One Last Night In Dublin

After our afternoon stroll along the pier at Dun Laughaire, we journeyed back to the Temple Bar district for dinner and drinks followed by a pub crawl back to the hotel.  And since our last night in Dublin just wouldn't be complete without the city's trademark beverage, I had a shitload of Guinness. In keeping with tradition, we didn't leave the last pub until it shut down.  

The next morning we all went out to breakfast, including my grandmother's sister, Bernadette, and her husband, Jim, who were also staying at our hotel.  Ever since we arrived in country, Gary was itching for a traditional Irish breakfast, and Bernadette and Jim found a place that would deliver, Gallagher's Boxty House, a short walk from our hotel.  After breakfast, the plan was to head back to the hotel, pack up, load the two cars (Bernadette and Jim would be riding with Gary and Josh) and caravan to Cork, where Harry's brother and sister in law, John and Phil were anxiously awaiting our arrival.  

Dublin had not panned out the way I expected at all. Although I could have thrown a stone and hit Trinity College from our hotel, we never actually set foot on campus or even took any pictures from the outside.  We didn't see St. Stephen's Green or visit the President's house, as my brother did on his previous visit.  We took in the city with a local, as locals (drunks) might, which is the way I prefer to travel, as you know.  But as a tourist, I felt a little, well, like a failure.   I travelled all this way, there was one thing I was not going to miss for all the beer in Ireland: a visit to the Guinness Storehouse.  I could ramble on all about the tour, the factory, the brewing process, etc., but I have a feeling you'd much rather hear about a valuable lesson I learned and how I nearly shit my pants.

The Storehouse is about a mile away from Gallagher's.  It was just me, my brother, and Harry the Guard for the tour, so we decided to walk.  It was a brisk Monday morning, August 4th. The date is significant because August 4th, 2008 was a bank holiday in Ireland. This fact became a sobering reality about halfway into our walk, which seemed for me to last an eternity. About halfway through breakfast, I started feeling rumblings in my tummy. I figured it was too much strong coffee and not enough food so early in the morning (even though it was almost 10AM).  I finished my breakfast and gulped down some water, hoping to dilute what seemed like a chemistry experiment taking place in my gut.  Sometimes these sorts of experiments can be controlled. About a quarter mile into our hike, two things were clear to me: the experiment raged on and it was out of control.  I needed a bathroom, fast.  

There's an interesting relationship between discretion and desperation.  Let's say you suffer from claustrophobia.  You're at work and you get into an empty elevator.  At the next floor up the conveyance stops to pick up a few more passengers.  You were the first passenger on, so now you're in the back. It's starting to get a little crowded, you still have a long way to go, and you're beginning to feel the onset of a claustrophobic panic attack.  You stay cool, but you develop an exit strategy.  You discreetly work your way to the front of the box so you can pretend like the next floor is your stop and then you can walk the rest of the way up the spacious wide open staircase. 

At the next floor, a throng of people is waiting, and they squash you back.  Now you're at the rear of the coffin.  The doors close, you can barely breath. The smell of women's perfume is making you nauseous and the heat from all the bodies pressing against you is making you light-headed. Sweat beads up on your forehead.  The doors open at the next floor and desperation kicks in. "For the love of God let me out of this free falling orgy of death!" you shout as you nearly climb over people to get to the door.  

That's the relationship I explored on our trek to the 

Guinness Storehouse.

I discreetly asked my brother how much farther. "We're almost there," he replied.  We were walking along at a pretty good clip, but the volcano of roasted hops in my colon was starting to affect my ability to keep up.  On the edge of discretion, I threw this out: 

"I could use a bathroom if you see one".  

But that's right, this is a bank holiday.  We passed business after business with locked doors and dark windows.  Unbelievable.   I started fantasizing about every dingy port-a-potty I have ever cursed having to use.  How I longed for them now.  Despite the chilly morning air, sweat was building up on my forehead.  

The last time I can remember a gastro-intestinal emergency of these proportions I was in elementary school and ate some bad cheese pizza from the cafeteria at lunch.  I rode my bike home but didn't have my key, so I knocked on the neighbor's door, tried desperately to maintain discretion while practically running through her house and vaulting the fence separating our yards.  I broke into my house, ran to the bathroom, vomited along the way and then slipped on it trying to get to the toilet.  I ended up on my ass in pool of my own puke.  This was heading in that direction, only from the other end.  

Finally, a sign for the Storehouse.  I felt a little relieved then quickly realized this was NO TIME FOR RELIEF!  We crossed the street only to be met with another sign.  We still had a football field to go. "For the love of God!" I heard myself exclaim.  I expected to walk up to the gates of Guinness and see rivers of flowing beer that I could just dip my mug into and take a drink.  All I could see was a sign that said "toilets". Discretion was in the shitter.  

I broke into a walking sprint, leaving my brother and Harry at the entrance. I ran into the men's room, found a stall and fumbled to hastily lock the door.  Then I realized I was wearing three layers of clothing. 

"SWEET JESUS!" 

As I removed my overcoat and jacket in the 3' x 2' stall with the chemistry experiment raging on, the rest of my copilot's phrases started popping into my head. Before I left the men's room, I think I even added a few more. 

With the crisis averted, we took the self-guided tour, culminating in the lounge at the top of the building with free pints of Guinness.  I decided to pass, and instead just enjoyed the 360 degree view of Dublin.  It's like a sin I know, at the fountain of youth and passing on immortality.  They say when you drink Guinness in Ireland it's different because it's local. I don't know if my experience is what people mean when they say that, but one thing is for sure: I had a shitload of Guinness on my one last night in Dublin.  Trust me on this one.

Do You Have A Ticket?

It was about noon when I finally succumbed to the pesky daylight streaming into our room.  Amazed that on a Sunday morning I hadn't yet heard from my parents, I picked up the phone and dialed their room.  I woke them up.  No mass today, this would be a Godless heathen Sunday.

Our hotel was nice in many respects, but the rooms lacked proper ventilation.  As with many hotels in Europe--even in the warm countries--there was no air conditioning.  Normally I can live with that, but in this hotel the windows were latched and only opened about an inch.  With three drunkards sweating beer in the room, the air was stale and warm.  It was time to get up and find that guy driving the truck that spent the morning running over us, although, considering all the drinking we did, I didn't really feel hungover.  I was extremely dehydrated, but that was probably due as much to the air travel as the bar hopping.  I think Harry turned us on to the ultimate cure for jet lag: just keep drinking.

From the time I made that initial "good morning" phone call, it took us over three hours to get to a restaraunt for "breakfast".  This brings us to the number two source of friction on a Genovese Family Vacation (GFV).  Survey says: my brother.

Experience has taught me that the larger the object, the slower it responds to change.  My brother is a speed boat: he jets from point to point doing 360's in the water, accelerates from zero to sixty in about three seconds, brakes on a dime, and changes direction at will.  Our family--especially when travelling--is like a cruise ship: routes and destinations must be well planned, acceleration is sluggish, and changes in direction must be minor or else the ship will capsize.  

This drives my brother crazy.  Once he's ready to go, everyone else should be too, which prompts him to start with the nagging comments: "you guys take forever", "for God's sake let's just go", and my personal favorite, "are you fucking kidding me right now?".  

This in turn drives my mother crazy prompting her comments like "Patrick knock it off", "chill out already", and again I have a favorite, "Raymond, smack him!".

This in turn drives the rest of crazy.  So we drink.  Heavily.  And now you understand the GFV infinity circle.  Thank God for Harry.

Once fed and watered, Harry led us to the DART station to catch a train to Dun Laughaire.  By this time there were eight of us.  I mention that because we weren't all up to getting out of bed as early as noon and Josh did not accompany us to "breakfast".  At the DART station, we were faced with the daunting task of purchasing train tickets at the automated kiosk.  Normally that kind of thing is right up my alley, but there were a few...distractions.

Distraction #1

When Harry met us at the "Judge Roy Bean" pub, he brought us an Irish cell phone to use during our visit so we could keep in touch while travelling the countryside.  The gesture was a blessing and a curse.  As soon as we shared the number with Uncle Father Seamus, who was in Lurgan finishing preparations for the funeral, he didn't stop calling to find out where we were, what we were doing, and offer us unsolicited advice on what we should see and do next.  All of this earned him the title of "Cruise Director".  

Distraction #2

You may remember when the girls came to visit me in England and I got chewed out by the man in the train office for using a ticket kiosk. Ever since that experience, I've been a little off my game when it comes to ticket kiosks.  I kept going through the process of selecting our destination, quantity of tickets, and type of trip, but then couldn't get the machine to take the money.  It turns out I wasn't pressing the right payment key.

Distraction #3

Even though there were eight in our party, we only needed seven tickets.  Remember when I told you Harry doesn't make arrests but he does use his badge?

Distraction #4

The worst copilot ever is also the worst mathematician ever.  Initially he forgot to count Josh since he wasn't at lunch with us.  Then he kept forgetting to count himself but he did count Harry, who kept saying "I don't need a ticket", which caused my dad to subtract one from the count (which was already wrong since it didn't include him).  At least he's consistent.

So what should have been a single transaction for seven tickets turned out to be three transactions consisting of:

• A call for more coins to get the exact change
  
• My dad asking everyone "do you have a ticket?"
  
• The cruise director calling to find out what was going on
  
• My dad saying "dammit" when, after the transaction, someone didn't have a ticket
  
• My brother halfway up the stairs to the platform muttering "are you fucking kidding me right now? You guys take forever for God's sake let's just go" 

I think that's like a GFV infinity circle trifecta. 

I Think I'm A Pumpkin

For those of you that have spent any amount of time in downtown San Luis Obispo, the Porterhouse, formerly known as the Judge Roy Bean pub, is a little like Mother's--but about four times larger.  It has a very nice, very large mirrored bar just inside the entrance and it seems to go on forever.  The drinking age in Ireland is only eighteen and, with a university across the street, our clan easily raised the average age of clientele by at least ten years.  By the time Harry arrived around 9:45, the place was packed and the music--an eclectic mix of American and English technopop--was loud.  I didn't think this outting would last too much longer and sure enough, shortly after Harry arrived, Gary headed back to the hotel.  My sister figured the rest of us old fuddy duddies were not far behind so she and Josh took off to go find the next party.  My mother, who two hours and a bottle of wine earlier was adamantly opposed to going anywhere except bed, asked for a change of venue.  I guess she wasn't worried anymore about turning into a pumpkin.

Harry took us down a few more blocks to Dawson's Pub, quite probably the smallest pub in the world.  This is where the theme for the rest of the trip would be set because the Porterhouse was the first and only pub we would leave voluntarily from here on out.  Dawson's was, well, small, and it was packed.  Harry bought the first round.  As my glass emptied I thought for sure we were in the home stretch.  By now even I was beginning to hear the Sandman calling.  As if reading my thoughts, Harry ordered another round.  Alright fine, one more.  But the eleventh pint of the day--twelfth if you count the beer the day before in Chicago--was going down a lot slower. This would be it, no way I could drink anymore tonight.  It's not that I was drunk (although I obviously had to be by now) I was getting full!  The bar started to clear out a bit.  I was halfway through my Carlsberg when I noticed another one sitting on the bar in front of me.  That rat bastard Harry had ordered another round.  Not only was he getting us shitfaced, he was paying for all the damn drinks. This guy was tricky.  

In Ireland when they serve wine by the glass, they actually give you a 187mL mini bottle.  At this point in the evening my mom had them lined up along the bar.  She started putting them in her purse because she couldn't drink them fast enough.  It seems we had met our match, Harry was hard core.  It was about 2AM when we finally got thrown out of Dawson's Pub.  We walked back to the hotel with Harry and when we got to the door of the lobby he asked "do they have a bar in there?"  Hell yeah they do, come on in!  The five of us bellied up one more time.  

This time we were ready.  My dad and I had our money out before we even walked into the hotel. We picked up this round.  Shortly after, he and my mom disappeared, six hours after they insisted we couldn't wait until 9:30 to meet up with Harry.  Surely the night was finally coming to an end for all of us.  Last call.  I still had half a pint and was happy to sit this one out.  I think Harry must belong to some Irish religous sect that does not believe in allowing last call to go unanswered, no matter what. The bartender served us one last round, but asked us to leave the bar area so they could lock up. Amen.  We shut down our second bar of the night and stumbled into the lounge. 

We were down to just me, Harry, and Patrick, and two other occupied talbes in the lounge area where we sat down.  One was a French couple on the other side of the room.  They were minding their own business and I wouldn't have noticed them except  for the two guys sitting at a table between us.  The guys were from Sweden and had started poking fun at the French couple by shouting "voulez-vous coucher avec moi" at them.  The couple did not appreciate this and exchanged some words--in English--with the Swede before getting up and storming off. My brother, ever the drunken International diplomat, applauded, a move that earned him favor and a seat next to the Swede.  

For about an hour we argued with this guy about--of all things--whether the Irish were friendly or not. Apparently he doesn't have a cousin named Harry. We'd probably still be sitting there if it weren't for the guy's pregnant girlfriend who came to collect him.  At that point even Harry admitted the night was over. We walked him out to the lobby, pledged to see him later in the day, and greeted our sister who was stumbling into the hotel at the same time and whom I'm pretty sure was astonished to find that her "old" brothers were still up and about.  With Harry off, our sister accounted for, and no bars open within walking distance, it was time to call it a day/night/next day/next night.  

To recap: I woke up Friday morning about 8AM in San Antonio and I went to bed around 4AM Dublin time...on Sunday morning.  In those 38 hours of consciousness, I flew across an ocean, drank over two gallons of beer, discovered the worst copilot ever, met the worst guard ever, patronized three Irish pubs, got thrown out of two, and set a new personal record for most hours awake without going to bed.

And that was day one.

The Worst Guard Ever

Back in January, my brother accompanied my uncle to Ireland to begin making arrangments for what would turn out to be a second funeral for my grandmother.  Patrick couldn't say enough about how great the trip was and how much he was looking forward to his return trip in August. In addition to drinking lots of beer, he was able to meet the scores of family members scattered throughout the country and experience their good natured hospitality. One of those relatives was Harry, a kindred spirit for Patrick, although perhaps in title only.

Harry is a "garda", an Irish policeman.  They call them guards. As in England, Irish police officers do not carry guns.  Harry has a badge, and uses it occassionaly, but not in the way you might think. He's never made an arrest.  He's never issued a citation.  For a cop he pays almost no attention to detail. While showing my brother around Dublin in January, he often got lost, prompting my brother to call him "the worst guard ever".  Harry just laughed it off with his deep from-the-gut guffaw. That's Harry.

Harry works on communications equipment. In the states we have "sworn police officers" that carry badges, guns, drive around in police cars and enforce laws.  We also have non sworn support personnel that keep the computers running, the cars washed, and the paperwork flowing.  In Ireland everyone who works for the guard is "sworn".  So even though Harry's job has little to do with fighting crime, he's still considered a police officer in Ireland.

Although Patrick was the only one who had ever met Harry, we all met his brother and sister-in-law, John and Phil, in November when they flew out for the original funeral in Oakland, California. John and Phil live in Cork, the next destination on our itinerary. We'd be seeing them in a few days but, in the meantime, John insisted that we look Harry up while in Dublin as Harry was anxious to show us around.  Punctuating that anxiety was the fact that Harry hadn't stopped calling us since we checked into the hotel.  

Once everyone got settled at the hotel, the seven of us went out to a pub called Q Bar for dinner a few blocks away.  Patrick rang Harry up to see where we could meet him. They made arrangements to meet at the Judge Roy Bean pub at half nine. That announcement nearly caused a riot.  My parents flatly refused to go. It was coming up on 8PM and they did not want to wait around for over an hour.  "I need to go to bed" my mom said.  A few minutes later they reluctantly agreed.  After all, it was only a little more than an hour, we'd have one drink and then everyone could go to bed.  We left the Q Bar in search of Judge Roy Bean.

View Larger Map

Daniel was not aware of any pubs by that name and Harry had given my brother the general area the pub was in but no address.  To give you an idea of where we were, our hotel was situated literally across the street from the north wall of Trinity College. Temple Bar, a district in Dublin just west of Trinity College, is where all the nightlife takes place.  The area reminded me of Las Ramblas in Barcelona.  We knew the Judge Roy Bean was next to Trinity College right at the beginning of Temple Bar so we walked the six blocks from the Q Bar and started looking.  We asked a bunch of students who were lingering at the entrance to Trinity College and none of them had ever heard of Judge Roy Bean.  We walked to the south side of Trinity College...plenty of pubs, but none bearing the name Roy Bean.  

My brother and I walked across the street.  There were a couple of bouncers standing in front of a trendy looking club called the Porterhouse.  I sent Patrick to ask them if they knew where Judge Roy Bean was while I consulted Danny Boy one more time.  Patrick came back a moment later and declared "that's it."  

What?  That clearly was not the place, the sign said Porterhouse.  

"I asked them if they knew where the Judge Roy Bean pub was and they said that's what this place used to be called".  We looked at each other, shook our heads, agreed that Harry is the worst guard ever and motioned for our party to join us.

The Worst Copilot EVER

A good copilot is an essential part of any road trip.  The duties of the copilot are simple but important: remove obstacles for the driver.  Whether it be reading a map and providing navigational assistance, helping out with vehicle functions, checking for traffic in a blind spot, or providing conversation to keep the driver alert and engaged along a dreary road, a good copilot is not a necessity, but it sure makes things a heck of a lot smoother.

I remember during the Y2KRTE, somewhere around Day 21, we were trying desperately to get out of Texas.  This was before units like Vicki were available to most consumers, so we had Microsoft Streets loaded onto our laptop with an external GPS receiver plugged into a serial port. The GPS receiver simply showed a little car on the map that represented our current position.  If you went off route, it showed your little car on the map no longer along your intended route.  It was the copilot's job to provide navigational support to the driver to make sure the little car stayed on the route.

On day 21 we were on a two lane highway in the middle of nowhere.  I was driving and my copilot had been doing a good job of providing engaging conversation to keep his driver alert and engaged.  After about half an hour, Chris asks me what highway we’re on.  I paused for a moment to think about it, and then I looked at him and asked, “Don’t you know?  You’ve got the damn computer!”  “Well here’s where we’re supposed to be” Chris told me, pointing to the highlighted green highway on the screen, “and here’s the car”, pointing to our actual location on a diverging highway a few miles away.  I remember thinking "you're the worst copilot EVER".  I may have even told him as much.  I was wrong.

On day two of Ireland 2008, my family and I loaded our luggage into our rental car and got on the road to the Trinity Capital Hotel in downtown Dublin.  Thanks to Danny Boy, navigational support is not something my copilots have to deal with too much anymore.  That leaves helping out with vehicle functions, checking for traffic in a blind spot, and providing conversation to keep the driver alert and engaged along dreary roads.  Nowhere in the list of copilot duties does it include pestering, heckling, tormenting, or aggravating.  So let's go over the seating arrangement in the car. 

I am in the driver's seat on the right hand side of the car. Behind me in the back seat is my mom, an appropriate place for her considering her nickname, Miss Daisy. Next to Miss Daisy, in the middle seat, is my sister and next to her rounding out the back seat is my brother. In the front passenger seat, in the esteemed copilot position, my dad, my Number One, my left hand man. 

Our vehicle was a Ford Edge and, like most of the cars in Ireland, it had a manual transmission.  The last time I drove a car with a manual transmission was five years ago in Lugano Switzerland. Most of the time I was navigating the narrow, hilly roads of Lugano in a ten passenger van filled with children aged six to ten.  That was easier than the short trip I was about to take to our hotel.

I'm not here to make excuses, but I did have a few things on my mind, like keeping to the proper side of the road, yielding appropriately at roundabouts, following Danny's instructions, and maintaining a good balance of gas and clutch.  I was not always successful at the latter and on several occassions we stalled.  No problem.  Stay calm, depress the clutch, start the car, back in gear, here we go.  It's just like riding a bike...at the top of the Empire State Building...on the ledge...with someone pointing a gun at your head telling you not to fall!  Here's where my copilot comes in.

The first time I stalled, my copilot's helfpul conversation consisted of: "SWEET JESUS!"

The next time I stalled, as I tried to take the car out of gear start the car depress the clutch put the car back in gear and start driving before the cars behind me starting getting upset and honking, my copilot could have rolled down his window and given that International wave that says "we're not spacing out trying to get you to miss this light, we're just morons and stalled".  What he actually did was shake his head in disgust and shout: "SACRED HEART!"  That was much more helpful.

I must have stalled at least three more times because I remember going through "JESUS MARY AND ST. JOSEPH!", "MOTHER OF GOD!", and my personal favorite “LORD HAVE MERCY ON THE POOR SOULS!”.  It was no different than if I'd put Miss Daisy in the copilot's chair, gripping the oh shit handles with white knuckles and trying to put her foot through the floor in a vain attempt to get her brake pedal to work.  

As tumultuos as our ride was, we made the eight mile drive to the hotel in less than half an hour.  It took us another half hour and about five trips around the block to find the car park for the hotel, which was three blocks away and hidden behind a nondescript rollup door.  Of course, even after all that our room wasn't ready, we were about two hours too early.  We propped ourselves up at the bar, ordered some lunch, and of course, a round of pints.  

Meanwhile, Gary and Josh, who left the airport before us, still had not made it to the hotel.  In their case, driving was not the issue; anyone who's ever ridden in a car with Uncle Gary knows that braking, not acceleration is his challenge.  Without a GPS or a good map, navigation was their undoing and tensions were running high in their vehicle now too.  Finally, in a fit of exasperation, Gary pulled over, got out of the car, hailed a cab, and waved for a bewildered Josh to follow in their rental car.  So much for easing into UK driving.  It turns out they were only a few blocks away.  Lucky for them I was now an expert on the car park, saving them at least a little bit of added aggravation.  

We finished our pints and finally got into our rooms to freshen up from 18 hours of travelling.  By this time most of us had been up for 24 hours.  The day was barely half over.  

Let's Play Family Feud!

I wouldn't consider my recent trip to Ireland a "vacation". I would say that it was a good "trip", but not a vacation. Between the circumstances that brought us there to all the things we tried to accomplish (600 miles in 11 days), there were just too many "to-do's" on our travel list to really consider it a vacation. As I mentioned before I left, it was a historic opportunity for my siblings and parents to travel together...outside the United States...for a really long time. Along those lines, we asked 100 people on the street to name the #1 source of friction on a Genovese family vacation. The number one answer will be revealed shortly.

To clear up any confusion, my wife and daughter did not join me on this trip. Back in December when the trip was being planned, Jen was six months pregnant and, as you remember, quite miserable. We had no idea how Kaitlyn's arrival would impact our lives, or what complications might arise that could put the kibosh on a trip of this magnitude. Due to the importance of the event, we decided I needed to go, but with so many unknowns, Jen would stay home with the baby and recruit her mother to help out with the child.

That left just the five of us—my mom, dad, brother, and sister—to plan the pilgrimage to Nana’s country of birth. Sometime after the New Year, we began having four-way conference calls to hammer out the logistics of the trip. Ireland may be a small country, but there is plenty to see and emotions ran high in the group about how best to spend our eleven days in country: seeing the sights or visiting with family. Plus, if there is one thing I've learned over the years traveling, always have a backup plan, because shit does happen. This was especially important with respect to getting to Ireland since my parents and brother would be flying from Los Angeles, my sister and I would rendezvous in Chicago from our respective home cities, and we were all hoping for a happy reunion at the airport in Dublin. We all know what can happen with air travel these days. We prepared a very detailed plan of arrival and rendezvous "in case shit". Thankfully we didn't need it. (That's not to say shit didn't happen, it just happened a few days later after too many pints of Guinness. Lesson learned.)

Shannon and I were the first to arrive in Dublin. We went through customs, gathered our luggage, and bumped into Uncle Father Seamus (my dad's oldest brother), Uncle Gary (my grandmother's youngest brother), and Gary's partner Josh in baggage claim. With two hours before the arrival of the Los Angeles contingent, we headed straight to the bar for a pint of Guinness. It was 10AM. This was certainly the vacation portion of the trip if there was one.

My grandmother's funeral and burial were scheduled for August 11th, nine months to the day after her death. We thus decided to divide our trip into two parts: the first five days would be the tourist part of the trip--the "vacation", if you will; the remaining week would be spent in Lurgan where my grandmother grew up, and where the main event would take place. As soon as the Los Angeles contingent arrived, we all hit the airport ATM to get some local currency and then picked up our rental car to head to our hotel in Dublin where we would kick off this fun old-fashioned family vacation for two nights. Gary and Josh were staying at the same hotel, but they had their own car and decided to go on ahead and meet us at the hotel. I guess they didn’t want to wait for us to load five people, seven bags, and a bear into our Ford Edge, despite the fact that we had the satellite navigation. We split up, a decision that would prove costly for one of us.


So the number one source of friction on a Genovese vacation abroad? Survey says: driving the car.

Here's To The Irish

Sometime in late 2006, just before the holidays, my paternal grandmother was diagnosed with breast cancer. Many of you have met "Nana" over the years and know that under no circumstances did she wish to be called "grandma". She was much too young for that. It wasn't just the name though, it was a state of mind because at 79 she really was still a very young woman. So although the cancer was beyond its initial stages, it wasn't necessarily a death sentence. Faced with the option to "let it go" or "fight", Nana decided to fight. Several months later, in March of 2007, we celebrated her 80th birthday with a bash that had been in the works long before the diagnosis. As is usually the case with the Irish portion of the family, a good time was had by all. One of the great things about the Irish--they party hardest in the face of adversity.

After her birthday, the cancer battle unfortunately went uphill. Upon my return from England in October, I had the pleasure of visiting the Bay Area and spending a few days with Nana before collecting my pregnant wife and returning home to Texas. Her condition deteriorated very rapidly after that and so it came as a blessing to the family when the Lord finally brought her home in November. Her postmortem wishes were clear: she wanted to be cremated and her ashes buried next to her sister in Ireland.

Tomorrow I depart on a 13 day trip to Ireland. The primary purpose of the trip is to bury my grandmother as she requested. The event will take place on Monday, August 11th, nine months after her death. As I've mentioned though, the Irish celebrate best when the circumstances are not, so we are also taking the opportunity to tour the country Nana once called home. This will be the first time my entire immediate family has vacationed together for more than a weekend trip to the lake. I'm sure it will be an experience worth writing about.

This is also the first time in nearly ten years that I will not be traveling with a computer. So that means no TRS updates until after my return later next month. And, just to kick things up an extra notch, as I wrote the last sentence, my wife dropped a pint glass on her foot, lacerating her toe. When the date for this trip was chosen late last year, it was a tough decision for us. Do we take the baby with us? Do we leave her with Grandma? It was finally decided I would go alone and Jen's mom would fly out to help her with Kaitlyn. At the time it was a decision I was not terribly pleased with. Now that my wife is about to get four stitches in her toe and can barely walk, I'm rather relieved she's not going (although it certainly adds to the stress of me leaving her home).

In fact, now that I ponder our relationship, this seems to be a recurring theme:

2003: Two days before my departure to Switzerland for the summer, Jen breaks her foot at my parent's house.

2006: One week prior to our wedding and subsequent honeymoon in Europe, I put a gash in my forehead requiring three stitches.

2007: The day before our departure to England for the summer, Jen announces she's pregnant.

2008: The day before my departure to Ireland for two weeks, Jen cuts open her toe, requiring three stitches.

Every time I leave for an International trip, something dramatic happens. I'm 25% Irish, so I'll handle this the way the Irish do; I'll be in the kitchen with a bottle of Jameson.

Here's a map of the places we're going to visit before arriving in Lurgan for the burial/memorial. I'll have a cell phone and I'll try to text message a few bits directly to the blog over the next two weeks. If you'd like, sign up for the RSS feed here.

Slainte.



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