Wednesday morning we got up late and had our first experience with the typical Irish shower: There is a knob on the wall, again with indecipherable markings, and you are left to turn, pull, push, and squeeze until you get a constant flow of warm water. Jen figured this out and we washed the plane off, packed our stuff, and checked out. Back across the parking lot, we picked up our rental car: an Opel Astra, which was larger than I’d expected and a lot nicer than I was hoping for.

A Short Primer On European (UK) Motorcars From The Viewpoint Of An American:

1. First, everything’s backwards. Sure, the wheel and controls are on the right, and getting used to that takes a little time, but I found myself still looking up and to the right to see who was behind me, and finding only the A-pillar of the windshield. Old habits die hard.

2. Shifting is interesting. Here in America, in our Chevys and Fords with automatic transmissions, there’s a choice: P, N, and D. Put it in D and go. In (Ireland), there’s a shift-like knob, no P and something called E. Then, there’s a second area with a – and a +, which presumably is a Tiptronic-type manual-shift deal (I was hesitant to test this theory, for fear of leaving the transmission of our rental car in a smoking heap on some remote Irish country lane). So, putting the car in E means it’s Easy or Elementary or something like that. Swell. The problem is when you go to pass some tractor on the M7 (Because they are everywhere, just like dairy cows are present in the middle of towns) and you get on the gas. The car sits and thinks for a few minutes: “Right. You want to pass this tractor, here, mate? OK. I’ll just set this pint down here, and put my boots back on, and we’ll have a go at it, eh?” Then, after about five seconds, it downshifts from fifth to fourth, which is about as helpful as a kick in the head. Then, it drops into third, and putting the pedal to the floor finally produces some speed. In an American-made car, say, my Jeep, for example, when you kick it in the guts, there’s no thinking. It drops from third to first IMMEDIATELY, and you smoke the tires across the Wal-Mart parking lot or whatever. These cars all have a five-minute waiting period before they get going. Getting up to speed is the same way—there’s a VERY noticeable lag in between gears, as if the guy programming the transmission decided to get all Grand Prix on us and make it seem like it’s actually a standard transmission, instead of the wimpy automatic us poncey Americans request. This made my wife very motion-sick, which was not a good thing. (She got used to it.)

3. They have nice cars. This Opel was put together very well, felt solid, ran hard, and was designed (mostly) intelligently. (Clicking on the turn signal once gives you three ticks, and it shuts itself off. Clicking down hard gives unlimited ticks. However, shutting it off requres a light tap in the other direction, otherwise it’s signalling the other way and confusing the people behind the car, who have spotted the Eurocar rental sticker on the rear window and who are hoping you’re not making a right turn at that roundabout.) The buttons and dials all looked and worked well. One other gripe, though: Every time the car is turned on, the radio turns on too. Even when it’s been specifically turned off. In this way, we got to hear the same Kylie Minogue tune every time we got back in the car. In Ireland, they like their Kylie Minogue. This is all in contrast to the Pontiac we rented to get back from Reagan, which had buttons like Fisher-Price toys for retards, locked the car every time it shifted into Drive, and felt like a cheap 70’s disco couch.

Once I got onto the highway, and past the first three roundabouts, I was feeling better about driving. We headed north to the Cliffs of Moher. Apparently, we were graced with fabulous weather the entire time we were in country, because the Cliffs are usually socked in with fog and at about 200m of visibility, which is useless for something that big. We had cloudy skies and a slight drizzle but excellent visibility, so we hiked up the hill and took in the view.

By this point, it was late in the day (our perception of distance and speed was off) so we picked a B&B from the guide, made reservations, and headed south to Kilrush. Now, there’s something odd that’s happened in Ireland in the last couple of years since the Celtic Tiger thing happened: They’ve started building houses all over the place. Not nice houses, like the ones in pictures of Kerry, with whitewashed walls and thatched roofs, but McMansions made of cinderblock and wood, painted purple and orange and fucking aqua and surrounded by stone fences and gravel. In what is possibly the most verdant country in the world, people have gravel lawns, like cottages on the Jersey shore, and paint their houses to look like model homes in Miami. And what’s with the palm trees, people?

Anyhow, it was my mission to avoid all such places, so we picked a house that looked old. Unfortunately, it looked old in the picture, but was actually new—which wasn’t all that bad. The proprietor was a nice enough fellow, the room was big and featured a view of the harbor over a lush cow pasture (we woke the next morning to the most vocal dairy herd I’ve ever heard, and I’ve seen lots of cows), and we were a mile from town.

I was led to believe Irish folks like their drink (or at least, their pubs), and I was prepared to represent. Unfortunately, the pub we were recommended only held us, two other couples, and two bored barmaids. Dejected, we ate chips, drank a pint, and left, hoping the party would get started in the Southeast.

Next: Kilrush to Cobh, or: How many times do we have to drive through Cork?

Jen and I had one shared thought when we got to the door of our hotel room in Shannon. After being in transit for the better part of twelve hours, we were both intending to crank up the A/C to a level of arctic chill, get under some covers, and crash out to equalize our jetlag like we did in Rome. Unfortunately, we had some things to learn about the hospitality industry in Ireland. The room we were given was heated to about 95°F for some odd reason. I asked one of the housekeeping ladies across the way how to turn it down, and she obliged, but for the rest of our stay in the hotel it was ridiculously hot. (Note: There is a small knob on radiators in Ireland with indecipherable markings. Turn it counterclockwise. The other way will heat the room to the approximate surface temperature of the sun.) I opened the window and futzed with the radiator until I was reasonably sure it was off.

This was about 9AM local time, 3AM by my watch. We’d waited an hour to have a room available, and cought a nap on the couches in the “Reading Room”, which was across from the hotel pub and really should have been called “Overflow Area”: the couch I laid on smelled like the floor of a fraternity room.

Another new experience; The Irish believe in the duvet to the excusion of all other bedding materials. They give you a sheet and a blanket/cover that weighs as much as a lead apron, and expect that you will be content to sleep in a pool of your own sweat. We pulled it off, crawled into bed, and passed out uneasily for about 10 hours. I found that I was alternately hot and cold, so I put a corner of the duvet on my ass and left the rest of my body outside, and at least my vital organs stayed at a constant temperature.

At about 6PM local time, we got up and staggered to the restaurant, where we were one of three couples. The food was decent, the beer was tasty, and our waitress gave us some good advice for our trip. We had another beer in the pub and returned back to the room for more sleep.

Here’s a first very small batch of photos from Ireland. We’re at Shannon, having some breakfast, and prepapring to go through Customs amid a whole flock of U.S. Army personnel in desert camo. Talk to you all soon-

Among other incredible acts of generosity, our neighbor S. offered to give us a lift to the airport. This was after a week of hosting jen and I while our floors were being refinished.

As per our normal departure schedule, Jen and I were at least three hours behind, but we managed to stuff all our crap into three suitcases (two for clothes, one for loot), fed the alarm, set the cats, and jumped into his truck. This truck is not any normal vehicle. It is the Starship Enterprise. For his work, he has outfitted the truck with wireless internet service and GPS, so he has a laptop and cellphone mounted to the dash like a police cruiser. He had us on the road and halfway to Dulles before we knew it, and dropped us at the American terminal in record time. We walked to the supiciously small International desk at the American counter and I asked the lady if we could check in for our flight to Boston. She told me that the Boston and International flights departed from Reagan National, not from Dulles. It was about this point that I felt physically ill.

You know the feeling you get when you realize you forgot your wedding rings an hour before the ceremony (I did) or overslept your SAT’s (I did) or understand that you’re about to get your ass beat (I have)? It kind of felt like that.

Holding my printout of the itinerary like a clueless retard, I turned back to look at my wife. I could see the thoughts crossing her face.

I think that she was probably first marveling at how she could have married such a moron. Then, I think she was considering how we could salvage the trip. The next look was probably a flash of anger, and I wouldn’t blame her for that in the least. Finally, I saw the humor come out in her dimples, and she gave me the you-have-to-be-shitting-me look that my wife is famous for. At that point in time, I did the only thing I could think of.

S. answered the call on the second ring. “What’s wrong?”

Before I had even explained the full extent of my stupidity, he said, “I’m turning around right now. I’ll be right there.”

He was gracious about the whole thing, God bless him, and he even had the route from Dulles to Reagan mapped out on his laptop when he pulled up. He had us to the terminal in a half an hour, which has to be some kind of record, and he was kind-he only gave me a handful of good-natured shit as opposed to the truckload I deserved.

The rest of the journey was pretty uneventful. Checkin, lunch and security. News that Michael Jackson was aquitted on the terminal CNN channel. A jump jet to Boston, which was mercifully smooth. A three hour layover in Boston (Logan is a boring terminal) and then a 757 to Shannon. This flight was shorter than NY to Paris but the service on American pales compared to Delta’s.

Shannon is a little airport compared to other European desinations, but it’s cozy, and situated in the middle of an expanse of pasture and farmland. I made reservations at the nearest hotel, so we walked out into the brisk, damp air and across the street to the Great Southern Shannon Hotel. At 8am, it was a little early to have a room ready for us, but they let us sleep on the couches in the lounge for an hour until they had an opening. As with Rome, we laid down and crashed for nine hours, and rose to catch some dinner at the hotel restaurant.

This morning, we’re eating a meal at the airport restaurant, making plans for our first night in a B&B, and preparing for our first Irish traffic circle (“Look to the left, merge to the right”, said our waitress last night.) Cross your fingers for us.

We’re back from Tennessee//North Carolina and on our way to Ireland. By the hair of our teeth, thanks to Arlene. Stay tuned for pictures and travelogue. Stay well, everybody-