Meeting royalty while waiting for a transfer

While waiting for the X20 bus to Athlone at Dublin Airport, the bus stand was very crowded and I was trapped between other people and a luggage trolley someone had left. These trolleys serve an odd function in Anglo-Irish airports. It seems that they are almost a requirement for air travelers. Even if a person only has one piece of luggage, even with wheels, people seem compelled to use one to move their luggage through the airport. This is a journey from the luggage claim to the next form of transportation. Yet, the luggage trolley stays at the airport. How people manage to maneuver their bags beyond that point remains a mystery.

I had my bag resting against the railing, which prevented pedestrians from wandering into the roadway around the airport, and adjacent to the trolley. My attention was turned to the announcement board, which indicated that the bus was due to arrive, but scanning the road leading to the bus stop there were no sign of the vehicle that was to take me to the heart of Ireland. Out of nowhere, this older woman with an American accent pushed her way through the crowded and addressed me. “My good sir,” with fake seriousness, “please allow me to retrieve my throne.” I was a little embarrassed, both for her and that I as being addressed in this manner, and slightly move my bag without saying a word while she retrieved the luggage trolley. As she moved away she said, “It may not be much of a throne, but it is made in Germany and steers very well.” She maneuvered the trolley between a couple of people and positioned it adjacent to the curb, whereupon she sat with her feet planted precariously close to where bus wheels came and went. Shortly thereafter my bus did arrive – confusion reigned because the sign across the top misidentified the route and destination – and the woman remained seated, in what I would have estimated as in an uncomfortable seat, and did not get on the bus. There was a little voice in my head that said, “good, that’s one less crazy person on the bus.”   

Water Issues

On the first day of the seminar I was asked by  a student whether it was safe to drink everywhere we were traveling in Europe. It struck me what poor information many Americans had about Europe. Stories about the Black Death or unsanitary conditions in the Middle Ages, which we are taught in history classes as students, must permeate into our understanding of European countries. It is similar to our misperception of safety and violence in Europe. Film and popular culture portray Europe as a place where young Americans are kidnapped and held for ransom, creating a sense that it is very risky to travel in Western Europe. This fear has been exacerbated by recent terrorist attacks in Paris and Brussels. Yet, it is the case, that people are far more likely to be the victim of a violent crime in the United States than in Western Europe.  

My reply to the student who was concerned about the safety of drinking water was short and succinct, perhaps too much so for the first day of travel. I simply replied that given the situation in Flint and other American cities, the drinking water in Europe is probably safer than in the United States. 

Breakfast in Edinburgh

I was having breakfast, in the hotel, on a Sunday morning. Sitting next to me were two young women from Northern England. They were attending a Hen Party and recounting and analyzing the events of the previous evening. Over the course of their conversation a couple of older women came by the table and inquired about the evening. The younger women noted that everyone else turned in early and they were left to their own devices.

We had acknowledged each other with good mornings when they sat at the table next to mine. The young woman to my immediate left, a blonde wearing white jean and a black top, was in her mid to late 20s. She looked ready to hit the pubs again, rather than having a morning after. Her breakfast companion, sitting across the table, a brunette with a pink top and black yoga pants, was of a similar age. I am pretty sure neither woman was wearing their natural hair color. (too blonde, too dark)

I was engrossed in the morning’s news, note really paying attention, until I heard the brunette opine, “I really like that boy…”

The blonde quickly finished her thought: “The one who sucked your face?” and chuckled. There was a momentary lull in their conversation. I glanced over and smiled, and the blonde caught my eye and gave me a knowing look.

After a few minutes, the brunette got up to get another croissant. The blond looked me in the eye, smiled broadly, and shook her head ever so slightly. When her companion returned, she was situating herself in the chair and said, longingly, “I really like that Irish boy from last night…”

Measuring a Mile

Mile post in Athlone, Ireland

I keep track of the miles I walk as a way to motivate myself. Arbitrarily, I do not tabulate any walk that measures less than a mile. A mile, which is a Roman term derived from 1,000 times the left foot touched the ground (a pace) –  mille passus – seems like a sufficient minimum exercise. Although, again, this is completely arbitrary.

In the United States, the measurement of a mile is commonplace and widely understood. Yet, the Royal Mile in Edinburgh, the combination of streets that runs from Edinburgh Castle to Holyrood Palace, is one Scots mile. A Scots mile is 1.12 English miles. Because the measure of a mile varies depending upon the stride of the individuals, measurements in different places also varied. The differences between Scots, English, Welsh and Irish miles led to great confusion. We never stop to think about what an arbitrary nature of the English mile and how it reflects the history of English dominance over the British Isles, and later the subsequent British Empire. It is little wonder that much of the world opted for the more rational metric system.

Scones and Coffee

Food and drink are important aspects of any travel experience. For me, a must when travelling in Scotland or Ireland is an afternoon coffee and scone, which often substitutes for lunch. The scone is even better when it is served with clotted cream and black currant jam. Having it in a coffee shop, where you can slow down a hectic day of travel, people watch and savor the treat is the preferred way to enjoy it.

Selling Flowers in Pittsburgh

On a Friday afternoon in downtown Pittsburgh, a vendor selling bouquets of flowers from white plastic buckets that I associate with industrial foods is advertising to cars on the way home. As I approach on foot, the man, who is facing away from me, is practicing his martial arts moves, punching and kicking objects and people that only exist in his imagination. I thought to myself that his practice session was, perhaps, not conducive to selling his products. Flowers are usually the purview of the marital arts, not the martial arts.  He suddenly turned my way and was seemingly surprised by my presences. He looked at me sheepishly and asked, “Flowers, sir?” 

Vignettes of Shadeyside

"Mother's pure Egg Noodles"

The Shadeyside neighborhood  was originally a small village that was later incorporated into the city of Pittsburgh in the mid-19th century. Today there are several businesses, and remnants of establishments, that attest to the vitality of the area. A sign painted on a brick wall, visible from Pearl Street, touts Boehm Company’s Egg Noodles. Dan Cercone’s Barbershop, in operation since 1931, continues to serve local patrons with old-fashion barber services. It is an area that is alive and vibrant, but not reconstructed in a faux gentrification style that is prevalent today. 

A well-dressed woman, with a black coat and matching beret emerged from a row house on Taylor Street. Behind her she dragged a small piece of rolling luggage. The front window of her house had the curtains drawn, but between the window and the curtain was a tortoise-shell cat studiously watching her human disappear down the sidewalk. No doubt, in the cat’s mind, the well-coiffed woman was off on a hunt to gather food for her feline baby. It struck me, as I walked away, neither the cat nor I would ever know the truth.

Dan Cercone's Barbershop after hours

I had breakfast at Rocky’s, where the topic of conversation among the patrons was the current fortunes of Pittsburgh sports team. Pittsburgh is a city where the community is built upon loyalty to, and support for, the local sport teams. More so than any other American city I know, Pittsburghers are more apt to wear clothing supporting the Steelers, Pirates and Penguins, all of which have some form of black and gold in their jersey. It was a January Sunday morning as I sat in Rocky’s and the Steelers' playoff game conflicted with a Penguins games. The conversation focused on the improbability of a Steelers win, while also debating the general malaise that surrounded the Penguins. While one older gentleman hoped for a miracle win for the Steelers, propelling them into the Super Bowl, the more knowledgeable in the diner that morning were resigned to an inevitable outcome.