How many times in your life have you heard someone start a joke with, "a guy walks into a bar"? Pretty often, right? Frequently, the guy described in the joke is apt to be hoodwinked in the few minutes following his arrival. Well...let me introduce you to one of the newer guys in this category. That would be me.
When we were planning our trip to Scotland and Ireland, one of the adventures that called out to me the most was having the "pub experience." Whether it was through movies, stories from travelers, or just my imagination, I have always wanted to be immersed in the local pub atmosphere of these two countries. It was in these places, I had imagined, that the gaiety level is incredibly heightened, the live music promises a most believable soundtrack, and the beer wonderfully amplifies the mood. Getting down with the locals; that was the goal.
It was one of our first nights in Scotland, in Oban to be precise. Oban is a very picturesque and charming example of Scottish coastal towns. This one is a bit northwest of Glasgow. There was a block in one of the local streets that seemed reserved for pubs there were so many of them. We decided to go in to one whose name I cannot remotely remember. It was Lily, Maggie and I. We found a table near the back of the place sitting directly across from a couple of elderly gents who were providing music, one on an accordion, the other on some kind of drum. Empty beer bottles were amply on display in front of them.
We could see soon enough that to get a beer one needed to get up to the bar and get the bartender's attention which I volunteered to the ladies I would do. I got to the end of the bar and found myself staring at a display of the many beers on tap none of which were at all familiar to me. To my left was a huge guy seriously working on his beverage. I looked over at him and asked him what he might suggest as a choice in beer. He gave me a frowning look and said, "Well, what kind of beer do ya like"? I shrugged and offered that I often like a pale ale. His frown deepened and he looked down at me and said, "Oh no, that's a fookin' girlie drink! You can't be a man and do that!" I'm not sure what was more pronounced, my laughter or my embarrassment. So, I figured a follow up question was in order and I asked the fellow to recommend a beer to me. He pointed to his now almost empty pint and then pointed to the tap where I might find more of his favorite. Quickly getting caught up in the moment, I gestured to the bartender that I'd like one of what the big guy had suggested. A glass was filled and placed in front of me.
Almost immediately, a fellow to my right tapped me on the shoulder. He looked at me and, gesturing at my newly poured beer, asked me if he might have "a wee sip." Caught up in the mood and a desire to fit in with my new cronies, and definitely caught off guard, I said sure. Well, the guy takes my glass and drains it!!! Every last drop of it! He lets out a satisfying sigh, nods his approval to me, and places the empty glass back on the bar. I am not sure whether to be howling with laughter or deeply offended, but I could see immediately that a number of folks in the immediate vicinity were falling down laughing. I was exclaiming out loud, "Whoa! What just happened here?" Welcome to pub life, I concluded.
Turns out that the fellow asking for merely a wee sip, but whose ambition far exceeded his request, was the owner of the pub. When the laughter died down, he calmly went behind the bar, got a new glass, and gave me a full one. That's getting your chain yanked, Scottish style. Lily and Maggie found it quite entertaining.
And, I knew this trip was going to be pretty special.
Sunday, October 1, 2017
Friday, September 29, 2017
The Wild Way
Imagine that you're dreaming. In this dream, you find yourself in a car. But, wait, something's wrong. You are sitting on the right hand side in what you normally consider the passenger seat. But there, smack dab in front of you is the steering wheel jutting out from where one might normally find the glove compartment. Your tension mounts; you unconsciously twitch. As the dream progresses, you are now driving but on the left side of the road. Your every impulse is to get over to the right hand lane before something very troublesome happens, but other cars around you are following the same contrary rules that you are. You are about to turn on to another road and are gripped by great anxiety thinking and re-thinking in a succession of nanoseconds where you should aim the car. You suddenly awaken with eyes wide open, gasping for breath.
Welcome to Scotland and Ireland where the rules of the road pretty much lead you to the conclusion that it's a world gone mad. When planning our trip to these destinations, we knew, of course, that driving could pose a challenge. I had driven on the left side before: once many years ago in New Zealand and eight years ago in South Africa. But, this trip posed a different challenge. In Scotland and Ireland, the roads are narrow. Very narrow. And, they are often winding with seemingly an infinite number of blind curves where in the next moment you could be confronting a bus, a truck, a car or wayward sheep. I spoke to random folks I met on the beach before we left to see if any of them might have had this experience, and to see if they had any insights. Conservatively, 80% of them said they lost at least one of their outside rearview mirrors. They reported banging into oncoming cars, or parked cars, street signs or sometimes even buildings on roads that are barely wider than angel hair pasta.
So, when we got to Scotland -- Lily and me and good friend, Maggie -- I was ready to pay for whatever insurance the rental people would offer me. I did, however, manage to constrain myself from inquiring about renting body armor suits that would liken us to a team of Pillsbury dough boys. We had an agreement, Lily, Maggie and I that as we hit the road they should never be shy about yelling out to me, "STAY LEFT" just to keep my mind focused. I told them that no matter how many times they might do that I would never, ever feel irritated by it. Our plan was for me to drive, Lily to be the navigator, and Maggie to do her best impersonation of Miss Daisy from the back seat.
Leaving the airport, naturally, I was confronted with a series of roundabouts which, to the untrained motorist (i.e., me), posed immediate brain wracking challenges. Hearing the animated guidance of the "stay left" crowd, I tried to focus on entering these circles going clockwise, not counter clockwise as I had been doing my whole life. Okay, easy enough, but what about exiting these circles? Do I stay in the left lane or right? What about the guy rapidly approaching the circle from another direction? Do I stay to his right or push myself to stay in the left lane to ease my exit further along the circle? Remember, these are not decisions you can mull over leaning back in a reclining chair sipping a cognac. No, decisions like these are split second experiences. Hopefully, you choose wisely.
The first day was marked by my hitting the left side curb eight times and by me happily having only one near death experience when, at a turn, I instinctively looked right for oncoming traffic instead of left, narrowly avoiding getting t-boned by a not so happy driver who was approaching from the left (of course). Our time spent in the car over this two week period would present Lily as the in-car sound effects lady as she would alternately screech out "eeks" or "yikes" or yowees" and other exclamations that frankly are too difficult to spell as we would barely miss an oncoming car or street sign or building.
These dramatic outpourings were never more in evidence than when we encountered the most insane of Scottish and Irish driving realities: the one lane road. And, by this I mean one lane roads designed for two way traffic. I mean, seriously, what were they thinking?!? I never realized I'd be
engaging in the game of chicken whereby you are zooming down a road and see an oncoming car zooming right at you and wondering who would flinch first. It turns out that on these roads there are small carved out spots where one may pull over to avoid head on collisions, but you're pretty much on your own in determining when and if you do that as opposed to seeing if the other guy might pull over first. Like I say, a game of chicken, Irish style. (I thought it so thoughtful that these roads, which are barely wide enough for one car, would actually sometimes provide a painted line down the middle as if there might be plenty of room for two cars side by side on this noodle width causeway.)
As the days passed without incident, my confidence grew and Lily and Maggie greatly diminished their helpful guidance tips. Even Lily's outbursts of indecipherable exclamations largely vanished from our adventure's soundtrack. There came a time when I could actually enjoy the amazingly beautiful and lush landscapes. To describe the steep landscapes as merely green is almost an insult. The intensity of the color is transfixing. The hills were routinely dotted with hundreds of sheep who often managed to escape from their already lush pastures to nibble at road sides oblivious to traffic. I convinced myself it was sheep that were responsible for inspiring the phrase "the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence." Notwithstanding my increasing comfort with the whims and eccentricities of local driving, there were certainly times when I would do a double take when the occasional approaching car would have a golden retriever in what I would normally consider the driver's seat. For a microsecond I could hear myself think, oh my god, that dog is driving!
Along the southwestern coast of Ireland, we would see many road signs that would label our route as "The Wild Way." Yes, it is I would say to myself. Yes, it is.
Welcome to Scotland and Ireland where the rules of the road pretty much lead you to the conclusion that it's a world gone mad. When planning our trip to these destinations, we knew, of course, that driving could pose a challenge. I had driven on the left side before: once many years ago in New Zealand and eight years ago in South Africa. But, this trip posed a different challenge. In Scotland and Ireland, the roads are narrow. Very narrow. And, they are often winding with seemingly an infinite number of blind curves where in the next moment you could be confronting a bus, a truck, a car or wayward sheep. I spoke to random folks I met on the beach before we left to see if any of them might have had this experience, and to see if they had any insights. Conservatively, 80% of them said they lost at least one of their outside rearview mirrors. They reported banging into oncoming cars, or parked cars, street signs or sometimes even buildings on roads that are barely wider than angel hair pasta.
So, when we got to Scotland -- Lily and me and good friend, Maggie -- I was ready to pay for whatever insurance the rental people would offer me. I did, however, manage to constrain myself from inquiring about renting body armor suits that would liken us to a team of Pillsbury dough boys. We had an agreement, Lily, Maggie and I that as we hit the road they should never be shy about yelling out to me, "STAY LEFT" just to keep my mind focused. I told them that no matter how many times they might do that I would never, ever feel irritated by it. Our plan was for me to drive, Lily to be the navigator, and Maggie to do her best impersonation of Miss Daisy from the back seat.
Leaving the airport, naturally, I was confronted with a series of roundabouts which, to the untrained motorist (i.e., me), posed immediate brain wracking challenges. Hearing the animated guidance of the "stay left" crowd, I tried to focus on entering these circles going clockwise, not counter clockwise as I had been doing my whole life. Okay, easy enough, but what about exiting these circles? Do I stay in the left lane or right? What about the guy rapidly approaching the circle from another direction? Do I stay to his right or push myself to stay in the left lane to ease my exit further along the circle? Remember, these are not decisions you can mull over leaning back in a reclining chair sipping a cognac. No, decisions like these are split second experiences. Hopefully, you choose wisely.
The first day was marked by my hitting the left side curb eight times and by me happily having only one near death experience when, at a turn, I instinctively looked right for oncoming traffic instead of left, narrowly avoiding getting t-boned by a not so happy driver who was approaching from the left (of course). Our time spent in the car over this two week period would present Lily as the in-car sound effects lady as she would alternately screech out "eeks" or "yikes" or yowees" and other exclamations that frankly are too difficult to spell as we would barely miss an oncoming car or street sign or building.
These dramatic outpourings were never more in evidence than when we encountered the most insane of Scottish and Irish driving realities: the one lane road. And, by this I mean one lane roads designed for two way traffic. I mean, seriously, what were they thinking?!? I never realized I'd be
engaging in the game of chicken whereby you are zooming down a road and see an oncoming car zooming right at you and wondering who would flinch first. It turns out that on these roads there are small carved out spots where one may pull over to avoid head on collisions, but you're pretty much on your own in determining when and if you do that as opposed to seeing if the other guy might pull over first. Like I say, a game of chicken, Irish style. (I thought it so thoughtful that these roads, which are barely wide enough for one car, would actually sometimes provide a painted line down the middle as if there might be plenty of room for two cars side by side on this noodle width causeway.)
As the days passed without incident, my confidence grew and Lily and Maggie greatly diminished their helpful guidance tips. Even Lily's outbursts of indecipherable exclamations largely vanished from our adventure's soundtrack. There came a time when I could actually enjoy the amazingly beautiful and lush landscapes. To describe the steep landscapes as merely green is almost an insult. The intensity of the color is transfixing. The hills were routinely dotted with hundreds of sheep who often managed to escape from their already lush pastures to nibble at road sides oblivious to traffic. I convinced myself it was sheep that were responsible for inspiring the phrase "the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence." Notwithstanding my increasing comfort with the whims and eccentricities of local driving, there were certainly times when I would do a double take when the occasional approaching car would have a golden retriever in what I would normally consider the driver's seat. For a microsecond I could hear myself think, oh my god, that dog is driving!
Along the southwestern coast of Ireland, we would see many road signs that would label our route as "The Wild Way." Yes, it is I would say to myself. Yes, it is.
Thursday, July 20, 2017
Almost a Bird
Mark Twain once said, "The air up there in the clouds is very pure and fine, bracing and delicious. And, why shouldn't it be? It is the same the angels breathe." Similarly, Wilbur Wright once remarked on flying, "More than anything else, the sensation is one of perfect peace mingled with an excitement that strains every nerve to the utmost, if you can conceive of such a combination."
Haven't we all looked skyward some times in our lives and looked in wonderment at the flight of birds whether it is the effortless gliding of a group of pelicans above the ocean or perhaps a soaring eagle so high up it boggles our minds. We have all wanted to take flight or to know what it feels like to be a bird gazing down at us. Certainly, I am no different. And, by flying here I am not including skydiving which, when you get right down to it, is merely an extended act of falling. Nor do I refer to those who engage in parasailing when, after all, they are still tethered to the earth. And, while I would like to include those individuals who engage in wingsuit flying -- you know, those intrepid souls who wear outfits that make them look oddly like flying squirrels -- who jump off cliffs and then try not to crash, most of us do not comfortably pursue that level of lunacy.
And, so, there we were: Jesse and Laura, Alex, and Lily and me arising in what seemed the middle of the night in Mexico City, all so that we could get to Teotihuacan, about an hour's drive northeast of the city. There we would experience a sunrise flight of a hot air balloon that would take us above the Pyramid of the Sun, a pre-Aztec construction that dominates the surrounding landscape. I won't say we were nervous; that would be misleading and overstated. But, we were in a highly anticipatory mood, that's for certain. In part, this emotion stemmed from the fact that we didn't know what to expect once we got airborne. Would we be terrified? Would we be ecstatic? Could we remain calm? Who knew?
As we walked out to our designated balloon, we could see the propane flames slashing the air inflating the many balloons around us. They were hot those flames. We could feel them. We arrived at our balloon and learned that we would need to climb up into it and take our positions in the four corner quadrants of this large woven basket which, upon further inspection, seemed a bit delicate to be entrusted with the weight of eight passengers, propane gas tanks, and our pilot, Enrique. Nevertheless, we stumbled our way over the edge of the basket and received our twelve second "safety briefing" from Enrique. The sum and substance of this was to advise us to bend our knees upon re-entry. Good to know.
And then, we left mother earth. Rising so slowly, so gently that if you had your eyes closed you might be totally unaware you were now floating in the air. But, how could you have your eyes closed when your brain is spilling over with excitement, anticipation, and, yes, a spoonful of fear? The sun had not risen yet and so the only real light was that projecting from the propane flames which seemed so close to my head my hair sometimes felt like it was about to burst into flames. Enrique smiled and assured us the flames would not pose a threat to us. When I asked Enrique what direction we were headed, he shrugged his shoulders and said the wind would take us wherever the wind wanted to take us. We would have no control over that. Hmmm, really? He made a stab at assuring us about this uncertainty by telling us he would try to land in an open field somewhere and avoid houses or other buildings or cactus fields. Alrighty then!
And, up we went. At first, we were close enough to the ground to feel like we were a human Google Earth, focusing on buildings, trees, the headlights of moving cars. But, then, we were too high for that. Even the pyramids below seemed hopelessly insignificant now. Then, the mountains in the distance took over. And, then the clouds. The air cooled. At times, we were so surrounded by clouds you could see nothing else. And, what a sensation that was. I could say, I suppose, that we were experiencing the same view one might have gazing out of an airplane window. But, what we saw and felt was so strikingly different. We were not surrounded by metal or sitting in an upholstered seat. We were floating outside in the air with nothing between us and the clouds but our ecstatic smiles. So -- THIS is what birds see!
The sun rose and filtered through the clouds in an epic way. There were nineteen other balloons aloft with us and each caught the sun's rays and brightened the already colorful patterns on each of them. Seeing them all floating so easily out there made for an extraordinarily breathtaking wallpaper. Photos were shot by all of us at a rate of about thirty per second, or so it seemed. Enrique told me we were up around 3,000 feet (or 10,000 feet above sea level). It looked it. We rose above the first cloud layer and then had the weird, but endearing, sight of nothing but the clouds beneath us, the sky above us, and our fellow balloonists all around us, seemingly miles apart.
When the clouds beneath us disappeared, the act of leaning a bit over the edge of the basket came into play. It was here that you got the best sense of how fragile all of this seemed; how the only thing we had between us and the ground thousands of feet below us were this basket, hopefully enough propane to keep us aloft, and Enrique's steady hands at the controls. Yes, it did give us that funny feeling you get in the pit of your stomach when facing some potential fate you want nothing to do with. Giggling helped offset the fear that so badly wanted to take control.
After forty-five minutes or so, we floated slowly and gently back to earth. When we got close, we hovered over a cactus field, the kind Enrique assured us would not be under our feet when we landed. And, sure enough, we elevated a bit again and found a perfect landing space in an open field. Within moments we were joined by a "ground crew" that would help us anchor the balloon and provide us with a ride back to our starting point. As Lily and I got in to the truck's cab, what music was playing on the radio? Why, "Safe and Sound," of course. Really.
The ride back would enable us to sit back and think calmly about what we had just experienced. Memories that will last a lifetime. Twain and Wright knew what they were talking about.
Haven't we all looked skyward some times in our lives and looked in wonderment at the flight of birds whether it is the effortless gliding of a group of pelicans above the ocean or perhaps a soaring eagle so high up it boggles our minds. We have all wanted to take flight or to know what it feels like to be a bird gazing down at us. Certainly, I am no different. And, by flying here I am not including skydiving which, when you get right down to it, is merely an extended act of falling. Nor do I refer to those who engage in parasailing when, after all, they are still tethered to the earth. And, while I would like to include those individuals who engage in wingsuit flying -- you know, those intrepid souls who wear outfits that make them look oddly like flying squirrels -- who jump off cliffs and then try not to crash, most of us do not comfortably pursue that level of lunacy.
And, so, there we were: Jesse and Laura, Alex, and Lily and me arising in what seemed the middle of the night in Mexico City, all so that we could get to Teotihuacan, about an hour's drive northeast of the city. There we would experience a sunrise flight of a hot air balloon that would take us above the Pyramid of the Sun, a pre-Aztec construction that dominates the surrounding landscape. I won't say we were nervous; that would be misleading and overstated. But, we were in a highly anticipatory mood, that's for certain. In part, this emotion stemmed from the fact that we didn't know what to expect once we got airborne. Would we be terrified? Would we be ecstatic? Could we remain calm? Who knew?
As we walked out to our designated balloon, we could see the propane flames slashing the air inflating the many balloons around us. They were hot those flames. We could feel them. We arrived at our balloon and learned that we would need to climb up into it and take our positions in the four corner quadrants of this large woven basket which, upon further inspection, seemed a bit delicate to be entrusted with the weight of eight passengers, propane gas tanks, and our pilot, Enrique. Nevertheless, we stumbled our way over the edge of the basket and received our twelve second "safety briefing" from Enrique. The sum and substance of this was to advise us to bend our knees upon re-entry. Good to know.
And then, we left mother earth. Rising so slowly, so gently that if you had your eyes closed you might be totally unaware you were now floating in the air. But, how could you have your eyes closed when your brain is spilling over with excitement, anticipation, and, yes, a spoonful of fear? The sun had not risen yet and so the only real light was that projecting from the propane flames which seemed so close to my head my hair sometimes felt like it was about to burst into flames. Enrique smiled and assured us the flames would not pose a threat to us. When I asked Enrique what direction we were headed, he shrugged his shoulders and said the wind would take us wherever the wind wanted to take us. We would have no control over that. Hmmm, really? He made a stab at assuring us about this uncertainty by telling us he would try to land in an open field somewhere and avoid houses or other buildings or cactus fields. Alrighty then!
And, up we went. At first, we were close enough to the ground to feel like we were a human Google Earth, focusing on buildings, trees, the headlights of moving cars. But, then, we were too high for that. Even the pyramids below seemed hopelessly insignificant now. Then, the mountains in the distance took over. And, then the clouds. The air cooled. At times, we were so surrounded by clouds you could see nothing else. And, what a sensation that was. I could say, I suppose, that we were experiencing the same view one might have gazing out of an airplane window. But, what we saw and felt was so strikingly different. We were not surrounded by metal or sitting in an upholstered seat. We were floating outside in the air with nothing between us and the clouds but our ecstatic smiles. So -- THIS is what birds see!
The sun rose and filtered through the clouds in an epic way. There were nineteen other balloons aloft with us and each caught the sun's rays and brightened the already colorful patterns on each of them. Seeing them all floating so easily out there made for an extraordinarily breathtaking wallpaper. Photos were shot by all of us at a rate of about thirty per second, or so it seemed. Enrique told me we were up around 3,000 feet (or 10,000 feet above sea level). It looked it. We rose above the first cloud layer and then had the weird, but endearing, sight of nothing but the clouds beneath us, the sky above us, and our fellow balloonists all around us, seemingly miles apart.
When the clouds beneath us disappeared, the act of leaning a bit over the edge of the basket came into play. It was here that you got the best sense of how fragile all of this seemed; how the only thing we had between us and the ground thousands of feet below us were this basket, hopefully enough propane to keep us aloft, and Enrique's steady hands at the controls. Yes, it did give us that funny feeling you get in the pit of your stomach when facing some potential fate you want nothing to do with. Giggling helped offset the fear that so badly wanted to take control.
After forty-five minutes or so, we floated slowly and gently back to earth. When we got close, we hovered over a cactus field, the kind Enrique assured us would not be under our feet when we landed. And, sure enough, we elevated a bit again and found a perfect landing space in an open field. Within moments we were joined by a "ground crew" that would help us anchor the balloon and provide us with a ride back to our starting point. As Lily and I got in to the truck's cab, what music was playing on the radio? Why, "Safe and Sound," of course. Really.
The ride back would enable us to sit back and think calmly about what we had just experienced. Memories that will last a lifetime. Twain and Wright knew what they were talking about.
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