Ok, ok, so we missed the gay parade, having presumed it would be on Sunday, as everywhere in America it is. One might think that the Irish reserve the sabbath for church, but more likely, given that there are 300 bar stools to every pew, the answer has more to do with recovery for the Monday workday.
We had dinner at a steak house which had one vegetarian dish—an odd concession to herbivores eating with carnivores: portobello Wellington. Our Polish waiter was put off by my saying that “we missed your parade today.” He managed to working in the word “girlfriend” into the next six sentences seven times. Calm down, honey, we are here to eat—food.
A world traveler, he and the li’le miss hike on various continents, but have no interest in going to the US. Whether it’s the politics or the boys assaulting him, we never determined.
On Sunday, we hiked east until I got us lost, which never really takes all that long. Ireland, like many other countries, overbuilt in the 2000s, but they have some pretty good stuff to show for it. These apartments, in an area similar to San Francisco’s China Basin, have generous balconies and lots of glass, larger than our million dollar studios.
A neat glass cylinder imbedded in stone.
Gallic football is more like basketball than soccer. They use their hands and have to bounce (dribble?) the ball once every two or three steps (who’s counting?). A player can score two points by getting it into the net, or one for going over the net, if you can believe the street kid at the bar explaining rules to this American pretending to know something about sport. He was Polish, too, so I now know what a Pole speaking English with an Irish accent sounds like, though that is unlikely to be useful for my remaining years.