Chapter 5: Valerie-Pancake-Picturebook

In which I remember that I have a blog, and post.

(The fact is, I don't really like blogging. I like talking (read: hearing myself talk) and as most of my talking is done to computer screens and thin air, you would think that it would be a natural transition to blogging. As far as the joy of articulating my internal monologue into open space, it is quite natural, and I take great pleasure in reading myself type. The trouble is content. Most of my talk is completely void of meaningful content, and that just doesn't blog well. But this is not an introduction to a meaningless post, merely an excuse for inconsistency.)

My style of adventuring has changed since the first tumultuous week, and this is in part due to a higher work-load, and in part to an instinctual desire for survival. They keep me steadily busy painting and cleaning and cooking at the Center, and when it comes to my day off, I most often relish the chance to watch the clouds change color for two or three hours and read a good book. (current book: Anna Karenina - progress: 70% - status: excellentovich).

But occasionally, I badminton.

That is to say, I badminton-ed once, and was so utterly humiliated that I had trouble returning. (the real reason, not the 2-15 score, was my very stiff and painful wrist the following day...). My opponent was vastly superior, and soon discovered that aiming the shuttle directly at my chest rendered me completely useless, and proceeded to place every single serve, return and recovery exactly there. My spasmodic attempts to parry these well-aimed shots were mostly elbow, with a little bruising and occasional grunts. But on the off chance that I did connect racket to shuttle, my furious racket/shuttle coalition would smart bomb the hell out of my opponent's racket, making it impossible to avoid returning my every blow. But my sweaty, smart-bombing, elbow and grunt approach to badminton was not the chief source of my humiliation, it was my opponent.

My illustrious opponent was a lovely, kindly, 83 year-old woman, recovering from a heart-attack earlier in the year, and "not on top of her game."

Hey! I am an artist, ok? I paint pictures and make pretty music and DO NOT excel in badminton. (which I previously ventured to ridicule as not a real sport - I have updated my opinion to "no comment"). But my convenient wrist injury excused me from further tearful humiliation, and I decided that I would engage is Ireland's other national sport - the Pub Crawl. I am excelling, thank you very much, and have the victory (loosened) belt to prove it.

Speaking of pubs, I must mention the Corner House for it's excellent folk music night. It hosts a casual jam session every Friday night, ranging from just a few guitars and a fiddle, to full Uillean pipes, whistles, banjos, bodhran, mandolin and an excellent irish tenor. The Rooney family, which supply the whistle, bodhran (the drum, said: BO-run) and guitar/banjo are an amazing group of teenagers, especially the several-time national champion drummer. I attend regularly, and it is one of the highlights of the village.

And that's it for sports news at ten, I believe there is also an update from the travel desk - Taylor?

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Uh, That's right Taylor, we go today to special corresponded in the field, Taylor, who I believe has some breaking news from Belfast. *camera shift to bundled correspondent* Yes thank you Taylor, this news comes just weeks after the incident that occurred here shocked and dismayed audiences everywhere, and I think has left many fans in a sort of haze. I myself am very disillusioned as to the integrity of our rugged traveling hero, Taylor Gray, but as much as it pains me to report this, I owe it to the public. That's right, our intrepid man-of-the-world has broken down and taken a bus tour! A full-blown, man-with-a-mic, double decker, hop-on-hop-off, picture snapping, map pointing bus-tour. And what is even more horrifying, reports amid the aftermath confirm that he did, in fact, enjoy the tour immensely.

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So that's my confession, which I have hidden in a clever news story gimmick (read it again if you missed it). And yes, I can confirm first hand that not only was the tour fun and educational, but the guide was hilarious and I would even recommend that future travelers do the same. But I still can't talk to much of it, my travel-pride is still a bit raw.

Aside from the tour, I spent some time with rough-neighborhood teens at a drop-in center in Belfast, and was delighted at how forward these Irish teens were. They would just march up to me and introduce themselves and practically demand to know who I was and where I was from and would I play ping-pong. I am happy to say that I creamed them at ping-pong, which given the average age of 14, doesn't exactly sooth the badminton sized hole in my ego.

I was also privileged enough to stay with the owner of Avalon Guitars (handmade in Ireland, average price is about $3000), and received a personal tour of the factory. It - was - epic. at least for me. It was full of half-made guitars and wood-scraps and sawdust. But it was therefore extremely interesting to me and I got to play all of the finished guitars in their showroom, which was also pretty much the shit.

That, and another excellent viewing of kung-fu panda, pretty much sums up my Belfast trip. And given the length of this post, I may just completely ignore the title and write about that in Chapter Six: In which I return with a purpose and a better title.

Cheerio for now!

P.S. The title of this post actually has no reference to real life, except that I wanted to describe Valerie, who is the wife of Norman, and in my imagination at least, is a field mouse. Pancake-Picturebook is ex nihilo, and I left it because I love how it sounds, and may have to form a band.