There's this thing people say in San Francisco, that if you don't like the weather hey, don't worry about it; just wait a few minutes and it'll change to something you like better. Now listen; I'm no native, as my friend Sam likes to remind me, but I have lived in San Francisco for close to 20 years and the weather doesn't change every few minutes. I'll tell anyone who listens that we have only two seasons, in fact, white and blue (and, thanks to climate change, extreme heat, which everyone still likes to pretend hardly ever happens then clears out home depot of room a/c units the day it gets over 80), so I've never quite gotten that adage about the weather changing every few minutes. It changes every few feet. I'll give you that. You don't like it, just take a few steps in any direction.
But maybe this whole time I've been mishearing; maybe the saying isn't about San Francisco, it's about Ireland. If that's the case, I apologize, It's spot-on. The weather changes like I sweat in a European hotel room in the summer: constantly.
We've been here for a little over a week. Every day we wake up and check our (admittedly and sometimes maddeningly innacurate) iPhone weather apps and see the same thing: a little picture of violently slanting rain. Rain in the morning (70%), rain at noon (60%), rain in the early evening (90%), rain at midnight (50%).
"Great," we think. "It's supposed to rain every day from until the end of time, or at least until we go back to the U.S."
Has it rained the whole time we've been in Ireland? Sort of.
Lets use today as an example. This morning we woke up in Dingle, seaside tourist
destination, on August 5. We planned to hang out until noon, then check out of the well-intentioned but notably subpar Dingle Bay Hotel (lose the heavyweight comforters in August, Dingle Bay Hotel. Also, find some shampoo and body wash that doesn't smell like a retirement home), walk around, shop for a few more souvenirs (Type 2), maybe look into buying some crystal highball glasses for the whiskey we may or may not have ordered last night online (still waiting for the confirm email )(REAL TIME UPDATE: the confirm e-mail has arrived), get a coffee, not get a donut at the SuperValu because there's no way they could taste as good as they look. They look pretty good.
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| Don't use these products unless you like smelling like powder. |
"I wonder if I should wear shorts," I mused from bed, looking out at the garbage bins under a partly cloudy sky, my judgement undoubtedly clouded by the fact that in three days it never dropped below 80 F (24.3 C) in our hotel room. "Maybe I'll wear jeans now and then, if it's warm, I'll change into shorts for the drive."
Sandra Bullock ignored me, simply going on with whatever she'd been doing, a coping strategy she's learned over 27 years of having a husband who often muses aloud about what sort of clothing he might wear that day when other men would simply appear without comment, fully-dressed and ready to go about their day.
Last night the app had predicted rain. Outside our window, the sky above the dumpster was blue with a few clouds. I checked my phone. Now it said there was a 30 percent chance of rain at 4 PM. Otherwise, clouds but no rain.
We left the hotel and took to the streets. It was sunny and warm and me in jeans. I cursed myself, not only because I was now sweating beneath by Levis but because I only brought two pairs of jeans and every wearing was precious. What if I'd wasted an opportunity to give the Levi's a break?
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| Best bar in Dingle. |
One block later we turned a corner and ran head-on into a gale of polar wind. Two seconds later it started raining. "Glad we wore our raincoats," S. Bullock commented. We zipped up and secured our hoods, congratulating ourselves for our foresight as small pockets of tourists huddled in their t-shirts.
"Bet that ferry to Great Blasket isn't running today," I shouted over the wind.
In and out of shops we went, staying away from the crush of hungover Irish 20-somethings who'd congregated dully at coffee shops, hoping to wear away the effects of last night, when they roamed Dingle's streets like cobras, one group of inappropriately over-dressed (for a rainy Sunday night in Dingle) and bottle-tanned post-adolescent girls after another trailed by only slightly less inappropriately over-dressed post-adolescent boys in skinny jeans so tight they couldn't possibly keep pace.
Every time we existed a shop, the weather changed. Sandra Bullock lingered over and then purchased a small necklace. Outside it was sunny. We couldn't agree on highball glasses at Dingle Crystal. Outside: a light mist. We walked right past the donuts at SuperValu and the skies opened up again.
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| Bus demonstrating that this is, in fact, a one-lane road. |
At noon we returned to the road for two hours of slightly-less-terrifying-than-it-was-last-time driving. For about an hour we drove behind a very large bus, marveling at the confidence of its driver. He drove mostly down the middle of the street, straddling the center line, provoking multiple eruptions of "See? It's a one lane road! See how comfortably that bus fits on it when it drives down the center?" from me. Then, when a car (or cars; today it seemed like oncoming traffic came in groups of 12 or more) approached, he'd hit his braves and veer suddenly to the left, never stopping but slowing until it was safe to take his place in the middle again.
Here's the difference between me driving in Ireland and me at home: I was perfectly happy in stay in my spot behind the bus, using him as a protector and battering ram. I knew that if he didn't hit someone head-on, odds were pretty good I could avoid it too. He turned right at Castlemaine and I bid him a melancholy good-bye.
You put me behind the same bus in the U.S. and I'm ranting and raving the whole time, looking for my chance to pass. Context.
After an hour we stopped in Killarney for lunch. After most of a week in towns with three-digit populations, Killarney (population 14,404) felt like Times Square. Mobs of people, streets lined with shops and pubs leading off in all directions; a live band playing Guy Clark on a street corner, because if there's one thing I've learned it's that the Irish love Guy Clark. The band had three competent vocalists, including a very old guy in a tie who appeared suddenly to sing an Irish song, and another guy who sung lead on the Eagles' "Take it Easy."
There were stores selling all manner of kitsch (but not the coveted and rare three-dimensional leprechaun bottle opener), the omnipresent Aran wool sweaters and Waterford crystal which, my suddenly up-to-speed on the nuances of Irish crystal informed me, "is not actually made in Ireland anymore."
After an hour it started raining, lightly at first and then harder. It was time to get back on the road.
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| Not the whiskey we purchased. I just like the name. |
There was a huge line of traffic leading out of town, which put us in Kenmare a little after 1500, just in time to access our home for the next four days, a sweet AirBnB with two stories, two bedrooms, multiple bathrooms and a washer/dryer, the exact correct formula for travelers weary of overheated hotel rooms with poor linen and soap choices.
Of course it rained, stopped, got sunny, started raining again and then started pouring, all during the half-hour we just spent getting acclimated to Kenmare and gearing up at the local SuperValu (note to travelers: not the quality of the Dingle SuperValu; on the bright side, no tempting donuts). We got laundry detergent, fruit and ravioli for dinner. Tonight, for the first time in 27 days (and probably longer because we had no food at home for the last few days before we left), we eat in.
Here are today's numbers:
2 -- churches visited briefly today, putting us far behind our Italy pace.
1 -- wasp buzzing around the window where we had lunch today. Very unsettling but actual impact was negligible.
2,175 -- population of Kenmare, County Kerry, Ireland.
10:06 -- my tee time for tomorrow morning. I have a golf shirt with me. That's it. I'll be golfing in whatever pants I have and tennis shoes. And no glove. They didn't have a left-handed one. Despite these challenges, I am confident my game will remain as it always is: terrible.
75 -- cost, in Euros, of each highball glass purchased at Dingle Crystal unless you decide you don't actually like any of the ones they have and return to online shopping, where highball glasses from Cork Crystal can be had for a third of that price.
2.5 -- number of bathrooms in our AirBnB. Even after Princes Grace and Peter O'Toole join us tomorrow we'll still be at a ratio of almost one bathroom per inhabitant.
Yes, tomorrow we will be joined by Peter O'Toole and Princess Grace, friends since college who bear the distinction of being the only guests to attend both Sandra Bullock sabbaticals (besides me, I suppose), as they were there for Italy in 2013. They get in at 1345, at which point I will probably be hacking away at some dumb golf ball, asking myself why I continue to try to play this game. And then five minutes later it'll start raining.
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