Dodgy Al: the story of Liz and her Manchester United Game

I still owe for an Edinburgh and London post, but I wanted to be sure to get this down before I forgot all the details.

Within an hour of meeting Saul in Manchester, I asked him if he would be interested going to a United game the next day. I had seen some tickets available online for 25 pounds----not great seats, but seats. Within seconds Saul whips out his cell phone, makes a brief call and confirms that we can get tickets through his “connection”. His connection is Al. Al is a professional gambler who also supports himself selling tickets on the side. It becomes obvious that the next day we will acquire entrance to the game in a way that may not be 100% legal. This is underscored when Saul tells me we need to be at the game around 7:20 to pick up our tickets from the “meeting point” at the rear of the stadium. At this point, I ask the obvious question.

Me: “Should I bring a knife?”
Saul: “Nah”
Me: “We are picking up tickets at the “meeting spot” from a professional gambler named Al. I am picturing a back alley and a dude with a knife scar down his face who looks like he has killed a few men “
Saul: “Yes, Dodgy Al… and we are meeting by the stadium, not in an alley”
Saul: “I just made up that name. I wouldn’t call him that”

At this point, the idea of going to a soccer game got way more intense. I absolutely spend the hours leading up to the game commenting as much as possible on Dodgy Al and the “meeting point”. Saul’s roommate is also going to the game. On the bus over, Saul practices his French with her—in a great moment of cultural exchange I taught her and her friend the term, “balls to the wall.” Bringing a bit of ‘Merica wherever I go.

We arrive at the stadium and head towards the meeting point. Saul thinks we should get pretty good tickets. We wait in a crowd of people. “There’s Al,” he nods towards a man who looks like an investment banker. Surely this isn’t Dodgy Al—he just shook my hand and made small talk about soccer. No mention of breaking knee caps, no obvious knife wounds—he looks more likely to talk about hedge funds.

My disappointment that “Dodgy Al” seemed more like “Analyst Al” quickly subsided when I saw the seats. We sat two seats from the pitch---perfect view of the corner. I could see individual blades of grass. The only draw back is that you can't have a beer at your seat. I have never been to a sporting event in the West where you couldn't have a beer at your seat. Saul tells me that while they trust folks in America to keep their good sense after a beer in the US that trust does not extend to football matches in the UK. Looking around; you don't see many families or women... probably for the best.

I learned three cheers that day (all involve cursing) and we got some great photos. Enjoy.

Midwesterners of the North

Turns out that Scots are Midwesterners. With their self-deprecating humor, working class pragmatism, and a love of watery lager I felt comfortable immediately in Scotland. Rachel met me in Glasgow for a few nights of fun. Saw lots of great Mackintosh design work and made some friends at Tennent’s Pub. Glasgow was fun and interesting. I hope the photos below explain why Rachel and I did Scotland right.



Glasgow
A jaunty statue looks at the University

Rachel makes friends

This is a church turned to bar...enjoyed a few pints there

Mackintosh Detail

Awful things to drink in Scotland

Little known fact; coke is the number one soft drink in nearly every country of the world with the exception of the Scotland. There IRN BRU is king. With the slogan, "feel phenomenal" how could I pass up the opportunity to take part in the beverage heritage of someone else's Scottish forefathers? Despite the Rifampin orange urine color, I took a big drink. It has the awful flavor of Red Bull, you know the taste of sugarcoated cancer...but it is less crisp, and somehow even less appealing than Red Bull. People in Scotland love it.

Other beverages available include barley water, which must have been a remnant from the Dark Ages. No doubt it was probably intended to soothe the aliments of the merchant class and ward away the evil eye. That is the only possible explanation for it's existence.

If you are interested in another beverage that must have originated as a dark magic Pagan potion, I can recommend a brew of Dandelion and Burdock. Rachael, my UK travel buddy, decided to buy a bottle, despite the fact that we already know that there is nothing good to drink in the Scotland.

While it doesn't look awful---I assure you that it tastes of candied mothballs and old people clothes that are ground into a fine powder and reconstituted into what you see above.

Moral of the story---don't drink anything that isn't water or alcohol in Scotland.

"Irish men are either grumpy or pervy"

"Irish men are either grumpy or pervy" a young, 18 year old Irish girl told me.

For some reason, a rather foul natured Irish man decided to adopt me on the bus ride from the airport to my hostel. I asked the bus driver to let me know when we reached O'Connell Street. My new grumpy old man friend spoke up and let me know he was headed that direction. I thanked him and took my seat. After cantankerously informing me that we were at our stop, he proceeded to ask me the address of my hostel. He walked ahead and simply said "follow me". On the brisk walk he grumbled about how tourists like me were the reason that pints of Guinness were now 6 euro in the Temple Bar district. At the Millennium Spire his surliness became directed at the government for erecting an ugly poll in the middle of O'Connell Street. When I reached my street, I thanked him for the help.

"well you aren't there yet." He continued along with me going out of his way to help me find my hostel. I felt like an imposition, but maybe I had earned a soft place in his heart; he seemed a worried for my safety. "Don't go north of the spire after dark," and with that he left.

Once at the front desk, I was informed that a free walking tour of the city was about to start. The first rule of defeating jet-leg is to stay busy; so I happily joined. It was really well done and strongly centered on Irish History.

The moral of the tour seemed to be that the British Government was awful and that it kinda sucks to be Irish.

Our first stop on the tour (and by far the most interesting stop) was Dublin Castle. Dublin Castle had been the seat of British rule until 1922, when Ireland became a free state. It is on a site that was formerly a Viking settlement, which was invaded by Normans who built a castle around 1200 AD. Only one tower remains, which was used as a prison for some time.

In the 1700s the British renovated and rebuilt the castle. They included a front gate with a statue of justice, which faced into the castle courtyard. (it is on the opposite side of the photo above) According to my guide, Emer," Many call this a perfect representation of justice under British rule. The lady is not blind and she has her back to the Irish people."

We also dropped by Trinity College, Christ Church Cathedral, and wandered through Temple Bar. When I told Emer about the girl who claimed that all Irish men were grumpy or pervy, she responded that they were "actually grumpy, pervy, drunk or some combination thereof."

During the tour I became friends with a few Aussies and a guy from Chicago. We discussed our shared love of bagged wine, which the Aussies call, Goon. Turns out they have a game that involves pinning the goon to a rotary close line and spinning it. If it stops in front of you, it is required that you take a sip. They call it Goon of Fortune. Amazing.

We all went out that night along with a huge group of Spaniards. My Spanish has gotten woeful, but we had a great time. Of course, the Spaniards kept me up late dancing.

By the end of the night I had drank lots of Guinness, met some locals, and got kissed by a red-headed Irish boy in a pub. My guess is that he was some combination of grumpy, pervy, and drunk.

Yup, I did Dublin exactly right.

Travel, two years later

There is comfort in travel. I can't exactly explain it, but there is a peace which accompanies wandering in a foreign country with no idea what the following moments will bring. The next several posts of this blog are dedicated to places outside the US, but I would have failed the spirit of this blog if I did not say a few words about Kansas City.

First, the BBQ-
Honestly, I was fairly unimpressed by most of the BBQ in Kansas City. I am a St. Louis girl, and I believe there is such thing as St. Louis BBQ and it will always and forever be my favorite. But there was one great BBQ place; one place better than anything in St. Louis--Oklahoma Joes. It is in a gas station.

On a slightly more serious note, moving to Kansas City ten months ago marked a significant change in my life. I regained a control of my life once lost and began cultivating a career again. Kansas City surrounded me with thoughtful people who challenged me constantly. It is a vibrant, diverse community with all the convenience of a large city while it maintains all the sensibilities of a small town. It is a place to be a young professional, to raise kids, to grow old and do wonderful things.

I enjoyed most every moment of living in Midtown--close to Westport. It was walking distance to the art museum, maintained a pulsing night life (that offered plenty for beer enthusiasts), and presented a diverse cross section of people. It was a beautiful city that is so easily under appreciated.

While there, I could not have known how much I would learn on a Missouri Secretary of State's race, and I owe my co-workers so much. It was a good job---surrounded by good people.

I left Kansas City in a blur of giggles, balloons, and victory. We won.

Fire in the Sky

Sunrise may be more beautiful 30,000 feet above the earth.