(New York City) – Donning the facial hair of a nineteenth-century socialite, Micah Laaker joined longtime associate William Maday on a week long journey through the southern half of Ireland last week. To document his travels, Mr. Laaker sent a series of emails, entitled “Dispatch from the Emerald Isle, Volumes 1 – 5,” to a small group of friends and family.

Despite his honest explanation of not having brought his Palm Pilot to access email addresses, many friends and family of Mr. Laaker were quick to voice their disappointment over not being in this select group of spam recipients. This was in sharp contrast to the several who expressed disappointment in being included on the list in the first place. To satiate former group’s request for information on the trip, Mr. Laaker released the dispatches in their edited entirety, as well as the associated photos from the trip.

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Dispatch from the Emerald Isle, Volumes 1-5
Greetings from the green land up north. My friend, Billy, and I arrived in Shannon airport yesterday without many problems and without much sleep. After being greeted by Icleandically-cold Dan Dooley car rental representatives, we made our way to our Fiat Punto. (The Punto, in my opinion, may be the weakest car ever made, and will return to prominence later in this story.)
I then began my foray into Euro-style driving, which compliments my crazy American swerving style quite nicely. Upon leaving Shannon, we made our way through Limerick. (No, there were no limericks or even poetry to be found. It was slightly saddening.) After being ignored by several non-well-wishing Limerickians (no relation to Jonathan Lipinickians), I relegated all question-asking to Mr. Maday, whose Freddie Prinze, Jr.-esque appearance assisted our fact-finding mission. After a disappointing breakfast in an oxymoronically erotic-artwork-featuring family cafe, we made our way to St. John's castle. (For the record, this was my first visit to a real castle. It was everything that a castle should be, I believed, although I hadn't built many prior to this experience, nor seen others to compare.)
We proceeded to Mourne Abbey, a manure-surrounded monastery long destroyed and long removed from the at first seemingly easy-to-find road signs. After ruining my only pair of shoes available for the trip, we headed south to Blarney Castle, wherein we visited (and smooched) the Blarney Stone. We marveled in the fact that everyone became quite quiet and reflective after kissing the stone that begets the gift of gab. (This was ironic.)
Blarney made way for Cork, in which the European driving experience culminated. Having finally mastered driving on the left, I opted to try reckless maneuvering to get through the endless maze of directions that inevitably never got us nearer the elusive train station. Cries turned to screams as we barrelled through stop signs, slid backwards toward pedestrians carelessly ignoring my inability to move the Punto up a 60 degree incline, and nearly side-swiped an environmentally-friendly scooter rider.
Respite came in the form of a misleading dinner, entitled "Grilled Salmon Platter" alongside an illustration of a steak but in reality being cold lox on gritty bread, alongside my first Irish Guinness. Rumors and legend had alluded to an unattainable-in-the-U.S. difference in taste, although experience has now proven that Guinness tastes nearly the same 'round the world ('round the world equalling New York, Kansas City and Cork). Nonetheless, it was quite good, and provided a nice end to the horrors before.
Day two upped the ante of the trip enjoyment. Having spent a great deal of the morning trying to find a 'net cafe to send out these postings, we flew along the side roads to Cashel. I am assuming, for lack of investigation on my part, Cashel is simply drunk Irish-speak for "castle." No surprise, St. Patrick's Cashel was there in all its monumentous glory. I especially marvelled at the old people bumping their heads on door posts clearly marked with "Mind your head" signs.
To inject a little adrenaline into my rain-dampened body, I accidentally stepped on a writhing creature in the nearby Hore Abbey graveyard. Mr. Maday's chortles only added to the confusion as a dazed rabbit bounded from the long grass I was now frantically hopping out of myself. (This had to be as frightening as the Cork driving experience!)
On our way out of Cashel, we passed a large castle-like tower, which prompted a sudden braking of our beloved Punto. Hopping a commoner's fence like the hooligans we were about to become, we made our way across the stubble field to the imposing and decaying structure. After much coaxing via Mr. Maday's peer-pressuring ways, I began scaling into the upper chambers of the building. Adrenaline was now coursing through the body, and Mr. Maday urged me to take the next leap: a climb up half non-existant stairs. Needless to say, we made it to the top of the tower and overlooked the stubble field from on high. We also overlooked our impending doom, as wind gusts were apparently much stronger atop a decaying castle than below, and began climbing back down, past the markered testaments to such great bands as Pearl Jam.
Fearing ourselves late to our bed and breakfast check-in, we made our way towards Waterford, after several disorienting wrong turns. Luck would still prove to be against us as we received not one but five sets of completely incorrect directions to our destination. Finally arriving cold and late, we embarked upon the city itself, only to find a ghost town inhabited by three desperate-looking panhandlers. We entered the recommended establishment of T&H Doogans, which still contains part of the original Waterford city wall. We then waited for long periods of time for an open table despite several vacancies and a hostile waitstaff.
Exiting Doogans, where the notable Sinead O'Connor supposedly made her debut, we again noted the despairingly desolate town center, where the Waterford youth were alleged to hang out. Walking throughout the empty streets, we managed upon two locals who directed us to Geoff's, a nearby hangout amongst the youngsters. Therein, we were finally faced with people our age, although none offered drunken, inviting gestures to join their group, as legends seemed to allude.
Tired of hearing nothing but Mr. Maday's whining for the previous 48 hours, I inflicted our presence on the friendliest table in the place (read: "easy victims"). After many long stretches of awkward "we wish you weren't here ruining our evening" moments, Elaine, Kate, and Rachel warmed up to our American charms, and began recounting their trips to the States, Kate's award-winning sheep-shearing family (herself number three in the country), farm life, tractor accidents, and recommendations for our next step of the trip (all ignored).
The next morning provided much entertainment in the form of the most annoying bed-and-breakfast breakfast co-participants. After listening to some of the more melodramatic stories ever begotten upon mankind, I excused myself, and we left the city shortly thereafter. The day presented another exploratory moment when we entered the surprisingly not off-limits mine outside of Glendaloughe. Perched atop a hard-to-reach-via-Punto hill stood a fenced off old smeltery and an old, monkish building. Both proved excellent areas to investigate until a weathered sign alerted us that "This land is poisoned." Oddly, this sign stood a short distance from a "No hunting. Wildlife preserve." sign and a pool of discolored groundwater.
Time was running out, as we had planned on being in Dublin for lunch, and suppertime was now close approaching. Taking a quick look through Glendaloughe's rather uneventful monastery, we made our way through scenic backroads, "checking" every curb along the way. Dublin proved to have Waterford's missing ingredient: people under age 70. Again getting very lost and misdirected, we arrived safely and began planning the evening's activities.
Dublin was just as I pictured: an incredibly cosmopolitan city, with all the luxuries of any large American city, along with a decay and romanticism that could only be found in a town whose buildings have witnessed over a thousand generations. The blend of modern and ancient is quite inspiring and reminded me of my first visit to New York two years ago. The city was alive with an energy and youth, and the ever-present Internet economy posters screamed through the alcohol and club advertisements.
On Wednesday night, Billy and I met with Suzanne, a friend of a friend of mine, along with another of her friends, Ann. We met in The Stag's Head, a famous establishment in the Temple Bar district, just south of the River Liffey, and spent the evening discussing British rule, the new U2 album, Dublin spots to visit, and the newspaper business. We later found ourselves at a happening nightclub titled "Ri-Ra." Little did I know this thriving nighttime scene turned into the Globe, a relaxed soup and sandwich shop during the day. (This became the point of several jokes.)
After a late start on Thursday, we visited a sculpture entitled "The Famine," a tribute to the countless lost lives attempting escape during the Potato Blight. The work's somber subject matter helped keep the unsettling memories of the country near to mind throughout the day, reminding the tourist of the grittier underside still present.
Before lunch, we visited Trinity College and saw the Book of Kells. As magnificent as it appears in school textbooks, the illuminated manuscript reminded me of the beauty evident in the flawed: where perfection is not reached by erasing mistakes, but rather celebrating and harnessing the errors so that they become something more beautiful than calculated thought could have originally provided. After seeing the exhibit on the manuscript, we visited the Long Room, Trinity's massive and impressive library. Just as I had envisioned Europe's great old libraries, the Long Room housed volume after volume, book after book, each meticulously filed in extensive shelving reaching floor to vaulted ceiling, with marble busts at each end of each wooden row. (This was quite possibly the highlight of the day.)
Next was the Dublin Castle courtyard, where the British ceded control to the Irish. We also saw a military officer smack his head on the door of his car while entering, disturbing both his beret and stoic look. I was able to manage a chuckle, especially seeings as he wasn't carrying the automatic weapons his cohorts were back in Limerick.
The afternoon led to the "Green and Cream" bus tour of the city. We visited the magnificently unholy gift shop of St. Patrick's Cathedral smack inside the sanctuary and then passed the Guinness brewery later while listening to the indiscernible singing of the tour guide over the world's second worst audio system (the New York subway system still holding the crown). We then did the international McDonald's wait: 15 minutes for a disappointing "Crunchie"-filled McFlurry. (This was not the exciting part of the day.)
Ireland's literary past and present came alive on the Jameson Dublin Literary Pub Crawl. Both Billy and I were quite ashamed to be partaking in such base tourist fare, but the activity proved quite enjoyable. Aside from seeing reenactments of the plays and stories by Joyce, Wilde, and others, Billy received an incredibly helpful lecture from a Joe Kennedy of Indiana; apparently, Mr. Maday's trip was a bit too extravagant for him, as Billy had not worked thirty years for a one week vacation. (Mr. Kennedy was duly mocked for this and other reasons.) We were then taken through the locations frequented by Irish writers, all the while meeting other chump foreigners like ourselves.
Setting our "Please mug me" signs aside, we then joined up with our newly found friends, Suzanne and Ann, as well as a new face in the bunch, local Infinity radio personality Alan. The group's wholehearted acceptance of our presence was quite appreciated, and we again journeyed out into the city's nightlife. Sadly, due to late arrival, we missed visiting U2's nightclub inside their newly acquired Clarence Hotel. If ever I have met a group of people who so instantly welcomed us into their social group and calendar, it was these folks, and I was disappointed to see the evening go so quickly. Not only fun and jovial, but quite intriguing and thoughtful characters. I should hope to meet them again one day upon returning.
Having already received a lecture the previous day from the bed and breakfast owner, we arrived to breakfast on time and began our day much earlier than either of us would have preferred. Exiting Dublin was no easy feat, and movement across the country was slow, although filled with beautiful scenery. The rolling hills, stone fences, sprawling lakes, and sheep fields were everywhere to be seen. We then arrived in Ennis, unpacked, and headed towards Galway for a much more subdued evening than the previous two.
Friday night was spent in the bustling seaport of Galway. Despite its presence on the west coast of Ireland, it was surprisingly filled with people under the age of 30 (unlike every other western town we visited). We spent the evening in several taverns, including an amazingly decorated restaurant dubbed "The Quays," but for some reason pronounced "The Keys." Friday was an early night, as we were still recuperating from the long drive and the excitement of the previous days.
Saturday was spent driving over the most amazing terrain I'd ever seen. We drove from Ennis up through Galway on to Clifden, in hopes of seeing the Cliffs of Moher. While we saw plenty of sheep on the highway, majestic mountains with fog pouring over them, meadows of shock red grasses and bustling streams, we also found we were going in the entirely wrong direction. As the rain was pouring and winds were at 40 m.p.h., we quickly doubled back and headed towards Doolin to see if we could catch a glimpse of the famous cliffs.
Clifden's natural beauty was instantly eclipsed once entering the Burren, a rugged valley trapped by mountains on the western seaboard. We passed through Kodak moment after Kodak moment, only to find an even more spectacular view every 100 meters. As the sun was beginning to set, and the roads beginning to narrow and weave, we picked our pace up even more. By the time we thought we found the Cliffs of Moher, the winds had picked up to 60-70 m.p.h., and we struggled to walk through a putt-putt golf course to see the waves breaking at the cliffs' base.
On our way out of the village, we picked up a rain-soaked girl who then informed us the cliffs were still several miles away, and that we had not actually visited the cliffs at all. We dropped her off at her tavern with promises of returning one day for free pints and then headed up an even more treacherous path. By the time we reached the top of the cliffs, winds were now at roughly 90 m.p.h., the sun had gone down, and we were merely feet from a 700 foot drop. Although we bravely tried to get steady shots of the chasmically large cliffs, the wet and the winds won out, and we went rain-soaked back to Ennis along the backroads of the mountains.
The evening in Ennis was uneventful, save for the sounds of loud pop music in all but two taverns. We found ourselves surrounded by twelve and forty year olds, and decided to call it an early night. Sunday morning brought my trip to an end, and I departed Shannon airport for New York, having experienced the most amazing moments of my life.