One may be interested to know how Bruges came to be included in our travel plans. After spending a day and a night there, I'm still not really sure. And as I am many tourists think when they visit PEI in the winter, I am inclined to ponder: "Who the hell would want to live in Bruges." Not only that, how could 120,000 people simultaneously think: "HEY! You know where I wanna live?! BRUGES! Yeah! In the middle of BELGIUM! Yesssss!"
Don't get me wrong, Bruges is a nice little town with tons of old buildings and quaint little cobblestoned streets (just like every other town and city on the continent) It received its charter as a city on my birthday (July 27th) in 1128 and was named a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 2000 (probably because of the aforementioned cobblestone streets and the like).
Quickly becoming our number one activity, we spent the afternoon and evening walking around Bruges, checking out the town and settling for some local cuisine at Pizza Hut. When we got back to the hostel, I destroyed Meghan at Scrabble twice (which would become an on-going theme) and we headed off to bed. On the way out of Bruges the next morning we stopped for some traditional Belgian waffles. Meghan has not shut up about them since.
Amsterdam wasn't too far of a trek from Bruges, but by the time we arrived at our out-of-the-way hostel it was 16:00 and getting dark in the already dreary city. (We were sharing our room with three Spaniards and a Dutchman, half of whom liked to stay up late and take noisy showers, and the other half of whom liked getting up insanely early. It was wonderful.) The hostel was a brand-new hostel with all the amenities of a hotel, a welcome change from some of the dingier accomodations that we had seen.
Ok, so I know that there is a lot of near-hysteria in the mind of any young traveller on their way to Amsterdam. It is almost like a popularly conceived anticipation, which the city works hard to propogate. In my mind, Amsterdam was ok to visit, and even on that note I was a bit tedious about the child-like fervour that it seems to work some travellers into. Aside from the beautiful canals it is a city trying in every which way to be shocking. I don't know if people like it like that, or if it is just an exagerated sense of Western 'LOOK AT ME!' culture. Either way, after spending the night and much of the next day walking around the crowded streets filled with smoke and red lights, I had had enough. Next country.
Well, I guess it was good that I was ready for a change of pace, as the next leg of our journey brought us the Malmo, Sweden. Malmo was nice, but getting there required a train journey back to Brussels, through the night to Hamburg, onto another train to Copenhagnen, then to Malmo. The trip took, by my watch, just under 19 hours. And if you're keeping track, that is 5 countries in one day. Hostels were pretty expensive in Malmo, so we splurged and rented a hotel room for the night. After 19 hours on trains, we napped away much of the next 24, with the bitter cold not being condusive to exploring the city streets. We took some time to walk around Malmo the next day and then hopped back on the train for Copenhagen.
By this point we had not washed clothes since London, had been through seven countries in as many days, and had logged more hours on trains then I cared to count. Weary as I was, we walked around Copenhagen in search of a laundromet for about an hour, realized that none of them were open on Sunday, and with that, I returned to the hostel and collapsed on my bed for a few hours, exhausted and dirty. Meghan tried to pry me from bed to visit a museum, but I would have none of it. By the time she returned, I had effectively re-charged my batteries and we headed out for some local cuisine. This time at the Hard Rock Café.
We once again walked through the streets of Copenhagen the next day to the train station and headed back towards Hamburg with the destination of Berlin. Unfortunately, as we arrived in Berlin that evening, I missed the right stop, figuring we could get off at the next station, closer to our hostel. The 'nest' Berlin station never came, and instead, the train went for another two hours. Southbound on a German train in the middle of the night, no known destination. Fun times.
Friday, November 30, 2007
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Half-Assed and Clueless - Eurotrip 2007: Britain and France
"That will cost about £300."
I stared at her, incredulous.
"Each?" I asked.
"Each."
"Um, we're going to go think about it." I smiled.
Bullshit we were going to go think about it.
We were standing in the middle of London Waterloo train station, trying to get from London to Paris on Eurostar that afternoon. For anyone not up on currency exchanges, £300 is about $617 Canadian.
"So, what do we do now?" asked Meghan, looking at me with eyes of a child looking to a teacher or parent to answer all their questions about the complexities and mysteries of life.
"How the eff should I know?" I thought.
"We´ll figure it out." I said.
And we did. By noon we were Dover-bound, where we would catch a ferry to Calais, and with with luck, catch the last train out of Calais to Lille, and then on to Paris. It was a hectic day, but the beaches of Dover seemed to calm Meghan down quite a bit, and a drink and a good book on the hour and a half crossing to France had a similar effect on me.
Even though we nearly missed the last train of the night in Calais and had to sit around in the train station in Lille for a couple hours, traveling went pretty wel. Pretty well, that is until we started looking for our hostel. See, European cities have this fun little habit of not putting up street signs at each corner, and so a visitor gets to guess which street he or she is on. To make matters worse, the directions that I had were very basic, telling me that the hostel was on a street just off 'Clichy'. And so, in search of the this elusive 'Clichy' we emerged from the 'Place de Clichy' subway station, which, as it turns out, comes out on the intersection of the 'Rue de Clichy', 'Avenue de Clichy', with 'Boulevard de Clichy' interseting about 100m up the street. Further up 'Rue de Clichy' is a side street called 'Passage de Clichy' and further still is the 'Quai de Clichy'. Over the next hour or so my map and I had a few choice words until I threw it away in disgust. Just then a friendly French couple stopped and tried to help. The guy, who had seen the Canadian flags on our backpacks, told us that he had spent some time in Canada (well, just Toronto) and figured he'd give us a hand. He pointed us down one of the Clichys that we had already walked down twice, and by 0:30, we were in our room at the El Dorado Hotel.
Other than being a complete bitch to find, El Dorado was an amazing bohemian four-story hostel on a pituresque Parisien side street, with a colourful victorian staircase, incredible rooms, and the best showers ever. Within a few minutes of arriving, we had already decided to extend our stay by a night.
The next morning (Tuesday), after sleeping a little late, we did the typical tour of Paris, taking in l'Arc de Triumph, and Notre Dame Cathedral in the morning. In the afternoon we discovered that the Louvre is closed on Tuesdays (which I was real thrilled about) and then, of course, we went to take the requisite look at the Eiffel Tower. Once again, jumping from sight to sight almost seemed like we were cheating the city's history and culture, but I slept off the guilt with an evening nap, and then, paying homage to Parisien culture, we had dinner at an unreal restaurant. It was, and remains, one of the best meals I have ever had. With a price to match.
The next day we hopped on a train to Belgium, and as I turned on my camera to check out my pictures form the last few stops, I found out that they were all deleted by a memory card error. Yay! And that pretty much set my mood for that day.
I stared at her, incredulous.
"Each?" I asked.
"Each."
"Um, we're going to go think about it." I smiled.
Bullshit we were going to go think about it.
We were standing in the middle of London Waterloo train station, trying to get from London to Paris on Eurostar that afternoon. For anyone not up on currency exchanges, £300 is about $617 Canadian.
"So, what do we do now?" asked Meghan, looking at me with eyes of a child looking to a teacher or parent to answer all their questions about the complexities and mysteries of life.
"How the eff should I know?" I thought.
"We´ll figure it out." I said.
And we did. By noon we were Dover-bound, where we would catch a ferry to Calais, and with with luck, catch the last train out of Calais to Lille, and then on to Paris. It was a hectic day, but the beaches of Dover seemed to calm Meghan down quite a bit, and a drink and a good book on the hour and a half crossing to France had a similar effect on me.
Even though we nearly missed the last train of the night in Calais and had to sit around in the train station in Lille for a couple hours, traveling went pretty wel. Pretty well, that is until we started looking for our hostel. See, European cities have this fun little habit of not putting up street signs at each corner, and so a visitor gets to guess which street he or she is on. To make matters worse, the directions that I had were very basic, telling me that the hostel was on a street just off 'Clichy'. And so, in search of the this elusive 'Clichy' we emerged from the 'Place de Clichy' subway station, which, as it turns out, comes out on the intersection of the 'Rue de Clichy', 'Avenue de Clichy', with 'Boulevard de Clichy' interseting about 100m up the street. Further up 'Rue de Clichy' is a side street called 'Passage de Clichy' and further still is the 'Quai de Clichy'. Over the next hour or so my map and I had a few choice words until I threw it away in disgust. Just then a friendly French couple stopped and tried to help. The guy, who had seen the Canadian flags on our backpacks, told us that he had spent some time in Canada (well, just Toronto) and figured he'd give us a hand. He pointed us down one of the Clichys that we had already walked down twice, and by 0:30, we were in our room at the El Dorado Hotel.
Other than being a complete bitch to find, El Dorado was an amazing bohemian four-story hostel on a pituresque Parisien side street, with a colourful victorian staircase, incredible rooms, and the best showers ever. Within a few minutes of arriving, we had already decided to extend our stay by a night.
The next morning (Tuesday), after sleeping a little late, we did the typical tour of Paris, taking in l'Arc de Triumph, and Notre Dame Cathedral in the morning. In the afternoon we discovered that the Louvre is closed on Tuesdays (which I was real thrilled about) and then, of course, we went to take the requisite look at the Eiffel Tower. Once again, jumping from sight to sight almost seemed like we were cheating the city's history and culture, but I slept off the guilt with an evening nap, and then, paying homage to Parisien culture, we had dinner at an unreal restaurant. It was, and remains, one of the best meals I have ever had. With a price to match.
The next day we hopped on a train to Belgium, and as I turned on my camera to check out my pictures form the last few stops, I found out that they were all deleted by a memory card error. Yay! And that pretty much set my mood for that day.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Half-Assed and Clueless - Eurotrip 2007: London
The trip from Stansted Airport to London was our first introduction to subways in Europe, and it took a little getting used to the set-up of the infamous London Metro. By the time we reached the tube stop closest to out hostel, it was coming on to 19:00. We emerged from the empty station into darkness, and as we got our bearings on our surroundings, it quickly became apparent that we were in the ghetto. Run down houses lined the streets and graffiti decorated the walls of the buildings and abandoned rail cars around us. As we walked down the streets, passing a few shady characters, fireworks exploded in the above and around us, giving the search for the hostel an added sense of urgency.
We walked around for about half an hour, getting lost down dead-ends and on streets I would have rather not travelled. By the end of it, Meghan was none too pleased with being out in a random ghetto of London in the middle of the night. We finally found the 'Bridge Park Hotel', which, as it turned out, was only slightly better than being stuck on an unknown street in a foreign country. Joseph, the Middle Eastern clerk took our info and led us upstairs and through a maze of hallways, passing a few characters that sported the same greasy mullets and strange odours of the randoms on the street. When we arrived at our room, it had none of the amenities that we had been promised, and the window over-looked a garage and an alley, with fireworks popping like gunfire in the background. All she could do was laugh, but by this point Meghan was about ready to ditch the whole European trip thing, and check-in to the nearest hotel for the month. Because we had booked two nights at the Bridge Park Hotel, we left the room (making sure to lock it) and went to search the internet to see if we could or should switch hostels for the next night. As we were sitting there a man off the street ran into the lobby and asked Joseph to call the police. A man was being beaten by some teens outside. We decided against staying a second night.
Like a Hebrew fleeing Egypt or a soldier on the last chopper out of Saigon, we fled the London ghetto the next morning, getting lost a few more times before finding the tube station. Our new home for the night would be Piccadilly Backpackers, which was in downtown London; a few minutes walk from Trafalgar Square. It was an incredible sunny autumn Sunday that greeted us as we emerged from the Piccadilly Circus metro station.
The old stately buildings of downtown London were a welcome change from the crumbling outskirts. As would become common practice on this trip, we walked around and looked at stuff all day, starting with Trafalgar Square, and down the mall to Buckingham Palace and the adjacent park, before heading towards the Thames and Westminster Abby, the Houses of Parliament and the London Eye. After some fish and chips at a local pub, we toured the National Art Gallery. One pattern that began to emerge here was our tendency to only skim the surface of each country by checking out the biggest tourist traps in each country and skimming the surface of culture (leading me to dub the trip as 'Half-Assed and Clueless') but hey, we only have a month. Give us a break. Satisfied that we had seen enough of the city, Meghan gave the now oft-repeated command "Next country!" and so, the next morning, we set off for France.
We walked around for about half an hour, getting lost down dead-ends and on streets I would have rather not travelled. By the end of it, Meghan was none too pleased with being out in a random ghetto of London in the middle of the night. We finally found the 'Bridge Park Hotel', which, as it turned out, was only slightly better than being stuck on an unknown street in a foreign country. Joseph, the Middle Eastern clerk took our info and led us upstairs and through a maze of hallways, passing a few characters that sported the same greasy mullets and strange odours of the randoms on the street. When we arrived at our room, it had none of the amenities that we had been promised, and the window over-looked a garage and an alley, with fireworks popping like gunfire in the background. All she could do was laugh, but by this point Meghan was about ready to ditch the whole European trip thing, and check-in to the nearest hotel for the month. Because we had booked two nights at the Bridge Park Hotel, we left the room (making sure to lock it) and went to search the internet to see if we could or should switch hostels for the next night. As we were sitting there a man off the street ran into the lobby and asked Joseph to call the police. A man was being beaten by some teens outside. We decided against staying a second night.
Like a Hebrew fleeing Egypt or a soldier on the last chopper out of Saigon, we fled the London ghetto the next morning, getting lost a few more times before finding the tube station. Our new home for the night would be Piccadilly Backpackers, which was in downtown London; a few minutes walk from Trafalgar Square. It was an incredible sunny autumn Sunday that greeted us as we emerged from the Piccadilly Circus metro station.
The old stately buildings of downtown London were a welcome change from the crumbling outskirts. As would become common practice on this trip, we walked around and looked at stuff all day, starting with Trafalgar Square, and down the mall to Buckingham Palace and the adjacent park, before heading towards the Thames and Westminster Abby, the Houses of Parliament and the London Eye. After some fish and chips at a local pub, we toured the National Art Gallery. One pattern that began to emerge here was our tendency to only skim the surface of each country by checking out the biggest tourist traps in each country and skimming the surface of culture (leading me to dub the trip as 'Half-Assed and Clueless') but hey, we only have a month. Give us a break. Satisfied that we had seen enough of the city, Meghan gave the now oft-repeated command "Next country!" and so, the next morning, we set off for France.
Thursday, November 22, 2007
Half-Assed and Clueless - Eurotrip 2007: The Beginning... and the Republic of Ireland
I awoke suddenly to an alarm at 4:30am and thrashed around in the dark to silence the beeping. I had been sleeping on a large air mattress between Tory and Winston, two friendly dogs belonging to my sister and her roommate. They stirred slightly, but as I forced myself out of the warm bed, they snuggled back down for a few more hours of sleep. It was Wednesday, October 31st, what was the first day of my trip to Europe. In an hour Meghan, my traveling partner, would pick me up and we would head to Halifax to catch our plane to Washington D.C. with the eventual destination of Dublin, Republic of Ireland. My sister Sheri made me some tea as I showered and bid farewell to me as Meghan pulled up the driveway. The two things going through my mind as I trudged towards the car was "Holy shit it is cold," and "What the hell am I getting myself into?"
Meghan Price is 23-years-old, like me, and works as a nurse in Miramichi, New Brunswick. We met about nine years ago at a conference our parents were attending and have kept in touch off and on ever since. After being frustrated by several plans falling through and by several potential travel partners changing plans, I asked her half joking on MSN one day if she wanted to go to Europe. She immediately thoguht it was a great idea, set about getting leave from work, and so, here we were, at about 5:00 on a cold Halloween morning, driving off to Hali and beyonjd in her beloved Tiburon.
After the usual procedures at Stanfield International and after various jokes about what we should have dressed up as for Halloween (ex. terrorist, tourist), we arrived in Washington D.C. at about 11:30 and headed into the city to see what we could see. Playing the role of tourists well, we walked along Pennsylvania Avenue and saw all the requisite buildings and sights that are comprised in a visit to D.C., Capitol Hill, the Canadian Embassy, George's House, etc. After an eight hour lay-over we boarded an Aer Lingus flight at 20:00 and were off to Dublin. Undersatndably, we were both very tired by this point, but the six and a half hour yielded little rest for either of us. Between the dumb shows on TV and the screaming baby we didn't get much sleep through the night, and so by the time we landed in Ireland, I was pretty damn tired.
We arrived in Dublin at 7:00 Thursday morning and hopped on a bus to head downtown. Under the shroud of over-tiredness I felt a pang of excitement that we were well on our way. Of course we were by now over 24 hours into our trip, and any feelings of excitement were soon over-taken by the severe desire for sleep. We arrived at our hostel at 9:00 so that they could tell us that we would have to wait until 13:00 for our room. Yay. We then made the first mistake of our trip, and ate breakfast at Burger King. They've concocted some kind of sausage burger sandwich, and it is absolutely disgusting. I was, however, satisfied that I was able to exit the restaurant without throwing up, and so off we went to see where our titred feet could carry us before 13:00. The one thing I could see about Dublin right away was that it was exactly what I expected. The row-housing, the multiple pubs, the Irish-looking people. Anyone who has traveled Europe will also tell you of the near overwhelming age of the buildings and communities in comparison to those in North America, and as we wandered around the soaring spires of churches and old castle walls, my interest was at least half peaked.
Once we got back to the hostel, our room was finally ready and we almost immdiately fell asleep for at least six hours. At 20:30 we again made our way into the downtown core and roamed the crowded streets, stopping at a restaurant and a pub.There was a huge mix of people of all languages, whjich surprised me, as I figuring Dublin to be more homogenous, like PEI. As it turns out, Ireland has exploded economically (in a good way) over the past few years, and as a result, the immigrant population has sky-rocketed. Though enthralled by the atmosphere of the streets and the diversity of people crowding them, there was much sleep to catch on, so after a meal and the requisite pint of Guinness, we headed back for our hostel where I snored the night away.
Coming from rural New Brunswick, far away from a metropolitan centre of any kind, Meghan was a bit overwhelmed by the size and intensity of Dublin. That, along with the draw of Blarney Castle and its famous stone prompted us to leave Dublin on Friday and to head for Cork. We caught the free breakfast at the hostel and then walked along the Leffey River through Dublin to the train station (just adjacent to the 250-year old, 64-acre Guinness Brewery). We got our Eurail Passes validated, picked up a couple post cards, and got on the train... just in time to see the last seat taken. We had the pleasure of sitting on the floor beside the bathroom, between a baby carriage and some garbage for much of the three-hour journey, but once an entire troupe of girls and their over-enthusiatic mothers (living vicariously through their daughters) got off to compete in a dance competition, we found ourselves sharing an entire car between ourselves and a young mother with her toddler. She was very kind and candid and through our conversation, gave us a bunch of tips on what to see and what to avoid in Ireland and London, and told us several stories about her life living in the area.
Cork, on the south shore of the island, is the second largest city in Ireland, and yes, was where Peter Petrelli was found in a freight container in the first episode of 'Heroes' this season. Cork was another beautiful town with tons of old buildings, blah blah blah, and such. Hoping to have the same luck with dinner as we had had the night before, we walked around looking for a restaurant, but after along fruitless search, Meghan ended up eating at McDonald's as I sat there watching, wishing I could find decent bowl of soup somewhere. (As an extended note, Meghan is absolutely obsessed with McDonald's and will sometimes go on little rants on the merits of chicken burgers vs. double cheese burgers. - ex. "Sometimes when I can't decide, I just get both." - Myself, on the other hand, not being keen on fast food to begin with and having just read a book on the industry, am about ready to give up processed food for good). When we got back to the hostel, Meghan took off for bed, and I sat downstairs in the bar, worked through our itinerary and travel plans for the next few days, and tried some 'Murphy's' (the local equivalent to Guinness). It was very good.
The next morning (Saturday), we headed off to Blarney Castle (a 600 year old fortification in Cork County), walked around the castle grounds, which were super cool, and kissed the Blarney Stone, which was super disgusting. (I was impressed that I didn't catch any major diseases, although it is possible that it is just dormant.) We stopped into a pub in Blarney before hopping on the bus back into town, and I finally got my bowl of soup. (Along with another pint of Murphy's).
We caught the bus back to Cork with a bunch of 30-something rowdy women celebrating a stagette or something, and then took another bus to the Cork Airport for our RyanAir flight to London. After another few hours of sitting around and waiting, we boarded the no-frills flight and bore the wrath of flying on the cheap for the next couple hours. The lethary of jet lag was still bearing down on us as we arrived in London that evening, but we felt ready for anything. Little did we know what awaited us in London at the now-legendary Bridge Park Hotel.
Meghan Price is 23-years-old, like me, and works as a nurse in Miramichi, New Brunswick. We met about nine years ago at a conference our parents were attending and have kept in touch off and on ever since. After being frustrated by several plans falling through and by several potential travel partners changing plans, I asked her half joking on MSN one day if she wanted to go to Europe. She immediately thoguht it was a great idea, set about getting leave from work, and so, here we were, at about 5:00 on a cold Halloween morning, driving off to Hali and beyonjd in her beloved Tiburon.
After the usual procedures at Stanfield International and after various jokes about what we should have dressed up as for Halloween (ex. terrorist, tourist), we arrived in Washington D.C. at about 11:30 and headed into the city to see what we could see. Playing the role of tourists well, we walked along Pennsylvania Avenue and saw all the requisite buildings and sights that are comprised in a visit to D.C., Capitol Hill, the Canadian Embassy, George's House, etc. After an eight hour lay-over we boarded an Aer Lingus flight at 20:00 and were off to Dublin. Undersatndably, we were both very tired by this point, but the six and a half hour yielded little rest for either of us. Between the dumb shows on TV and the screaming baby we didn't get much sleep through the night, and so by the time we landed in Ireland, I was pretty damn tired.
We arrived in Dublin at 7:00 Thursday morning and hopped on a bus to head downtown. Under the shroud of over-tiredness I felt a pang of excitement that we were well on our way. Of course we were by now over 24 hours into our trip, and any feelings of excitement were soon over-taken by the severe desire for sleep. We arrived at our hostel at 9:00 so that they could tell us that we would have to wait until 13:00 for our room. Yay. We then made the first mistake of our trip, and ate breakfast at Burger King. They've concocted some kind of sausage burger sandwich, and it is absolutely disgusting. I was, however, satisfied that I was able to exit the restaurant without throwing up, and so off we went to see where our titred feet could carry us before 13:00. The one thing I could see about Dublin right away was that it was exactly what I expected. The row-housing, the multiple pubs, the Irish-looking people. Anyone who has traveled Europe will also tell you of the near overwhelming age of the buildings and communities in comparison to those in North America, and as we wandered around the soaring spires of churches and old castle walls, my interest was at least half peaked.
Once we got back to the hostel, our room was finally ready and we almost immdiately fell asleep for at least six hours. At 20:30 we again made our way into the downtown core and roamed the crowded streets, stopping at a restaurant and a pub.There was a huge mix of people of all languages, whjich surprised me, as I figuring Dublin to be more homogenous, like PEI. As it turns out, Ireland has exploded economically (in a good way) over the past few years, and as a result, the immigrant population has sky-rocketed. Though enthralled by the atmosphere of the streets and the diversity of people crowding them, there was much sleep to catch on, so after a meal and the requisite pint of Guinness, we headed back for our hostel where I snored the night away.
Coming from rural New Brunswick, far away from a metropolitan centre of any kind, Meghan was a bit overwhelmed by the size and intensity of Dublin. That, along with the draw of Blarney Castle and its famous stone prompted us to leave Dublin on Friday and to head for Cork. We caught the free breakfast at the hostel and then walked along the Leffey River through Dublin to the train station (just adjacent to the 250-year old, 64-acre Guinness Brewery). We got our Eurail Passes validated, picked up a couple post cards, and got on the train... just in time to see the last seat taken. We had the pleasure of sitting on the floor beside the bathroom, between a baby carriage and some garbage for much of the three-hour journey, but once an entire troupe of girls and their over-enthusiatic mothers (living vicariously through their daughters) got off to compete in a dance competition, we found ourselves sharing an entire car between ourselves and a young mother with her toddler. She was very kind and candid and through our conversation, gave us a bunch of tips on what to see and what to avoid in Ireland and London, and told us several stories about her life living in the area.
Cork, on the south shore of the island, is the second largest city in Ireland, and yes, was where Peter Petrelli was found in a freight container in the first episode of 'Heroes' this season. Cork was another beautiful town with tons of old buildings, blah blah blah, and such. Hoping to have the same luck with dinner as we had had the night before, we walked around looking for a restaurant, but after along fruitless search, Meghan ended up eating at McDonald's as I sat there watching, wishing I could find decent bowl of soup somewhere. (As an extended note, Meghan is absolutely obsessed with McDonald's and will sometimes go on little rants on the merits of chicken burgers vs. double cheese burgers. - ex. "Sometimes when I can't decide, I just get both." - Myself, on the other hand, not being keen on fast food to begin with and having just read a book on the industry, am about ready to give up processed food for good). When we got back to the hostel, Meghan took off for bed, and I sat downstairs in the bar, worked through our itinerary and travel plans for the next few days, and tried some 'Murphy's' (the local equivalent to Guinness). It was very good.
The next morning (Saturday), we headed off to Blarney Castle (a 600 year old fortification in Cork County), walked around the castle grounds, which were super cool, and kissed the Blarney Stone, which was super disgusting. (I was impressed that I didn't catch any major diseases, although it is possible that it is just dormant.) We stopped into a pub in Blarney before hopping on the bus back into town, and I finally got my bowl of soup. (Along with another pint of Murphy's).
We caught the bus back to Cork with a bunch of 30-something rowdy women celebrating a stagette or something, and then took another bus to the Cork Airport for our RyanAir flight to London. After another few hours of sitting around and waiting, we boarded the no-frills flight and bore the wrath of flying on the cheap for the next couple hours. The lethary of jet lag was still bearing down on us as we arrived in London that evening, but we felt ready for anything. Little did we know what awaited us in London at the now-legendary Bridge Park Hotel.
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