#breakfast beer and irish coffee

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Reference: Food History

B.C.

10,000 - almonds, cherries, bread, flour, soup

8,000 - wheat ⚜ 7,000 - wine, beer, pistachios, pig, goat, sheep, lard

6,500 - cattle domestication, apples ⚜ 6,000 - tortilla, dates, maize

5,000 - honey, ginger, quinoa, avocados, potatoes, milk, yogurt

4,000 - focaccia, watermelons, grapes, pomegranates

3,200 - chicken domestication ⚜ 3,000 - butter, onion, garlic, apricots

2,737 - tea ⚜ 2,500 - olive oil, seaweed, duck ⚜ 2,300 - saffron

2,000 - peaches, liquorice, marshmallow, pasta, ham, sesame seeds

1,500 - chocolate, vanilla ⚜ 1,200 - sugar ⚜ 1,000 - mangoes, oats, pickles

900 - pears, tomatoes ⚜ 700 - cinnamon ⚜ 600 - bananas, poppy seeds

500 - artichokes ⚜ 400 - pastries, appetizers, vinegar

300 - parsley ⚜ 200 - turkeys, asparagus, rhubarb ⚜ 65 - quince

1st—13th Century

1st Century - chestnuts, lobster, crab, shrimp, truffles, blueberries, raspberries, capers, kale, blood (as food), fried chicken, foie gras, French toast, omelettes, rice pudding, flan, cheesecake, pears in syrup

3rd Century - lemons ⚜ 5th - pretzels ⚜ 6th - eggplant

7th Century - spinach, kimchi ⚜ 9th - coffee, nutmeg

10th Century - flower waters, Peking duck, shark's fin soup

11th Century - baklava, corned beef, cider, lychees, seitan

12th Century - breadfruit, artichokes, gooseberries

13th Century - ravioli, lasagne, mozzarella, pancakes, waffles, couscous

14th—19th Century

14th Century - kebabs, moon cakes, guacamole, pie, apple pie, crumpets, gingerbread

15th Century - coconuts, Japanese sushi and sashimi, pineapples, marmalade, risotto, marzipan, doughnuts, hot dogs

16th Century - pecans, cashews (in India), Japanese tempura, vanilla (in Europe), fruit leather, skim milk, sweetbreads, salsa, quiche, teriyaki chicken, English trifle, potato salad

17th Century - treacle, pralines, coffee cake, modern ice cream, maple sugar, rum, French onion soup, cream puffs, bagels, pumpkin pie, lemonade, croissants, lemon meringue pie

18th Century - root beer, tapioca, French fries, ketchup, casseroles, mayonnaise, eggnog, soda water, lollipops, sangria, muffins, crackers, chowder, croquettes, cupcakes, sandwiches, apple butter, souffle, deviled eggs

19th Century - toffee, butterscotch, cocoa, Turkish delight, iodized salt, vanilla extract, modern marshmallows, potato chips, fish and chips, breakfast cereal, Tabasco sauce, Kobe beef, margarine, unsalted butter, Graham crackers, fondant, passionfruit, saltwater taffy, milkshakes, pizza, peanut butter, tea bags, cotton candy, jelly beans, candy corn, elbow macaroni, fondue, wedding cake, canapes, gumbo, ginger ale, carrot cake, bouillabaisse, cobbler, peanut brittle, pesto, baked Alaska, iced tea, fruit salad, fudge, eggs Benedict, Waldorf salad

20th Century

1901 - peanut butter and jelly ⚜ 1904 - banana splits ⚜ 1905 - NY pizza

1906 - brownies, onion rings ⚜ 1907 - aioli

1908 - Steak Diane, buttercream frosting ⚜ 1909 - shrimp cocktail

1910 - Jell-O (America's most famous dessert)

1910s - orange juice ⚜ 1912 - Oreos, maraschino cherries, fortune cookies

1912 - Chicken a la King, Thousand Island dressing

1914 - Fettuccine Alfredo ⚜ 1915 - hush puppies

1917 - marshmallow fluff ⚜ 1921 - Wonder Bread, zucchini

1919 - chocolate truffles ⚜ 1922 - Vegemite, Girl Scout cookies

1923 - popsicles ⚜ 1924 - frozen foods, pineapple upside-down cake, Caesar salad, chocolate-covered potato chips

1927 - Kool-Aid, s'mores, mayonnaise cake ⚜ 1929 - Twizzlers

1930s - Pavlova cakes, Philly cheese steak, Pigs in blankets, margaritas, banana bread, Cajun fried turkey ⚜ 1931 - souffle, refrigerator pie

1933 - chocolate covered pretzels ⚜ 1936 - no-bake cookies

1937 - Reubens, chicken Kiev, SPAM, Krispy Kreme

1938 - chicken and waffles ⚜ 1939 - seedless watermelon

1941 - Rice Krispies treats, Monte Cristo sandwiches ⚜ 1943 - nachos

1946 - chicken burgers, tuna melts, Nutella ⚜ 1947- chiffon cake

1950s - chicken parm, Irish coffee, cappuccino, smoothies, frozen pizza, diet soda, TV Dinners, ranch dressing ⚜ 1951 - bananas foster

1953 - coronation chicken ⚜ 1956 - German chocolate cake, panini

1957 - Quebec Poutine ⚜ 1958 - Instant ramen noodles, crab rangoon, lemon bars ⚜ 1960s - beef Wellington, green eggs and ham, red velvet cake

1963 - black forest cake ⚜ 1964 - Belgian waffles, Pop Tarts, Buffalo wings, ants on a log, pita bread ⚜ 1965 - Gatorade, Slurpees

1966 - chocolate fondue ⚜ 1967 - high fructose corn syrup

1970s - California rolls, pasta primavera, tiramisu ⚜ 1971 - fajitas

1975 - hicken tikka masala ⚜ 1980 - turducken

1980s - Panko, portobello mushrooms, bubble tea, chicken nuggets, Sriracha, Red Bull energy drink, everything bagels

1990s - artisan breads, Jamaican jerk ⚜ 1991 - turkey bacon, chocolate molten lava cake, earthquake cake ⚜ 1993 - broccolini

1995 - Tofurkey ⚜ 1997 - grape tomatoes

21st Century

2002 - flat iron steak, tear-free onions ⚜ 2007 - Kool-Aid pickles, cake pops

2008 - Mexican funnel cake ⚜ 2013 - cronuts, test tube burgers

Source ⚜ Writing Notes & References

[fbfh]

thinking about getting rescued by Connor and Murphy Macmanus. you're making ends meet, living in a shitty apartment in boston when some jackass in the russian mob decides that extorting your landlord isn't enough anymore. you come home to find huge, scary thugs roaming the halls of your building, banging on doors and demanding money. they try to shake you down, but you... you're not going to give up, and you're certainly not going to let them win without a fight. thankfully, god doesn't hate you quite as much as you worried he might, because you live in the same building as Rocco's girl. she sees what's happening out there and makes a call. the russian mob doesn't find your plucky attitude as endearing as you'd hoped, and you're about to pass out when two mysterious figures burst in, shooting up every gangster in the place. they get closer to you, muttering something to each other you can't make out, and one of them gently picks you up before everything goes black.

you wake up hours later just before dawn in... the shittiest, crustiest apartment you've ever seen. you're still a little out of it, and two guys - who you can only assume are the same ones from before - crouch next to you, speaking in gentle voices and comforting irish accents.

"You're alright sweetheart." the first one says. you think he's the one who carried you out.

"You're safe here." the other adds.

"Those assholes got you pretty good-"

"Put up one hell of a fight though," the second one chuckles, earning a smack on the back of the head from the first.

"Just try to get some more rest, and we'll check on you soon."

you try to agree, but you're exhausted and out like a light before you know it, managing a "hmmmf" in response before you pass back out.

you wake up properly a few hours later, and it takes you a few moments to orient yourself, to realize you're not in this apartment because of a drunken one night stand. you stretch stiffly, still achy and sore from the fight, and stand up to quietly look around. the apartment is empty, but it's worse than you thought it would be. this place is... a dump. a bachelor owned dump, based on the comical lack of furniture or decorations. you don't know what you're supposed to do until those guys get back, but you don't... not trust them. not yet, anyway. so you tidy up a little. you throw out the trash and wipe down the counters and tables. you spray a little lemon cleaner on the windows and make their beds. you find a pile of pillows and blankets on the ground, and realize they slept in the other room so you wouldn't be uncomfortable.

when Connor and Murphy return in their bathrobes pajama pants and work boots, hang their rosaries up on the nails by the door, and set down the breakfast foods and ingredients they just got from the corner store, they pause. something feels... different. there aren't any coffee rings in the kitchen, or tumbled piles of beer caps from their numerous contests seeing who can make the highest stack. things smell fresher, feel... nicer. you walk into the kitchen, hanging up a fresh dish towel over the oven rack when you notice they're back. you startle a little, and they both smile.

"Oh!" you exclaim, "Sorry... I didn't know when you guys would be back, so I just tidied up a little. I hope you don't mind." you say, almost sheepishly. they share a look, then turn their attention back to you.

"You did all this?" asks Connor, then he nudges Murphy. "We got ourselves a regular snow white."

Murphy laughs, looking at your handiwork.

"I didn't know it was possible." He says back to his brother. "The kitchen floor is white. Did you know the kitchen floor was supposed to be white?"

The Macmanus brothers like you. they find you sweet, and charming. they want to protect you and keep you safe from the scum in this city. since your apartment building is still a mess and crawling with members of the russian mob, you let them convince you to stay for a few days. of course it doesn't end up being just a few days, and no matter what a rough day they have cleaning up the city, they're always excited to get home, flop down on the couch (the one you got them, and the only thing tying the interior look of their apartment together) crack open a couple cold beers, and spend the night with their best girl.

[hannahssimblr]

Chapter Ten (Part 3)

We finish our breakfast and help to clean up, and then Claire and I leave to check our bags into our hostel. It’s not far away, just a few streets over but even by the time the sun has fully risen and the early morning fog has dissipated it remains bitterly cold. We leave our things on our beds, two singles in a private room, and I quickly put on another layer under my jumper. My mother, who was, to my chagrin, right once again, insisted that I bring thermals with me. I’m thankful for them now as I roll the warm jersey over my body and feel my skin tingle with heat. 

Feeling more adequately prepared, Claire and I take the train into the centre of the city and wander around taking in the sights. “It really is quite nice, in a harsh sort of way.” She comments. “It’s weird that there’s that sort of mixture of really old buildings and then new ones, all butted up against each other.” We stand looking at the Brandenburg gate for a while, take some photographs of each other and then walk through an enormous public park with bare trees that I can imagine would be full and bursting with beautiful colour in the summertime. There are other people milling about a bit, pushing buggies and walking dogs, but on the whole it feels empty compared to the photographs I’ve seen on Jude’s Instagram page where he and his friends sat on crowded lawns, drinking beers, or swimming in the lakes. Despite the bleakness of the season, I still find it easy to imagine the life a person might enjoy in a place like this. 

We find a great Chinese restaurant for lunch, where the waiter flirts outrageously with Claire while pretending I’m not there, but the food is delicious, and afterwards we throw ourselves elbow deep in thrift shop bins, pulling out anything and everything that looks remotely mid-century. I find a pair of lavender flares and a ruched lilac top and buy them for a combined cost of six euros, while Claire settles on a black polo neck top and a white mini skirt. Later on she scores big with a pair of white knee height boots.  

“Are you having fun?” I ask her while we drink coffee in an Irish pub near the Checkpoint Charlie, our bags crowded around our feet, and she tells me that it’s nice to get away from it all for a while. I nod, knowing just what she means. 

When the evening folds in and the sun gives way to a moonless sky, we hop on the U Bahn back to Neukolln. The streets have burst into life now with music that streams out from the clubs and the bars. Jude buzzes us into his apartment and we trudge up the seven stories on legs weary from walking, but seeing his face on the other side of the door makes me feel like life is slowly pouring back into my bones. 

“Welcome back.” he says to us, and he has a swipe of dried plaster on his cheek that I itch to wipe away for him. He looks as tired as I feel, but even so he’s in the middle of cooking yakisoba noodles for us, and the small apartment is filled with the aroma of soy sauce and shiitake mushrooms. He has a bottle of sake open on the counter, and pours a glass for each of us. 

“Wow, you wouldn’t get this at the Ritz.” I settle onto a bar stool at the counter to watch him cook as Claire heads to freshen up in the bathroom. “How was your day?”

“Busy, as usual. It’s been just kind of crazy lately, what with everything, deadlines and whatnot… Like I’m not really in the headspace to be all that creative, which isn’t ideal because I’ll need to have my final project ready for the exhibit, well, soon. Very soon.”

“I know how it is.” I muse. “Something about the period between Christmas and summer always feels so manic. I feel as though you blink and it’s passed you by.”

“Exactly.” He grabs a bottle of mirin and splashes a glug onto the sizzling pan. “But I hope your work is going well. Seems like you’ve been pretty much killing it with the illustrations and the murals.”

“Yeah, my Valentine’s Day cards sold really well.” I boast. “Right now I’m working on some for Father’s day.”

“Ah, an important day.”

“Right.” I say, knowing that we both have relatively useless fathers. I glance around me to take in the room, with lamps lit and casting warm light over the furniture. There are candles lighting too, dotted around on various shelves and tables, and a shiver of something, maybe appreciation, or comfort, ripples through me. “It’s so nice to be here.”

“I know, it’s actually so rare that one of us is in the other’s space like this, isn’t it?” A pause. “Except for the last time I saw you, obviously, and I bled all over your kitchen table, which we can strike from the record.”

I chuckle. “I think it counts. It was pretty fun, even with all of the blood.”

“Did you ever get that t-shirt cleaned?”

“Oh god, no. It was destroyed, but don’t worry, I chucked it into the bin.”

“Glad to know you haven’t been wearing it around the place.”

“How’s your eyebrow now, by the way?”

He turns to grin at me. “Scarred.”

“Oh, no way.” I say, and he comes to lean on the counter so that we’re eye to eye and I can see it,  the skin shiny and pink, and it slices right through his eyebrow, forging a gap in its wake. “Wow.” I say “I can’t lie, it’s a bit iconic.” 

“Sexy, right?” He says proudly, and his eyes do a quick tour of my features. He gently takes his lower lip into his mouth, like he’s thinking about saying something else, but then Jonas makes a loud entrance and throws open the fridge to grab a bottle of beer. “Hello again, Evie Kilbride.” He says loudly. “I’ve heard that you will be choosing the movie tonight”

“Am I?” I say. “I suppose that I can, if you like.”

“Yes.” He says. “I just have the feeling that you have the very best taste in everything. It’s all in your hands.”

After dinner, the four of us settle around the television and watch Black Swan. It’s late now, and we are tired, and nobody says a single word, no questions, no comments. When Jude shifts positions next to me and accidentally presses his thigh against mine I wait for him to move it, but he doesn’t. In the dark of this room, where the only light is the glow from the television screen, I risk a glance at his face, and he looks right back at me, saying nothing. But I swear there’s something in his eyes, because at that moment they seem to glitter even brighter than the city lights outside the window.

Beginning // Prev // Next

[echidna-enquiries]

simple question, everyones favourite food?

Fae: Oooh!! (her eyes sparkle and her ears perk up) Simple but fun! No pictures for today sadly as I'll be here all day filling up a long post but lets start!

Knuckles is grapes (obviously), fruits are his sweet spot! Likes eating all fruits and fruity drinks... which is ironically considering his dad struggles to consume anything that is fresh.... same here honestly.

Lance says he likes chicken, especially tenders or nuggets... or tendies as we both call them hehe~ Usually giving him a box of nuggets is how you bribe him to do stuff for you. He drinks a lot of energy drinks and soft drinks too... the family have to practically force him to eat greens and drink water.

Salem says he has a pescatarian diet, which means he only eats fish as a meat. Which works out nicely as his favourite is fish and chips. He's also a sucker for tea.

Oh god Cedar, he's got a massive sweet tooth, they LOVE baking... to the point of our pain. They try out all these vintage baking recipes and sometimes... they're downright awful. He gets a kick out of it, I don't know what their favourite recipe is though, he's not here right now so I can't ask him. Shockingly though his favourite drinks are Irish whiskeys and ciders. Dude can hold his liquor...

Journey is like Cedar and LOVES sweet stuff, but prefers other pastries. especially doughnuts!! And for drinks she likes cream soda or root beer floats.

After asking Tiberius, his answer was.. not at all surprising. He says he likes barbecued meats but his favourite are hot dogs... it was hard not making a wiener joke to his face because he gets so mad whenever anyone makes jokes like that around him and with drinks he wasn't specific. Just says he looks a good booze to go with it... Again, not surprising....

Sorrel's favourite dish is sushi, thanks to it being a common thing he'd have as a kid when his grandmother would visit! Then, he started going on about how healthy it is. When I tried asking what his drink of choice was he water... I had to bug him to give me an answer that meant favourite and not just what he tries to drink the most. He EVENTUALLY said lemonades and iced tea.

For Seth, man he was going back and forth. Girlie was struggling to choose a favourite. The best answer he could settle on was dumplings or curries, exact recipes change. For drinks they said Iced Coffee was their go to.

Theodore says he likes pies, when I asked if he had particular flavours, he said apple and plum... and he told me he liked plums since his wife cooked things with plums. That man is too sweet for his own good I swear. ;-; Oh and for drinks, Seth got him really into Boba tea when a place opened on Angel Island. They go to get drinks there all the time.

Chase is suuuuper into breakfast foods it seems. Says his favourite food are pancakes, he loves coating them in berries. And drinks he loves fruit smoothies and juices.... he like Sorrel says he likes to try and drink a lot of water. I really thought he'd drink energy drinks more but he said and I quote "Do I look like Lance?".

Morgan gave a very simple answer, food? Pasta. Drink? Wine. When I asked for anything specific she just said all "All... or answers change depending on the mood". She knows what she likes and I admire that.

Johnathan screamed PIZZA when I asked him anything closely related to food... and tbh I love him for that pizza good. For drinks he likes daiquiris and slushies.

Last time Coal was here I asked about his favourite food and he said quickly how he loves a good burger... I didn't ask for specific recipes cause I knew he'd go on for a while. For drinks he said he likes Mojitos... and Johnathan said he also has a guilty pleasure for cirtus-y sodas even though Coal denies it, hehehe.

I dont' even have to ask Rhett what foods he likes, he LOOOOOVES cheese!! If he's able to he'll add cheese to anything he can to eat. He especially has a soft spot for Grilled Cheeses or Cheeseburgers... and I feel on him on that they're soooo goooood. When I asked about drinks he actually got stuck, poor fella couldn't decide. No worries, Rhett. ^v^

Hadar loves strawberry stuff! Strawberries solo, chocolate dipped strawberries, strawberry milkshakes! He loves strawberries! but he wanted to clarify that he can't stand 'artificial' flavoring, he makes his own shakes from home because of that.

Marcello told me he likes Icecream! He'll eat it all year round, even in the dead of winter he'll eat it! And he likes caramel flavoured drinks, especially frappes!

And now Shepherd. I know the boss man practically lives off of coffee and he clearly likes them. Food though he wont' say outloud but I know the answer, we all do... he's got a softspot for cookies! I've seen boxes in his office when I have to go in there. I pretend I didn't see anything though. Hehehe~

Fae: OKAY! That's everyone, you can see why I didn't post any photos... although doing little doodles of everyone enjoying their favourite foods would've been adorable!

Fae:...uhh not sure how to finish this of so just in case, um... my favourite foods are french fries and chicken schniztel! annnd drink? I like a Diet Chao Cola. :3

[bristolianbackpacker]

Day 21 - Cusco

The Incan gods seem to the telling us our time in Cusco is up and we should move on. After a crappy night sleep due to dog barking, we realise that we’ve lost our zoom camera lens. We bought this specifically for the jungle which is where we are heading next so it’s a bit frustrating. I shoot off a bunch of messages to see if it’s been handed in anywhere but keep expectations low. I take a shower and as soon as I’ve put shampoo in my hair the hot water stops. Jack gets the owner to soon fix it but I freeze in the meantime. At breakfast the only other family in the room are coughing all over us and then the child vomits down the stairs - nice! We ask the hostel if we can change rooms to a quieter one - the older lady at the front desk doesn’t speak English but is nice and offers us a room with no window but a huge bed. We figure it might be a little better in terms of noise so move all of our stuff. Next we go outside to grab an Uber and a stray dog cocks his leg on me 😫

We take the Uber to Q’enco archeological site, but it’s one of the less impressive sites and neither of us are really in the mood so it’s a short stop.

We Uber back to the city - we desperately need a refuge so we head to Mollys Irish bar and have a beer. I get a chicken salad to try feign some semblance of a healthy diet whilst Jack gets the hearty Irish stew.

After a while we’ve recovered enough that we can face the outside world again, but baby steps so we go straight to Starbucks for a coffee and sort through some photos.

Next up, another massage - we are determined to enjoy this day!! This one is a bit more remedial but my muscles are aching today so perhaps that’s not a bad thing.

For dinner we go to a cute Italian restaurant (only 4 tables) and share lasagne & pesto pasta along with a passion fruit pisco sour. YUMMM.

We take a quick look at a camera store and are amazed when we see our exact lens on sale but it turns out to be S/2800 - wayyy too much money.

Back at the hostel and the younger (son?) owner tries to rip us off with the exchange rate and then denies that he did it at all. Jack lets him have it.

Time for bed. I hope that dog isn’t back!

[askwhatsforlunch]

Saint Patrick’s Day’s Table

Saint Patrick’s Day may be a very happy one for the Irish this year, with the Ireland XV one (rugby) game away from a Six Nations Grand Slam! As I am not a sore loser, and I love good food, I may join in the craic! And with a glass of good Irish whisky and these few recipes, so can you! Cheers!

Breads, Loaves and Oatcakes

Stout Loaf

Dill Soda Bread

Cheddar and Ale Soda Bread

Donegal Oatcakes

Soda Bread II

Oatcakes

Breakfast

Boxty (Irish Potato Pancakes)

Tea

Maíre’s Potato Scones

Meat

Beer Battered Sausages

Dublin Coddle

Irish Beef and Vegetable Stew

Sides

Colcannon

Champ

Sweet and Alcoholic Drinks

Irish Hot Chocolate (Alcoholic)

Irish Coffee (Alcoholic)

[meowtalhead]

My ocs making tea

Midnight: only high quality tea carefully steeped with special consideration for time and temperature. Just enough honey or sugar to lightly sweeten it without altering the delicate and subtle flavors. Little, if any, milk or cream. Served from a very fancy teapot into beautiful dainty teacups with skeletons and poisonous flowers painted on them

Andrea: likes herbal and floral tea, with honey and lemon to keep her throat in good shape for SCREAMING. Collects cute teacups and mugs with kittens on them. Served with tiny sandwiches and scones

Shredwin: normal store brand tea, just follows the directions on the box if there are any, in whatever glass happens to be in the cabinet. Honestly prefers coffee

Easton: likes strong, rich, black tea like Irish breakfast tea. steeped for far too long, way too much cream and sugar, served in a coffee mug with bacon, eggs, waffles, and hash browns. Loves tea but he's really more of a hot chocolate guy

Veronica: steeped in microwaved bailey's, sweetened with maple syrup, in a novelty beer glass with an inappropriate pun on it

Kevin: only drinks gasoline

[edgessunflower]

Shot shot shots

Pairing: Bayley x Fem reader

Description: After getting a bit carried away while celebrating your Wrestlemania win, your fiancee Bayley helps you

Gif credits to @rebecca-quin

"Cheeeeers!" You yell as you and your friends and fellow wrestlers take shots of tequila, you were all not only celebrating your win but also some of your friend's wins at Wrestlemania. You laugh as you have Rhea in a hug while holding hands with Liv in between sipping on a Mai Tai as you feel everything become more vibrant and more slow as time went on, you became more giggly and even fell out of your chair but luckily Sasha was behind you and caught you "Okay I think you've had enough of a party" you lean on rhea as she laugh and drinks beer while sasha went outside and called bayley, who quickly grabbed her jacket and drove to the bar. She walks in behind sasha to see you swaying as you climb on rhea's back after you and liv shared an Irish coffee together, she shakes her head laughing as she watches rhea carry you around the bar while you hiccup and giggle as you are piggybacked around the bar until you perk up seeing your fiancee a couple of feet away, slowly climbing off rhea's back and with help from Liv and Raquel you make it to bayley and pull her in a hug as you smile big "Baby! What are you doing here?!" she laughs as you walk out the bar together after saying goodbye to everyone as they each slowly get ready to leave and head home mostly likely to sleep off the hangovers, you dance as music plays on the radio making bayley giggle uncontrollably as she drives back home, she helps you inside and change into loose clothing and you fall asleep after eating dinner together. You wake up later on to see bayley doing laundry and you definitely feel like you had fallen off a building, you run to the bathroom and throw up with bayley behind you holding your hair until you were done, she rubs circles on your back and gives you pain meds to help as you lay back down and watch tv, cuddling in her side until you fell back asleep and woke up feeling a bit better as you and her eat breakfast in bed together.

[slowroadtosantiago]

Day 19 - Hornillos to Castrojeriz

(Posting delay of yesterday’s walk as there was rubbish signal and wifi at the albergue)

It was about a 20k day, 12 miles or so.

Each day when we set off I think ‘what on earth am I going to write about today? It’s not a long day, we eat, we walk’ and each day something different happens…so here’s today’s story.

After a reasonable night’s sleep we were rudely awoken by an alarm going off at 6, and people shuffling about and opening the door. Then the light went on, hrmph!

We had breakfast at the hostel then set off about 7:20 with full packs today. My blisters have now all healed so I walked without plasters, and Jane was walking for the first time without strapping her feet up too. Jane’s heel is also OK after rest.

There was a steady climb out of the valley onto the plateau at the top. It was a cooler morning but we still stripped of our jackets half way up. The land is very open with chalk white soil on the hillsides. The fields are full of barley or wheat and young poppies are just starting to appear on the verges and you can see that in a couple of weeks it will look gorgeous.

Across the plateau we started having a go at the Welsh national anthem. My Bethan is going to send through a line a day to learn so we should have it sorted by the time we finish!

We were caught up by an Irish couple who had heard the ‘singing’ and we chatted about our journeys. They were travelling light and doing it in stages so soon sped past us.

Scott also caught us up and we walked down into Hontanas together for our first proper coffee of the day. Hontanas is a nice place that just suddenly appears as it’s down in a dip. On the way out we passed an old 2CV, haven’t seen one of those for ages, and whereas you usually see a fountain cherub having a wee, today we saw a full sized version!

The path followed a nice valley and where it joined the road again we found a comfortable spot under a proper tree to have a rest and change into our sandals.

The road eventually led to an old ruined monastery at San Anton where there was a huge arch over the road and where some of the old buildings had been preserved as an albergue.

The last stretch on a long straight road brought us to Castrojeriz looking impressive in the distance with a castle on the hill and church down below.

Our hostel is clean and the beds not too rickety. It is also unusual as the evening meal is South Korean inspired.

We dumped our stuff then found a cafe for a beer and some lunch for me - I had been looking forward to a wedge of tortilla. We met up with the Texans in the same cafe though they are sleeping elsewhere tonight. We clocked that the church was closed so would visit it later.

Back at the hostel it was time for a shower and a chill. We then had a mammoth session sat in the garden planning out the rest of our trip. Nicole, the Australia, was planning on celebrating her birthday on the 15th of May in Herrerías so we’ve worked out how to get there for then. At the moment it looks like we may get to Santiago on the 24th May and fly out on the 28th, but things can change.

We decided that after all that hard work we deserved a glass of wine so started making our way to the local bar. The clouds behind were very ominous.

The church on the way was open so we thought to drop in there first. It’s a museum as well and the guardian very enthusiastically talked about some of the exhibits, in Spanish, so we nodded along enthusiastically too!

As we reached the entrance again the skies started to open up. We decided the better course of action was to get back to the hostel. As we were running back it started hail storming! A bit damp we got back and watched the streams of water running down the street.

After a while we were called to dinner. The Korean meal was delicious. There was rice on the bottom and different veg arranged on top along with ground beef. You then added a fried egg, soy sauce, miso soup and as much spicy red sauce you could manage and mixed it all together. We’ve got quite a few Koreans in the bunkhouse and they enjoyed it very much.

We’re now in our bunks listening to the thunder outside. The bad weather is due to move off tonight and we should have a dry day tomorrow, fingers crossed.

[the-blind-assassin-12]

Thanks for tagging me, J!!! It’s so true, you can learn a lot about someone from these answers!

Eggs: Over medium. I’ve been on an egg in a hole kick lately but there’s really no wrong way. I’m not a fan of just whites though.

Steak: Medium or medium rare. One funny story about me and steak is that I almost choked to death on one at the exact moment that my now husband and I were announcing to his parents that we were engaged. Yup. Had to be saved by a waiter and everything. That’s me, though. 🙋🏻‍♀️

Milk: I can’t have dairy so it’s cashew or oat for me. Cashew ice cream is the absolute best alternative. (But i was raised on 2%)

Alcohol: haha so in addition to dairy I also cannot have gluten so I *used* to be a craft beer girl, but since there are sooooooooo few gf beers and most of them are not great, I’ve become a wine girl. Partial to semi dry reds but love a good sav blanc in the summer.

Warm drink: Coffee with cocoa powder mixed in, or Irish breakfast tea. Cider in the Fall.

Tagging: @practicalghost @valkblue @pheedraws @littlemisspascal @katareyoudrilling and anyone else who wants to play!

[thenyoumightaswellwrestleangels]

Here, let me👩‍🍳

Your Sunday treat has arrived☕️🧋🍵

What am I serving you, lovely?😌 Which way do you take yours?

(If you don't drink alcohol, let me know what your fun drink is! Your go-to gas station grab for a road trip or walk in the park💕💕)

egg:

steak:

milk:

alcohol:

warm drink:

grace my love I am on my hands and knees begging bc this is the sweetest ask ever and it took me eons to answer it BUT I am here and this is so cute ook ok

egg ?? egg my beloved ?? one thing abt me btw is that I NEED to have eggs for breakfast or I will have an unhappy day. fried or scrambled or omelette or benedict or or or but really just a plain old fried egg on toast is my favourite low effort no thoughts required breakfast

steak hmmmm rare. I like a filet mignon and I do medium rare usually but blue rare is v v good

milk !! I am,,, a milk drinker. I am drinking a glass of milk as we speak. someone told me once that I drink milk like I'm cracking open a cold beer at the end of a long day and it haunts me bc it's true. gimme a glass of milk

alcohol hm hm my go to is an old fashioned I LOVE them by I am tempted sometimes by my beloved ICE cold vodka martini with a lemon twist. also I LOVE caesars I am truly canadian

annnnnd warm drink oh my god I think a good cup of tea could save my life. I am a warm drink enthusiast I literally have an entire set of shelves in my kitchen dedicated to warm drinks tea and coffee and hot chocolate and and and but tea is so nice. earl grey. irish breakfast. chai. we could be here all day

[mygainyear2024]

Day 4 Off the beaten track and 22,579 steps to language school

After breakfast I headed to the gym to do my own (the exercise physio's) program which went pretty smoothly. It wasn't too crowded and I found what I needed. I still managed to miss a turn getting there!

After much fluffing around on the computer, I finally got out the door and headed to Alvor for lunch and my first Portugese lesson at Golfland (basically a putt putt). I posted a question about a month ago on a Facebook page enquiring about language classes and had one response, they put me in touch with Rebecca Cuddeford.

I thought I might walk based on the advice of the Canadian couple I met yesterday, although they indicated the coastal route was the one they took. Given my tardiness I decided to follow the maps.me instructions inland. I did notice the path seemed to go off road, but I went with it and saw a different side of the Algarve. It was quite warm today, around 20-21°, I felt the heat walking in the middle of the day. I was also feeling a tad adventurous, not knowing what might be around a corner, until I started listening to a podcast on the Women Who Travel, Condé Nast Traveler program. Alice Morrison walked across Morocco with three nomads and six camels over 7 months. I think she said she did 70,000kms!! Now that's adventure.

I booked lunch at Ria de Alvor at Wyndam Residences. I enjoyed my fresh herb crusted cod, sadly without wine. I just could not entertain the idea of a glass of Mateus and there was no other rosé by the glass. Later, one of the participants in the language school told me that she'd never eat there! Despite all my research prior to coming I had of course missed the main attractions in Alvor, the harbour and its restaurants, and some cute shops I saw on the way to the bus. This was also the case with Ferragudo yesterday, me in the industrial area, while apparently a different world awaits (realised after I did a review of my copious notes). Luckily I'm here for a while and can return.

I had thought about walking back along the coastal route into Praia da Rocha for gelato, but the language teacher advised against it on my own. The reason, the path is not always obvious and can crumble away! Falling off cliff tops before I actually retire is not something on my bucket list. I do have some women who responded to other Facebook posts I wrote (I sent messages to them today announcing my arrival) so I'll ask their advice and whether they'd like to join me. Otherwise Gary, who attended the class today, is a member of a walking group/s and knows everybody, according to the teacher! I had a lovely quick informative chat with Michelle and ?? about owning property in Portugal. They are still based in the UK, but holiday regularly in Portugal. They said they do pay tax in both countries, but there's some arrangement between Portugal and the UK.

It was a fast paced lesson. Rebecca moved to Portugal eight years ago and within four years started to teach. For €5 per hour payg there were about 15 of us. I was the only Australian and I think I heard all British and Irish accents, some sounded quite funny speaking Portugese. I think they were mostly retired, there was one guy who is an actor and he was switched on with it and sounded fabulous. It is an interesting language, there seems to be some German, French, Italian and maybe Spanish influences. Ricardo, the trainer at the gym last night, sounded like he was saying German words (maybe he was!). Anyway aside from Olá (Hi), obrigada (thank you), um galão (a frothy milky coffee), pastel de nata (Portugese tart), I can now practice Chamo-me Jody (my name is Jody), como estás (how are you?), muito benn (very good), quero uma cerveja (I'd like a beer!). We did practice what was taught last week and then moved on to months of the year and numbers.

I ended the outing with a triple scoop gelato (ricotta & café, pistacchio italiano and my preference, crosscantino & rum) from Gelateria Sorbetto, in Praia da Rocha, only a 12 minute walk from my apartment. It was excelente!

I'm pleased to announce the €2.99 (discounted from €5) bottle of rosé from Setúbal is drinkable. It went down well with my homemade (em casa) prawn fried rice, which was still edible with the notes of turps syrah splashed in as stock!

[udo0stories]

Posted: 3/1/2024 | March 1st, 2024 Dublin is a literary, gloomy city. Because there are so many writers and poets living there, it is an excellent city for history buffs and book lovers. There are castles, classic pubs, and lots of live music venues to be found here. Dublin's relatively small size makes it simple to visit all the attractions, events, and walking tours. On foot, you can go almost anywhere. Consequently, unless it is far from the center, do not worry too much about a hotel's location when considering one. Additionally, the city's tram system facilitates easy transportation. Here is my selection of Dublin's top hotels: 1. Hotel Harcourt This three-star hotel is situated in the heart of the city and is housed in a collection of old Georgian townhouses from the eighteenth century, one of which was once owned by renowned author George Bernard Shaw. There is a restaurant and beer garden on site, as well as a bar with live music every weekend. The rooms are not large, but they have lots of natural light, wooden accents, and lovely color pops that make the room feel brighter. Each room has a desk, flatscreen TV, free Wi-Fi, and comfortable beds. The bathrooms are rather small, but they have excellent water pressure, which is a huge plus in my opinion. There is also breakfast included. 2. Clarence Hotel Located in the boisterous Temple Bar area, this hotel was bought by Bono and the Edge from U2 in 1992. It was completely renovated a few years later and is considered one of the coolest places to stay in the city (though it’s no longer owned by the duo). A boutique four-star property, the hotel has an arty, quirky design that features lots of colorful art and wallpaper. The rooms were designed by Irish artisans and feature stylish custom furnishings like white oak floors, colorful and plush headboards, and unique artwork on the walls. The bathrooms have powerful rainfall shower heads as well as limestone flooring and tiled walls. In-room amenities include the standard offerings (flatscreen TV, desk, minibar, coffee/tea maker, desks). Downstairs, there’s a luxurious cocktail bar and a fantastic restaurant serving elevated Irish fare, including daily breakfast and a bottomless brunch on Sundays.   3. Maldron Hotel, Kevin Street Situated on the edge of the Portobello neighborhood, the Maldron is a comfortable place to stay with a view of St. Patrick's Cathedral. It’s a sleek four-star hotel with a simple, minimalist design. The rooms are large with lots of natural light, and the beds are large and comfortable. You also get flat-screen TVs, coffee and tea makers, desks, and free Wi-Fi. The bathrooms are spacious, with showers that have good water pressure. I loved the breakfast buffet, which had tons of variety and lots of fresh fruit. It’s a great place to stay if you want to be centrally located. 4. The Dean This is a hip and funky boutique hotel. The rooms aren’t huge, but they’re bright and uniquely designed, with colorful furnishings and artwork on the walls. All rooms include a flatscreen smart TV (with streaming services), minibar, Nespresso machines, desk, and free Wi-Fi. The white-tiled bathrooms come with powerful rainfall showers, Bluetooth speakers, and Lux Bath products. I also love the chill rooftop bar and restaurant’s view of the city. There’s also a sauna and a heated outdoor pool. Overall, you really get a lot of value here, considering the amenities and central location.   5. The Alex Just south of the Docklands, this is a comfortable and stylish four-star hotel. The rooms here are sleek, with rich, deep colors and elegant design touches (like artwork and wooden desks). The beds are large and comfortable, and rooms also boast large smart TVs, desks, and fast Wi-Fi. While the standard rooms don’t have a coffee/tea maker, there is a café on-site where you can grab a drink. I especially liked the rainfall showers, as they had great pressure. The staff here really go out of their way to help and keep things clean (the property is always spotless).

The hotel also has a fitness center and a few excellent in-house eateries. The buffet breakfast (which can be included in your stay) has a ton of options too.   6. The Spencer Hotel This four-star hotel overlooks the river and boasts an array of upscale amenities, including an indoor pool, a fitness center, a cocktail bar, and a cozy restaurant. The breakfast is great too, with lots of variety (including vegetarian and vegan options). If you happen to be traveling by car, they have a secure parking lot on-site (which isn’t common in Dublin). Rooms here are spacious and minimally designed in a soft, pastel color palette. They have lots of natural light too, thanks to the floor-to-ceiling windows. The bathrooms are also large, with a shower/tub combo and complimentary Rituals bath products. Rooms also have a mini-fridge and a coffee/tea maker. It’s a classy property that offers excellent value for your money. 7. The Hendrick Smithfield This fun and quirky three-star hotel is covered in artwork by local artists. The rooms aren’t huge, but they make good use of the space and have all the standard amenities, including flatscreen TVs, coffee and tea makers, desks, and Wi-Fi. Some rooms even have bunk beds, which makes it a nice choice for traveling families. The bathrooms are well lit, and the showers have good pressure. There’s a bar on-site if you get thirsty, with over a dozen beers on tap. The Hendrick is a solid midrange option in Smithfield, a less-touristed and hip area of the city with great pubs and cool coffee shops.   I always love visiting Dublin. Brimming with cozy pubs, world-class whiskey, and home to an impressive literary history, Dublin is a city with character and one of my favorite places to visit in Europe. Stay at one of the hotels above to supercharge your visit.  Posted: 3/1/2024 | March 1st, 2024 Dublin is a literary, gloomy city. Because there are so many writers and poets living there, it is an excellent city for history buffs and book lovers. There are castles, classic pubs, and lots of live music venues to be found here. Dublin's relatively small size makes it simple to visit all the attractions, events, and walking tours. On foot, you can go almost anywhere. Consequently, unless it is far from the center, do not worry too much about a hotel's location when considering one. Additionally, the city's tram system facilitates easy transportation. Here is my selection of Dublin's top hotels: 1. Hotel Harcourt This three-star hotel is situated in the heart of the city and is housed in a collection of old Georgian townhouses from the eighteenth century, one of which was once owned by renowned author George Bernard Shaw. There is a restaurant and beer garden on site, as well as a bar with live music every weekend. The rooms are not large, but they have lots of natural light, wooden accents, and lovely color pops that make the room feel brighter. Each room has a desk, flatscreen TV, free Wi-Fi, and comfortable beds. The bathrooms are rather small, but they have excellent water pressure, which is a huge plus in my opinion. There is also breakfast included. 2. Clarence Hotel Located in the boisterous Temple Bar area, this hotel was bought by Bono and the Edge from U2 in 1992. It was completely renovated a few years later and is considered one of the coolest places to stay in the city (though it’s no longer owned by the duo). A boutique four-star property, the hotel has an arty, quirky design that features lots of colorful art and wallpaper. The rooms were designed by Irish artisans and feature stylish custom furnishings like white oak floors, colorful and plush headboards, and unique artwork on the walls. The bathrooms have powerful rainfall shower heads as well as limestone flooring and tiled walls. In-room amenities include the standard offerings (flatscreen TV, desk, minibar, coffee/tea maker, desks). Downstairs, there’s a luxurious cocktail bar and a fantastic restaurant serving elevated Irish fare, including daily breakfast and a bottomless brunch on Sundays.

  3. Maldron Hotel, Kevin Street Situated on the edge of the Portobello neighborhood, the Maldron is a comfortable place to stay with a view of St. Patrick's Cathedral. It’s a sleek four-star hotel with a simple, minimalist design. The rooms are large with lots of natural light, and the beds are large and comfortable. You also get flat-screen TVs, coffee and tea makers, desks, and free Wi-Fi. The bathrooms are spacious, with showers that have good water pressure. I loved the breakfast buffet, which had tons of variety and lots of fresh fruit. It’s a great place to stay if you want to be centrally located. 4. The Dean This is a hip and funky boutique hotel. The rooms aren’t huge, but they’re bright and uniquely designed, with colorful furnishings and artwork on the walls. All rooms include a flatscreen smart TV (with streaming services), minibar, Nespresso machines, desk, and free Wi-Fi. The white-tiled bathrooms come with powerful rainfall showers, Bluetooth speakers, and Lux Bath products. I also love the chill rooftop bar and restaurant’s view of the city. There’s also a sauna and a heated outdoor pool. Overall, you really get a lot of value here, considering the amenities and central location.   5. The Alex Just south of the Docklands, this is a comfortable and stylish four-star hotel. The rooms here are sleek, with rich, deep colors and elegant design touches (like artwork and wooden desks). The beds are large and comfortable, and rooms also boast large smart TVs, desks, and fast Wi-Fi. While the standard rooms don’t have a coffee/tea maker, there is a café on-site where you can grab a drink. I especially liked the rainfall showers, as they had great pressure. The staff here really go out of their way to help and keep things clean (the property is always spotless). The hotel also has a fitness center and a few excellent in-house eateries. The buffet breakfast (which can be included in your stay) has a ton of options too.   6. The Spencer Hotel This four-star hotel overlooks the river and boasts an array of upscale amenities, including an indoor pool, a fitness center, a cocktail bar, and a cozy restaurant. The breakfast is great too, with lots of variety (including vegetarian and vegan options). If you happen to be traveling by car, they have a secure parking lot on-site (which isn’t common in Dublin). Rooms here are spacious and minimally designed in a soft, pastel color palette. They have lots of natural light too, thanks to the floor-to-ceiling windows. The bathrooms are also large, with a shower/tub combo and complimentary Rituals bath products. Rooms also have a mini-fridge and a coffee/tea maker. It’s a classy property that offers excellent value for your money. 7. The Hendrick Smithfield This fun and quirky three-star hotel is covered in artwork by local artists. The rooms aren’t huge, but they make good use of the space and have all the standard amenities, including flatscreen TVs, coffee and tea makers, desks, and Wi-Fi. Some rooms even have bunk beds, which makes it a nice choice for traveling families. The bathrooms are well lit, and the showers have good pressure. There’s a bar on-site if you get thirsty, with over a dozen beers on tap. The Hendrick is a solid midrange option in Smithfield, a less-touristed and hip area of the city with great pubs and cool coffee shops.   I always love visiting Dublin. Brimming with cozy pubs, world-class whiskey, and home to an impressive literary history, Dublin is a city with character and one of my favorite places to visit in Europe. Stay at one of the hotels above to supercharge your visit. 

[helenaheissner]

A Dream of Summer Rain: In the Far-Away Here-and-Now (Chapter 22)

Hello, lovelies! Hope y'all are doing well :)

Don't forget you can read twenty chapters ahead on this story, three chapters ahead on "Love During Robot Fighting Time", as well as two chapters ahead on "Magical Girl Exorcist Squad", by becoming a paid subscriber on my Substack or my Patreon!

***

They had a week to prepare, and Lacy wanted to use as much of that week as possible for training. And so, the next day, she rolled out of bed and plodded through the full bore of her raging hangover and went over to Gwen and Quentin’s room.

Lacy braced herself for Gwen’s ‘mistress of pain’ monologue… Only to hear Quentin utter, “Now then, dirty girl, you are going bend over.”

“Yes master,” Gwen breathed.

“Good. Now spread ‘em!”

Good for them. Variety is the spice of life, Lacy thought. 

Then she knocked, and quickly thereafter she heard Quentin say, “Safeword.”

Gwen quickly added, “Dang it. Just a sec, Lacy!”

It was more than a sec. It was at least a dozen secs, probably significantly more. Finally, Gwen, her hair a mess of bedhead, a leather corset clearly visible underneath her bathrobe, answered the door. “Hi.”

“Hi. I, uh, was hoping we could train today.”

“Of course, of course. Just give me a bit- I need to shower.”

“Yeah, that makes sense,” Lacy smirked. 

Gwen chuckled. “Don’t be a little shit. I’ll meet you in the lobby in twenty minutes.”

“Can we eat breakfast first- my head is throbbing.”

“Yeah, no prob. Get us a seat at the buffet.”

Lacy obliged, and when Gwen joined her downstairs Lacy had sat herself at a table by the window in the white and gray restaurant. She had piled her plate full of bacon, potatoes, fruit, and pastries and had shoveled half of it down her gullet by the time Gwen sat down. 

“How you doing, kiddo?” Gwen asked, a smug smile on her face. 

“I feel like death.” I feel guilty. I feel ashamed. I feel like my parents.

“How much did you drink?”

“Is it that obvious?” Lacy asked. 

“To me? Yes. Very much so. So how much-”

“Seven or eight shots of whiskey. Maybe nine.” Just like them. 

“How-”

“Probably some spritzers, too. And a few beers. Danny must’ve found every drop of hooch in Illinois.” Fucking hell why did I do that why why why-

“I’m surprised you can put away that much,” Gwen said. 

“I’m Irish. It’s my heritage. Un-fucking-fortunately.” Fucking pathetic island trash.

The hotel staff all shot her flabbergasted looks. Lacy grunted. 

“Yeah, you might want some coffee,” Gwen said. 

“No. Literally anything but that.” Kill me. 

“How do you not like coffee?” Gwen asked. 

“I like having my stomach lining intact.” Can practically hear Mom lecturing me over her bottle of white wine right now. 

“Says the girl who drank an entire liquor store last night.”

“Uhhhhhh,” Lacy groaned as she ate a whole muffin in one bite. 

“Oh well then,” Gwen said. She left the table, and when she returned, she had a bagel and lox with a tall mug of hot black coffee. 

Lacy balked at her mentor’s taste in breakfast. “Sometimes you sicken me, Gwen.”

“Sometimes I sicken myself,” Gwen laughed, stealing a muffin from Lacy’s plate. And then a waiter came over a glass of cold black liquid and placed it in front of Lacy. 

“What the fuck is this?” Lacy said. 

The waiter said, “Language, young man.”

“I’m a girl, jackass.”

“Oh, my apologies. Language, young lady.”

“Fine. What the heck is this, kind sir?”

“Cold brew coffee, ordered for you by your friend.”

Lacy side-eyed Gwen. 

“Drink up,” Gwen said, taking a sip of her own hot mug. 

Lacy obliged, and for the first time sampled a coffee she didn’t immediately wish to spit out. “This is… Actually kinda good.”

“Yeah, I had them add a lot of sugar for you,” Gwen said. 

“‘Cause I’m so sweet?” Lacy monotoned. God I’m a hypocrite. 

Gwen clapped her on the shoulder. “Now you’re gettin’ it!”

Lacy slowly drank the rest of her coffee, and by the time she’d finished it and another plate full of greasy buffet food, her head had stopped feeling like a patch of street recently acquainted with a road roller. 

Gwen paid the bill, and they headed out. “Feelin’ better?”

“Much. God, I’m never doing that again.” Seriously, me, don’t ever fucking do that again. Not one drop. Ever. 

“Fffff.”

“What?”

“Ah, just a feeling I know real well.” They walked out into the parking lot.

Lacy’s brow furrowed. They found one of the Winnebagos, climbed aboard. Gwen reached for the ignition, keys in hand. Shame burned through Lacy once again, followed by resentment. Followed by a question that had been on her mind for a few weeks now, one she’d taken great care not to ask. But given they probably only had a week left to live, now seemed like a good time. “Are you an alcoholic?” 

Gwen’s hand stayed stuck with the key in the ignition. “Lacy-”

“That was rude, wasn’t it?” Lacy, you idiot.

“Yeah, you can’t really go around asking people that.”

“Why not?”

Gwen started the car and began the process of driving them out into the Illinois sprawl. “Because it’s inappropriate.”

“Why? It seems like a relevant question,” Lacy said, fidgeting in her seat. They drove through weaves of automobiles, the clamor of the city drowning individual heartbeats in a percussive slush. 

Gwen took them off main street and onto a sideroad, plunging southeast. “Because it’s personal, Lacy. Really personal. Involves stuff that-”

Lacy rolled her eyes. “Gwen, there’s a lot of personal stuff going around lately.”

“What does that mean?”

An aftershock of her hangover barraged the inside of Lacy’s skull. She had to say it- it was becoming way too pressing not to say it. “That a lot of it seems to come back to you.”

“... My family is involved in this, yes.”

It’s been months since you started teaching me and you still speak in vagaries half the time. “Yeah, and you get real touchy about it whenever anyone brings it up, even though it’s kinda something we need to be able to discuss openly.”

“Okay, and what does that have to do with me being an alcoholic?”

“... Nothing.” Guilt and shame speared Lacy once again, and the hangover salted the wound. Shouldn’t have said that, shouldn’t have-

“Then why are you asking?” Gwen snapped, eyes wide with anger. 

Now that was something Lacy recognized. There it fucking is.  

They drove through a suburban neighborhood. Children played roller-hockey at the end of a cul de sac to their left, while mulberries and sycamores lined the roads. 

“Lacy,” Gwen said. 

Lacy sat on her hands and pressed her face against the window. 

“You don’t just get to ask that and then go silent when I call you on it!” Gwen snapped. 

Lacy heaved a pregnant sigh. This was a mistake. She shouldn’t have said anything. Should’ve left it be. Shouldn’t have drunk so much last night, elsewise she might not have been dumb enough to ask. Too late now, though. “You haven’t been willing to tell me much about your parents, even though we’re going up against one of them. But I have told you about my parents.”

“What are you getting at?” Gwen asked. 

The neighborhood fell away behind them as they drove out into the open wilderness. 

Fine then. It wasn’t Lacy’s fault Gwen spiked up when interrogated on this topic. “They were both drunks,” Lacy said.

“And what exactly are you insinuating?” Gwen said. “That I might be like them?”

Yes. “I didn’t say that.”

“You implied it.”

Lacy’s eyes narrowed. “Or you’re projecting. All I asked-”

“Was if I was a worthless drunk like them.”

“You’re putting words in my mouth.”

“I beg to differ. Are you sure you’re not projecting?”

No. “You still haven’t answered my original question.”

“Yes!” Gwen shouted. “Okay, there you fucking go! I was a sloppy fucking drunk and it almost killed me. I’m five years sober now, thank you very fucking much, and if you must know I was still a drunk when we first met.” Lacy looked out into the field, the lush farmland surging forth like an explosion of raw nature. “Lacy?” Gwen said. Lacy bit her tongue. She couldn’t say it. She shouldn’t say it. She wouldn’t. “Lacy, for fuck’s sake-”

“Is that why you didn’t take me with you?” Lacy hissed, the words falling out her mouth like gravity itself was tearing them away. 

They came to a stop in a small forest. Gwen got out of the RV, stomped into the dirt. 

“Gwen!” Lacy called after her, unbuckling her seatbelt and jumping out into the valley. 

Her teacher stopped and pivoted to face her. “For your information, yes. Does that make you happy? Does that satisfy you? Knowing that I didn’t take you with me because I was weak, because I was too busy crawling into the bottle? Does that make you feel better, that you had to suffer all those extra years because I was too drunk to take you with me?”

“Yes,” Lacy spat, and immediately rued it. “Wait, no-”

Gwen gave her a deranged smile, and then the middle finger. “No, you don’t get to take that back. But I wanna ask you Lacy, and really think about this- what gives you the right to judge anyone? Who are you to do that? What have you done? You could’ve avenged Drew on your own. You could have gone to avenge your parents on your own. But you didn’t. You chose to come to me for help. Why is that? Why would you go to someone who’d let you down before, who pretty clearly was going to let you down again by not being fucking good enough-”

“That’s not what I-”

“No, but it’s what you meant,” Gwen said, eyes welling up with tears. “Now tell me why? And this better be good.”

Lacy leaned against the back of the RV. “I….” Darkness wrapped around Lacy’s mind, a noose tightening. She stared directly ahead. 

“Lacy,” Drew said. “You know the answer.” 

“I’m scared to do anything on my own,” Lacy said. “I don’t trust myself. Not in the slightest. I’ve got this thing attached to me, this Destiny, that says what I’m supposed to, what I’m gonna do, and it’s just another fucking thing dictating my life to me, trying to make me into someone, something that I’m not, something that I hate, and I’m afraid that if I’m alone with it, if I’m alone at all for too long, I’ll slip up and give in and become a monster. I came to you because I needed a teacher, and you seemed like the best option. And maybe it’s Destiny- maybe our Stars wanted you to teach me. I don’t know what that means, but if I… If I’m gonna have any faith in myself, in my ability to do the right thing in these awful circumstances, then I need to trust it a little bit. I need to believe I can use this power for good. I need to believe that I can… That I can save the world, instead of destroying it. I need to believe in other people too.”

Gwen slumped down, sat in the dirt, brushed her bangs out of her eyes. “Fffff is that all?” Lacy’s posture uncoiled as she sat down and leaned against the side of the RV. She wiped her eyes dry. “Yeah. That’s all.”

“You’re afraid you’ll become a monster? Well get in line,” Gwen said with a gentle smirk. “I’m sorry I snapped at you. I was… Projecting a bit.”

“I’m sorry for being an asshole,” Lacy said. “That was… That was massively inappropriate. I shouldn’t have asked you that- I shouldn’t have insinuated-”

“I forgive you. And I should’ve been honest.”

Yeah that’d be a start, she thought. She buried the notion in the back of her mind. “Me too,” Lacy said. “I know it’s not rational, wanting justice for my parents when they were fucking horrible, it’s just… I can’t bear the thought of what happened to them. Or maybe I’m just afraid of it happening to me, so I wanna strike back before they can get me.”

“Given our present circumstances, that’s not exactly a radical stance.”

“Heh. Thanks.”

“Ffff okay here’s what you need to know about me,” Gwen said. 

“You don’t need to-”

“Yeah. I do,” Gwen said, raising a palm to cut her off. “My brother Arthur died fighting a ghoul when I was ten. The rest of my siblings… They were… Loyal to my dad’s vision. I wasn’t. It came to a head when I found out Dad was experimenting on my little brother Percival, trying to understand the true nature of Destiny Stars. I stopped him, and they all died in the fight. Morganna, Tristan, Elaine, Iseult, my mother… Even Percival. Baby of the family, caught in the crossfire. Everyone died, save for my father and I. After that I left. I spent a while hunting and wandering, drinking more and more every day to get myself through the pain. It became a problem pretty quickly. There was a brief spot when I first met Quentin where I was able to start cleaning myself up a bit, but then… Then I met you. My Star, back before I’d fully accepted it, led me to you and to Drew. I didn’t know for sure what it meant, but I knew it was important. I wasn’t ready. And you and Drew… When I saw you two, I just saw myself and Arthur all over again. So I turned tail and chugged every bottle I could get my hands on that night. After that things were a blur until I was living on the street, but then finally I got some damn help. Cleaned up. Patched it up with Quentin- by some miracle, he was willing to take me back. I don’t deserve him. And once again, I found myself led back to you, and the more I learn about you the more sense it makes.”

All of that… All of that… Hurt. Knowing that hurt. You knew, Lacy said. You knew who I was and you walked away regardless. But she had to know more. “It does?”

“You and me, we’re gonna save the world,” Gwen said with a deadened look in her eyes. 

Lacy balked. “What if that’s not what the Stars want?”

“Then fuck ‘em. They belong to us, not the other way around. It’s not like we’ve got no choice in what to do with our lives- if we didn’t, I’d still be in the gutter, and you’d still be hiding in your room.”

Lacy wanted to be mad. A part of her was. Gwen had walked away from her, despite knowing or at least suspecting she was supposed to be her teacher. She’d abandoned her… But she came back. When it really counted, when it was well and truly time, Gwen had come back for her and offered to teach her. 

Another part of her was mad at Gwen for not telling her any of this sooner, but at least she was being honest now. And besides, some things were just so personal the idea of telling anyone was an anathema. So tried her best to let it go, to move forward with her teacher at her side. In some ways this was no different than the fight she and Danny had had yesterday, or the skittishness Isabella sometimes demonstrated that Lacy had learned to work around. Everyone had things that made them shut down; the best thing to do was to accept that and try your best to help them through it, try not to take it personally.

And besides, as Gwen had pointed out, Lacy didn’t have that much of a right to judge. It would take a while to accept these secrets and these truths alike, but she would get there eventually. 

Lacy tapped her chest, letting her Star out to dance. She rose to her feet and cracked her knuckles. She offered Gwen a hand up, and she accepted it and rose to her feet.

“In that case, I’d say we have work to do,” Lacy said. 

Gwen nodded. 

Lacy told herself that it would be okay, buried the part of herself that knew it wouldn’t.

[bike42]

Friday September 1st

We slept from 8pm last night until about 6am this morning. I got up and did some yoga and showered before breakfast. The hotel breakfast reminded me of the hotel breakfast in Santorini - they bring a basket of pastries (including my favorite chocolate croissants), give you a choice of starter (fruit, yogurt and granola, or porridge) then a choice of 4 different egg entrees. We both had yogurt and the “Irish Breakfast” today which is two eggs, thick bacon, sausage, two different blood sausages (no, thank you), potatoes, and grilled tomato and mushrooms. We ate too much, but it was all good.

We went back to our room and slept for another two hours, then hustled to meet our tour guide for the Book of Kells and Dublin Castle tour. I’d booked this through Viatar which I’d used before - worked out well. Mostly other Americans on our tour, some from a cruise ship - stopped in Dublin for just a few hours?

Our tour guide, Antonio, was fantastic. He told us all about Trinity College, the Book of Kells, and the long library. Guides aren’t really allowed to “guide” inside, so he prepped us on what we’d be seeing and met us in the library afterwards. I’m still having a hard time wrapping my mind around a book as ancient as that - what went into it to make it, all the symbology, and the fact that it’s just that old!

After that, we walked together through the streets - such dangerous crossings, past the Molly Malone statue (Antonio was impressed that I knew of the Dubliners) to Dublin Castle, which didn’t appear to be much. We went around the side to the garden and Antonio gave us a few more facts and suggestions for other things to see and do.

We had 4pm tickets for the Guinness experience, so we popped into a coffee shop for a coffee and sandwich, and walked about 1km more to Guinness, passing many beautiful old churches and cathedrals. We were early, but we got in anyway and started our tour. We’d learned some things from Antonio earlier, and that helped Jeff win an extra glass of beer (what color is Guinness? Red). We also learned about the criteria for a perfect Guinness pour, and how to find a pub that’s been certified by Guinness (identified by a special red sign). Criteria are: 45 degree tilt, fill 3/4 full and let surge settle for 60 seconds. Should not exceed 119.5 seconds total. 12 mm foam top.

The whole tour exceeded my expectations. Guinness has long been one of my favorite beers, but the experience was well laid out from the process of how the beer is made, to the history of making the barrels, their advertising history, etc. There was a man playing a Bodhran (Celtic drum) with a bunch of extra drums. I jumped in and tried to learn and play along - tough on the wrist, but fun to try.

We’d bought the ticket for the “Stoutie” experience, which is having your face magically “printed” into the foam head. Fun, but I “drank” my head before I got a very good photo! We ended our tour on the seventh floor “Gravity Bar” with another pint each. Luckily, I had some almonds in my bag so we could mute our buzz just a bit. Quick stop at the gift shop and we were on our way.

We received a text from Connie and Jeff who will be joining us on the M&M tour in a few days, so we made a plan to meet them at Stag’s Head Pub (walked by it this afternoon and Antonio said is was good). Friday night and things were picking up, so we were lucky to snag the last table for 4! It was good to meet them ahead of time, make it easier to sort out who is who when we meet the whole group in a few days!

We left there about 8pm, and walked through the Friday night crowd back to our hotel. Exhausted after our first full day, and still a bit jet lagged.

Saturday September 2nd

If I hadn’t set an alarm this morning, we would have slept through breakfast! We went down and ate a little less this morning, then back to our room. Jeff went back to sleep again, I researched options for today and tomorrow, then did a yoga session and got ready for the day.

We headed out about 11:30am and found a warm sunny day - so far we haven’t used an umbrella since getting on the plane in Amsterdam! We walked to the river, and verified our coach (bus) pickup spot for Monday morning. We noticed commotion across the river and learned there was a “Liffey Swim” race going on. Unfortunately, we couldn’t stay to watch the swimmers arrive as we had tickets to the “Jeanie Johnston” tour and it was about to start!

I bought 1pm tickets for the Emigrant Museum, and they gave us a noon add on tour of a replica of a 1847 three masted sailing ship - living history museum on 19th century emigration. The Original ship would have been used for trading between Ireland and North America (emigrants to NA, timber back to Europe).

We had the most fantastic guide, telling us the most horrific story of the Potato Famine and “coffin ships.” I’d read enough historical fiction of emigrants crossing from Europe / UK in the 1800’s to know the voyage was gruesome and dangerous. But hearing about it while standing in a replica ship really made it come to life.

Between 1848 and 1855, the Jennie Johnston made 16 voyages to NA, average length of the journey was 47 days. The ship was licensed to carry 40

people, including crew, but the most passengers ever carried was 254! They claim she had a perfect safety record and no passenger or crew member ever died onboard, in contrast to many others known as “coffin ships.” The original ship sunk in 1858 after becoming waterlogged hauling a load of timber - but the crew was rescued by another ship.

Our guide told us the difference was the Donovan family who owned the ship.

It was referred to as a “miracle ship,” but they had better sanitation and provided food and clean water to the passengers. They also had a physician on board - he screened passengers before boarding, insisted on toilet buckets to be emptied and washed out frequently, blankets to be aired on deck everyday, and passengers were allowed on deck for 30 minutes each day. All that was unusual for those days apparently.

The cost to passengers for passage to North America was 3 pounds (2400 Euros in those days). Most couldn’t pay that as they were already poor when the Potato Blight ruined the potato crop in Ireland. Families would often send one person to get settled, who would send money for others to follow (if they were still alive and if they were healthy enough to travel). She told us of one woman who gave birth to a son onboard, they later settled in St Paul and there is a photo of him in a bar that he owned there when he was a grown man.

Our guide knew a lot, and was delicately choosing her words. She pointed out that the blight impacted potatoes all over the world, but economically, Ireland was the only place that was devastated by it. We stayed and talked with her more after the tour, with our naive questions of why didn’t they plant other crops? What we didn’t understand is that Ireland was under UK rule then and many other crops were grown, but they were all “property” of the crown and exported to England. She said different parts of Ireland were impacted differently - her family was from north of Dublin with little impact, but the west coast where we’re headed was most devastated.

It is estimated that 1.2 million people died and another 1.5 million left Ireland (population number have yet to recover) between 1845 and 1852. There is no word for “Great Famine” in Irish - their word “Gorta Mor,” means the Great Hunger.

The famine was a defining moment in the history of Ireland. The British government provided little aid and made statements that the famine was due to lacking moral character of the Irish. A vicious cycle of mass evictions led to people living in ditches and hedges. One politician had been quoted as saying “let them eat grass.” Soup kitchens were set up for about six months, but then withdrawn to “avoid dependency.” It’s not hard to see how this triggered the eventual fight for independence from the UK.

We left the ship and headed to the Irish Emigration Museum - very well done, illustrating contributions Irish descendants have had around the world in politics, the arts and history in general.

We grabbed a quick sandwich and began the 30 minute walk to the Jameson Distillery for our 3:30pm reservation. The streets were crowded with people, buses, cars and bikes so it made walking a little more difficult!

We enjoyed the Jameson tour, but they don’t actually make it at that site any longer, so it was more of a talk and tasting. We also did a “Cask draw” from a first use bourbon barrel, added 18 years (2005). It was made from a single pot still - no corn or maize, and was quite good malted barley. In the gift shop, we bought a bottle of Jameson Crested, aged in a sherry barrel from Spain - quite yummy and I thought it’d be fun to share on the M&M tour. Sine metu = without fear (Jameson motto).

We were sitting in the converted warehouse having a Jameson and ginger beer cocktail, when I realized that Guinness and Jameson apparently operated right through the time of the Great Hunger / Famine. Hmmmm? Wonder how that worked?

We’d received a text from Steve, another M&M participant that arrived in Dublin just today. He suggested a pub near his hotel so we walked back across the river and met him there, and Jeff & Connie met us as well. I had a gin & tonic (talking to a couple from Cornwall made me thirsty for gin) and a massive yummy hunk of battered fish, and some so-so “chips.” The bar was really hopping - several different music acts while we were there, made me anxious to get the musical portion of this trip going. We walked back to our hotel along the end of the Temple Bar area, know for its partying - really starting to pick up at 8pm on a Saturday night. We walked along Gaston Street with the high end shops and bought gelato along the way. People watching would be awesome tonight, but we’re exhausted and ready for sleep!

I learned Jimmy Buffett died yesterday. Makes me sad as his music had been such a big part of my life, especially in the days when I needed some “escapism” from my reality. I know that like John Prine, John Denver, Tom Petty and so many others, his music will live on. It was fun to get messages from Regina and Becky and think about what fun we had at those Alpine Valley concerts - one year we made a huge fin out of cardboard and ducktaped it to the ski rack on top of my old Saab.

Sunday September 3, 2023

We’ve fallen into a good morning routine of yoga/stretching, shower, and a hearty Irish breakfast. We had a later breakfast this morning, no need to rush into our day. I awoke with a craving for green vegetables, so I started perusing the menus of needby restaurants for tonight … ready for a break from pub food!

We went to the 11am tour at the “Little Museum of Dublin,” which was just down the street. It is an eclectic mix of stuff in an old Georgian style townhome across from St Stevens Green, a large park across the street. One of the interesting artifacts they had was a key to the park, as the park had been locked and only the wealthy neighbors had keys! Most of the staff were likely actors in training and they told amusing stories and anecdotes along with their version of the history of Ireland. We most liked the room dedicated to U2, since we’re not going to make it over to the Rock n Roll museum.

We strolled through the park - very alive with families being a warm beautiful Sunday afternoon! From there we walked down Grafton Street, window shopping and listening to buskers. It was even more crowded that it had been last night. We were on a mission to find “super glue” to repair Jeff’s shoe. We struck out a the pharmacies, then on Google I found “Mary’s Bar and Hardware,” a cute little place with a friendly bartender who suggested we try Dunnes, where we found several different types. Back to the room for some R&R before heading out again. A couple days of this sidewalk / museum strolling pace and I’m ready to get out to the countryside and do some hiking with a fast pace and normal stride!

We had a few more museums we wanted to see, but we were pretty tired, so we bought tickets to the Hop On - Hop Off bus and rode around the city being entertained by our driver Alan. It’s always a different perspective from the top of the bus, and it was a great day to be out on the top deck.

We met our travel partner, Steve, at an Italian restaurant close to our hotel for dinner. We shared a bottle of “Super Tuscan” wine and I had my fill of good vegetables - a nice break from pub food. Early night - tomorrow we travel 3-hours by bus to meet the rest of the group in Bunratty!

[poliwat]

Nipomo

Four weeks sharing a room in San Francisco, four weeks since I decided not to go back to England. Michael wasn’t sleeping. A quarter tab of acid for his breakfast. Spliffs throughout the day, booze and blue raspberry C4 preworkout all through the night. He was recording an album, working on his set, making a website, building a 24-7 open-source radio live-stream at a free hackers’ space, and not finishing anything.

I was trying to write but spending a lot of time crying on the hot roof of the apartment building when he wasn’t around. He found me up there one afternoon at the end of one of his twelve-hour stints at the hackers’ space. Two straw hats, a beer, two cups. “I know you like to drink out of little cups!” He smiled and the inside of his mouth was blue from the raspberry preworkout. How do you hate someone as much as you love them? He said he’d been looking for me because he had a great plan. A childhood friend in the city was driving down to their hometown and we could get a ride. I could meet Michael’s parents; go to the beach; see the fields, wildflowers, and back roads. So beautiful this time of year. I wondered if it might save us. “It’s God’s country,” he said.

We arrived at his parents’ the following morning, after a four-hour drive south. A low ranch-style house on a wide road of low ranch-style houses. Michael said it was too nice a day to be stuck inside, so he took me around the side and we climbed straight up onto the roof: “I know you like roofs in California!” I did like roofs in California. The front and back yards of gravel, wood chip, and pebbles, interspersed with the occasional palm tree or redwood. At the end of the road was the main street, a couple of stores, a steak house, and a taqueria. Beyond, fields of lemon trees and mustard grass and farmland that stretched a few miles inland, up to a range of golden hills. Above us, the sun shone like the grill of a new truck.

The house was full of knickknacks and shells and crystals and string lights. A “Be Grateful” sign by the coffee maker. A “Be Grateful” mat by the front door. A canvas in the kitchen printed with a picture of three fluffy ducklings and the words “I have joy down in the bottom of my heart.” It was hard to make out how many cats there were. And then PooPoo, the overweight chihuahua, waddled in from the hallway and charged at Michael, baring his red gums and gnashing tiny, pointed teeth. Michael told me the dog was the spawn of the devil and the root cause of all the issues that existed between him and his parents. I already knew that the issues between Michael and his family had begun when Michael had gone to college in Santa Cruz five years before, found drugs, wouldn’t get a real job, and kept having to move back home when he ran out of money.

His parents were musicians who’d met in Santa Barbara in the seventies. She’d sung in one band and he’d played guitar in another. They’d both worked in the same hippie jewelry store downtown before marrying and moving to a smaller town up the coast. I met them that morning when they followed the pets into the kitchen. Gene was short and round with a kind face, freshly shaved with a peaked cap on his bald head and a smart cowboy shirt tucked into chinos. He gave me a warm hug that smelled of Irish Spring. He picked up PooPoo and fed him some bratwurst from the fridge. Mom went straight to the coffeepot. She wore a blue shirt with cropped leggings and had her blond hair put up neatly in a clip. She had the same unblinking stare as Michael.

Gene left to work his shift at a music shop in the next town over and Mom said she needed more coffee before her pain medication kicked in and she could talk properly. She had arthritis and had pain from a series of botched surgeries. The pain was the worst in the morning, but she was managing it with physical therapy, swimming, and half a pill on the bad days. She spent the next hour pacing around the house, telling me about all the things she needed to do—pay the bills, fill out paperwork, physical therapy, feed the dog, feed the cats—only to be derailed from doing any of it by the pets, or the phone ringing. She kept apologizing for being so busy, but she couldn’t seem to get anything done. The bills stayed untouched in a pile that took up most of the kitchen table, the phone rang and rang. There were Post-its all over the house: “Put coffee out,” “Tell Dad to clean sink,” “Ask Michael where he is living in SF,” “Be Grateful.”

Michael derailed her the most, as he tried to make breakfast and clean up after himself. Mother and son knocked around the place, from the coffeepot to the piano to the back door, to the front door to the coffeepot again. They both had the habit of getting lost midaction and the same strange sweetness. At one point, just after getting at him about putting the dishes away in the wrong place, she went into the living room and sang out with joy. When she came back into the kitchen she was smiling. She put her arms around her son. He rested his cheek on the top of her head and closed his eyes.

Michael and I spent the afternoon walking around town. Not a place built for walking but it had its charm, the slanting golden light making even the Vons supermarket look beautiful. We bought three beers for five dollars at the Stop and Shop and watched the sun go down as we sat against a fence by a dusty abandoned lot. He told me that the most famous thing about this town was a Dorothea Lange photograph of migrants from the thirties.

For dinner Michael made sandwiches and, to his mom’s exasperation, moved the bills off the dinner table and told everyone we were going to sit down. They were very good sandwiches, pastrami and banana peppers and mayo with a steak seasoning, on thick slices of bread. He made a sandwich each for his parents, and two types for me and him to share. “Me and Helen share everything,” he announced. “We’re in love.”

After a few bites, Mom started talking about how hard it was, living with her husband, how she loved him but needed him to leave. “I keep telling him, but he won’t go. He does nothing around the house, just eats and spends and plays his guitars.” She said that when she married him, he was already deep in debt. He’d never told her how bad it was. Then she said to me, “I love my son, but I’d understand if you wanted to leave him. Don’t make the same mistake I made.” Gene didn’t say anything in response, just happily ate his sandwich and seemed to be somewhere else. Michael went to the fridge and popped a Corona.

The next day was a Saturday. We borrowed Gene’s car and spent the day in the ice-plant dunes of Grover Beach. When the sun set, we snuck into a motel jacuzzi. Crouched in the bubbles, Michael said he’d told his dad that he’d marry me if he had a dollar. “I dunno about marriage,” I told him.

Gene was in the kitchen when we got back, enjoying a Corona Familiar in a frosted glass. He was in a good mood from playing a gig at a wedding where he’d devoured a seafood-platter buffet. “I tell you … those crabs. All that fish. Mountains of it.” We sat at the counter with him. Over more Coronas, Mom cackling along to Scrubs on the TV, he told me about his first love. At one point he made the mistake of asking Michael what his plans were. Michael said he was going to start an open-source 24-7 radio station that spread empathy across the world and freed a billion people. He already knew his mission on Earth, God had told him. His parents didn’t need to worry. Gene turned to me with a smirk. “I told Michael to experiment with LSD. I didn’t realize he’d be experimenting every day for five years.”

They drove us to the train station in San Luis Obispo the next afternoon. Another sunny day but things felt different. Now I knew that this impossible person had a mother and father and that he made some kind of sense beside them. When his parents hugged us goodbye his dad whispered something in Michael’s ear. “If I had a dollar,” Michael said.

We found a booth with a table in the train’s observation car, beside a window. Gene and Mom spotted us as they were driving out of the parking lot and circled back through three or four times, waving as the train left the station. Leaving San Luis Obispo, the train wound around and between the Pacific Coast Ranges. The slopes reached up on either side, rolling above the windows. Michael leaned on my shoulder while I read him a story I’d written about my alcoholic dad. It made him cry. I told him not to move yet—a girl in another booth was painting a picture of us. I could see it in the corner of my eye, strokes of yellow and green and gold.

***

Six months later, Gene was diagnosed with stage four cancer. A melanoma that had not been removed properly in the spring had spread to his organs by September. Michael and I were living in Chicago by the time Gene began chemo, sleeping on a futon at an event studio that my sister ran and earning a bit of money setting up and cleaning up after baby showers and photoshoots during the day and after parties and music videos at night.

The family told Michael not to come back yet. So we stayed in Chicago for September and into October. Michael’s desperate restlessness and acid-fueled benders had subsided, and the deranged passion that had brought us together had calmed to a more dependable, if rocky, companionship. We kept our clothes in a cupboard and pretended to the people who rented the space that we didn’t live there. When the studio was in use, we visited my sister and her son, or wandered around Lincoln Park, or walked along Lake Michigan, waiting for the call from his family to say that he needed to come home. Sometimes Michael brought his guitar and I brought my notebook and we’d sit playing and writing, cooling our feet in the lake. Other times we had long, agonizing arguments walking around the humid parks. He said I was unloving and spiritually dead inside. I said he was cruel and overbearing, that we were two very different people from different worlds and it would never work anyway, it was doomed. He said that only proved how godless and unloving I was. What was cruel was how little I believed in us. All that needed to happen was for me to find faith. We were twenty-seven. We could move off the grid, have lots of children, and raise chickens. I wanted to get on a plane and go home. Whenever we had an especially bad argument, he stormed off to the hot-dog place around the corner from the studio, where the staff was famous for insulting its customers. He made friends with the people who worked there. “The only real people in this city,” he said. Baby Jesus Ted Bundy was one of the names they called him. He would come back in the best of moods. He was on one of those hot-dog runs when his sister called and told him the doctor said it was a matter of days. He spent his entire savings, four hundred dollars, on a flight for the next morning. I packed up the futon and moved into my sister’s apartment. He called after two weeks at home. His dad really was dying now and he needed to see me. Please could I come? My sister found me a flight from Chicago to LA for fifty dollars for the following week.

***

The Amtrak train from Los Angeles to San Luis Obispo goes up the Pacific coast, at times along the beach and at others high in the cliffs. Michael was waiting for me on the platform, wearing a black hoodie and a black cap with a small red-and-white mushroom on the front. He called it his mourning costume. In the car he gave me a paper bag. Inside was a bar of chocolate wrapped neatly in tissue paper. As he drove out of the lot a full moon appeared over the trees.

We arrived at the house to find Gene sitting on a red La-Z-Boy, watching Blazing Saddles, PooPoo on his lap. The dog jumped off when he saw us coming and charged at Michael’s ankles. Michael picked him up, thrashing, and plopped him outside, slamming the screen door. Gene had almost halved in size, his face completely sunken, his arms and legs, bluish and pale, poking out of a baggy T-shirt and shorts. I tried to hide my shock but it must have been apparent. People had been coming over all week to say their goodbyes.

When Michael had first told me they’d put Gene on home hospice, I’d assumed it meant he would be home under regular medical care. What it really meant on his low-cost insurance was a hospital bed in their house, medication, and thirty-minute visits from a nurse twice a week. The rest of the time it was up to Michael, his mother, and his sister to look after Gene. By the time I arrived, the home hospice had been going on for two weeks and they’d stumbled into a rhythm. Gene slept in the Blue Room (blue walls and carpet), which had once been Michael’s bedroom, then the bedroom of a series of lodgers, then a room for Mom to stretch in. Now it was the room where Gene was going to die. There was the hospital bed in the center and a folding table against one wall, covered in a red paper tablecloth, pieces of hospital equipment, dozens of pill pots, and Michael’s junk. Michael and his mother took turns administering a regimen of medication every few hours: liquid morphine, vitamins, blood pressure pills, pills to help his organs deal with all the pills. There was a mattress in the corner covered with a Lion King quilt where Michael had been sleeping. Gene had a little bell by his bedside that he rang when he needed something.

I was tired from the travel, so Michael set me up a bed in the Green Room next door. It had a single bed, another folding table, and a few blankets laid out for the cats to sleep on. Michael gave me his pillow and the Lion King duvet and put on another hoodie over the hoodie he was already wearing. We sat down on the bed for a moment and he rested his head on my shoulder. From the next room the little bell rang and he shot up. I curled up and drifted off.

The next morning Michael woke me up at nine o’clock with a mug of creamy coffee. “Get up! We’re going to the store!” His dad wanted egg bagels. They’d already given Gene his medicine, taken him for a shower, and rustled up a small first breakfast of eggnog and toast. It was only a quick drive to Vons but Michael drove very slowly, all the windows open, lighting one cigarette after another.

We returned to the sound of the little bell ringing. Gene wanted to sit out on the lounger. He wanted a coffee. Michael helped his dad outside and made the bagels. I did the dishes and Mom put on another pot of coffee while telling me how much pain she was in, her arthritis, her hip —she was falling apart.

I soon discovered that the most demanding part of the home hospice was Gene’s appetite. Over the next week we went out three or four times a day to find whatever thing he craved. The bell would ring and Michael would go running. “My dad wants a steak dinner!” We’d jump into the car to go pick up a steak, then sushi, then burritos.

Mom was paying for these elaborate requests with envelopes of cash she’d saved over the years, each one labeled with a particular purpose. Every time she pulled out a new one from the back of a drawer, my heart sank: forty dollars for Michael’s birthday, a hundred dollars for a plumbing emergency, a hundred for yard work—all gone.

As the morphine doses got larger and Michael more sleep-deprived, nights and meals and dreams collapsed into hallucinations. Gene would wake up, feel hungry, and ring his bell. Michael would help him into the kitchen and cook whatever Gene instructed. I’d hear all about it in the morning. Clam chowder from a can with packet noodles. Chicken soup with pork gyoza and taquitos. Michael told me that sometimes he’d drift off in the middle of cooking, laying his double-hooded head on the kitchen counter.

I slipped by the Blue Room one morning, sheepishly hoping I could just make a coffee and bring my book out into the backyard. “The English Muffin!” Gene called out. “I want an English pot roast. Can you do that?”

I returned to the doorway. PooPoo, who was more or less living on Gene’s chest by this point, greeted me with a growl.

“Yes!” I said. “I think I can.”

Waiting for the coffee to brew, I googled English pot roast. It seemed to be something to do with potatoes and meat, a stew. I couldn’t find Michael anywhere.

“Gene …” I said, eventually going back into his room. “What do you mean by English pot roast?”

“I mean Henry VIII creamy banquet pot roast. Pig’s blood! Potatoes! Lots of meat. Don’t forget the meat!”

I called for Michael all over the house, in the front yard, the backyard, down by the shed. Finally his voice came down from the sky.

“I’m up here!” he said. I couldn’t see him, but some branches moved at the very top of the thirty-foot redwood.

“He wants me to make a medieval pot roast,” I told Michael when he came down.

“He’ll go back to sleep. I need to give him some more morphine now anyway. He’ll forget all about it.”

Michael was right. While PooPoo barked and tore at his fingers, he fed his father the liquid morphine, and Gene fell back to sleep. Michael took a nap. An hour later the little bell rang again.

“Blueberry pancakes!” I heard. “Can she do blueberry pancakes?”

I found a mix for blueberry muffins in the cupboard. It was the middle of the day by the time they were done. One came out with a funny face. Two freeze-dried blueberries for wonky eyes and a crease below them like a sideways smile. I thought it looked a bit like Michael. I showed his mother and she agreed. Excited, we woke Michael up with the muffin doppelgänger on a plate.

Hold it up to your face, we told him. Do your wonky eyes. Smile sideways a bit. See?

Mom brought a muffin cut up in four with a pile of butter to Gene on a little plate. He put the whole lump of butter on one quarter, had a bite, and put the plate down on his lap, exhausted. “Do you like your muffin, Dad?” Michael said. Gene didn’t respond. I felt that in some great way I had failed.

***

Michael’s sister, Bonnie, lived in the next town over. She had a two-year-old girl, Sofia, and was heavily pregnant with her second. She’d bring a meal or some shopping over every few days and spend a few hours with her dad. When she and the little girl spilled in through the front door, the whole house seemed to calm.

One afternoon, Gene and Bonnie were stretched out on the sofa, the patio doors letting in a warm breeze. Sofia was running around, looking for the cats. Mom was out in the hammock. I was sitting next to Michael on the piano bench. He started playing a peaceful, sweet song. I asked Bonnie what Sofia’s birth had been like. She said it had been an amazing experience. She said she went full wild woman. At the moment of the birth, she’d been on all fours and felt her whole heart open wide to God. There was no pain, no body, no one else, just her baby and God. Gene said that was the way he felt about death. When the moment came, he was going to go into it with arms open to God. He held his arms out wide as he said it.

Later, Bonnie’s husband, Paul, came over. They got out some guitars from the garage, brought them into the Blue Room, and sang songs around Gene’s bed. Nineties folk—The Moldy Peaches, Bright Eyes—and then an amazing rendition of “O Holy Night,” Paul on the harmonica, Michael on the guitar, and Bonnie singing. I sat on the mattress and watched them. I wanted them to keep playing—no more talking, talking, talking. “O night divine, o night …”

At the end of the song, Mom came in. She said it was late, Dad was tired, she was tired, we were all tiring him out. Michael said, “Wow Mom, you even managed to ruin this.” Bonnie snapped at Michael, “Don’t talk to her like that.” Michael said, “Yeah, yeah, it’s all my fault.” Bonnie’s husband asked no one in particular if they’d noticed that the moon’s face had changed. “They’ve done something to the moon’s face,” he said. “I swear …”

“He’s tired,” Mom said, turning to Gene. “Are you tired, sweetie? Tell them you’re tired. No one believes me. Someone’s gotta look after him. He needs his rest. Tell them for once. I know how tired you are. He’ll never say it himself …”

“All right, Mom. I’m tired.”

I followed Michael out to the backyard with a beer and a cigarette and found him up in the redwood again. I coaxed him down with my offerings and convinced him not to climb all the way up the tree in the dark.

***

Gene’s body was shutting down. His legs and arms were swelling and leaking fluid. He had to carry paper towels around with him to mop up the mess, but he never complained. We took turns massaging his legs to ease the pain. When it was my turn, I made a bit of conversation, asked him about his life. He didn’t want to go into any of that. He just smiled and told me to massage with all the strength my skin and bones could muster.

Amid all this, Michael wanted to have sex whenever he had a minute free. When his dad was sleeping he’d usher me into the Green Room or drive us out to the back-road fields and pull over on the side of the road. At night, with the hills behind us, the hum of cars in the distance, a light breeze through the grass, it was kind of spectacular. But I was never in the mood. So often we would go all the way out there for me to freeze over. “You’re removed,” he told me. “Checked out. A sandbag.”

“Well, sorry,” I said. “But I massaged your dying dad’s legs earlier. I’ve come all the way here. I’m doing what I can do. Right now all I can be is a sandbag.”

“I’m exhausted and I need love.”

“We just had sex.”

“Oh yeah. ‘We just did this, we just did that. I gave you a blowjob last week …’ ”

“I know you’re sad but you’re being a dick. How can you not see that?”

“I don’t want to talk.”

“You were the one who started the conversation. I was just lying here.”

“Exactly.”

***

The days went on and Gene held on. One evening I noticed a slice of a moon through the kitchen window and realized it had been two weeks since I’d arrived. Despite the pain, Gene still wanted to move around, take a stroll with his walker, barbecue pork, play guitar on the patio with his son. “This is not how normal hospice patients behave,” Mom said. We were standing in the kitchen, looking at family pictures. In many of them the whole family and some friends were sitting around jamming, having a good time. Not that long ago—five years, maybe.

“Most people just lie in bed. But my husband—he’s on his feet demanding fine dining! I don’t want to complain, but it makes me think—miracles can happen. And if he does get better, things would have to change around here. There’s no money. We can’t live like this. Steak-dinner takeout! We’d lose the house.”

I nodded and made to say something, but she carried on.

“Sometimes I think I might be an alien,” she said. “I’m not like other people. Like lying—people lie so easily but I can never lie. Neither can Michael. We’re both like that. I can see how hard it is for him in the world. We just don’t make sense here! He needs to get a job, get a car. Get going with his life. You’re so good for him. He listens to you. I always told him, If you wanna just do what you want, then find a groupie. You’re no groupie. You’re like an angel sent here. I mean it. I prayed to God for you and you came. But you’ve got your life ahead of you.”

Michael must have been listening because he ran out of the Blue Room at that point.

He took my hand and peeled me away. “We’re going on a walk now, Mom. She doesn’t wanna talk anymore.”

“See,” Mom said. “He’ll do anything for you.”

***

Gene was still ringing his bell on his sixty-fifth birthday, November 16, a milestone that had seemed unthinkable a month before. We arranged a small party for his family and a few of his music buddies. Michael spent the morning setting up the backyard with microphones and guitars. He even put a TV and VCR on a cart on wheels to play home videos. We drove out to the Mexican supermarket and bought carnitas and a case of mini Corona bottles. On the way out he impulse-bought a ceramic Day of the Dead guitar to give his dad. When the friends arrived at the house, Mom took the opportunity to go have some time alone and run errands at Vons and CVS.

The men barbecued pork, and I made pico de gallo, according to Bonnie’s instructions. It was a hit. The men in their cowboy getups were shocked that the English girl had prepared it. The sun was shining, people were sitting out, eating the barbecue. Michael tried his best to get people to play music but it wasn’t happening. How do you celebrate the birthday of a dying man? I couldn’t figure out what to do with myself. At one point, Michael gave his dad the ceramic guitar wrapped up in Christmas wrapping paper. “Día de los Muertos,” said his dad. He held the guitar in his palms, disgusted.

The men got it together and started playing “The Cowboy Who Started the Fight.” Gene watched on in his wheelchair. He closed his eyes as they sang “screamed through the veins of the street.” They sang a few more songs. Michael and I took a break to catch the sun go down over a field of tomato vines. In the ten minutes that we were out, Gene stood up with a guitar to play a song with them. He was just sitting back down as we came in the door. Soon after, the guys all left.

“Man plans, God laughs,” Michael said.

Mom was gone for most of the day. She returned from her errands with a gift for Michael. She was so excited about it, she wanted to give it to him straight away. Out of a green and white paper bag, Michael pulled a fluffy llama with wonky eyes. He squeezed it and the llama squeaked.

“It’s a dog toy,” he said, sounding like his father when he held the Day of the Dead guitar. Mom laughed and laughed. She said it reminded her of Michael and the blueberry muffin. I laughed too. Michael grimaced.

“Oh no … I think he’s angry,” Mom said.

“Here,” I told Michael. “Don’t be angry. Squeeze your dog toy.”

He took the llama in both hands, crossed his eyes, stuck his tongue out, and let it rip.

***

November 18 was the eighth anniversary of my own father’s death. I woke up feeling sad and drained. At this point, I thought to myself, Gene needed to die or someone else would. I spent the morning swinging in the hammock by the redwood at the bottom of the garden, hiding from everyone. I heard Michael and Mom calling for me from the house. Gene wanted a massage, they said. His legs were hurting. I couldn’t face it. Michael called my phone. I ignored it.

When I went back inside, the two of them were maneuvering Gene into the living room. Michael almost dropped him and he fell back on the sofa with a cry of pain. “You’re not helping!” Mom screamed at Michael.

“Mom. I am midhelping. You’re brain-dead from your painkillers.”

“Enough!” Gene’s voice boomed from the sofa, where he was half-collapsed, falling off the side of it. “Stop it! Both of you!”

Mom and Michael stopped, ashamed.

“Now, son.” Gene took in a quiet, pained breath. “Can you help me off this damn sofa and take me back to bed?” Michael pulled him up by the armpits.

That night Gene could only manage a spoonful of canned tomato bisque.

“I think he’s going to die today. The same day as your dad. If our dads die on the same day that’s God talking. We’ll have to get married.”

Later, Michael slept next to me in the Green Room while his mom was with Gene. I dozed while I listened to Mom talk to Gene, telling him about their life together. “We’re good people,” she told him. “Weird people.” She could have been saying anything really, the hum was so soothing. “There’s no one around here like us.” It kept sending me back to sleep.

I woke up to Gene’s voice crying out: “Help! I can’t breathe!” I pushed Michael and he bolted into the Blue Room. Mom woke up too. “I’m coming!” she called out.

I stayed in bed, listening. They were arguing about how much morphine to give Gene. Mom said Michael was giving him too much. Michael said it wasn’t enough. She ran to get the phone to call the nurse. Gene was desperately trying to get words out. He couldn’t breathe. And then a desperate gargling, drowning on thin air. Michael was saying, “It’s okay Dad. I’m right here. I’m right here,” all through the gargling until Gene was no longer making any sound.

When I walked in, Gene’s skin had already yellowed. I realized I’d seen three dead bodies now. My dad, my granddad, and Gene. They all looked the same, laid out on a hospital bed. It was five minutes to midnight. An hour later a nurse came. Another hour, and a man and a woman arrived from the mortuary. At the door, their long, gray, thinning hair obscuring half their faces, they told me they were here for the body. Never have I seen more ghoulish-looking people. They wore baggy suits with sleeves that came down over their hands, and round, shiny shoes that also seemed a few sizes too big. They moved slowly. “Was he in the military?” they asked. “No,” we said. “He was not in the military.”

“Okay, thank you.” They put a sheet over Gene’s body and wheeled him through the house, out the front door. Mom followed him out, holding PooPoo. She wanted to show the dog that Dad was leaving. Dad was being wheeled onto the van.

“See, it’s okay, PooPoo. There he goes. They’re wheeling him in now. He’s going …”

Michael didn’t want to watch his dad go into the back of a van. I found him in the backyard with a tall glass of vodka, smoking a cigarette. He joked that he’d been praying to his dad as he was dying. “Come on, five more minutes. If you make it five more minutes I won’t have to marry her.” Then he said that he was plotting to steal morphine to kill the dog.

All the lights were on. It was three in the morning. Michael pulled out a crate of home videos and Mom and I told him to put them away. I made us some tea. We had some more vodka. Mom went to bed and I put Michael in the shower. I washed his hair and cried, but he was like a stone. I could tell he was still obsessing about killing PooPoo. After the shower, I put him in a clean T-shirt and underwear, tucked him in to bed, and held him tight until he fell asleep.

I woke up in the morning to Michael sleeping soundly next to me. He looked so at peace I didn’t want to wake him up. It made me cry. His eyes opened. “Dad?” he said. I couldn’t tell if he was joking. Soon after, we heard Mom howling. Long, slow howls. One of the saddest, strangest noises I’ve ever heard. “My life!” she called out between the howls. “My life!” It was almost like singing.

After that first day Mom said she needed to mourn alone. We needed to leave so she could scream and cry and talk to God. We went to Bonnie’s for a night but then Bonnie said she was too sad and stressed to have us there, with the baby coming soon. A little desperate, we decided to go camping. For the next week we drove between beaches along the central coast, walked, wrote, drank beer. Michael wrote a list of plans for the future, plans that involved him getting paid to travel, recording his album, singing at a body of water every day, building the 24-7 radio live-stream, moving every three months. He was going to give this list to his family, to prove to them that he had a plan. “You two need to move on with your own life now,” Mom had told me before we left. I couldn’t understand how his family could abandon him at a time like this. I’d had to remind her that Michael had come home to look after Gene, that we’d been living and working in Chicago. At the same time, I got what she was saying and why they didn’t want him hanging around. Michael was a liability, and now he was my liability.

***

Gene didn’t have a funeral. They were going to take his ashes out to the ocean in the spring. After the week of camping, Mom got lonely and wanted Michael back again. I decided to leave, to stay with a friend in Brooklyn for a while. I found a flight from San Francisco and booked a train from San Luis Obispo up the coast. Before I left, I found Michael a job doing yard work for a neighbor. He would save some money and leave in January. We said we might travel around. I tried to believe it could happen but I knew that it would not.

As we left for the train station, a commode arrived for Gene, more than a month late. Mom couldn’t bear to look at it, so we said we’d give it to Goodwill on the way to the station. She gave us a trash bag of old blankets to donate, too. I said a tearful goodbye to Mom and she gave me an envelope with a hundred-dollar bill in it. She thanked me for all the help and told me to get something nice for myself.

“Michael doesn’t want you to go,” she said.

I hugged her again and got in the car. “I never say goodbye,” she said. “I only say see you later.”

We drove up to the back of Goodwill and waved down a man who seemed to be accepting donations. “Is that a commode?” he asked.

“Yep. My dad just died. He never used it.”

He shook his head and tutted. “Nah. We can’t take that. That’s nasty.”

“How about these blankets?” Michael said, pointing to the trash bag.

“This bag? Those blankets?” The man took a quick sideways look. “Nah, we can’t take that either. That’s nasty, too.”

We were in a silly mood, driving to San Luis Obispo with the commode rattling in the back. It was a fresh December day. You could feel a change in the air. We stopped off at Ben Franklin’s Deli and I ordered three Californian sandwiches from the cashier, one for me, one for Michael, and one for him to bring home to his mom.

“My dad just passed away and my girlfriend is leaving for New York!” Michael announced out of nowhere.

There was still some time before the train. At the station we ran up over the footbridge to get a good view of the tracks and the hills. I took a few pictures of Michael. He took a few of me. The train came, we said goodbye, and I found a spot with a table at the back of the second-floor observation car, the same booth we’d sat in after that first trip. My bags stowed away, I looked down and saw Michael on the platform below, dancing to get my attention. He was trying to say something, but I couldn’t understand him. He mimed and danced around a bit more. Got on his knees. Drew a picture of a house with his finger in the air.

A man sitting a few seats ahead of me watched the scene in awe. All of a sudden he began narrating it to the rest of the car.

“Marry me,” the man said. “We’ll have a house by the sea.”

Michael mimed writing in a notebook, then swimming, then playing guitar.

“You can write poetry. I’ll swim. Play music,” said the man.

By this time everyone in the observation car was watching. The narrator turned to me.

“Does he have a phone number? I want to tell him something.”

“He doesn’t have a phone,” I said. “But you can leave a message on his mother’s answering machine.”

So the man dialed Mom’s number, and Michael, feeding off the audience, mimed a phone in response. I thought of Mom at home alone, rattled by the phone ringing. The man spoke to Michael through the glass and Michael nodded along, though he definitely couldn’t hear. Neither of them broke eye contact. The man said he was a preacher. He’d married about a hundred couples by now. Each time it had been uniquely special. “Why wait?” he told the future Michael, who would be listening to his mother’s answering machine if he ever got around to it. The preacher ended his message with his number, saying to call him if we wanted to get married.

The train started moving and Michael ran along the platform. I waved until I could no longer see him. Soon I was coasting inland. A rush of green-gold on either side. Pesticide farmland, trees, bushes thick with leaves, sunlight gracing the tip of everything. I stared out the window the whole journey. No sign of December anywhere, no sign of time passing. So much talk of marriage in God’s country. No doubt He had it all planned out for me.