Adventure of the month

Although this summer has been going wonderfully, there is something missing. I may be traveling, meeting some amazing people and finding that the Netherlands has seriously stepped up their vegetarian game.  However, there is also a distinct lack of blue-eyed zombies, dragons and little blond badasses in my life. In other words, I want my Game of Thrones back. Seeing as George R. R. Martin is not taking my calls and I inadvertently cancelled my HBO subscription (but not before the finale of Westworld), this situation called for drastic measures. If the seven kingdoms would not come to me, then clearly I must go to the seven kingdoms.  I've already been to King's Landing (aka Dubrovnik) and Braavos (aka Girona), so maybe it was time to check out the Iron Islands, the wall and pretty much everything else in between. In order to do this, a trip to Belfast was in order.

Many years ago, I was excited to find myself in Acapulco on May 5th. Surely, Cinco de Mayo in Mexico would be a tequila-fueled bacchanal for the ages. I went to the hotel's front desk to ask what I should expect. "Well, the banks will be closed. The post office too." "Uh, ok, that's fine. I'm really more interested in the parties. Is it going to be crazy?" -blank stare- As it turns out, Cinco de Mayo, which is not the Mexican day of Independence (that would be Diecisies de Septiembre) is primarily an American excuse to don sombreros, drink Coronas and eat unlimited nachos.  In Mexico itself, it is not much more than a Federal holiday commemorating an  unlikely victory over the French. Fast forward to last month, when I learned that I would be spending St Patrick's Day in Dublin. My initial thrill at this news was tempered with the sinking feeling that this could be 5 de Mayo all over again.  And technically I was not wrong. The green beer drink...

There's a saying about the best laid plans.  I could take a second and look up exactly how it goes, but I think I'll paraphrase it instead. Basically, it says don't count your chickens, your mice or your men, because they could all join together and royally screw up your plans. Such an event transpired just this week, when I boasted- on this blog, no less- about my plans to go to Durty Nelly's, an old Irish pub in an old Irish town. It was all but a given that I would soon be strolling into a 400 year old bar and an old guy would be singing "Danny Boy", much to the delight of a dozen or so other old men.  I would be there,  nodding politely, straining to figure out what the garbled sounds- some would call them words- coming out of the bartender's mouth signified. We landed in Shannon, Ireland, a little late, but still within peak pub hours.  We got off the plane and I began to head towards the usual hotel, the one right by the bus stop that would tak...

Last Friday, I got on a plane bound for Leipzig. But since I was still on a month-long journey of the unexpected, of course, I ended up in Shannon, Ireland instead. At this point, there were only two viable options: lament the cancelled plans in Leipzig or get busy making news plans in Shannon. OK, scratch that. There was only one viable option. With the help of the hotel staff, we quickly lined up a driver and guide to take us to the ever elusive Cliffs of Moher. I should stop here to acknowledge that it is a bit odd to describe Ireland’s most visited attraction, which has existed for 300 million years or so as ‘elusive’, but I have been trying to get to this place for ages and something (usually a combination of not enough time and/ or Guinness on tap) has always intervened. These Cliffs have eluded the hell out of me.