In which Creampuff realizes that most of you are watching the Winter Olympics, as you should, but she also realizes that in those precious moments of the commercial break, when you are not fetching snacks, visiting the ladies shitter or frantically knitting, you may need stuff to read.
And so Leg Two: Cork!
The city of a million pubs and no traditional music! I decided to perform my renowned "shy zipper doofus" act for my fellow bus riders when we arrived in Cork and I couldn't figure out how to re-attach my mini backpack to my maxi backpack. I was also too shy to ask anyone for help, because I am a doofus. Fortunately, a Canadian we'll call Bonja, who had the same pack as I did, showed me the trick of re-attaching the pack (the trick is: get Bonja to do it) and we hoofed towards the hostel together. When we arrived at the check in and I told the clerk my name, Bonja turned to me in amazement. "Wait a minute," she said, "are you from Edmonton?" "Yeeeah . . ." I answered cautiously, in case she was from Calgary and then we'd have to fight. "Is your mom [name of Roro's mom]?" "Yeeeeeah . . ." I answered, even more cautiously, in case my mom had slapped Bonja's mom for being from Calgary. "I used to work with your mom! At [place where Roro's mom used to work]!"
Thousands of miles from home and I end up sharing a room in a hostel in Cork, Ireland, with a chick who used to WORK WITH MY MOTHER. I know you seasoned travellers are used to this small world syndrome, but I nearly crapped on my mini-maxi pack.
Next on my schedule was a good lickin' of the Blarney Stone. Bonja and I headed off to Blarney Castle on a shuttle bus. Enroute, a couple of locals told us about how at night, Blarney Castle employees like to have a pint and then pee on the Blarney Stone. They thought perhaps to dissuade us from pressing our mouths up against the Stone but their tales didn't phase me. Worse things have passed these lips - I have, after all, eaten at McDonalds. Also, I have it on good authority that counsellors at the camp I went to as a teen used to lick the snacks.
We climbed with other tourists up to the Stone. In order to give it a good frenching, you have to lie on your back and grip those two poles with your hands. A guy grabs you around your waist and dips you back for some stone-cold lovin'. As you're kissing the Stone, another guy takes a photo that shows you kissing the Stone and a sign that says "Kissing the Blarney Stone". After you leave the castle, you can buy that photo for a mere $25 Cdn (and no handjob. I asked.) OR you can give your camera to Bonja and get HER to take a photo for FREE (sadly, also no handjob). Bonja was an excellent photographer. After kissing the Stone, the note in my travel journal reads thus:
Well, I kissed it. It was hard and wet and cold and
there was a guy holding me by the waist while I did it
and it was the most action I've had all year.
Jeba arrived in Cork after the Blarney adventure and she, Bonja and I went off to check out historic Cork City Gaol, which was real depressing and freaky. Book your corporate events now!! Seriously, you can, it's . . . it's on their website. Even freakier and more depressing, however, was the lack of traditional music in the pubs of Cork on Sunday night. We consoled ourselves with ice cream, got lost and on the way back to the hostel, found a likely band playing in a packed and smoky pub. There was not a jot of space inside and we'd spent our last punts on ice cream, so, taking our cue from the old folk nearby, we stood outside and clapped along and it was a good, good time. And we're not geeks! We're not!!
The next day, Jeba and I hopped a bus to Galway. "Be careful," I said to her as she sipped a trough of coffee before we left, "there's no toilet on the bus and it's a long ride." She rolled her eyes as I moistened my mouth with a moist towellette. "They call me 'The Dehydrator'," I told her. "Well, I call you an idiot," she replied, downing the last of her java. Was I the idiot? OR WAS SHE? History will decide.
