Just think what toucan do

No blog yesterday...I know. Sorry. There were adventures to be had and I couldn't be slowed down by the internet...I'll catch you up though.

I don't know if we've discussed this before or not, but I have an uncanny gravitational pull for crazy strangers. I get asked for directions by strangers literally every day. Not just in Ireland, but Portland, Los Angeles, New York, and everywhere I go. I once went for a short walk around Occidental and in under twenty minutes I was stopped three times by people asking me for directions. I used to think that I was overreacting and that everyone must get stopped for directions as much as I do, but I have come to realize that I just have a magical forcefield that draws confused strangers towards me. Despite what my mother says about my sense of direction, I actually find my way around very well without getting lost so I'm generally able to help the crazy people out...even when I've only been in the city for a few hours like my first day in Dublin when two Irish guys asked me how to get somewhere and then they were very embarrassed to discover that I was actually not a local. The next day I directed some French people to a movie theater, the next day I was unable to help some Australians looking for a place called O'Shea's, and this morning I was walking around and I was the only person out on a quiet, rainy Sunday morning, but then like magic a confused American girl in pajamas and flip flops appeared from nowhere to ask me where the nearest internet cafe was. I sometimes save people the embarrassment of discovering that I too am a tourist and give them directions in a faux-Irish accent, but that's only for special occasions. Actually, I've been wanting to confess that I am really worried about the well-being of a nice British family who may still be wandering the streets of Ennis looking for the grocery store that I accidentally told them was in the opposite direction to where it really is.

I'm glad I got that off my chest.

Yesterday morning I thought I would be really worldly and cultured and strike up a conversation in Spanish with some Spanish guests at the hostel, but evidently my Spanish is a little rusty. I said one phrase and they were like "Uh...What???" and then I got really embarrassed and said "ok, sorry, bye!" and ran away.

After that embarrassment I walked around the city for a while and went to a funky little covered market selling lots of odds and ends. Here's a stall that was selling ladies clothing and big dead bugs in glass boxes.

I also felt like being really touristy yesterday so I went to the very popular National Museum of Alcoholism...also called the Guinness Storehouse Museum. Everyone that I have met has told me that I have to go there and like, who am I to disregard their advice? It's a pretty clever operation. You arrive with all of the other masses of tourists to stand in a Disneyland-length line before paying an arm and a leg to enter the museum. Then you walk through the museum reading all about the Guinness-making process, Arthur Guinness's legacy, and various funny advertising campaigns. All of this makes you really want a Guinness and then you arrive at the top floor of the building and they give you a free pint. As it turns out, a pint is a lot of liquid. The Guinness imbibing room at the top of the building is also where the best views of Dublin are because it is just a circular room with 360 degrees of windows. Observe the nice photo to the right.

The Challenge.The Accomplishment. (sorry parents.)

Skip ahead now to this morning. I decided to go out for Sunday brunch...which is actually very difficult to do in Ireland since everything except the churches is closed on Sunday mornings and the only other people out on the streets are lost American girls in pajamas looking for internet cafes. (If you don't get that joke then you haven't been paying attention.) I finally found a very swanky pseudo-French cafe where I ordered porridge. My experience with ordering porridge on this trip so far is that a bowl of pretty standard oatmeal arrives, but that was not the case here. I'm not sure what that was that I ate, but it involved a lot of cream, a lot of berries, and it was really delicious. If that is what porridge is supposed to be then I understand why Goldilocks got into trouble.

Walking out of the swanky Frenchy porridge cafe I discovered a place called "The Secret Bookstore." It is aptly titled because it is completely hidden down a little alley and all that leads you there is a tiny sign that says "secret bookstore this way." Inside there were a lot of cool used books, but guess what I found!!! There before me was a book of six full-color pull-out posters of the various portraits of Queen Elizabeth I. omg. If you know me well, then you know that despite our 454 year age difference, Good Queen Bess and I share a very special bond. I snatched up the posters immediately along with another piece of reading material for the plane.

Happy birthday Brian...he's 30 now...whoa.