DUBLIN — Okay, so sorry I haven’t done updates for a bit. It’s been a giant pleasure to quietly sink into life in Dublin and get a routine going. Just enough work to keep me fed and clothed (thank you clients!) and just enough music and other fun to keep me entertained.

The big surprise here has been just learning to live in the Fair City. Nothing grand or touristy really, just getting into the everyday swing of learning the bus system, finding bargains at the LIDL grocery (wacky combination of cheapo groceries and miscellaneous gadgets, hardware and cheap clothes) and getting back into a more normal routine with work.  And yes, I’ve taken to eating chips (fries) nearly every day. Not good for the wasteline but hey, when in Rome, fry like a Roman.

It is interesting how I’m experiencing Dublin this time, as I’ve been here several times. First it was Tourist Dublin: museums, Oscar Wilde souvenirs, kitsch from the Guinness shop. Second was Musical Dublin: lots of pub sessions, buying instruments and more. This time it’s been Gay Dublin: getting to know other queens and even managing to go on dates. It’s a unique and vibrant scene here, and it’s been a goal of mine for some time to bridge the gap between my traditional music life and my gay life — Dublin seems like a terrific place to knit it all together.

The big highlight in the last couple weels was the launch of my flatmate Derek’s new publication, THE Magazine. It’s the 2nd gay publication in Dublin (if you don’t count another one called Butcher Queers that comes out sporadically). Great launch party all the A-gays and some local celebs in attendance (question — at what point do I become an A-gay? Or is it like that old query about money, if I have to ask I can’t afford it?). Anyhow, fun time and it’s great to have already gotten to know some great folks making exciting things happen in town.  Another highlight is getting to know some of the lads from Gaire.com, the gay message board on which I’ve been chatting for a couple years — attended the annual Gaire Christmas meetup last week in Nealon’s and it was good craic all around. And of course the Furry Glen, the monthly bear party at Pantibar — brilliant.

Sadly the camera has been in my bag too much and my loving sisters have reminded me that they’re hungry for some pix back home so no worries, I’m about to start shooting again. More photos on the way — including some shots from the George’s Christmas drag panto and a lovely side trip to Ennis — promise!

A Wet Morning on Dame Street

DUBLIN, Ireland — Well it’s been a week and I’m settling in nicely in Dublin. More than nicely. Through my friends Bruno and Michael it took me just a day to land a perfect apartment on Cork Street in the City Center. Amazing. Beautfiul place at an unbeatable price. Any my flatmate Derek is fantastic – he’s about to launch a new magazine so I’ll of course be chatting him up soon about contributing some copy…

Just starting to explore the music scene. This past week has been about the little things… buying a bus pass. Learning my way around the cheapo LIDL grocery, even hitting a couple mixers to meet new local peeps. Work is getting busier, so it’s nice to be back in a city and returning to a more regular rhythm for a while, albeit in a fab new place.

Next up … hitting sessions around town and possibly heading out to Ennis for a musical Thanksgiving weekend. Stay tuned…

LA ALBERCA, Spain — Ham, oh glorious ham. This village — actually the whole region — is known for it. The best hams are the “black leg” — hocks of Iberian black pigs who only eat acorns. Slice it molecule thin and it wraps around your tongue — earthy, deeply flavored, mildy fatty, rich.

The whole town resonates as a collective homage to the pig. Word has it that La Alberca, whose name was derived from an Arabic word, was for centuries a place where people of all faiths and backgrounds lived in harmony. That was, until the Spanish Inquisition reared its murderous head. Then, as a sign of good faith to their Catholic neighbors, resident Jewish and Muslim residents raised money and donated a pig to the village — something their respective faiths forbade them from enjoying themselves.

Since then, it’s been a tradition in the village to have a pig roam freely for a year and for the locals to take responsiblity for it — to feed it and befriend it. Then they kill it at the new year and another pig is selected to be the lucky oinker for the next year. To this day, a pig roams the plaza at will, as well as sleeps there. I happened to catch himself one afternoon while he was napping.

Meanwhile, a stone pig sculpture awaits young lovers in the plaza. According to local legend, if a couple wishing to start a family touches the stone pig’s testicles at midnight they’re sure to conceive.  Mmm hmmmm.

Pork, pork and more pork!

Quiet day in La Alberca

Carving the ham at the bodega

 

 

 

 

LA ALBERCA, Spain — Okay, so I’ve been a writer for most of my adult life and I’ve never heard of them. Phrasal verbs. “Ask out” “Get into” “Bring about.” I learned the term phrasal verb here, volunteering with Pueblo Ingles, the school for Spanish professionals to learn English. Here, for a week just outside a centuries-old village known for the best hams in Spain, we drilled from 9 a.m til 10 p.m. each day. One-on-one conversations, conference calls, presentations, skits, songs, word games, even meals.

Who knew the English language was such a crazy tossed salad of exceptions to rules and colloquialisms and idioms cobbled together to form what’s probably the most recklessly irregular language on Earth. Harsh? Try explaining why we say the things we do to someone learning to speak English. “To ‘paint the town red’ might involve ’drinking til you drop.’ Oh, wait, ‘drinking til you drop’ might also accompany ‘putting on the dog.’ No, not an actual dog. A metaphorical dog. I don’t know whose dog. You just say it. You know, like when you tell people you’re ‘dressed to the nines.’”

Then there’s the word “get:” Get over it. (move beyond) Get into it (become engaged) I don’t get it. (understanding) Get lost (please leave) Get back (return) Get something back (retrieve something you lost) Get away with (do something wrong without being punished) Get on (succeed, be friendly) Get on (step on, as in “get on the elevator”) Get a move on (hurry up) Get up (stand) Get up (wake) Get together (meeting, gathering) Get over it (cope) Get around to (finally arrive at a time to do something) What kind of linguistic cruelty is this? Then there are the myriad idioms we use every day (http://www.idiomsite.com/), including our friend “get” — Get down to brass tacks. Get your walking papers. Get up on the wrong side of the bed.” “Let me cut to the chase: I don’t mean to beat a dead horse, but you seem to be burning the candle at both ends. Aren’t you biting off more than you can chew? You seem to take on more work at the drop of a hat, running like a chicken with its head cut off. If you’re not careful people will think you can’t cut the mustard. If I’m barking up the wrong tree please tell me to put a sock in it. We’ll just let sleeping dogs lie. ”

Wow, do I have respect for these students slogging through the English mines!

MADRID, Spain — After a quick day and a half in this beautiful city it’s time to get on the bus to Salamanca for a week. Volunteering for Pueblo Ingles, a language school for Spanish businesspeople wanting to learn English. My fellow volunteers will be working round the clock to help the students speak only English — in groups, one-on-one, over the phone, you name it. Much more soon from the compound!

BARCELONA, Spain – Talk about taking advantage of a tiny window. My train stopped in to Barcelona Sants station from Narbonne at 1210h. Dropped my luggage off at the Concierge downstairs (€4.50) dashed out the door and asked a taxi to jet me to the city center. I was determined to snap a few photos while here, even though my train to Madrid was to leave at 1400h. We zipped through city streets (except due to midday traffic when we didn’t) until we reached Segrada Familia, the incredible church by famed avante-garde architect Gaudi. The church and its grounds, wrapped by fenches and undergoing massive construction (perhaps restoration?), was crawling with tourists. Actually those were the tourists who paid. I was with a scattering of tourists outside the fence who didn’t pay – but hey, I had to head to la estacion again soon anyway. Snapped a few and discovered the subway was directly below my feet. A quick bit of advice from the Informacion desk and I was on my way on the blue line back to Barecelona Sants. Grab a sandwich and a water. Retrieve the luggage from the locker. Dash to Platform Uno and plop into Car 7, seat 11D. Whew. Next stop – Madrid Atocha!

CESSERAS, France – Frank and Andrea looked so happy. And healthy. A few months of bright skies, fresh air and a lack of rain will do that for you. Ever since they packed up their two cars and drove down from Ireland in the spring, their moods have brightened, they’re eating great local produce and remarking about every quarter hour how unbelievably different their live has been since leaving the depressing rain of Co. Galway behind. “You wont’ see them doing this at the Boat,” Frank often chimes. You won’t see them eating outside. You won’t see them wearing sunglasses. You won’t see them tasting affordable wines at the cave. You won’t …. You can set your watch by the delightful diatribe.

Cesseras is a warm, snug little village about 20 minutes from Narbonne, one of several little wine villages sprinkled across the valley floor and separated by huge vistas of grape vines. In fall it’s a patchwork of beautiful fall reds, oranges, yellows – each varietal of grape burns its own shade of fall hue. Beziers is nearby, as is Olonzac, a sweet town with  the bakery that opens early and the Café de Poste that makes a smart cappuccino to sip while watching the earlybirds get their weekend errands underway. Frank points out a crosswalk painted in the street between a restaurant and some tables perched on a mini plaza. “They did that so the waitresses can get across the street,” he says. “You won’t see that at the Boat.”

Frank and Andrea’s home in Cesseras is a wonderful smallish puzzle of ancient stone and mod-cons compressed into a cozy four-bedroom snug nestled against the 800-year-old tower for the wine chateau – so close you can practically touch its stone walls if you lean far enough out the couple’s kitchen windows. They’re quick to point out that the animals run the village – cats and dogs roam freely and everyone knows who they are and where they belong. All are well fed – Bart and Lisa, two cats named by Frank and Andrea, make several daily visits to the kitchen window for generous helpings of table scraps – and just about every doorway in town has a tiny food bowl at the ready for any feline or canine voyageurs who may pass.

My first night we supped on a wonderful  homemade cassoulet with some local vin rouge. Chicken, beans, sausages. Pure warmth for a chilly night. The next day we toured Minerve, a millennium old town high on a hill over the Brian Gorge. It’s a beaufiul example of old French village architecture – and sadly a hint at darker days in French history. In this particular village in 1210 the entire population was murdered on orders of the Pope – seems the Catholic Church declared the villagers heretics for their unique take on Christianity that had evolved in some ways to resemble Bhuddism (including a belief in reincarnation). All 3,000 villagers were slaughtered (except a few who managed to flee but starved themselves to death in a nearby town rather than be killed).

The town waits for an apology – 800 years later there is a move afoot locally to demand one from the current pontiff. Bon chance, mes amis.

You won’t see that at The Boat.

La Fontenille in Ventenac en Minervois

VENTENAC en MINERVOIS, France – Okay so maybe it would have ended on a more pristine note if I hadn’t broken the stained-glass kitchen cabinet door. THIS close to being finished with the kitchen makeover. Mustard 80-s cabinets were being stripped past their factory varnish to be primed and painted a gleaming, more modern white. Doors, drawers, hardware all getting a fresh stamp of spit and polish. My fellow laborers for the week were Erica and Hannah, two bright college grads from Chicago on an expat adventure in Europe, mostly in France. All three of us were trading our labors for room and board at La Fontenille, an 1880 sandstone mansion towering over the tiny, peaceful wine village of Venentac en Minervois, about two thirds of the way from Carcassonne to Narbonne on the Canal du Midi – the waterway cut through the countryside a century ago that allowed wines to leave the valley and bring bigtime money back.

Our hosts, David & Sundara Farley, have some fun in the kitchen

The house is an elegant property – three floors of grand layout – custom stone floors on each etage, nosebleed high ceilings, curlicued iron stair rails – even a cherub lantern to light the way up the winding stone staircase. The grand salon is where our hosts, David and Sundara Farley, practice their singing. One of two grand pianos anchors the room (the other piano is in another part of the house I never saw). David is a semi-retired geophysist and once-upon-a-time punk rocker from Glasgow. Sundara is a former actress; one her most famous roles was on Scotland’s first soap opera. She’s proud of the distinction but shudders at the thought of the production values in those early days. The Farleys are among a growing group of UK expats in the area – in fact, we often hear about Julia, another expat who lives in the other grand house in Ventenac, the Chateau. Even the woman working the counter at the Cave remarks that there are more Brits in town all the time (although she did seem to welcome the opportunity to practice her conversational English). David and Sundara seem to enjoy having visitors in the house. They post listings on both Workaway.info and Helpx.net, two sites where low-budget travelers like yours truly can exchange sweat for a mattress and meals. My room at La Fontenille was a palatial surprise – and the scale of the home beiied the cozy warmth of those in residence. Most of our time together was spent in the kitchen or dining room, tucked quietly behind a tiny service door off the more grandiose portions of the ground floor. Lunches, weather permitting, were held on the patio. Wine was opitional, a cheese course was mandatory. The girls delighted in making a crunchy caraway bread each morning in Sundara’s bread machine; breakfast wouldn’t have been complete without a healthy slab of the stuff with a dab of local butter. Oh the butter. For six days we all worked together to transform Sundara’s kitchen. The old, deep mustard color she chose years ago needed an update and so we all stripped, primed and painted until my last day when the cabinet doors and drawers finally resumed their proper stations. Sadly, the last door – one containing a lemony stained glass insert, crashed in the gusty winds when drying on the terrace. Yes, I was in charge. Ugh. Despite the cabinetry carnage we all had a grand time – especially the other night when Sundara hosted a wine tasting so she could prove to David that money is not all that matters when buying wine. Good times, great laughs and wonderful people. Marci, David, Sundara, Erika and Hannah for making my stay fun and unique. Check out Erika and Hannah’s blog – including Erika’s dynamite photography (she was a photo major at Columbia).

Abientot!

Yummy wines in Ventenac

 

 

 

 

DUBLIN, Ireland –  I love that moment in the travel experience when you discover something truly local in your new setting, something that makes you feel like a traveler and not a tourist. For me one was the 19A bus. Yes, you just get on it and it takes you somewhere. But it’s learning to ask for the €1.60 ticket (not the €1.80 ticket) to take you to the City Centre  and knowing which seats on the upper deck have the best view so you can hop off at the right place at the top of  Georges Street. Fleeting and small, but it’s the little moments that start to help you feel like you’re getting to know a new place.

Being a tourist can be skin-deep. Photos of popular monuments, taxi rides to hotels, restaurants recommended by guides from bookstores or glossy magazines (“going to see the Page of Kells?). Being a traveler, by contrast, is getting to understand a place and explore life, as much as is possible for your circumstances, through the lens of the local. At which grocery do you buy your vegetables? Where do you go for a mobile phone upgrade? Which subway line connects you from Barcelona Sants to Segrada Familia? Which is the shortest cut from the Gran Via to the Plaza Del Angel?

I’ve been fortunate when I’ve traveled to make friends like Bruno, owner of Nua Haven, an off-the tourist track B&B in Harold’s Cross, a nice neighborhood on the Dublin’s south side. Bruno is a friend and a guide. He’ll talk politics, shopping, boy-hunting, you name it . And he’s invite you out for a pint and introduce you to his friends who will – thankfully – leap past the small talk and talk about what’s gone on in their day. Not a peep about what’s on in Temple Bar unless you ask.

Coming from a tourist city – San Francisco – I’ve seen the opposite. Newcomers will flock to Fisherman’s Wharf, snap photos at the corner of Haight & Ashbury, and jump on the boat to Alcratraz. Places many locals may never go. Travelers would seek out a good neighborhood like the Mission or Noe Valley or the inner Sunset. Screw the guidebook. Just go see a place and wander.

If you’re smart when you travel seek out these new friends who can give you a beyond-skin-deep side of the place in which they live. It will almost certainly depart widely from what’s expected. And isnt’ that the point of travel anyway?

SLIGO, Ireland — It was a dark and stormy night. Well day, actually. And then night again. Oh fuck it, it’s Ireland in autumn and that’s just the kind of pissing down rain you should expect. No matter, I’m off again to a pub session. So many this weekend I can’t recall which pub or what street. But the usual suspects are there and I know the Guiness or Smithwicks, depending on my mood, will be there waiting for me just the same.

SligoLive is a newer music festival, combining acoustic “roots” music with Irish traditional to make a festival that’s never too much of one thing but plenty of variety. I step first into the Thursday night session at Earley’s pub. Nice peeps. Josephine Judge and friends are playing. And singing. Lots of singing. In fact, it reminded me a bit of the Starry Plough session back home — only here they kept handing the mic to people around the table so they could be heard by the growing crowd.  A very gracious and fun set of musicians, including some Brits who now live in Norway, a fun French bodhran player now living in Sligo, Eric, and Ellen, a fellow traveler from Wicklow (Eric, Ellen and I spent much of our time hanging out together all weekend).

Next night it was Earley’s again. Only this time it was the Young Guns session. Little fuckers almost killed me. Amazing talent but I bet  not a one of them shaves on a daily basis. Incredible musicianship. I help my own on the end of the table on bodhran but it seemed clearer as the night went on that I was like someone’s out-of-town uncle. They’d be nice to be but really it was their party. No matter. I ended up chatting up some fun folks from North Carolina in for more of the non-trad acoustic happenings.

Next night was the main concert featuring Martha Wainwright and Frankie Gavin. A rather weird show (Frankie was basically warming up for her. Odd). I’m a newbie to Martha’s offerings and I have to say it was an aquired taste — whole lot of vocal acrobatics wrapped around bizarre melodic constructions and stories of personal woe. So much woe in the same key I started harumphing involuntarily. Sorry Martha I tried. Bright spot — she debuted some material from a new show she’s developed in which she sings little-known Edith Piaf pieces. Amazing, tasteful and a real showcase for her stellar voice. But then she grabbed the guitar again. Harumph. Oh well, maybe she’ll grow on me….

Many more sessions followed and it felt great to feel my session chops coming back. My ear gets quicker at picking up new tunes and there’s a driving energy that can move throgh a whole of playing that’s hard to relate if you’re not sitting at the table. It’s grand.

I’ll be back to Sligo again soon. Rain or not, it’s a warm town with great people and wonderful music. Fair play!