Galway I took the train this morning to Galway. I honestly just wanted to see something other than another big city, so Galway was it. It's extremely small and (searching for the bon mot) rustic, perhaps. I did the touristy thing, which is rare right now since tourist season doesn't start for another two months, which was to take the tour bus. Was pretty cool, actually. The whole area of the west is one of the last remaining bastions of native Irish-speakers, so we passed numerous schools were everything was taught solely in Irish (something I didn't know still existed) as well as numerous local shop-windows or pubs that advertised solely in Irish. Most notably in this regard, there is an election coming up I believe next monday. The political parties here are canvassing everything everywhere in an attempt to swing it (the same in every other country). The difference is that in Galway, as opposed to Dublin, all the signs are completely Irish. Revelation I wear my claddagh ring always. I always knew the story behind it, but one element baffled me: the crown on top. Why the hell would the Irish, of all people, honor the crown in something that has become sort of a national symbol? Must be loyalist trickery, I always supposed, that the Irish put up with because it was too old to change, sort of like the orange on the flag. Today, though, there was a revelation. It is meant to symbolize loyalty, but I had the kings wrong. Apparently, the little village of Claddagh was extremely against the Norman invasion. So much so that the Normans built the walls of old Galway city so as to keep well out of their way. The people of Claddagh recognized their own king, king of the village of Claddagh. Thus when Joyce, the talented silver worker, set out to perfect his design on the ring, he put the crown on there as a symbol of his loyalty to his village king. Apparently there is still a king of Claddagh, though it's only ceremonial. They elect a new one every three years. One downside I finally discovered one thing I can't stand about some Irishmen: they don't shut the hell up. This guy in Galway today was so keen on getting his sentence out, no matter what it had to do with, that he'd cut you off in midsentence if the thought occured to him. Sometimes it'd be such a non-sequitor that the rest of the people round the table would stop and stare. He didn't mind, he'd just keep talking. Extremely nice guy, this one, so I didn't mind all that much, and he seemed decently intelligent, but about the fourth time he cut me off I just started laughing with the Australian guy across the table from me. Oi... Guestbook Sign the guestbook. Tell me you're here, reading, etc. Makes me feel good. Link at right. :)