Ireland By Train

I’m sitting on the train en route to Dublin after a week of work in Limerick. Jenn is meeting me in Dublin for the weekend, which will be great. She’s been there before. I haven’t. Neither of us was dying to go, but it ended up being more convenient. There were a couple of factors keeping us from doing what we really wanted, which was exploring the Irish countryside. Reason one is time. Jenn needed it to do work after having to spend time traveling during the morning on Friday and adding a few hours to her journey would have taken her away from what she needed to do. Reason two is more important. Most of the really impressive scenic areas in the country, like the Ring of Kerry for instance, are better explored by automobile, and neither of us knows how to drive a car with a standard transmission. As I often say, I could do it with a gun to my head, but hopefully it’ll never come to that. Driving in Ireland adds complexity to the issue in that the steering wheel is on the right side, so not only would I have to drive stick, but I’d have to do it with my left hand. Full disclosure, I can’t even get food in my mouth when using a fork with my left hand, so needless to say, this wasn’t going to happen. So, we’re going to Dublin.

Apparently, I sat in the car that requires you to check your common courtesy at the door before boarding. There were babies screaming, people talking on cell phones, and ipods blaring so loud I would have generally been concerned for the people if I wasn’t so annoyed with them ruining my peaceful train ride. The 2 year old a few rows ahead of me is a cry baby. She spontaneously has cried about every 30 minutes or so, undoubtedly to get her parents’ attention. The mom is holding a baby and the dad seems entertained talking to the young son, so it seems she is crying for no other reason besides being the middle child. I should be a psychologist. It doesn’t seem all that hard.

A random thought from my hotel room last night; I was watching a tennis match between Maria Sharapova and some other girl. I’m not sure if you’ve ever watched Sharapova play, but her grunting when she hits the ball is out of control. It was so loud, dramatic, and consistent that I was uncomfortable and had to change the channel, in fear that someone walking by room would think I was watching porn. Yes, I could have put it on mute, but I didn’t want to watch women’s tennis that badly anyway.