And so it begins...

I'm sure it's blasphemous to say it.  I'm sure St. Patrick is going to march right over to his buddy Peter and demand I be denied entrance, but say it I must.  I hate Guinness.

As I much as I hate Guinness, I love to travel.  I'm eagerly awaiting teleportation technology so I can avoid the soul-sucking experience that is flying, but the thrill of exploring new places (especially really, really old places) makes me plaster a smile on my face for the lady at the check-in counter, wait patiently in line so the TSA can violate all of my rights, and murmur a polite hello to the guy sitting next to me who is, invariably, taking up more seat than he actually paid for.  Until I get these troublesome student loans paid down (who knew that a BA in History and a MA in Education pretty much pigeon-holes you as a high school history teacher??) I may not be getting to do quite as much international travel as I would like, but I'm finding that my home in the Pacific Northwest offers some eclectic experiences all on its own.  The past couple of years my work and family life have been pretty stressful, and this year I have decided that I'm not going to let things I can't control keep me from enjoying the things I can (my counselor would be so proud!).   So here I am, endeavoring to explore the world--or at the very least, my corner of it--two pints (for the hubby) and a cocktail (for me) at a time.

But back to my hatred of Guinness...

It's supposed to be better in Ireland, something about the gasses not traveling well, making it more bitter the less fresh it is, or something like that.  So in 2006 I found myself in Ireland, sitting in a pub that gets Guinness delivered fresh from the brewery every day, (by the way, the half of the city that is not taken up by the actual brewery is taken up by all the pubs that begin serving Guinness at 11am--except on Sundays), and I still think it tastes like bread-flavored motor oil.

Maybe you have to be Irish to understand the complexities and subtleties of such a drink.  Maybe you have to have the blood of those who fought oppression for thousands of years, while trying to hold an umbrella, running through your veins.  Matthew's last name is Benedict.  He gets it.  My last name is Valenzuela.  I'm more of an apple juice-colored drink with a lime wedge kind of girl.

Unfathomable beverages aside, Dublin is a pretty fantastic city (and fortunately, my now-discovered gluten intolerance will give me a great excuse for not drinking my lunch next time I'm in town).  Granted, I may be a bit biased since that's where Matthew and I met, but I did spend a few quite pleasant days there before a guy in a kilt inexplicably stole my heart.

The first thing that you notice about Dublin is that it's old.  If I could figure out how to double underline that word, I would.  Living in Seattle, where it's rare to find buildings that pre-date my grandparents, this is something I have a hard time grasping.  "This building was built when?  The 12th century?  That must be a typo, I'm pretty sure people only lived in caves in the 12th century."  But apparently Dubliners were a bit more advanced in the 12th century because the cathedrals you see certainly weren't built in the 70's.  (Actually, given the economic state of the British Isles in the 70's, Dubliners may have been living in caves then.)

So the city's old, the history nerd in me is as excited as a 13 year old girl at a Justin Bieber concert, and I find myself hand-in-hand with a guy in a skirt, walking through a jail.

When your first date's at a jail, things can only get better.

Unless, of course, that jail is Dublin's Kilmainham Gaol--now a museum--built in 1796, and the site of the executions of the leaders of the 1916 Easter Rising.  Then you have a date made in Cyra-heaven.