Days 14-16: Booze, gambling and tattoos in Cork (Hi Mom!)

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I swear, Jenn and I came to Cork with the best of intentions. We were going to see Blarney Castle, go to the Fota Wildlife Park, maybe take a half-day trip to Kinsale or Cobh…but for some reason we did none of it.

In spite of that, we loved Cork. It’s in close competition with Dublin for our favourite. Can you tell we’re city girls? I’ve read over and over that the best of Ireland is in its small towns and villages, but we fell in love with its cities. I’m sure I would love rural Ireland as well, but without a car, it wasn’t to be. Still, we didn’t feel restricted, or that we were ‘missing’ anything - we found it quite easy to talk to locals and it was always apparent that we were in a foreign country. The big cities didn’t all look the same to us at all.

But I digress - once again, we had an easy (if a bit long - 4.5 hours) bus ride. I say it was easy, but Jenn did almost get stranded in Limerick when she got off the bus to use the washroom. The driver had assured her he’d be there for 10 minutes, but she sprinted back on the bus just before he left the station. She told me later she’d imagined herself wandering the edge of the River Shannon, like in Angela’s Ashes, which we both read on this trip. Our time on the bus was pretty much our only ‘alone’ time, where we spread out in our own banks of seats, put the iPods on, take a nap, etc. etc. We got along fabulously though, as I knew we would, so no real alone time was needed or desired.

We arrived at the bus station in Cork, and were easily making our way to our hostel, when all of a sudden, this massive, 90 degree hill got in our way. I’m almost serious, this thing was a challenge. As we navigated our way up it, huffing and puffing, we noticed a few piles of puke, dotting the sidewalks. Nice. We hereby dub this street Vomit Hill. We finally got to Sheila’s Hostel (no elevator, wah!) and lugged our bags up to our room. Bunks again! But this time, the bottom bunk was a bigger bed. I, being the nice friend I am, offered it to Jenn again, knowing it would pay off at some point.

I knew that one thing I wanted to do on this trip was to go see some dog racing. Jenn humoured me, so we called a cab (my Irish cell phone was coming in quite handy, actually) to take us to Curraheen Racetrack, which is about a 10 euro cab ride from the city centre, for a night of gambling. Our cab driver provided us with our first opportunity to hear the wonderful Cork City accent. Wow. At first, I thought he was from a different country. We must have asked him to repeat everything he said at least once. He was a cheery guy, though, and upon hearing our terrible coughing, told us he knew how to avoid getting sick: “Stop drinking out of damp glasses.” Haha.

Arriving at the track, we settled in and soon developed a strategy. We’d go over to where the dogs were waiting for the next race, and look for the cutest one, then check the odds and make sure that dog wasn’t either the favourite or the longest shot. We also liked the dogs the program described as “massively built.” Very scientific, our methods. We placed small bets (minimum bet is 1 euro, we bet either 2 or 5 euros on dogs to either win or place) and both of us ended up about breaking even. We were there for the experience, though, not to win (or lose) piles of money. It was a lot of fun just standing out in the stands and cheering for your dog, listening to all the older men yelling “Go on two!” while you’re saying “Come on two!” We spent a good few hours there and then it was back to the hostel for a relatively early night, since the next day was Friday and we were saving ourselves for the weekend.

The next morning was absolutely gorgeous, and I suggested we head over to the Fota Wildlife Park, but Jenn wanted to explore getting tattoos. Now, we had researched this and knew that there was a reputable studio in Cork City called Tattoo Zoo, so we headed down there at opening to see if they could fit us in and to pick out a design. We both knew roughly what we wanted, we just had to find it in one of the books. Both of us fell in love with the same design (a celtic knot, about the size of a Canadian one dollar coin) and were thrilled when they told us they could fit us in at 4:00 that afternoon. Jenn was pretty nervous the whole afternoon (she has one tattoo, I have three, but neither of us had gotten one in over six years), but we did some window shopping, and walked through the delightful English Market on the Grand Parade where we got some delicious smoothies. Lots of smoothie places in Ireland, I noticed. Also, they like to put coleslaw on their sandwiches. Strange, but tasty.

Just before our 4:00 appointment, we lied down for a bit in a pretty little park near the tattoo place, as many others were doing, just enjoying the warmth and sun and calming our nerves. Jenn wanted to go first, and peppered the tattoo artist with questions - “Can you tell me before you start? Can you just do a little line first? Will it really hurt on my hip?” When he first started, I could see her shake with pain, but she closed her eyes, and once the first bit was over, she was just fine. She told me later that she had been singing ‘Yellow Submarine’ in her head to take her mind off the pain. I was next, and had decided to get mine done on the top of my foot. Sure it hurt, but it was over in a flash and was definitely bearable. Jenn snapped a picture, which I love, of the artist doing my tattoo. Giddy with our new ‘ultimate souvenirs’, we headed next door to the Red Pepper for dinner. We both had a chicken and pasta dish, which was alright, but not remarkable. We pondered going over to Captain America’s across the street, where there seemed to be a bit of a midday party happening on the rooftop terrace, but satisfied ourselves with watching from afar and then beginning the long walk back to the hostel, me limping just a bit.

That night, we made the tough decision to go out (come on, it’s Friday!) and headed over to a pub called The Ovens, on the recommendation of our cab driver from the night before. We loved it right away, and fell in with yet another office party - this time it was a going away bash. More drinks from an older man came our way, and someone told us he was the ‘boss’ and a multimillionaire. Our second multmillionaire! Going up the stairs to the bathroom, I was distracted by a picture of the Cork hurling team. Now, the shorts they wear aren’t the biggest, and most of them had their ‘hurley’ or their hands in front of them, but not the guy front and centre. Oh no, his tight little shorts were on display, with only a little strip of them allowing him to retain his modesty. Two people were talking to each other behind me, so I tapped one on the shoulder and said, “Don’t you think it looks like they’re wearing diapers?” He laughed and said, “You mean nappies?” I replied, “Yeah, especially this guy in front here, wow.” He laughed even harder and said, “That’s him!” while pointing to the guy he had been talking with. It was one of those moments, where you have a hard time registering what’s happening. I looked at the picture, looked at the guy standing there, back at the picture, back at him, and profusely apologized. He just laughed and said “Ah, you’re grand, you’re grand” in that delightful Cork accent and patted me on the shoulder. I love the Irish.

It was getting late, and the office party was moving bars, so we followed them to what seemed like a more upmarket place called Soho, where we had one drink (and went to the bathroom - you have to go up these stairs, cross right behind the DJ, who’s playing on this balcony thing, down a hall and…anyway, it’s a maze, that’s what I took from that experience) and then went over to Rearden’s, on Washington Street, where there was a big line. I hate lines, but one of the office party people knew a doorman, so we were in in a flash, thankfully. We closed down the bar and a big group of nice people walked us back to our hostel.

Another beautiful day, but Jenn and I were beat, and we both loved Cork so much that we decided to just wander around some more and enjoy the city. We had to pick up some Preparation H for our tattoos (yes, hemorrhoid cream) but the tiny pharmacy only had Anusol. Ahh well, that’ll work…I think. We had some yummy sandwiches at an O’Briens deli thingy (which I saw EVERYWHERE after that day) and tried to block out the voice of the guy yelling “Echo!” every minute while he tried to sell his newspapers. We searched in vain for a laundromat, since I hadn’t done laundry since Belfast and Jenn hadn’t done any at all. Instead, we went into Dunnes and bought some cute ‘boy underwear’ that says ‘I love boys pants’ on it. Now you know more about me than you ever wanted to.

That afternoon, we stopped in at a quiet, little pub for a drink or two. We sat at the bar, and chatted with the bartender, Fearghal, for quite awhile. Fearghal was wearing a pink polo shirt and actually said, “Can I ask you one question? What do you think of pink?” Of course, we cracked up and explained that we weren’t laughing at him wearing pink, but at the ‘can I ask you one question?’ part. Fearghal was quite nice, and recommended a bar called the Old Oak for later on, so we went. Who are we to not take a nice person’s advice? We had a bit of trouble finding it though, so Jenn asked a couple of young men walking ahead of us if we were headed in the right direction. “Yeah, like, it’s totally right up ahead, man,” they replied in their best American accents. We laughed and were acutely aware of our tourist status once again.

The Old Oak was another maze of rooms; it looks small when you first enter, but there’s tons of space further back. We enjoyed some Baby Guinness shots (yum, yum) and just mingled, until Jenn spilled orange juice and vodka all over my shirt. I might have gasped at first, but then I just went with the flow. I fit in pretty well. Then, this very short man with terrible teeth motioned me over and said, “Can I ask you one question?” I was quite excited to hear what he would ask and made a mental note to remember to tell Jenn. “What time does this place close?” Awww, how disappointing. I answered him though, and upon hearing my accent, he asked me where I was from. “Canada,” I replied, and this is when he came out with the real gem: “What’s Canada?” Haha. I can see how he’d miss it, all tucked away down there and everything. I had a good story to tell Jenn, when I finally found her again in this maze of a pub. Every time I ran into that guy, for the rest of the night, I’d laugh and say “What’s Canada?” and he’d reply with “Oh come on!”

We ran into some people we had been talking with the night before, and also a person we had met in Galway! Small world! Or rather, small country. Jenn bought a hot pink leopard print cowboy hat from a street vendor after a half-hearted attempt to bargain (Jenn: How much? Vendor: 5 euros Jenn: I’ll give you 3 euros! Vendor: No, 5 euros! Jenn: Okay) and we enjoyed some ‘American fried chicken’ with a new friend who was carrying around a totally useless, broken umbrella, before heading back to our hostel at about 4:00 am. Poor Jenn wore the wrong shoes and would rue this walk, as it resulted in painful blisters on the tops of her feet that would be with her for the rest of the trip. She did look cute though, with the leopard print hat, and isn’t that all that counts? All in the name of fashion. Jenn wanted to throw the hat into the River Lee as a token of her affection for Cork (or something) but it mysteriously and unfortunately disappeared before she got the chance.

In any case, we loved Cork.

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