The Chronicles of Adam Vol. 5

It being that my last two emails have defied convention and BOTH been numbered 3, this email will be numbered 5 in an attempt to realign with the Cardinal numbering system and in doing so resolve the civil unrest, sinking ocean tides, and confusion between the Sun and Earth about which actually revolves around which caused by my mistake. Last time I checked it was the Earth around the Sun, but in this fast paced, work-a-day world, it's easy to get confused about things, especially when you're a gravitationally-controlled, gazillion-ton celestial body and you get two of Adam's journals both numbered 3 yet quite obviously serial their chronology.

On with what you're all here for, or more accurately, why I've just barged into your inbox (again). This past Saturday concluded the Gentlemen's Expedition to the UK and Ireland. By the UK and Ireland I mean London, Edinburgh, and Dublin, and by Gentlemen I mean twisted souls, deficient in moral fiber to the point that they stoop to pilfering rolls from free hostel breakfasts not only for further sustenance (lunch), but also in the hope that the fare will fill their bellies and shepherd them into the light of redemption, but in reality feeding their self-perpetuating ethical decay, and sending them spinning further and faster into the abyss of moral debauchery. Or something like that.

Now that everyone's thoroughly confused, we'll begin with the actual narration. We found a very cheap flight from Granada to London through one of Europe's many budget airlines, RyanAir. The cost of the flight was 20 British Pounds, which translates to something like 8000 American Dollars, and the flight went without a hitch. That is, of course, as long as you don't consider a landing that mimics the impact of a meteor crashing into the Earth worthy of hitch status. However, it's like they say, you get what you pay for, and in this case we didn’t pay for much. The flight itself was also a bit experience. The entire time you feel like your watching a network TV show, in that the content of the show (the flight itself) is quite peripheral to the network executives (airline honchos) true agenda; selling you crap. Every ten minutes or so, a rolling commercial would come down the aisle, complete with intercom voiceover to inform you that you have the opportunity to purchase fine products ranging from the ever popular underwater toaster to roller skates for dogs to gamma wave-deflecting tin foil hats. Alright, so their stuff isnt quite that out there, it's more like diminutive 5 Euro sandwiches, 10 ounce teas that you down in one sip and wonder where the rest went, cheap cologne, and booze (knowing that being drunk is the only way they might actually hoodwink someone into buying their two-hand-trash-can-slam flim-flam). But I digress, the flight was cheap and that's the important thing.

Our hostel was located in the Notting Hill neighborhood, an upper-class area of West London. No one is sure about the origins of the name Notting Hill, except that it is derived from the 15th century word nottunghull. It might seem like a start, but that's where the trail runs dry, as, according to the map provided by our hostel, no one knows what that means either. We picked the hostel because it was the cheapest we could find, at 9 Pounds per night (roughly equal to Japan's 2005 GDP).

We arrived late Thursday night, and immediately headed for bed. Friday was a day for personal satisfaction, as we all had our own agendas. Carl and Ben spent time with their families, that both happened to be in London at the time, and JT and Matt went off to do the touristy things that one does in London, like visit the Tower of London, Westminster Abbey, and drink from the fountain of purity known as the River Thames (pronounced Tems). Once again, I mince words. In this context, fountain of purity is, of course, a metaphor for sludge begotten slime flow, a drink from which would contain the nutritional equivalent of a petroleum jelly and pig slop sandwich (and some would argue that the ingredient lists read similarly). Fountain of putridity, that's what I meant. Anyway, like I said, Matt and JT were off doing the tourist thing, while I had an agenda of my own.

Four years ago, I spent the month of July in London, living with 149 other American kids in a University of London dorm near Russell Square. During the day, we all worked internships, some in law, some in medicine, others in patting the head while rubbing the tummy (I myself worked in the public relations office at Mulberry Ltd. Fashion Company), and at night we were all about the town, from Piccadilly Circus to the Victoria Embankment to Oxford Street. Unfortunately, even with all that city hopping, my knowledge of the city's layout was stunted by the fact all intracity travel was accomplished solely by way of the Tube, London's highly efficient metro. I do not assign the title of highly efficient lightly. It is, in fact, a relative comparison, in this case using New York City's subway system as a placeholder at the low end of the "Metro Functionality Scale", due to the semi-daily hallway traffic jams and sardined subway rides (the hand-in-neighbor's-business type) I unwillingly experienced last summer as a passenger aboard their system, as well as my own impatience with certain routes and the resulting hijackings and subway car pileups (for which I claim no responsibility). Back to the story at hand. Having taken the Tube everywhere the last time I was in London, I knew only certain sections of the city, not how they were connected. So that first Friday I went to a news agent, bought a pop-up London map, and started walking, determined to visit all my old stomping grounds, and see the route from one to the next.

From Notting Hill I walked through Hyde Park, and up to Oxford Street, which I took to Bond Street. I then followed Bond Street south, where I passed Mulberry Ltd., and ended up on Piccadilly Street, which led me to Piccadilly Circus. Piccadilly is a lot like any other circus you've ever been to, except without any wild animals, rings, trapeze artists, 8 foot midgets, bearded ladies, or 8 foot midgets juggling bearded ladies.

Anyway from there I headed through China town, where I promptly got lost, and ended up in Russell Square, where I was headed to begin with. As I mentioned, this was where I lived four summers ago, so it was for some reason vicariously comforting to be back on the streets I frequented during a different exciting and eventful period in my life. I suppose it's the same way I'll feel a few years down the road when I come back to Granada. The streets that today I batter with my careless footsteps will tomorrow, through the rose-tinted spectacles of nostalgia, be hallowed ground, sacred to me like Russell Square is today.

However, the more time one spends dwelling in the past, the less time one spend experiencing the present, and I decided that I'd wasted enough time reminiscing, so I headed off to continue my personal odyssey. South took me to the River Thames and Victoria Embankment, which led me to Big Ben, Parliament, and Westminster Abbey, and using my ever-improving map skills, I found my way to Buckingham Palace, and then St. James Place (Monopoly anyone?), after which I followed a zigzagging and serendipitous path into Trafalgar Square. The reason I grant a qualitative description to my passage into the Square, is that it was this manic path that led me to reunite, entirely by chance, with JT and Matt. The three of us headed up through Leicester Square (pronounced Lester) and into Piccadilly Circus to meet Ben and Carl. We quickly decided to see a show that night (without cell phones, these decisions have to be made in person), and I headed off to meet with my Dutch friend Martijn (pronounced Martin), whom I met in Buenos Aires, Argentina this past summer.

Martijn is in London working for a company that provides tenants to people who own castles or large homes but only use them a few times a year. Pretty sweet deal for the house sitters if you ask me. They get to live in an amazing home and they get paid for it. So by way of email Martijn and I had agreed to meet outside his work at 5:30 and hang out for a bit. Unfortunately, getting to his work by way of the Tube was more time consuming than I had anticipated, and getting lost once I got off the Tube, despite the aid of a map, didn’t help either. About 6:15 I finally ended up on the right street, expecting to head up to his office, take a picture to email him later and prove that I had indeed ended up there, and return to Piccadilly to meet the crew for the show, but lo! There on the sidewalk was Martijn! We ended up going to a bar to chat for about 20 minutes, at which point I offered an apologetic goodbye and headed back to Piccadilly, where I was again horridly late, to the point that my ticket almost found a new owner.

We saw Tennessee Williams' Night of the Iguana starring none other than Hollywood mainstay and political activist Woody Harrelson. The play itself was a bit dull for me, in that it had to do with the development of relationships between characters more than any diabolically ingenious, multi-threaded, action-packed plot. Of course, seeing Woody in person was a worthwhile spectacle, and I value the experience, but I certainly wouldn't see the show again, barring the replacement of all the performers with Chuck Norris, and the dialogue with explosions and roundhouse kicks.

Uh oh... 1600 words and we've only just finished the first day. Strap in folks, looks like we're in for a long ride!

Day two in London was less eventful. After walking a 10 mile connect the dots pattern with my map on Friday, I decided that Saturday, the Sabbath, would be my day of rest. However, it being that my friends don't share my religious persuasion, nor my desire to walk less, we ended up at the Changing of the Guard ceremony at Buckingham Palace at 11 AM. By noon we had seen two guard squads, both led by raucous marching bands, enter the courtyard by way of the plaza facing the Palace, but not much else. Staring through the tall fences into the Palace's courtyard was like watching a staring competition between stone statues, nothing happens... ever. And that was how it seemed that day at the Palace gates; it began with a bang (the marching bands), and then fizzled to the point that we couldn’t stand it anymore. I'm convinced that the ceremony is our world's apex of frivolous pomp and circumstance. It's supposed to be a major tourist attraction, and there were hundreds of people there to see it, but as far as I could tell, "it" consisted of little else than what the title promised. It was one situation where the advertising didn't lie, it really was simply a "changing of the guard" and nothing more.

The rest of the day was spent making visits to Portobello Road, and the British Museum where exhibits of Egyptian, Roman, Greek, and Muslim artifacts flaunt the English people's ability to steal a country or culture's treasures, buried ancestors, and architectural remnants. I'm not saying that we don't have these kinds of things in the States, but to have it ALL collected under one roof emphasized the irony of the haughty treatment granted to items unceremoniously “appropriated” from their own civilizations. Don't get me wrong, I'm not about to champion a "return the artifacts" campaign, but I do recognize the fact that the mummies and sarcophagi we tourists gawk and gaze at weren't gifts from the ancient Pharaohs of the Nile Valley.

After the British Museum we did dinner, and finished the evening with some pub crawling. We arrived back at the hostel around midnight, which might seem late, but compared to Spain, where at midnight you'd just be preparing to start thinking about maybe getting ready to go out, it was early. This cultural difference is enforced by the fact that up until recently, all pubs in London had to be closed at 11 PM, which forced people in earlier, but recent laws have granted some pubs exceptions from this law, allowing pub denizens to stay out latter, drink more, and accomplish less.

Sunday involved a trip to London's north end in order to deliver a forgotten jumper to Thomas, the Australian exchange student who had lived with my family during his week in Granada. He told me to meet him at a pub called "Church" and gave me the closest tube station. Petitioning a few bartenders for the location of "Church" revealed the whereabouts without much trouble, but it was no pub. Held in an event center, with over 1000 people in attendance, "Church" is a weekly Sunday afternoon party named so not for the attendees' pious persuasion, but for its curious scheduling coincidence with the Sunday religious mainstay of the same name. Needless to say, due to my interest in avoiding the ire of the numerous censorship organizations monitoring my communications, the sights and sounds I witnessed at Church that afternoon shall herein bar description. But if you're ever in London's Kentish Town area on a Sunday between noon and three, ask around and find the Church. Head inside and you'll understand.

The remainder of the day was spent at the Sherlock Holmes Pub/Restaurant down near the river, and at Filthy McNasty's Pub up near King's Cross, which we visited for the sole purpose of seeing if any establishment could possibly live up to a name so darn cool. It was dark, and practically empty with the exception of one gentleman slouched on the couch, whom, as they say in France, may have had one too many. It was Filthy, and it was Nasty, everything we bargained for. We (Matt, JT, and I) hung out for a bit, then headed back to the hostel to prepare for our morning train ride to Edinburgh.

People say it's expensive to visit London, but this is a blatant lie. As long as one is willing to forgo such luxuries as sleeping in a bed and eating food, a visit to London can be an enjoyable and wholly cost-effective venture, and if a traveler feels these extravagances are a necessity, either can be affected entirely free of charge at any of the fine dumpsters located throughout the city.

THE PRECEDING LINE SHALL CONSTITUTE AN ADJOURNATION TO THE TYRANNY OF DAY-TO-DAY JOURNAL-LIKE ENTRIES IN THIS EMAIL. NO LONGER SHALL THE READERSHIP BE FORCED TO TRUDGE THROUGH THE MUNDANE OCCURANCES OF OUR VACATION DAY BY DAY, HOUR BY HOUR. INSTEAD, IT SHALL BE MINUTE BY MINUTE!

Monday 6:32 AM - Wake up

Monday 6:33 AM - Consider benefits of sitting up

Monday 6:34 AM - Weigh against consequences of sitting up

Monday 6:35 AM - Commence intracranial debate between neurons sponsoring the bill for the actuation of the synapse firing sequence resulting in a sitting position, and those filibustering in support of neurons' right to rest.

Monday 6:36 AM - Lose train of thought and slip back into the deep sea of sleep

Mond...

...OK just kidding

Monday began with a Tube ride to King's Cross Station, where we promptly searched out and found the “Platform 9 and 3/4" of Harry Potter fame. I knew Harry Potter was real. Visual evidence here:

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We then rode five hours up to Edinburgh, Scotland, where we met up with Carl's brother and headed to his flat, where we would be resting our heads the next two nights.

The first night in Edinburgh was uneventful, except for a night-ending visit to a karaoke bar, where I performed rousing renditions of Bon Jovi's Blaze of Glory and AC/DC's Thunderstruck to throngs of fist pumping, lighter waving fans. The next day was jam-packed. We woke up early (noon... that's early right?) and did our now traditional walk-from-dormitory-to-place -of-interest-no-matter-the-distance (by traditional I mean done twice before, first in Madrid, then in London) which only ended up being a few miles, and headed up to see Edinburgh Castle. We decided against the tour (10 pounds for what we'd heard is a lackluster experience) so I don’t know how old the castle is, nor anything about it, other than that it holds an elevated position over the rest of the city, stoic and imposing, like a bald eagle high atop Mount Rushmore, staring out across the amber waves of grain and purple mountain majesties that dot the landscape of the Home of the Brave, peering into the hearts of men and reflecting on past triumph, contemplating future glory, and defending freedom for all eternity.

Well maybe not quite like that, but the castle's on top of this hill and you can see it from most of the downtown area. The facades of all the buildings in the city center have this moss green and black "never been washed" look to them that that combines with their 500+ year old masonry to create this unique cityscape:

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We spent the next couple hours hiking up and down Arthur's Seat, which is a small mountain/nature preserve type area right next to the city. Here's a view up from the bottom:

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It's nice that you can walk 10 minutes from the Royal Mile, Edinburgh's main strip, and end up in an area that feels like you're miles outside of the city, deep in the Scottish countryside.

The foothills:

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The bag here is from LIDL, a German budget grocery located throughout Europe. Their food is some of the worst I’ve ever had, with the exception of their kiwis and yogurts, which is enough to keep me coming back for more.

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Back at the city:

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This one is particularly nice:

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Warning: the following pictures contain Ultimate Glory and should not be viewed by the corrupt of heart, the weak of will, nor the ignorant of heroicism.

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The intrepid explorers:

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New and improved, plus JT and in color:

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A bit of context before the next set. To give you an idea of the size of these cliffs, there are some people walking along the path at the bottom.

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The triumphant trio:

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Words don’t do justice:

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The shot of the trip, courtesy of photog. Carl Brinker and featuring yours truly:

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That evening a stroke of luck placed me in the very best seat for Earth's greatest spectacle; Michael Flatley's Lord of the Dance. The show happened to be at the Edinburgh Theatre for our second and final night in town, and being the die hard Flatley fan that I am, I decided that I'd wasted enough days on this planet without experiencing the joy, so I bit the bullet and shelled out the £25 for the ticket. Mr. Flatley actually retired from Lord of the Dance about 5 years ago, but his replacement was more than proficient. I recently read that Michael Flatley once held the world record for most taps in a second with 35 (it is now held by some no talent hack who probably cheated to get his 38), and the current lead male in the show appeared to hold his own, probably clocking in somewhere around 20 or 25, even with the pressure of performing in the shadow of a golden God like Flatley. Anyway, the show was great, and to prove it, I present to you, the reader, the following photographic and cinematographic offerings:

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Video is 5.7 megabytes:

MVI_5459.AVI

After the show, I met up with Ben, Carl, and JT, none of whom, for some reason, had felt the irresistible urge to see Lord of the Dance like I had, and we headed for our night time Edinburgh catacombs tour.

Modern day Edinburgh is built atop a number of 500+ year old catacombs and "dungeons" where, as the story goes, the poor went for shelter but invariably ended up contracting fatal diseases and dying. From this legend is born the idea that these catacombs are haunted with the ghosts of the dead, and thus the perfect place to bring tourists in the pitch dark of the night and fill their impressionable minds with ghost stories. Those of you who have watched a horror movie with me know that I can't actually watch a horror movie, so I spend the duration with my eyes closed and my fingers in my ears, humming to block out the screams of the ghost's/lunatic's/werewolf's victims. That being the case, why I should want to participate in a supposedly REAL ghost tour is beyond me, but I think that at some subconscious level, I steeled my nerves, told myself they couldn’t REALLY do it if the ghosts had harmed people, and stepped into the nightmare. The tour ended up being very scary indeed, especially when we were in the "most haunted" part of the catacomb, into which, three hundred years ago, fires in the streets forced the poor who were surprised to find that the stone walls conducted the heat from above and turned their refuge into a giant kiln, cooking them alive. Now the story gets gruesome, so in the interest of allowing you to hold on to your lunch, I'll cut it off here. It was at this point that the tour guide's flashlight cut out, and we were left swimming in the spirits of the dead and in complete darkness. The guide us sweat for a while, and then continued her gory tale in the dark, slowly and deliberately. About three seconds later, with every person in the room already contemplating how to hide the wet streak down their pant leg after the tour, some hired crony dove into the room screaming at the top of his lungs, shocking a number of skulls in the room into popping at the sutures and sending the brains within to the ceiling to explode like fireworks, while eyes flew forth from sockets, held back only by their optic nerves as the eyeballs twirled like slot machine spinners. The tour ended, and it was bed time.

The next day we flew to Dublin, and were promptly rained upon. Many people dote upon the Irish countryside for its brilliant emerald splendor, but qualify their admiration with their disapproval of the copious amounts of rain dumped on that same countryside. It's ironic that it is the same damnable rain that grants Ireland, outside of Dublin, its picturesque quality. The rain only lasted the first night, during which we still managed to explore Temple Bar, one of the main tourist areas packed with pubs and live music, and also the Brazen Head, Ireland's oldest pub, which opened (supposedly) in 1198. Supposedly, because the proprietor of another pub we visited that night scoffed at the number, offering that it got "older all the time". The funny thing is that, whether he meant it as a disparaging comment or a literal one, he was right. Like anything in this world, it does get older all the time, although I decided against pointing out this folly to the gentleman.

Earlier that night, upon checking into our hostel, I experienced a coincidence the likes of which have not been matched since the day a dollop of jam fell from the shelf onto some unknowing twit's peanut butter sandwich. Unable to clean the viscous substance from his chow and without a backup sandwich in reserve, our hero took a bite and said, "Why that's quite nice. Yes. I like that." Anyway the events of that evening read as follows; In the dormitory, there were three students, one guy and two girls, who happened to be from that green and white school in East Lansing. They were just starting their study abroad session in Dublin, and after arriving at 2 PM earlier that same day, decided to catch up on some sleep. It being now 9 PM, they appeared sufficiently rested and were in a chatting mood. Situated in the far corner of the 20 bed dorm, I couldn't see the male's face, but he suddenly bolted up and looked me straight in the eye. "Wait a minute... Where do I know you from..." he blurted. As I stared back it became apparent that I knew him as well. "Central!" he shouted, recognizing me just as I did him. Nik Valdmanis, a 2002 graduate of my very own Traverse City Central High School sat smiling at me from the other side of the room.

The next day we made our obligatory visit to the Guinness Storehouse, which I found to be similar in many ways to having your head placed in a vice, limbs strapped into a chair, eyes clamped open, and force fed repeated images of hops roasting and water flowing containing spliced-in subliminal messages to convince you that the creation of Guinness has been man's greatest achievement. Paradoxically, the only part of the tour I didn’t find offensively self-congratulatory was the section on the history of Guinness advertising. This may be because beyond my constant proximity to their product, due to my companions' devotion to its consumption, I have no positive connotations associated with Guinness, so the entire tour seemed like a load of crap except for the section on what I am very interested in, the development of product marketing and image molding, both of which Guinness has done a masterful job over the years.

During the next couple days we made visits to Trinity College (nice campus), St. Patrick's Cathedral, and various other local landmarks, which were all worthwhile, but not noteworthy enough to warrant description here. That doesn't bode well for them, because it seems like just about anything warrants a description and reaction in my emails. Sorry if any of those attractions was the highlight to your trip in Dublin, and you were on the edge of your seat anticipating my humorous yet cynical take on its merits.

The last full day of our UK Ireland trip was spent on a tour of the Wicklow Mountains, where, as our tour guide informed us, every movie ever was filmed. Braveheart director ______ chose this area due to a great deal of assistance from the local government in providing army reserves as extras. Incidentally, Toy Story, Titanic, Delta Force 9, and Ernest Goes to the Moon were also filmed here in the Wicklow Mountains. Reasons for choosing this region to film in are obvious, as the following pictures will show:

The quartet:

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Sheepies!!

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Just a couple of regular guys:

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In the summer it’s a waterslide:

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If you stare at this picture long enough you’ll notice a lake and mountain.

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The next day we returned to Granada and attended our first classes at the University of Granada. This was an educational experience for a number of reasons. Obviously I'm learning about the subject matter of my new classes, African Anthropology and History of the Environment, but I also found out that our professors at CEGRI (the small language school we've been attending) really baby us when it comes to speed of speech. They speak extremely slow, whereas the professors at UGranada got to the KMart Blue Light Special on words first, and are emptying the rack into their carts. That is to say, they have a cadence of speech, such that a listener might be brought to believe that the concept of “words” is coming to an end, and whoever talks the most between now and the termination point gets to hang on to the skill. Nonetheless, after only a few classes I'm already becoming more accustomed to their rapid speech, and I don’t anticipate further problems.

This past weekend was spent in Barcelona, that's actually where I'm finishing the composition of this email. However, it being that I'll be staying in Granada the next two weekends, I'll save Barcelona tales for the next edition.

Finally, if you want to send me stuff like letters, non-perishable foodstuffs, or golden toilet seats, my address is as follows:

Adam Fivenson

CEGRI

Calle Sacristía de San Matías, 12

Granada 18009 Spain

If you do actually send a package, make sure that when you’re at post office or UPS or wherever, you mark it Undeclared items, otherwise they’ll tax it big time.

More pictures:

Here are two that were formatted incorrectly last time, complete with original captions:

Warning: Only those whose constitution of humor includes an article for baby eating need click here. Goya’s finest, they call them.

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In class at CEGRI

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Also here are the promised skiing pictures. I’m the one in red.

Two cool guys (Matt in purple):

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Headed for Coolsville

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Heading up into the red runs with Kelly:

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Despite the posed appearance, I am actually moving here:

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The whole crew:

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Here begin the London pics:

Mulberry on Bond Street, where I worked four summers ago:

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Buckingham Palace:

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This is a picture from Night of the Iguana. If you look really close in the center of the shot you can see a really bright splotch. That’s Woody Harrelson.

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Thomas and I at Church:

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Carl modeling our sleeping arrangement in his brother’s apartment in Edinburgh:

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Me modeling my hair, which coincidentally is all gone now (pictures of that next time). Ben seated in the background:

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More from the flat:

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In front of Edinburgh Castle:

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This picture proves the existence of an oddity as sought after as big foot and the Loch Ness Monster; sun in Edinburgh.

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No question about what happens here:

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Cool shot of JT and me:

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Reflections from Arthur’s Seat:

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Glory shots that are sweet but didn’t quite make “the cut”:

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http://www-personal.umich.edu/~afive/stuff/pics/spain/UKIreland/IMG_5442.JPG

All we need are kilts and bagpipes (L to R, Me, Carl, Ben):

http://www-personal.umich.edu/~afive/stuff/pics/spain/UKIreland/IMG_5445.JPG

Edinburgh Theatre at night:

http://www-personal.umich.edu/~afive/stuff/pics/spain/UKIreland/IMG_5451.JPG

Carl in the museum of torture on our dungeon tour:

http://www-personal.umich.edu/~afive/stuff/pics/spain/UKIreland/IMG_5472.JPG

Shaken and stirred, the survivors:

http://www-personal.umich.edu/~afive/stuff/pics/spain/UKIreland/IMG_5478.JPG

The TC connection, Nik and me:

http://www-personal.umich.edu/~afive/stuff/pics/spain/UKIreland/IMG_5481.JPG

Temple Bar area of Dublin:

http://www-personal.umich.edu/~afive/stuff/pics/spain/UKIreland/IMG_5482.JPG

Erin, Mick (local), Kristen, and I (see if you can find me):

http://www-personal.umich.edu/~afive/stuff/pics/spain/UKIreland/IMG_5489.JPG

At the Brazen Head:

http://www-personal.umich.edu/~afive/stuff/pics/spain/UKIreland/IMG_5498.JPG

The soccer fields at Trinity College are not for playing on:

http://www-personal.umich.edu/~afive/stuff/pics/spain/UKIreland/IMG_5525.JPG

St. Patrick’s Cathedral is visible just behind my hair:

http://www-personal.umich.edu/~afive/stuff/pics/spain/UKIreland/IMG_5552.JPG

At the Guinness Storehouse:

http://www-personal.umich.edu/~afive/stuff/pics/spain/UKIreland/IMG_5582.JPG

History of the Guinness toucan:

http://www-personal.umich.edu/~afive/stuff/pics/spain/UKIreland/IMG_5619.JPG

Good ad, better Upright Citizen’s Brigade reference.

http://www-personal.umich.edu/~afive/stuff/pics/spain/UKIreland/IMG_5626.JPG

Standing over the remnants of a robot:

http://www-personal.umich.edu/~afive/stuff/pics/spain/UKIreland/IMG_5656.JPG

Showing how that robot bit the dust, Norris style:

http://www-personal.umich.edu/~afive/stuff/pics/spain/UKIreland/IMG_5657.JPG

No comment:

http://www-personal.umich.edu/~afive/stuff/pics/spain/UKIreland/IMG_5672.JPG

Here’s the guy:

http://www-personal.umich.edu/~afive/stuff/pics/spain/UKIreland/IMG_5705.JPG

There he is again:

http://www-personal.umich.edu/~afive/stuff/pics/spain/UKIreland/IMG_5750.JPG

Waterfall in Wicklow region:

http://www-personal.umich.edu/~afive/stuff/pics/spain/UKIreland/IMG_5758.JPG

Caution when walking on water:

http://www-personal.umich.edu/~afive/stuff/pics/spain/UKIreland/IMG_5771.JPG

A cemetery full of Celtic crosses. The Celtic cross is a combination of the Roman cross and Pagan sun imagery. The two were combined by Christians when they arrived in Ireland in an attempt to convert the local sun worshipers to Christianity, and it, in conjunction with a number of other strategies, worked.

http://www-personal.umich.edu/~afive/stuff/pics/spain/UKIreland/IMG_5777.JPG