WHEN I HAD FIRE WITHIN MY BLOOD: CHAPTER THREE

JUNE 10, 2000.  9:15 PM.  DERRY.  EVERGLADES HOTEL.

I suffered through breakfast better today.  I knew enough to stick to things that can't get screwed up, like cereal and milk.

The tour of Belfast was amazing and scary.  It had a lot of the types of things Dublin had, but everything is falling apart in Belfast, as if they didn't bother rebuilding because they knew it would only get blown up again.  Not only that, but the British soldiers and the UVF left all their barricades and barbed wire and stuff lying around, as if they knew they would probably be back.

The place was scary enough as it was.  Imagine what it would have looked like with pissed off, armed soldiers.  There was also so much graffiti there, Chicago doesn't hold a candle to it.

The Irish Sea, on the other hand, is staggeringly beautiful.  There is nothing like watching the waves attack each other while the strong sea wind looks Lovecraftian, just without the sea monsters.

The old Bushmills Distillery was pretty cool, despite the fact that it was the worst tour I'd ever gone on.  The tour guide just took us around, said her scripted piece, asked, "Any questions?", and without waiting for an answer, started leading us on to the next stop.  However, there were free drinks, and that makes up for everything else.

Speaking of alcohol, I tried some Guinness in its home land.  I'm not a beer guy (I prefer whiskey), but this Guinness was amazingly good.  Nice and thick.  There's even an art to pouring it.  Most importantly, the first drink was free.  They keep the best for themselves; the rest of the world gets it with a lower alcohol content.  Regardless, I think they've just made me a happy customer, and I'm sure I'll be spending a lot more money on their wares.

I should say something about forests in Ireland.  So far, I've hardly seen any.  I did see a few, like the one on top of a mountain, which was so scarce and twisted and insidious that I wouldn't be able to work the guts up to hang out there at night.  There must be some kind of demon in those woods.  The pine woods, though, you could never get lost in them because you'd never be able to get in.  You could probably throw a penny at this forest, and it would bounce back at you, it's so thick.  It probably covers up some kind of evil, too.

The Everglades isn't exactly the piece of America it claims to be, but it's better than the Mespil.  The waitresses are beautiful, but one strikes my interest in particular.  Hearing only my voice over the phone, she was able to recognize me in the dining room and actually recited my order to me from memory.  When I didn't finish the terrible fish they gave me to eat, she guessed exactly what I wanted:  a cheeseburger with fries.  Either she's psychic, or she's the modern day Sherlock Holmes.  I'm very impressed with her.  If she can make a great cheeseburger, I'll ask her to marry me and go back to the States with me.  She could very well be perfect.

JUNE 11.  8:00 PM.  DERRY.  EVERGLADES HOTEL.

I think I'm finally getting used to living this way.  Breakfast doesn't bother me, so long as I stick to the cereal, and riding that small bus (sorry, "coach") doesn't hurt as much as it used to.  Maybe it's because I'm finally drinking Coke.  The bathroom, like everything else, was not made for big people.  I'm beginning to think some midget fell into political power and is now making us big people pay for our jokes.  Anyway, I had to do acrobatics to wash my hair this morning, seeing as how the showerhead only went up to my chest.

I had a great time on the walls of Derry.  Could you imagine that these walls have never toppled?  They call Derry the Virgin City because no one has ever successfully conquered the city.  Mona, the local guide (who has a love for dirty jokes and is always reminded of something else), told us great stories, including the one about George Walker's head (the Catholics got tired of the Protestant, so they bombed the statue and stole its head).

Speaking of bombs, Derry is scarier than Belfast in a way.  In Derry, which is the site for almost all "Troubles" (their euphemism for their fight for independence), they keep rebuilding and rebuilding because they know that if they don't, they won't have a city anymore.  It's even more downtrodden than Belfast.  The British soldiers are gone, but they've left cameras all over the place as a reminder that Big Brother is watching.

I saw where the Irish kings lived.  It's a fort named Grianan Ailigh.  It was extremely difficult to get to the top, considering the narrow, small steps (the midget has always been in charge), the rain, and the very strong wind (it's on top of a mountain, which our driver, Michael of the Steel Balls, managed to get our coach up).  Supposedly, the old Irish army is still buried there, and if you listen carefully at certain times of the day, you can hear their horses marching.

As we left Grianan Ailigh, a couple of drunken Irish teenagers stood on top of the fort (which must have taken a big pair of brass balls, considering the weather conditions) and mooned us not once, but twice.  If not for the presence of elderly ladies, I would have assaulted their wiping practices.

(By the way, in Ireland, the age you can smoke is 16, and to drink, 17.)

I got the cheeseburger promised to me tonight.  While it wasn't all that great, it was still the best Ireland had to offer.  The fries, however, were glorious.  A word to the wise, Ireland:  cheeseburgers should not crunch in your mouth, and use sliced cheese, not shredded; shredded makes it look like a cat puked on the meat.

I was in a real pub today (not like the pub I was in the other day), and the chairs are (surprise, surprise) made for small people.  Even the doors were so narrow that even if I was as thin as Calista Flockhart, I still wouldn't get through comfortably.  If I don't see something made for big people, I'll go mad.