Cork

We kiss the Blarney Stone and the locals balk and say, no, no we do not, in fact, pee on the stone when tourists aren't looking. It's a relief, and I wonder who told me that rumor and how someone could physically do that, way up in its backbending location on top of the castle. We aren't any more talkative because of it, but I like to think, if we bump into Martin MacDonagh or Eavon Boland on the street, they may say, "Listen to your slim, but effective speech! You must have some great plays/screenplays and poems. Let us publish you." It hasn't happened yet, but we're patient... By the way, the Cormac MacCarthy who founded the castle in the 1400s is not the same Cormac McCarthy who wrote The Road and No Country for Old Men.

On the way here, apart from catching up on sleep - after two hours of Irish dancing lessons and going out with two 18 year-old, quadrilingual Belgians after the hostel neglected to show Che, Part II - Ryan chats with a kindly Irish grandma and I meet Ben, a 26 year-old carpenter in his first year of college in Dublin for sound production. We talk about bands and instruments we play, movies and health care, Obama being good for Europe and the US and how every politician has to strive hard to avoid corruption. Ben traverses the island every weekend, 4 1/2 hours each way, to build a recording studio in Cork (literally: he's building it with his own hands). I'm surprised he's never seen Once, but we both like Glen Hansard.

It's Patrick's birthday today and we almost buy something cheap and Little Debbie-like in a corner store. Opting to walk farther, we find a market so fresh the oysters are still in a fountain-like tank of water, the pigs' heads have yet to be cleared from the butcher's display, and a baker offers an end-of-day sale on cupcakes and bakewells for Zebra Cake prices (ridiculously cheap!). We purchase a bakewell - a cake with almond paste and raspberry jam on the bottom - and it's delicious. In fact, even if we'd had more money, I doubt there would have been anything better.

We leave Monnica and Patrick tomorrow, when we go to the farm and Patrick does family research for a few days. Monnica tags along and they'll eventually go to Belgium, Germany, etc. We hope to see him in Spain and Monnica in... well, she's here for a while, we'll see. Also being left are Joe, an American rugby player who had difficulty finding a job in his home state of Washington; Ethan, a 24 year-old American ex-soldier who was shot in the leg in Afghanistan at 20, is paying for his trip with disability, and is in no hurry to get back to the States; and a host of Aussies, a Canadian, and a fun Kiwi. We haven't seen Ethan since he traveled here with us on the bus and voyaged through the rain across Cork as we bumbled around seeking our hostel. We'd have loved him to join us and Joe for going out, or the excursion with the Aussies/Canadian/Kiwi to Blarney Castle, or to walk past the market ice bins where one could pick up a full-bodied squid with one's bare hands.