The sink in our hotel in Australia. SPOILER: the water went straight down.

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I have some disappointing news.

Are you sitting down? You should probably sit down. You aren’t going to like what I have to say. This piece of news is up there with learning that Santa and professional wrestling are not real (if I just broke the news about either of those things to you just now, then I am very, very sorry. Life is easier when you believe that men come down your chimney armed with presents, and that karmic piledrivers do happen to bad people).

Instead, my sad revelation is this: the direction in which water goes down the drain (clockwise or counterclockwise) has absolutely nothing to do with where you are on the planet.

I realize that this is in direct opposition to everything that we were taught in 6th grade science class. If you are anything like me (pear-shaped, bad at math, and in your 30s), it was instilled in you at an early age that water goes down the drain in a counterclockwise direction north of the equator, and in a clockwise direction south of the equator.

This phenomenon, which I never bothered to test, was explained as being a result of the Coriolis Force.

Are you ready for some potentially inaccurate, woefully explained amateur physics? Wonderful! (Also, I dare you to find another travel blog that tackles stuff like this. THERE ARE PROBABLY NONE. Why? Because other travel bloggers don’t have the time or the inclination to flush their toilets repeatedly and record the direction of the putrid water. But I do, folks. I do.)

Let’s talk about the Coriolis Effect, which is a result of the earth’s rotation.

Here’s how it works (note: this example is totally not sound and could not be replicated in the real world, but I need you to work with me, people):

Let’s say you shoot a canon ball from the North Pole, with the goal of hitting Florida, which is directly south of you (Don’t worry – I lived in Florida for the better part of a decade, and can assure you: it has it coming). The canon ball will obviously take a while to get to Florida from the North Pole, and during that time, the earth will have rotated.

Of course, we’ll have rotated, too, but our canon ball, which is airborne, won’t. Since the earth is rotating, Florida will actually be further to the left of where it was when first shot the canon. Our projectile will land to the right of our intended target. Instead of hitting Florida, it’ll plunk down somewhere in the Gulf of Mexico.

Because of the Coriolis Effect, it seems to those of us on earth as though our canon ball has shifted and moved to the right (really, it has moved in a straight line. It’s the earth that’s moving). This is known as the Coriolis effect. In the Northern hemisphere, it causes objects to seem to deviate to the right, and in the Southern hemisphere, objects seem to deviate to the left.

Okay, are you still with me? No? That’s good, because I’m sort of confused, too.

The Coriolis Effect can be seem most notably be see in anything that’s hovering above the surface of the earth and moving long distances. So planes, missiles, and air masses can all be influenced by the Coriolis effect. And because of high and low pressure systems within an air mass, you’ll often get spiraling that results from this. If you ever see photos of hurricanes or low-pressure systems from space, you’ll notice that north of the equator, they move counterclockwise. South of the equator, they move clockwise.

What about if you are on the equator? Well, that’s where it gets crazy: hurricanes don’t form within 5 degrees of latitude of the equator because the Coriolis Effect isn’t strong enough.

When I was small, I was taught that you could see the Coriolis Effect in everything, including our toilets and sinks. Hell, my brother even had a book as a kid called Impossible Unless You Know How by Shari Lewis (yes, she of Lambchop fame) that corroborated this fact.

But now that I’ve visited the Southern hemisphere on four separate occasions, and having flushed numerous toilets while I was there, I can definitively tell you: Shari Lewis and my science teacher were both full of it.

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Here’s why: There is simply too little water (and it drains far too quickly) for the Coriolis Effect to be seen on a scale as small as a bathroom basin. The direction that the water goes down is determined by the shape of the bowl and the direction of the jets shooting water into it. Consequently, you can find toilet bowls that flush clockwise or counterclockwise in both hemispheres.

So why, then, does everyone seem to think that water goes does one way in Northern hemisphere, and another way south of the equator? Often times, it’s simply confirmation bias. We believe something to be true, so we only notice evidence that supports that fact. We ignore evidence to the contrary.

As for me, I’ve gotten into the habit of putting the lid down whenever I flush. It’s more hygienic. And that way, I can pretend the water is moving in whatever direction I want.

Doorway at Robben Island, where numerous political prisoners were held during apartheid.

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After we returned to Cape Town, Rand and I took a township tour. I think, without hyperbole, it may have been one of the most significant experiences of my life. I very much want to tell you about it, but it’s impossible to talk about the townships without first talking about apartheid in South Africa first, and its miserable legacy.

And that is going to take this entire post, at the very least. The recap of the township tour will have to wait until next week.

As with my coverage of Irish history, I’d like to note a couple of things: I know relatively nothing about South Africa’s past. I’ve done a bit of research, and I’ve put it down here as best as I could. I have no doubts that I’ve gotten plenty of stuff wrong, accidentally omitted a great deal, and may have missed the point entirely a few times. This was obviously not my intention. If you find a glaring error in the post, I will kindly ask that you make your corrections in the comments section below, along with a source pointing to the correct information.

With all of those caveats in place, I’d like to tell you about apartheid. At least, as best as I understand it.

Apartheid officially came to pass in the 1940s, but the foundation for it was laid long before that. Racial segregation in South Africa had existed since colonial times, when Dutch and British factions controlled the country (there were several wars between the Dutch and Brits over control of South Africa starting in the late 1800s and extending in to the 20th Century. Forgive me, but I find that there’s something kind of perversely funny about two countries fighting over a third country that probably wanted them both to piss off). In 1902, a peace agreement was signed, where the Dutch republics in South Africa swore allegiance to the British Crown (which maintained control of the country until it became its own republic in the 1960s).

The peace agreement allocated a lot of rights to Dutch citizens of South Africa, but it didn’t change circumstances for people of other races. Even prior to Peace Agreement, there were laws on the books that enfranchised whites and oppressed anyone who was black, Indian, Asian, or “coloured.”

Note: I know that if you are anything like me, the phrase “coloured” in reference to a group of people probably makes you cringe. The term (without the superfluous “u”) is out-of-date and pretty damn offensive here in the States. Indeed, in most parts of the world, it isn’t used, ever. Except in South Africa. There it is used quite often, and to the best of my understanding, it isn’t considered offensive.  It refers to anyone who is of a mixed racial heritage, whose ancestry extends back to Europe as well as to the indigenous tribes of South Africa (or parts of Asia, like Indonesia). Here’s a complicated but interesting definition of the term by a man who self-identifies as coloured.

A variety of bills were passed in the early 20th century that limited the rights of non-whites in South Africa. They were not allowed to vote or hold political office, were limited in where they could make their homes (pushed into what were essentially reservations, they were not allowed to live or purchase land outside of these areas), and had restrictions placed on what kind of education they could receive. If you weren’t white, you were paid very low wages, were prohibited from holding certain jobs, and had harsh taxes imposed on you for the paltry money you were able to earn.

While circumstances were pretty bad across the board if you weren’t white, blacks were definitely the most disenfranchised group in Africa during this time. This sample menu from the prison on Robben Island illustrates the notion pretty clearly. Notice how the menu at right for Bantus (a kind of generic term given collectively to native peoples of Africa during the time) is radically different than that for Asian or Coloured prisoners:

There isn’t even a hint as to WHY it’s different. It’s like they KNOW they’re being racist assholes, you know?

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And then there were the passes. This was a throwback to slavery – when slaves were required to carry passes any time they were traveling without their masters. The Pass Laws required non-whites to carry passes – a form of identification which denoted their race and personal information – that listed which areas in the country they could travel to and which areas were prohibited (activist and politician Robert Sobukwe was imprisoned on Robben Island for being in an area that was off limits according to his pass).

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s talk about when apartheid officially began. Which requires us to go back in time to 1948.

That was the year that the Nationalist Party became the ruling party in South Africa (they would retain control of the country until 1994). They established a system of apartheid – basically, racial discrimination was now institutionalized. All the oppressive laws that were still on the books from earlier in the century were enforced, and in addition to that the government had further plans to not only disenfranchise non-whites, but to segregate all the races.

The Nationalist Party felt that South Africa wasn’t one country – it was several mashed together, each correlating to a different racial group: blacks, whites, Indians, and Coloureds. Through a course of logic that I can’t really wrap my head around, because it’s not even remotely logical, they decided to split the population of South Africa up according to those different groups. The black population was divided even further, assigning people to specific Bantu nations.

This reassigning of citizenship gave the government the opportunity to strip non-whites of virtually all their rights by claiming that these people weren’t really citizens of South Africa (their right to vote as well as their passports were, on this basis, revoked). They were now considered residents of whatever new nation their appearance had dictated.

Of course, that didn’t mean they had any rights in these new “nations,” which fell under the control of the government of South Africa.

In order to enact their new plan for South Africa, the Nationalist Party rolled out a series of measures aimed at segregating the communities. Their first two major pieces of legislation passed would become known as the Pillars of Apartheid.

The first pillar was the Population Registration Act of 1950. Under this law, everyone living in South Africa would be classified according to race. The guidelines for how to classify people are ridiculously vague:

A White person is one who is in appearance obviously white – and not generally accepted as Coloured – or who is generally accepted as White – and is not obviously Non-White, provided that a person shall not be classified as a White person if one of his natural parents has been classified as a Coloured person or a Bantu …

A Bantu is a person who is, or is generally accepted as, a member of any aboriginal race or tribe of Africa…
A Coloured is a person who is not a White person or a Bantu …

This perverse exercise, as I mentioned above, was how people were assigned to different racial groups, and subsequently separated. But here’s where is gets really effed up: if your physical attributes did not easily fit into a category, a board would convene and decide what race you fell into based on your appearance. This meant that families could be split up because the members had been classified into different racial groups (and therefore had to be segregated from each other). You could be sent to a Bantu nation that you were completely unconnected to, simply because, according to a panel of white people, you looked like you belonged there.

Effed-up pillar #2 of Apartheid was the Group Areas Act, which led to the separation of the different races. This law dictated where people could live, according to the racial categories into which they had been classified. This led to the formation of “white areas”, “colored areas”, “black areas”, etc (and further subdivisions within the black areas according to Bantu origin). This law was later used to relocate and displace people from their homes.

It also served as an excellent tool for the government to continue oppressing people. Any time a non-white community grew too large, or too prosperous (rare, given all the laws to prevent non-whites from earning a decent wage), or the land on which it was resided was deemed too valuable, the population would be relocated, their homes destroyed, and the area would subsequently be declared as “white”.

District Six in Cape Town, a portion of the city where a large black community lived, was destroyed under this law, the inhabitants were pushed to the outskirts of the city into townships. With virtually no resources at their disposal or opportunities to earn a decent wage or get an education, the population remained in abject poverty, crowded into tiny shacks. (Note: Rand and I did a tour of a museum dedicated to District 6 during our township tour. More on that next week). This legacy of poverty and oppression still remains, and the situation in many of the townships is quite dire.

Old street signs hang in the District Six Museum in Cape Town.

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Sophiatown, a thriving black community near Johannesberg, was also destroyed under this law, as it was feared that the population there might rise up against the government. (And just when you thought it couldn’t get any more awful, the town was declared a white area and renamed Triomf – Afrikaans for “triumph”.)

There was plenty more legislation beyond these two acts. Here’s an excellent summary of some of them, but I’ve listed a few highlights below:

• Suppression of Communism Act – this law was originally created to outlaw the Communist Party of South Africa (which was considered a threat to apartheid), but eventually it was used to quash any political organizations which were a threat to the ruling party and the status quo. The wordage was incredibly vague, so it could be applied to nearly anyone. Nelson Mandela was arrested under this law.
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• Immorality Act – Sexual relations between blacks and whites were already illegal in South Africa according to the Immorality Act of 1927. This law expanded upon that original one; sexual relations between whites and anyone who was non-white (e.g., Asian, coloured) were now illegal as well.
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• Separate Amenities Act – these were the South African equivalent of Jim Crow laws; they dictated that certain areas could be specified for people of certain races
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• Bantu Education Act – this one makes my blood boil, because I would like to think that children are exempt from institutionalized hatred. Under this law, non-white schools (because remember: everyone was already segregated by this point) had to teach a racist curriculum as decreed by the government. Non-white children were taught that traditional Bantu cultures were base and inferior; and that they would be limited in their achievements by their race.
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• And of course, let’s not forget: non-whites had to carry passes, couldn’t vote, earned meager salaries, were not given access to decent schools, were subject to substandard health care, were prohibited from holding office, and forbidden from working a vast number of jobs (including a variety of skilled trades). They could be jailed (often indefinitely) for the smallest of infractions, and many were.

This went on for literally decades. Despite the governments best efforts to quash them, anti-apartheid organizations began to appear. There were a number of significant protests and uprisings (including the Soweto uprising, which had numerous casualties, many of them children, at the hands of the police). The brutal treatment of those who spoke out against apartheid – many were tortured or executed – began to get global attention.

Pressure, eventually, mounted from international sources. The UN denounced South Africa’s policies in the 1970s, and even voted to kick the country out, but major players like the United States, France, and the U.K. – all trading partners with S.A. – vetoed that decision.  Trade was also the reason why later embargoes and economic sanctions against the country failed. By the late 1980s, though, even South Africa’s trading partners had had enough of the injustices (It only takes us a few decades to come to our senses, even when it’s not entirely in our economic interests to do so) and a variety of sanctions were placed on the country.

There were also a variety of other boycotts – cultural embargoes- from all over the world. A large community of celebrities prevented their films and products from being available in South Africa, and the country was banned from all international sporting events (including the World Cup and the Olympics – a ban which was not lifted until 1993). This last act was not merely symbolic – many have claimed the sporting boycotts helped end apartheid as it let the people of South Africa know that the international community would not tolerate what was happening there.

Ultimately, though, change had to occur from within. During the 1980s, the president of South Africa, P.W. Botha, was … how can I put this delicately? I’ll just use a quote from his obituary in The Guardian:

(He) was gradually exposed during his long decline as one of the most evil men of the 20th century, committed to state terrorism, war and murder to thwart black majority rule.

Or, as I would put it: he was a huge dickbag. The internal unrest within South Africa panicked him. He placed the entire country under a state of emergency, which essentially gave the government the right to detain any person, indefinitely, without cause. Thousands were detained. Hundreds were tortured. Others were executed.

Barbed wire atop a wall at Robben Island.

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While he repealed some old apartheid laws that had been on the books for decades (including the Immorality Act and a relaxation of the Group Areas Act) in hopes of appeasing the population, he still refused to give blacks a right to vote, refused to negotiate with African National Congress (Mandela’s party), and even ordered air strikes against the offices of exiled ANC leaders.

After a mild stroke he was forced to resign, and was unexpectedly replaced with F.W. de Klerk, who had been the Minister of Education. Though he was not previously known as being particularly progressive, it was under de Klerk that apartheid ended. He released Nelson Mandela, called for a new constitution that gave everyone -regardless of race – a right to vote, and fostered negotiations between the ANC and his own political party. In 1993, he and Mandela were both jointly given the Nobel Peace Prize.

Aaaand, you know what? After 2,500 words, I’m pretty much out for the count. And while I’d like to end on a happy note and say that now things are absolutely wonderful in South Africa, that would be grossly inaccurate. Apartheid left a lasting legacy there, which is evident on the dusty streets of its many townships.

But that’s a story for next week.

“Um … you have something on your face.”

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I have some shocking news for you.

SHOCKING.

Are you sitting down? Have you cleared all breakable objects from your immediate proximity? (Because you are going to wail and fling about when you hear what I have to say. Seriously). Also, if you have a beverage, I sincerely suggest that you swallow your current sip before reading my news, unless you wish to do a spit-take all over your monitor.

Okay, all good? Here goes:

I have terrible skin.

(I’m just going to sit back and let that news sink in.

… Okay, so I’ve just been alerted to the fact that this revelation isn’t shocking at all. Apparently, when you are comprised of 90% baked goods (10% other) your skin isn’t supposed to look good. Which means that the Pillsbury doughboy has led me astray. AGAIN. Giggling little clear-skinned bastard. Anywhoodle …)

The point is, my skin is not my best feature (nor is my sunny outlook or my impeccable manners. I’m not going to think about this any more, lest I end up crying on the couch eating – wait for it – BAKED GOODS. I see a pattern forming).

I deal with this problem the way any rational woman would: I complain and whine and occasionally – GOD FORGIVE ME – even pick. I know, I know. Oh, and I spend an obscene amount of time and money on various potions, lotions, creams, peels, treatments, masks, astringents, and gels that all claim to make my skin as smooth and unblemished as Scarlett Johansson’s.*

*I have nothing against Ms. Johansson, per se, but I recently saw The Avengers on a high-def TV – you know, the ones that show every single pore and freckle? – and she was still GORGEOUS. Her skin is like porcelain. Girlfriend deserves her fame, because she is a statistical anomaly.

When I travel, my skin decides to react in a multitude of ways:

• It spontaneously breaks out into a plethora of red, painful zits
• I lied. That’s pretty much it.

At home, I’m able to bombard treat these breakouts with substances that bleach the color of out of fabric – a characteristic which should probably alarm me more than it does. But since TSA regulations on liquids and creams mean that you can only bring an eye-dropper of fluid with you (give or take), I’ve found that I have to pick and choose which of my liquid acne-fighting arsenal I can pack.

That’s why I always have aspirin on me.

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I’ve found that those little pills are amazing on acne. Aspirin is an anti-inflammatory, so it helps treat the redness and swelling that stubbornly takes up residence in my face.

If you want to try it at home, just grab an aspirin tablet, lick it, and stick it on your face.

Kidding. The actual process is a little more involved, so I created a step-by-step guide. If it doesn’t clear up your skin, it will at least convince the hotel cleaning staff that you might be a drug addict. So it’s basically a win-win.

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Step 1: Assess your stupid, breaking-out, miserable, and irritated face.

Try to figure out what may have caused this current rash of acne (some culprits: stress; unhealthy eating; hormones; an ancient curse.) This exercise won’t do anything but annoy you, but as you inspect your pores, you might want to consider all the people out there who would love to have your skin. There are folks who are burned and scarred, disfigured or lopsided. To them, your mug probably looks like Scarlett Johansson’s.

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My point? Be grateful for what you have. And remember that when it comes down to it, looks don’t really matter much, anyway.

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Step 2: Grab a few aspirin (four or five should suffice) and place them on a clean, smooth surface.

I used the counter of the hotel bathroom, after giving it a good wipe down.

It really doesn’t matter what kind of aspirin you use, but the ones without coating are preferable.

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Step 3: Mash the aspirin into a fine dust.

I used Rand’s shaving cream canister like a rolling pin. At this point, you might want to lock the door, because it would look really bad if someone barged in during the middle of this.

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Reaaaaaaaaally bad.

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Like, “this might get you deported” bad.

“Baby, what the HELL are you doing?” – Rand

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Step 4: Grab a bit of lotion …

It just occurred to me that anyone who follows my Flickr stream would be horrified right now. Horrified.

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Add the powdered aspirin, and make a paste.

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I love the internet.

I suppose that’s not the most revelatory statement I’ve ever made. It’s probably up there with “I like cupcakes” and ” OMG TRAVEL IS NEAT-O.”

But cupcakes existed long before I did, and travel has been around since the day that a caveman went for a long walk and thought, “Grog grunga tok.” Which, in this little vignette I’ve created, roughly translates to: “OMG TRAVEL IS NEAT-O.”

But the internet? It hasn’t been around all that long. I clearly remember a time before it. I won’t call it the Dark Ages, mostly because that phrase is already used to describe the cultural and economic deterioration that supposedly occurred in Europe following the decline of the Roman Empire (source: THE INTERNET!) But things before its existence were indeed less enlightened than they are now.

I’ve heard the claim that technology has stolen our humanity. It’s made us cold and isolated. I think the opposite is true. We now have the power to connect with one people across town or across the globe.

Some days, I simply have to marvel at it.

Like last week. I posted about the Little Museum of Dublin, and included an anecdote about the music stand they have on display – one that JFK used as a lectern on the first and only trip he made to Ireland.

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I thought that the stand was borrowed from a local music shop. That was not the case.

The day after the post went up (and after a bit of back and forth on Twitter), I received an email from a gentleman named Mark, whose father had owned the music stand. He gave me the whole (correct) story behind it. His letter was so beautifully written, I asked if I could print it on the blog. He agreed.

My father Colonel John Brennock was a musician with the Army School of Music, a conductor of the Army Band and ultimately Director of the School.  In the late 1940s or early 1950s he bought for himself the music stand from an antique dealer in Dublin’s Fishamble Street (the same street, incidentally, where Handel’s Messiah was first performed in 17something).  He cycled home to the Army Barracks where he lived in Rathmines, about two miles away, with the music stand balanced somehow on the bike.

In early 1963, as Assistant Director of the Army School of Music, he was involved in the preparations for the JFK visit.  In discussions with all State agencies involved (police, army, parliament, Government, etc) on the logistics of the visit it emerged that there was no podium in the Dail chamber from which JFK could speak.  My father said he had something that might suit, the Office of Public Works (which manages State Buildings) came to have a look and took it away.

I remember vaguely the fuss when JFK was assassinated.  I was three years old.  I remember a few months later a car pulling up outside our suburban house with the music stand strapped to the roof.  I didn’t understand what it was about then, but there was great excitement, people came in to have a look.  The Office of Public Works had kindly put a plaque on the stand saying it was used by JFK when addressing the Houses of the Oireachtas, and that it had been loaned by my father.  I used to play with the stand as a kid – as you may have seen you can rotate the top part to raise and lower its height and I did this for years.  I used to drive my Matchbox model cars along the ledge where JFK rested his script and his hands.  When I bought my first house my Dad shocked me one day by saying:  “You know that music stand you always liked?  Do you want to take it for your house?” I did.

Then someone told Trevor White (Hugh Grant to you) that I had this item at home.  He was setting up the Little Museum of Dublin and he called and asked could he have it on loan.  I initially decided against – I love having it – but he is very persuasive (like Mr Grant really).  I agreed to loan it for five years.

I miss it terribly.  It is for me a connection with history and politics around which I have spent much of my working life, and also with my Dad.  I am happy to hear that people get a kick out of seeing it – though I do shudder at the thought of people balancing their cameras on it and touching it and messing with it, just as I did as a child.  It will be returning to my home at some future point.

Remember how I told you every object in the Little Museum was rife with history? How it felt like these were treasures from someone’s home? Indeed, they were. Each one had a story to tell.

And so I hope you’ll forgive me if I’m feeling a bit indebted to the Internet this week. It connected me to Mark, so that he could tell me the music stand’s story, which I now have the privilege of relaying to you.

Naturally, I replied to him and apologized profusely for using his family treasure as a tripod. And I thanked him for sharing a bit of his family’s and his town’s narrative with me.

Oh, and I learned that the dishy tour guide is the founder of the museum. The good news is that his equally-dishy wife has a great sense of humor. On a related note, I’m learning if it is humanly possible to die from embarrassment. Fortunately, the internet says no. That sort of thing is highly unlikely. 

I’m just going to go ahead and trust it on that one. After all, it so rarely leads me astray.

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Indeed, that might be the understatement of the year. If my beloved is reading this, he’s probably done a spit take all over his computer while sputtering, “YOU THINK?”

My poor, maligned love. He puts up with a lot. From me. And during the holidays, from his in-laws, too. Which I argue is his fault.

I mean, I was born into them. I had no choice. He walked right into this situation, mostly sober. THE FOOL.

Don’t get me wrong: my family can be delightful, and they seem to really like Rand. But they are all, each and every one of them, certifiably insane. Absolutely mental.

There are a few exceptions – dear women who, for reasons I can’t quite articulate, decide to throw a crazy wrench into the machinery of their normal lives, and married into my family.

Other than this glaring lack of judgement, they seem rather sane. It’s only a matter of time, though, before they become as nuts as the rest. As any medical professional will tell you, being bonkers is highly contagious.

In the meantime, Rand has them with whom to commiserate, to look at with wide eyes and shake his head, or shrug and say, “Eh. The in-laws … am I right?”

This post is for them – it’s advice for people who are about to visit an Italian household (whether it be in Italy, or in the U.S.). Rand and those poor souls who married into my family learned most of this stuff already, the hard way.

It might be helpful to the rest of you, too. Especially if you have managed to fall in love with some hirsute Italian boy or girl, and are planning on spending time with their family this holiday season. (I’m not sure whether to congratulate you on your luck, or pray for your soul. I might do a bit of both.)

And with that, here are my 24 tips for visiting an Italian household during the holidays … or any time, really.

1. If you are staying in someone’s home, note that bathrooms will likely not contain trash cans, nor will any of the bedrooms. In fact, it’s incredibly hard to find any sort of garbage receptacle anywhere, and you will likely need to make your own. After collecting refuse for several days, and then presenting it to your hostess, she will be mortified that you have been hoarding trash, and will likely clutch her heart and may possibly faint. Be prepared for this.
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2. If you say you are not hungry, know that the comment will be perceived in any of these ways:
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   “You are a terrible cook.”
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   “You have failed as a mother/grandmother/aunt/provider.”
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   “I don’t love you.”
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   (This goes ditto for not consuming seconds.)
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3. Note that saying that you are hungry can be equally disastrous. This is tantamount to claiming that you are near death from starvation, and may expire at any moment. Large quantities of food will be presented to you, and must be eaten in a frenzy. Instead, even if you are famished, state that you “could have a little snack.” Understand that said snack will be a banquet.
   

   Your starter will be pasta. Your main will also be pasta. And for dessert? Pasta.

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4. Though appearances might suggest otherwise, the house was not decorated by an aspiring club promoter circa 1986 (probably). Despite being abreast of most fashion trends, the majority of Italians seem about twenty years behind when it comes to interior design. A framed poster of the Colosseum? Sure. A few dozen Patrick Nagel prints? YES.
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5. The woman wearing knee-high boots and a leopard print top is someone’s grandmother. Don’t think about this too much.
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6. “What do you mean you aren’t Catholic? … Methodist? What the hell is that?”
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7. Espresso will be offered to you in the morning. Also at 10am, noon, 3pm, 5pm, and 8pm. You will be expected to partake in at least half of these opportunities.
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8. Should you get the shakes after consuming half a gallon of coffee, expect several people to gently squeeze your shoulder and tell you to calm down. They will blame your nerves on “city life”, “working too much,” or simply “being American.” But obviously not the coffee.
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9. “You paid how much for that bottle of wine? You know Carlo Rossi is two gallons for $7 and it’s just as good.”
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10. The greatest contributions to society have been made by Italians. Mostly by Galileo, Da Vinci, and DeNiro.
    

    Also, all art and history and culture and language and good things come from Italy and nowhere else.

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11. You will inevitably share a meal with someone who is dressed in only a shirt and bikini briefs. 90% of the time, said individual will be a male. Roughly 50% of the time, he will be over the age of 50. DO NOT BREAK THE HORIZONTAL PLANE.
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12. At some point, you will see a 100-pound, middle-aged woman demolish a plate of pasta roughly the size of a pile of laundry, along with a loaf of bread and maybe some salad. She will then skip dessert because “that stuff makes you fat.” Resist the urge to punch her, as she is probably my mother. (And all her goddamn genes are recessive.)
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13. If you are a vegetarian, you will be offered prosciutto as an alternative to meat. If you are gluten-free … please get over that, or leave the house immediately.
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14. Andy Garcia is Italian, as is evidenced by his role in The Godfather, Part III. It is best if you do not argue this point, despite glaring evidence to the contrary.
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15. Jon Stewart is Italian, too.
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16. Obviously Colbert is as well. (Your failure to know this stuff is just evidence of the media’s rampant anti-Italianism.)
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17. Unless you have been specifically instructed by the host to sit at the head of the table, do not even think of doing so. Ditto for the foot of the table.
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18. High decibel yelling and screaming, standing up and waving limbs, hysterical crying and slamming of fists on the table are all part of standard conversation and should not be misconstrued as signs of actual conflict.
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19. The same can be said of the brandishing of weapons and/or rosary beads.
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20. If you are dating a woman in the family, expect to sleep on the couch, or in a twin bed in her little brother’s room, or possibly outside.
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    If you are dating a man in the family, you can totally sleep in his bedroom, but note that the hushed conversations, disapproving looks, and head-shaking are totally about you.
    -
    (Note: I’m presuming heterosexual relationships here. I don’t know how Italian chauvinism translates to gay and lesbian culture, but I suspect it would be a fascinating study.)
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21. If you give someone a gift, you will find that gratitude is often expressed through guilt and tears. For some reason, simply saying “thank you” and being happy isn’t appropriate. But serious grief and distress over the bracelet you bought them totally is.
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22. Do not, under any circumstances, attempt to rise from, or remove the dishes from, the dinner table within the two hours immediately following a meal. Your unwillingness to sit and talk to your hosts for 120 minutes is a clear sign that you hate them.
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23. At any given time, someone will be running around in a state of hysterical panic. It’s cool. Just let them do their thing.
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24. “What are you wearing? You’re going to catch cold in that.”
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Man, I should have written this for my husband years ago. Eh, better late than never.

Happy Chrismukkah, baby.

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Note: I know that stereotyping is lame. I realize that not all Italian families are the same. Hell, not even all crazy families are the same. I’m just sharing what I’ve learned from my family (a family that happens to be Italian. And crazy.) So if you are tempted to write me some hate mail, may I kindly suggest you take your anger and direct it back to Instagram, where it belongs? Apparently they are stealing your IP and setting fire to puppies, or something.

Political murals in Belfast.

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Can I tell you something about myself? I need to admit it, because I think it’s significant, especially as it pertains to the topic of Irish history.

When I was a teenager, in the mid to late 90s, I was petrified of the IRA.

Looking back, this fear seems kind of irrational. After all – Ireland was a long way off from Seattle. (Incidentally, I also had a huge fear of cholera. Just in general.)

Plus, it’s kind of an odd perspective to have as an American. The IRA had a lot of support here in the states, up until just a few years ago.

I suspect my fear had something to do with seeing The Crying Game twice at the tender age of 12, and being scared out of my wits by Miranda Richardson’s character. (For those of you wondering why I saw it as a middle schooler: my mom was writing a term paper on it, and she refused to leave me home alone because she thought that was more dangerous than exposing me to a violent psychological thriller TWICE. Sigh. She meant well.)

So the IRA scared the hell out of me.

Having disclosed that, it’s time to continue talking about the Troubles. As usual, please forgive my biases, errors, oversights, and sheer cluelessness, and feel free to correct me in the comments. Here we go, once more …

From the late seventies up until the 1990s, there was a great deal of fighting back and forth between the paramilitary groups in Northern Ireland. The main groups were the IRA on one side, and the Ulster Freedom Fighters (UFF) on the other. Bombs were a common method of attack, as were shootings. Neighborhoods segregated themselves by religion (there were Catholic areas and Protestant ones) so it was easy to target victims.

Violent encounters were escalating, and would shape the political and cultural landscape of the country for the next few decades. During this time, the internal political structure of Northern Ireland also went through a lot of upheaval.

As I mentioned yesterday, after Bloody Sunday, the Irish Parliament was first suspended, then abolished. Rule of Northern Ireland was now the responsibility of Britain, but that arrangement was temporary (I think that the British Parliament realized that Northern Ireland would always want its own devolved government, and trying to legislate from Westminster would not work).

In 1972, Bloody Friday occurred. The IRA set off 20 bombs throughout Belfast. Nine people died.

In 1973, the Northern Irish Assembly was formed as a means of returning rule over to Northern Ireland, with the intent of having power more evenly divided among Unionists and Nationalists. (This would be practically impossible, though, without serious intervention; Unionists were the vast majority in Northern Ireland.)

Certain international issues would be handled by Westminster, but the Irish Assembly would be in charge of local issues. The eventual arrangement they had reminds me a little bit of the division between state and federal jurisdiction here in the U.S.

The Assembly lasted about a year before collapsing. Hard-liners on both sides made having any sort of local governing body impossible. Britain once again took over the reins in 1974. Northern Ireland still had MPs (a.k.a., representatives), but they would meet as part of the British Parliament at Westminster.

A Protestant neighborhood in Belfast. Notice the British flags.

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Around the same time (during the 70s and early 80s), a number of a large number of individuals from the IRA and other Republican/Nationalist organizations were imprisoned (as were a number of Loyalists/Unionists, but what I’m about to discuss doesn’t really pertain to them). They were in jail for a myriad of offenses ranging from minor to serious – everything from weapons possession to murder. Up until 1976, they enjoyed Special Category status; they were considered prisoners of war. Consequently, they had privileges such as wearing their own clothing instead of prison uniforms, and being able to socialize with other prisoners.

When that status was withdrawn by the British government, the prisoners launched a variety of protests (there is some fascinating historical BBC video on the topic, if you have some spare time).

The first was the Blanket Protest, during which prisoners had refused to wear the uniforms they issued, or went naked, wearing only the blankets. This is my favorite of the protests because no one died. And because I love blankets.

This was followed by the Dirty Protest, during which prisoners refused to wash, and smeared feces on the walls of their cells and their furniture. (My feelings about this protest can best be expressed by me washing my hands furiously, a la Lady Mac Beth.)

Lastly, there was the 1981 Hunger Strike. This last protest was the most significant and the most tragic.

Britain’s Prime Minister, Margaret Thatcher, refused to give in to the prisoners’ demands (“Crime is crime is crime; it is not political,” she was famously quoted as saying.) Without her knowledge, several government officials were trying to work out some sort of compromise with the strikers, but it was fruitless. It was not until 10 prisoners had died of starvation, and the families of the surviving prisoners intervened, that the protest finally came to an end. Though they were never recognized as political prisoners of war, eventually all of the strikers’ demands were met through a series of reforms.

The victory came at a price for Thatcher, though she did not yet realize it. Shortly after the strike began, one of the protesters, Bobby Sands, had been elected to British Parliament. Consequently, his plight and his death (he was the first of the ten hunger strikers to succumb to starvation) received worldwide attention.

Belfast mural depicting Bobby Sands. (Incidentally, I discovered his widow is named Geraldine.)

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Bobby Sands and his compatriots were now considered martyrs. Recruitment for the IRA and their political branch, Sinn Féin, skyrocketed.

In many parts of Northern Ireland, Thatcher was loathed. Sinn Féin member Danny Morrison called her “the biggest bastard we have ever known.”

On the other side of the issue, the Ulster Freedom Fighters were also recruiting. Like the Nationalists, they too had a political branch – the Ulster Defense Association.

The Troubles continued.

In 1982, Northern Ireland had another go at having a local Irish Assembly. This time, it lasted for a few years.

In 1984, an assassination attempt was made on Margaret Thatcher. The IRA took responsibility, and their statement to the Prime Minister was haunting:

Today we were unlucky, but remember we only have to be lucky once. You will have to be lucky always. Give Ireland peace and there will be no more war

She narrowly escaped, and the next day gave a speech with such composure and calm that it earned her worldwide admiration and support.

In 1985, the Prime Ministers of the Republic of Ireland and Britain (Garret FitzGerald and Margaret Thatcher, respectively) signed the Anglo-Irish Agreement. The agreement stated that the Republic of Ireland would have a consultative role in Northern Irish affairs. This was the first time in its existence that the Republic had any voice in what was happening in the north.

Parenthetically, Dublin is gorgeous.

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The gesture was largely symbolic; the Irish Assembly was still in place, and the Republic could make no laws. It was simply an attempt to bring balance to the Northern Irish government, and give the minority Nationalists/Republicans more of a presence.

It went over well with them – 65% of Catholics in Northern Ireland supported the agreement. The Unionists, however, were incensed. They had been elected to office democratically, and felt that they were now being usurped by the losing party. 75% of the Protestant population agreed with them.

I feel like it would be the equivalent of say, the federal government forcing a blue state like Washington to have a GOP advisory counsel present in the legislature, in the name of bipartisanship (also, the GOP advisory council would be, I don’t know, from Northern Canada or something). Needless to say, it caused quite a bit of uproar. Several members of Thatcher’s cabinet resigned over the issue.

In 1986, the Irish Assembly dissolved in protest over the Agreement. Once again, Northern Ireland would be ruled by Westminster. One good thing did happen as a result of the Agreement, though: the Republic of Ireland and Britain were making now talking; the relationship between the two nations was improving, and the foundation was being laid for what would become the Good Friday Agreement.

At the end of 1990, Margaret Thatcher resigned.

The Troubles continued. One attack would spur a retaliation attack, in a vicious cycle. Forgive my bluntness, but during this time the provisional IRA and the UFF killed a hell of a lot of people. There was a temporary ceasefire in 1994 which didn’t quite take, but it did allow for Sinn Féin representatives to meet with British officials (prior to that, Britain had refused unless they agreed to put down their weapons).  In 1996, the IRA ended the ceasefire with an explosion in London’s Docklands.

1997 brought another ceasefire.

The Good Friday Agreement was signed in 1998 as part of the Northern Irish Peace Process. It is not terribly long, but it is rather involved. Parts of the agreement that pertained to Northern Ireland needed to be signed by the parties there (and indeed, it was. Only one Unionist group did not sign), and parts of it needed to be signed by officials in Britain and Ireland (again, it was). Here is some of what the Agreement stated:

•  It acknowledged that the majority of people in Northern Ireland wished to remain part of the U.K. And that a substantial number of people wanted to be part of Ireland (this was just a declarative statement. Kind of a, “Dude, I hear you,” clause.)
• If the majority of people in Northern Ireland decided that they wanted to be part of Ireland, the U.K. and the Republic would allow for that to happen.
• In the meantime, those in Northern Ireland could choose whether they considered themselves Irish or British. Dual citizenship would also be recognized.
• A number of institutions and councils were put in place to increase communication between Northern Ireland and the Republic of Ireland, as well as between the Republic and the U.K.
• Northern Ireland would once again have a devolved government – that is, it would have its own Parliament at Stormont.
• On larger issues, the majority of both prominent communities in Northern Ireland (both Catholics and Protestants) would have to agree before measures could be passed.
• Cupcakes for all! (I’m kidding. Just seeing if you were still paying attention. If you are, kudos. I’m friggin’ exhausted.)
• It called for respect and tolerance for everyone in the community, regardless of religion, as well as a commitment to preserving civil rights and religious liberties. (I like this one.)
• It called for a total disarmament of all paramilitary groups by the year 2000. (It would take the IRA until 2005.)
• It called for the release of all paramilitary prisoners (in Britain, Ireland, and Northern Ireland), provided everyone agreed to maintain a ceasefire. (This was somewhat controversial. It meant a large number of convicted murderers were released, including Patrick Magee, who was responsible for the bombing that nearly killed Thatcher, and did kill five other people).

You’d think that by now everything would be fine, right?

Sigh.

It wasn’t. Though there was less violence now, it still continued. The failure of paramilitary groups to disarm led meant that the Northern Irish Assembly was once again suspended. Direct rule from U.K. was reinstated around the start of the new millennium. Bombings continued throughout Northern Ireland, and a series of attacks took place in London as well.

Some advances were made, though. The largely-Protestant RUC police force was now replaced with one that was half Catholic and half Protestant.

Interestingly, there is an argument to be made that the tragedies of September 11th helped to advance the peace process in Northern Ireland. One reason given was that the IRA, which had enjoyed support in the states, lost it once we had experienced terrorism on our own shores. Another was that people suddenly became acutely aware of the futility of all the fighting and put down their weapons (though this seems to be a rather idealistic viewpoint).

In 2005, the IRA put down their weapons. As did the Loyalist Volunteer force (a Unionist paramilitary group).

In 2007, the Irish Assembly was reinstated.

Now? There is a fragile peace, occasionally disrupted by riots and bombings. A militant group calling itself the Real IRA has emerged (though their agenda seems more Marxist than anything else).

Some buildings still have barbed wire, and look like military compounds.

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But you know what? We met people of different religions and political views in Ireland, and we all had a fantastic time together. And now that I’ve covered all the history and ugliness, I can’t wait to tell you about the good stuff.

Pictured: good stuff.

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But first I need a wee break. Over the past two days I’ve done more reading, researching, and writing than I probably ever did in college. Screw whiskey. I’ve gone and earned myself a sticky toffee pudding.

And also a whiskey.

Stained glass window at Stormont.

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After my tome about Irish history, I’ve managed to avoid serious discussion or mention of Irish politics for two whole weeks (I consider this an achievement of sorts. Instead, I talked about Halloween costumes and candy). But the hour has arrived. It is time to talk about the Troubles.

Please note that all caveats expressed last time hold true for this post. Parts of it will be biased, and parts of it will be inaccurate. I am not a historian. I didn’t even do that well in history class in school. I’m struggling to understand most of this myself.

And with that disclaimer, here we go, once again …

“The Troubles” is the rather innocuous-sounding phrase used to describe the internal conflict that continued in Northern Ireland long after the Republic had been established. I’m guessing they went with “The Troubles” because it sounds infinitely more poetic than “The Bloodbath” or “The Really Long Guerrilla War” or “The 40 Years We Spent Throwing Molotov Cocktails at Our Neighbors” (all of which would have been a bit more accurate.)

At the heart of the Troubles is the same old conflict that plagued Ireland for centuries – the one between Catholics and Protestants.

As I mentioned earlier, there are two entities on the island of Ireland: Northern Ireland, and the Republic of Ireland. Northern Ireland consists of the six counties, populated largely by Protestants, that had voted to remain part of the United Kingdom. The rest of Ireland (which was predominately Catholic) became the Republic of Ireland – a free and independent sovereign.

Not everyone was happy with this agreement. The “relinquishing” of the six countries to the north led to the Irish Civil War in the Republic. (In the meantime, many folks in Northern Ireland watched the fighting to the south and became even more strengthened in their resolve to want no part of the new country).

After the Civil War ended, one would hope that things would be calm on the island. The lines were drawn, right? Protestants Unionists on one side, Catholic Nationalists on the other.

But things were not nearly that simple. Not everyone in Northern Ireland was a Unionist. Unionists may have been the majority (and the MPs’ votes in Parliament reflected that) but there were still plenty of Nationalists in the North (about a third of the population was Catholic).

Peace is going to take a while.

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The Nationalists still hoped for a United Ireland – that the entire island – all 32 counties – could form one independent country (though a select few wanted Northern Ireland to be its own independent country). They felt the northern counties were under occupation by the United Kingdom. The Unionists, on the other hand, identified as British – and felt that the Nationalists were disloyal and had no business remaining in Northern Ireland if they didn’t want to be part of Great Britain.

The Unionists were two-thirds of the population, but they held even more clout in Parliament due to gerrymandering (district lines were drawn to favor them and disenfranchise Nationalists). A number of anti-Catholic laws that had remained on the books from the century before were still being enforced; workplaces could discriminate against and refuse to hire Catholics; Catholic areas were offered less governmental support and financing, and received less access to public housing than their Protestant counterparts.

That last issue is an important one; being a homeowner was directly tied to being able to vote in local elections. If you owned property in more than one district, you were even allowed more votes. Up to six per person. (This makes my head kind of spin. It reminds me of a quote I heard on a recent episode of 30 Rock from Jack Donaghy: “New York will go for Obama, even if I voted a hundred times. Instead of my usual five.”) So if Nationalist Catholics weren’t granted public housing, they wouldn’t be able to vote (at least, not as much as their Protestant counterparts).

By the 1960s, many Nationalists felt that their Civil Rights were being compromised; inspired by the Civil Rights Movement that was happening over here in the states, they began to campaign and peacefully (at the beginning, at least) protest. By 1967, the NICRA (The Northern Ireland Civil Rights Association) had formed.

The NICRA held a series of Civil Rights marches which helped to unify Catholics throughout Northern Ireland, and drew worldwide attention to their cause. The organization called for an end to several injustices – among them, the weighted voting system that favored Unionists, and the unfair allocation of council (a.k.a., public) housing.

Modern day council houses in a Protestant/Unionist neighborhood in Belfast.

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While the Catholic Nationalists had the NICRA, the Protestants also had a number of organizations that were marching on their behalf, including the Orange Order and the Apprentice Boys of Derry (note: “boys” is merely a colloquialism. They were full-grown men). Interestingly, parades became a huge issue (again, this one kind of makes my head spin, as parades here in the states tend to be jovial affairs that involve giant balloons and inane banter from whoever is hosting the event on T.V. – usually Ryan Seacrest.) But when you consider the history of these opposing factions – how this conflict had literally been going on FOR CENTURIES – it becomes easier to fathom. Organizations were plotting parade routes to run through neighborhoods populated by their opposition. They chose dates that had historical significance (commemorating past battles or anniversaries when one side defeated the other). Tensions were rising.

There’s much debate over when, precisely, the Troubles began, but there are two important events, each of which are often cited as the beginning of the conflict: the Derry March, and the Battle of Bogside.

The Derry March refers to a Civil Rights march (a.k.a, a Catholic, Nationalist march) that was set to go through the town of Derry – also known as Londonderry – on October 5, 1968. (Note: Even the name of the town was a point of contention. The Nationalists called the town Derry, the Unionists called it Londonderry. If you want to know more about this issue, Wikipedia does a decent job explaining it. But the significance is this: everything, even city names were heated topics in Northern Ireland in the 20th century).

A few days prior to the march, the Protestant Apprentice Boys of Derry declared that they would be having their annual parade on precisely the same day, on precisely the same route as the Civil Rights March. Uh-oh.

As a response, William Craig, the Home Affairs Minister (who later argued that the Civil Rights organizations were just a front for the militant Nationalist group known as the IRA), declared a ban on all Civil Rights marches. This did not include The Apprentice Boys of Derry (theirs was not a Civil Rights march), who were free to continue with their parade.

In defiance of the ban, the Nationalists also continued with their Civil Rights march. They were met by the Royal Ulster Constabulary (the RUC) – the police force in Northern Ireland at the time. The force was roughly 90% Protestant.

The marchers quickly dispersed when they came under attack from the RUC. Here’s a snippet of the BBC news report from that day (note that they call the town Londonderry):

Violent skirmishes broke out and very quickly the street was filled with police wielding batons against men, women and children.

When video of the violence and photos of what had happened emerged, Nationalists were outraged. Days of rioting in Derry ensued. By November of that year, in response to the violence, rioting, and public sit-ins that had rocked the region for the past few months, the British Prime Minister issued a list of reform measures which included distributing council housing based on need (meaning more Catholics would have homes), and abolishing the system that gave wealthier Protestant landowners more than one vote.

In response, several Nationalist groups halted their marches temporarily. But tensions continued to rise, and there were more and more violent exchanges between the opposing factions. The reforms had been too little, too late.

Nearly a year after the Derry March, in the summer of 1969, the Battle of Bogside took place.

The Apprentice Boys of Derry were once again marching, this time in the predominately Catholic town of Bogside. The march itself was to commemorate a Protestant victory over Catholics (back in the 1600s), and was, by its very nature, considered highly contentious. Nationalists arrived to protest the parade. Verbal altercations soon led to physical violence  and the result was a three-day long citywide riot.

The RUC was unable to contain the riot, and eventually British forces had to be called in to relieve them. The Battle of Bogside triggered other riots throughout the country.

The Troubles were now most certainly upon Northern Ireland.

Around this time, there were paramilitary groups on both sides of the conflict. I noted that after the Easter Rising (back in the 1920s), the Irish Republican Army – a militant Nationalist group known for violent tactics – had emerged. The IRA had mostly become inactive by the 1960s, but after the Battle of Bogside, a group calling itself the Provisional Irish Republican Army appeared.

The PIRA was not opposed to using violence to achieve their goals of a united Ireland.

There were also violent Unionist groups on the other side of the conflict (let me make one thing clear: none of these violent paramilitary groups spoke for the entire populace. There were people who were sick of the fighting and warring on both sides, who condemned it all. The problem was that the bombs and the attacks got press – that’s what people heard about). The Ulster Volunteer Force was perhaps the most visible. In Belfast, there remain a lot of murals depicting UVF soldiers, who were known for wearing balaclavas to cover their faces.

Mural in a Protestant community in Belfast.

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In 1972, Bloody Sunday occurred (yes, that’s what Bono was singing about a decade later). During a peaceful demonstration in Bogside, British police fired at the crowds, killing 14 people (the police had been told that IRA snipers were present). They claimed that the group was armed, but no guns were recovered, and many of the victims were shot in the back, as they were fleeing from police. The events legitimized the IRA’s presence; they argued that Catholics needed to use force.

From the 1920s (after the Irish Civil War had ended) to the 1970s, Northern Ireland had its own parliament (known as Stormont), but shortly after Bloody Sunday, it was disbanded. The region was now directly under British Rule.

Stormont, in Belfast.

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Aaaand, you know what? I think that’s where I’m going to stop for today. Later this week, I’ll discuss how the Troubles continued through the 80s and 90s, the impression that we had of them here in the states, as well as Sinn Fein (the political branch of the IRA), and talk about how ultimately (more or less) peace was attained.

But right now? I need another whiskey.

Sculpture at Castle Leslie, near the border of Ireland and Northern Ireland.

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If my recent posts have seemed more pithy than usual, it is because I am skirting around an issue that I’m not sure I have the blogging chops to tackle, and talking about banal things like cryptic showers and trendy restaurants is far easier.

Hell, writing about how I turned my bathroom into a vomitorium (in one easy step!) is easier than tackling this.

But I really can’t keep avoiding it, since I can’t fully tell you about our visit to Ireland without addressing its history.

That’s right: today’s post will be an incredibly long, dull, and somewhat inaccurate history lesson. I’ll be discussing the Republic of Ireland, Northern Ireland, and I might touch on the issue of The Troubles, if my brain isn’t too scrambled.

Let me say right now: I’m going to do a crap job of explaining it. I just am. There’s no way around this. I took a bunch of tours, I read a bunch of articles, and we even visited the Northern Irish Parliament. I spoke for long hours with individuals from both Northern Ireland and the Republic of Ireland. I got a rudimentary understanding of the island’s history, and how things are now, and I want to share it with you.

But it’s probably going to be woefully wrong. Feel free to call me out on anything I really muck up. And feel free to openly disagree with me. Ireland’s history is not an impartial one – even for an outsider, even for a self-proclaimed recovering Catholic who is happily married to a non-practicing Jewish man – it’s virtually impossible not to put your own spin on things.

And so, with all those caveats and disclaimers, here we go.

There are currently several places in Europe with “Ireland” in their name.

One is The Republic of Ireland. It is its own sovereign state, and part of the European Union. Citizens have passports that read “Republic of Ireland”. The country is part of the European Union, and the currency is the Euro. It consists of  26 counties, which make up the major part of the large island commonly referred to as Ireland.

The other is Northern Ireland. It makes up the northern portion of the island, and shares a border with the Republic of Ireland. The six counties of Northern Ireland are part of the United Kingdom. The residents there are British citizens (though that statement is up for debate amongst some who live there; more on that later). Though part of the U.K., Northern Ireland has its own local government and is largely autonomous. However, there are limits on what the Northern Irish Parliament can do – for example, they can’t declare war, or pass any laws with regards to foreign states (no signing of treaties or anything like that).

The Republic of Ireland is outlined in pink. Northern Ireland is at the top right. Notice there are parts of the Republic which actually extend further north than Northern Ireland. Contrary to popular belief, this was NOT done just to screw with cartographers.

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How did this all come to pass? For that, we’ll have to go back in time a little.

Make that waaaay back in time. 1166, to be specific. This was the year of the Norman invasion, when England took over the island of Ireland (derived from the name given to the island by the Romans – Hiberne, meaning “land of endless winter”. According to one tour guide I had, that’s why the Romans never tried to conquer Ireland. It was waaay too cold for togas).

Prior to the Norman Invasion, Ireland was divided into regions led by local kings (or “petty kings” as they are often referred, but that term sounds judgmental to me). The local kings were all fighting for control of the entire island.

King Henry the II of England was worried that if all the fighting within Ireland ended and a single king emerged, he’d have a new, viable threat to contend with, so he headed out to gain control of the island.

This was how the entire island of Ireland (all 32 counties – encompassing present day Northern Ireland and the Republic of Ireland) came to fall under British rule. The Brits were fairly laissez-faire about Ireland until the reign of Henry the VIII.

Speaking of Henry, here’s something Medieval-type thingy going on at the Tower of London.

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Henry’s wishes to have his first marriage (which produced a daughter, Mary, but no male heir) annulled led to his split with the Catholic Church, and brought about the Reformation. As a result, England became a largely Protestant nation.

The Reformation didn’t quite catch on over in Ireland; folks there were, and remained, Catholic. Henry was not down with that, and so he sent a large number of Protestant settlers over to Ireland. They displaced the Catholic landowners, and as numerous new regions were created, populated entirely by the Protestant settlers, they were able to overthrow the Catholic majority in the Irish Parliament, and eventually banned Catholics from Parliament altogether.

Meanwhile, back in England, Henry went through several more wives and went from being rather charismatic and handsome (if The Tudors is to be believed. Frankly, HBO has lied to me before. New York is nothing like Sex and the City made it out to be) to looking just a weensy bit like Jabba, minus the sex appeal. He died, and Mary, his estranged Catholic daughter from his first marriage, took the throne.

During her reign, she went about killing a lot of Protestants and earned herself the nickname “Bloody Mary”. (I realize that statement sounds like I’m judging her, and I’m not. I’m sure she had her reasons to go about murdering a bunch of people because their take on Christianity was slightly different than hers.)

Because getting really drunk is apparently a lot like being killed for your religious beliefs, the hungover can now enjoy a drink named a Bloody Mary. (Look, if you have a better explanation than that, I want to hear it.)

After Mary died, her Protestant half-sister, Elizabeth, took the throne, and went about undoing a lot of Mary’s work (though she was less into systematic murdering than Mary, so she mostly just reinstated a bunch of laws). She was on the throne for more than forty years, and while there is no cocktail named in her honor, she was able to tie the Protestant Church to England’s national identity.

Several centuries later, Judi Dench portrayed her opposite Colin Firth, and IT WAS AWESOME.

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After a thousand words, let’s do a brief recap: we’ve got Ireland, populated largely by Catholics, but ruled over by a small group of Protestants (on behalf of the crown), and we’ve got England, largely populated and ruled by Protestants. And we’ve got a lot of bad blood on both sides.

So, the tension and animosity continued for quite a while. Like, a few hundred years. In Ireland, there were a bunch of laws on the books that limited the rights of Catholics. Many of these were not repealed until a lawyer named Daniel O’Connell founded the Catholic Association in the 1820s. By mobilizing a base, they were able to get the Catholic Relief Act of 1829 passed.

Statue of Daniel O’Connell in Dublin’s city hall.

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So now Catholics could hold office in Ireland (but only wealthy Catholics could vote – a concession of the agreement).  This was the start of the push for Home Rule in Ireland.

At this time, there were two distinct groups within Ireland, largely determined by religion. There were Unionists, who identified themselves as British, and wanted to continue being united with Britain (this group was predominately Protestant). And there were Nationalists, who wanted Ireland to be its own nation (and were predominately Catholic).

(Obviously, there are exceptions to this huge generalization I’ve made, and there were much smaller groups within these larger ones, but I’m not going to go into that right now for the sake of my own sanity and my limited understanding of the issue. Feel free to elaborate/correct my statements in the comments. But for the love of Pete, be merciful.)

Home Rule was what many Nationalists were seeking up until WWI (a few bills were drafted, but weren’t passed into law by the U.K. government). Home Rule means that while you are still part of a larger country (in this case, the United Kingdom), you are basically self-governed.  The government of Scotland (while still technically part of the U.K.) falls under Home Rule. And many people consider the individual fifty states to be under home rule of the United States (though I would argue that’s a bit different).

Just when the plans for Home Rule seemed to be making some headway with the U.K., WWI broke out, and things were placed on the back burner. Britain was greatly preoccupied with the war effort, and during Easter of 1916, a few Nationalists in Ireland saw an opportunity.

The leaders of a handful of different Nationalist groups banded together and drafted a Proclamation (known as the Easter Proclamation) which declared Ireland’s independence from the U.K. It was read aloud on one of the main thoroughfares in Dublin. This marked the beginnings of the Easter Rising.

It didn’t quite go as planned. Although there was a lot of support for the idea of being separate from the U.K. among Nationalist groups in Ireland, there wasn’t one unifying group to bind them all together. And many folks were still pursuing Home Rule, which had almost been attained. More than 200,000 Irishmen were also fighting in WWI as part of the U.K. Things were not calm at home to begin with, and now a small group had declared independence, but it wasn’t a widespread, coordinated effort.

For a lot of folks, it meant that they simply woke up, saw a great deal of fighting and bloodshed in the streets, and were suitably horrified. They weren’t about to take up arms and fight, because it wasn’t even clear what the hell was going on.

After a few weeks, the uprising came to an end. Hundreds of people had died, and there were many civilian casualties, as the fighting had happened on city streets. Dozens were imprisoned (including a man by the name of Eamon de Valera, who went on to be one of the most important political figures in Ireland. More on him later). The leaders of the uprising who had signed the document were tried and sentenced to death.

Initially, the uprising had little support in either Ireland or England (those pushing for Home Rule felt that the uprising had damaged all the headway they had made). But the treatment of the prisoners was so terrible, and the execution of the Easter Rising leaders so brutal (one man, James Connolly, was so ill from his wounds, that he was unable to stand in front of the firing squad. So they brought him a chair, but he was too ill even to sit. So they tied him to a chair and then shot him. Another leader of the uprising was allowed to marry his fiance the day prior to his execution. His bride, Grace Gifford, went from being a wife to a widow in the span of 24 hours), that by the time the rest of the prisoners were released, the Irish public opinion had turned in their favor.

The spot where James Connolly was executed.

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Okay – we’ve nearly hit 2,000 words. Are you still with me? After initially castigating them, The Irish public has now sided with the individuals who took part in the Easter Rising. Ireland was still a part of the U.K. There were Unionists in the north, who wished to remain part of the U.K., and there were Nationalists pretty much everywhere else, who did not.

This led to much more cohesiveness among Nationalist groups in Ireland. Several groups came together under the title of Sinn Féin - a political party which had already existed prior to the Easter Rising, but hadn’t been nearly as strong or large as it now was. The party was able to take control of Irish Parliament, winning 73 of Ireland’s 105 seats in the 1918 election (Sinn Féin continued to be a minority in Ulster, to the north, where seats were still controlled by Unionists.) Rather than meet in Westminster, representatives (known as MPs) set up their own Parliament in Ireland and met there. This new Parliament was known as the First Dáil.

The Ulster Unionists did not join them.

Now the Irish Nationalists had a cohesive party and significant control of Irish Parliament. They were able to better pursue the goal of Ireland as a sovereign nation. In 1919, Sinn Féin once again repeated the Declaration of Independence originally made during the Easter Rising, and noted that it considered Ireland to be at war with England. The Irish Republican Army emerged during this time, as a means of taking a militant stand against what they considered to be British occupation.

Thus began the Irish War of Independence, which ended in a truce two years later. Per the terms of the Treaty, the six predominantly Protestant Unionist counties to the north voted on whether they wanted to be part of the new Irish Republic. They stuck with the U.K.

In December, 1921, The treaty was signed by several of the members of the Irish Parliament – most notably, a gentleman by the name of Michael Collins – who were supposedly representing the interests of all Irish Nationalists.

The 26 southern counties of Ireland were now a free state.

There was a problem, though. Not all the Nationalists – indeed, not all the members of the First Dáil - agreed with the treaty. They wanted a unified Ireland – one that included the six counties to the north. Eamon de Valera, one of the men imprisoned during the Easter Rising, was anti-Treaty, and he had many supporters. They felt that signatories of the Treaty had forced them into an agreement that they didn’t support. (Though Michael Collins would argue that Eamon de Valera had sent him to sign the treaty, knowing that Collins would face the backlash for it).

The growing anger between those who were Anti-Treaty (Eamon de Valera and the Irish Republican Army) and those who were Pro-Treaty (Michael Collins and others), led to the Irish Civil War.

The Civil War went on for a year – ending in May, 1923 – and arguably killed more people than the Anglo-Irish War (Michael Collins was among the casualties).

The war between the Nationalist factions in Ireland left deep wounds that lasted for generations. The only thing it seemed to accomplish was that it gave Northern Ireland time to consolidate itself – the six counties that were still part of the U.K. wanted nothing to do with the new republic.

By the 1950s, things had more or less calmed down in the Republic of Ireland. Eamon de Valera was now a key political figure, serving several terms as President.

But in Northern Ireland, the Troubles were just beginning. Literally.

Aaaand … you know what? I’m exhausted. If you are somehow still reading this, I suspect you’re probably knackered, too. The Troubles were a significant part of Northern Irish history in the 1900s, and pertain directly to many of the places we visited in Belfast. They deserve their own blog post. So I’ll tackle that issue later in the week.

In the meantime, I hope this post, despite what I’m sure were some glaring omissions and errors, gave a smidgen of insight into what happened in Ireland over the last century or so. It would be near impossible to discuss anything we saw without first laying out this groundwork.

Why am I so obsessed with cake? BECAUSE CAKE.

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FAQ pages have always bothered me. They seem kind of lazy. Like, if someone goes through the trouble of sending you an email and asking you a question, the least you could do would be to answer them in kind, right?

That was before I started getting emails.

Holy cats. I can’t actually believe it, but after reading the unhinged and potentially litigious drivel on this site, people want to know more. They ask questions. Some of those questions are asked frequently.

And suddenly, just like that, FAQ pages made sense to me. I suppose they still are kind of lazy, though.

But you know what? I’m kind of lazy. So without further ado, here are some of the questions that I am frequently asked. Along with some answers, too.

(Warning: remember that scene in Lord of The Rings trilogy where Gollum starts fighting with himself? It gets kind of like that in the end.)

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How can I purchase advertising space on your site?

You must take part in an ancient ritual that involves you stripping naked and tango-dancing with an ill-tempered badger under a full moon (preferably during the autumnal equinox). Photographic evidence is required.

Naw, I’m just kidding. I don’t sell ad space.

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Do you accept freebies? (Sponsored trips, free promotional items, giveaways, etc.)

Nope. Taking free stuff makes me feel kinda weird (What if I hate it? How can you write something negative about something that was free? That’s just … rude). So I just avoid them all together lest I have a neurotic meltdown of Woody Allen-esque proportions.

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Hello! I am interested in writing a high-quality guest post for your site! All I require is two contextual links placed within the post.

You know that song from the sixties that starts with “No-no no no no no no-no-no no?” That is now playing in my head. Because no.

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I’m thinking of starting my own blog. Do you have any tips for beginners?

You can find my top tips for beginning bloggers right here. I cover mostly stylistic issues. If you need technical advice, I suggest you take a look at my husband’s post about how to set up a blog. And my friend Adam Costa also has an entire site dedicated to starting your own travel blog.

Can you please link to/review my blog and tell me what you think of it?

Sadly, no. I get a lot of requests like this, and I can’t honor them all. I’m sure your blog is awesome – you don’t need me telling you that it is. Just be you. Be what you’re like.

As far as my blogroll goes, I don’t link to very many people. And those who I do link to tend to be very close friends of mine. I hope you understand.

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What kind of camera do you use?

I find it weird that people actually want to know this. Perhaps they want to take-poorly composed, out-of-focus photos for themselves. And let’s be honest: you can do that with any old camera. But I mostly use a Canon Digital Rebel XSi with the one lens that came with it. Or sometimes I just use my camera phone.

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Who designed your site?

My site is a custom WordPress plug-in designed by Kimberly Coles. She is incredibly talented and fun to work with.

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Is your sense of direction really as bad as you say it is?

Nope. It’s far worse.

Does anybody remember where I left my car?

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What’s all this stuff about brain tumors?

This past June I had an MRI because I was getting terrible headaches. Turns out I had a 1-centimeter-long tumor on my hypothalamus, extending into my ventricle (weirdly, the docs say that my headaches were unrelated to the tumor. It was just a happy accident). Because of its location, they wouldn’t be able to remove all of the tumor with surgery. The docs biopsied it (removing about two-thirds of it) and found that it was a very slow-growing type of tumor, and it likely won’t give me any problems from here on out. But if it does, it can be treated with radiation. In the meantime, I’m just fine. (And if you want to read about a guy who’s really combating scary brain stuff with tons of humor, check out Chad’s blog.)

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I am considering quitting my job in order to travel the world. Is there anything I should know beforehand?

Just this: don’t quit your job. No, seriously. Unless you are independently wealthy or have some sort of trust fund, it is incredibly difficult and costly to travel around the world without health insurance or a steady income.

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Wait, isn’t that hypocritical? Didn’t you quit your job to travel the world?

Nope. I was laid-off. It sucked. I am lucky enough to have health insurance through my husband, and since most of our trips are business trips for him, we simply have to pay for my airplane ticket. If it wasn’t for him, there’s no way I could travel.

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Well, you must make some money from the site, right?

Nope. My site actually costs me money to maintain.

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But let’s say you did have ads. Surely you’d have enough money to live on?

No. And don’t call me Shirley.

Here’s the blunt truth: there is very little money in the sort of blogging I do. But if you do want to try your hand at monetizing a blog, my hubby says to check out Skyscrpr.

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Crap. But Rand gets to travel a lot for work, right? So what does he do for a living? Is that a career path that would be worth pursuing?

Rand works at a tech-company that he co-founded. He accumulated about $500k in debt over the course of a few years trying to get his startup off the ground (and instead of filing for bankruptcy, he paid it back). He now works about 80-hour weeks, and travels around the world speaking at events or meeting with people in his industry. He doesn’t sleep, he forgets to eat, and even as I type this, he’s on his way to the airport to go to a foreign country for less than 24-hours before turning back around and coming home.

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It doesn’t sound like you’d recommend his career path.

No, I don’t think I would. But it makes him happy, and that makes me happy.

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Can you at least give me some advice on freelancing?

Sure! For me, freelancing sucked. I worked the same hours that I did when I had an office job, for less money and zero benefits. Plus, I was constantly trying to line up more work for when my current gig came to an end. It’s stressful and not very secure work. Those who make a living doing it are far more disciplined and talented than I could ever hope to be.

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Gah. You are seriously lame. Can we talk about something else?

Absolutely.

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Can you give me some tips on my love life?

Yup! Marry the love of your life and everything will turn out fine. That’s what I did.

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That’s not particularly helpful.

No, I guess it’s not. Perhaps you shouldn’t ask travel bloggers for relationship advice.

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Okay, fine, jerk. I’ll ask you for travel advice. What’s the best thing to see in __________?

If you are looking for information about a specific city, do a search on the blog. If I haven’t blogged about it, I probably haven’t been there. And truth be told, I haven’t been to very many places compared to other travel writers out there. If you can’t find the information you are looking for on my blog, I suggest checking out Nomadic Matt’s site or Everything Everywhere (run by my pal Gary). They’re much more knowledgeable about travel and backpacking than I am.

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So, you’re basically a travel blogger who’s unqualified to talk about travel? Seriously?

Yup.

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What are you qualified to talk about, then?

Rand, mostly. And cake.

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Fine. Tell me about those things.

Both are awesome. And essential to my happiness. That’s about it.

For once, they don’t charge you for the view.

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I’m a bargain-hunter. I’d like to think of this as one of my better qualities, instead of, as my husband puts it, “an acute kind of madness.” And granted, sometimes I do strange things to avoid spending money. Not unethical things, mind you. I’ve never shoplifted or stolen anything (okay, FINE, there was that one time), but I will go to ridiculous lengths to save a buck.

For example, for many years, I would buy this fruit salad from the grocery store that had melon chunks in it. There were other variations with berries, but I always went for the one with huge portions of melon. One day Rand told me that he didn’t really like the melon-chunked fruit salad.

“Oh, me neither,” I said.

“Wait, you don’t like it, either? Then why do you keep buying it?”

“It’s always on sale.”

“But you don’t like it.”

“But IT’S ON SALE.”

Yeah. I’m well aware of the fact that if I didn’t buy the fruit salad in the first place, I’d have saved more money overall. But the point was to have fruit salad and save money, too. Even if I didn’t like the damn fruit salad.

This sort of rationale leads to all sorts of problems when we travel. I will go to museums that I don’t really want to see, just because they are free. Or I’ll intentionally get off at the wrong bus stop because the Ride Free Zone is about to end, and I don’t want to pay the increased fare.

I am a gal who finds getting lost preferable to spending $2.25. Obviously, my judgement isn’t great. But believe me when I tell you that this next tip is a good one. And it makes the bargain hunter that I am at heart glow with pride.

If you visit San Francisco (which is already a pretty darn expensive city on its own), and you manage to get down to Golden Gate Park, I suggest you visit the DeYoung Museum.

The museum itself is fairly nice, and general admission is only $10, which is far better than a lot of museums in major U.S. cities. But what really won me over was the Hamon Observation Tower, which is accessible from inside the DeYoung. You don’t need a museum ticket to visit the tower. It’s free.

Yup, free.

And don’t worry – this isn’t some melon-chunked fruit salad. This is actually something you’d want to see. From the top of the tower, you can enjoy some amazing views of the city.

Check it out:

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Okay, fine. That’s a photo of mostly trees, which probably isn’t very convincing. But wait – it gets better.

Waaaaay in the distance, on the right, you can even see the top of the pillars of the Golden Gate Bridge.

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You can get a great lay of the land from up there – and get a view of the grass-covered top of the California Academy of Sciences, which is just across the street.

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There are 360 degree views, even though some of them are, as I noted, simply of trees.

And maybe a few houses, too.

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Still, it’s pretty fantastic. There are even little benches to sit on. It’s the sort of thing that could bring even a huge bargain-hunter and her financially-reckless husband together in happiness.

“OMG. Squirrel!”

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And did I mention it’s free? It totally is.