Road trippin' Ireland

In Ireland, they don't drive on the wrong side, they drive on the other side. So add driving on the left side of the road, plus driving from the right side of the car in a country without stoplights but roundabouts, this equals ADVENTURE. Then to further complicate the driving experience in Ireland, add a stick shift. Yes, now you're on the right side of the car shifting and signaling with your left hand driving in the left lane. And you're right handed!! No worries, just put it in gear and go.

That's right, just go. Get a good map(not the one the rental agency gives you), trace your route, get the full CDW insurance, buckle- up, and hold on. It worked for us. Hali behind the wheel, Woody navigating, map on lap. Forget the gps, way too complicated(I can hardly spell that), and we were off.

The rental cost doubles with two drivers and triples for automatic transmission. So for just under $400, full coverage, and three weeks in Ireland, we were road trippin', the Irish way.

Getting out of Dublin was a snap. Making it for the 1pm Smithwick's brewery tour in Kilkenny wasn't so easy, but we made it, barely. I had to push the car into the parking stall because Hali hadn't quite figured out what the R on the stick shift meant. It came to her once we were in the hospitality room on the beer tour, sampling a pint of red.

Okay, so we want to see the Rock of Cashel. It's not actually a rock, but a ruined castle. After scouting the roads out of town, I put down the map. This castle was only 30 miles away, atop a hill, how could we miss it? Besides the brown signs that say, Kilkenny-Cashel Tourist Route, are easy to follow. We'll be there in no time.

Half way there we come to a fork in the road. One sign pointing to the left reads, Kilkenny-Cashel; the other brown sign says Cashel-Kilkenny, pointing right. So we go left, since we are coming from Kilkenny going to Cashel. We're on track. On the Tourist Route.

Whoa, stop! Look at that ancient cemetery. Let's get a picture. So we pull over and snap a photo of those cool Celtic crosses marking the resting spot of ancient Celts. We pull back on the road only to get stuck behind a slow tractor. A mile or two later we come to another junction. Both brown Tourist Route signs are pointing to the left. How can that be? Oh well, let's push on. We turn left.

Soon we are following a tractor. That same tractor! Hey, I think we just drove in a 5 mile circle. No time to panic, we're not lost. We get back to the same junction and see the same signs pointing in the same direction. Something is wrong. Map time. Dang, we're lost.

Up the road was a little market, so we stopped. I went in to ask for directions to Cashel. I told them we had been following the brown Tourist Route signs. The three women in the market busted out in laughter. " Don't follow those signs, the children move them", they said in unison. Dang kids! Well we weren't going to let a few misfits ruin our day at the ruins. We pressed on.

Following me out of the store was a local truck driver. He said, " Follow me. When I turn on my left signal, go left. Then it's a right and another left. That'll get ye to the motorway." We followed his directions and were in Cashel in 30 minutes. That's an hour and a half for a 30 mile journey. The castle was still in ruins and will be forever. They aren't rebuilding it. Maybe they ought to tighten the bolts on those tourist route signposts. Dang kids!

That was probably our most interesting " getting lost" story to tell. It did become easier to navigate our way as we went. Fact is, if we didn't get lost that day, there would be no story to tell.

Moral of the story: Next time you get lost, embrace it. You'll find your way...with a little help from your friends.

The Perfect Pint

If the Republic of Ireland had a king, it would be King Arthur. Aurthur Guinness, of course. Every pub in Ireland serves the "black stuff". If a certain pub didn't have a Guinness tap handle, King Arthur would send his men in, offer a dozen free barrels, put out the Guinness swag, and maintain the tap lines, just to keep rival brewers out. If a competing brewer continued flexing it's beer muscles, King Arthur would simply buy the "little guy". Just ask Smithwick's. Yet a visit to Dublin is not complete unless you've poured your perfect pint at the Guinness Storehouse.

A good day in Dublin starts on the bus. Take a ride out to Kilmainham Gaol(jail) after your Full Irish breakfast. Your tour guide will walk you from early jail time up to the time it closed soon after the Easter Rising in 1916. During the "great famine", many of the Irish, including young children, would commit petty crimes just to get a bowl of soup and a hunk of bread in jail. The guide will assure you that this period of Irish history was anything but great. Sixty years later the men and women seeking independence from British rule formed the Irish Republican Brotherhood. After years of rebellion, bloodshed, and executions a treaty was signed and here we are in the Republic of Ireland with British rule up North.

Boy, all this history, I'm getting thirsty. Let's jump on the bus and learn about the beer history of Ireland at the Guinness Storehouse, just up the road. Get your ticket on the first floor. Yes, you'll get a beer, be patient. Move up to the upper floors and marvel at King Arthur's Castle. Take a look at the 9000 year lease Arthur signed in 1759 to occupy the space at St. James Gate for 45 British pounds per year. Wow! $5 monthly rent, time to celebrate.

If you time it right, there's a beer, food pairing demo on the 4th floor. See, your patience has paid off. Here you can sample beer that goes well with nosh. In our case, a small cracker slathered with salmon mousse. Now, let's get a pint.

Take the glass elevator up to the next floor. On the way up, notice that each level of the Storehouse widens as you go up. Cool, we're in a pint glass which is topped off on the 7th floor, the head on the pint, the Gravity Bar. But wait, let's pour our own on the 5th floor.

Stand behind the grand Guinness tap handle and grab a clean glass. Hold the glass at a 45 degree angle, PULL on the handle aiming the tap nozzle on the harp decal on the glass. As it fills, tip the glass to nearly level. Stop pulling at three quarters full. Set the glass on the bar, Guinness label facing the customer, and let it rest. Remember, good things take time. After 90 seconds, grab the glass, holding it level, and PUSH the handle to fill your glass until a head forms just below the rim. The head should rise just a tad over the rim of the glass without spillage. Set the glass on the bar, again Guinness label toward the publican, and viola, you've poured a perfect pint.

Here's to you King Arthur...

Slainte!!

Full Irish

Full Irish

When Hali and I traveled Europe 28 years ago, we didn't make it to Ireland. Lack of time and invalid Eurail passes detoured us away from the Emerald Isle. Three months traveling on a students budget - staying at hostels, guest houses, pensiones, train stations - breakfast was almost always part of the overnight deal. But the deal was, breakfasts varied greatly... especially in the "fresh" department. Nourishment was most typically a couple cups of coffee and a croissant or hard scone. If we were lucky, a bowl of corn flakes or RAISIN Bran served with boxed milk. We'd supplement with plenty of ice cream back then.

While traveling, we'd hear the stories from fellow travelers about the far superior Irish breakfast, AKA: The Full Irish. The thought of this legendary breakfast lingered, and kept our desire to visit Ireland alive for so many years. Finally, I get to report and review on our three week trip around Ireland, the places we visited, and the morning ritual of breakfast that kept us going each day.

Starting in Dublin at the Hazelwood House, we had a room the size and shape of a 4 man tent. We could stand at the entrance but the ceiling tapered downward just like a tent. The shared bathrooms were probably the worse we encountered the whole trip, but they were always available  and with fresh towels. At 32€ a night, we had three nights stay for what most would pay for only one night in Dublin. The Hazelwood's saving grace was it's peaceful Common Area. This was our retreat for "e-work". Breakfast was served friendly and efficiently. Above average: an egg, two thick bacons, two sausages, white and black puddings(a palatable term for blood sausage), lots of toast, a stewed tomato, coffee, juice, cereal, milk. The tomato was surprisingly good and we would discover it's a standard on the full Irish plate. A wee bit of vitamin C along side all that protein. Good place to experience the puddings; one white, tasted like liverwurst, the other black, tasted like a scab. 3 stars.

Pinecrest B&B in Kilkenny was a pleasant two day stay with Helen and Liam. Just a short walk from town, our big en-suite room was an earned respite from our cozy campsite in Dublin. Helen would ask each morning, "Full Irish?" Hali made the request to hold the puddin' - shaping her fingers in a hockey-puck shape, to make clear the point; I'd give them another shot. Maybe Helen's specialty might just be a top notch blood sausage?? Wrong! It's the same everywhere. I ate it anyway, making note to follow Hali's lead next time. 4 stars.

Davitt's in Kenmare was an unexpected gem. Found this place on booking.com the night before, the smart deal, 70€/night. This guesthouse was chic with art and stylish with furnishings. Mary's vast menu selection included scrambled eggs with locally smoked salmon. There countless variations you could mix & match even had Hali's favorite: French toast. Oddly, we both went with the Salmon Scramble (breaking travel-dining RULE #1: never order the SAME meal) however, it did not disappoint. Also on the plate: bacon, sautéed mushrooms, tomato, grainy brown bread. Mary earns her bonus star on the amazing do-it-yourself cereal bar: several whole grain cereals, pecan halves, dried apricots, sunflower seeds, pumpkin seeds, gorp, fresh strawberries and the biggest local blueberries I have ever seen, plain and flavored yogurts, and milk. 5 1/2 stars out of 5

Half way around the Ring of Kerry, we stopped at the small beach of St. Finnians Bay. Bridie and Jack at Beach Cove B&B offered a pretty solid breakfast. A good time to describe Irish bacon.: imagine a thick, lean, strip of ham, slightly fried. Not a stand out, three and a half stars. The extra half star for the best table in the house overlooking the bay, with Skellig Michael looming offshore.

In Dingle we opted out of Kathleen's breakfast at Harbour Nights B&B. Several early morning options were scattered about in this cute little coastal town. A stop at the farmer's market provided us with muffins, scones, and "dingle-berries" to accompany our in-room coffee. A nice break from what was becoming the norm. Thanks Kathleen for accommodating us in our waterfront room with a view. 3 1/2 stars.

Probably the best value on the entire trip was the Burren Breeze B&B between Doolin and Lisdoonvarna. More importantly a short walk to the Roadside Tavern. Yes, yes, Ann was very gracious and friendly. At this point of our trip, most hosts didn't consistently serve the pudding, which was fine by us. If they did, hey, another souvenir for Carlos. How could it go bad? At 46€, this was a sweet deal. 4 stars.

Took a ferry to the small Aran island, Inisheer, pop. 300. The three pubs, including Tigh Ned (house of Ned) accommodate overnight travelers. Ostan Inis Oirr a spacious pine paneled room which reminded me my Grandpa's cabin on the lake.Thomas ran the house with help from his nephew, Martin. At ten years old, Martin pours a perfect pint, just as well as his uncle. For breakfast, Hali chose the breakfast bap (Irish egg McMuffin). I chose scrambled eggs with cheese. 3 stars with a half star thrown in for the kid-friendly service. 3 1/2 stars.

Linden Hall in Westport was not in my guidebooks, but should be. Paul, our doting host, bargained for a mere 60€. He showed us to our huge room with a California king bed, in this Victorian era house. Full Irish, which Hali would downsize to make room for the hearty cereal buffet including, yogurt, dried fruit and nuts. Paul set down before me a feast fit for a King. Wow! Beans over toast, that's a first. Picture a plate piled with protein prior to our pilgrimage 2500 feet up Croagh Patrick. Good luck! 5 stars.

Our next stop, Derry, Northern Ireland, home of the hero in Leon Uris' novel Trinity, Connor Larkin. Hali parked in front of Paddy's Palace. I guess palace is British for hostel. Our Polish roommates were envious of the instant Starbucks we brought along. A help-yourself kitchen, typical in hostels, was all ours. Toast with marmalade, corn flakes with boxed milk. If there is coffee, make it yourself . A half star . For a hot shower and bunk at 15 pounds, we saved a ton. Maybe another half star, with a full star for the Mark Twain quote above the palace entryway, " Travel is fatal to hatred, bigotry, and prejudice." Grand total, 2 stars.

The seaside town of Portrush was an ideal home-base to explore the Giants Causeway and the North coast. Rachel of Beulah Guest House ran a tight ship. Our room was small but Tidy, with a capital "T". At breakfast Rachel didn't miss a beat she had us fill in our bill-of-fare sheet the night before so the kitchen would have our plates served promptly. A hearty full Irish, poached eggs, the mandatory meats, beans, and incredible cereal bar. 5 stars . Fabulous! Fabulous! Fabulous!

Disappointed that wedding parties squeezed us out of the castled town of Trim, we followed B&B signs over the river and through the woods to Grandmother's house. Yep, we shared a house with Grandma and Grandpa O'Malley, complete with grandkids. The room was adequate for our short stay. Breakfast was forgettable (won't dare say meh) but we did save the head of the table for Grandpa Mickey. 2 stars. Thanks Gramps!

Finally, our last night at Bewley's hotel by the airport. The Irish version of a Holiday Inn. At 79€, this was the most we paid for a room the entire trip. Also the only place to provide us with a magnetic key-card which I fumbled around in the dark trying to find in order to switch on the lights. No breakfast, only in-room instant Nescafé. One star for the shower cap, another for the early morning FREE shuttle to the airport. 2 stars.

That sums up our stay. Hope it's not stale.

Travln' Jack

Travln' Jack

Three nights in Dingle town and we were becoming locals. This small coastal town boasts some 50 pubs yet we had only visited a handful. When pub crawlin'.... time slows down. "We'll check it out, go in for a pint, then move on." No, not in this town. Some local, Paddy, will take the stool next "ta ye", buy you a beer, and lay on the craic (chat, gossip, news, entertainment.) Next thing you know another chap offers to share his chips (french fries), you first decline, but still he piles them on the bar counter and now you feel obligated to stay a while longer. Just as you're ready to ramble on, musicians bring out their fiddles, pipes, and drums. You just can't leave: the Trad (traditional Irish music) has begun.

In selecting which pub to go into, curb appeal matters. Brightly painted pubfronts with a good Irish name are always worth a look: Peadar O'Donnells, Matt Malloys, Tigh Ned, Foxy Johns. Oh wait a minute, we've walked by Foxy John's on Goat Street a dozen times thinking that John sells only hardware. In the window are bicycle parts, seeds, tools, lightbulbs, etc.

On our last night in Dingle, we decided to see what was behind the hardware facade. Ducking under an old oil can, onto the ancient creaking floorboards, into what appears to be John's garage. On the right, disorganized shelves and drawers loaded and crammed with hardware. On the left, a bar with the regular taps, some whiskey bottles on the shelf, and a few locals hunched over their Guinness. No TV, no music, no Irish coffees. Just whiskey, beer, and CRAIC.

Like always we ordered a pint, the local publicans sizing us up. So I asked the guy behind the bar if Foxy John was in. He wasn't. He was in earlier "runnin' the store." Apparently John (sly as a fox) could run his hand through the clutter piled high on the shelves, blindfolded and find exactly the bolt you needed.

What I needed was another pint, this craic was getting good.

Before long the place was packed: young Irishmen on stag-night with newly painted mustaches, blue collared regulars, a few tourists, us, and another guy on the hardware side of the pub inching closer as there was little other option. Finally he closed in just as we started talking about our hike up Croagh Patrick.

He asked if we had ever read Bill Bryson's A Walk in the Woods. "Oh yea, we loved that story," we both belted out. Turns out this guy hiked the entire 2174 miles of the Appalachian Trail!! Bill Bryson didn't. He talked about the trail: the Smokey Mountains, thru-hikers, the fall colors. In fact, this guy still preserves a section of trail near Falls Village in Connecticut. He's passionate about his hike and "his story".

We were fascinated by this guy. Never met anyone who had hiked the Appalachian Trail and have only fancied about doing it ourselves. Maybe someday, we told him.

Then he was off,  just passin' thru.... didn't get him name, only that he was staying in a room with a bed and a hot shower above Murphy's Pub just down the street, and his "trail name"Travln Jack.

FOXY JOHNS

WWW.PASSPORTSANDPOSTCARDS.COM

Piano Man

PIANO MAN

Walked into a roadside tavern in the County Clare. Above the entryway a sign posted, est. 1865. Inside postcards plastered the walls, brown with soot. A reminder that these pubs once had a long tradition as a smokers haven. Although there was a "slow food" festival in the nearby town, we were ready for some pub grub.

Besides the ever present Guinness and Smithwicks taps, there was also a blonde, a red, and a black beer, brewed in the attic above. Generally I prefer blonde, instead I went with the red. Then ordered some grub.

Across the way was a fella sitting alone at the table closest to the nook reserved for the musicians. While he sipped his brew and slurped his stew, he eyeballed an old piano in the corner. As pub proprietor Peter walked passed, the awkward young man motioned towards that piano and in broken German-English asked about its history. Peter said it belonged to his grandfather from the early 1900's and recently paid a fortune to have it tuned. "Would ye like a go at it?" Peter asked. "Well I don't normally play before people, but sure, I'll play." And he approached the bench.

He introduced his first number as an "original" to the sparse crowd in the pub, warning us that he doesn't read music but plays by "his ears. The notes flew gracefully from the keys as his confidence rose playing in front of the few of us. When he finished, a small smattering of applause went up. I'm pretty sure he wiped a small tear from his eye, flattered. Later admitting that he's never had people clap for him.

He returned to his table and finished his beer. Quickly we ordered a red ale for him, just to keep him around a bit longer. At least for one more tune.

His pint arrived and he raised his glass in our direction. He came over to our table, said thank you, and we toasted. His name was Benni from Stuttgart, Germany and he was visiting a childhood friend, now a chef, and currently cooking for the "slow food" festival. Benni had a couple weeks holiday from his teaching job back home.

After we got to know him a little better, we said we were on our way to the Cliffs of Moher. Without hesitation, he asked if he could come along. And he did, indeed, join us on the Cliffs. Not quite a hitchhiker, just a kid looking to see some sights while his buddy worked.

We wandered the windy tops of the highest Irish shoreline for an hour or so. Benni sharing his "story", us sharing ours.

On the way back to town, Benni asked if he could buy us a pint at the tavern "for revenge". I looked at Hali strangely and thought, revenge? He could have easily pushed one or both of us off those cliffs and now wanted to treat us to a beer? We laughed together and said simultaneously, you mean "pay-back." Once we explained how we understand "revenge" he laughed and said in German they use a form of the word revenge for pay-back. Funny, the film "The Hitcher" came to mind for a split second.

Back at the Roadside Tavern, Benni ordered a round of reds and we toasted, Prost!! "Ah, you know German?" he asked. I said, "Just enough to get by." We all laughed.

Then Benni sat back down at the piano and played us a Billy Joel tune, Piano Man.

Sing us a song you're the piano man
Sing us a song tonight
We're all in the mood for a melody
And you've got us feeling' alright

Two Thumbs Up

Around the ring of Dingle, we pulled over to see the Beehive Huts. Had to. These stone huts built in the shape of, yeah you guessed it, a beehive, were worthy of a look. Now, I haven't seen the "world's largest ball of yarn" or the County Kerry's own legendary wrestler Steve "THE CRUSHER" Casey, but Beehive Huts intrigued me.

We stopped. Can't say that this tidbit of Irish folklore was abuzz with tourists, yet we were drawn to the hives like a drone. Up the hill was a colony of stone huts.

The pot-bellied Irishman with the blue thumb, in the wood cabin spoke only Gaelic. I'm pretty sure "f- -k" is international, and the only thing I understood. He carried on about finding some sort of "f-ing" relic on his property but the "diggers" would not share the story. Must have dug up something interesting.

We climbed the small hill to the huts. Pretty impressive. These little conical stone structures have been here untouched for over 1200 years. Whoever built these things were masterful. Each layer of stones were slightly tilted downward for the rain to run off. Much like our roofing shingles. The inside gravel floor has been dry a thousand plus years. And we marvel over Frank Lloyd Wright mid-century architecture.

On the way out we asked about his blue thumb. "Ah...sheep...neighbor Ned...f--k...sheep...blue..." he uttered, and we nodded as if we understood. He holding his thumb up the whole time with pride.

I gave him the thumbs up, and simply said, "Good day Ned."

The Strand

Shearing WOODY

Took a couple walks through Dingle town before I found the perfect place for a haircut. Funny, it's on "the Strand". Our B&B is on "the wood". I'm guessing that before the road along the waterfront, there was some sort of boardwalk over the boggy ground. It is known the Irish don't go out of their way for naming-originality. The square in the middle of town is affectionately called "The Square".

So the Strand seemed an ideal place for a shearing. Across from the church I spotted a barbers pole. Not the spinning red and white pole, but just a simple red and white spiraled carved pole on the side of the storefront. In the window a painted pair of shears and a sign reading, "a place for men". Looks good.

Inside, a bald guy with grey hairs only above his ears, was getting "a trim". I'm not quite sure why he was even in there, he had very little hair. Me, my Fabio hair, I needed more than "a trim". He motioned me to the waiting area. I read the Irish Times watching an old bald Irishman get his few strands of hair cut. He and the barber talkin' CRAIC.

Another man hurriedly came in from our first sunny day. "You're next, jump up lad." I jumped up and sat down on that chair. "What am I doing for ya' today?" he asked. "More than a trim, a good shearing would do." I replied sheepishly.

He began cutting.

After a little small talk, I told him that this cut is my souvenir. It's cheap, lightweight, and I'm taking it home. Besides, I told him, it'll be back in a few months.

The clipping went on. Occasionally he'd wipe at my neck and blow with his mouth any stray strand.

He finished up, shaved my neck, and the towel was off. Drawing the mirror close, he asks,"Whad'd'ya think?" Tilting my head side to side, I approved, "Grand, good looks."

Dingle IRELAND

How about some CRAIC?

I was in a pub last night and asked the 'tender about the cozy table over there in the corner. "Ah well, that there is for the lasses." he warned. "Yea, but I want to sit there, ya see." I reply anxiously. He topped off my perfect pint of Guinness and lay it on the bar. "Lad, he squinted, ya don wanna sit with the lasses." "Oh yea, why not?" Sipping my frothy pint, he insists that I'm fine there at the bar . Yet that empty table in the corner beckoned.

Halfway through my pint, I decided I'd sidle over to that table despite the warning. Okay, seems like any other table to rest my pint. So I sat. Took a look at notches along the edge of the table. Thought to myself that that table has been there hundreds of years. Many pints have crossed its path. Why worry?

In comes a lass, chilled by the rain, nudges me over. I asked if she was cold and I'd get her a coffee. " Ah yes, that would be nice. Yes, an Irish coffee." She said sheepishly. Cool, I thought, an Irish girl. Soon she was two-handing that coffee to quell the cold.

A minute later, a few more girls, wearing sashes, dove into the booth from the cold. They all ordered Irish coffees, with a Jameson's. Dang, I've never been surrounded by so many redheads in one place, ever. This was cool!

Next thing I knew,one, then two more girls squeezed in tightly. Each one gave me a wink and ordered an Irish coffee through the tiny window through to the back of the bar. Soon a few more coffees passed through that little cubbyhole.

Finally, one last girl wearing a red sash holding a phallic shaped object, a whiskey, winked, and wedged herself into the last bit of space. I felt that if I tried to sip my beer, I'd spill it into my lap, so I just looked around and smiled nervously.

The gal with the red sash began chanting in her sing-song Gaelic and the rest followed in unison. Whipping around that phallic object like a maestro and his orchestra, they all began singing. I pretended I knew the words, swaying my head back and forth, still smiling.

Just as they finished, they filed out of that tiny cubby just as they entered-with a wink. I smiled.

Boy, was that grand!

Asked the bartender for the tab. Smiling, he said, " Lad, I tried ta warn ya bout the lasses. It'll be forty-eight euro." I didn't smile. Then he added, " That's grand! You've just been hen-pecked in that thar snug." That guy, Dick Mac, pulled out a small knife and put another notch in that table.
CRAIC!!

I smiled, and paid up.

Passports and Postcards

One by one, I pick through the little tin box of postcards. Cards I have saved for years. Why? This was our little box of memories, relationships and dreams. Our stories. Each one has a tale to tell. So let's see... closing my eyes, I randomly slide my fingers between a few postcards and take out just one.

Viola. Here in my hand is a picture of a bean crock, full of beans, with a big slab of bacon on top. Along side, the recipe for Boston Baked Beans. It's from the Gleason Family. Boy, do they know me. Of course they do, we camp with the Gleason's every summer. In the same tent - once.

Next.

The next card is from Germany. Whaddya know? It's from Anja, our German friend. She was visiting Bad Kissingen. Was she dropping hints to us about the shortcomings of her new romance, Dirk?

I dipped my hand in for another: Graceland. Must be from Murray, he's crazy about Elvis. On the back he writes, " THE KING LIVES" and in what I imagine his best Elvis impersonation, "THANK YA VERY MUCH- Murr"

Filtering through the pile of postcards, I find two postcards kind of stuck together. Picture this, a beautiful, blond, babe on the beach, holding up a surfboard. You know, the type of girl the Beach Boys sing about. I remember this one. Carli sent it from surf camp while visiting Uncle Arne in California. I peel the cards apart. On back she wrote, " Dear Mom, this picture looks like you."
The other had a picture of a fisherman in a canoe. Biting the bait is a bass as big as a bus. The caption reads, Fishing is GREAT in Oregon. On the back she wrote, " Dear Dad, this picture looks like you." Hmmm... I wonder who she gets that from? On both, a small pair of red lipsticked lips.

Stacks and stacks and STACKS of postcards from Michigan. I like this one: State Rock: the Petoskey stone. And this one, a postcard survey from "The Climb" Sleeping Bear Dunes. Two boxes to check- box one: I climbed sleeping bear; or box two: Took one look 'n gave up. On back, a congratulatory note, "Mt. St. Helens? Nice job, must have been some hike? Hope there were a couple cold ones at the bottom. Wish I was there. Michigan Bob."

Then I came across a postcard from New York City. There she was, the Statue of Liberty holding the flame high. Ominously looming in the background, the Twin Towers. Maybe I won't look to see who this was from.

Here's one to Carli from Sweden. A lady is delicately painting a hand carved Swedish horse. A Dala horse. Yep, I knew it, this is from Morfar. Yes, Morfar. Swedish for mothers father. You got it, Hali's Father. We call him Morfar.

Getting close to half-way through the box another card catches my eye. It's a perfect pint of beer. Wiggle the card back and forth and I see two tap handles, Guinness and Bass Ale. Wiggle, the mystery revealed. Wiggle, experience the black and tan. Wiggle it faster...black and tan, black and tan, black... Whew! I'm getting thirsty.  Far out, a 3-D postcard!  Pretty obvious who this came from.

Oh hey, what's this? Rolling Stones- Candlestick Park 1981 sticker stub. Yea, Mick Jagger, man, could that guy boogie on stage. Okay, okay already, ticket stubs, chapter 8.

Ah Bellagio, Lake Como. Lori, my sister, sent us this one. She writes that the lake is stunning, the food bland, and she can't wait for dinner served on the flight home. What, bland food? MAMA MIA! Either she thinks the food at the Italian joint in the strip mall around the corner in her home town is delizioso or she's flying back in George Clooney's private jet from Como. Buon Appitito!

Cyril, our French student who we hosted many years ago still sends us postcards from all over the world. Here's one from the Seychelles. Nice! The beaches on the Seychelles, still on our wish list. Some day, some day. Que sera, sera. (dreamy sigh).


Nearing the bottom of the tin, a couple of blue booklets. Wow! Our first passports!! Dang, I thought we lost these. Opening them up, a couple of fresh young faces. Issue date, November 1984. Two holes punched through the stamped pages. Oh yea, these are long expired.

Tucked inside the stamped pages was a laminated card. Our International Youth Hostel card. Strapped with bulging backpacks, Hali and her Farrah Fawcett hair, me wearing the Happily Mauied t-shirt I bought while honeymooning the year before, rail passes in hand. There we were, footloose and fancy free. We were goin' places.

Wait...the box is empty. No, no the box is not empty. The box is quite full. You see, that little tin box not only holds our passports and postcards, it's also a perfect place for our wishes, our dreams, our inspirations.

 I think I'll take Bob up on those beers. Make it a couple black and tans and meet Hali and I at The Celt in Dublin, North of the Liffey.

Wish you were here...

CLINK, CLINK!

Slainte!!

Man from Michigan

It started with a hand shake and a bag of marshmallows......

From the balcony, the warm glow of a fire on the beach beckoned. Our four year old girls still had enough energy left to finish upour day at the beach roasting marshmallows. Grabbing the bag of Jet Puffs, the girls, and a beach towel, we were out the door. On the way down, I reminded the girls to pick up a few long sticks.

As we approached the people around the fire, I held up the bag of the mushy morsels, as if a peace offering, and asked in my best caveman voice, " Okay to share your fire?" The guy poking at the fire with a long piece of drift wood looked up from the fire and with his best mid-west welcome said, " You bet, come on in!" He introduced himself as Bob from Michigan, his brother, and a few buddies. After hand shakes all around, we were busy skewering the marshmallows for the little girls.

Traveling from the mid-west, these guys were fascinated with the loud surf, the jutting rocks that made up the Oregon Coast.We were exchanging our home state niceties, when from above the bluff, Don, the condo manager, wagged a finger and shouted, "NO BONFIRES ON THE BEACH!!" and stormed off. Seconds later, we all glanced around and simultaneously roared in laughter at that notion. Bob flung a few more hunks of drift wood on the fire.
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Before the girls got their sticky faces and fingers any more gooey, we thanked the guys for the fire and carried the sleepy kids up to bed.

The next morning we got up, packed the car, and headed home. On the way, dreaming of our next weekend  getaway.

A couple weeks later in a jumble of mail, apostcard fell onto the table. On it was a picture of a 50's era motor lodge. There was a small photo oftwo neatly made beds, a canoe on a lake, and people gathered about a fire.Flipping it to the other side was a return address and a note scrawled across the card, " NO BONFIRES ON THE BEACH!!". And in smaller letters, Michigan Bob. I threw back my head and roared with laughter.

Since then Michigan Bob and I have swapped hundreds of postcards. I might get two or three a month. One day I received two cards. There are times where a postcard arrives the very day I just sent one off. Never much to say, heck, it's a postcard, how much can you write? Normally it's just the typical guy banter: football, beer, the next canoe trip.

Over the years, I've learned so much about Michigan... the state flower... the state flag... the state rock. Twice I've met up with Michigan Bob after that warm summer night on the Oregon Coast. He's invited me out for a week-long canoe trip in his home town and we met once in Central Oregon for a weekend of hiking and wilderness. Fun Times!!

Today, I'm looking forward to my next postcard invitation to a bonfire on the beach.