Friday, August 23, 2013

Nooks & Deans & Spittle, etc.

We piled into the car with no baggage room, but this time we got the larger suitcases in the front seat and set off to get lost a bunch of times in yet another European country with no real street signs to speak of. From the drive alone, excluding the parts where T was belly-aching about her feet being numb from having no leg room, I knew I would love Ireland very much.

For lunch we did another very un-Jack friendly stop at a lovely restaurant where once again we did not allow him to order from a menu, see a wine list, or sit in a normal chair. He still seems to be speaking to us, which is good news. Nevertheless, I could never be sorry that we chose the Nook as our lunch spot of choice as it has the best veggie crepe in the whole land, and, as a bonus, we got to meet an up and coming celebrity musician by the name of Gavin Dean. If you have never heard of him before, you will now. In a few short weeks The Deans will be coming to New York's Webster Hall and Arlene's Grocery. No one can argue against Gavin working as a waiter in a place where a tall person, when sitting, can literally reach over and touch the kitchen counter, put their own food from the pan onto the plate and then serve their own damn selves on to the tiny little ledge of a bar that encircles the little mini dining area and all of its eight overly tall bar stools because he is very cute and adds a bit of charm to the already very charming place. Julie the owner and crepe chef is very lovely in her own right, but she doesn't have the whole poet with the silky voice thing going for her, which is just as well.

Me & Gavin

Having nooked as long at the Nook as was at all possible or realistic given its girth, we proceded to get very lost due to the whole lack of the signs with names on them issue. When there are signs, the fact that they have a massive amount of consonants in them that we can't pronounce doesn't help matters. When I tried to navigate in Irish I sounded like an angry dog with tourettes' syndrome and so it was really funny when F came back from the gas station laughing his head off. Eventually we got him to blurt out what was so funny. Apparently the gas station attendent had told him that in order to reach our B&B we had to go right through spittle. We made lots of spit jokes until we ran dry and then it started all over again. It turned out the town is actually called Spiddal, but that's a fraction less funny so we won't refer to it as such for the enhanced pleasure of your blog reading experience.

Finally we made it to Tuar Beag, good luck pronouncing that to ya. Siobhan is very lovely and she is the most expert hostess ever, immediately satisflying our need to understand her breakfast menu while simultaneously offering us homemade, glazed muffins. The rooms are adorable. They remind me of being a little girl and wishing that I could live in my dollhouse.

This is one of our beds because we have a choice of two in our room, but one is lightly lumpier.

T and Giorgia insisted in putting their feet in the water at this little beach by the inn. Unfortunately, T did it with her new pair of leather sandals still in tow. I made a lovely impression on the Irish families bathing with their dogs and their freckles as I tumbled over the rocks yelling,"What the F are you doing, you nutbag?" Followed by, "Shall we grab a spot of tea?" But by then it was too late.

We went to an extremely local neighborhood place for dinner where they had wonderful piri piri fries and cobbler for dessert. The highlight of the dinner was when my mom asked me if I remembered the name of that waitress who used to work at our old corner coffee shop growing up and I said, "You mean the one dad used to f--k?" and she said, "Yes, that one" and I said "No, but they made a mean bowl of wheaties." And then we went on to talk about how John F. Kennedy Jr. used to eat there, but he had less table side service. So now you all understand me a bit better.

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