I, Grant, You

Ah, big cities! Where fireworks happen and you don't even know why.

So, I'm in Chicargo once again and I could swear they've added floors since I was last here. What a towering, tower-filled place.

I'm sitting across from the giant head as people walk by. I turned down a guy looking to buy soup because I gave the last of my cash to a guy selling me his R&B CD. That was cool because I don't have a lot of black friends, so it felt good to help out my new pal Seven40Seven, but then his two homies wanted me to buy their CDs, too. Had to turn them down also. 

I don't give a shit if you're offended by 'homies'. Relax.
That guy may have just wanted to buy wine. I'm not sure he actually wanted soup.

I'm doing pretty well as the weekend's gay dad, and Grant is still alive after a day and a bit. Fussy, though. He's like royalty, this guy. First he's hot, then he's thirsty, then he wants to be carried, then he wants to walk, then he wants to walk balance-beam along the curb, then he's hungry (again), then he wants to leave 7-Eleven because a drunk man is speaking to him in the middle of the afternoon. Actually, the last one was understandable. I sorta wanted to get out of there myself.

They love those car horns around here. Oh, how they honk.

If one car waits for pedestrians to finish crossing the street (legally, by the way), the vehicle behind will start beeping their horn and then the car behind that will beep and so on.

It's a continuous convoy of first one motorist going, "What the fuck!?" before being joined by the others around them, "Yeah, he's right. What the fuck?! Just run them over!"

Those countdowns that they have at traffic lights? In Chicargo, those are considered fair warning. 

What a racket.

Otherwise it's nice to be back though, among the skyscrapers and their fountains.

My knees are really itchy and I have no idea why.

I'd love to fill you in on our trip, but I guess there hasn't been a whole lot to it so far. I believe I mentioned the scary fellow in the 7-Eleven.

We all got up early today and had some hotel fruit before heading out to get our Lollapalooza tickets. We walked, seemingly inches at a time, to the ticket kiosk before learning that they wouldn't be open for many hours.

So, we went shopping.

I bought some tight, constricting underwear that I can't wait to take off. We found an adorable headband for Grant while he wailed and tried to escape us.

Then it was nap time, which he and I tackled with gusto while Peter tried his best to get drunk. When we woke up we got our wristbands and then we went to the pizza place where they stuff the pizza...in the pizza? Y'know what I mean? The crust is on the outside. Think torte, but it's pizza. It was a tad gross, to be honest. It also took 45 minutes to prepare, during which time we ate an appetizer and ignored each other for a bit.

Grant ate exactly as much food as I did, to the point where I was feeling physically uncomfortable watching him finish his ice cream.

Oh! They're mosquitoes! That's what's making my knees itchy. So much time at home lately that I forgot there are still places where insects survive.

Alright, I'm gonna head back to the hotel, and I'll make sure to avoid eye contact with anyone who looks like they're out of hope or full of it along the way.

Oh, the giant head? I guess it's a sculpture. You know those styrofoam heads they have in stores that you can put hats on (or eyeliner)?

It's like that, but it seems to be about 20 feet tall.

People don't even seem to notice it, that's the fucked up thing. What's a sculptor gotta do? I'm amazed by people who could be so blasé about such an engrossing environment. In Bay Roberts people will talk about an intersection's new stop sign.

Ah, big cities.

Wake Up and Spread the Ashes

I'd like to get up every day at 10. That's a goal I'll really have to concentrate on.
Don't envy me; free time doesn't mean much if you feel trapped within it. I don't feel that way, exactly, but I don't not feel that way either.
Lately, I've been sleeping late (Easter break late; second week of the divorce late). Time to stop that, probably. It's true that I thrive at night, like the titmouse or the python, but I need some structure. These are wild animals, after all.
The day just feels too distant when sleep goes this long. Reality is just too seperate for a sober mind when sleep goes this late. Also, there's something else to it: You start to feel at odds with the day (that is, daytime), like you're rebelling against it. And I'm not sure I want to do that, at least not yet. Sleeping this late every day is kinda like wearing jogging pants to a wine & cheese.
Besides, it's not like I'm on the night shift. I'm not some goddamned security guard, too moral for his own good.
It's nice to remind myself that I haven't had any major head injuries yet. It's nice to reflect sometimes.

I keep telling myself that I have all of these original thoughts of mine, clogging up my airways, but then I spot the loud Asian fellow on the phone near the window and I notice the massive scar running down the side of his skull and face.
Whatever. I wish I'd stolen this granola bar instead of paying for it.

So, Peter and I are going to Chicargo. I should mention it before I myself kinda forget.
It's a tad surreal.
We went to Chircargo in 2013 for Lollapalooza as a way for everyone to get to know my future fiance (and as a means of seeing The Postal Service, of course).
This time it's two men and a baby and a pill bottle of Sarah's ashes to spread around. I think that's why we're going.
I can't help but wonder what she'd think of this. I imagine that she would tell us not to bother, and if we told her we were going to bother anyway, I think she'd tell us to spread them near some place that served food she liked. "Spread them near the place where I got that veggie burrito" sounds plausible. She didn't eat any veggie burritos down there that I can remember, but that's hardly worth mentioning.
I still try hard to place her before me; to make her real.
I try to recall conversations we've had and that's already impossible, so instead I just try to physically put her in the room as I write or bathe, and try my best to make-believe. I used to be great at it when I was a kid and none of this was relevant. Sometimes it works.
Perhaps I'll be able to conjure her in Chicargo, sipping a beer and looking distracted because she's as bored as I am.
That's really what we thrived on; cynicism and sheer boredom.
I was always great at pinpointing when she didn't want to be in a social situation she was in. Once she got a mother-in-law this became even easier, but I had the inherent ability from our earliest days. I can still spot it in pictures.
We're taking Grant with us just to make sure that neither of us get drunk or have sex with a woman.
I asked Peter why/how he chose Grant for the trip. The inquirey was eating at me for days beforehand. I mean, they're both under three, but there is two of them. They're both equally entitled while being completely unaware of what they're going to experience, so how do you choose? Eenie meanie miney--how in the fuck do you spell this? Eenie meanie minie moe. There.
We're taking Grant because he's named after Grant Park, where Lollapalooza is held, which I already knew.
Makes sense as much as this could ever make sense. 

I see my bereavement councellor tomorrow. Yeah, I'm still going to him. I think a physical attraction is finally beginning to manifest there.
He works, though I'm not sure that he 'heals' much of anything, really. Who heals someone in a situation like this? That's why humanity allowed whiskey to continue; for its healing properties. Not that I've ever been one to hold my medicines.
I like the guy because he listens when I talk, and he remembers everything. He reminds me of shit that I've forgotten myself, and he writes nothing down. Of course this is going to impress me. Also, he seems intrigued by me and that's the only reason I ever wanted to go to a therapist of some kind; to intrigue them.
Sometimes he provides an insight that I kinda like. Sometimes he provides an insight that I know she would like. He described me as somewhat of a mourning gay widow, and that really hit a nail for me (us). That's likely the only thing I'll ever share that he has said.
Most of it I can't recall by the time I'm scheduling my next appointment.

She hated The Postal Service, by the way.
But what did she know?

Washing Off the Film

I have to do my Downhome article, so I don't really have time to talk. I just had to pop on here and mention the brown-shoed haircut behind me. I think he's a director. I've never been to LA, but this must be how directors talk. Speak. Yammer.
This guy's not doing another project unless he loves the script and some day I might have to hope that that's me and that's my script and isn't that depressing? He's dressed like he's being confirmed today.
Some people have just gotta make such a bunch of fuckin' noise. No matter that the rest of us are trying to have conversations in the space (I'm trying to have a conversation with a whole readership), he's just gotta be heard and he doesn't even know he's gotta be heard. He thinks he's speaking at a normal volume, even though he sounds like the kids in grade seven.
Some people just need to let everybody know, y'know? They don't need to let everybody know anything in particular, but they've gotta let everybody know.
Not me, though.

Lookit me! Lookit the blog I have! Pay attention to me! I'm over here!

Put On The Red Light

Eight years of doing this blog, approximately. Eight years, 1100 posts and at least 10 hoodies, and I'm actually losing followers. I'm down from 20 to 19.
Must be doing something right, or several things incorrectly.

I'm sitting on a circular tube filled with air and I don't want to talk about it.

Anyway, where were we? Ah yes! Amsterdam.

Visit the tawdry Red Light District, whispered of in parlors around the world. Behold the alluring sex workers as they beckon you to keep them warm for 15 minutes, for approximately 50 euro. Cheat on your wife or loved one with these unforgettable sirens as they glow azure in the sheen of their red lights. 

The number of times to best visit the Red Light District, for me, is as many times as there are days.
Mathematically, that looks like this, presuming we're solving x as 'number of red light district visits', and d as 'number of days in Amsterdam':
x ≥ d
So, that's solved. 
If I was some romantic Mr. Ripley type, just visiting Amsterdam for a sojourn of some kind, I'd take a wander through there at least once a day, I'm sure. 
And why not? I appreciate that no one likes a window shopper, but you just can't find these wares at home. 
I didn't mean to call the sex workers 'wares', but here we are. 
And there we were, hand-in-hand and dazzled, exploring these cobbled streets, bestrewn with their bridges. 
"Have we been down this one yet?" we'd ask one another about this alley or that avenue. 
"Fuck it, couldn't hurt look again," was the general response. 
Anyone looking for context who hasn't been there, there are about one or two hundred ladies on display, depending on the evening, distributed among several streets over a many-block radius. 
None of them are naked, but all of them are in lingere or underwear. I'd love to show you pictures, but the snappy snappy is very not allowed there, and they won't hesitate to bang on their windows to let you know this. 
There are bars and places that sell condoms shaped like little men and there are pizzeries, and the girls are among these usual distractions, pulling their curtains back as early as 7pm or so. 
All of them are beautiful (given your tastes, that is) and enticing. 
Were I ever there as a single man, I'd probably have partaken by now. Perhaps. It's also possible that I'd be too afraid to come knockin'.
For example, one larger black lady was very keen to speak with me, and I didn't do that. 
Now, if you linger they will sometimes pounce with beckonings, as I referred to earlier, but this was different. This woman wanted to get my attention. Me specifically. Paul Warford. 
She did it each time I walked by, which was more than once because we couldn't keep track of what streets we'd already been through. 
I may have approached her if I wasn't so high, but probably not. I assume it had something to do with my hair. I know I know, you Christians, assuming a black lady wants to talk with an afro'd guy is racist blah blah. I'm familiar with the lingo. I'd counter this by asking what other possible reason could there be for a Dutch prostitute wanting to have a conversation with me. I'm open to any suggested interpretations. 
We were too high, though. Way too high for such a street. Surely, there's a 'just high enough' to be for the red light district, but Andie and I seemed to have a tendency of overshooting that by a yard or two. 
It was usually my bright idea to stop by a coffee shop in the area just before getting started. 
This is all well and good if you just wish to ogle. Marijuana, as you likely don't need me to tell you, is great for ogling. 
It's when you have to start interacting that things can become complicated. 
Interactions like seeing what the prostitute wanted with me, for example. 
Or, asking the bald gentlemen how much the sex show is, and what it entails exactly. These questions can be very complicated if precaution isn't taken. 
While walking by one of the venues, the guy said (to no one in particular), "C'mon everyone. It's pussy time."
I loved it because he sounded as authentic as the women were (also explained in that earlier post), and I was tickled by that. It didn't sound dirty when he said it, despite what he said. Perhaps that's because he was right: it was pussy time. 
It's pussy time for him right now, at this minute while I write this. What a job. 
What a job it must be to see stoned tourists chicken out several times in one evening. I know that we did that because I have vague recollections of it happening. 
We had a tough time landing on one to drop into, first of all, since they all looked the same and we didn't discuss specifically what it was that we wanted to see or not see. I recommend doing this if traveling as a couple. Unless you avoid getting totally blasted because then you can just have that discussion whenever you want on the street. 
Not the case for us, though, so we took turns getting too nervous. Andie did try doing the talking once or twice, but then we started getting squirrelly on the price. 30 Euro each? That's like, fifty bucks. Do we want to spend that on something when we don't know what it is? 
Besides, call me old-fashioned, but some things, though novel, I may not want to see. Watching a woman try to hit me in the face using only her vagina and a ping pong ball might be memorable, but 50 bucks? Not even if we got to play actual ping pong afterward would I do that. And I love ping pong. 
Table tennis.
However, and again, this may be my age talking, but watching two oiled women give each other a massage etc. etc. may be worth the bother. 
Hardly matters when you're too high to go to the bathroom though, does it?
I can't remember if it was night one or night two, but I wanted to stop in to drink or smoke or both somewhere on the street, and we ended up in the backyard of this place. 
It was a bit cramped and very full inside, and that was a bit too much at the time, so we stayed out. 
However, some British asshole was properly pissed, and he was causing a real ruckus that appeared to be getting heated. 
So, I suggested we go back inside because we were only a table away and I was becoming frightened. 
While walking back through the bar, I accidentally walked into a man, bounced off of him, and stumbled into another man who ended up being a machine that dispensed small cans of Pringles. 
We weren't great at blending in, either of us. 
I believe I mentioned Andie's incognito in Amsterdam style, which she also wore in the district. 
We must've been something to see, this pale white duo of clearly frightened tourists who couldn't even go inside any of the naughty bit shows. She in a trench coat and he colliding with vending machines. Oh yes! We were a couple of pigeons, alright. 
However, we enjoyed the swans. 
What a bizarre area. I can't stress it enough. This swan is in front of one of the larger sex show establishments, and though you can't see it in the snap, there's a guy urinating within a specially-designed cylinder about three feet to my right. 

I eventually used one of the cylinders because when in Rome and you have to pee, or however that goes...
We saw a sadder sight the following evening out in the canal when Andie pointed out that, "Oh, it's a dead swan":

"The b'ys should really fish those out," I replied. 
"No wait, it's a bag." It's always a bag with us. 
On the third night, we had it all figured out. 
No joints! No joints just yet. Let's experience some debauchery while we're clear-headed enough to appreciate it, and then we can complicate what remains of the evening after that. 
Evening three we kept another important red light district tip in mind (and this is sort of a real one): dress up. 
You can't walk around a beautiful city while appreciating beautiful sex workers while wearing some ratty sweater you've been sweating in all day with stained jeans. Well, you can, but after two nights of that I realized that it just doesn't feel right. 
Put on a slinky dress. Put on a shirt you'd wear to the bar. Treat it like a bit of an event because if you have a stamped passport, it is. 
Third day we switched and I wore the coat. I felt queerly confident in it. I was ready to take the strip on by the third night:

I even asked the alluring waitress whether or not there were any comedy rooms in the city to jump on. I needed a couple of days before asking that. The (illusion) of comfort's gotta be there. 
We went to the same district restaurant two of the three nights. It may have been called Italia. Wait, lemme see if I can find it. 
Here it is! Caffe Italia! I recommend this place, and not just because of the alluring waitress. 
She was a real charmer, though. She served us both nights, and while paying I asked about the comedy room. 
I said, "Umm," and she replied, "Yes, tell me. Let me help you," and that was really sexy. I have no idea why. I suppose because she legitimately wanted to help us out, and I like it when people take care of me. She knew I had a question and she couldn't wait to hear it--that's really what it seemed like. Notice the wording of her response. I specifically wrote it down. 
When we were leaving I wanted to tell her that I thought she was very beautiful, but you don't need to go telling waitresses that; it weirds them out. Especially when you're with your fiance. 
Anyway, clear-eyed, where are we going?
I suggest the strip club because that's nice and straightforward, no ping pong balls, and you sort of decide what you want to spend. 
Unless you get drinks, of course, and then you're about 30 Euro in before you've even taken a seat. 
When in Rome, spend what the Romans spend. 
It was a great strip club, though, despite the lack of space, and Andie and I gave one girl a really admiring back rub (don't ask). 
On top of that, we made a friend while we were in there. 

This is Rob. Rob is divorced and British and that's about all we got from the conversation because he was hammered and he was from somewhere that has an accent you can really sink your teeth into. He may have said the north somewhere. 
So, there you go! Everyone got something they wanted. We didn't see the 'banana show', but we're not ashamed of that at all. 
We saw the Amsterdam that was tailored for us, and I suggest that someday you do the same.

A Stroll Through Amsterdam

Visit Amsterdam! Be enchanted by the shops selling cheese wheels the size of ottomans and pastries slathered in Nutella. 
Take in the famed coffee shops and enjoy locally sold marijuana. Then, try the true Amsterdam experience as you dodge traffic, terrified, or just enjoy a drink.  

After checking into the Hotel Prinsenhof (central location, good price, friendly albeit sarcastic staff, nice rooms - 4stars), we said what they all say in Amsterdam after checking in:
"Well, might as well get high."
I took in the city for the first time as we searched for a coffee shop.
The trams clanging by and the various cultures all wandering around, buying tulip bulbs.
The cobbly streets and tall buildings, shoulder-to-shoulder.
It's a tourist-trap that vehemently fights back, through artistry, through heritage.
I breathed all of this as I held up traffic, and exhaling I said, "Might as well get high. Where's the weed at?"
Soon,  we found 'The Dolphin' which is now my official coffee shop of Amsterdam. I have no idea why. I suppose because it was the first we went into.
Fake coral screwed into the walls, the space seemed very tranquil and inviting as some guy impatiently tried to rent a bong.

We greeted the fellow behind the bar, who was from...somewhere. Who knows?
I asked him if the place belonged to him as he fixed our mint teas and I lit up.
No, he wished. It belonged to his brother. It was weird, how he said it. He made it sound as though his brother kept all the profits while making he himself sleep on a cot in the back or something.
The response was like, "No, I wish. It's my brother's, who is sadly still alive."
Anyway, we got high in a real hurry and then kinda sat around.
Andie immediately felt as though it was appropriate to leave, be it through the door or the wall, but I wanted to sip my mint tea and kinda enjoy her discomfort for a minute.
It was real mint tea!

It was hot water with sprigs of mint in it. When else would I be drinking something like that? Someone probably harvested it that day. Good lord.
Our mint comes from plastic packages, and when we open them the mint says, "Where in the hell am I? It's freezing here," and that's the last of the mintiness. When the mint asks the question, you smell a bit of mint and then all of the flavour leaves the plant forever.
Fresh mint tea, let's take our time.
Anyway, I finished torturing Andie and we booked it.
Suddenly the previously extremely busy street just up the way now seemed extra extremely full and uninviting, so we said, "Fuck this," and started walking in the opposite direction.
We encountered a large truck and crane that frightened us, but otherwise the path was relatively unpopulated. 
Good, this is good. Let's keep going.
We held hands, knuckle-white, from the moment we left The Dolphin until about an hour or so later, by the way.
We had spent the past day and a half getting in everyone's path. We had already been constantly halting and correcting one another, for our safety.
Now, the city seemed to come at us from all directions, and we were nothing if not startled.
So, we held hands, and we'd tug in this direction or that direction to dodge oncoming people, and we'd pull taught for a full halt, like coaxing a horse around.
We both did this without discussing the tactic beforehand, and it really made me feel like I was walking with my future wife while high in some place I'd never been.
We desperately wanted a map then, just to get our bearings, I guess. I don't know why.
To decide on where we wanted to go, maybe. I suppose that's why anyone wants a map.
Anyway, Andie volunteered to pick one up for us by going into some bulk store or something.
She wandered in there while I thought of stuff to write down, searching for a pen.
Minutes later she returned with a chocolate bar neither of us had tried before, and that was it.
Though she did mention that she saw the "tiniest pineapple" inside, and she had been really tempted to buy it, so she could bring it home and name it, I guess.
She doesn't even like pineapple.
No map. We kept walking/directing.
Later, we passed a nice-looking hotel with one of those revolving doors.
Bound to be maps in there, we knew, so Andie again volunteered to get us one.
I should mention that the entire time we were in Amsterdam, Andie wore the very chic 'incognito in Amsterdam' look, sporting sunglasses and a long trench coat. She was as conpicuous as a person could be in a place like this.
So I said, "You got this? You're doing the talking?"
Yup, sure. Let's go. 
We started revolving, and as we circled to the entrance she just said, "Can't do it. Can't do it," and kept pushing the door.
Then we were back outside.

Despite trying to avoid everybody, we soon found ourselves in the middle of the street.
I don't know how we got there, and suddenly we were there, and there were people and bicycles and cars and scooters just...intersecting...in front of us. It was mesmerizing.
"We're never getting out of here" I thought as I stared at this unending flow of traffic that should have made sense, but it definitely did not.
I don't know how we got out of there, but soon we found a tourist shop. Maps!
Also, I felt I really had to purchase a pen and start writing some of this stuff down because what was happening to us was amazing, wasn't it?
This place had a very animated middle-eastern fellow behind the counter.
I eyed the pens, first landing on some bics with windmills stuck on top of them. I was about to pick one up when I realized that a windmill pen might poke me in the scrotum, so I looked on to see nudey pens just next to these.
Perfect! Sexy place, nudey pen. Sexy lady to look at while I write, what could be better?
So, I take the pen and approach the counter and wait for some kids to buy candy.
While doing so, I think of what I'm going to say to the guy to sound like a tourist but a traveller at the same time.
I landed on "One nudey pen, please," as I laid it on the counter.
Genius.
"Oh, okay. Have to love the guys too, I suppose," he replied and I didn't know what in the fuck he was talking about, so I just said, "Yeah. Yeah buddy."
It wasn't until I next went to write something down that I realized I had bought a nudey pen with a guy on it.  

Welcome to Holland!

Right to the Edge - A Tour

I have to give you all of the information from our trip before I forget that we went on a trip.
This is an easy place to start because it's already written (though it's not terribly chronological).
I knew a guy who was terribly chronological once.
On time for everything, and he was always a prick about it.
Always knew what the day's date was and he had a real attitude about timelines.
Anyway, we went on a tour of The Cliffs of Moher (pronounced 'Mo-Hair', 'Mo-Er', or 'More'. I have no idea which).
Perhaps our most tourist-y gallivant, we boarded a sightseeing coach that we managed to get on within seconds of their leaving.
Andie and I are not terribly chronological, luckily.
Here's a rundown:

9:55 - Due to leave at 10, Andie and I avoid traffic as we run (twice in the wrong direction) to catch the Galway Tours bus. 

10 - Eamon convinces us to buy tickets, at 25€ apiece. With no bank machines in sight and no time, we now have our tickets and 15€ between us.

10:05 - Eamon starts the engine and unsuccessfully tries to endear himself to the full bus of tourists. Andie and I are forced to sit separately. Some guy asks me what my shirt says (it says "Uncle Paul Fart Face").

10:10 - I begin listening to music on my phone to tune out Eamon, who is not charming enough to endure this early in the day on no food. With 7% battery following a non-breakfast, tensions are high.

10:27 - Eamon describes the water tower.

10:28 - I see a cow that looks suspiciously dead. Eamon asks if we believe in faeries.

10:40 - I worry the lady in the seat next to me is not enjoying the tour.

10:45 - Eamon somehow reverses our bus into a parking lot. During our first stop he encourages us to photograph an ancient ruin while Andie and I instead look for coffee and food. We find neither. We pat a German Shepherd and get back on the bus.

11:01 - Sheep!

11:20 - Eamon continues to unimpress the passengers--myself included.

11:33 - We visit an ancient abbey and Andie asks Eamon about a coffee break; one is forthcoming. Meanwhile, sparks are flying between myself and the utterly silent woman sitting next to me. As a consequence, everyone's spirits are improving.

12:16 - The bus possé halts in The Burren for snacks and the fascilities. With no card services at the café, we spend all but four of our euros on a bacon sandwich and carrot cake. I hold brief conversation with a presumed lesbian from California.

1:02 - We pause in a dale of sorts and walk in a full circle around the area, noting its beauty while avoiding its many tripping hazards. We do this as a group, but we do not hold hands.

1:13 - The fellow wary of my t-shirt informs some dames from North Carolina that he is from Texas. I admonish him for owning guns (in my head). I continue to notice the sad countenance of my seat-mate. I also take first notice of the size of her breasts and try to get a better look at them.

1:15-? - I nap.

2:00 - We take lunch at Gus 'O Connor's, which ends up being a wonderful meal.  We browse overpriced knitwear before returning to the bus.

2:43 - Eamon drives away from the rest stop, noting that we are "short one person" while doing so. Bus passengers exchange sideways glances at this news as an American fellow presents himself behind the bus by waving his arms frequently. Eamon continues to drive away to the delight of the other passengers--myself included. He eventually stops and collects the stray idiot.

3:00 - We arrive at the Cliffs of Moher and vacate the tour bus, but not before Eamon's stressing that he would be leaving the parking lot at 4:30 sharp, with or without any of us. Andie and I note the beauty of the cliffs and take many photos.

3:05 - She and I notice a coast guard helicopter in flight, as well as a coast guard boat in the harbour. I dismiss this as a 'drill' while Andie suggests they are in search of a human body.

3:30 - We pass many wide-eyed cows and tourists. I feel greatly intimidated by the depth of the cliffs and keep great distance from their edging. We pass buffoons standing at the cliff's precipice who are posing for photographs. I accuse them of likely being arachnophobics who do not know what they should be afraid of.

4:05 - We note our nearing the 4:30 departure time and decide to begin the hike back, taking Eamon at his word. The returning trek, uphill, proves far more challenging than the walk down had been.

4:15 - We stop at the gift shop for iced cream. The Texan gentleman asks for a euro coin to smoosh in the Euro Smoosher, giving us a 2€ coin in return. I decide I should be less hard on strangers.

4:30 - We return to the bus and depart. I make more attempts to view my seatmate's breasts through false stretching, etc.

5:00-5:45 - Eamon describes the coast as I try unsuccessfully to nap again.

5:38 - Alpacas!

6:01 - A black and white dog comes out of a house on our route to do a little dance. This appears to be the highlight of the tour for most passengers.

6:01-6:30 - We continue to the bus depot. En route, Eamon mentions the circling helicopters and boats, saying it was rumored someone jumped from the Cliffs of Moher that day. The bus quieted, yet I myself felt nothing new. Tripping over one's own shoelace to plummet 702ft is one thing, but as for jumping, well...we all must make our own choices. Personally, I would choose not to waste the time of the national coast guard when I didn't need saving, but then, some people are very selfish.