I’m talking about the weather, aren’t I?

Ach. I’m finding myself tang-tungled lately. Can’t tell you why. I did have two funny “Only in New York” experiences lately, so I guess that’s something.

I usually take fliers from the ubiquitous flier-hander-outers on the streets. My thinking is that they have to stand there in bad weather until the fliers  are gone to get paid. It seems like a pretty lousy job. It does not hurt me to take a flier. So yesterday, while waiting for the light to change on 6th Avenue, I did. It was for a barber shop.  The next thing I know, a different flier-hander-outer is trying to take the flier out of my hand and push into my palm HIS flier for a different barber shop. He tried to explain to me the difference in barber shops. In a different language. The light changed and I held on to both fliers, starting to walk. I said, flustered and confused, “just give them to me! I’m not going to go there!” I didn’t mean to be rude, but really. Fighting over whose flier I took? I was also worried I was being pick-pocketed. I was not.

So I live pretty close to the river and I walk Matty near it. The second weird thing is that for the past two days there is a dude, or lady, I don’t know, singing on the other side of the river. But not like singing singing. Like Yoko Ono meowing/yelling/chanting or some shit. It is very, very odd.

On the cooking front, I made this amazing chicken saltimbocca from Williams Sonoma, but my battery died on my camera before I could take a picture. So just trust me that it is totally worth making. Of course, I ended up using twice as much butter and oil, but that’s just how I roll. Paula Dean stylie.

That’s all I got.  What’s going on with you all?

I started with this recipe from Sugarlaws then tweaked it to make it a cinnamon raisin version. The results are great!

INGREDIENTS:

1/4 cup of raisins, soaked in warm water, drained and chopped

1 tsp active dry yeast

Pinch of sugar

1/3 cup warm water

1 1/4 to 1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour

3 tbsp white sugar (next time I will increase more, maybe 1/2 white sugar, 1/2 brown sugar)

1/4 tsp salt

1 tsp cinnamon

1 tbsp canola oil

Butter, melted

Additional cinnamon and sugar for rolling

DIRECTIONS:

Dissolve yeast into water with a pinch of sugar, let stand 10 minutes, until the mixture is creamy colored. Mix the yeast mixture with flour, sugar, cinnamon, salt and canola oil, and knead until combined (a few minutes, not even 5). Add raisins. Let the dough rise in a greased bowl until doubled in size, about 1 hour.

Preheat the oven to 425 degrees. When the dough has risen, pinch off a handful and roll it out into a long strand in cinnamon and sugar (1 part cinnamon to 3 parts sugar). Set aside. Repeat with the rest of the dough, about 6 times. Once all the strands are rolled out, pick up the first one and stretch it out again (the gluten will have relaxed and it should stretch further now). Twist it into a pretzel shape and place it on a baking sheet lined with silipat or cooking spray. Repeat with the rest of the strands.

Bake for about 8 minutes, until pretzels have browned.  Brush with melted butter and sprinkle with additional cinnamon and sugar mixture. Let cool. Really, they are better when they have cooled a little. Enjoy!

I had my first hangover in second grade and had to call out of Catholic school sick.

My dad’s family business was beer distributor in Philadelphia. The business no longer exists, having gone under after my dad left in the late 1980s.  However, since I was small, I had always been around beer.  One room in our basement, the beer room, was decorated with bier steins and mirrors from companies like Paulaner, Dinkelaker and Löwenbräu. My sister and I wore dirndls to Oktoberfest, took German dancing lessons and slept in t-shirts with Dempsey’s Irish Beer emblazoned on the front.  We took turns sipping from Dad’s beer bottle and, apparently, liked the taste.

From about age 3 to age 8 I lived in the same house my Dad grew up in, which is on the same street as the house my Mom grew up in. Between the houses is a church and a Catholic school. My mother’s mother still lives in the house where my Mom grew up, and my grandfather is buried in the cemetery across the street from the church.  My parents went to the same Catholic school where I went for first and second grade.

In the basement of this house where I lived was the playroom I shared with my sister. To get to the playroom you had to pass through the beer room. I pretended as I passed through that room, with its wine colored carpet and dark wood paneling, that I was traveling through another country. In unfinished part of the playroom, where we weren’t supposed to go, was an old refrigerator that was hooked up to work as a kegerator. There was a tap affixed to the outside of the refrigerator that poured golden beer, usually Dinkelaker, from the keg on the inside. I knew how this worked because, as a young lady of 7 or 8, I was occasionally sent to fetch a beer for my Dad, carefully tipping the cup so that foam would not accumulate at the top.  I relished this task, as any little girl does. The chance to do something for Dad. To be useful. And, of course, to be rewarded with a sip of beer.

One day I was playing in the playroom with my sister and wanted to have a tea party. My mom would not let me have juice for the party, but I was not deterred. I had another fountain of delicious amber liquid for my party. I filled up all of my little kitchen toys, including a rinsed out 48oz ketchup bottle, with beer. And drank it.  Little AnonNY had her first kegger.

Naturally I did not know of the intoxicating effects of beer and soon after I was wandering around the basement yelling, “Mommy, I’m blind, I’M BLIND!”  My mother raced down the steps thinking I had some sort of brain problem, rather than a moderation problem, but knew as soon as she hit the basement what had happened. The smell of beer was a dead giveaway. I puked it all up, but not after making a (very petite) ass of myself. For one, I could not tell my parents apart. Let’s just say that they don’t really look alike. At all.

The next day I stayed home from Catholic school, but only for a half a day. I had to go in after lunch and Sister Elaine knew exactly why. Mom had told her!

I learned my lesson for the time being. I didn’t drink again until college and even the smell of beer made me nauseous. When I got to college, Dad and I resumed our beer relationship and he taught me a lot. I’m just as much fun at a kegger as I was in second grade, but I hold my own much better.

If I start yelling for mommy, though, watch out.

The last day, for those of you who are following along at home, was supposed to be Tuesday. We pushed our flight back from Monday morning to Tuesday because (1) our arriving flight was delayed and (2) I thought I pre-booked and paid for a hotel room through and including Monday night. I did not.

At this point it is Sunday. We both have the flu and I have a horrendous, up all night, are-you-sure-it’s-not-the-plague cough. Sports Fan is ready to smother me with the nice pillows at our Hotel in Dublin, Take II. The drugstores in Ireland do not have aisles and aisles of choices. Basically if your are sick, here is some medicine. It is orange. They did have Sudafed, but I didn’t trust it. Mainly because it DID NOT WORK.

We dragged ourselves out of bed because we just HAD to go to the Guinness Factory. Like, duh. We also needed breakfast, the only edible meal in the country. We ate at Lemon Crepe & Coffee Co. every morning in Dublin. It had the best French Toast. They have a bunch of locations.  Then we went to the Guinness Factory, forced ourselves to walk around, drank half a pint each and dragged our sorry asses back to bed. All the while determining whether we would fly home a day early.

Answer: YES. FOR THE LOVE OF UNITED STATES ANTIBIOTICS.

I was convinced, CONVINCED, I could get the Flying Assholes to change our flight without the hefty change fees. Well. I don’t call them the Flying Assholes for nothing.  You know, other than the fact that our luggage has been lost for A BLOODY MONTH.  I begged. I argued. (And I’m a hard bargainer.) I explained in great detail all of the hardship that Aer Lingus was causing me. NO LUCK.

We decided to do it anyway. We were really just going to spend the rest of the time in bed, coughing, sleeping, irritating the living daylights out of each other. As nice as the Hotel bed was at Hotel II (The Shelbourne, Dublin), we wanted to gooooo hooooome.

We get to the airport nice and early Monday to check in and ask about our luggage. OMG. Worst customer service ever. We had to wait in 2 lines because they didn’t charge us the right amount. The amount I didn’t think we should be charged at all. The lady who was checking us out had on, literally, gallons of make-up. I thought she may have lived with a carpenter and accidentally used Spackle for foundation that morning. Or else she wants to be  a drag queen but is held back by the fact that she is, indeed, female. I was so sick and tired I just couldn’t muster up any fight. I paid the fees.

THEN! They herded us into the tiniest waiting area (post-US-customs, which was nice) that could have ever existed. Seriously, it must have been fit for 75 people but holding 200+. We were all sitting on the floor, standing back to back, the most insane thing I had ever seen. Like the pit at the U2 concert. But an AIRPORT.

I was NOT f’ing around on the way home. With my flu, cough from hell and various other nasty symptoms, I was going to sleep. I took me some Ambien. Apparently I looked really knocked out because the Flight Attendants asked Sports Fan if I was okay. I tried to drink water through my forehead by repeatedly bringing the water bottle up to my head and hitting my forehead. Nice.

We went straight from the airport to the Doctor’s office. And got Z-packs.  And “here, this will make you feel better, too” medicine. I love my doctor.

So it is almost a month later and still no luggage. STILL NO LUGGAGE. I am working on getting claims settled for a fraction of what we actually lost.

Good times.  Phew. I hope I never have to tell this story again.

Do you know how long it took to upload that tiny-ass picture?!  Here is another picture of my grandparents together. They loved each other so much.

He gave the blessing over dinner at my wedding. He was in so much pain, I later learned. They drove him straight to the hospital after the wedding. I am so glad he was there.

I’m so grateful that such a wonderful man was my grandfather and blessed my life in so many ways.

Where were we?  Dublin, right. By now I have a cough that is reminiscent of Doc Holliday in Wyatt Erp, which is real sexy on a lady. Nobody thinks TB when they see me, though, they think swine flu. Or at least Sports Fan does and is constantly reminding me that we could be QUARANTINED in this God-forsaken country if I don’t quell my damned cough. Like I can help it.

We take the longest cab ride in history, with me stifling my cough so much I think my eyes are going to bug the f’out, with this dude as our cab driver. Or at least he looks like this dude. And he smelled like a sack of garbage.

And what does he do? Crack the window. Not because he smells like a bag of shit. No, because I have a cough. Anyway, we reach our hotel and it looks bad from the outside. The website promised a “fully remodeled interior” that is completely modern. And by that I assume they meant that we didn’t have to use outhouses, because when I see THIS, the first word that comes to mind is NOT MODERN.

Now a 1950’s hairdryer wouldn’t be the worst thing that ever happened on the trip, of course, but cleanliness is a high priority. So when we saw the mold and mildew in the shower and scummy bathtub floor, we knew that other accommodations would have to be arranged.

Gross, huh? I have more pictures, but you get the idea. Bottom line: I was not getting in that shower.  The issue? Dublin was a madhouse with U2 in town. It took some wrangling, but we found another hotel and checked in there before we checked out of this craphole.  Of course, they gave us a problem, necessitating repeated calls to the hotel (let’s call it the SchmO’Schmallaghan Schmavenport) and to a certain online booking agency (let’s call them Schmexpedia.) So I was charged two nights at the dump.

Oh, and remember how on Day 1 I thought that I had booked until Monday night and pushed back our return flight until Tuesday morning?  I was wrong. Guess who’s the schmoebagel now.

Anyway, we got to walk around Dublin that night, drank some Guinness and ate some really lousy food. We were staying by Merrion Sq. Park and it was really easy to get around once you sort of made your own grid in your head.

Saturday

We did most of our Dublin sight-seeing, checking out the churches (Christ Church and St. Patrick’s Cathedral), which were lovely and church-y. Honestly, though, St. Patrick’s in New York is much prettier. Sorry. Another +1 for New York. I also almost choked to death on all the dust. I acutally had to leave before my coughing turned to involuntary puking-in-a-holy-place. I did get to check out the grave of Jonathan Swift and his two “lady friends.” He had two girlfriends that he was obviously shacking up with, never married either, but the church let him be buried with them.  Henry the VIII must have rolled over in his grave. All he wanted was a divorce! (Photos here.)

We also met up with the guy from Boston who bought our tickets for the show. Nice guy. Then we went and took a nap before we saw U2. We’re ancient. (I wasn’t even 30 yet.) And I called to check on my luggage a billion more times.

The show!

What can I say, U2 is awesome. Ireland in the summer doesn’t get dark until after 9:30pm, so it was daylight for a lot of the show. They played maybe 5 songs from the new album, which was to be expected. What I didn’t expect was how good Bono sounded. It was early in the tour so he still had his chops. Some songs he relies on the audience heavily, like With or Without You, but they still know how to put on a show.

Here is a link to the setlist if you are interested.  Angel in Harlem is one of my very favorites. I was particularly glad they played that song.

Sub-Subtitle: I Promise I Will Write About U2 Tomorrow. For Reals.

The life of a fan is filled with ups and downs.  The beginning of a season is full of renewed hope and promise; the idea of winning it all is not too much to hope for. Throughout the season there are the edge-of-your-seat moments of big games when the win or the season is on the line.  All too often there are the heart-wrenching moments when a player is injured and you fear for his health, the season and his career.  There are the deep lows, when the season ends all too early, the disappointment and heartache are raw and you can’t bear to think of another long off-season. And sometimes, there is the euphoria of winning it all.

There is no “typical” fan. Among us are the ritual keepers, the statisticians, the face painters, the casual fan, the fairweather fan and the lifers. We congregate in bars, in parking lots, in the upper decks, on couches, around radios and sometimes alone in cars. We drink beer, cook hot dogs, order pizzas and eat potato chips.  We have rivals and second favorite teams. We root for our fantasy players and maybe secretly hope someone sprains an ankle (but not too badly). We know the schedule. We know the Monday Night Football music.* We take off our hats for the National Anthem and sometimes sing along. We reminisce about our first pro game. We talk about how we would manage the team differently.

We are fans. We love the game. We love our team.

What I don’t understand is how one player can ruin it all for some people. Yesterday the Philadelphia Eagles signed Michael Vick to a two year contract.  In case you’ve been living under a rock, Michael Vick has spent the past eighteen months in a federal jail for conspiracy and crimes related to running a dogfighting operation. Understandably, the Philadelphia fans and media are upset for a variety of reasons. What he did was despicable, but that’s not what I’m going to talk about here. From what I’ve read on blogs, Facebook and Twitter, some fans are saying they are going to stop watching and rooting for the Eagles. Is picking up one player enough to derail a lifetime of support for your team?

I grew up a Philadelphia Eagles fan. There are pictures of me as an infant watching the games with my dad and one of my first words was touchdown. I continued watching games with my dad growing up and he taught me about the game. It was what we did together on Sundays. For a couple of years, though, he stopped watching Pro Football because he felt like they made too much money. He was protesting.

Putting aside the financials (how much the Front Office brings in from ticket sales and merchandising versus how much the players make), I didn’t understand then and I don’t understand now how you can stop loving your team, even for a little while. And now with Vick, I don’t understand how he taints the whole Eagles organization.  Even if they somehow acquired (shudder) Peyton Manning — my least favorite player, despite his undeniable talent — I would still be an Eagles Fan. I just wouldn’t wear a Manning jersey. And I won’t wear a Vick jersey either. But I will always be an Eagles fan.

On second thought, maybe my dad just didn’t want to watch with me, an annoying adolescent who knelt in front of the TV singing to Randall Cunningham. “All we need is you Cunningham, all we ne-ed is yo-ou.” To the tune of All We Need is a Miracle (Mike and the Mechanics).

*We haaaaate Joe Buck.  Ok, maybe that’s just me. I haaaaate Joe Buck.

But first things first. It’s football season! (Woo!) And it started out with a … thud. That was my heart, which bleeds green, falling into my stomach.  My Eagles signed Michael Vick.

Now, I’ve been a proponent of Vick getting a second chance with his life and with football since this debate started.  He went to jail and paid his debt to society.  I will admit to a big case of NIMBY (Not In My Backyard) right now. I trust Andy Reid, but I don’t trust the management office. And apparently Donovan McNabb is not on board, although he said otherwise in the press conference after the preseason game. (How can you blame him?) (Thanks to Iggles Blog for the links.)

Also, on a personal note — ok, who am I kidding, I take my football very personally — I won a bet last year with Sports Fan, who is a Giants Fan.  The bet, based on the last Eagles/Giants match-up, was whether our dog, Matty, would wear an Eagles or Giants jersey this year.  The Eagles won, so Matty is supposed to wear an Eagles jersey.  I don’t think I can do it. I know Vick does not and will not represent the entire Eagles organization. And no, matter what, they are my team. I love them and I will always support them and root for them.  And I support this decision they made, as a lawyer and as a person. But I cannot put my DOG in an Eagles jersey. Not with Vick on the team. Not this year. Does that make sense?

Other reasons I am selfish about Vick joining the Eagles:

1. The press. Signing Vick is going to attract a lot of press. The whole season. McNabb attracts a lot himself and with the T.O. debacle in all-too-recent-history, we just are still suffering from media hangover in Philly.
2. McNabb. Could we show this guy a little R-E-S-P-E-C-T? I feel like Philly phans are just one interception shy of carting him off the field and offering him to the opposing team for a bag of footballs and used shoulder pads.  People think New York fans are bad, but being a New Yorker, Mets fan and Philly phan, I can tell you that McNabb has it the WORST.
3. The Mets. They are pooping the bed. Again. Can ONE of my sports teams come through for me this year?
4. Sports Fan. It will be IMPOSSIBLE to live with my Giants Fan husband if this Vick-periment is a bust. Really. You have no idea.  Wildcat-ho!

Image from ESPN.

After breakfast we headed out to rent a car* to drive to the Cliffs of Moher (Mo’-er). We chose to get an automatic car because, even though we both drive manual, the idea of driving on the wrong side of the car, on the wrong side of the road and shifting with the left hand just seemed a lot to be doing — backwards. There was no GPS, but I had thought to GoogleMap it before we left. (Que me calling Sports Fan in a tizzy, “I just GoogleMapped us in Ireland. And I’m in New York. And GoogleMap works in Ireland.” Sports Fan: “Google is everwhere.”)  We also stopped to get directions at a gas station with a Quik-E-Mart (or something similar). (Just like Jersey. I’m tellin’ y’all.)  The guy wrote it down and it looked just like tic-tac-toe. “Go straight through this round’bout, go left through this round’bout, straight through this round’bout, then you’ll be in Oranmore.”  It wasn’t until I got to Oranmore that I realized that it was still an hour from the Cliffs of Moher and I had no idea why the fuck I was in Oranmore. Baaack to GoogleMaps.

We eventually got to the Cliffs of Moher and it was gorgeous. Unbelievably tall cliffs rising straight out of the ocean. I took some nice pictures, which you can see here.  On the ride back we drove along the coast and the view was even more beautiful. We stopped a couple of times to take pictures. This was by far the best day of the trip.

The land is largely covered by enormous rocks, which makes it hard to farm. There were a lot of farms with cows, horses and sheep. We drove through a lot of small towns with only a few shops. When we stopped in one to ask if they had a pharmacy (the need for hair gel and conditioner was dire), they said no. They had to drive probably over 30 minutes to get to what amounted to a convenience store!  (Ok, so not Jersey). It was a really great way to spend the day with my husband.

Of course, then there was the food. We went back to Galway and had dinner at what was supposedly one of the nicest restaurants in town, the Park House Hotel restaurant. Yeah, not so much.

Day 4
Breakfast again! It is silly that this was a highlight of our trip, but it was also something that brought us closer together. We spent the day wandering around Galway. I started getting sicker, taking cold medicine and arming myself with a pocket-load of tissues. My coat was in the big suitcase, so I had only one sweater to wear and it was COLD and RAINY in Ireland. Every day Sports Fan would walk down the steps of our hotel and say, jokingly, “oh look! it’s dreary out!”  Day 4 (also known as Thursday in every other part of the world) we bought Sports Fan some shirts and another pair of jeans. He joked that he would be a light packer from now on. I’ll believe it when I see it.

There isn’t much to see in Galway. We wandered the streets, the main drag where no cars can pass, where street performers sing, do tricks and stand very, very still while wearing face paint for euros. I’ve never understood that last one. While meandering and discussing how much we hate tourists, even when we ARE tourists, we found tapas bar and Spanish restaurant, Cava, about which Sports Fan heard good things. Although we felt silly eating tapas in Ireland, it is one of our favorite types of restaurants, so we decided to eat dinner there. We were not disappointed. In fact, it kept us from declaring the entire country devoid of palate.  Full and finally satisfied, we went back to crash at the hotel. The next day we were traveling back to Dublin.

I probably do not need to mention that I was calling the Flying Assholes a couple of times each day. I was being put on hold for AGES. I finally called my cell phone carrier to have an international plan added because, HELLO!, long-distance. I have NO IDEA what my cell phone bill is going to be, but I guarantee it will not be pretty. Even with the $150 credit my carrier gave me because I’m a sweet talker.   At $0.99 a minute, it still is no bargain.

*Renting a car abroad? Holy expensive adventure, Bruce Wayne, er, Batman.  If I were to do it again — and not in Ireland, for Pete’s Patrick’s sake, I’m not going back, it’s jinxed — I would rent it online in the U.S. so I could pay in good old greenbacks. I was told that’s the better way, but I didn’t want to nail us down on travel dates. Well, screw that.

I also realize that we are flying back Monday instead of Tuesday, but I have a hotel booked Monday night. I convince Aer Lingus (hereinout the “Flying Assholes”) to extend our trip an extra day for no cost. I consider this a victory. (Foreshadowing.)  We are now flying home Tuesday.

We check both bags. I sense something is wrong so certain things (i.e., medication) do not get packed. We carry nothing on except electronics. We do not mingle clothes in suitcases for the first time ever. You know, except my favorite DVF dress. (Again, foreshadowing). I watch both bags go ON to the little runway to nowhere. I see them get sucked up into the flaps. The baggage dude says to me, “You can go now. Have a nice trip.”  Famous last words.

Day 2
We arrive in Dublin and wait at the baggage carousel. Lots and lots of bags come off and I start to worry. The plane was not full so our bags should NOT be taking this long. Towards the end my small suitcase appears. I start to pray silently, please don’t let Sports Fan’s suitcase be lost. Please let it come off the runway. Now. Now. Now? The carousel stops moving. My heart drops into my stomach. He looks at me. I shake my head. This cannot be happening. Not now. Not Ireland. I walk over to the Flying Assholes’ “Help” desk and explain the situation. They assure me that it will be on the next flight and they will send it to our hotel in Galway the next day. By lunchtime. I’m hopeful. Sports Fan is not. He is already giving up hope. I convince him we can still catch the train to Galway. “It will be there tomorrow. They told me.”

We take a taxi to the train and find our reserved seats. I don’t know how long it takes us to realize that reserved seats means the asshole car with no air conditioning. Since when does “reserved” mean crappier treatment? Did the people on the lowest levels of the Titanic reserve their places first and the people who had beds and china just happened to wander on at the last minute?  Sports Fan is dying of heat. In the only clothes he has in Europe. He finds other seats in the packed train after a couple of stops and we move. The ride is fine, but we say aloud to each other, “doesn’t this countryside remind you of New Jersey?”

We get to Galway and it immediately starts to rain. We look around and think, “what’s the big deal?” Sports Fan is overheard comparing it to Hoboken and someone scoffs at him. Guess we’re not the only ones from the North East, but we’re the only ones not enamoured. We ask directions and start walking towards the hotel down a sketchy block that looks like it was built in the ’70s. He keeps asking me if I’m sure we’re walking in the right direction. Truthfully, I’m not sure. There are no fucking street signs. I just followed the guy’s directions. “A quarter of a mile, he said. Keep walking.”  We spy the hotel and I breathe a sigh of relief.

Check-in is easy enough. We forget that in Europe “0″ is the ground floor and we stumble around trying to find room 115 for a few minutes. We walk in and Sports Fan’s face says it all. I tried to save money because of my predicament, being laid off. It was a medium-priced hotel. It actually isn’t terrible. Slightly run-down. Not four stars. Kind of trendy in the decor, but it doesn’t look fresh and clean. It looks dingy. We both walk into the bathroom and sigh. There is grime in the sink. I think to myself that I need to start carrying cleaning supplies when I travel, but then again, they would be in the big suitcase. (That became the joke of the trip — whatever we wanted/needed would have been in the big suitcase).

We were hungry and tired, but the most important thing was finding Sports Fan some clothes before the shops closed. I asked a guy in the bar downstairs and he sent us to Dunnes, which seemed to be the equivalent of an H&M. Cheap clothes, sort of trendy. Sports Fan bought a hoodie and a t-shirt, socks and boxers.  We couldn’t find a pharmacy or any place to buy a toothbrush, face soap, hair gel or other toiletries. We gave up easily, ready to eat and have a beer.

Finding food, though, was not as easy as we expected. We Googled, naturally. Best food in Galway, best restaurant in Galway, best pub in Galway. Nothin’.  A couple of sites suggested The Huntsman Pub, which was out of the downtown area, so we took a cab there. If that is the best that Galway had to offer, I hate to see the worst. It was essentially bad New American fare. Now, I feel at somewhat of a disadvantage traveling as a New Yorker, and other New Yorkers have said the same thing, because I have such great food here. But really! I don’t even remember what Sports Fan got. I got the steakburger. Please, take my advice. In Ireland, do not order a steakburger expecting a hamburger. It is essentially meatloaf, in patty form, cooked through and cooked some more. It is awful. The Huntsman was not the only place we made the mistake of ordering it. Of course, we drank Guinness, and thank God for that.

We got back to the hotel, checked the lost baggage number for the first of dozens of times and went to sleep.