Dublin, Doolin, Dingle

Given that March is the month of four leaf clovers, pots of gold, and drinking lots of Guinness, well at least one day of the month is, I wanted to share my adventures in the Emerald Isle.  


We only had a weekend to visit, so instead of staying in Dublin and doing pub crawls, we decided to take a bus tour of the southern coast.  It sounded like a great way to explore the country.  We would get to travel to several different towns, learn about the country's history, and transportation and lodging between the stops were all included.


We arrived Thursday night in Dublin.  My friend and I booked a nice hostel, and were hoping that my brother and other friend would be able stay there too, even though they decided to come last minute.  But the inn was full.  Completely booked.  While my brother asked about other places to stay, we waited in the lobby, engrossed by the events on the security camera.  The young Irish doorman stood a few feet away from the monitor.  I figured he was doing his job and keeping watch.  He didn't take his eyes off the screen.  I glanced up to see what he was looking at, but it was hard to tell on the ten inch t.v. monitor.  I asked what he was watching.  He barely took his eyes off the screen when he answered, these two having sex in the pool room.  What?!  I looked closer but couldn't see anything.  Where?  Right there underneath the pool table.  They've been going at it for awhile.  First they were on the pool table, and he was taking off her clothes.  Now they're underneath.  Ew!  I took a closer look.  I couldn't believe that they were having sex right there in a public space, and at a hostel.  I don't care how clean it is.  That's sick.  Maybe we shouldn't stay here either.  But we  already had a room, and it was late. My brother and friend would have to find another place to stay.  It was 11:00 at night, it would be easier to find a place for two people as opposed to four.  We said good night, and made sure they knew where to meet in the morning.


While I was asleep peacefully in my six person room, they were in a taxi driving all around Dublin looking for a place to stay.  Every hostel was full.  Every hotel was full.  They drove and drove, as they watched the meter on the taxi go up.  According to my friend, they were so tired and so frustrated that sleeping on a park bench sounded like a good option.  They were over it, and the luck of the Irish had proven them wrong.  Finally, they found a room in a decent hotel.  And four hours later they were meeting us at a town center.


We loaded onto the bus and staked our claim in the sprawling seats that lined the back.  Like any awkward setting with a group of strangers, we played the getting to know you game by stating our name, where we were from, and who we were traveling with.  We were the only Americans on the bus, and besides the three Korean guys, we were also the youngest.  It was an eclectic group, who didn't seem to like the young American travelers in the back.  Road trip games, that were played to help pass the time along, proved this as the trip went on.  


Our first stop was Locke's Distillery, established in 1757, it is the oldest licensed whiskey distillery in the world.  After the tour of the distillery, everyone had a shot of whiskey to warm themselves up, even in the middle of summer, it is still cold in Ireland.  They offered two people to do a taste test with three different shots.  The first shot was strong enough for most of us, so two of the Koreans took the challenge.  Although they did not talk much, these guys proved that they were there to have a good time.  

Locke's Whiskey Distillery 

As we made our way west, we stopped at Clonmacnoise, a monastic settlement on the shores of the River Shannon.  Founded sometime between 545 and 548, by the 9th century, Clonmacnoise was a major center for religion, education, craftsmanship, and trade. I walked around the ancient grounds taking pictures of the disheveled cathedral and elaborate headstones.  The vast green landscape stretched as far as the eye could see.

Gravestones at Clonmacnoise

We settled for the night in Doolin.  A small village of about 200 people.  At the Doolin Cottage B&B we were welcomed by the owner of the house and his wife.  It was a very cozy home with plenty of rooms and beds for everyone. 


In the morning we woke to a small breakfast of biscuits and coffee.  We said good bye to our kind hosts, and made our way to the bus.  Our tour guide, a young Irish lad, did his usual head count, and discovered that we were missing one person.   We sat there waiting to see who would emerge.  No one knew who was missing.  Until finally it dawned on us, the youngest of the Koreans was still in the house.  We woke his sleeping friends, who seemed to crawl out of their beds and into the bus without opening their eyes.  One of the guys decided to go in and check on him, but he returned alone.  We stared out the windows, hoping he would appear.  We coaxed his friend to go in again.  Success.  The little guy was curled up in his bed sleeping the whole time.  We clapped as he entered the bus.  We could now venture on.


The Cliffs of Moher is one of Ireland's top tourist destinations.  A dramatic drop to the Atlantic, the cliffs reach 702 feet at their highest point.  That morning it was especially cold.  The mist from the ocean became more of a drizzle as we got closer to the cliffs.  The wind picked up, and the waves fiercely crashed against the jagged rocks below.  This did not stop our adventurous Korean friends from taking a hike past the, DANGER- PLEASE DO NOT GO BEYOND THIS POINT, sign.  They stood as close to the edge of the cliff as they could.  There wasn't a ledge or rail separating them from a death plummet.  They looked down to take in the awe inspiring nature.  They took pictures and laughed.  Although they were having fun, everyone on the safe side of the sign, stood back in utter shock.  Are they crazy!  The rocks were damp and the grass was slippery.  The wind began to pick up again, and then suddenly one of them slipped.  It was like a scene from a movie.  A split second that seemed to last for minutes.  He clawed at the cliff and dug his hands into the steady ground.  His friends could not help, as they feared they too would fall, or tumble over from the force of the wind.  He crawled his way up to standing and held his arms out like Rocky.  He defeated death.  They walked back to the group laughing, as the others cursed their stupidity.  I was just happy that the little sleeping beauty was alive.  

Cliffs of Moher

Moments Before His Dramatic Fall

After the brush with death, the bus made its way to Coumeenole Beach on the Dingle Peninsula (I love these names, Doolin, Dingle).  It is said that you loose part of your soul if you put your feet in the water of Coumeenole Beach, and you must return in forty years to reclaim it.  I didn't want to take my chances.  I came as close to the water as I could without loosing my soul.  The sand was cold, but felt nice.  It was the first time my feet felt real sand that whole summer, and it reminded me of home.  It was comforting.   

Coumeenole Beach

The main attraction on the final day was Blarney Castle.  The winding stone steps take you to the top of the castle, for a view of the lavish countryside, and the opportunity to kiss the Blarney Stone.  This was one superstition that I was going to take advantage of.  The legend goes that if you kiss the Stone of Eloquence, you will never again be at a loss for words.  Although, I don't think I have ever had that problem. 

Blarney Castle

Kissing the Blarney Stone

As we made our way back to Dublin, tired and suffering from an acute case of cabin fever, I was glad I took the Three Day Western Rocker bus tour.  I saw sights that I wouldn't have seen otherwise.  And experienced the iconic green rolling hills of Ireland.  I would have never seen that if I just stayed in Dublin.


Note:  When planning a bus tour, consider the others that will be sharing the confined moving space with you.    


            

Lots of Happy Endings In L.A.

That might as well be the title of the article written on the front page of today's LA Times.  It's been reported that there has been a dramatic increase in the number of massage parlors to hit the southland.  Yes, they called them parlors as opposed to salons or spas, because massage parlors take on a completely different connotation.  These parlors are now opening just as frequently as pot shops.  The reason I found this so interesting, was not because the city isn't regulating on this, but because I've actually been to one of these places.  Right on Ventura Boulevard across from Gelsons.  It's a completely normal part of town, not some shady back alley deep in the Valley.  But, according to the article, there's no shame.  They want what every business wants, prime location with lots of exposure.

I took this little adventure last month with my friend, because 1. We were looking for something different to do, 2. I just needed a massage, and 3. I wanted to see what these places were all about. I wasn't looking to get any special treatment, (and for any in questioning, that's only for the men), but I wanted to see if I noticed anything weird going on.

When we walked into the tiny massage parlor we were immediately greeted by a therapist behind the counter. Two young girls lie in the waiting room behind a screen door, pants rolled up to their knees, towels on their faces, and a light sheet over their body (they were fully clothed, thank goodness).  My friend and I stood there and stared at them.  How can this be relaxing when you're getting rubbed down in front of everyone that walks in, and you can hear the bell ring every time the door opens.  Plus, the lady behind the desk was whispering to my friend and I about what type of massage we would like.  Anything but that.  I don't know how this works, but I don't want to lie on some little bed with my shirt rolled up, while you wipe a warm towel on me, giving everyone who walks by a show.

We waited for an open room, while we drank green tea and ate foreign chocolates, and watched the end of the massage show.  When the two young girls got up, they seemed refreshed and relaxed.  They happily paid for the service and left.  Maybe this wasn't going to be weird after all.

My massage therapist lead me down the very tight hallway to my room, while my friend got the only real room with a door that actually closed, I got one of the small stalls that lined the side wall.  She drew open the curtains and I entered the dark cubby hole.  She motioned that I enter, then closed the curtains behind me and left.  I stood there in the dark, confused with no instructions.  There was about a foot of room around the twin size mattress-type pad that lie on the floor.  The walls along the side of the futon pad, were Japanese-style screens that stopped a few feet from the ceiling.  The only real wall was at the head of the bed, as my decorative curtain door served as the other.  My shoes were already outside the stall, so I began to take off my jewelry and clothes.  I was a little hesitant to take off my clothes.  Was I supposed to?  The girls in the waiting room didn't, but they didn't have their own private box.  I obviously kept my panties on, like I would at any other massage place, but there I was under the thin sheet, naked.  How clean was this place?  I'm lying naked on this bed.  Do they wash this sheet after every massage, especially after the guys?  I didn't want to think about it.

After a bout of paranoid thoughts, she crept into my room.  Like any massage therapist, she asked about the pressure, and continued with her routine.  Cool, everything is normal.  I began to relax as she worked out the knots in my upper back.  The music was soothing.  She moved about the small room unnoticeable.  I dozed off, until I heard a light noise from the box next to me.  Sound carried easily through the screen walls that separated our cubbies.  I saw the shoes outside my neighbor's room when I entered, so I knew it was a man.  I must be hearing things.  The man gave out a little moan.  It wasn't loud, but a nice breathe into the stretch.  I've done that before.  It wasn't that strange.  But at a place like this, I was being as quiet as I could.  I don't know what was going on in there, but there were a lot of little moans.  I tried to block out the music, so I could only hear the moans, just to make sure I wasn't hearing things.  My ears pressed into the air.  The sounds were light, but discernible.  I think he's getting his happy ending.  My mind was no longer relaxed.  No way.  Is this really going down just a few feet away from me.  After that it was quiet.  I'm not 100% sure he was getting what he was hoping for, but he definitely sounded like he was enjoying what he got.

Note:  If you're looking to save money on a massage, go to a parlor.  If it ends happily, consider reporting it to the Times.

Check out the article from the LA Times:
http://www.latimes.com/news/local/la-me-massage-parlors-20110323,0,610575.story

Spring Clean

I don't get when people say they have an organized mess.  How can it be organized, when the second part of the phrase is mess.  I'm not saying that I'm a neat freak.  I don't make my bed all the time, or even brush my hair everyday.  But you have to have some organization.  If not, how do you expect to move ahead, when you have all these other things from the past piling up.  Whether it be from the past week, month, or even year.

This thought came about when a yoga instructor said that she was a freak who color coordinated her closet.  I color coordinate my closet.  I've done so since high school.  When putting outfits together was something that you did the night before and often times called your friends about.  Doesn't everyone color coordinate their closet.  As another instructor informed me.  No.  What?  Ok, what about organize.  Like you have your jackets together, your pants, your shirts.  Maybe she doesn't have enough clothes to color coordinate them, but you can at least put like with like.  Nope.  She doesn't.  She just has piles and piles.  What?!  This disturbed and confused me.  I asked around to make myself feel a little normal.  Nope.  No Color coordination.  No.  No.  No.  And then finally, a Yes.  Ok, I didn't feel like a freak.  If you want to wear a gray shirt, you go to the grays.  You know exactly where they are.  I don't organize it by shirt length or put the fancy ones together and the t-shirts side by side, but there has to be some organization.

Maybe it's my love for clothes and fashion.  Every item has to be in its proper place.  It doesn't matter if it's a flea market find or a designer dud.  There needs to be organization!  My mom always said, that a clean room (and in this case a clean closet) is a clean mind.  If your room is a mess then you're mind is feeling the same way.  It's time to rid each of the clutter.

With spring just around the corner, it's a good time to do a little spring cleaning.  Once you feel that the space you live in, where your thoughts dwell and your body is at ease, is free of clutter, your mind will be open to new ideas and discoveries.

Note:  Do not hold too much emotional attachment to monetary things, it makes it harder to create new emotions towards those that may have a higher value.

The Voyage Continues

So obviously I didn't die...
In the morning we were nervous to come out of our cabin.  Who knows where we could have sailed in the few hours that we managed to sleep.  We crawled out.  He wasn’t there.  Ok, now this is really weird.  We were a little further from the coast, but we were still in the same area.  Maybe he left?  But the little raft boat was still there.  He is a really good swimmer.  But, swim to the coast.  Yeah right.  We looked around the boat in the water.  Now this was like a scary movie.  My mind went everywhere.  So he wasn’t trying to kill us.  We’re still here.  Maybe he was walking around the boat last night and fell in.  He was drinking.  Maybe he drowned.  Now what?  The Talented Mr. Ripley takes us on the boat, and he’s the one that dies.  Great.  

            

And then all of a sudden, boom.  He pops up from the water.  I wanted to make sure we were anchored down.  We drifted out last night, did you know.  No I didn’t know.  I was too worried about my life and trying to force myself to get just a wink of sleep, just in case I had to sail out of here.  He didn't say anything about my job as an anchor girl.  Even though I had to make sure we were grounded, he double checked.  And after that he really double checked.  Swimming all the way down to the anchor and pulling it to see if we were secure.  


That day we headed to Vis Island, and the underwater cave. Since he had already seen it, he stayed on the boat while my friend and I rowed the raft to the cave.  It was a small cave, but still amazing.  The water was a magical blue.  A color that I had never seen before.   We stayed inside for a bit.  Just long enough to to take in the beauty.

Underwater Cave, Croatia

              
It's hard to capture how vivid the water was in a picture.  It's filed away in my memory under Nature's Beauty.  Now I just need to find the underwater cave from The Goonies, and my cave exploring will be complete.  Heyyy You Guyyys...  


That night we had another memorable dinner at Jastozera, in Komiza, Vis.  It was a real Pirates of the Caribbean restaurant.  We moored the boat for the night.  Made sure it was anchored down tight.  And rowed the raft right into the restaurant.  Inside, old fishing nets and lanterns hung from the wood plank ceiling.  Other rafts and small boats were down below, tied up inside the restaurant.  And almost every seat was Al Fesco.  Our dinner selections were brought to the table.  The fish of the night was presented to us on a large wood platter.  Head, tail, eyes, and all.  You had a visual of what you were about to eat later.  It was the freshest fish I had ever seen, or eaten.

The Entrance to Jastozera Via Raft

Inside Jastozera Restaurant.
There's our raft tied up.

The next day we came to the final stop of the voyage.  Bol, a popular stop on the island of Brac.  Bol is known for it's trademark beach, Zlanti Rat, a long peninsula sandy beach.  We didn't venture to the beach, but decided instead to explore the town and have some gelato, of course.  Bol has a great coastline walking path where you can enjoy the warm Mediterranean weather, as well as men in Speedos and topless sun bathers, both of which are quite the norm.

Sei Sexy

The last day out at sea was short.  Before we knew it we were back in Split docking the boat in the harbor.  I survived the scary movie, which turned out to be not scary at all.  I saw the world from a new angle.  As with every travel adventure, a part of me changed.  When you experience the world, you also make discoveries about self.  I will be forever grateful to my new friend who shared this  memorable experience with me.    

Note:  Every friend starts out as a stranger.

     

             

Earth Quakes

My heart and thoughts go out to the people of Japan.  It does every time a major earthquake hits.  As I know this could unexpectedly happen where I live.  It's a thought that crosses my mind whenever the weather is unusually warm, and the saying, 'it feels like earthquake weather,' is said.  Even though you can never predict an earthquake.  The words 'just in case an earthquake hits' was brought up 3 times today at work.  And when I came home tonight, it had.  In Japan.  Thoughts are powerful.  So I place my thoughts on a peaceful recovery for the people of Japan.  And Australia.  And all who have been affected by natural disasters.

Note: I continue to live on the fault line of life.

Sailing the Dalmatian Islands, With Someone I Know the Best, and Someone I Don't Know At All

Seven days sailing the Adriatic Sea.  Island hopping off the coast of Croatia.  Soaking up the Mediterranean sun.  Sounds like a dream vacation.   But what if you have only met the person you are going with twice, and the first time was merely an introduction.  That was the case with my best friend and I.  We met our European friend once, joined him for dinner another night, and then before we knew it were off to Europe on our first sailing adventure.  Sounds like the start of a scary movie.  And believe me, I thought the same thing.  But, my friend assured me that he was very nice and trustworthy.  I would have to judge that for myself.  That is when I meet him, after we packed our bags, boarded the plane, and flew to Europe.

There we were, off to the Dalmatian Islands.  Our two-bedroom, (or V berth in sailing terms), boat set sail from Split, the second largest city in Croatia.  Located on the eastern shore of the Adriatic, Split is a busy port for boaters and travelers.   


My friend and I boarded the boat with our bulky luggage.  Hitting the little kitchen table and everything else as we walked through the cabin to the bow of the boat.  Two weeks full of items you didn’t know if you needed.  He on the other hand was a pro.  One small duffle bag.  Bathing suits and light cover ups should have been the only thing we packed. But there we were, jamming our bags into our new confined living quarters.  After we settled in, we went up to the deck to check the scene.  Now it was time to relax, tan, and soak up the Mediterranean sun.  Or so we thought.

            
Our new friend was the only seasoned sailor, and since his friend canceled at the last minute, it was going to be just us; two young women who have never sailed in their lives, and one man, who they barely knew, controlling the boat.  It was starting to sound like a horror film all over again.

            
Our first job was to figure out the route, which island was first, how many days on each island and how many at sea.  He handed me the map.  Baska Voda, Solin, Makarska.  I didn’t even know how to pronounce these names.  Confused.  Helpless.  And frustrated.  I handed him back the map.  He gave me a new job.  Anchor girl.  When we landed, I had to drop the anchor and make sure we were locked in tight to the bottom of the sea.  We didn’t want to go drifting into another boat in the middle of the night, or into the middle of the sea.  A seemingly small job that proved to be a big deal.

            
We first stopped in a small town on the island of Brac.  Here I had my first taste of real gelato.  Not ice cream or sorbet or anything close to it.  Real homemade gelato.  The kind you can only get in Italy or while sailing the Mediterranean.  This is where the gelato obsession started.  We (my friend and I, who joined me in the obsession) would have to have gelato at every stop that we made.

Our First Mediterranean Sunset

The next day we stopped in Hvar.  This pre-historic island, and city by the same name, was 'discovered' by the ancient Greeks in the 4th Century BC.  It is one of the oldest towns in Europe, and now popular tourist destination.  Like all of the tourists who came before us, we ventured up to the castle and fort prison.  How it can be both a castle and a prison confused me.  Like my usual inquisitive self, I annoyingly asked the questions.  How is it a castle and a prison?  Why would the rulers want to live on the same grounds as the prisoners?  That seems a little scary.  Although he was an excellent sailor, our tour guide wasn't a historian.  I never got my answers.  Needless to say, it was a interesting landmark with a great view of of city.

 Hvar from the Castle/Prison

That night we had a lovely traditional Croatian dinner at Konoba Menego, a very rustic romantic restaurant.  The table and patio was lit only by candles and a few dim lanterns.  We chose a corner spot in the front patio.  The short wood table and long bench seat made it difficult to eat, but not difficult to enjoy the food.  A tapas style dinner was served with local island wine and fresh fish caught that morning.  It was perfect.

The Entrance to Konoba Menego

The next night our dinner was not so memorable.  But the night sure was.  We moored in an enclave on Vis after a long day of sailing.  It was too late to get a spot close to the harbor, so we settled for the makeshift harbor where other boaters had touched down for the night. 

After dinner we sat on the deck and sipped wine.  The sky was clear black.  The sway of the boat was pure tranquility.  Besides the loud Germans drinking and listening to music in the boat a few yards away, it was silent.  But I liked the background noise.  I felt connected to a culture that was so unlike my own.  After the conversation came to comfortable stop, we decided to call it a night.

My friend and I lied in our bed and recapped the night, the day, the trip.  We talked for a good while.  Wait, ssshhh, do you hear that?  She asked.  I listened.  I didn’t hear anything but the bass from our German friend’s music.  It sounds like someone is walking around.  Now she completely freaked me out.  What?  Walking around?  Doing what?  I listened.  It sounds like it’s right above us, she whispered.  My heart slowly started to pick up speed.  I heard it too.  It was the sound of footsteps right above us.  And then they were gone.  They were faint.  Like they were on the back of the boat.  And then I heard them coming towards us again.  I looked up at the cracked vent window.  Oh my gosh what is he doing?  We freaked out.  It was a silent freak out, as not to alarm our new 'friend' who was pacing back and forth right above us.  Then it was silent.  He was standing right there.  Right on the bow of the boat.  We tried not to breathe.  We heard the footsteps walk away again.  But they were faint.  Did we really hear them?  Or did we hear so many footsteps go back and forth that we didn’t know where he was?  Or were we so freaked out, that we actually thought we heard them again, but by now had no idea.  We waited in the silence.  When the coast was clear, I leaned over the bed and locked the door. 

            
This is a definite To Be Continued moment...


Note: When taking a trip with a stranger, bring a friend along.

Blah Blah Blog

Who really cares anyway?  That's the question I asked myself when I first thought about starting a blog.  Despite being a very opinionated person, I don't share too much about my personal life. Ya, I'll tell you a funny story about Friday night's crazy antics, but when it comes to sharing my deepest thoughts and feelings, that's only expressed to a select few.  Then the next question came.  Why?  Why are you doing this?  Miss, I'm so private, but not. 


I thought about these questions a lot over the last few months.  I still haven't come up with a concrete answer.  But I came up with something that will suffice.  Just to do it.  To write.  That simple.  A writer doesn't always write just so someone else can read.  A writer writes for the pure enjoyment and satisfaction of being able to express the thoughts and feelings that are overtaking the mind.  I have kept a journal since I could formulate a proper sentence.  And if that's my claim to fame as a writer, I have a good start on a personal autobiography.   


As for the, Who really cares anyway?  I still haven't figured that one out.


Note:  When thinking about doing something that you would never do, do it anyway, even if you think you're the only one that cares.