Vienna: Phallic Fixations

November 25, 2017. Vienna, Austria.

There’s really no missing the Pestsäule. The 60-foot baroque monstrosity juts up out of the center of the Graben like an ornate middle finger to God. It’s actually emperor Leopold I delivering on his side of one of those pleading prayer bargains we’ve all done. Leo’s was “Please, let the plague stop. I swear I’ll build you a really dope art phallus right in the middle of the city, just stop killing everyone.”

The Plague Column is also called the Trinity Column due to its three sides, each one presumably representing some aspect of the tripartite God.

About a block away is the Stock im Eisen, or staff in iron. That’s misleading, it’s not a staff, it’s a tree trunk full of nails, kept in a tube that makes it totally immune to photography.

I did what I could. Now, you might be asking, “Why is there a protected chunk of tree, full of nails, on a street corner in Vienna?” Good question. I’d love to answer it, but it doesn’t seem like anyone can. Every website has a different interpretation of the Stock im Eisen‘s history, and the locals who were attempting to explain its significance to their visiting friends were telling conflicting stories.

Here’s what I’ve pieced together. In the Middle Ages, nail trees (Nagelbäume) were used by craftsmen, or anyone else with nails, for good luck. This particular nail tree had something to do with the Devil. There’s a ballet about it by Pasquale Borri, so if anyone more sophisticated than me can check that out and report back, I’d appreciate it.

There was a locksmith who wanted to marry his master’s daughter, or maybe he just wanted to be the greatest locksmith who ever lived. Dude shot for the stars. So he calls Mephistopheles out of Prague, who shows up on a FlixBus a few hours later. The locksmith sells his soul in exchange for just a really, fuckin’, top-notch padlock. It’s amazing. He puts that on the tree and issues challenges to either his master in exchange for his daughter’s hand in marriage, or to all the locksmiths of the world in exchange for World Locksmithing Supremacy. Since the Devil made the lock, nobody could crack it, and he lived happily ever after until he burnt in Hell. The tree remains with a lock on it to this day, and also full of nails, for some reason.

This is confirmed bullshit. They looked into the padlock and it’s empty, there’s no tumblers or anything in there. It would pop right open. Maybe that’s why the whole thing’s behind the bulletproof glass.

Well, that was most of center city, barring museums and palaces. I sidled all the way across town to the Freud Museum.

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they only serve sausages

I thought it was interesting, but Freud was what got me through college. I’d read the bulk of his debunked wackadoo theories long before I got “higher educated”, and since every class in undergrad wanted to beat both Freudian and Pavlovian dead horses as much as possible, I got to recycle the same paper, with subtle stylistic changes, something like ten times.

My favorite, bar none, was a History and Systems project where we were required to adopt the persona of our chosen theorist and have an open debate with the rest of the class. We got extra credit for accents, props, and convincing portrayal. I shaved my scruff into an approximation of his beard and showed up to class with a grape White Owl in my mouth and a baggie full of flour smeared around my nose. The only Austrian accent I’d ever heard at that point was the Terminator’s, so that was how Freud talked. I sat next to B.F. Skinner, as portrayed by a gorgeous little ghoul with dichromatic eyes, and we became a vitriolic tempest of condescending reductionism, laying waste to anyone fool enough to have chosen a humanistic or positive psychologist. The Carl Rogers surrogate got the worst flaying. I think he might still be institutionalized.

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speaking of my college

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hoo i heard that

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Siggy’s personal necromancy cabinet. easily puts mine to shame, but the museum did keep repeating that his three great passions were “traveling, smoking, and collecting”

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I laughed so hard and so inappropriately at that adorable picture of Carl Jung. Look at him go! With his little hat, and his little disapproving frown!

I love Jung, I think his work is interesting, if convoluted, arcanist rambling, but I wasn’t prepared for this. From here on out, I’m never gonna be able to think of Freud and Jung as anything but Germanic Rick and Morty.

On my way back to the hostel, I located the only grocery store in Vienna (I’d been looking) and picked up a box of juice brand named “Munter und Aktiv”. Well, I got half of that. I asked Google Translate and it said Munter means “blithely”. I recognized this as impossible. I activated my German field agent and she told me it’s a mixture between happy and awake and active. Well, we already have active. I asked the lady at the hostel desk, planning on averaging all these translations into one definitive Munter.

“It is like waking up with coffee in the morning,” she said. “Like chipper.”

“All right, thank you.”

She asked me if I still had my key card. I said I did.

“Good work,” she told me. She seemed serious, but she may have just been possessed of the Wiener Grant.

“Do people lose them a lot? Is that a big problem here?” I asked, blithely. Munterly.

“No, no problem. We don’t have problems here,” she said, then she honest to God slapped the table and shouted in the thickest, most Germanic accent I’ve ever heard, “VE HAVE ZOLUTIONS!”

She laughed after and clarified that she was just kidding, but I was deer-in-the-headlights frozen. One of those disbelieving grins, you know? When what’s going on… can’t be what’s actually going on.

I know we have a sad little Nazi party movement in America, but realistically that’s like 40 lonely dudes with bad haircuts who get way too much media coverage. In much of Europe, they seem mighty sorry for World War II. The Mahnmal in the heart of Vienna is a good indicator, but there’s more going on than monuments, culturally. The aforementioned German girl is currently crossing eastern Europe and self-inflicting a sort of guilt tour (or Schuldtour). Warsaw and Auschwitz, that I’m aware of. Die Madchen ist haunted.

(As a quick aside, I looked up the German word for ‘haunted’, and, unbelievably, it is spukt. Go ahead. Say it out loud. Spukt. This fuckin’ language, man.)

In the Athens flea market, after divulging her nationality to an antique dealer for reasons I will never understand, he rolled out a bunch of old Nazi medals.

“You want?”

She literally backpedaled, shielding her face like a tall, rigid vampire from an iron cross. But she went on to tell me that there are people back in Germany — in America, we’d call them hicks — that love that kind of thing.

The modern nationalism necessary to breed either sentiment is lost on me, but I don’t think that’s because I’m an American. I’m just not much of a joiner.

A final, weird note, and the last Hitler point I plan on making: the Indian guy told me that Hitler is sort of fondly remembered in India and China. In the course of the war, Germany did a lot of damage to Great Britain, and India is still carrying a pretty understandable grudge against their former imperial taskmasters.

I sat down and collected myself until my chronic and intractable antsiness returned, then I figured I’d go check out the craft beer bar half a mile away. I hadn’t eaten in six or seven hours, so that seemed like the ideal time. They had a Bier dem Wochen flight for the cost of a regular half-pint, so I got that. They brought me 4 beers, all from Anchor Brewing, which I learned from a hipster’s t-shirt is in San Francisco.

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welp

The Steam beer must be called that because that’s what it tasted like. The stout was palatable, in a cream soda kind of way. I downed it and ordered a local imperial stout called Der Schnittenfahrt from a company called Brauwork. Hilarious though that may sound, it means “cut drive”, and washing down a flight with it on an empty stomach was perhaps ill advised.

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“schnittenfahrt” tho

The bar was very excited about rugby. Ireland vs Argentina. I didn’t know who they were rooting for, but they were rooting for them with all their heart. I went to the bathroom and laughed so hard I scared a dude.

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now that’s opulence

That was enough for one night. I had a bus to catch the next morning. I stumbled back to my hostel and passed out. I slept like a rock, except for at around 3 AM when I was awake just long enough to see the dude in the opposing bunk sit up like a mummy, slam his face into the wood support of the bunk over him, and release a long, low-pitched, closed-mouthed moan. It was sort of like a cow mooing, but in slow motion. Absolutely fantastic.

The next morning I threw all my stuff into my bag and wrote in the kitchen until my Brazilian DJ friend rejoined me, looking much worse for wear.

“Bunch of bastards,” he told me out of nowhere.

“Huh?”

“The club I played at,” he spat. “Didn’t pay me a DIME. Bastards. Didn’t even give me free drinks. I had four beers, and they charged me.”

I shook my head. “Animals. Well, chalk it up to experience, I guess.”

He made a vague allusion to being all about peace and love. I shook his hand, wished him well, and headed for the door.

Oh, right. The bus was to Bratislava, and hoo boy, do I got some stories for tomorrow.

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heard yo mama in the movies

Love,

The Bastard

Athens: What Did He Mean By This?

November 14, 2017. Athens, Greece.

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por que no los tres?

I wheeled through the Syntagma side of town and found my way into a local-recommended madhouse called Estrella. It was humming with humans. The waitresses were sweating through their blouses. They stuck me in a corner and gave me a menu and, for some reason, a Raphael place mat.

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Let’s unpack  this a little bit. We have Raphael, there, apropos of nothing, right in the middle. He’s in some kind of old-timey town, I don’t know where. Says Athens on the top, kind of. Doesn’t look like Athens. There’s a coach, but no cars that I can see. Maybe this is from Turtles in Time, and he’s somewhere between 1800 and 1920. What’s that thing the homeless guy is leaning against? A bus stop? A phone booth?

And then, at the bottom: “You got the spirit don’t lose the feeling”, which sounds a line from the dubbed English theme song of some anime about ranching slimes.

I picked my way through the menu, most of which consisted of “64 degree Celsius eggs”, which is 141 in real degrees, or almost hot enough to kill foodborne bacteria. I opted to try a breakfast pizza with a Greek name.

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Listen, man. You can’t just call something a pizza because there’s round bread at the bottom. A pizza has a layered, homogeneous distribution of toppings, and those are never seeds. What you committed here… was a breakfast pile. Eggs, gruyere cheese, avocado sludge, and sri racha. Too rich for me, but I definitely needed the calories. I dipped and wandered, in search of a mandolin.

I don’t play mandolin, and I don’t actually want one, but I am curious as to how much they are in Greece. If they’re like 20 Euros, I’ll find a way to bring it with me on the planes. It doesn’t look good. I’ll report back when I find one.

I stumbled on a rage room, which sounds like something I’d be into at first. Sadly, I can’t get behind it. The pricing is outrageous! 10 Euros to break 20 bottles? Where I’m from there’s a place we can break bottles for free, and it’s called “behind the Wawa.” And they wrap you in all this ridiculous safety gear, looking like a hockey goalie moonlighting as a welder.

rageroom

RDY 2 RAGE in safety

If you’re not ready to maybe lose an eye in venting your anger, what you’re experiencing is not “rage”.

When I was a filthy teenage hood rat, we had our own version of the rage room. It was called “the junkyard”. You gotta stick the sledgehammer through a belt loop so you can jump the fence, but then you’re golden. You drink Old Crow out of the Spencer’s rhinestone PIMP flask and then you cycle through your weapons; a good crowd would have the option of hammer, railroad spike, and baseball bat. You find a likely looking car — be it a model you used to own, or a fancier model that reminds you of class war, or really anything that still has windows, and you Steve Harrington that sonofabitch.

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pic incredibly related

Although, the rage room was probably a little easier to factor on time. Ours was generally over when you heard dogs.

Making my way back to the hostel, I was delighted to run across this little bit of home:

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I haven’t seen that written in a bathroom for like three weeks! I was worried people had decided that perhaps not Fuck Trump.

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j̶u̶s̶t̶ ̶l̶i̶k̶e̶ ̶g̶r̶a̶n̶d̶m̶a̶ ̶u̶s̶e̶d̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶m̶a̶k̶e̶  nevermind, that was way grosser than i intended

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NEVER! im an american dammit

In the U.S., we have a very limited understanding of how Europe things of us. They don’t hate hate us. France might, I don’t know, I haven’t been there. Most people I’ve met have seemed to admire us for our bullshit omnipresent pop culture and begrudgingly acknowledge us as sort of de facto boss of the Western world (Europeans make reference to the president as “Leader of the Free World” way more often than any of us do, especially in light of recent events).

And while some will ask me, “So how did Trump… happen?” or “Are there really nazis there?”or “Do you really not use the metros?”, there is one thing they’re guaranteed to ask about as soon as they find out I’m American.

“So why don’t you eat real food?”

Listen. We’re not consulted on it, all right? This is just what they give us. Ya’ll have McDonaldses too, we just have them everywhere, and while you have healthful traditional foods to fall back on, we have, what, hamburgers? Apple pie? Fried chicken? We were damned from the get-go and it’s a miracle I’m not 300 lbs.

“Are you all like, really fat in America?”

“What’re you tryna say?”

“No, not like, you! But like, other Americans?”

“Yes. In America, literally every single person looks like this. I did too, before I lost 10 kilos in Spain, living off tapas.”

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And they’ll nod in pity and turn around and eat a foot-long sandwich with fries on top of a chicken breast that’d been sitting in grease all day. Go figure.

Love,

The Bastard

Madrid: Hangin’ in There

November 1, 2017. Madrid, Spain.

I think I was so enchanted by Barcelona because it was such a cosmopolitan cultural hub. Walking down the street, you’d find eight different kinds of food in the same block and people speaking as many different languages.

Madrid is different. There’s not a lot of culture to see here. There’s a handful of museums (pic related), but nothing really novel, nothing that you’d go out of your way to hunt down unless you’re on a school field trip. For the record, the line to get into the Prada museum seemed to be comprised mostly of school field trips, and it wrapped around the block. I’ve been going to coffee shops to write every morning; this morning, I had to resort to a Starbucks because Spain doesn’t open until 10 AM.

breakfast

This is breakfast, in a bare minimum kind of way. Dasayuno mediterraneano, which is some bread, olive oil, tomatoes fresh out of the blender, and salt. Bone apple teeth.

The statuary seems likewise confused as to why I opted to spend four days here. I tried assuring them it was for proximity to airport and affordability of tickets, but they weren’t convinced.

vatofrice

After a week in Spain, I finally got my hands on some paella. The hostess assured me it fed a minimum of 2 people, and I assured her “Nuh-uh”. It turned out, I was right. It wasn’t bad, but it was a pound of buttered rice with seafood and chicken bones in it. I feel like the travel writers (including this dude) might have overhyped this one.

The fact of the matter is, the Spanish economy is not doing so hot. That’s why everything costs at least $5 more than it does in the real world and probably why the inhabitants seem to subsist entirely on tapas. It’s not a problem in and of itself, but you can see it in the infrastructure, and how everybody is always coming at me with little grabby-hands, begging and demanding and pan-handling and whoring. I can’t stand grabby-hands.

Rome in 2 days. Staying the course. Gonna try to get belligerently drunk tonight, that oughta get things a little more mezclado. Silver lining, I’m getting plenty of Spanish practice. I think if I got a job where I needed to use it, I’d be fluent inside of a month. My working vocabulary is growing by leaps and bounds each day. Hopefully I can skive the same deal with my strictly literary knowledge of Italian once I get to Rome in 2 days.

I also bailed out of the worst hostel in Europe that doesn’t kill you and into a much nicer place called SafeStay Madrid, which is, by the fact they need to put “safe” in the name, somewhat ominous. It’s a huge, clean, pleasant place, though. Hot water and everything! They’ve also got a giant movie room where I spent most of yesterday marathoning Stranger Things. I still can’t believe Sam Gamgee is shacking up with Winona Ryder.

Love,

The Bastard

 

Barcelona: La Ramblin’

October 28, 2017. Barcelona, Catalonia, Spain. 

After a meager hostel breakfast of bread and more bread, I went out to a coffee shop and settled in to do some writing.

There’s this peculiar phenomenon that affects me specifically. No matter where I am, what building, business, vehicle, or apparently country, if there’s an opportunity for screaming children to be near me, they will find a way. Within moments of setting my laptop down, a disaffected mother with two screeching children entered the cafe and sat down in the seat next to me. The children, as if on cue, immediately began to howl and practice muay thai on the legs of the table. I dipped.

After the daily happenin gettin my tippatappin in, I went wandering through the unusually calm streets in search of a laundromat.

 

Turns out, the reason nobody was in the streets is because they were all crammed in the alleys, poised to spring out as soon as I got close enough, in appropriate Halloween fashion.

 

My Spanish is still not what I would describe as fluent, but since I arrived in Barcelona I’ve become particularly adept at asking strangers “what the hell is going on?” In this case, a dude answered a little too rapidly for me to catch every word, but from what I gleaned it’s a Spanish cultural tradition of some kind, not necessarily a Catalonian one, but he’s just visiting too so he couldn’t say for sure. I tried to corroborate this in English with a clump of Brits, but their only contribution was an uncomfortable smile with no eye contact and “We have no idea what’s going on”. That was reassuring, in its way.

The laundromat was 10€ and the hostel would do the same thing for me without my having to hang around a laundromat for two hours, so I opted to suffer that hustle instead, dropped my bag off at Don Mustache and continued my explorations in earnest.

Are you familiar with the old Tolkien quote, “Not all who wander are lost”? And then this dog meme?

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I’m in a superposition of those two states any time I’m awake.

Eventually I found myself in La Rambla, where two powerfully built gentlemen with heavy African accents were very excited to see me.

“You! You smoke weed?”

“Not anymore,” I said, more or less truthfully. “At least, not here.”

“You come with us,” they said, gesturing down an alley, “We are 1 minute walk away from a coffee shop you can sit down and smoke weed!”

“Really!” I said. “Is that legal here?”

“Yes, yes!” they said, gesturing frantically toward the alley where I would be murdered. “Come on, right down here!”

“I’m good, thanks anyway,” I smiled and waved and swayed back into the bedlam.

“You’re good? I know you are good! Come smoke weed!” they shouted after me.

My compañera de viaje from the day before had said, “It is like, when I am alone, I do not trust people!” I told her, “Me either. Also, when I am together, I don’t trust people.” She thought that was funny, but I think it’s a solid philosophy. It’s well within the realm of possibility those two gentlemen saw a lone American tourist swaggering blithely down the street, front pocket of his stupid slim-fit jeans bulging with his wallet, and they thought, “I really hope we can help that guy smoke weed.”

Another block down the street, I found a heavily dreadlocked hippie sitting cross-legged on a blanket, looking like he was fighting the nod-off. He had four labelled cups in front of him, which read WEED, BEER, LSD, and Comer (FOOD). I dropped my small change in the empty acid cup and said “buena suerte, amigo.” Boul lit up like a Christmas tree.

Truth told, drugs seem kind of like overkill in Barcelona. A couple times a day I find myself pausing and double-checking that I’m awake. An alley full of clarineteers and dancing wooden giants doesn’t suddenly happen in the real world.

The elbow-to-elbow density of humans in La Rambla suddenly increased as the daily political protest took form. This time, the signs were about freeing political prisoners and “NO A LA MILITARIZACIÓN!”

Back stateside I oppose la militarización as well, but I didn’t see any reason I should oppose it in La Rambla, vocally, this close to a political upheaval. I shaded out.

Ghostfully,

The Bastard

 

 

Barcelona: Encontré las Comunistas

October 26, 2017. Barcelona, Catalonia, Madrid.

The next day was a profoundly surreal amalgam of political dissent and nightmare art.

I run hot. I’m a fleshy furnace, and back in the Frozen North I considered 50 degrees to be t-shirt weather. As per the recommendations made by The Savvy Backpacker, I invested in three long-sleeve button downs because “You can just roll up the sleeves if it gets too hot!”

This doesn’t work. This makes your elbows hotter, and the rest of you no less hot. This was fine in Ireland, where it was always raining and cold, but in Spain the weather is perfect every day all the time forever and it was going to kill me.

I went to a kitschy souvenir shop and bought three t-shirts for 20€. Two of them were generic Barcelona dealies and one was an appropriately red shirt with a bull on it that said ESPAÑA. In the Wes Craven bathrooms of the Hell Museum of Psychosis Art (will cover in coming post) I switched into it and then went wandering through the narrow, winding alleys that comprise the city’s cultural district.

Earlier, at a coffee shop called the Sweetophelia Cafe, I was interrupted in my caffeinated morning blog musings by a troupe of flag-waving communist teens marching down the street with a police escort and shouting. I tried to get a video but my phone was charging and, with how long it takes to boot up, I’m pretty sure it’s running Windows 95. As I meandered through the labyrinth of corner shops and bars that is the Circulo de Arte, I found what must have been a major civic building where every political dissident under the age of 20 had gathered to shout in Catalan.

All the heavy hitters were there. Hammer and sickle flags, antifa in bandannas, dreadlocked white dudes with gauges, news vans, the whole nine yards. A lot of them were wearing flags for capes. No one was pleased. Further back, along the fence, locals 35 years of age or older looked on in notable disquiet.

I approached one of the girls along the fence and asked “Disculpe, que es esto sobre?” which was the closest I could get “The hell is going on here?”. She served me up a withering look and told me that it is about independence from Spain.

My dumb ass says “Okay, thanks!” and continues blithely on my way. In retrospect, I would’ve probably walked away whistling, if I could whistle.

I’m observing the protest when I catch my reflection in window glass and realize:

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whoops

(note: i made this face on purpose but this is coincidentally the same face that everyone in Dublin made 24/7)

So all this mean mugging is not necessarily because I’m a filthy American tourist, but because I’m doing the equivalent of walking around colonial Lexington 1775 with an “ENGLAND RULZ” shirt. I scrambled into an alley and changed into a less incendiary Barcelona shirt. I could see the la policia around the corner in another window reflection, but I can’t imagine they would stop what they were doing and yell at me for pulling a quick Superman switch as far from the public eye as I could get without buying more tapas.

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It was a madhouse, but, because it was not in America, none of the children were maced or beaten. I poked around until I found a trio of 15-year-olds who spoke enough English to give me a synopsis of what they were protesting.

Catalonia wants to secede from Spanish rule. I’m a major proponent of liberty, so if I had a dog in this fight, it would be Catalonia’s. They were going to hold a formal withdrawal but that same day there was some sort of closed-doors meeting at this particular building, and it was announced that tomorrow Catalonia would be involved in the Spanish presidential elections. The whole secession was swept right under the rug.

I thanked them for the information, explaining (unnecessarily) that I’m an American and that we don’t hear much about this, because of our own political circus. I wished them the best and headed out of the demonstration before anyone decided to get punchy.

I’m a simple dude. If you want freedom, I want you to have it. Buena suerte, Barcelona. I’d say it in Catalan but I definitely can’t.

Love,

The Bastard

 

 

 

The Rocky Road to Dublin

October 24, 2017. Dublin, Ireland.

Another interactive post! For most authentic results, play this song over and over until you lose the ability to sleep for three days.

After my disastrous layover in Boston, my master plan was to sleep all six hours of my first intercontinental flight and then spring into action, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, upon arriving in Dublin. But you know what they say, the best laid plans of mice and men… something. Once on the plane, I traded seats with some guy so he could sit next to his “wife” or whatever, which put me next to a fellow wanderer who was very excited about backpacking Ireland. She’d been to Europe four other times so she was giving me a lot of helpful advice and asking a battery of pertinent questions, which I appreciated, even as she kept aborting my attempts to get any sleep at all in my life ever. Then again, my engines run just south of nuclear at the most serene of times, so it’s unlikely I would’ve managed to get much sleep anyway while hurtling through the sky over shark-infested waters in a giant metal tube toward the land of my foremothers.

My irrepressibly inquisitive single-serving friend and I parted ways after customs in an appropriately Irish goodbye. Thereafter, I figured out how buses work. You give them money, and they scowl at you, and then you hit the button before it gets to your stop or they’ll drop you off at the next stop.

♫ In Dublin next arrived, I thought it such a pity
to be so soon deprived a view of this fine city ♫

Unfortunately, I got off the bus in center city at 6 AM, not realizing that Ireland doesn’t open until 8. I had booked in advanced at a hostel called The Four Courts which was so closed that there was a cage in front of the door. My options had narrowed.

So like the idiot protagonist of the aforementioned folk song, I decided to take a stroll. In the rain. For two hours. Desperate for breakfast.

There was one place, called The Pantry, that opened a half hour before the rest of Dublin. I skittered in and ordered the “jumbo” breakfast, whereupon I learned jumbo means something different here than it does in America. Still, they gave me a truly devastating quantity of pig flesh.

pigs

I hadn’t realized there were so many ways to turn pigs into breakfast. You see those little disks on the right? That’s fried blood. It’s alleged that it’s “pudding”, but they have to be aware of the other kind of pudding, that rarely contains blood. I believe this known colloquially as “taking the piss”. And then one lone hash brown, in solemn remembrance.

I paid then got terribly lost, but I’m told that’s part of the experience. You’d think it would be easy to orient yourself by the giant river that cuts through the middle of town. I kept losing it. Poor visibility from the rain, I imagine, and also everyone in a car was trying to kill everyone else in a car as loudly as possible.

Four or five miles later, I found this sign that I recognized from my failed attempt at getting into my hostel earlier.

surgery
seems legit

I gained access this time by pressing a metal button. Apparently, I could have done that three hours prior too. You win this round, The Four Courts.

I’ve technically been awake for two days but my bed won’t be ready until 3 pm and there’s enough caffeine pounding through my bloodstream to reanimate a notably large corpse.

yall need anything

I think I’ll swing by the Tri-C and stock up on the trifecta: coffee, cadavers, and Christ. Y’all need anything?

Love,

The Bastard