BACK TO COTTBUS/THOUGHTS OF EIRE

So, here is my first posting from the land of chocolate since I got back. I arrived in Germany last Thursday, jet lagged and disorientated, only to be led to a bachelor party in Dresden. No, this wasn't an accident loyal reader(s), I actually planned to spend the night on a plane, have a four hour lay over in London, get a two hour ride from Berlin to Dresden, and then somehow go to a restaurant, eat some doners, drink some beer, then going partying with the guys. My friend Kate (from Thanksgiving fame) was getting married to Tobias from Germany, and we had to get our party on before the wedding. Luckily, nothing was planned for Friday, so we all slept till oneish. Saturday the wedding went off without a hitch at a castle with vineyards engulfing the surrounding hills. Wunderschoen. I would like to write more about the wedding, but I will do so later with some photos, but now, I must return to what happened in Ireland.

So, I left you last time pondering the inner workings of that crazy and grammatically confused language. Now, let's take a closer look at the place and it's people. First of all, I lived in two places in Ireland. Both were in County Kerry, in the extreme southwest of Ireland. This area is known as being the most touristy spot in Ireland (next to Dublin), as tour buses run over each other on the infamous "Ring of Kerry". The Ring is famous mainly for being the principle means which people choose to die on a regular basis. It is quite possibly the most dangerous road ever constructed on purpose, and also perhaps the most beautiful. You see, in an effort to provide nice scenic views to the tourists and perhaps the locals, people way back when built roads to accomodate horses and carriages and the like, but once the old auto voiture came along, no one thought it necessary to widen the road. The consequence is one of the most hair-raising experiences that you will ever go through, and an affirmation to anyone that survives (about 2o percent of all that actually finish it, I think) that there is little else to fear in the world, even a drunk leprechaun chasing you down for making a go for his pot o' gold.

Even if you some how make it through a few dozens miles of this road of death, then you eventually turn onto another road (some how narrower than the Ring), and after a few turns, your life flashing before your eyes a couple of times, narrowly avoiding other cars, sacrificing your side mirrors to the asphalte god, you miracusouly end up in a little village called Portmagee, in all likely inhabited by people who felt just like you do now, too scared to go back on the Ring, and just decided that this was as good as any place to stay for the rest of their lives. Yet, just like the others, after you are wowed by the amaying beauty of the place, you are suddenly hit with the deeply regretting realization that their is absolutly nothing for you to do. So, like the locals, you start to drink. And man, do I mean drink. I have to say, I went to Tennessee, one of the number one party schools, I have lived in Germany were drinking on the street is as normal as walking your dog, but the Irish could easily drink everyone under the table. It is not like they are genitically different than the rest of us, rather, as mentioned, there is not a whole lot to do there, plus when everyone was unemployed, no one had any money to do much else. Now that people are relatively less poor in funds, the only difference is that the price of a pint has gone up, while the dozen or two pints you might consume in an evening remains unchanged.

So somehow, I ended up here....lost...confused...and soon, as drunk as anyone....