What we heard: The Guinness Storeroom has the most amazing view of Dublin.
What they don’t tell you: The Guinness Storeroom is a seven-story funnel designed to cram as many people as possible into a glitzy special effects zone that glosses over the basics of beer production.
The self-guided tour functions in a spiral that forces the visitor upward until they finally reach a rooftop bar surrounded 360 degrees by floor-ceiling glass. That’s where the ticket holder gets their pint, while surveying some of the most beautiful views of Dublin. But at the time, you get to share the space with hordes of other people, not enough seating and some of the loudest music you’ve ever heard.
So, it’s like a crowded bar on the weekend in vivid daylight.
And for fans of industrial history like me, it’s a disappointment.
And who decided to pass out lots of alcohol and tell people to climb stairs and escalators…
I probably would have paid extra to skip the fields of barley and cascading water to focus on a quiet room with historical artifacts.
The cask-making room was the best done– with displays of all the tools and photos of the men working. There were videos of how it was done and signs about how back-breaking the work was. But it was tiny, with ginormous piles of casks that competed with the actual history.
And the trains were on the same floor as the cafe. It made the trains feel like an afterthought instead of the exhibit.
But next to the trains there was an interesting piece of artwork. A sculpture listing the surnames of the workers. That was a fascinating recognition that industry is built on the backs of people.
I wish I could tell you I went to bed early last night, but at 7 p.m. I got my second or third wind. M suggested Indian takeaway, because we felt it would be a great experience to get takeaway, because Americans do take-out and our takeaways are lessons not dinner.
And Spice & Rice had fal— an extremely spicy item.
He did not order fal. He ordered spicy chicken vindaloo and I ordered lamb korma, which shocked him because I don’t normally do mild dishes. I got the meal for one deal for 20.95 euros, which included a drink, a starter, a pilau rice, a naan (I got mango peshwaari)and poppadom. So much food. I don’t know how they consider that meal for one. That is easily meal for two.
We wandered down to the restaurant around 7:30 p.m. and it was dead, enough so that M was nervous that maybe the food would be bad. While the food cooked, we meandered to the end of the block to Peader Brown‘s, a traditional Irish pub that has a history of Irish Republicanism. They had several televisions visible from the tented outdoor area as they were at capacity because of the World Cup Qualifying match between the Czech Republic and Ireland.
The moon was bright and the game was amazing, each time we went to return for our takeaway, the Irish team scored. We wondered if maybe we were a good luck charm.
We read the pro-Palestine posters, and M even noticed a Palestinian flag across the street. That’s not surprising as the Irish are acutely aware of the politics of ownership by occupation.
We also started calling the Czech team and each other feckin eejits as I had stopped at a curiosities shop earlier in the day where they had some interesting mugs and dirty feckin eejit soap. (“Weird is wonderful,” the window said.”
This also led to M and I conversing about why Ireland has such a “cussing culture” and my hypothesis went to the idea that the Irish have a long history as a working class culture, people who have survived on an island for a very long time (in Dublin’s case 900 years).
Speaking of oddities, I saw a sign in the window of the barber:
“Spectacles and Wooden Legs always Wanted.”
We brought the takeaway back to our room where we stuffed ourselves with a delicious feast that we could not finish. So we piled it into the fridge, but we have no microwave so we may need to reheat it with some creativity with hot water from the electric kettle.
And then we turned on the game.
Now we were exhausted and stuffing our faces with Indian food, but the Irish team was giving it their everything. And we couldn’t stop watching.
The game remained 2-2 and went into double overtime, and an Irish player and a Czech player collided so hard the Irish player left on a backboard. (I have to Google that and see if he’s okay.) Those boys were tired, sweaty, covered with grass stains and still playing an intense game.
And then it went to penalty kicks. M tapped out. He can’t handle penalty kicks. But I had to know who won. The Czech team missed the third kick. The Irish team missed the fourth. Then the Irish team missed the fifth and the Czechs did not. The Czechs won the game on the fifth penalty kick.
The last few days became so busy, both emotionally and professionally, that I never even finished blogging about my perfectly awesome birthday.
Art by Gayle Hendricks (Click image for her portfolio)
That may have something to do with the bottle of Vouvray the teenager and her father selected for me to accompany a most amazing cheese and fruit platter with charcuterie that they provided for my birthday dinner.
The meal came courtesy of a trip to Wegmans and included a block of applewood smoked Gouda, dill ha art I, and intense Brie. The fruits were white grapes and some succulent watermelon. A fresh baguette. Some Italian meats, include prosciutto. (Which I love to say in my best Sicilian accent) and silly cupcakes.
And the morning after my birthday I breakfasted like a princess in chocolate dipped fruits and a cookie and a tea from Dunkin’.
And yesterday I made the birthday Spam by mom brought me. On Wonder Bread for the teenager. Me. Accordion was jealous. He offered me some recipes.
This might be why my Corona weight gain is up to 10 lbs.
The artwork featured above is by Gayle Hendricks.
My friend Gayle appears in this blog from time to time, for our silly adventures, long walks or random road trips. She is a fantastic graphic designer with a very clean style. She specializes in typography and can set books in both traditional and electronic formats. I connected her portfolio to the image above, which she made for me representing my flock. (She altered a stock image in Adobe illustrator.)
Please consider her if you need freelance graphic design and know we are available as a team. I handle the editorial and she handles the pretty stuff. And we’re efficient.
And we celebrated my 40th birthday at a Trampoline Park.
I admire artists. I have several friends who have the visual arts among their gifts, as does the teenager’s dad and his family. They have « the music » too. Well, the teenager’s dad has a pretty good ear for music, but he doesn’t make any. But visual arts is a language he speaks. And he almost went to Pratt Art Institute instead of Moravian College.
Me, I have always loved all of the arts but I have an absolute tin ear for music—it’s just an alien language I cannot speak or hear as those who are fluent do—and I struggle with visual arts.
I practiced for years to learn the basics of fashion drawing and every time I stop doing it I have to get out the books and magazines and teach myself all over again.
I commissioned a fashion illustration from Renie Hanna that still hangs in my living room.
I love the Impressionists— Berthe Morisot is my favorite and my favorite museum is the Musée D’Orsay in Paris.
My friend Rachel has given us watercolor paintings, which I hang with pride. We need new glass for one, the strange one, which is slated for a new home in the living room.
And the only painting I ever saw that I HAD to have was one by Heather Pasqualino Weirich— and it has hung in my “entry hall” for about a decade and still mesmerizes me with it’s vibrancy and simplicity.
Interestingly, the two paintings in my bedroom were done by me and my step mom in those “any idiot can paint” classes. I love them, but I know they are relatively crude and awful.
How anyone can pull a picture out of their head and see the details to replicate on paper is a great mystery to me.
That is why I love photography. It captures moments that are happening. It freezes time. There are two great tricks to photography: 1. To take a lot of photos so you don’t miss anything and 2. To sense when a real moment is about to happen and not miss it.
My daughter’s latest iPhone has a camera way better than my iPhoneX and it has given her a chance to explore photography. Perhaps when she rouses from her bed on this rainy Sunday, I can convince her to pick a series of her favorites and host a show here on my blog.
But she took these photos of me yesterday, and I want to share them with you because they capture so much… We went to pick up her dress at The Attic clothes in Bethlehem. They are hosting online sales via Instagram and Facebook.
She asked to surprise her grandparents (her father’s parents) who live a few blocks away.
I said sure.
Now, my husband and I have lived apart for 10 months. We haven’t started divorce proceedings yet probably because it’s a new process and neither one of us likes to do new things that make us uncomfortable. There’s a whole lot of practical things that don’t impede our daily lives that we need to untangle. And we just haven’t.
So I always feel a little awkward showing up at his parents’ house. Especially unannounced as I have no reason to be there.
But I had a lovely conversation with my father-in-law and my mother-in-law fed us the leftovers her husband didn’t want to eat and she told the teenager stories.
Cabbage and noodles with the teen
And we compared the teenager to her paternal great grandfather who died before she was born. Pappy Buss was a farmer, a master carpenter who did some work for Martin Guitar, a pure-hearted Christian man who embodied everything a good person should be, and a mischievous prankster.
His first language was Pennsylvania Dutch and he played trumpet, unless I have my facts wrong.
But every since the day my daughter was born, I felt she had a piece of Pappy in her. And it gets stronger as she ages. Of course, she doesn’t have Pappy’s quiet demeanor.
So, here are the photos the teenager took of me at her grandmother’s kitchen table, eating angel food cake.
On our first day in Mogadishu, we were driving back to our hotel, Hotel Sahafi, when the traffic slowed and a gendarme told us that the white car a few car lengths ahead of us contained a bomb. Apparently, a suicide bomber had made it this far (about two miles from our hotel) when authorities noticed the bomb and the bomber-to-be deserted the car and ran.
As a result, the road was closed and we were rerouted until the car bomb could be diffused. We were returned to the hotel and locked in for the night. While our driver and guide were getting information from the gendarme, I noticed this woman making coffee and started taking photos. Since I don’t speak Somali more than “Yes,” “No,” “My name is…” and “Move,” I didn’t realize at the time that we were so close to a live bomb.
Of course I used the time to snap street photography from inside our vehicle. These photos were taken on the outskirts of a makeshift village of refugees who left their homes in flight of the rebel group Al Shabaab.
As we pull into the square… I noticed a woman adding what looked like sugar to a tea kettle.
She then started grinding coffee
She goes into what appears to be her kitchen.
And continues her work
Grinding
She takes the coffee beans
She approaches the kettle
And someone catches her eye
Woman making coffee
She finally added the grounds (I missed it; foot traffic)
And she cleans up
The road side beside where she worked. Not her kitchen.
So we got up today again at 9 a.m. It’s a lovely, sunny Moscow day and the Lenins and Stalins are still hanging out in the area of Red Square, which, sadly is still closed.
I swung into the post office to buy a stamp. Each trip I try to buy a random stamp for my daughter and her teacher. They are usually cheap, unique and don’t take up room in a suitcase. My daughter now has France, Djibouti, Tunisia and will soon add Russia. I walked in, and without having any clue for the Russian words for mailing something, merely said the Russian word for “two” and I suppose she sold me two Russian airmail stamps. It cost me a little more than a dollar. But I paid with the equivalent of a twenty, so the clerk “huffed” under her breath and had to leave the room to make change. She made it a point to huff a second time as she counted it out to me. I was very
pleased with myself.
I went to a souvenir shop to buy a little something for my daughter. I won’t say what because she does like her surprises. It cost 150 rubles. I put 200 rubles up and the clerk shook her head. I sorted through my coins. Ten, twenty, thirty, forty… she counted as I counted. But I didn’t have another. I only have forty. She waved at me and said in Russian that ten rubles was nothing to worry about.
That also seemed like a win.
Red Square will definitely be closed all week. But we have gone down every day to see what we can see.
From there, we decided to begin our daily walk. We tend to wander with a loose goal in mind. Pushkin Café has been on M’s list because of the 1964 French song, “Nathalie.”
So, M was quite distraught last night that Red Square was closed in preparation for First of May today. We woke late. I rose at 8 and studied Russian until 9 when M roused. We headed to the hotel breakfast, which was a strange assortment of items. You could see the hotel’s efforts to serve multi-national fare. We are staying at Hotel Peter I.
I had Russian pancakes, meatballs, yogurt, pastry, cranberry mors, and the best coffee I’ve had in days. Three cups. Water is scarce, which is a tad annoying. Small markets are closed for the holiday, also annoying but bearable. We purchased water at an upscale grocery store in the fancy mall.
We came back to the room so M could shower. The weather is low 40s, breezy and sporadically raining. M googled the status of Red Square and discovered the worker’s rights parade was going on right now. We hustled a bit and arrived in time to see the end: people dispersing, flags, flowers, red first of May t-shirts (I want one) and the military band playing. (See my Instagram account if you want video: angelackerman.)
I loved watching these women dismantle their signs.
We had an amazing time looking at the military folk wandering around and old Soviet pins. We meandered the city, covering five miles. There were many, many people out. I saw blocks upon blocks of portable toilets.
There’s some beautifully wrapped chocolate, but I’m told it’s not tasty so I took a photo:
Now we’re relaxing and drying off from the rain, so let me leave you with a shot of Moscow on the river.
Angel Ackerman 