Hello again, or bonjour! We have moved our base of operations from Ireland to Provence, not without some medical drama, and we are settling in here nicely. We’ll have lots to say about our first few days here in a coming newsletter but we thought we’d do a kind of post-Ireland wrap-up since we had such a lovely time there.
Ann and Denise at Hammel’s Pub in Kilmuckridge on St. Patrick’s Day
Speaking of health care, here’s some words about the difference between our experiences in Ireland and in the US.
Just before I left the US, my doctor did a blood test to track my A1C, which had been hovering in the pre-diabetic range for years. The result came back higher than expected, and he recommended that I start taking a popular anti-hyperglycemic pill. As a nurse, I had seen the numeric threshold for starting the pill get lower and lower every year and also witnessed the gnarly side effects of the drug so I deferred starting the pill in favor of a promise to voluntarily cut down on my sugar intake.
Shortly after arriving in Ireland, we saw a GP to get some needed prescriptions renewed and I mentioned my A1C issue to her. She looked at my numbers and, much to my surprise, exclaimed that my numbers were fine and that I didn’t need any medication. She recommended watching and waiting instead. Apparently, the EU standards for pre-diabetes are higher than in the US. The cynic in me immediately guessed that this had something to do with the cozy relationship between US doctors, insurance companies, and pharma companies.
Pharmacies in Ireland (and most of the EU) are very different from the US in that the pharmacist plays a more active role in recommending medications for you. I think they could do that in the US as well, but they’re always so busy behind the glass, filling scripts. At the first pharmacy we went to, I noticed an ad for Viagra at the register and I asked the cashier if it was available over the counter. She assured me with a twinkle in her eye that it could ordinarily be had after a brief consult with the pharmacist but they were currently sold out after the bank holiday weekend. We all shared a chuckle about that.
A few of you asked about our first St. Patrick’s Day in Ireland but it was a relatively low-key event in our little village of Kilmuckridge. We did notice a big influx of families on holiday, down from Dublin for the long weekend, but our town didn’t have a parade or any other festivities. It’s definitely a big national holiday, with all businesses closed (except for pubs and restaurants), but it felt sort of like The Fourth of July to me: a celebration of national pride. For our part, it was like any other day except we went to the pub with Sean and Ann and raised a glass of Guinness to William Patrick Slattery, Ann and Denise’s grandfather whose migration to America 130 years prior had inadvertently made it possible for us all to be in Ireland. I’m not much of a beer fan but the Guinness here is truly delicious. It’s actually very different from the Guinness we enjoy back home, as the ABV of the draught served in pubs is only 4.5%, much lower than the export version. My favorite hard cider, Bulmers (known outside of Eire as Magners) is also low in alcohol, uncovering the mystery of why the Irish can put away those pints with seemingly little effect on their ability to walk and talk. After the drinks (including a wee green Creme de Menthe for Ann), we went back home and Ann made us a lovely shepherd’s pie.
The weather had turned foul — apparently, also a St. Patrick’s Day tradition — and our daily walks on the beach turned into rain- and wind-swept affairs. We had enjoyed six weeks of relatively mild temperatures and little rainfall but now the true Irish spring was showing its force, causing us to spend most evenings in the living room with a fire roaring, discussing politics with Sean and Ann while we watched CNN International and Coco lazed in front of the stove.
On the following Thursday, Denise and I headed to Dublin for a weekend getaway while Sean and Ann graciously agreed to watch Coco. We had a hotel room in the Ballsbridge section of Dublin, close to many of the international consulates, including the heavily fortified US Embassy. It was the only diplomatic office that we saw with a gate, much less a 24-hour guard. The building itself was 1960s Spy Moderne, looking like the US embassy in a Bond movie, and we had a nice chat with the night watchman who was there to prevent anyone with the Tik Tok app on their phone from coming within 100 meters of the place.
Steve, contemplating renouncing his citizenship…
The next morning, we were up early to catch our prearranged tour bus to Newgrange and Hill of Tara, two important Stone Age burial and ceremonial sites within an hour’s drive of Dublin. It was my first guided tour ever — at least since grade school — and I was giddy at the prospect of someone else driving for a change. The guide gave us a quick history of Dublin as we wound our way through the city, and I was excited to get our boots on the ground there in the coming days. The Hill of Tara was considered the seat of the Irish High Kings and many Iron Age rituals took place there. Rather than excavate the buildings and burial sites, they have been left mostly undisturbed — except by the neighbors who use it as a dog park — and the archeologists rely mostly on modern imaging techniques to tell us what’s below our feet. It was damned windy, that much I learned, and I was the first one back on the bus.
The Hill of Tara.
Next we headed to Newgrange, which had an impressive visitors and interpretive center, and an even more impressive cafeteria, and we had a nice bowl of leek soup with brown bread before boarding the shuttle bus to Knowth, the first site of the afternoon. We got off the bus into a driving rainstorm, with sustained winds of 35 km/h, and met our guide who, despite the inclement weather, managed to engage and educate us, not to mention make himself heard over the storm. Wisely, Denise and I had left our rain gear back at the hotel, forcing us to buy plastic ponchos at the gift shop, which kept us mostly dry while the wind whipped at us. These primitive people somehow managed to drag these giant stones many miles and build these impressive structures in which to bury their dead, while decorating the stones with artwork and drawings of the cycle of the moon so there were definitely no aliens involved, in case you were wondering. The sites are also older than Stonehenge and the Pyramids of Gaza and, considering how shite the weather was on our visit, they probably put up with a lot in 3200 BCE.
The weather calmed a bit by the time the bus took us to Newgrange, and we were able to enter one of the structures at this site, although I begged off when a bout of claustrophobia kicked in. It’s one of those places, like Stonehenge, that was built to capture the sunlight on the solstices, and the guide apparently did a little demonstration of that effect for those on the tour without issues with confined spaces. Instead, I stood outside and watched the newborn lambs frolicking in the adjacent field. Back on the bus, the guide asked us how we thought they’d transported all those heavy stones dozens of miles and built these watertight structures, all before iron or bronze tools or even the wheel was widely used. I mouthed the word “aliens” but didn’t want to spoil the answer for the rest of my busmates. We know though, don’t we?
Amazingly, this is the first drawing of the cycles of the moon, hewn into the rock of Knowth.
From the post-visit slide show. Not aliens at all…
After being left off in central Dublin, we made our way to the Temple Bar district where we had tickets to see one of my favorite musicians, Robert Forster, formerly of the Go-Betweens, perform that night. I had bought the tickets months before, when the tour was just announced, and planned our visit to Dublin around the show, although Denise didn’t need to know that fact. We had a nice bowl of pho nearby and a pre-show drink at the historic Clarence Hotel, bought and refurbished by Bono and The Edge of U2 a couple of decades ago as part of a tax scheme. Back at the club, Robert was joined on stage by his son Louis for a 90-minute set of solo and Go-Betweens favorites. After the show, I managed to bum-rush the backstage area to say hello to Robert and, after leaving the club, we ran into Louis having a cigarette on the street. Denise stopped to say “hi” and he turned out to be a total sweetheart, entertaining us with stories of the good and bad of traveling with his dad and filling us in on the continued good health of his mum, recovering from Stage IV ovarian cancer back home in Australia.
Steve, Denise, and Louis Forster, who happens to be the same age as Reilly.
We spent the next couple of days exploring the ins and outs of Dublin, certainly one of the great (and most crowded) European cities. The bars, restaurants, and museums were packed and the pandemic seemed to be the furthest thing from anyone’s minds. One thing I noticed about walking in Dublin: although they seemed pretty set on driving on the left side of the road, when it came to the sidewalks, nobody seemed quite sure about which side was best and pedestrian chaos frequently ensued. We visited the National Museum/Archaeology and the National Gallery, where a simple question asked of a security guard turned into a 20-minute personally guided tour. Maybe this is a good time to mention how friendly and helpful the Irish people are: Even the bouncer outside of the club the night before could have worked for the tourism board. The weather was a little less cooperative, and our stroll was frequently interrupted by rain showers, but there’s always a pub on the next block, including Slattery’s Pub (no relation known). Denise got in to see a page of The Book of Kells while I investigated an ancient Costa coffee shop around the corner. We skipped the distillery and brewery tourist traps and managed to cover a big chunk of the city before running out of steam late on Sunday afternoon. We had originally planned to spend a week in the capital before Airbnb issues had forced us to shorten that, and I think an extra few days would have been just enough to fully take in all the sights. However, our time was up and it was time to move on to France.
On Monday morning, Denise caught the bus back to Kilmuckridge, where she would rejoin Sean, Ann, and Coco before heading to the Rosslare ferry terminal for an overnight crossing to Cherbourg, France. Originally, we were going to both fly to Paris with Coco again in the cargo hold but the safety and the expense (almost as much as it cost to get her from America!). They recommended the ferry, which worked out well for Sean and Ann, who were interested in visiting their new granddaughter in Paris. Meanwhile, I was headed to the airport for my flight to Paris but was starting to come down with what I thought was just a head cold. I was fully masked the entire time but tested positive the next morning in our Paris Airbnb. Later that day, Denise arrived at the apartment (which was big enough for us to isolate) and she got me the fluids and croissants necessary to nurse me back to health. Unfortunately, our little holiday in Paris was a bust and, because of the risk of infection, she couldn’t even visit with new bébé Chloe. By Thursday morning, however, I was back among the living, and we loaded our gear into our brand new Citroën and headed south on the two-day trip to Provence. First stop: Beaune, business headquarters of the Burgundy wine world.
kind folks at Dublin airport had talked us out of that plan, citing Coco’s Coco in her cabin on the ferry.
The distant views of Eiffel Tower and Sacré-Coeur from our Airbnb/infirmary in Saint-Denis, Paris.
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From the post-visit slide show. Not aliens at all…
After being left off in central Dublin, we made our way to the Temple Bar district where we had tickets to see one of my favorite musicians, Robert Forster, formerly of the Go-Betweens, perform that night. I had bought the tickets months before, when the tour was just announced, and planned our visit to Dublin around the show, although Denise didn’t need to know that fact. We had a nice bowl of pho nearby and a pre-show drink at the historic Clarence Hotel, bought and refurbished by Bono and The Edge of U2 a couple of decades ago as part of a tax scheme. Back at the club, Robert was joined on stage by his son Louis for a 90-minute set of solo and Go-Betweens favorites. After the show, I managed to bum-rush the backstage area to say hello to Robert and, after leaving the club, we ran into Louis having a cigarette on the street. Denise stopped to say “hi” and he turned out to be a total sweetheart, entertaining us with stories of the good and bad of traveling with his dad and filling us in on the continued good health of his mum, recovering from Stage IV ovarian cancer back home in Australia.
Steve, Denise, and Louis Forster, who happens to be the same age as Reilly.
We spent the next couple of days exploring the ins and outs of Dublin, certainly one of the great (and most crowded) European cities. The bars, restaurants, and museums were packed and the pandemic seemed to be the furthest thing from anyone’s minds. One thing I noticed about walking in Dublin: although they seemed pretty set on driving on the left side of the road, when it came to the sidewalks, nobody seemed quite sure about which side was best and pedestrian chaos frequently ensued. We visited the National Museum/Archaeology and the National Gallery, where a simple question asked of a security guard turned into a 20-minute personally guided tour. Maybe this is a good time to mention how friendly and helpful the Irish people are: Even the bouncer outside of the club the night before could have worked for the tourism board. The weather was a little less cooperative, and our stroll was frequently interrupted by rain showers, but there’s always a pub on the next block, including Slattery’s Pub (no relation known). Denise got in to see a page of The Book of Kells while I investigated an ancient Costa coffee shop around the corner. We skipped the distillery and brewery tourist traps and managed to cover a big chunk of the city before running out of steam late on Sunday afternoon. We had originally planned to spend a week in the capital before Airbnb issues had forced us to shorten that, and I think an extra few days would have been just enough to fully take in all the sights. However, our time was up and it was time to move on to France.
On Monday morning, Denise caught the bus back to Kilmuckridge, where she would rejoin Sean, Ann, and Coco before heading to the Rosslare ferry terminal for an overnight crossing to Cherbourg, France. Originally, we were going to both fly to Paris with Coco again in the cargo hold but the safety and the expense (almost as much as it cost to get her from America!). They recommended the ferry, which worked out well for Sean and Ann, who were interested in visiting their new granddaughter in Paris. Meanwhile, I was headed to the airport for my flight to Paris but was starting to come down with what I thought was just a head cold. I was fully masked the entire time but tested positive the next morning in our Paris Airbnb. Later that day, Denise arrived at the apartment (which was big enough for us to isolate) and she got me the fluids and croissants necessary to nurse me back to health. Unfortunately, our little holiday in Paris was a bust and, because of the risk of infection, she couldn’t even visit with new bébé Chloe. By Thursday morning, however, I was back among the living, and we loaded our gear into our brand new Citroën and headed south on the two-day trip to Provence. First stop: Beaune, business headquarters of the Burgundy wine world.
kind folks at Dublin airport had talked us out of that plan, citing Coco’s Coco in her cabin on the ferry.
The distant views of Eiffel Tower and Sacré-Coeur from our Airbnb/infirmary in Saint-Denis, Paris.
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Steve, can you put Richard on your email list? He does not get these updates! 😘
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it says he’s on here under @weatherpro but I added his gmail address.
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