A Hike, I mean Walk

The cousins took us for a walk this past weekend. About 25 minutes into our walk I realized we were actually on a hike not a walk. When did this occur to me?
Was it when I saw the massive former glacier looming in front of us?
Or was it as I climbed the big boulders at the base of said former glacier?
Perhaps it was when we got to what I thought was the top of the mountain and realized we still weren't at the top. I decided that Captain Von Trapp was an optimist. My optimism faded as we traversed across the length of the peak (still uphill) when the wind started. Not just wind, but massive hurricane, gale force winds that kept knocking me over into the foot high bog.
If I weighed 15 pounds less I'm convinced I would have been literally blown off the mountain.
Oh yeah, and it was snowing.
I've been told it never snows in Ireland.
In fact, the cousins had the audacity to continue to say "really, it hardly ever snow in Ireland" as flakes of snow gathered on my coat and soaked my face. I beg to differ. And as you can see, the Canuck didn't mind the snow. Snow, cold, and the vertical climb aside, it really was a beautiful hike, I mean walk. It took about an hour's drive to get to Glendalough (pronounced glenn-duh-lock) the starting point of our hike, I mean walk. But, that short drive seemed to take us miles, I mean kilometers from Dublin. We started at the base of a lake, and walked from one end to the other before beginning our ascent.
I am ashamed to admit that when told we were headed to the mountains for a walk, this Sierra-raised girl snickered at the use of the word mountain to describe any of the landscape I had seen so far. But this Irish mountain had the last laugh as I huffed and puffed my way to the top. The view from the top shows you the distance and height we climbed on our hike, I mean walk. But it paints a deceptively calm, serene picture. I'm telling you, I've never heard of a hurricane snowstorm but that's what we were hiking, I mean walking in. A more appropriate picture is the one of me and Mark at the top of the mountain where Mark is clearly exhilarated by our climb and dreaming of future treks in the Alps this summer whereas I'm clinging onto him for dear life, grateful that there is a wooden barricade between us and the ledge.
Of course we survived the hike without an Katy ala Mary Poppins incidents, thanks mostly to a very kind and considerate Mark who held my hand in order to hold me up, while I clutched, tugged, and pulled on his jacket with my other hand to stabilize me. So whether hike or walk, hill or mountain, hurricane or breeze, I'm just grateful for the company I'm blessed to be traveling with (and who just came up behind me, read that last line, said awww, gave me a kiss on the cheek, paused.... and then said, "is that me??").

I've started this without title, because I'm not sure what its going to turn into. I have a few things to report, or react to and I feel that I want more space than comments (7) and now there's (8) ooh, mark may have something to say. Its been a weird week, maybe it was St. Paddy's, maybe it was the Dalkey Play of Portia ...something or other, that I walked out on and went next door to have a pint of Smithwicks and attempt to learn the basics of cricket with Billy, who also marched out in protest but we each had our own reasons. Or maybe its because this week, was our first hand experience of snow in Ireland on a hike when really if you ask anyone they'll tell "it doesn't snow in Ireland, its too wet for that".
Anyway I was recently asked "So what do you like most about Dublin?" at lunch after our hike. I'll admit I stammered a bit, I don't like those types of questions, did you like Dublin Castle, more than St Patricks Cathedral? Uh I like them both and for different reasons. And now I realize now that my answer after a pause and an uhh...questioning intonation "the people?" could be taken several ways. I felt pretty sheepish right after saying "uhhh the people?" but I think that I've really stepped into the role of a resident and not a tourist. And that was such a tourist question. Granted if I am a resident, I'm not much of one because I still couldn't tell you where or what direction you could find the area of temple bar on St. Paddy's even thought there may have been somewhere near a quarter million people one block up and one block right of where we stood. Anyhow for those that didn't know I had two close friends come visit Jon and James, and we had a great time with Katy and Myles and Niall and others appearing in an out for a drink over the whole weekend. So while I may not have answered the best part of Dublin, question as well as I would have hoped, it doesn't change my answer. To put it in Katy speak there are 2 or 3 reasons why I didn't name something more specific. The first reason is: if I think back at all the traveling I've done, the countries I've liked the most are the ones that I've really enjoyed the attitudes and lifestyles of those that live there. Number two: (is it just me or can you hear Katy talking this way) I can appreciate a good Castle and little bit of art history or architecture, especially at the time that I'm seeing it. Will I remember in 3 weeks after seeing it if it was the Romans or the Canadians that influenced the stonework outside the entrance, chances are yes! now thats a really bad example, but it still argues my point (damn even that last bit sounds a bit like Katy). My 3rd point really isn't a point, but I said 3 at the beginning so my point is this: after swearing to go on a detox and officially jump on the wagon from St Paddy's a little walk in the cold with Katy, the cousins, and their inquisitive friend Shane (he asked the Dublin question), I was convinced 14 hours later "cah'man down and we'll have uhs a cup'l a hawt wiskees"and to weigh in on whether Jameson (according to Myles and Shane) was superior to Bushmills (Niall), after a cold walk. Its the times like these, or going to the theatre with Marina and laughing so hard at how bad I thought it was. Anyway its these times just catching up with the cousins, and Billy, or Ann, and Liz. When Katy and I can sit and laugh with them which is probably why I couldn't come up with the name of a church or a ....


By the way Shane asked where we would like to go and when we said we were excited about Romania. "Ah nice, byewtifal kountry...people are shit."

Dublin Fashion Week

I remember being in England one year during London Fashion Week and trying to sneak in. Not really sneak, more like act my way in. There's some movie in which Michael Keaton's character says to get into someplace you don't belong, just walk confidently with a clipboard in hand and act as if you belong. I didn't have a clipboard but I had confidence. That actually got me past security checkpoint number 1 but sadly when confronted at security checkpoint number 2 I lost my nerve and played dumb.. "oh my gosh, I thought I could just go in and look around."
So, when I read in the Irish Times about parts of Dublin Fashion Week being open to the public I thought I'd investigate the possibilities of entering legally. After all it was another London trip to the Design Museum where I saw an exhibit on Manolo Blahnik that made me appreciate the art and craftsmanship of his shoes and understand (sort of) the price tag. Who knew what new loves might await me at Dublin Fashion Week?
Designer Matthew Williamson's headlined the week's runway shows. His clients include starlets such as Keira Knightly and Sienna Miller. The public could buy their way into his runway show for a mere 295 euros ($390). That ticket included free champagne and canapes at an arrival reception, a goody bag, and an open bar at the post party. Sadly, I knew that goody bag wouldn't contain a check for 250 euros inside, so that put the catwalk out of this Kat's current budget range (I'm confident I could easily eat and drink 45 euros worth at the pre and post bashes).
So, I decided to stick to the Irish Times coverage of all the frocks, fashions and free food (oops, I mean included in the price of your ticket food). I was doing very well, and feeling every bit the fashionista insider. "Oh yes, lovely use of colour" and "a very bold take" and "my I do like the use of the flowy, fluttery, fabrics."
And then it stopped.
Very suddenly and abruptly.
A single article on men's fashion reminded me why those in the fashion know are overcharging to keep the likes of me and my clipboard out. More to the point, it made me think "what the feck?" (my new Irish way of kind of but not really swearing).
Here we have Commes des Garcons and Jean Paul Gaultier....
aka Crap des Garcons and Jean Paul Crap:

I mean really. Not just an embroidered vest but a pink embroidered vest. And not just a skirt, but a flower print skirt. I understand that runway fashions rarely make it to the average consumer as is, but really, I mean really.
And then there was the piece de resistance from John Galliano aka John "what the feck" Galliano:



That's all I have to say about that.

Book Blog

As if you didn't have enough of me already, I'd like to give you more of me. Allow me introduce a new feature here on the Fleeton Gongshow blog. Actually it isn't just a feature, it is a whole extra blog!
I know you're excited.
You're breathless with anticipation really.
But I'll warn you, it isn't that thrilling. It is my own little book report blog.
zzzzzzzzzzzz
But, since I have had some time on my hands (see any posting below), I've been reading a lot since we've gotten here. And in the spirit of sharing almost every thought that enters my head these days with all of you, my friends and family (and hopefully no internet-blog-surfing weirdos), I decided to add a "what I've read" list to this blog.
Look to the right.
No, down more.
After the "where we've been" bit.
There you go.
But then as I was adding the list of books, I thought, well surely they'll want to know what I thought of the book. So then I started adding book posts to this blog. But that got messy and confusing and potentially boring for those just curious about the travel/living abroad part of all this. And besides poor Mark has practically been shoved off my, I mean our blog. Hence, the launching of the supplemental blog.
Happy reading.
Or happy reading about what I'm reading.
Or not.
Because really, if you only have time for one, I'd recommend sticking to this one.

St. Paddy's Day Top Ten

Top Ten Facts you may not know about St. Patrick's Day:

1. Patrick, the patron saint of Ireland, was British not Irish.
2. St. Patrick's given name was Maewyn Succat, not sure who changed it to Patrick, but overall good call.
3. Slainte (pronounced schlan-sha kind of, sort of, but I know I keep kinda-sorta saying it wrong) is an Irish toast meaning "to your good health."
4. In Ireland, the nickname for Patrick is Paddy not Patty.
5. The Guinness company has a 9,000 year lease on its brewery in Dublin.
6. I don't really fancy Guinness.
7. St. Patrick wasn't born on March 17, he died on March 17, so really people are getting slit-eyed and shit-faced on the anniversary of when Patrick kicked the bucket, which makes me wonder if his saintly-self is turning over in his grave.
8. On Paddy's weekend, you're more likely to hear an American or an Italian accent than an Irish one at most downtown Dublin pubs, and 99% of those Americans are wearing ridiculous green hats, wigs, face paint, etc. Okay, so this one isn't exactly a fact but I have lots of anecdotal evidence. (And yes, I know there was an incident a few years back with me and a green feather boa on St. Patrick's day but that was different because I was in San Francisco not Ireland.)
9. I spent St. Patrick's day with two Irishmen, two Englishmen, two Americans, and a Canuck (who at this moment are still out and probably working on the eye and face bit from number 7) and I was hit on by a group of Italians (see above).
10. Actually, I hate Guinness.

Pictures Worth at Least 100 of My Words

As we got into our "hired" car to drive back to Dublin from our weekend away on the southern coast of the country Mark said....
"we're going to have to think up something good to say we did."
It wasn't that we didn't have a lovely time, we did. It just wasn't the most groundbreaking trip ever. With that in mind, I've opted for more pictures than words to give you an idea of where we were.

That's the castle in Kilkenny. Mark said if he got a castle some day he might like something like this one. We didn't go inside, the tours for the afternoon were sold out. We did eat our picnic lunch on the castle grounds though. We had a discussion about what constituted the front yard and back yards of a castle. We also discussed (and disagreed) about where you should have formal gardens and where you should have informal gardens.. front yard or back yard of the castle? I suppose if you actually live in a castle you don't refer to any of it as the "yard."
I vote formal front yard, informal back yard.... for the record.

This is a little street in the port town of Kinsale where we stayed for the weekend. It's a nice town, catered a bit towards tourists. But seeing as we were there in the "off-season" it didn't feel particularly touristy.
Have I mentioned that the doors EVERYWHERE are not tall enough for my wonderfully tall man? Mark would not have done well in Victorian times. What am I saying? He hits his head regularly on the light that hangs in the dining room of my parents' house circa 2004.

Here I am standing on the top of the hill looking down at the town of Kinsale.
Like I said, groundbreaking stuff here peeps.


And here we have the rock of Cashel. We stopped in Cashel on our way back because we had been told about the rock of Cashel. I'd tell you more about the rock of Cashel but after climbing to the top of the hill we discovered it cost 7 euro each for entrance. We didn't care that much about the rock of Cashel. I could have google'd it and pretended to be very knowledgeable but I still just don't care that much about the rock of Cashel.
Is that more than 100 words?

Ready, Set, Pub

Do you know what Ireland was called by the Roman empire? How 'bout what they called Scotland? Perhaps you know what country's national airline is LOT?
If you know the answers to these sorts of questions you might do well at the Irish phenomenon of pub quiz. I've never been a whiz at Trivial Pursuits and I was even less brilliant at the pub quiz, but even so I LOVED every minute of it. It isn't about winning or the losing but about whispering possible answers to your teammates, trying to surreptitiously cheat off your friends at the table next to you, and being outright delighted when you actually hear a question you know the answer to.
It reminds me of good game nights of aggressive charades, liars dice at a dive bar, or even the impromptu game of 20 questions played the night I met Mark.
K1: "Which of you is most likely to buy a round for everyone?"
Boys in unison: "Mark."
Mark: "Irish car bomb, anyone?"
Me: Okay!
Good thing the guys didn't think to ask which of the girls was most likely to puke at the end of the night. Mark might have thought twice about that cab ride home.
But I digress. Back to the pub quiz...
What Canadian singer performed in Switzerland...?
never mind the rest of the question: CELINE DION! CELINE DION! I mean, c'mon is there another famous Canadian singer? Mark hates it when I say this which is why it is included here, not to mention the fact that Celine Dion was the correct answer.
As for the other answers: the Romans called Ireland Hibernia, Scotland was referred to as Caledonia, and Poland is home to the airline LOT.
You gotta love it when a night of drinking makes you smarter.

Me, Myself and Me Again

So the other night, my Irish uncle-in-law came to our back door baring gifts of books as a sort of apology. It would seem a little birdie from Canada flew a message over the pond to inform him of my distaste for being called Kathy.
I know it seems I can border on the obsessive, fanatical, and maniacal when it comes to Kathy. But it simply isn't my name. You might as well call me George or Frank. I have nothing against the name Kathy, it is a lovely, good, and fine name. It simply is not MY NAME.
So, what is my name?
Fair question. Also a deceptively simple question.
Why?
Because the answer is not so simple.
What does this have to do with traveling and living in Ireland?
Not a damn thing.
My name is Katherine. It is also Katy. I've been known to be called Kate (it has been a pet name of my dad's for years). I'll even answer to K, not Kay, but K (called out by my mom from downstairs when she's trying to get my attention).
It amuses me when people ask me for, then press me for, then outright demand to know my preference.
Not Kathy. Anything but nails-on-a-chalkboard-Kathy.
The simple truth of the matter is that I identify with Katherine, Katy and Kate and I like having the choices. Sometimes I feel more like a Katherine, sometimes more of a Katy, and every now and then like a Kate. I like them all. What I don't relish is the thought of ever having to choose just one or worse have people only call me just one. Mark only calls me Katy, though I've heard him refer to me as Katherine. The opposite for Jane, she calls me Katherine but will talk about me as Katy. Mom, Dad and Christy all call me Kate, Katy, Katherine and knuckle-head, interchangeably and in no particular order. Here are some guidelines and scenarios to help illuminate the meanings behind the variations:
Katherine (formal) how I introduce myself 80% of the time, for use in work, school, unfamiliar settings, settings in which I wish to appear smarter than I actually am, and signing things such as credit card receipts
Katy (informal) how I introduce myself 19% of the time, for use in church, bars (go figure that those two are on the same list), also used by people at work or school who either a) think Katherine is too formal and ask me for an alternative or b) have spent anytime with my family and picked it up.
Kate (the final frontier) though I have long answered to Kate I have only in the last year or so actually started referring to myself that way (1% of the time) and even then it has mostly been at Starbucks:
Katherine.
What?
KATHERINE.
WHAT?
way too hard to hear so...
Katy.
What?
KATY
which kept ending with a slightly annoyed Katy holding a cup that said Katie (another not-my-name peeve for another useless blog session)
so then I moved on to
iced venti, non-fat 2 pump white mochas no ice for KATE.
how many pumps was that?
2 pumps.
and I'm sorry you said iced but no ice?
Well, I want it cold but no ice.
Huh?
I know, I have issues.
All 3 of me :)

L'Esprit d'Art

I have long enjoyed going to museums. I like the feel the feel of them, not just the works they house, but the ambiance and aura associated with a place dedicated to art. In big museums I could easily spend an afternoon or an entire day wandering the halls taking in all that the place has to offer. But, I must admit I have decidedly mixed feelings about modern art. So when we headed to the Irish Museum of Modern Art, or IMMA in downtown Dublin, my skepticism went along with us. The museum itself is an homage to the eclectic mixture of old and new. The 17th-century architecture of the building competes with the contemporary sculptures that dot the grounds. There's no blend or confluence to the different forms, just a stark contrast of two notably different eras. That's probably on purpose. Modern art aficionados probably find some artistic meaning in that. I find it annoying.
There are two main exhibits currently showing at IMMA. The exhibit's curator calls Thomas Demand Germany's most "innovative contemporary artist."
Innovative.
Interesting word choice. Demand was trained as sculptor but now photographs scenes that he has painstakingly constructed of three-dimensional, life-size models of architecture and objects.

The exhibition is titled "L'esprit d'Escalier." There is no English equivalent to the phrase but the literal translation is "wit of the staircase" and refers to the regret one feels after missing an opportunity to deliver a witty comeback or parting shot.

My response?
L'esprit d'escalier, mais oui.
I did better with the second exhibit.
Those in the art-world-know tell us American painter Alex Katz eschewed the two main forces of art during his heyday. He reacted against the dominant Abstract Expressionism of the 50's (ala Jackson Pollock) and later the Pop Art of the 1960's. Katz did many protraits and his wife Ada was a frequent muse as seen here.

The Irish Times interviewed the now 80 year old Katz about his paintings and the exhibit at IMMA. What I considered simplicity of line and subject in his work Katz describes as "shocking in all that it leaves out... but the mind fills in what's missing."



I preferred Katz's landscapes more than portraits of which there were only a handful at this exhibit. I liked the colors and brightness of landscapes.


I tend to be attracted to paintings of or inspired by nature anyways, perhaps that's why I'm looking forward to IMMA's next exhibit of Georgia O'Keefe.
I'll continue to explore the world of modern art. And at least for now, I'll probably continue to have mixed reactions to what I see. I think back on past modern art experiences like visits to the Tate Modern in London and SFMoMA and it the reaction was the same: mixed. But perhaps that's part of the real beauty of art, the individual and varied reactions of those who experience it.

We should have had the fish

An hour train ride north took us to the fishing town of Howth (rhymes with both). Folks have been living in Howth since 4000 BC but it didn't become a thriving fishing village and port until the 12th century. But, I like picturing the Howth of the 17th century, a time when it was frequented by pirates roaming the Dublin bay looking to make off with other people's treasures. The sleepy feeling of the village may have had as much to do with the day's downpour than any current state of the area. We braved the sloppy weather and walked to the end of the pier.

To our left were the fishing boats bobbing in the water, to the right every manner of fish store imaginable. The storefronts offered fish sellers, suppliers, producers (a tad presumptuous), merchants and mongers. For some reason the fishmonger captured my attention. Monger comes from the latin word mango meaning dealer. But I wonder why these days there are only a certain few mongers, fish and cheese come to mind. You don't have meat mongers for example (have I mentioned there are LOTS of butcher shops here?).

Anyways, cold and wet from the rain we headed back towards the village for a little lunch and a chance to dry off and warm up. We talked about fish and chips and decided on a pub called the Abbey Tavern since it had big raging wood burning fires that we could sit by. Unfortunately they didn't offer traditional fish and chips but we were so excited by the thought of the fire that we were drawn in anyways figuring any food by the warmth of the fire would be good. We were wrong. Mark ordered the corned beef and cabbage, I opted for a very strong Irish coffee and a bowl of vegetable soup. Mark says and I quote "that was the shittiest lunch I've had in a long time."
So it was a great pub for ambiance but not for food, our bad for not ordering the fish.
We had hoped for more of an outing in Howth. But after our bad lunch the rain had worsened. So we called Howth a wash and scurried back to the warmth and cover of the train ride home.

Tennis at 5

It's 5 Celsius outside or 41 for the Fahrenheit folks, and I'm feeling pretty soft. After dawning long sleeve t, short sleeve t, fleece sweatshirt, fleece vest, and touque I am now ready to play some tennis. I always knew living in California would make me a bit soft when it comes to real weather. I'm ashamed to say it's made me this soft. I swear I remember Canadian winters and what they felt like, and that plus 5 was like a sign to shed the coats and most if not all layers and enjoy weather that felt like the beginning of spring. So when I'm out at De Vesi Tennis club and blowing hot air on my fingers in between swings where I can feel my back tighten up from being chilled, I just don't feel that Canadian anymore. And then the Irish show up, Paddy - 1 pair short white tennis shorts - and 1 sweatshirt, Connor - 1 pair sweatpants and cutoff t-shirt, Niall - 1 pair short white tennis shorts - and 1 sweatshirt. Paddy and Niall must have talked before the match. Did I mention Kate or Kathy as she's known out here, Uncle Bill is the lone user of Kathy. Which Kate/Katy/Katherine/anything but Kathy hasn't corrected him on. Anyway she was wearing. Pants, short-sleeve, sweatshirt, down-vest, 1 wool scarf, 3/4 length Black Pea coat, 1 baseball cap, and lets not forget matching black leather gloves. Much to Kate's credit, the gloves came off early and so did the 3/4 length coat. And I suppose I took a little comfort in knowing that at first glance you could tell I wasn't born in California.

How was the tennis?
Myles: "oh grand yeah...lovely little match"
Niall: "nice little knockabout"
Mark: "good"
Kate: "cold"