here ya go!
PART THE THIRD (for my Momma)
So! The Gaslight Anthem concert was great, right up until K got knocked over and hurt her knee (dislocated kneecap and sprained ligaments). When the concert was finished, I went to the bar and got an ice-pack for K's knee, while she sat on the sidelines resting her leg. The bartender said he'd get the medic, and Mick the Medic showed up just about when the band came out to chat with fans (K kept pointing out the band members- Look! There's Benny! - Who? Where? - There! And Alex is on the other side of the stage! - What?).
While Mick the Medic examined K's knee and they discussed whether she could walk or not, I wandered over to where the drummer, Benny Horowitz, was chatting with a couple of girls. I told him that the concert was the first time I'd ever heard them, and I really liked their music- (I do! I bought their CD last week!), but my friend was a huge fan, and the concert had made her month! Benny thanked me and asked what happened to K's leg, and said he'd have to go and chat with her. I went back to sit with K, who was assuring Mick the Medic (no, his name really was Mick) that, no, she really didn't need to go to the hospital. Really! He seemed unconvinced, but he went to get bandages to support her knee anyways.
Benny Horowitz did indeed come over to chat with us, and we discussed, um, tattoos (Benny showed us his Gaslight Anthem tattoo. He was very proud of it) and New Jersey and- I actually don't remember. He was nice guy, though. He said that they were going out to Pravda, and invited us along, but Mick the Medic (now bandaging K's leg) was quick to veto that: K wasn't walking anywhere!
So K and I caught a cab back to our hostel (she spent the entire ride trying to convince me to go be a groupie; what a friend!) and sat around our room chatting all night- sleep wasn't an option because Ms. K had a 6:30 flight to catch, and no way was she going to wake up at 4. I felt rather smug for having arranged a later flight home (not really), and so we told ghost stories and psychoanalyzed Brian Fallon (TGA's lead singer) and talked about pretty much anything that came to mind. My ipod alarm, which I had set for 4:00, helpfully went off at 3:00. I want my money back.
Benny, K, Me.
I fell asleep after K left for her flight, and woke up three hours after check-out time and one hour before my flight was due to leave. I considered my options: I could throw my stuff together, race to the bus stop and pray that the 40-minute trip to the airport would miraculously take half the time; or, since I didn't need to be back until 4 PM on Friday (it was Thursday), I could re-schedule my flight and take an extra day in Dublin. It all depended on the cost of the ticket.
After checking my bank account, I booked a bed in the hostel for one night (I didn't end up using it, but what can you do?), and went into the first travel agency I found to book a return flight to Edinburgh. I got one for 100 euros, provided I didn't have any bags to check and only one carry-on. I could do that, I thought, and so booked my flight (6:30 AM, natch)and went off to explore Dublin. Breakfast was a full fry-up in a little cafe, where I looked through the TCD coursebook, graduate and undergrad, and then I wandered into town looking for the National Museum, where they have all sorts of Celtic artifacts. I ended up hopping on one of the red tour buses, and I pretty much went around on that all day. The taxi drivers were on strike (or at least protesting), so the streets were full of taxis and buses blaring their horns (it was like a parade!). The buses, I assume, were showing solidarity.
I spent the day museum-hopping, going from this exhibition to that, and ended up back at TCD just before the National Museum closed for the day. I never did make it over to Kildare street or to the National Museum. Another day. I had a late dinner in an italian restaurant in Temple Bar, after briefly considering the Mexican restaurant next door: the menu was not encouraging, nor the name- it was called "Mexico to Rome", and the menu ranged from Tapas and Burritos to Spaghetti Bolognese. My first experience of European "Mexican" food- a "burrito" made with an uncooked, crumbling tortilla, rice, tomatoes, cilantro and a few token beans- has made me, well. Wary.
After dinner I went back to the hostel and packed everything I owned into my poor, poor purse. It was a tragedy. I threw away everything but the absolute essentials, and still broke the zipper and shoulder-strap while I was at the airport. There was just too much stuff. I took my poor, bloated bag with me into the common room and finished off my essay, which I would type up when I got back to Edinburgh. (Check!) We watched the news for a bit, and then channel-surfed until we landed on what appeared to be porn: there was a sauna or possibly a gym filled with glisteningly muscular men and naked women with teased hair. Into this steamy milieu comes the Governor of California. Ah. It was a Terminator movie. Maybe. We finally settled on Billy Connolly's adventures in the Arctic Circle. Eventually everyone went to bed, and I had the room to myself. When I was too tired to spell or string a sentence together, I powered up my ipod and climbed into my bunk, fully clothed, to get some rest until I had to leave. Around came 4 AM- I got out of bed, checked I'd packed everything, gave my fab vintage suitcase to an American girl who was hanging out in the common room (at least it went to a good home, right?), and walked out to the bus stop.
On the way to the airport I sat behind two Spanish businessmen and a wimpled nun, but on the whole the trip was pretty unremarkable. I checked in, grabbed some coffee, caught my flight (Barmy's Army, or possibly the Barmy Army, took up most of the plane) and made it home in one piece. I slept until 3, went to my lecture (which I don't recall, much, but I have notes so I must've been there), and then to work. Until 11. And then up at 6 the next morning for more work. I slept all day Sunday, and then it was back to life as normal. I still haven't fixed my poor purse.
Fin.
So! The Gaslight Anthem concert was great, right up until K got knocked over and hurt her knee (dislocated kneecap and sprained ligaments). When the concert was finished, I went to the bar and got an ice-pack for K's knee, while she sat on the sidelines resting her leg. The bartender said he'd get the medic, and Mick the Medic showed up just about when the band came out to chat with fans (K kept pointing out the band members- Look! There's Benny! - Who? Where? - There! And Alex is on the other side of the stage! - What?).
While Mick the Medic examined K's knee and they discussed whether she could walk or not, I wandered over to where the drummer, Benny Horowitz, was chatting with a couple of girls. I told him that the concert was the first time I'd ever heard them, and I really liked their music- (I do! I bought their CD last week!), but my friend was a huge fan, and the concert had made her month! Benny thanked me and asked what happened to K's leg, and said he'd have to go and chat with her. I went back to sit with K, who was assuring Mick the Medic (no, his name really was Mick) that, no, she really didn't need to go to the hospital. Really! He seemed unconvinced, but he went to get bandages to support her knee anyways.
Benny Horowitz did indeed come over to chat with us, and we discussed, um, tattoos (Benny showed us his Gaslight Anthem tattoo. He was very proud of it) and New Jersey and- I actually don't remember. He was nice guy, though. He said that they were going out to Pravda, and invited us along, but Mick the Medic (now bandaging K's leg) was quick to veto that: K wasn't walking anywhere!
So K and I caught a cab back to our hostel (she spent the entire ride trying to convince me to go be a groupie; what a friend!) and sat around our room chatting all night- sleep wasn't an option because Ms. K had a 6:30 flight to catch, and no way was she going to wake up at 4. I felt rather smug for having arranged a later flight home (not really), and so we told ghost stories and psychoanalyzed Brian Fallon (TGA's lead singer) and talked about pretty much anything that came to mind. My ipod alarm, which I had set for 4:00, helpfully went off at 3:00. I want my money back.
Benny, K, Me.
I fell asleep after K left for her flight, and woke up three hours after check-out time and one hour before my flight was due to leave. I considered my options: I could throw my stuff together, race to the bus stop and pray that the 40-minute trip to the airport would miraculously take half the time; or, since I didn't need to be back until 4 PM on Friday (it was Thursday), I could re-schedule my flight and take an extra day in Dublin. It all depended on the cost of the ticket.
After checking my bank account, I booked a bed in the hostel for one night (I didn't end up using it, but what can you do?), and went into the first travel agency I found to book a return flight to Edinburgh. I got one for 100 euros, provided I didn't have any bags to check and only one carry-on. I could do that, I thought, and so booked my flight (6:30 AM, natch)and went off to explore Dublin. Breakfast was a full fry-up in a little cafe, where I looked through the TCD coursebook, graduate and undergrad, and then I wandered into town looking for the National Museum, where they have all sorts of Celtic artifacts. I ended up hopping on one of the red tour buses, and I pretty much went around on that all day. The taxi drivers were on strike (or at least protesting), so the streets were full of taxis and buses blaring their horns (it was like a parade!). The buses, I assume, were showing solidarity.
I spent the day museum-hopping, going from this exhibition to that, and ended up back at TCD just before the National Museum closed for the day. I never did make it over to Kildare street or to the National Museum. Another day. I had a late dinner in an italian restaurant in Temple Bar, after briefly considering the Mexican restaurant next door: the menu was not encouraging, nor the name- it was called "Mexico to Rome", and the menu ranged from Tapas and Burritos to Spaghetti Bolognese. My first experience of European "Mexican" food- a "burrito" made with an uncooked, crumbling tortilla, rice, tomatoes, cilantro and a few token beans- has made me, well. Wary.
After dinner I went back to the hostel and packed everything I owned into my poor, poor purse. It was a tragedy. I threw away everything but the absolute essentials, and still broke the zipper and shoulder-strap while I was at the airport. There was just too much stuff. I took my poor, bloated bag with me into the common room and finished off my essay, which I would type up when I got back to Edinburgh. (Check!) We watched the news for a bit, and then channel-surfed until we landed on what appeared to be porn: there was a sauna or possibly a gym filled with glisteningly muscular men and naked women with teased hair. Into this steamy milieu comes the Governor of California. Ah. It was a Terminator movie. Maybe. We finally settled on Billy Connolly's adventures in the Arctic Circle. Eventually everyone went to bed, and I had the room to myself. When I was too tired to spell or string a sentence together, I powered up my ipod and climbed into my bunk, fully clothed, to get some rest until I had to leave. Around came 4 AM- I got out of bed, checked I'd packed everything, gave my fab vintage suitcase to an American girl who was hanging out in the common room (at least it went to a good home, right?), and walked out to the bus stop.
On the way to the airport I sat behind two Spanish businessmen and a wimpled nun, but on the whole the trip was pretty unremarkable. I checked in, grabbed some coffee, caught my flight (Barmy's Army, or possibly the Barmy Army, took up most of the plane) and made it home in one piece. I slept until 3, went to my lecture (which I don't recall, much, but I have notes so I must've been there), and then to work. Until 11. And then up at 6 the next morning for more work. I slept all day Sunday, and then it was back to life as normal. I still haven't fixed my poor purse.
Fin.
