall into the river didn’t come across very clearly.

Next thing you know, I’m stowing my camera into my back-pack so I can have both hands free to grab things and I’m crawling over the green fence and down onto the narrow walkway, bordered on both sides by water.

The path wasn’t that treacherous once I got out on it. My sneakers only slipped once to give my heart a little jump start. Fallen trees necessitated my crawling under the trunk of one tree. Ultimately, I made it to a concrete pad which showed the bank opposite me. I never got the big look into the river I wanted since the trail did become impassible.

It would have been passable if I had made just a little more effort. Yeah, no.

As I was pulling myself over the rail that blocked the trail, someone did spot me as they walked up the trail to my spot. I gave them the nonchalant, nothing to see here “How are you” as I scampered down the trail.

The trail ended, as I knew it would, thank you Google, at a little car park. A nice man brought his child out to feed the ravenous swans, who appeared immediately when the bread bag came out. They initially looked to me for food but I was still dealing with that crazy notion that bread wasn’t good for swans.

A tame kitten also made her presence known. I think she was looking for adoption despite the fact she wore a red collar. She accosted the man and child looking for affection. She even deigned to notice me for a few seconds. I asked the man if the cat was his, but he said no. Just some really friendly cat. The swans below us were giving the cat a lot of stink-eye.

Since the trail had ended it was time to find my way back to the main road. I had committed the path to memory and immediately screwed that up. I made a left into a very nice housing estate and walked along for about twenty minutes before finding myself only about twenty yards further along the road I should have taken. I’m on an adventure. Don’t judge me.

I made my way back to the Mill Road which led to the Corbally Road which ultimately led me to King’s Island. I had only been walking about two hours at this point. I was probably creeping out the two teenage girls who walked in front of me down the entire length of the Mill Road.

Just beyond the Athlunkard Boat club, I found the entrance to the foot path that led around King’s Island. Here at least was the beginning to the end of my quest. Right up until the 12 foot tall steel fence with warning signs saying the path was closed.

But, that can’t be right. I’ve come all this way. This was high on my list of things to do. You can’t have a fence blocking my path.

They can and they did. I headed around the Rugby pitch at St. Munchin’s onto the surface streets hoping to catch an egress back onto the path. I got a few stares from the locals watching a soccer match, probably wandering what this tourist was doing so far from the usual tourist places.

I immediately learned one thing as I walked down St. Munchin’s street, this place was a shit hole. The houses were in terrible condition. You could see scorch marks arounds the boards covering the windows. Serious security steel blocked entrances to other abandoned homes. Yard care was not a big priority in this area. There were a lot of vacant lots filled with trashes were it looked like houses might have once stood.

There was the occasional well maintained home that stood out because of the oddity of the houses’s well maintained aspect.

I got to thinking that this was one of those places I should walk through quickly and get back to the nicer parts of Limerick.

And I was going to do that. I’m a self preservation kind of guy. Until I saw the horse wandering among the houses. I would go just as soon as I photographed him. Him and his other friends standing out in the field.

Look there were a lot of horses just wandering around loose and that’s not something you see every day. Well, you might see it every day if you lived in this section of Limerick. I didn’t so safety be damned, I’m taking pictures. Especially, when I had Thomond Park stadium looming above us like some crashed space ship.

The horses wanted nothing to do with me. They would trot off the instant before I released the shutter.

I saw the closed footpath as well. Only on this end, it wasn’t quite so closed. I saw a couple of older gentleman walking through a gate out onto the path. I would investigate from this end just as soon as I got that horse with Thomond back-drop picture.

The path was open at this end. But about a hundred yards in, there was another forbidding fence blocking the path. However, there was a well trod path leading around this fence, so I could gain access if I wanted. Naturally, I did. But I didn’t go far. I figured they might be warning me off for a reason.

My first thoughts at the other end of the path was that locals had ruined the path, and looking at some of the houses, you could understand why I had that thought. Actually, tremendous storms had hit Ireland in April. A lot of this area was flooded despite the huge bags of gravel that lined the banks. I’m thinking the trail was wiped out by the storms.

I followed the open end of the path back to King John’s castle. I passed a field where I saw a suspiciously still young colt. I had to make sure that he or she was alive. Again, I walked into a field I probably shouldn’t have. The colt arose when I was about a ten feet away and headed off to the protection of his nearby pony-mother.

By the time I reached the Strand, I had walked almost eleven miles for my morning. I popped into the Strand Hotel bar and found most of the wedding party in there having lunch. The Bradshaws had invited us to go out to Marco Polos for dinner but I had to remind them that I had previous engagement to meet some High School friends.

I was to meet the McMahon’s out in Nenagh, a town thirty kilometers north on the road to Dublin, at 5pm. I figured I would leave early and take some pictures of the first Verbatim plant and Mount St. Lawrence cemetery.

I needed an update for the cemetery because I had a picture of it in my book only I couldn’t remember where I took it. I did discover it was the biggest cemetery in Limerick and I probably should have remembered that.

It was right by the temporary Verbatim plant, so I probably photographed it on the way to the Verbatim one day.

It didn’t take long to take the photos so I found myself just outside Nenagh at about 4pm. I had an hour to kill. Sure, I could have used that hour to get lost trying to find Mike’s home in Hogan’s pass, no street signs, no house numbers. But I had a pretty good idea of how to get there after I found the house on satellite.

Mike’s house is one of three secluded houses and is quite distinctive on the satellite shots. And there were only two turns to get there. I wasn’t worried about finding it. Knowing what I know about me, this should have worried me.

Well, you know what town is just ten miles North of Nenagh? Moneygall. You know what is in Moneygall? Exactly. The Barack Obama Travel Plaza. I felt it was worth the trip to see this now iconic spot on the M-7.

It is quite the travel plaza. There were restaurants and tons of pumps for gas. For some reason, there is even a Tim Horton’s doughnuts in there. I didn’t investigate too thoroughly. I just was there to take a selfie in front of the giant Obama Travel Plaza sign. Lots of people got a good view of me standing out in the field with my camera in my hand. Should have stopped on the road back for the picture of the billboard of Obama holding a pint.

I did stop on the rotary trying to catch some weird shots of the sunset which had this bolt of white light illuminating the brilliant green fields while being surrounded by shadows and dark clouds. I didn’t quite get that picture.

I had dinner with Mike, Helen, and their two kids. I was also introduced to Lucy who was alternately very affectionate and terrified of me. They tried to get her to do tricks but like all dogs faced with a camera was non-compliant.

I was visiting Mike so he could introduce me to the Nenagh Players creative people in order to pass on my set-building wisdom, if such a thing exists. They are about to put on the play ‘The Cripple of Inishman” and wanted some tips on light weight stone.

We ventured into the town of Nenagh with a quick detour to see Cordelia and Mike Cormac who Cindi and I had seen on a previous trip to Mike’s house. I think seeing Cordelia should be a required stop to anybody visiting Ireland. You need to sit with her for awhile to fully understand why.

Now, I thought I had been a pretty fair driver on the narrow roads away from the Motorway until I got in the car with Mike. Wow, did we go fast with not much concern about meeting oncoming cars. And we did meet oncoming cars. And we just flew right by them without batting an eyelash. It would take me a lot more time driving to get up to that rate of speed between the hedges.

In Nenagh, we went to the Nenagh Players Store where I had the meeting with the director, Set Designer and Set builder. Basically, I told my stories about Hollywood and gave them what little advice I had. It was quick and hopefully painless for them.

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IT WILL BE EASY TO FIND



Since time was running out on the vacation, we were scrambling to meet all the people my parents wanted to meet and visit the places they wanted to visit. High on this list of things to do was find a gift shop for my mother.

Normal people would come out with a schedule of when to do things. They would realize you would have to make a few time sacrifices in order to do all things you wanted to do.

One person in our group was not on board with this program. When I informed my mother that we would be leaving the hotel at 9am, she crankily responded “Why do I have to get up so early. I thought I was on vacation?”

I followed my morning routine of walking the three bridges followed by breakfast in the River Room restaurant, watching the sun come up over the Sarsfield bridge. Another routine is growing angry at my fellow americans who are coming to grips with buffet dining.

They seem particularly baffled by the conveyor belt toaster. One woman played with switches and turned off the conveyor belt. My unmoving toast caught fire before I realized what she had done. Another man thought it was good form to touch all the toast coming out of the toaster looking for his own.

I spend a lot of time on this vacation in the circular driveway in front of the entry to the Strand Hotel waiting for my parents to make their way from the lobby to the car. I should really count the grunts and sighs it takes for my mother to get seated in the car. My father continues to refuse help getting into the cramped back seat.

Our first stop because my mother continues to confuse Ring Forts and Fairy Rings is Craggaunowen, a recreation of a pre-historic Irish Ring Fort. Because the security guard at the Hunt Museum let the name slip of Craggaunowen in relation to Fairy Rings, we were destined to go there.

To get to Craggaunowen, we got to pass through one of my favorite towns, Six Mile Bridge. My dad likes it because when you are at the urinal in one of the pubs, you can look out the window at a waterfall. I like it for the duck hotel that floats beside the pub. I pulled in for a quick stop to photograph same.

I only had one wrong turn between Six Mile Bridge and Craggaunowen. It only took about ten minutes before I realized the sign post I blew past actually indicated the right direction. I’m always confused when the signs in Ireland indicate the proper direction.

I’ve been to Craggaunowen twice before. There are three little camp recreations situated around this hill. There up and down dirt trails to get to the camps. I’m not a big fan of Craggaunowen since it is a recreation of the forts rather than an actual archaeological experience. Why go some place fake when the country is littered with actual historic sites is my view?

To visit the place involves climbing, which my mother can’t do. It also has information on Ring Forts rather than Fairy Rings. I’m glad when we pull up to the gate and find the place is closed.

My mother wants me to check my phone to find out opening times. I try to explain again why my phone only works at the hotel in Ireland, the difference between Wifi service and Cellular service. I would probably get more understanding if I told the sheep in the field outside the car.

The upside of this journey is that it is on the road to Quin Abbey. My father didn’t feel like stopping but since we now had a few minutes in our itinerary, off we went. The reason he probably didn’t want to go was that it would involve walking from the car park to the abbey.

My mother wants me to take her picture with my father, with Quin as a backdrop using her disposable Fuji camera. Just holding the thing where people can see me ruins my photography credibility.

My mother asks if I should put the flash on for the shot. Disgust at the question oozes out of me as I say “No” Then she wonders if it wouldn’t be better if I shot the photograph in portrait mode rather than landscape.

Not that these are the words she uses to describe the orientation of the camera, she just asks if I should “Hold it the other way?” Oh, the trials of Job.

Next to the abbey ruins, sits a modern church. My mother is very excited because she has never been in this church. Since she is new to the church, she proudly proclaims that she gets 3 wishes if she goes in and lights a candle.

One of the reasons I have my doubts about religion are phrases like that. God grants wishes? Is that what he does? He hangs around waiting for candles to be lit so he can grant wishes? Is he some sort of Genie?

My father directs me to go with my mother up the path to the church. I see a nice photo opportunity. My mother says “Oh, that will make a good photo” Again, not really looking for an affirmation of my photographic eye from my mother.

We enter the church and light candles. I’m guessing she makes her wishes. Since, we are in a public building, the inevitable question arises from my mother. “I wonder if there is a bathroom”

Our next stop is the giant gift shop next to Bunratty Castle. Ostensibly, we are to buy presents for friends and relatives, but I notice a lot of packages look like things for my mother. We have a nice bathroom break. My father finds a comfy chair to sit in while my mother prowls the aisles.

I dump all the bags on my father’s lap and shoot the picture for Facebook.

At one point my mother loses her credit card. I scramble the store asking the check out ladies if they have it. Nope. Turns out it was just in my mother’s pocket that she hadn’t checked. I make many trips to the second floor cafeteria to get drinks.

Since there is plenty of time before our lunch date, my father decides he wants to go to South Hill, one of the poorest sections of Limerick. My father had a close association with the priest, Father Joe, who was in charge of this area.

Father Joe was fundraising when he wandered into the Verbatim plant on Ballysimon road. My father was in a position to donate funds to a local charity. Father Joe had spent months trying to get funds to throw a Christmas party for the kids in South Hill. For all of his efforts, he had raised 7 pounds. My father asked him how much he needed. “A thousand”. My father cut him a check.

The story of Father Joe is long and involved. He eventually suffered a break down because of the pressures of running that same parish for such a long time. On the occasions, we have returned to Limerick, Father Joe is one of the people my father likes to check up on. But every time we see him, I get the feeling Father Joe doesn’t want to see us.

So, we didn’t look for him too hard on this trip. But we were going to his old parish. South Hill used to have a lot in common with the bad parts of King’s Island, with abandoned cars on the cement lawns and burnt out houses.

It looked much better this trip through. It didn’t look nearly as desolate as King’s Island. The abandoned houses had been torn down and vacant lots had nice green grass in them. Part of this trip was looking for a house my niece Jenelle, had stayed in back in the early 80’s.

Things had changed too much in South Hill for us to find in the house.

Another stop for the day was the Magdalene laundry I had been to the other day. My mother had seen the film Philomena, which talks about a girl who has to give up her baby for adoption at such a laundry. Later in life, her one regret is never having seen her child and starts on a quest to find him.

My mother wanted to go to the actual laundry where it happened.

I didn’t realize this was her motivation until we were in the laundry and my mother was quizzing the women behind the counter about the story of Philomena. I thought she was coming here to find out about the laundry in general. Or maybe she wanted to find out about the lace makers, since this was also the place where the girls were made to make Limerick Lace.

Now, the women behind the counter was quite pleasant, considering this hadn’t been a Magdalene laundry for almost twenty years. And, miracle of miracles, this woman had worked in the laundry back in the time when we were using the laundry.

But she was confused by the questions my mother asked about the movie ‘Philomena’.

Oh, dear. I had seen the movie, too. The movie takes place in the town of Birr which is about forty miles North of Limerick. They were never in this laundry. Yes, the girl did come to Limerick and get impregnated, but she was put away in Birr. She lost her baby in Birr. She eventually finds her missing child buried in Birr.

I explained this to all parties and left to go to my double parked car in the car park.

My mother still wanted pictures of the old convent church. I promised I would get them another day.

I left the Convent and headed down the Dublin Road to the Locke Bar where we were to have lunch with Hugh Elliot. Mr. Elliot designed the Verbatim buildings down at Raheen. The only glitch in my plans was an intended right turn to the Locke Bar, which turned out to be illegal.

A bus driver turning in front of me indicated with a disgusted look that I should only turn left. Fine.

The last time I was at the Locke Bar, in 1993, the waitress was kind enough to dump a load of drinks in my lap. I was going to be on my toes for this one.

I tuned out to my parents conversation after a few minutes. I wasn’t feeling warmly towards Mr. Elliot. He gave off the vibe that he was the smartest guy in the room and it was a little off-putting. Granted, he might actually have been the smartest guy but I didn’t need him to prove it to me.

I used the time to run over to see if our laundry was done at the non-Magdalene laundry at Arthur’s Quay. That would have been too easy. I was told to come back after 4.

For the afternoon, I had several errands to run in town. I had promised the Bradshaw’s I would have some pictures from the wedding for them. My Dad wanted me to get a present for Brendan Bradshaw since we were going out to celebrate his birthday that evening. I was also to find a card. And I needed to pick up the laundry.

Well, the printing turned out to be a disaster. I don’t know if it was there equipment or my digital files. I had them print out one picture as a test. The picture came out green and decidedly murky. I didn’t need 200 prints like that. Naturally, the manager said the machines were perfectly calibrated and the problem had to be on my end.

I printed a different photo and got the same results. I had never seen my photos come out like this so I decided to find another photo finishing place.

At the next place I found on Williams St, I ran into similar results. I was thinking it might be the size of the files. I had made them small in order to get them on the Flash drive. I thought they might be too small to make prints.

So, print making was a bust. Time to find Alfredo’s and get a gift certificate for Brendan Bradshaw.

Swept in by my father’s assurance that it would be relatively easy to find the famous Alfredo’s on O’Connell street, I headed up the street. If my father was correct, the restaurant should just be a couple blocks up from Williams street towards the Crescent.

You would think I would have learned by now? Nope. Lucy, in one of her many guises, holds the football and I attempt to kick it.

I walked the ten blocks up O’ Connell street until the shops petered out and turned to row houses. There were plenty of restaurants. None of them named Alfredo’s. I passed the Marco Polo where my parents had dined on Sunday. I passed La Piccola, where we would be celebrating Brendan’s birthday this evening. But no Alfredo’s

It was a lovely sunny day, a perfect day to be out taking photographs.

I turned around at the Crescent and headed back down towards William Street on the opposite side of O’Connell hoping I could see it from that side.

As an aside, the Crescent is a wide spot in O’Connell street where they erected a statue of the Liberator, Daniel O’Connell. The Crescent is also the site of my school’s original location. The Crescent occupied a group of buildings just opposite the statue. I don’t know which came first the naming of that wide spot as the Crescent or the naming of my school as the Crescent.

I didn’t find any sign of Alfredo’s from that side of the street either. I went into Eason’s book store to pick up the birthday card. I asked at the front desk if they had ever heard of a restaurant called Alfredo’s.

The women at the counter thought she might have sort of maybe heard of it. She checked with a co-worker. They talked and came to the conclusion it might be opposite Chocolat, the restaurant in the Royal George Hotel.

Knowing full well that it wasn’t there, but not wanting to be accused of giving up on any leads, I headed back up O’Connell street. Run, Charlie Brown, run.

I went up to the Crescent and back without finding any sign of the restaurant. I checked closed buildings to see if they were Alfredo’s in a former life. I made sure signs hadn’t been painted over the original Alfredo’s sign. Nothing.

At Eason’s, during the location conversation, one of them brought up the fact that maybe Alfredo’s was now Piccola. I went to check in at Piccola, but it was locked up.

I stopped in the tourist board at Arthur’s Quay to get eight copies of a genealogy book for my mother. I asked them to check for an Alfredo’s restaurant on their computer. They couldn’t find anything.

By this time, the laundry was ready. I picked it up and headed back to the hotel. Since I was carrying a massive bag of laundry over my shoulder and couldn’t get to my cel phone camera, a horse and trap raced by me across the bridge.

In my hotel room, I did what I should have done before I went in search of the mysterious Alfredo’s, I checked my own computer for Alfredo’s. It took me about a second to clear up the mystery.

There had never been an Alfredo’s. However, Alfredo was the part-owner and Maitre’ D at a restaurant called Piccola. So when my father asked Brendan what his favorite restaurant and he said Alfredo’s, Brendan probably should have lengthened it to Alfredo’s Piccola.

Which makes sense since if you were celebrating your birthday and were going to your favorite restaurant, they would be the same. I explained this to my father on the way to the restaurant for dinner.

The parking gods were with me and I scored almost all of a legal parking spot in front of the restaurant. Only about a third of the car was parked illegally into the bus loading zone.

Piccola’s resided in the basement level of a Georgian House on O’Connell street. Fans blew to provide some ventilation for the very hot room. My father grabbed Alfredo on the way in purchased a gift certificate, better known as a gift voucher in Ireland, to put in the card.

The food was quite good. Like all Irish restaurants, I was able to have two different kinds of potatoes with my Ravioli. Nobody even looked at me funny when I did.

The other reason Irish Birthdays rule is because they put fireworks on their birthday cakes instead of wimpy candles. I experienced this at Durty Nelly’s when the people opposite us celebrated a cake with a fountain of sparks shooting out of it. And again at Piccola’s when they brought out Brendan’s cake complete with fiery fountain.

I’m not sure if you are still expected to try and blow it out, although Brendan did try.

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LAST NIGHT IN IRELAND



Tuesday was our last full day in Limerick. Time to track down anything I still needed to see or photograph.

I opted for another big walk along the canal to the Shannon River. I had seen signs along the canal that the walk up to the University of Limerick, formerly the NIHE, was only about a forty minute walk once I got beyond the canal to the Shannon.

Well, I had a picture in my album of the National Institute of Higher Education I needed to update and a roundtrip to the University seemed like a fun idea.

For the last four days, the weather forecasters had predicted rain for every day. They had been wrong for every day, too. This morning seemed to be no different with just a scattering of clouds making for a glorious sunrise.

Originally, I was going to walk hands free all the way to the Shannon, but the sunrise over the St. Mary’s had me pulling my camera out as I walked over Sarsfield Bridge. I made a detour to the laundry to take the picture I promised my mother.

By the time I arrived at the point where the canal met the Shannon, the weather forecast for rain was looking more and more accurate. Clouds covered the sky in gray. A light drizzle fell making me rethink my idea of not carrying my rain coat. Too late at this point.

I walked along the trail my parents always raved about but I had never traveled. My father used to walk this trail from our house in Castletroy, near the University, and I would pick him at the terminus down in Limerick City. The spot where I parked to get him has been turned into a pedestrian walk way right near the new Ball’s Bridge.

It’s a great trail with wonderful views of the river. You spend a lot of time covered by a canopy of trees but you still get lots of views of the Shannon. My father liked this walk so much he has a painting of the trail hanging on a wall in the house in Saratoga.

It would have made a better hike if it wasn’t raining and if I were wearing a rain coat. But it was only a soft day, nothing too torrential. There were only a couple of times I wished I had cover. I did have cover for my camera back-pack, so that wasn’t a problem.

I think I found the spot I took the picture of the NIHE thirty five years ago, but I’m not quite sure. The University has grown quite large since I was here. Where the NIHE used to sit on one bank of the river, the UL now covers both banks connected by two bridges.

One bridge, which I wanted to photograph, was called the living bridge and was only for pedestrians and cyclists. It’s called a living bridge because it sways and moves when you traverse it.

This is a great idea for art, not so great if you want a stable platform to take a photograph. I haven’t looked too closely at the photographs I took while the bridge swayed beneath me, but I don’t think they are going to be clear.

Since I was at my farthest point from the hotel, the rain really started to come down. I was also out in the open trying to make my way back to the coverage of the foliage tunnel along the river. I kept reminding myself it was only a soft day and to soldier on.

I took the turn off at the canal to follow the path I had taken on Sunday by the exercise equipment and toll house on the Corbally road. I was packing up memories for later use.

I had another group of Swans fly over head. I snapped some shots but the exposure was off. I resisted the urge to make another foray out into the river on the stone path but did stop to disappoint the hungry swans at the car park.

By the time, I had arrived back into town, the sun came out from the clouds. I had noticed this strange arrangement of flowers in this field, almost as if a planter had dropped buckets of seeds in a diamond pattern. I tried to get a good photograph but It looked like one of those things you could only see from the air.

I snuck passed the open gate of the Athlunkard Boat club to photograph an unusual grey swan sitting by the river. He was nice enough to flex his wings for me for a photograph.

Mick and Lilly Goggin were nice enough to come to the hotel for lunch. My father was a bit confused about the lunch date. I told him we were meeting them at 12:30. He said we should leave at 12:15, then. I figured he knew something I didn’t and agreed to meet at 12:15.

When my parents arrived in the lobby, I led them into the bar for lunch. He then figured out we were actually meeting in the hotel. We now had fifteen minutes of chitchat before our guests arrived.

Lily Kelly now Goggin was the face of Verbatim in my day. She ran the phones and pretty much greeted every one that came to the plant. We always got along very well and it’s always a treat to see her. She would be my pick for quintessential Irish person.

Her husband Mick came, too, taking off from his duties of running Munster Football. Everybody but me ordered soup and bread for lunch. I was still committed to my Calories don’t exist in Ireland program, so I decided to have pizza for the third time. What can I say, it’s tasty.

Too bad the oven in the kitchen wasn’t ready and I had to have another dish. I went Irish and had Banger’s and Mash.

The fairy ring quest still burned in my mother’s brain so we headed out to Raheen where we knew there was a fairy ring. We knew this because it was on the site of the Verbatim building and great care had been taken in the construction of the three Verbatim buildings to avoid harming the ring. Not that anyone was superstitious but it is supposed to be very bad luck to touch them or even enter them.

We did a quick stop at my old High School, the Crescent College Comprehensive so I could take a few pictures. As I have done for the last several times, I took the photos in the rain.

My father’s old buildings in Raheen have been bought and used by other companies at this point. One is a start up that John Hurlihy visited a few weeks previously. The second building is used by the National Health service. The third building, the coating plant, remains vacant and is home to taggers and squatters. Pictures have appeared online of the trashed interior.

I had to argue with my father a couple of times about the location of the Fairy Ring. Basically, it was directly in front of the car. My father didn’t think that was the case. I had to drive around it a bit until he agreed with me.

I got another chance to use my mother’s camera to take her picture with the Ring in the background. Being a stupid american, I ran through a break in the trees to check the interior.

At this time, the center of the ring is full up with bushes and brambles. I could only go in about four feet before I had to stop. It used to be you could see all the way across the ring. If I had the drone I would have taken some great overhead pictures.

The funniest thing about taking pictures of my mother is her continued vanity. Whenever I point the camera towards her, she hides her cane and whips off her glasses. She never wants to be caught unprepared either. When she sees the camera, she will point her face towards it and smile.

We went back to Adare to my father’s favorite restaurant, the Dunraven Arms for dinner. And as we had done for the previous five nights, we dined with the Bradshaw’s. This time the party was down to just Anne and Brendan. I can’t for the life of me think of why they continued to seek our company.

The sun hovered at the horizon as we pulled into the restaurant parking lot. I had a few minutes and a camera of all things, so I ran back up the road to get a last picture of Desmond castle in the glow of sunset. I would have done the same to Adare Manor but I didn’t feel like going through the hassle of breeching security. I’ll save that particular picture for another trip.

Anne brought gifts for my mother and I. They were thrilled by the pictures of the wedding and wanted to thank me for them. They bought me a nice Lacoste sweater from a fancy shop in Limerick called Leonards. It would have been so much better if the sweater was in my size.

As you enter, the lobby of the Dunraven Arms, which is a hotel as well as the restaurant, there is a distinctive leather chair just inside the door. The chair has a wrap around top and my father has been taking pictures in the chair as long as he has been going to the Dunraven arms. This trip was no different. We also took a picture with the Maitre D, even though this was the brother of the Maitre D from the last time we took the picture.

As usual, the food was great. I made it a point of beating Brendan to the check. He had paid for enough dinners on this trip and others.

[Greg_phpbb3_import1]

LEAVING ON A JET PLANE



Our last day in Ireland did not mark the last day of the trip. My parents needed a break on the way back as well.

I brought all the bags down to the car myself rather than going through the rigamarole of getting the bell hop to help us. Despite the fact the bags now bulged with gifts, I managed to fit them in the car.

Because I am me, I mounted the GoPro to the dash and shot a time-lapse of the trip from the Strand Hotel to the Airport complete with gas station stops and the final destination at Alamo Car Rental.

Shannon airport doesn’t allow you to drive right up to the front of the airport, those lanes are reserved for buses and taxis. Instead, you drop your passengers and their mountain of luggage across the street in a sheltered drop-off zone. My mother and father got to wait with the bags while I returned the car.

I’m two for two now in returning cars without getting extra costs. I had scratched the bumper the previous night and thought for sure they would be asking for some euros to cover the cost of the damage. But no, I was given my leave without any drama. It probably helps that I now pay for the Collision Damage Waiver.

My mother had already made her way into the terminal. All I had to do was shepherd my father, our carry-ons, and the two carts full of luggage. The ticket line at the counter was quite long, but they kept adding agents at the front desks.

I’m sure there were a few people pissed in the line behind me when they saw me step to where I had placed the two carts full of luggage and moved to the counter. The single quick guy had just turned into a long delay.

It got longer when I mentioned that my father would of course be sitting next to the window with his oxygen concentrator. Everything stopped as the counter agent processed this information. What do you mean oxygen concentrator?

Now, I had started with a nice lady at the counter but she had been replaced by this women who I was getting the cranky vibe from. This curve ball of paper work wasn’t making her happy. And the fact she could barely see my parents sitting across the terminal didn’t make matters better.

Well, she had to leave and talk to her manager. Then I had to get the approval paper work from my father to show we had planned ahead to bring this equipment on board the plane. Now, we had had this equipment the entire time. This was the first time it had created any problems.

I could sense the people in line looking for torches and pitchforks as I continued to hog one of the ticket agents.

I also asked if there was any way my parents could sit in a row by themselves. Here is where I decided my ticket agent was the best person in the world. She typed on her keyboard to make the changes and then went down the line of all the other ticket agents and asked for a soft hold on the empty seat in my parents row. Awesome sauce.

My father was a bit cranky at the length of time it took to actually get the seats. Now, we had to get in line to wait for the wheel chairs. Shannon has a special area devoted entirely for the wheel chair bound travelers.

When Shannon used to be the first stop on any trip to Europe, it was widely known as the best place to shop Duty Free and had a huge selection of Duty Free stores. Although those times have changed and the Shannon shopping area isn’t what it once was, it is still pretty impressive.

And my mother can’t pass up any opportunity to shop. Especially if there is a young man pushing her around the store and getting things off the shelves for her to look at. I quickly grew tired of following my parents around, especially since I was carrying all of their carry-ons and the gifts they were purchasing. And didn’t we just go shopping on Monday at a store that had almost all of these same items?

We eventually dragged my mother from the store. I dropped her purchases in her lap. My mother turned to the man pushing her chair and said “This is how he punishes me”

We did not have a repeat of our outbound experience and were able to board before everyone else. I don’t think the First Class passengers like to see anyone board before them.

I get everything stowed. I unpack my father’s oxygen. I say another small prayer of thanks to the ticket agent for getting my parents their own row. I’m sitting in the aisle seat across from them, so there won’t be any bomb threat problems this time.

The best thing about Aer Lingus is that if all the ticketed passengers are on board, they close the door and leave, even it is before the scheduled departure time.

I said another small prayer of thanks to my ticket agent because when we departed I was in a row by myself. Good times. It was a great flight with free movies and free food.

The only hiccup was that I had to physically lift my mother from her seat in order for her to get to the bathroom. On other flights, I could assist her up. But because the aisle armrest didn’t lift, she couldn’t swing herself into position to stand in the aisle. I had to grab her under the arms and hoist her up.

The flight was long since we were flying against the jet stream rather than with it behind us. And I admit it, I got off the plane cranky. Very very cranky.

The first order of business on disembarking the plane is rounding up all the carry-ons. Since we are waiting for wheel chairs, my parents and I wait until everyone gets off the plane before we leave.

I’m figuring how to get all the bags on me as the parents walk to their waiting chairs. I must have a taken longer than usual, because by the time I get off the plane, my parents have already been wheeled away.

Now, I can make it down the aisle okay with all the bags, but once the parents get in their chairs, it is time for them to take a bag on their lap.

Except for the part where they are already gone and I have to catch up to them to relieve myself of some of this burden. I am almost upon them when they enter the elevator and descend. I’m forced to carry all the bags down the escalator.

I do finally catch up to them and order the wheel chair attendants to stop. At first, they don’t but I make them. I give some of the bags to them to hang off the wheel chairs.

At baggage claim, I grab the usual two carts and load them up with our bags.

Now, it is time for me to go get the rental car. I need the bags and one person to stand at the curb so I don’t have to leave the car unattended when I return. Anyone who travels knows you can’t leave an unattended car at the curb.

Well, the wheel chair attendants want to place my parents inside with the bags far from the door. I can feel the anger bubbling inside me. I calmly try, probably not as calmly I intend, to get them to wheel my parents to the curb.

It is raining outside. My mother complains about the cold. One of the attendants says “I tried to leave you inside” I bark at the women, demanding an explanation of how I am to leave the car at the curb and get them if they are inside? She shuts up and avoids eye contact with me.

I get on the bus for the car rental place.

I do like the plaza for Car Rentals they have at Logan Airport. It just seems the longest lines for car rentals is always at the Alamo Counter. I was tempted to use the computer kiosk, but I wanted to upgrade my rental and add CDW so I waited it out in line.

I knew I wanted a big car but I couldn’t get the van. If I got the roomy van that had plenty of room for our luggage, I would hear complaints from my mother for the rest of our stay in Boston about how it was difficult for her to get into that car. I did get the premium full size which they upgraded Luxury. I figured I would get some big piece of American Steel for that grade of rental.

Nope. The luxury full size rental was a Chevy Malibu, not much bigger than the car we had in Ireland. The attendant tried to help by offering an SUV. Anger and more Anger. I was tempted by the Vans that were right next to my lone Chevy Malibu. But I settled for the Malibu. Big mistake.

Since I had been out of sight of my father for more than ten minutes, he had to call and find out what was taking so long. He also told me he had a porter and they had arranged for me to park right where they were. I just wanted to know if they were in the same spot where I left them.

As I pull up next to them, the first thing the porter says is “You can’t park here” I then point to the people in the wheel chairs behind him and say I am with them. He motions for me to park. Which is illegal, since this is a bus only lane.

I pop the trunk and look at our mountain of bags. Our less than helpful porter looks disbelievingly at the trunk and says “Are you going to get all of those in there?” Not really an option. All the bags have to go in this car.

I start packing. I pile some in the back seat. I squash some in the trunk. Amazingly, they all fit at the expense of room in the back seat.

The back seat is a torture chamber for my father. He sits behind me since I can pull the seat forward more than my mother can. It still isn’t very much room. He sighs and wheezes almost as much as my mother does trying to get in. Ultimately, I have to lift his foot in since he doesn’t have the strength to do it himself.

In my head, I’m raging, just looking for an excuse to bleed my valves. My father offers the opportunity.

As soon as I am settled in the car and looking at the disgruntled bus driver in my rear view who is wondering why their is a civilian parked in front of him, my father says “I don’t want to tell you how to drive, but you should take the 93 to the Wadzinski’s”

The time between not telling me what to do and telling me what to do lasted about a heartbeat. I wasn’t pleasant. I pointed out the fact there was only one way to go and that was the 93. My father back pedaled by saying I hadn’t been driving here that long and might be unsure of myself. My mother cackled as she heard us fighting. My mother takes great pleasure in any friction between my father and I.

During the drive to Reading, my mother talked to my cousin Michelle Dickson. Michelle is the cousin who wanted us to do the six hour drive to Stowe, Vermont to visit her. Well, she was back in the area talking to people about a scholarship fund done in her mother’s name, a fund my mother and grandfather set up.

They were supposed to get together for dinner to go over the arrangements, but Michelle was now calling to see if I could drive over to her place and drop her off. Excuse me? Did we not just fly 3000 miles to get here and you want us to drive her to your place? I don’t think so.

Which was bad. I was hoping my father and I would go by ourselves to see my cousin Christopher and his eight girls. Now my mother was making plans to join us.

Seeing the eight daughters would be a bit of coup since the girls hadn’t been all in the same room for quite some time with one of the daughters Siobhan currently living in Wyoming while she does her air force training.

I had given Chris a lot of grief about blowing us off during the last visit. I also bash him for being in Pasadena for three weeks and not calling me.

We go to the lovely Waxy O’Donnells, Irish Pub for dinner, good food not included. Chris and family used to come here a lot dinner when it was under different ownership.

The previous owners had a kids eat free on Tuesday program. Chris and his eight daughters often availed themselves of this largesse. I wonder if that’s why they went broke?

Right up until I walked through the doors, I was unsure if I would get to see all eight girls. Something always seems to come up. But for the first surprise of the night, there they all were: Patricia, Shannon, Devin, Siobhan, Bridget, Fallon, Seadna, and Sinead. Part of the reason for the gathering was that it was also Seadna’s birthday.

I was happy to see my cousins even though I couldn’t keep their names straight.

And that would have been a fine evening, but then my cousin, Linda, Chris’s sister, showed up with her two kids, Liam and Grace. Linda even had a wedding gift for me and Cindi. I didn’t think Linda showing up was even a possibility.

To top if off, eldest cousin, Jay came, too. Since there were so many people, I didn’t get to spend much time with any of them. But it was great to see the fruitful members of the Lynch clan.

There were a lot of people in the family picture.

[Greg_phpbb3_import1]

LAST NIGHT IN BOSTON

Started the morning with a drizzly walk around Lake Quannapowitt. I think I’m getting used to the incessant traffic noise that accompanies my stroll. I did notice however that the line of traffic stretches from Wakefield ave to the roundabout. This did not bode well for the trip to the airport tomorrow, since we would have to get in this line about this time.

My mother was meeting with her Radcliffe classmates at Toscano restaurant near Harvard square for lunch. Despite the fact we needed to move quickly, in order for my father and I to make our own lunch date, my mother continued her slow pace.

I let my father guide us to Cambridge only looking up the actual restaurant location. We had only one snafu on the way when my father said left when he meant right. I still got yelled at for not driving how he wanted.

Since my mother made us late, my father informed her we would be back at some indeterminate time in the future.

We were picking up lunch and meeting with my Aunt Eileen on Clifford street back in Melrose. We would pick it up at Kelly’s where they make a very expensive lobster roll sandwich. I was stunned when I saw the bill for the three of us would be $63. We were only getting three sandwiches!

As we left the restaurant, I noticed a message on my cel phone. My cousin Janet would be joining us as well. She wanted a sandwich, too.

Janet is currently going through the joy of breast reconstruction surgery following a double mastectomy. She had the first surgery about the time Cindi and I got married. She was the only cousin that was actively making plans to come when she got the diagnosis.

She tried to meet us the first time through Massachusetts but she was in too much pain to make the trip to dine with us. I was giving her a pass on this trip, too, since she still wasn’t feeling a hundred percent. But she made the two hour drive up from Hingham, located south of Boston to join us for lunch.

We didn’t dawdle but we didn’t exactly hurry to finish up and head back to Cambridge. We cruised by Tufts so my father could see his Alma Mater. I heard more stories about vanished golf courses, frozen steps and the eight members in his chemistry class.

Our plan to make mom suffer failed miserably as she was still chatting by the time we picked her up.

For dinner we met up with my mom’s half of the family in the guise of Ralph McKenna, the youngest brother of my grandfather. We went to the North Ave Cafe, which my father didn’t have anything good to say about. It was on the short list of restaurants for my cousin Natalie. They did serve breakfast all day.

After complaint about my cousins eating habits, my father goes and has waffles with strawberries for dinner.

I barely know my Uncle Ralph. It is only recently that I even knew my grandfather had brothers and that I had a whole slew of McKenna cousins out there. I don’t know why my grandfather didn’t acknowledge his family.

The unusual story for the evening was the Uncle Ralph’s house had been broken into by David McKenna’s kids. This would be the same David McKenna who takes care of my grandfather’s house for my mother.

The kids were looking for things to sell so they could get money to feed their ongoing oxycontin addiction. You don’t get these sorts of stories from the Lynch side of the family.

After dinner, it was time to pack up and begin loading the car.

[Greg_phpbb3_import1]

Must finish so I can start posting my fabulous geese photos

[Greg_phpbb3_import1]

THIS IS THE END

Snapping awake at 4am gave me plenty of time to take one last lap around Lake Quannapowitt. It did make crossing the rotary’s four intersections in the darkness far more entertaining. But the severity factor was considerably diminished by the lack of cars.

I had one last breakfast of cheerios in the Wadzinski’s breakfast nook, again mourning the lack of brown bread, rashers, and Irish Sausage.

The parents were up and about early so we made it out the door in plenty of time to hit the gas stations and the Honey Dew doughnut shop for some doughnuts. Only one of the bladder challenged decided to face the upcoming morning commute with a belly full of hot coffee.

Since we gave ourselves plenty of time to make it to the airport, we covered the distance in record time. Of all trips up and down the 93, this was by far the fastest. The HOV lane was big asset, since it seems no one in Massachusetts carpools.

The skycap only had to run inside once to figure out why he couldn’t check our bags and get our boarding passes. The wheelchairs arrived, so I told the parents I would just meet them at the gate after I dumped off the rental car.

I was worried again about dropping off the rental since I had nicked one of the chrome wheels parking the car in Cambridge. I also noticed the fuel tank didn’t read full despite the fact I had just filled it. CDW to the rescue as I was waved on through.

I must say it was a relief going through the security checkpoint like a normal person. I didn’t have to run interference between my parents and the TSA agent. I didn’t have to explain why I had scissors and a huge can or Right Guard in my carry-on. I just took off my belt and shoes and wandered through.

We had plenty of time to kill at the gate so I got a chance to wander, buy snacks and do a little reading.

I did check with the gate agent about getting a row for my parents but this plane was full. During the course of the discussion, the matter of the Oxygen Concentrator came up. This caused the gate agent to fly into a tizzy of checking screens and looking at my father’s papers. She couldn’t seem to find the exact model to check us in. Eventually, we cleared everything up.

Before the Aer Lingus flight, no one cared about the Oxygen Concentrator. This bugged my dad since he had done a lot of work to make sure he was airline compliant with the device. At the Aer Lingus counter, he was glad that someone was finally taking notice that he was carrying this thing.

For some reason at the United desk, he was a little put off that they were going to so much trouble to make sure he was compliant. I called him on it later remarking “First you were unhappy they weren’t checking your papers and now you are unhappy that they are”

Well we were crammed into one row for the flight home. Since it was United, if you wanted to watch the TV you had to give them $7. I decided against it even though the baseball championship was on during the flight.

My sister asked me later, why I didn’t let mom sit on the aisle in order to help her in her frequent bathroom breaks. I pointed out that if I was wedged between mom and dad, we would never get out of the row since mom can’t get out of that seat unassisted.

My father doesn’t go to the bathroom on these trips. If he leaves the oxygen machine, there is a good chance he’ll die. I’m sure he could drag it with him, but he opts not to.

I’m beginning to think air travel just makes me cranky. I was angry again when I got off the plane. Although I did load up the wheel chairs with carry-on bags before they slipped off.

While my parents made their customary post-flight bathroom break, I headed to the baggage carousel to deal with the bag mountain. I phoned Roberta to tell her to bring the car in.

The baggage stopped coming out of the slot and I found out I was one bag short. There were a bunch of people in a similar predicament. Thankfully, my bag came in on an earlier flight and was sitting in the holding area.

I loaded up all the bags including putting a couple in the back seat. This whole luggage deal makes me seriously consider getting a van. Even the mighty Cadillac was a poor fit for our luggage.

I’m driving us back to Saratoga. My father shouldn’t drive and my sister is too nervous to drive, which makes the rest of us nervous.

The first thing my father says to me as I pull out into traffic is “You better take 280” There is a further discussion of my inability to take direction from anyone.

After unloading the bags at home, I head out for the walk along Stelling to DeAnza College with a return down the railroad tracks. I spend a lot of the walk figuring out how to avoid my parents for dinner. I’ve had just about enough of them.

But my mother has it in her head to always tag along when I go to Jakes’ Pizza. Or bring it back so we can all eat together. Maybe she thinks we will bond over our presumed shared loved of this pizza. Yeah, no. I decide to eat at Jakes’ and they can just have pizza when I get back. Yes, I’m a crappy son for making them wait to eat. On the flip side, their digestive system really can’t handle Jakes’

Sure, Friday night at Jakes isn’t the most soothing environment but it beat fighting a way through my mother’s papers and my dad’s medications that cover the kitchen table.

I awoke early again, my body still trying to find it’s proper sleep cycle. I had another long walk down the railroad tracks to Saratoga Blvd and came back via Cox Ave. I need these walks near the house in Los Angeles.

My mother, for reasons known only to her, decided I needed her to accompany me to the airport. She even got dressed up for the occasion. She also decided two minutes before we left to box up some gift packages that she would drop at the post office on the way back.

Right up until the end we couldn’t leave on time.