Ireland x2

Oh, dear. I meant to write before I took off again, but so goes life once the kids get home. I have since returned to Ireland -this time Dublin, Belfast, and the northern coast- and visited Scotland, all in service of Jack’s first college exploration trip.

But let’s back up to July and Ireland round 1.

As I mentioned two posts back, the day Tom left the Netherlands to return home, I flew to Dublin where I began my adventure with a trip to a bookstore. My tour (an 8-day Ancient Ireland Ring of Kerry loop) was set to commence at 1p the next day. So, on Tuesday morning, eager to explore Dublin on my own, I walked west from my center city hotel to Kilmainham Gaol (jail), a former prison that is now a museum.

What was founded in 1796 as a “new kind of jail” -one that would provide better conditions for the incarcerated and rehabilitate them- Kilmainham quickly became overcrowded and rife with disease, all while children and adults continued to be housed together. During the Famine in the mid-1800s, this situation became even worse as many folks tried to break laws and gain entry to the jail simply so they could be ensured some daily ration.

Today, many who are interested in Irish history know Kilmainham as the prison in which many of the 1916 Easter Rising leaders and participants were subsequently jailed (de Valera, Pearse, Connolly, etc) and executed (not de Valera or any women). You can read more about all of that here. Kilmainham is now managed by the Office of Public Works and tickets include a guided tour and entry to the museum. Admittedly an avid fan of Irish history, I could not have enjoyed the experience more: riveting tour, excellent array of artifacts, and you can feel how harrowing it must have been to be imprisoned there. The two execution sites are marked with simple, powerful black crosses, and across the street from Kilmainham stands a memorial that includes the Proclamation of the Republic and 14 bronze statues, each with a verdict or execution order at its feet and unique bullet pattern on its torso, that represent the men executed.

In my opinion, a visit to Kilmainham is a must if you visit Dublin.

Following a quick lunch, I met up with my tour guide, David, and the seven other participants (all women), and we headed off to the EPIC Museum (about Irish emigration) and the Guinness Factory for tours. I was underwhelmed by EPIC, to be honest, and while on principle and in solidarity I drink Guinness, I don’t actually love it but was impressed with the enormous visitor center and the entire operation. Definitely worth a visit!

Next day: West!

Our first stop was Clonmacnoise, an ancient monastery founded and supported by intellectually voracious monks. Sitting along the River Shannon, Clonmacnoise grew into a decently-sized community before being pillaged repeatedly by both Vikings and other Irish monasteries (tsk, tsk) and ultimately abandoned.

Westward on to Galway, but more on that tomorrow! In the meantime let me rave about My Ireland Tour, the company with whom I traveled. David was an amazing guide: a font of knowledge, a great wit, a masterful driver, and just all-around cool. Our coach was extremely comfortable, the itinerary was perfectly full such that every day was filled, but I almost never felt rushed, and the lodgings and meals were wonderful.

Netherlands PS + camp

I truly loved hearing from so many of you after my Netherlands post, and I apologize for not having replied yet; we have, in the meantime, gone to Maine to pick the boys up and drive us all home. Since arriving back in MD last night, I have done 9 loads of laundry (no live ticks or empty milk jugs this year; but, more silverware and some rocks, and we’re down three more towels), purchased groceries that filled the cart beyond full (as the evidence below shows), and prepped for a new driver’s license (for Jack) appointment tomorrow.

I am both astonished and delighted by the entrenchment of dirt in what were, six weeks ago, new socks for both boys. A hat tip to you, kiddos, for living big in nature. Some of these are not salvageable, but I’m giving most of them my best effort because they carried my kids through happiness and dirt, tough times and wild life. And all of that is good info to remember and become wiser by.

As the tenth load spins in the room abutting my office, I am thinking about how long ago Europe feels but also how my time there remains sustentative. Earlier this year, my dear friend Amanda said something to the effect of “alone travel is something to always make time for. I do it once a year.” Like me, A has two children. Hers are younger, so I really admire her commitment. But she’s right. Going alone when you are rarely alone is a great sort of challenge. It doesn’t appeal to or benefit all, but for those who crave growth and adventure, such travel can provide the best of both.

In Amsterdam, I came across a pair of shoes I’d been eyeing stateside and really wanted. They’re a Converse-Comme des Garçons collaboration that I just hadn’t managed to find/deal with/purchase before I left. I mentioned them to Tom, and because he is a weirdly good researcher, he naturally found them at a store on one of our favorite streets in Amsterdam: Prinsengracht.

The precise pair I wanted wasn’t available in my size, but I quite liked the available option so brought it up to the register. The solo employee was a typically-tall (tall!) Dutch woman who appeared effortlessly chic though wearing an oversized tee, oversized jeans, and many barrettes in her hair (that seemed unnecessary). At the counter I said, “what do you think?” referring to hip shoes that seemed at least a decade younger than I am.

With total sincerity, she looked at me and said, “It doesn’t matter at all what I think. It only matters if you like them.” Perhaps seeing my American whatever she said, “I love them; they’re very hip.” And I do love that so much about the Netherlands. Practical and honest and largely unconcerned with others’ opinions. It’s all downright aspirational, and I have since loved wearing those high-tops and embracing that spirit. It’s taken me 4 decades to really fly my own flag, and doing so is so GD fun and liberating.

The joy of traveling again:: The Netherlands and Ireland

Although Covid is everywhere and, apparently, Monkeypox is gaining ground (I literally have zero bandwidth for another pandemic, epidemic, endemic anything), it was with the utmost thrill that Tom and I left the States on July 10 and headed to the Netherlands. Anyone not new here knows that Nederland is a very special place for us. We lived there for the summer after we got married and have since returned several times. Having not been since 2017, we were due, and, per the usual, it did not disappoint.

For the first time we stayed in the canal district, on Keizersgracht (emperor’s canal). We lived just off the Vondelpark (think Central Park for Amsterdam) in ‘04 and have since stayed near that area, in Museumplein. But the canals are so beautiful and romantic and vibrant, and we really enjoyed our hotel. Amsterdam is very flat, so it’s especially easy to walk miles and miles with little effort. It also takes little effort to eat and drink well and to have fun. Truly, if you don’t enjoy Amsterdam and the Dutch, the problem is you. It is a marvelously functional, happy country and it is beautiful and friendly and everyone is trilingual at the least and their quality of life is epic.

We took day trips to Haarlem (new to both of us) and The Hague (new to Tom), and while Haarlem was undoubtedly gorgeous, it was too perfect and quiet for our taste. The Hague, however, which I fell in love with in ‘17, is extremely cool, and I was pleased that Tom liked it so much. We had a scrumptious brunch upon arrival, went to Mauritshuis to see Girl With a Pearl Earring and the Goldfinch (neither ever gets old; nor does the ceiling in the home/museum; even Tom appeared taken with Girl [he is a sucker for Vermeer]), and then participated in a food-and-drink walking tour. Our guide was a born-and-raised local, and our tour mates were an absolutely delightful three-generation family who were all, originally, from South Africa. Four now live in Sydney, two in Utrecht, and one (the matriarch) remains in Cape Town.

During the hours we spent together, some of us stomached the skin-on pickled herring (I did it, and I never need to do it again), we met a French monk who has long lived in The Hague but who did a stint in “Be-tesda,” just down the street from my house, we learned just how much beef any one of us wants to ingest in a day, and the ex-South Africans shared why they’d emigrated. Honestly, their reasons sounded sadly familiar to the thoughts I often have. Not the same -their main issues were rampant crime, lack of jobs, and a feeling of no future- but similar in the sense of thinking that they’d best cut bait while they could.

Every person we met in the Netherlands (and that I met later in Ireland) expressed the greatest sadness and horror about the state of the US right now. Guns, women’s rights, trump, Fox news…to a T, everyone was enormously well informed, wholly horrified, and vexed. I cannot tell you how freeing it felt to not worry, ever, about being shot.

One of the S.Africans, now in Sydney, runs an amazing travel company for safaris and trips into Africa. If anyone is interested, let me know. I am hoping to do a multi-generational family trip via his group in the not-so-distant future.

Perhaps the thing I love most about travel are experiences like these. Downing slick fish with strangers while being admonished to keep one eye peeled for scavenger gulls who will, with no hesitation, steal the fish from your throat. Meeting monks who have been called around the world and who now brew a wide variety of ales from their monastery and retain the most delightful twinkle in their eyes. Speaking and listening to folks like the man who drove me to the airport in Amsterdam and was, I learned, from Somalia but orphaned as a young teen, arrived in the Netherlands alone at age 15, and is now married and studying for an advanced degree in psychology so that he can help children who have endured trauma.

The world is such a remarkable place, and I have missed it these past couple years. It is humbling and inspiring in the best ways, including hard ones that force growth and make (most of) us better.

On July 18, Tom flew home, and I flew to Dublin for a solo adventure across a good bit of the emerald isle. Having been warned repeatedly about hideous delays flying out of Schiphol, I arrived at 9:30a for a 1:40p flight. At 2:30, FIVE HOURS AFTER ARRIVING, I finally got through the security scanners and passport control and then ran roughly three quarters of a mile to my gate. Keep in mind that one Aer Lingus rep had told me at 10am that the flight was already canceled, but another said she had heard of no such thing, and no one could every confirm anything.

So, heaving and sweaty, I was, as you can imagine, infinitely thankful to arrive at the back 40 of Schiphol to find the plane waiting for everyone else stuck in the lines I’d only just been freed from. A ridiculously handsome Irish flight attendant told me with a winning smile that I could “relax now,” and it’s the first time in my life that anyone has told me to relax and I didn’t immediately want to stab them.

I would like to again applaud those who love travel and will deal with a lot of shit to do it as well as those who make it happen with a smile or at least good spirit. Not ONE person in the five-hour line with me got angry or even peevish. The group of Aussies behind me watched my bags when I went to find out if there was any help I could get because my flight was leaving in 40 minutes and we were not even close to security (No!) and only complained that there was not a bar available to people in line. A darling couple trying desperate to get to Israel (they were Palestinian, and honest to god, I hope they are always safe and well and not removed from their land) just kept embracing and laughing, and even when you could tell they were terrified about missing the only flight out, they stayed zen and smiling. I realized anew how much negative energy is saved by having perspective and gratitude and staying calm. What were any of us going to do but wait? So why not wait with peace and appreciation for the fact that we were waiting to safely and freely go somewhere of our choosing?

I landed in Dublin, successfully caught my €7 shuttle to College Green, and walked my giant bag and self to my hotel. No one has taken a faster shower and gotten cute so as to immediately head to a bookstore before closing as did I. I bought seven damn books of Irish lit (I have a problem), took myself out to read one of them at a Lebanese restaurant, and while there befriended the Spanish waitress, Georgina (surely that cannot be the Spanish spelling of Georgina, but I have not yet looked it up), who moved to Dublin ten years ago and loves it, despite the insanity of rent costs wreaking havoc on the city right now.

The next day began my tour, but I’ll tell you about it in a later post. For now, I love you NL and IRL and cannot wait to visit you again.

+2, oops