New York is a town full of tourists. It is something that I have gotten used to over the last couple of months. They are a major source of income for this city and Mayor Bloomberg has gone out of his way to make the city a welcome place for travelers. There are a few absolutions you can count on in this town when it comes to tourists:
1) They all WILL be in Times Square. As sure as I'm sitting here, as sure as Georgia Tech is going to suck this season, as sure as the Waffle House has the best hash browns in the universe. (God, how I miss them.)
2) Eastern Europeans WILL stop in the middle of the sidewalk to take pictures of nothing. All natives grumble as they try not to sideswipe Helga, Ernst and their three kids, Bjorn, Maria and Gunther as they stand there snapping an Iphone picture of a street vendor. They will also have a ridiculous amount of gear accompanying them that takes up at least a square mile when they stop.
3) Asians WILL eat at the Hard Rock. I guess Hard Rock Cafe is seen as an American institution, which baffles me. You are in New York City. We have the best food selection ON THE PLANET.....and you eat at a chain store where the best selling item is a t-shirt.
4) American tourists WILL also eat at Hard Rock and/or Bubba Gump Shrimp Company. Now, they have an Olive Garden in Times Square. This place is packed every night. Again, you are in New York City, yet you choose to eat chain ITALIAN food in a city with two sections called "Little Italy." Amazing. That is like going to Beijing and eating at Panda Express. That is like going to Cassville and looking for a Huddle House. It's borderline sacrilege.
5) At least one family member WILL buy an "I Love NY" or an "FDNY/NYPD" t-shirt. This is the badge of honor that proves that you indeed were in the Concrete Jungle. Any trip is incomplete without such and nobody will believe that you were here.....unless you have a Hard Rock shirt or a picture of a street hustler selling knock off Louis Vuitton bags on Broadway.
Speaking of tourism, in a fit of spontaneity and with the whim of a UGA freshman going to Boar's Head for the first time, I took my talents to England and Ireland for a week. (+1 for comparing myself to Lebron James. We have a lot in common.) This was my first excursion across the pond, so I really had not the first clue what to expect. I knew only what I heard and the stories from friends who had ventured to the Old World before. I used a travel agency that was very helpful and booked my flights and hotels for me.
My first flight was from LaGuardia to Charlotte, North Carolina, which was my first visit back to Dixie since I left two months ago. This was going to be a quick flight and connection to London, where it would take 8 hours across the Atlantic. However, it was not to be on this day. The US Airways staff, lead by Mikesha, who only spoke in grunts and hand motions, caused an hour delay. Mikesha climbed my personal hate ladder with the dexterity of a three-toed sloth on fire. By the time I arrived in Charlotte, my London flight was over Bermuda. Since there is only one flight per day to the UK, it was a lost day in Charlotte...or so I thought.
My hotel in Charlotte was three blocks from the NASCAR Hall of Fame. What self-respecting, tire-squealin, dirt road navigatin' Cassvillian would be that close and not go? It was three hours of tributes to moonshiners, Junior Johnson/Richard Petty/Dale Earnhardt/Bill France, and rife with actual race cars, paraphernalia and videos of great races and finishes. While it glorified the globalization of the brand, it paid more attention to its roots......the Southern United States and the men from the South who made the sport what it is. We need to take this sport back because it is not the same. We need more Davey Allisons (Greatest mullet ever, possibly. They also had his deer hunting bow on display, does it get any better than that?) and less Jimmie Johnsons. We need more Neil Bonnetts, Harry Gants, and Dale Jarretts, guys who wore their 1983 Daytona 500 Champion belt buckle with pride and were sponsored by at least three vices (Alcohol, Cigarettes and Chewing Tobacco).
"I'd like to thank my crew and my sponsors: Marlboro, Levi Garrett, and Old Milwaukee. Kids, nothing makes me feel better after a race than a good chew on pit road."
Anyhow, I finally made the voyage to jolly old England the next day. The land of Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin, the Beatles, fish n chips, and the Queen (in order of importance). I climbed off the plane and instantly the song "Norwegian Wood" popped into my head:
"Iiiiiiiii once hahd a guhl..." ("I once had a girl" for you Beatles illiterates)
The rest of my stay in England was littered with random extremely British songs: "Mrs. Brown, You've Got a Lovely Daughter," "Daydream Believer," and "Bloody Well Right" pretty much dominated my internal jukebox. The subway took me to the West End and with each stop, the train conductor tells you to "mind the gap," which means to be careful of the gap between the train and the platform. Apparently, if you fall in the gap, you will disappear like Artax the horse in the Swamp of Sadness. (+1 for Neverending Story reference. 90's kids, you know you cried when Artax died. )
From there, I trekked to Big Ben, Buckingham Palace and Westminster Abbey. I saw the grave of King Edward I, who passed away in 1296. In Cassville, Georgia, when somebody says, "Man, that's old" they are usually referring to the following:
1) A 1971 Dodge Charger
2) A two week old can of Skoal
3) A rusty bandsaw
4) Yet another minie ball from the Civil War found in Kingston
5) A vinyl Charley Pride record
From there, I went to Soho and Mayfair. (Insert Werewolves of London line right here) I walked down Savile Row, where the Beatles held their final live concert in 1969. I saw the awesome St. Paul's Cathedral and the Tate Modern Art Museum. I've tried to understand "modern" art and glean some inspiration from the paintings and sculptures, but it eludes me. It's kind of like Tennessee football, a cacophony of randomness that only speaks to the severely intoxicated or falsely enlightened. As I passed through Southwark (pronounced Suth-ick), a small pub caught my eye. This place, called Tipperary, had stood since 1605 and survived the fire that nearly destroyed London years ago. The tattooed female bartender, noticing my accent, says, "And just what tree did you fall out of, love?" Hook, line and sinker. I stayed for an hour. She told me of the other old bars in Southwark and the City, so I completed a mini pub crawl at institutions such as Lyceum Tavern, Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese and Ye Olde Cock Tavern (complete with a huge rooster sign). Englishmen love to drink cider, of which I am not a fan. I tried one called "Sweet Rosie" that tasted like Mountain Dew with a handle of butterscotch schnapps dumped in it. I left after I recovered from my diabetic coma in the bathroom. I settled for a hamburger for dinner.
I cannot discuss England without mentioning the food, or lack thereof. Traditional English food is interesting. I think the guy who decided what food is "English" is the same guy who invented grammar rules, white noise for TVs and back-up warning beepers for large trucks. Horrendous. Thank God for hamburgers and the huge Italian presence in London. There was one day where I only ate one meal, and for those of you who know me well, this is almost impossible. The next day, I walked five miles along the Thames to the Imperial War Museum, where I saw the actual tank that Montgomery used in North Africa during WWII and a shell from the biggest cannon ever constructed in the history of the earth. I thought of Cassville: "Shoot, I'd kill my three year limit with that damn thing." I stopped for a hamburger near the Globe Theater. The coolest part of the day was the "Jack the Ripper" tour at night in East London, where I was taken to where the still at-large criminal killed and mutilated five prostitutes in three months....or they would say back home, "he done kilt five whores down nar and cut them girls all to pieces." I went back to the hotel, ate ANOTHER hamburger and called it a night.
The early morning flight to Dublin was a treat. You get on an Aer Lingus (Irish airline) plane and U2 is blaring over the speakers, seriously. I smiled, masking my eternal utter disdain for that group and their lead singer. Cliches abound, as the flight attendant, named Brendan, offered an Irish coffee to me at 8:00 AM. I took the bus from the airport into Dublin, known to the Gaelic population as "Baile Atha Cliath." One thing that overtakes you in Dublin is the overt "Irishness" of the people. They are damn proud to be Irish. I asked one Irishman how to get to Finglas Road or "Bothar Fhionnghlaise." He replied with, "Tiyien%4&& YIOWJENMS NMIDIkdsi17627." So, I nodded a few times and I just got on the first bus to Finglas or Albuquerque, whichever one came first.
Dublin is old, y'all. The tallest building is only seven stories high, I think. That is the Guinness Storehouse, where I imbibed in the finest non-craft beer I have ever tasted. Irishmen are proud of this accomplishment and they should be. The only drawback was that I had to share my experience with a tour group from Michigan, whose accents nearly turned my beer back into yeast before I could drink it. "Bahb, Bahb, take my picture next to this freakin beer glee-ass right here. Bahb! Bahb!" I saw the original St. Patrick's Cathedral, Christchurch and St. Aldouen's Church, which has stood since 1193. I did not go into St. Patrick's because they charge you to enter the grounds. Whoever heard of that? If I wanted to pay to go to church, I'd just call Jimmy Swaggart and tell him set up a tent in Acworth. The Irish Archaeology Museum was the biggest pleasant surprise of the trip. They had Viking relics, medieval swords, early Christian art and five actual bodies of men who had lived in 800-900 BC. They had been found in mineral rich bogs, which cover rural Ireland and operate as a preservative if something is buried within it. I also saw the Irish National Gallery, complete with original Rembrandts, Van Goghs, Monets and an actual Michelangelo. Now, THAT is inspiring.
If you want the original pub experience, then Dublin is your place. Stereotypes are alive and well here, but it is worth it. Places like Kehoe's, The Dawson Lounge, The Temple Bar, Bruxelle's and The Palace Bar keep the spirit alive, when they are not covered up with tourists. Then, I encountered the bar called Sin E, pronounced "Shin-Ay." Nothing compared to Sin E. (Yes, I went there, sue me.) It was operated by an Italian who told me to called him "Jump" and served the cheapest Guinness in Dublin. I sat next to a Jewish Frenchman from Normandy, whose grandfather was a member of the French Resistance and assisted the Americans with information and sabotaged Nazi supply lines during WWII. His great grandfather was murdered at Auschwitz. We talked for a long time. I told him of my grandfather and his landing on Omaha Beach, and he replies in broken English, "we are eternally grateful for men like him," and raised his glass. I raised mine to his grandfather as well. As some stereotypes lived on in Ireland, others died with the clinking of two glasses in memory of two heroes.
Overall, I am extremely pleased with my decision to go on this trip. Most of my fellow Americans flying back from Ireland, donned in loud, green sweatshirts from The Blarney Inn or their new tam 'o-shanter caps, would agree. Americans love Irish culture. They want to be Irish so bad, they can taste it. As for me, I only bought two Guinness glasses. I'm not a souvenir collector, I'm more of a memory maker. I'm glad to be back in the States because football season is around the corner, and I don't mean soccer. UGA vs. Buffalo in 9 days, y'all. Jarvis Jones is going to have 32 sacks in this game. A word to the Buffalo QB, as only Warren Zevon can put it:
"You better stay away from him,
He'll rip your lungs out, Jim."
Go Dawgs.
1) They all WILL be in Times Square. As sure as I'm sitting here, as sure as Georgia Tech is going to suck this season, as sure as the Waffle House has the best hash browns in the universe. (God, how I miss them.)
2) Eastern Europeans WILL stop in the middle of the sidewalk to take pictures of nothing. All natives grumble as they try not to sideswipe Helga, Ernst and their three kids, Bjorn, Maria and Gunther as they stand there snapping an Iphone picture of a street vendor. They will also have a ridiculous amount of gear accompanying them that takes up at least a square mile when they stop.
3) Asians WILL eat at the Hard Rock. I guess Hard Rock Cafe is seen as an American institution, which baffles me. You are in New York City. We have the best food selection ON THE PLANET.....and you eat at a chain store where the best selling item is a t-shirt.
4) American tourists WILL also eat at Hard Rock and/or Bubba Gump Shrimp Company. Now, they have an Olive Garden in Times Square. This place is packed every night. Again, you are in New York City, yet you choose to eat chain ITALIAN food in a city with two sections called "Little Italy." Amazing. That is like going to Beijing and eating at Panda Express. That is like going to Cassville and looking for a Huddle House. It's borderline sacrilege.
5) At least one family member WILL buy an "I Love NY" or an "FDNY/NYPD" t-shirt. This is the badge of honor that proves that you indeed were in the Concrete Jungle. Any trip is incomplete without such and nobody will believe that you were here.....unless you have a Hard Rock shirt or a picture of a street hustler selling knock off Louis Vuitton bags on Broadway.
Speaking of tourism, in a fit of spontaneity and with the whim of a UGA freshman going to Boar's Head for the first time, I took my talents to England and Ireland for a week. (+1 for comparing myself to Lebron James. We have a lot in common.) This was my first excursion across the pond, so I really had not the first clue what to expect. I knew only what I heard and the stories from friends who had ventured to the Old World before. I used a travel agency that was very helpful and booked my flights and hotels for me.
My first flight was from LaGuardia to Charlotte, North Carolina, which was my first visit back to Dixie since I left two months ago. This was going to be a quick flight and connection to London, where it would take 8 hours across the Atlantic. However, it was not to be on this day. The US Airways staff, lead by Mikesha, who only spoke in grunts and hand motions, caused an hour delay. Mikesha climbed my personal hate ladder with the dexterity of a three-toed sloth on fire. By the time I arrived in Charlotte, my London flight was over Bermuda. Since there is only one flight per day to the UK, it was a lost day in Charlotte...or so I thought.
My hotel in Charlotte was three blocks from the NASCAR Hall of Fame. What self-respecting, tire-squealin, dirt road navigatin' Cassvillian would be that close and not go? It was three hours of tributes to moonshiners, Junior Johnson/Richard Petty/Dale Earnhardt/Bill France, and rife with actual race cars, paraphernalia and videos of great races and finishes. While it glorified the globalization of the brand, it paid more attention to its roots......the Southern United States and the men from the South who made the sport what it is. We need to take this sport back because it is not the same. We need more Davey Allisons (Greatest mullet ever, possibly. They also had his deer hunting bow on display, does it get any better than that?) and less Jimmie Johnsons. We need more Neil Bonnetts, Harry Gants, and Dale Jarretts, guys who wore their 1983 Daytona 500 Champion belt buckle with pride and were sponsored by at least three vices (Alcohol, Cigarettes and Chewing Tobacco).
"I'd like to thank my crew and my sponsors: Marlboro, Levi Garrett, and Old Milwaukee. Kids, nothing makes me feel better after a race than a good chew on pit road."
Anyhow, I finally made the voyage to jolly old England the next day. The land of Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin, the Beatles, fish n chips, and the Queen (in order of importance). I climbed off the plane and instantly the song "Norwegian Wood" popped into my head:
"Iiiiiiiii once hahd a guhl..." ("I once had a girl" for you Beatles illiterates)
The rest of my stay in England was littered with random extremely British songs: "Mrs. Brown, You've Got a Lovely Daughter," "Daydream Believer," and "Bloody Well Right" pretty much dominated my internal jukebox. The subway took me to the West End and with each stop, the train conductor tells you to "mind the gap," which means to be careful of the gap between the train and the platform. Apparently, if you fall in the gap, you will disappear like Artax the horse in the Swamp of Sadness. (+1 for Neverending Story reference. 90's kids, you know you cried when Artax died. )
From there, I trekked to Big Ben, Buckingham Palace and Westminster Abbey. I saw the grave of King Edward I, who passed away in 1296. In Cassville, Georgia, when somebody says, "Man, that's old" they are usually referring to the following:
1) A 1971 Dodge Charger
2) A two week old can of Skoal
3) A rusty bandsaw
4) Yet another minie ball from the Civil War found in Kingston
5) A vinyl Charley Pride record
From there, I went to Soho and Mayfair. (Insert Werewolves of London line right here) I walked down Savile Row, where the Beatles held their final live concert in 1969. I saw the awesome St. Paul's Cathedral and the Tate Modern Art Museum. I've tried to understand "modern" art and glean some inspiration from the paintings and sculptures, but it eludes me. It's kind of like Tennessee football, a cacophony of randomness that only speaks to the severely intoxicated or falsely enlightened. As I passed through Southwark (pronounced Suth-ick), a small pub caught my eye. This place, called Tipperary, had stood since 1605 and survived the fire that nearly destroyed London years ago. The tattooed female bartender, noticing my accent, says, "And just what tree did you fall out of, love?" Hook, line and sinker. I stayed for an hour. She told me of the other old bars in Southwark and the City, so I completed a mini pub crawl at institutions such as Lyceum Tavern, Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese and Ye Olde Cock Tavern (complete with a huge rooster sign). Englishmen love to drink cider, of which I am not a fan. I tried one called "Sweet Rosie" that tasted like Mountain Dew with a handle of butterscotch schnapps dumped in it. I left after I recovered from my diabetic coma in the bathroom. I settled for a hamburger for dinner.
I cannot discuss England without mentioning the food, or lack thereof. Traditional English food is interesting. I think the guy who decided what food is "English" is the same guy who invented grammar rules, white noise for TVs and back-up warning beepers for large trucks. Horrendous. Thank God for hamburgers and the huge Italian presence in London. There was one day where I only ate one meal, and for those of you who know me well, this is almost impossible. The next day, I walked five miles along the Thames to the Imperial War Museum, where I saw the actual tank that Montgomery used in North Africa during WWII and a shell from the biggest cannon ever constructed in the history of the earth. I thought of Cassville: "Shoot, I'd kill my three year limit with that damn thing." I stopped for a hamburger near the Globe Theater. The coolest part of the day was the "Jack the Ripper" tour at night in East London, where I was taken to where the still at-large criminal killed and mutilated five prostitutes in three months....or they would say back home, "he done kilt five whores down nar and cut them girls all to pieces." I went back to the hotel, ate ANOTHER hamburger and called it a night.
The early morning flight to Dublin was a treat. You get on an Aer Lingus (Irish airline) plane and U2 is blaring over the speakers, seriously. I smiled, masking my eternal utter disdain for that group and their lead singer. Cliches abound, as the flight attendant, named Brendan, offered an Irish coffee to me at 8:00 AM. I took the bus from the airport into Dublin, known to the Gaelic population as "Baile Atha Cliath." One thing that overtakes you in Dublin is the overt "Irishness" of the people. They are damn proud to be Irish. I asked one Irishman how to get to Finglas Road or "Bothar Fhionnghlaise." He replied with, "Tiyien%4&& YIOWJENMS NMIDIkdsi17627." So, I nodded a few times and I just got on the first bus to Finglas or Albuquerque, whichever one came first.
Dublin is old, y'all. The tallest building is only seven stories high, I think. That is the Guinness Storehouse, where I imbibed in the finest non-craft beer I have ever tasted. Irishmen are proud of this accomplishment and they should be. The only drawback was that I had to share my experience with a tour group from Michigan, whose accents nearly turned my beer back into yeast before I could drink it. "Bahb, Bahb, take my picture next to this freakin beer glee-ass right here. Bahb! Bahb!" I saw the original St. Patrick's Cathedral, Christchurch and St. Aldouen's Church, which has stood since 1193. I did not go into St. Patrick's because they charge you to enter the grounds. Whoever heard of that? If I wanted to pay to go to church, I'd just call Jimmy Swaggart and tell him set up a tent in Acworth. The Irish Archaeology Museum was the biggest pleasant surprise of the trip. They had Viking relics, medieval swords, early Christian art and five actual bodies of men who had lived in 800-900 BC. They had been found in mineral rich bogs, which cover rural Ireland and operate as a preservative if something is buried within it. I also saw the Irish National Gallery, complete with original Rembrandts, Van Goghs, Monets and an actual Michelangelo. Now, THAT is inspiring.
If you want the original pub experience, then Dublin is your place. Stereotypes are alive and well here, but it is worth it. Places like Kehoe's, The Dawson Lounge, The Temple Bar, Bruxelle's and The Palace Bar keep the spirit alive, when they are not covered up with tourists. Then, I encountered the bar called Sin E, pronounced "Shin-Ay." Nothing compared to Sin E. (Yes, I went there, sue me.) It was operated by an Italian who told me to called him "Jump" and served the cheapest Guinness in Dublin. I sat next to a Jewish Frenchman from Normandy, whose grandfather was a member of the French Resistance and assisted the Americans with information and sabotaged Nazi supply lines during WWII. His great grandfather was murdered at Auschwitz. We talked for a long time. I told him of my grandfather and his landing on Omaha Beach, and he replies in broken English, "we are eternally grateful for men like him," and raised his glass. I raised mine to his grandfather as well. As some stereotypes lived on in Ireland, others died with the clinking of two glasses in memory of two heroes.
Overall, I am extremely pleased with my decision to go on this trip. Most of my fellow Americans flying back from Ireland, donned in loud, green sweatshirts from The Blarney Inn or their new tam 'o-shanter caps, would agree. Americans love Irish culture. They want to be Irish so bad, they can taste it. As for me, I only bought two Guinness glasses. I'm not a souvenir collector, I'm more of a memory maker. I'm glad to be back in the States because football season is around the corner, and I don't mean soccer. UGA vs. Buffalo in 9 days, y'all. Jarvis Jones is going to have 32 sacks in this game. A word to the Buffalo QB, as only Warren Zevon can put it:
"You better stay away from him,
He'll rip your lungs out, Jim."
Go Dawgs.