Northern Ireland Confidential

technical difficulties

Just a quick note to say that the alias (http://www.niconfidential.com) isn't working -- it seems to be stuck on 16 May. A lot of good stuff has happened since then; some of it I've even posted about. Most of you use the http://www.nashvilleconfidential.com/ni link, and that is ticking along just fine.

I've tried a couple fixes but none are taking. I can't be bothered with this right now as I'm off to the cinema. I do hope to resolve it in coming days.

united nations pub quiz

My neighbour from Inner Mongolia and my neighbour from South Africa invited me to the pub from half-nine to midnight.

I'll go for an hour, I said, and so we set off. For a minute I feared we'd end up at a raucous student bar near Queen's but they set my mind at ease. We're going for a pub quiz at a neighbourhood place, they said. And we're meeting some friends.

All the friends, it turned out, are Not From Here. There was the development worker from England, the Israeli traveller who had just completed his required military service, the social worker from Germany, the Australian doctor on holiday, and on and on. I was the American who hoped all the questions would involve Shakespeare quotes, "The Simpsons" and the Tom Petty catalog ["I'll take Stan Lynch for £100, Alex"].

We were a formidable pub quiz team. With that much international knowledge, we had almost every base covered. I contributed a few U.S. geography answers and, I am proud to say, the obscure "Simpsons" factoid.

But one woman from Derry - our local ringer - was pretty much a one-person team. She knew everything, and could understand what the quizmaster was saying. Still, despite our global brainpower, we came in third.

better left unsaid

Today's New York Times Magazine featured a cover story from a 26-year-old (!) writer whose life is already over because she blogged about every square inch of it, and now she has massive regrets. There are more than 1000 comments on the NYT website about this and some people have even said they are giving up their weblogs because of her cautionary tale.

I am not giving up my weblog. I do wonder, after reading her very depressing and head-shaking story, if I too am some kind of attention-seeking freak, but I don't think I have the boundary issues this young lady does. I don't blog about work and if I had a relationship, I wouldn't blog about it. Here's a helpful hint: the internet goes everywhere! And everyone reads it! We had a clever saying at the newspaper: If you don't want something in the newspaper, don't do it! New technology raises the stakes, but the basic premise is the same: if you don't want someone in Uzbekistan to know about it, don't put it on your weblog.

So NI Confidential shall remain and, I hope, shall flourish for my 12 friends and family who read of my wee adventures. I will put up some recent -- and appropriate without being invasive -- material about the wonderful visit from my friends. The private jokes and off-color remarks will not be included. I'll just enjoy those myself.

is it saturday yet?

Less than 24 hours before my Nashville cats hit these shores. I am so excited I doubt I'll sleep a wink tonight, perhaps as a measure of solidarity with their jet lag. We are going to spend a couple days exploring Belfast, then off to various sites in Northern Ireland, a few days in the Republic and then we'll wrap up with a too-short stint in Dublin.

I wonder if they will find the 9:45 p.m. sunsets as weird and wonderful as I do. I love going for a long walk at 8:30 p.m., but it's very disorienting to realise, shortly after dusk, that it's nearly time to go to bed.

The sun comes up early, too. This is the payback for the 17 minutes of daylight we get on winter days. The weather has been jaw-droppingly beautiful the past week -- warm temps and sun, sun, sun. Of course this is is due to end. About the time my friends' feet hit the soil of Northern Ireland. No worries. We have lots of Plan Bs; most involve sociology experiments at pubs in City Centre. We'll keep you posted!

the concert gods giveth and taketh away

The good news is, Paul Weller is coming to Belfast. True. Tickets went on sale last week. I didn't know this until today, which is why the tickets I bought are about as far from the stage as you can possibly get, unless they sell spillover seats in the parking lot.

I care not. I'm looking forward to seeing him in my own town here in November.

I wish I could see my fave performer Jason here as originally planned, but cruel fate has intervened. The club where he was booked is in the throes of a management change, and the show was lost. I'm sad. I think I'll put on some of his CDs to cheer me up. 

i'm just a girl who can't say no

I'm very fortunate here to have friends with similar interests and, occasionally, free tickets. So when they call and say, "How about a movie?" or "Want to come along to the Cathedral Quarter Arts Festival?" what else can I do but accompany them?

I have a personal goal to visit every pub in the Cathedral Quarter and we started tonight at The Front Page, very old and appropriately rundown. I was out of town for most of the arts festival but it was good to see tonight's acts: a local woman named Ruby Colley, the highlight of the evening, and an American group A Hawk and a Hacksaw.  I was impressed that so many young hipsters were grooving on the sound of these groups and were so openly appreciative of the musical talent.

I also was pleased that for some inexplicable reason Hawk/Hacksaw abandoned the stage early in their set and came and stood by my restricted-view seat. I usually like to stand but I am now Officially Old and was very glad to sit; however, a pair of 50-something men across the table from us initially seemed unsure about our presence there.

Then the lights flickered, which must have signalled some kind of detante, and small talk ensued.

Confidential to Maztr: One of the men is a mail carrier named Cecil (pronounced SESS-ill), and he was extremely interesting -- and not just because he has many of the same musical tastes I do.

holiday by the numbers

6 cities

7 days

3 concerts

2 reunions with old friends

4 new friends

2 pubs

5 churches 

275 stairs (at one go)

1 sunburn

2 buses

2 taxis

1 car for hire 

3 subways

6 trains

2 planes -- and that has proven to be one too many

Written in the Newcastle airport, because the 45-minute flight home has been delayed nearly 3 hours. Should depart about 11 p.m., so I'll arrive home who knows when? I guess this is one way to extend the holiday. It was a great one nonetheless.   

style council

How I wish I had taken pictures of a few of the folks glimpsed on these travels -- and not just the group of German 20something men who were so blindingly beautiful it hurt to look at them.

No, I wish to celebrate those freak flag flyers, those mavens of fashion who cause double-takes for other reasons. First runner up would be a man who got on the train at Clapham Junction wearing -- seriously, picture this -- a seersucker jacket, camoflauge 3/4-length shorts, and gold lame slippers.

You go, mister. He also had a hairstyle and eyewear that suggested that convention and he had long ago parted company.

Only when I had to step over him repeatedly in the train (long story, ask me about it sometime, part of my rail education) did I realise he also was wearing blue fingernail polish. That was a little beyond the pale, but he had me at gold lame slippers. I wouldn't have the guts to wear those alone.

totally worth it

The last time I went to see Paul Weller, I didn't take my camera, and I regretted it. I took the "no photography" statement on the Royal Albert Hall ticket seriously. Apparently I was the only one.

In the intervening years I have learned nothing. I didn't take my camera to the Victoria Theater in Halifax because I worried it would be confiscated, along with all my holiday photos. No worries -- nearly everyone was taking pictures with cameras and phones, except for yours truly.

That is the only downbeat thing I can say about the experience. Halifax had amazing public architecture (if I'd taken the camera, I could show you), the train ride was convenient, the venue was gorgeous.**

My seat was perfect: aisle, first row balcony, dead center of the venue. If Paul had raised his right hand and fired a gun, he would have shot me. And I didn't bring a camera!

I looked down on the general admission floor, which was largely empty until the end of the second opening act. Then we waited, waited, waited for Paul to take the stage. Everyone seemed to know everyone else, and they waved and gave the thumbs-up to friends across the way, an excited sign language that said, "Holy crap! We're here! And Paul Weller is about to play!" My feelings exactly.

stairway to heaven

You can't go to York without going to Yorkminster. At least I can't. So on this glorious, cloudless day, I decided to nip indoors for just a few minutes to explore the Gothic wonder.

No sooner had I entered than began a time of prayer over the loudspeaker. This was very lovely because after all, this is a church, not just a tourist attraction. A woman led us in prayer for all our family far away, so if you have the same surname as me, you were covered; the rest of you were on your own, I'm afraid.

I decided to spring for a few extra quid to go up in the tower. The cashier at the front desk seemed hesitant to sell me the ticket.

"There are 275 stairs and they are quite steep," she said, matter of factly.

"Yes," I said.

"The stairs are narrow, winding and difficult - quite a lot of physical strain," she added helpfully. "People undertake them at their own risk."

"I understand," I said. "There is no lift. Got it."

At this point, I wanted to explain that I could make it, albeit red-faced and sweaty. And I was dying to give her 10 pounds if she would just break that British reserve to tell me what she was thinking: You're too fat to climb these stairs.