GoldInRoute

When I got to France, I’d been backpacking for quite some time.

Aside from Birthright in Israel and five days at Joanna’s inn in Ireland, most of my trip has been in hostels, train bunks and (just once) an airport bench. But my trip to France was going to be, well, different. If all went according to plan, I wasn’t going to spend one night in French hostel. Instead, I was going to spend all of my time in France visiting people, not towns/hostels.

 Haute-Savoie borders Switzerland

My first stop was the tiny lake-front village of Talloires. The town lies in France’s Haute-Savoie region, one of most dynamics “departments” in France.

It’s one of two departments that were annexed by France in 1860, around the time of the unification of Italy. And with Switzerland just to the north, it’s also fiercely independent of its current government. I quickly noticed Savoie libre (”free Savoie”) scrawled across walls in graffiti around the region. For many citizens, region comes before country. And as I quickly learned, there’s a lot for them to proud of.

The area is stunningly, drop-dead, amazingly gorgeous. Dotted with lakes, littered with streams and dominated by mountains that scrape the sky, the area has inherited more of its looks from Switzerland than France. And that’s how it felt when I stepped off the train in Annecy, the urban center of southwest Haute-Savoie. I’d never been to eastern or southern France before, and it felt worlds (or at least countries) away from from the France I’d known in Royan. But when Michael Karp (Athena’s dad) picked me up from the train station and took me into town for dinner, I knew I was back.

 Downtown Annecy

The well-swept streets were lined with outdoor cafes and restaurants, and packed to the brim with French patrons. The smell of crepes wafted out from between the bakeries and the cheese shops. And the three-to-four-story, centuries-old buildings stood guard along both sides of the avenues, flush with bright colors. It was France, that much was for sure. And I was happy as hell to be there.

Not to mention my that the days of scrounging, the days of eating peanut butter and banana sandwiches were about to come to an end. The Karp family knows how to vacation in style — with constant dinners out at amazing restaurants — and their incredible hospitality meant that they brought me along with them. So straight from the train station, we headed for dinner downtown (in the same clothes I’d been wearing since I scrambled out of Ireland at 5 am that day). Athena didn’t arrive until the next day, so it was just me and her family (who are about as entertaining as families go).

The dinner, an adventure in itself, was a great welcome to France. Terrific food and wine came quick, but not fast enough for Michael, who grabbed slices of pizza from another restaurant and brought them back to us (with his wife, Athena’s stepmom, attempting to stop him the entire time). The wine didn’t last long, though don’t think that’s because we consumed it too quickly. Justine (Athena’s sister) and her friends spilled the wine not once, not twice, but three times in the course of the dinner.

Oh, the Karps.

But dinner was soon to be topped, by our lodging. Michael owns a lot of real estate (including some at Penn) — that’s what he does — and they own a place in Talloires. But not just any place. A hotel. And not just any hotel. But a gorgeous, historic hotel on Lake Annecy, called the Villa des Roses (if you can’t translate that French, shame on you). The Karps used to vacation in the hotel, and liked it so much that they eventually bought it about four years ago.

 View of the Villa Des Roses from the backyard

It’s an amazing place, and I was blessed every day they let me stay there. It really is a hotel — that the Karps essentially completely take over for themselves and friends (the kids had nine friends, including me, staying with them) when they come to visit. The back door of the Villa opens up onto a wide backyard, complete with lawn chairs, tables and a beautiful patio. I would have been perfectly happy crashing on a couch or sleeping, well, anywhere. But to my delight, they’d given me an entire suite to myself. I was in heaven.

 The Villa, with port in the distance

And just past that backyard, across the Rue du Porte, is — you guessed it — the port of Talloires, where dozens of boats are docked every day. Up the hill, in the other direction, is the center of Talloires, a tiny village of a couple hundred residents. Located on the lake, about 20 minutes south of sprawling Annecy, it’s about as picturesque as Haute-Savoie towns go. There’s a church (the tallest building in town, of course), with a large walled graveyard in the back. There are a number of waterfront restaurants and cafes in town, not to mention the bakery and the bar.

It’s a beautiful town — the Karps sure know how to pick their vacation spots.

The morning after my arrival, I woke up early (compared to the other kids, who usually slept till noon or 1 pm) and headed down to the kitchen, where the smell of the Karps’ daily fresh cheese delivery reminded you that — in case you had forgotten — the French know their fromage.

 Annecy’s local cheese shop

Each day, I chowed down on huge hunks of Tomme Blanche, Brie, Chevre (goat cheese) and the local specialty, Reblochon. After all the walking I’d done throughout Europe, I was pretty sure that I’d lost about 5-10 pounds since I left America. So I saw it as my duty to regain that weight by stuffing my face with as much French cheese as was humanly possible until the thought of it made me sick (which, of course, just isn’t possible).

Athena arrived soon after. She had just finished her investment-banking internship in New York City, and then hopped on the plane to France. We spent most of the day catching up and getting some sun on the port’s beautiful old dock, taking a break to try out wake boarding with the local water sportsman, Jean-Louis. Athena, per usual, was great — jumping and gliding behind the boat. I, however, couldn’t get up out of the water. Kind of embarassing, but I had never touched a wakeboard in my life, so the only thing that made me feel bad was the frustrated look on Jean-Louis’ face. At least it went better than the French-only windsurfing lesson I got in Royan six years ago.

 Athena, Andy (her step sis) and I

Michael took everyone out to dinner that night, at a charming little restaurant up in the hills. The restaurant also had one of the most memorable hosts/madams I’ve ever met. She had a piercing laugh, which came out pretty much every time Michael exchanged bad French with her. She particularly enjoyed when Michael, over his daughters’ protests, collected all the tables plates and then returned them to the kitchen himself.

And later that night, I discovered a secret that only locals could know about Talloires: At 3:30 a.m., the local bakery takes the first batch of croissants out of the oven. I’m going to have trouble eating croissants in America now — these pastries were unbelievable. I never thought bread could actually melt in your mouth, but these croissants sure did. Probably cause they seemed to made out of 90 percent butter and 10 percent other stuff. Bathed in butter and caking hot, they were just as croissants should be. I ate about three of them that night, resting between to avoid a heart attack.

That wasn’t the end of our gastronomic adventure, either. The next day, we headed into Annecy, where I indulged in my favorite French staple, and Athena in one of hers.

 Athena showing off her danish

I LOVE French sandwiches. When they served them in the Royan cafeteria, I couldn’t get enough of them. Back then, my friend Theo and I would talk other people out of eating lunch and into giving us their meal tickets, just so we could eat two sandwiches each, instead of one. What makes them special? They are all served on long, skinny, fresh French baguettes, doused in mayonnaise and usually include sliced egg. It’s delicious; try it if you don’t believe me.

And Athena found her favorite bakery, where they were just bringing freshly baked apricot danishes out of the oven. These babies were piping hot (we continually ate, burned our tongues, and continued eating) and doused with powdered sugar. The French know their food, and Annecy knows its pastries.

The best part of staying with Athena’s family, of course, was getting to talk to Athena. I saw a lot of her while she lived in Philly my freshman year at Penn, but since she left for Georgetown I hadn’t seen her much. Her last night, we spent a lot of time catching up and talking over her recent career plan change: She wants to be an investment banker after college. I was baffled at first — the Athena I had known seemed much more interested in writing and literature than spending 100 hours a week moving money around. But she’s happy with where she’s going, and I’m proud of her.

 An eggplant/pepper appetizer

It was also the Karps’ last night in town, so we went out to the best restaurant of my visit. The place was unbelievable. It was perched in the hills above Annecy, and prided itself on its creative approaching to cooking. And they earned the right to be proud.

We had onion ice cream. Liquid wrapped in pastry balls. A dish of eggplant covered perpendicularly with rows of rainbow colored sweet peppers. And a dozen other amazing dishes that flowed from the kitchen to the table to our salivating mouths. And it was with that dinner and more midnight pastries that I spent the last night with the Karps — they left in the morning for Israel. I, however, did not.

That’s right, I stayed in the hotel after they left! To be fair, the place wasn’t going to be used again until their return. So thanks to their generosity, I got to hang around a few more days. It wasn’t quite as exciting without the Karps, but they left their beautiful mansion to me and Maude, the French hotel manager.

 A boat floats on one of Talloires’ nicer days

The weather turned sour for the next few days, and finally I got tired of waiting for the sun. I put on my swim suit and hopped in the lake, with the rain still pouring. Not the greatest idea — I know — but I hadn’t heard lightning for hours. And moreover, it’s probably safer during rain, as you don’t have to worry about being hit by boats!

I swam out a couple hundred meters to a buoy near the port. And then I just clung there, admiring the scenery. And there was a lot to admire. Rain clouds clung to the mountains around the lake. And rain dripped down on the water, like I’d never heard it before. With my head bobbing just above the surface, all I could hear was water hitting water in every direction. Rain sounds a lot different when you’re swimming in it.

The next day, I continued my uncharacteristic bonding with nature.

 Love where they built the path

Talloires sits down by the lake, but I wanted to make a trip up into the hills and cliffs that sit staunchly above the town. So I found a map in the hotel, and Maude sketched out where the hiking paths are. Most important, she showed me the way to a waterfall up near the cliffs where locals had build a path carved into the rock around the waterfall.

I grabbed my iPod and headed upwards. It was beautiful up there. The waterfall, though slippery as hell, was spectacular, though a little crowded with tourists. But on the bright side, they were all French, so I didn’t feel too bad.

After the waterfall, I wanted a less popular route, so I continued up the hill. I passed through a stunning clearing halfway up the hills, and finally made it up to Rovagny, a tiny town so small and far enough away that Maude hadn’t even heard of it. The view was spectacular. Behind me, I could see paragliders skimming and dipping between the cliffs and the clouds. In front of me, the clouds above the lake had lifted enough that I could see clear all the way to downtown Annecy.

The way down, though, wasn’t quite as easy as the way up. From all the rain in the past week, most of the trails were turned into mud. And making things worse, a good number of the trails on the way down were not just dirt paths, but rock paths. So I spent the better part of an hour jumping from rock to rock, only falling once (as awkward and contorted as I was, I managed to catch myself on an overlying tree branch, half a second before my head crashed into it.)

Eventually, I made it back down to the lake, for my last night in Talloires. Maude and I went to dinner, and I stayed up reading, trying to enjoy as much of the Villa Des Roses as possible before I left.

It had been a fantastic six days — thanks to the generosity of the Karps — and I knew, as a packed up my bag and headed to the bus stop, that this was about as good as things would get on my trip. Talloires hadn’t been the same France I left six years ago, but I’d loved it all the same. After all, you can’t beat daily cheese deliveries. Especially French cheese.

Note: Click here for the entire Annecy/Talloires photo set.

 View of Lake Annecy from Rovagny

In both senses of the word.

After three months of traveling, crossing borders and sleeping on benches (well, just one actually) my grand trip has come to an end. I’m now reporting live from the comfortable walls of my home in Palo Alto, California, worlds away from Europe.

For those few of you who’ve kept up with me (I know it’s been tough), you may have noticed that my posts have died out the last two weeks. As my trip neared it end, I wanted to spend my last few days in Europe seeing as much as possible, not blogging. But as I’m home, with little to do (for now), I’m back on the blog as well.

And I have a lot to catch up on. The last three weeks of Europe were some of the most memorable. I dined at fancy restaurants in the Haute-Savoie, dashed across western France to make my flight and bartended at a club in England. But I don’t want to get ahead of myself.

I just want to let you know that I’m back. So expect some good final posts as I wrap up my storytelling.

France occupies a special place in my heart.

In 2001, when I was 16 years old, I left North America for the first time and headed toward the land of wine and cheese. For five weeks, I lived with a French family in the western beach town of Royan (anyone look familiar on this page?).

The summer was one of the best of my life. Not only did I fall in love with the country (a few girls), but I grew up that summer. An ocean and a continent separated me from my parents. I’d lived on my own before at summer programs, but they were always in rural areas in the middle of nowhere. In Royan, not only was I in a decent-sized city, but the first time, we could go out to bars and restaurants and few of us, including me, had a curfew.

The fact that there were only 6 guys and 35 girls didn’t hurt either.

People always say the people they meet on programs like this are amazing. People said that about birthright, but I’ve barely spoken to anyone I met on that trip since it ended (save Sharon, who I knew before). During those fleeting, fun-filled weeks in France though, I made some of most lasting friendships of my life — which significantly altered the course my life has taken.

I met Athena, a cheery girl from Philadelphia. It was largely because of her that I first learned about Penn and thought about applying (especially after I learned my grandpa went there — yay legacy!). And I’ve still stayed close with her friends who were also there: Jane and Emily. And I met Maryl, the only person on the trip from Northern California (lived in SF). We spent a lot of time together in high school, and it was through her that I got interested in exploring San Francisco (which led me toward urban studies, my minor). She’s also one of the best travelers I’ve ever met — she always goes crazy places, like Ghana or South America or Pluto), and her stories and photos and love for travel sparked the idea for this summer years ago.

There were others, many of whom I still talk to occasionally.

The people I met there — together with living in a foreign country at 16, if only for five all-too-short weeks — really did influence me, probably moreso than any other single experience of my life (except when a petting zoo goat stole my cookie when I was 4. I haven’t been able to look those animals in the eyes since. Or eat cookies). It’s where my confidence and independent streak blossomed (to the chagrin of my parents) and where I realized I could handle four years of school out of California.

 Left to right: Jane, Theo, Me, Athena, Emily, Kate

And for years, I’ve been holding my time in France up on that pedestal. And in that time, I’ve never been back.

To some degree, I was never able to. Summer jobs. No money. Not to mention a 12-hour plane if I even got the money together. But moreover, I knew it would never be the same. Without Athena, I’d have no one to translate French into something I actually understood. And these days, braces long-gone and beautiful, she seems to have more guys persuing her than I . And there would be no Theo, my heterosexual life partner that summer (there wasn’t a large selection of guy friends as it was), well I haven’t seen him in years. We talk every couple months online, but attempted meetings have always ended in failure.

So I resigned myself to holding on to those memories. Many of them are still sharp, only the corners of the images in my mind folding and graying a bit around the edges. Usually, I can still remember what the chevre chaud tastes like or recall clutching Maryl’s shoulder as she helped me descend a lighthouse’s staircase at a snail’s pace (scared of heights, remember).

 Arrow is Royan. Marseille on the southeast coast

But this summer, obviously, has brought me back to Europe. And with France being in Europe and all, I knew my summer wouldn’t be complete without a visit back to the country that I loved so dearly. I was unsure though: Should I go back to the west coast, where I lived, and try to relive my country? I thought that might be a bad idea — living in the past usually is. So I booked a flight for Marseille — in the southeast of the counry) near where my friend Anaise told me she’d be in August and decided I’d see a new part of the country.

Would I still love it though? And had I really loved France, or would I have loved any town where I was one of 6 guys that 30 American girls could speak English with. Any town where I lived a block from the beach. After all, I hadn’t really gotten to know many French people during my time there — I’d spent so much damn time with the Americans! Even worse, I spoke English with my host family, not French, so my French was crap when I finished, just as it had been crap when I arrived.

Yet, something told me the warmth I felt for the country wasn’t misplaced. So I gave myself two weeks to explore the south and southeast of France, plenty of time to get reacquainted. And aftering making it through customs, I set off for my first stop: Athena’s summer house in Annecy. I might not be able to recreate that same summer — but it doesn’t hurt to try, right?

Of our 10 days together in Ireland, Brian and I spent most of our time in the countryside. But our trip to Ireland wasn’t without time in Ireland’s two most popular cities: Galway and Dublin.

First up: Galway.

By a huge margin, it’s the smaller of the two cities. Yet, it’s probably gets almost as many backpackers as Dublin does. We realized this too late — when we tried to book a room there. The place was completely full. And it wasn’t just full that day — it was full for the next week. That was unheard of in any other part of Europe. Even after phone calls, mad Internet searches and guidebook perusals, we couldn’t find anything. As it turned out, it was likely from the Galway Races attracting hordes of tourists to town. However, that was on day 1 in Ireland, so, as I said, we plowed on to Jo’s Inn.

We’d been told a visit to Ireland isn’t complete without a visit to Galway, so when we had our hands on the rental car, we headed there for dinner.

 Artists paint the sidewalk in Galway

It’s small, but it claims to be “Ireland’s cultural capital.” It certainly seemed at least mostly worth of the title — as long as deserving it means an ample supply of artists and street performers. After navigating through traffic (yes, traffic! We hadn’t seen it in days), we parked and looked for a restaurant. We didn’t make it far, though, before we wandered into a CD shop, looking to satiate our need for new music, after the one CD we had bought (Bell X1 Live) had just completed its fifth-straight complete play.

We were just happy to find a CD shop past 5 p.m. But before long, Jo struck up a conversation with the owner.

Man was he a character. His name was Dez, and his sheer force of personality was only surpassed by the abysmal care he’d given to his teeth. Dez, we soon came to realize, was the reason that small CD shops still exist.

Not only did he some of the most entertaining stories we’d ever heard (as if anything is more entertaining than me retelling my Istanbul airport mix-up for the 8th time to Brian), but the man knew his music. He had some tracks from the new Josh Ritter album (one of my favorite musicians, who I’m seeing in concert back in the States) that Brian and I loved. As it happens, Josh is playing a show in Galway, and Dez sells tickets to a lot of the local concerts. And as fate would have it, he only had one ticket left for the show! Obviously, it was fate for Jo — so she picked up the ticket (and took Dez’ number of course).

Besides Josh, Dez also played us some good Irish bands we’d never heard of. Mark Geary and Sabrina Dinan among them; we bought both their CDs (and I’ve been listening to them ever since) and a Bell X1 studio album. We spent nearly an hour and a half in the tiny place, as Dez regaled us with his stories of Irish bands and his trip to America (where, he told us, his accent is the “key to the box”). But Dez needed to close up shop, and we needed dinner. So we sadly said our goodbyes, new CDs and concert ticket in hand, and headed to a restaurant around the corner. After dinner, with some soft-serve ice cream, we were back on our way.

The Irish

The really aren’t kidding when they talk about Irish hospitality.

All over Ireland, people were incredibly nice. From Susan and DJ’s letting us stay at the Inn for free to the rental car salesmen, everyone was kind and helpful. The hospitality reached its peak during our trip to Dublin. We boarded a bus that was making a 5-minute stop in a small town. After selling us tickets, the bus driver hopped out and headed into a convenience store. When he returned, he had two candybars in hand. But they weren’t for him, he handed both to the sweet old couple that was sitting in the first row of the bus.

The smiles on their faces went from ear to ear.

And topping that (at least in my mind), the bus driver literally assured that we would make our connecting bus. In an act of amazing transportation kindness, he radioed the bus we were connecting to, telling the driver of our arrival at the connecting city bus stop. When we hopped on the connecting bus, the driver looked at us: “Are you those two American lads going to Dublin?”

“Yes sir” we told him, happily, as we took our seats. Without the warning, he told us he probably wouldn’t have stopped. Now that’s a lesson America could pick up.

Last stop Dublin

Ireland’s capital stands in contrast to the whole country.

 A bar in Temple Bar, Dublin

Unlike most of Ireland, the capital is teeming with people. While in the rest of the country a proper two-lane road is a rarity, Dublin is packed with teeming, broad, sweeping boulevards. While pubs close at 11 in most small Irish towns, the bars of Dublin are open late.

But while I loved the Irish countryside, I didn’t feel much different about Dublin. It was love at first sight.

We arrived at our hostel after a good 10-minute track with our packs. Yet after telling them our names, we were met with an uncomfortable “uh oh” and “hold on.” The hostel had double booked, and we were being transferred to another hostel across town. We were about to be upset, until they compensated us with 10 euros. Amazing the power a monetary apology holds.

 Brian walking ahead solo, per usual

Dropping our stuff into the hostel, we headed off to explore. As we were back in a city where one actually walks from one place to another, I had to reacclamate to Brian’s habit of walking 10 paces ahead everyone else. Except, mind you, everyone else was just me. It’s a strange thing, as it makes talking to him near impossible (hard to hear someone’s words when they’re spoken 10 paces away in a direction away from your ears).

But that’s Brian for you.

Dublin was, much like the rest Ireland, incredibly expensive. Restaurant meals were, at the cheapest, around 10 euros for a main dish at a crappy restaurant. So after a terrible meal of crap Chinese food the first night, we decided to hit up a grocery store most of the rest of the meals. Luckily, this led to my introduction to Marks & Spencer.

 The world’s prettiest beer, fresh in Dublin

The department store/ grocery/ amazing place is a bunch of different shops, one of which is a posh, high-quality grocery store. They sell everything there, from Indian food to produce to scones. So instead of blowing 10 euros on another crap dish, Brian and I eached picked out great meals for about6 euros and cooked back at the hostel.

Dublin is also home to Guinness, one of the world’s most famous brews.

Now, I’ve never been a fan of dark beers. I’ve tried them before in California, and I’ve always thought they were crap.

But beers Ireland don’t taste like beers in America. Especially in the case of Guinness. As you can imagine, it has a lot to do with freshness, as Guinness is brewed right there in the heart of Dublin. To get to the source of the ruby-red liquid, Brian and I took a tour of the factory. After some bored-to-tears sections of the museum (like the exhibit on where the hops come from) and some cool sections (Guinness ads through the years), we made it to the top: The 360-degree, glass-enclosed bar on the top floor of the factory.

And for making it to the top, each guest is rewarding with a fresh pint of Guinness.

 Me outside the Guinness Storehouse

I may have sworn off dark beers back in the States, but I’ve repealed that ordinance while abroad. The Guinness in Ireland really is fabulous. And as it settles just after the pour, it’s got to be the world’s prettiest beer as well.

But we got out into town too — and not just for the beer.

Throughout the summer, there are free movie showings in the middle of town. So when Brian learned both that This is Spinal Tap was playing and that I hadn’t seen it, we decided to head to the showing.

Only problem was, it was pouring rain. So I grabbed my tiny, made-in-China umbrella I purchased months ago in Munich and we trudged downtown. The movie was hilarious, but it probably wouldn’t have been better had my tiny circle of dryness (essentially a foot in diameter around my head, where the umbrella was centered) been bigger.

After the show, we headed back home, and quickly went to bed. After all, it was midnight and I had to wake up at 4:45 to catch a bus to the airport for a 7:30 flight. I was a bit surpised then, when Brian hit me awake at 6 a.m., asking “weren’t you supposed to be at the airport by now.”

Whoops. Damn watch alarms never work. I’d never gone from being in bed to being packed and running out the door so fast.

I hailed a cab, and got to the airport 5 minutes before check in closed. Whew. The rest of the morning passed, surprisingly, without further problems.

As the plane speed down the runway and gently pushed off into the skies, I was sad to leave an island I’d come to like. But after 10 days of fog, rain and clouds, my eyes widened as our plane slipped the thick bands of milky clouds that covered Ireland.

In their stead, I could just make out the blood-orange sun rising above the soup of grayish-white clouds. The sun had finally come out to see me off.

View Ireland pictures here and Dublin here

Brian, Jo and I set off toward Connemara, one of the most beautiful regions of Ireland, in our new rental car.

Before long, houses had become only rare disturbances to the rural landscape. Instead, houses and gas stations were replaced with beautiful, empty landscapes, where bogs stretched for miles, only disturbed by our solitary country road. It’s a beautiful country, and we were enjoying having control of the vehicle we were riding in for the first time in nearly a month.

 Mmm, the warm smell of peat in the morning

All along these bogs though, it looked like somehad taken a 10-foot knife and simply carved out sections of bog. Next to the missing peices (where you could see the vertical cut of a wall, like looking at the side of a piece of sliced cake) thousands of logs of peat were stacked. This substance, which looks like mud, is actually partially decayed organic matter, and the Irish have burning peat for fuel hundreds of years. Besides the road and an occasional, rare house that dared make it presence known, the smell of peat was the only thing that really permeated the countryside.

We stopped in Westport, a happening town — and the first one on the ocean. We had a terrible dinner of Irish stew and hamburger, and continued on our way after picking up an Irish CD to provide some entertainment on route. (We bought Bell X1, but more on that in another post)

So we glided west, toward our destination. Irish roads, though, make it difficult to get there though. Besides the fact that the roads are incredibly narrow and windy, we were (er, Brian was) driving on the left side of the side. And driving a stick shift. As Americans, we were ducks out of water.

The rental car salesman had told us that Americans seem to struggle with driving in Ireland. One man he told us about had adamantly insisted he could drive a stick shift. So when the tow truck arrived an hour away from where he started, the employee was amazed when he realized the guy had driven the entire way in first gear and burned out the clutch. Oops.

 See the rock just waiting for our tire?

Well, we were in better shape than that. Brian can drive a stick like a pro, and he didn’t seem to having much problem with driving on the left. However, those roads were damn narrow, and they were even dangerous at speeds of 40 mph — probably a low speed for a “country byway” in America. Brian regularly deems me a backseat driver (and he’s right), so I was trying to keep my mouth shut. But a few minutes after my quiet “be careful” warning earned a grunt, we took a sharp turn and heard a “*(#@POP#(#” Brian gracefully brought the car to a stop.

We had a flat tire.

Brian proudly claimed that something had been in the road. Further investigation (I’m training for my guest appearance on CSI: Alaska in 2014) revealed we’d cut the turn just a bit too hard and ran a bit over the inside of the turn, where a large sharp, craggy rock formation had been sticking out of the hillside, just waiting for a few Americans to come turning by.

 Brian, Joanna and I near the Connemara hostel

Utilizing every bit on manliness our bodies possessed, Brian and I teamed up to quickly change the tire. Jo sat in a nearby tree, switching off between laughing at us and photographing the scene. Brian and I worked in 30-second spurts, at which point the person doing the changing would get up and start swatting both themself and the hundreds of nats buzzing around their head, while the other person subbed in. Eventually, the tire was fixed and we were on our way again.

We arrived at a hostel about an hour later. I made fun of the people who were already asleep for being lame — and I went to sleep 30 minutes later.

 Looks like Mexico, no?

In the morning, we set off to truly explore Connemara. We hadn’t seen much of the area before it got dark the night before. Our adventures took us first to an old castle that had built on a small lake. Lonely Planet said to “come hungry” to the bakery there. Unfortunately, it didn’t mention that you’ll probably leave hungry as well, as the food was pretty crap. We continued on, finding a cool beach that looked straight out of the tropics.

A good chunk of the middle of the day was spent in a small Irish hamlet whose name I can’t recall these days. The three of us decided to go on a hike, after the town itself turned out to be utterly disappointing (yay! $4 for bottled water!). The hike was pretty good, as most of the steps we took sent nearby sheep/rams scurrying around the hillside. After jumping in and around the mud, we finally made it to the peak (er, at least…a peak) and took in the view for a few minutes before heading back. Jo had faired pretty well considering she was only wearing flats.

That night, we gave up on finding a hotel/B&B/hostel and just headed back to Enniscoe House (it was free, after all).

 Real occupants of the golf course watch others play through

The next day, our last full one with a car, the three of us set off to Achill Island, somewhat closer to Crossmolina than Connemara to play some golf and explore. And we made it there with all four tires intact (good thing Reese wasn’t driving)!

We found the course eventually, a beautiful sheep pasture set in the middle of valley with mountains on three sides and water on the fourth. It was a nine-holer, and it only cost us about 25 Euros for clubs and unlimited play for the day. Teeing off on the first hole, we realized this wasn’t just a course built upon a sheep pasture.

It was still a sheep pasture.

The furry animals were all over the course, and they’d left quite a few reminders of who the course’s long-term residents really were. So, pushing aside the scat with our clubs, we teed off.

 Number 1, until event No. 2

Brian and I were competing (for part one of out ten-part, annual decathlon to decide the better athlete. Last year’s ended a tie, of course), and Jo was playing golf for the first time in her life. Brian and Jo played fabulously, while I stunk more than, well, me the night after I slept on a bench. Brian and I spent a good amount of time yapping at each other and arguing, and I worry Jo might have gotten the impression that’s how we usually act. Wait, that’s got some truth to it. Oh well. Nonetheless, golf was fun. And in the last round of 9 (our third), my golf came finally poked its head out of hiding.

 Checking out the beach

Afterward, we drove to the end of the island, where a windy road takes you over breathtaking views and finally to a small beach. We parked the car and walked around, snapping picture furiously (OK, that was mostly me) along the way. We packed back into the car, and drove back toward Crossmolina. Rural Ireland had been good to us, but it was time to head to Dublin. And Jo needed to get back to work. And at nearly 100 Euros a day, the car was tapping our well pretty hard.

So after one last night at Enniscoe House, we said our goodbyes and furious thank-yous to Jo, DJ and Susan (and dog Frodo) and set off to return the car. Despite one other close call, we returned the car without further incident. And hey, at least we didn’t drive the whole time in first gear.

Check out the entire rural Ireland gallery here