Seven Days!

Seven days!  Only seven and now I realize there are all kinds of things not yet done.  What the hell have I been doing?

Oh yeah, practicing my Guinness consumption.  I've gotten to be respectable.

At 5am this morning, I bolted straight up in bed, yanked by anxiety from what was a lovely dream about the Partridge Family attending Alice's funeral.  I was there, of course, the Brady's include me in everything.  I was sitting with Greg, Peter, and Bobby - away from the girls.  The boys like me better than their sisters.  Who doesn't, really?  We all got tired of Marsha, Marsha, Marsha and her nearly perfect hair, teeth and skin.  What I would have paid to see her with a bad case of acne...

Anyway, I was yanked from my dream by the realization that I never booked a room in Dublin.  We arrive after a looonnngg trip from Miami at 8am.  We're going to spend the day being tourists, crash early, scarf some breakfast and catch a train to Tralee.  But, hello?  Booking a room would be a good idea.  I jumped out of bed and did just that.  One step closer.

Now remains the issue of currency.  Oddly enough, we'll be expected to pay for our nightly accommodations and pints.  Most places in the Dingleberry Forest don't take plastic; they're too remote and country for that sort of thing.  It's cash or nothing.

I plan to ask Doug to make a bank run to exchange dollars for euros.  He enjoys that sort of thing, or at least that's what I tell myself to ease the guilt of asking him to run errands for my adventure.  It works just fine.

Lastly, I remembered that Lauren needs a smaller pack.  During our English Coast to Coast, she borrowed a small waist pack from her dwarf.  No, not a fanny pack. Dwarves don't like those damn things.  It was a pack that strapped around her waist and we used to keep our passports, wallet, guidebook (when it wasn't crammed into my waistband), hats, gloves and food.  I need to buy one.  It proved much more sensible than having her carry a big pack on her pack.  That's what I'm for.

My ginormous pack (internal frame) carries our emergency blankets, first aid supplies, extra socks, toilet paper (you walk for 18 miles after drinking a few pints of Guinness and see what happens), water and food.  Yes, we both carry food.  We learned early on, we could never have too much food.  Never.  Never ever.
I even carried a bottle of wine most days.  I'll leave it at that.

So, I'm off to tie up a few most loose ends.

RIP Anne B. Davis.  May you be the Queen of Heaven's Meatcutter's Ball.  This Guinness is for you.