To ring in the New Year, my wife Beth and friends Terence and Olya went to Dublin.  Leading up to the trip Terence expressed his concern over the overnight flight and the need to sleep on a plane.  Thankfully he was unable to sleep, leading to one of the greatest travel pranks of all time.

THURSDAY Night
“I’m bombed” says Terence from an airport bar in Philly. Terence and Olga spent approximately seven hours at the airport. It is assumed five of those were spent in the bar – leading to Terence stealing a bottle of Jack Daniels from the duty free shop.  The purpose of this public drunkenness was to forcefully overcome his fear of sleeping in long metal objects. Some would say there is a Freudian response to this, but he insists it only extends to planes.

MEANWHILE…
Beth and I are at Gallagher’s restaurant inside beautiful Newark Liberty Airport, enjoying excellent food and awful service that includes a glass of red wine being dumped on a customer and little flies circling all around the stain. One bartender upsets Beth to the point where she was almost unable to finish her glass of wine. Almost.

FRIDAY
On the plane Beth and I got some semi-drunk sleep, as did Olga on their connection flight from Philadelphia to Manchester. Wide awake, Terence watched five movies. Our flight from Newark arrived in Dublin on time. We were at the great O’Callaghan Davenport by 10:30am, checked in and ready to see the sites.

MEANWHILE …
Terence and Olga where delayed in Manchester by approximately an hour, making it “tight” for the planned Guinness Brewery tour.

Back in Dublin (and away from airports) nice walks through Merrion Square, on to view the National Gallery, walk through Grafton street, and then looking at the incredible St. Stephens Park…we were well into our site-seeing vacation.  The weather?  Rain. Gray. Sun. Rain. Gray. Sun…all within fifteen minutes.

MEANWHILE…
at the great O’Callaghan Alexander Hotel, Terence and Olga had unexpectedly accepted an “amazing race” mission when they accepted a packet (left by us so we wouldn’t have to spend our first day sitting in a hotel lobby waiting for them) at the front desk explaining simply: “Be at the Long Hall pub at 2:30, leaving for the Guinness tour at 3pm”.  It was 2pm when the package was received.

BACK IN THE city Beth and I found the way to Temple Bar, an incredible neighborhood made up of completely of bars – so it seemed. We proceeded to consume several beers and a small pizza, figuring out the quickest way to get to “The Long Hall” pub, arriving at the pub only to find that it was closed.  Where were Terence and Olga?  Apparently they had unintentionally taken the scenic route and were walking around the Dublin Castle, several times before eventually finding “The Long Hall”, at 3:05pm.  Way past the deadline noted on their paperwork they had received from the front desk.  Tired, jet lagged and one would expect, sick of the Dublin Castle, they decided to eat and head back to the hotel.

AT THE GUINNESS brewery long lines greeted us. Luckily the lines moved quickly. Since the tour was self-guided it ensured a quick journey to the top where the bar is located and the views are the best in the city.  I was tired, feeling a little sick, and Beth was just plain not liking the taste of her first Guinness.  We both drank half our pints and rushed for the door.

Friday night started once contact was made between both parties and a nap was agreed upon.  Meeting at 7pm Terence showed up (on-time), impressively waking from his nap just three minutes prior.  We headed back to Temple Bar, specifically to go to a restaurant named Mexico to Rome – because when you think Dublin you think Mexican AND Italian food right?

The weather?  Rain.  Gray.  Rain.  Rain. Gray. Rain.  Being told we had to be finished eating within 60 minutes did not start off the meal well; however, all was good and the food was outstanding (not too mention the several beers consumed)….Next, it was The Temple Bar (not to be confused with the name of the neighborhood) where I confidently walked up to the bar and ordered two Strongbow cider beers only to be visually stabbed in the face by the bartender.  “This isn’t England.  We have Bulmer’s”.

The four of us hastily drank the Bulmer’s and some vodka at the Temple Bar, discussing where we would celebrate New Year’s in two days. Eventually we come up empty with ideas before moving on to another bar nearby. The constant response from the locals when asking “where are the good places to be for New Year’s?” was usually either “New York” or “Somewhere outside of Ireland”.  Good times.

The next bar was through a small alley that had live music in the basement.  The music was pretty good (a cross between Irish folk and rock) and the band really stoned.  Terence’s attempt at a picture did not go well as the band turned their heads and continued packing their equipment.  After the failed photo opportunity it was off to “Rick’s” where Terence and Olga ordered burgers, fish, and apparently strange looks from the locals. The next day Terence would proclaim it was one of the best burgers he had ever had…given the situation this is not surprising (burgers are always three times better when drunk or hungover). To our surprise the hotel bar was still open.  A nightcap was had, finally sleeping around 3am.

SATURDAY
“SADDAM HUSSEIN HAS BEEN EXECUTED!” is how we awoke at 6am on Saturday. Apparently the hotel wake up call is controlled through the television, so when the TV turned on at 6am the news was being reported. Still drunk, and not aware of my surroundings, I curled up in a fetal position and went back to sleep for another five minutes.

Today we would head to the southern part of Ireland and explore Cork, making sure to kiss the Blarney stone.

At 6:30 a.m. we were all in a taxi heading to the train station. The country song, “Looking for Love”, was playing on the radio so everyone in the back seat decided to rip on the driver’s music preference with phrases like “I remember when Eddie Murphy did his Buckwheat impression of this song” and “Country Music sucks”.  Somehow we made it to the train station and then into our seats with no problems. Olga was the first to fall asleep followed by myself and then Beth.  Terence stared out the window, looking for sheep in the rolling hills.

In Cork, we take a taxi to the bus station, board a bus and all fall asleep (except Terence who feels the bus smells like a three year old wet towel). We arrive at Blarney, walking through the gorgeous grounds of Blarney Castle.  We walk up narrow slippery stairs, admiring the rooms and views as we near the top.  At the top I feel uneasy by the short ledges at the current height and there is an Irish man whom is the same guy from travel books and the Discovery channel.  Beth kisses the stone.  I kiss the stone several times.  Olga kisses the stone.  Terence kisses the stone.  The gift of eloquence is now with us.  Viewing the photos after it is noted that my picture (lifting up from making out with the stone) looks like that of a corpse.

At The Lemon Tree in Blarney we have another fantastic meal and then it’s back to Cork where on St. Patrick’s street there is more Pubs and shopping.  At O’Brien’s Beth enjoyed a pint.  At Lush, Olga purchased soap while Terence destroyed a bowl for customers by dropping one of the soap bombs inside.

The weather in Cork?  Rain.  Rain.  Gray.  Sun (Blarney).  Rain.  Gray. Walking to St. Ann’s Church where tourists are allowed to ring the bell was an uphill journey, pun intended, and also very disappointing when we learned that the church was closed and that we had missed the world’s tallest man (a note had been placed 10 feet high on the door).  No bell ringing would be had so we went to the disco bar (four disco balls) where we had a bottle of wine, and Terence had the “Classic” sandwich and explained how when he sleeps he “does the X” with his body.   On the train ride back I kicked some old people out of the reserved seats and everyone slept, even Terence got in about twenty minutes of Z’s.

BACK IN DUBLIN we meet at The Ginger Man, a bar that was definitely not to be confused with the Euro Pub (a regular spot when in Amsterdam). Then we went to Bocca to eat Italian (again) and have another bottle of wine.  Once dinner is complete Terence informs us that he is exhausted and has to go home and “go sleepy”.  He is read the riot act that after review included the word “disappointed”, but not the word “disgrace”.  Terence and Olga go home.  At The Dawson Lounge, Dublin’s smallest bar, Beth and I enjoy a Bulmer’s. Then we go to Baibar. It is here, with time and Bulmer’s on our side, that a gag is born.

MEANWHILE at the Great Alexander, Terence is presumably doing the X.

BACK AT BAIBAR the gag is set: Tell Terence and Olga we met “The Edge”, the guitarist from U2, and that he was jamming with the house band, playing cool music on the juke box, and buying pints for everyone.  Keep it simple.  This would certainly work.

Off to “The Long Hall” for another round, followed by another round at a bar with blue lights.  It wasn’t until The Temple Bar when things escalated.  When I found a hotel key I came up with a new twist on the gag: Not only did “The Edge” party at the same bar, but also invited us to a party on New Year’s Day (conveniently after Beth and I would be gone, but Terence and Olga still there).  The Edge (according to the gag) gave me the hotel key and tells me to show up at his party.

Next in part 2: New Year’s Eve…

Sharks! Hammerhead, white-tip, grey reef, oh my!

Although the purpose of my trip to Palau, a pristine archipelago that peppers the western corner of Micronesia, is for a little beach bliss, I also plan to venture beneath the waves where the 600,000 square kilometer (200,000 square mile) first officially-recognized world shark sanctuary has been declared. This tropical oasis, coined the seventh underwater wonder of the world, is aimed at preserving over a hundred and thirty-five types of vulnerable fish. But how close can I get to these swimmers before I feel the same?

After chatting with Tova Bornovski, General Manager of Fish ‘n Fins and founding member of Micronesia Shark Foundation, and Dermot Keane, Managing Director of Sam’s Tours and creator of The Palau Shark Sanctuary, my preconceived fears are alleviated.

“People are terrified of sharks and there’s absolutely no reason,” Bornovski says assuredly. “In the twelve years that we’ve been operating, there hasn’t been an attack on any divers.”

Just hearing the ‘S’ word conjures up images in my mind of “Jaws”, the 1975 Hollywood blockbuster that kept me out of the water for months. As if on the same wave-length, Bornovski continues:

“It’s a big misconception –and one that the author, Peter Benchley, regretted helping create. In fact, before passing away he donated proceeds from his book to shark preservation.”

It’s clearly an issue that she’s passionate about. Since 2002, when Micronesia Shark Foundation was formed, Bornovski has worked diligently at educating, researching and advocating for shark protection on both the local and national level. And it’s finally paying off.

Dermot Keane has also played an instrumental role in getting the guarded shark park off the ground. Networking with Palau’s Conservation Society, battling anti-environmental legislation, crossing politically-sensitive boundaries –on many occasions he’s had to go out of his ocean-side comfort zone.

And now, thanks to the tireless contributions from both these activists, Palau’s president, Johnson Toribiong, has climbed aboard this shark fishing-ban boat. He’s declared that all waters within the Exclusive Economic Zone will be a marine mammal sanctuary –not just for sharks, but for other endangered species like dugong sea-cows, whales and dolphins.

Preservation and conservation are key watchwords for this small independent nation of 20,000 residents. And it’s for good reason!  While living at the convergence of three major ocean currents, they’re embraced by an eco-rich biosphere that boasts more than 1,400 species of fish, 500 types of coral, 30 varieties of whales and dolphins and the world’s finest display of sharks.

Although diving doesn’t have any age limit, (in fact Fish ‘n Fins has certified a seventy-three year old and a child of ten in the same week) you don’t have to don scuba gear to check out this plentiful marine life. A snorkel and pair of fins will do the trick. And speaking from experience, it’s an activity that can be enjoyed by any active senior.

During this week I also discover a number of eco-treats for land lovers. Dolphins Pacific, the world’s largest interactive marine center of its kind, teaches me about the behaviors of their resident mammals. The River Boat Jungle Cruise provides close encounters with flying fruit bats, twittering biib birds and jaw-gaping crocodiles! And Palau’s International Coral Reef Center gives me a science and ecology lesson second to none. While wandering past ten sub-themed aquariums, I learn about the geological formations of the renowned Rock Islands, the value of the deep-rooted mangroves, the symbiotic relationship between the sun and pulsating jellyfish and the importance of predatory fish that call these waters home. A number of sleek white-tip sharks swim next to other ocean lovers in their large outdoor habitat and they certainly don’t seem to be a threat. But are we to them? Why is it such a big deal that we protect them?

Keane indicates that it’s all about balance.  If these predators at the top of the food chain are significantly threatened, the populations of fish below will increase. This will lead to a decimation of their food source and eventually that population will decline too –which will affect everything from our fishing industry to tourism.

And all for a little shark fin soup.

Through education and research, Bornovski is determined to see that this doesn’t happen. Every fifth grader in the main hub of Koror now has a visit from Shark Ranger Tim and his costumed sided-kick, Finny, the funny shark –a program she’s developed and implemented. And through stories and role playing it’s re-shaping the thoughts of these young ones while alleviating their fears.

She’s also created an underwater data collection form that’s being used by her guides whenever they witness sightings. The valuable stats tally everything from the depth and location of specific species to the numbers during mating season.

“Although it only takes a couple of minutes to fill out, I have to dangle the carrot,” she says with a wide grin. “The employee who brings in the most data by next month will be presented with a dive computer at Shark Week.”

This annual event that’s in its ninth year will took place that year at Fish ‘n Fins from March 19-26 and attracted everyone from local dignitaries to lecturers, educators, shark researchers, and divers. Maybe even me. Unlike Bornovski’s guides, after this week while staying at the posh Palau Pacific Resort, I wouldn’t need a lot of enticement to return: chic spacious suites, a rainforest spa, three dining options, an infinity pool –and all that overlook a sensuous strip of sandy shoreline. Who knows –maybe when I return, I’ll even have time for a little beach bliss.

Getting There:
Continental Airlines makes regular flights from Los Angeles (LAX) to Koror (ROR).

For those wanting to split up the travel time, consider flying to Hawaii and chilling out for a few days first, then continue onto Palau.

Where to stay:

Things to do:
There are a number of tour operators in Koror and each one offers a diverse line-up of activities. They will also arrange the transportation from your hotel. Two of the leading companies are:

• Fish ‘n Fins
• Sam’s Tours
• For more information contact Palau Visitor’s Authority

Homeless in Copenhagen:

After the long, arduous journey from San Francisco to Frankfurt to Copenhagen, I take the taxi to Munkensvej 1, 2000 Frederiksberg (a small municipality within the city limits of Copenhagen -  or, as the Danish call their city “Kopnhaagen.” I am renting Edda Nickelsen’s apartment for my 12-night stay, and we have arranged to meet around 3PM (just as the sun starts to sink into the west) so she can show me around and leave me the keys.

The cabble drops me off and is gone, I am out in the streets of Kopnhaagen with my three bags totally around 85 pounds of luggage (I’m traveling light). No sign of Edda, so I ring the bell. No sign of Edda.  It’s cold, so I am finally forced to drag out a coat from my bags as I fumble with my rented international cell phone to try and call Edda. Two wrong numbers and several “sorry, you can’t do that” messages  instills a growing sense of mild panic. Through my jet-lagged fog I realize I’m not in San Francisco anymore.

A sympathetic neighbor who had already come through the common front door for his apartment several minutes earlier (or perhaps he was Edda’s irritated next door neighbor tired of hearing Edda’s doorbell ringing) allows me into the building to stay a bit warmer. As I am dragging my luggage in, a blond woman in her early thirties (the stereotype fits) comes in and greets me. I won’t be homeless in Copenhagen after all. After a quick tour of the apartment and rundown of where to eat and shop for food (another story perhaps), Edda packs up the last of her things and is gone, leaving me to my new  home. Whew.

Stowaway:

It is a pleasant 20-minute walk down Borups Alle to the metro from the apartment. The cold fresh air and exercise help ease my anxiety of what the day would be like at the international climate  conference, if the UNFCCC would decide to deny my press accreditation after all, if I would somehow derail progress toward a sustainable future… I arrive at the station and find the ticket vending  machine with the requisite slots for the purpose, I thought, of inserting money for a ticket. I try to insert a paper bill, but it doesn’t fit into what looks like the paper bill slot. I try to insert a coin into what appears like the coin slot, but it doesn’t fit. I push a button on the touchscreen and helpful instructions pop up – in Danish. I see several people non-chalantly deal with their ticket issues and proceed onto the train. Three trains headed for the Bella Center come and go. There is no physical barrier preventing a person from just getting on the train. When the next train came, that’s what I do. Nobody noticed.

Now that I am registered at COP15, I have a travel pass for all public transport within Copenhagen, so I am free of the embarrassing rigor of figuring out the ticket machines. No doubt there were a couple of security guards having a bit of a hoot watching my “candid camera-esque” ordeal: “hey, look at this idiot American who can’t figure out how to buy a ticket!”

An old man’s commentary:

To belie my opening comment, most Danish do actually speak English – just not to each other. How rude to speak in a foreign language when guest are present, eh? But my ugly American tendencies  aside, I am not prepared when an old man cones up and starts speaking to me in Danish as I stand waiting for the light allowing me to cross the street. From the tone of the old man’s voice it sounds to me  like some important commentary on the state of the world. Or perhaps he is just telling me I am an ass. Who knows? I sheepishly say to him “I’m sorry – English?” Which prompts another guttural commentary -  this time I’m fairly certain to tell me I am an ass.

-tds

Except for the gangway’s frenzied chunk-chunk against the flank of the anchored ship, the Antarctic blizzard furies around us in eerie silence. The captain of our converted ice-breaker has sought shelter in the flooded caldera of Deception Island, an ancient volcano north of the Antarctic Peninsula. Despite this safer anchorage, the Polar Star rolls and heaves in the five-foot swells.

Feeling for the gangway’s ice-skimmed steps with clumsy, insulated boots, I inch my way downwards. Below, a zodiac bucks at the end of its frozen tether. Other photographers and naturalists, waiting their turn to go ashore, press against the deck railing above me, faces shielded from the stinging snow by Darth-Vador face-masks.

For a split second the base of the gangway comes level with the zodiac. Gloved hands grip my wrists. One, two…THREE, and I land like a diving sea bird among six other passengers hunched against the gale. The outboard guns us forward.  Almost immediately the storm envelops us. We can see nothing but a tight circle of black water inches from our backsides.

Wilderness has always been a magnet for me. It offers something that eludes me in my modern-day life, a fast-paced world given over to anthropocentric power and control. To stand in a place where nature, not man, runs the show, and has since earth’s beginnings, is, to me, a miracle in action.

Antarctica is the largest wilderness on our planet. Yesterday, as the Polar Star cruised past the sheared-off abutments of glaciers creeping towards the sea, we saw layers of pumice and ice centuries old. I look at the beaches and try to stretch my imagination around the slow-motion pulverizing of volcanic rock that took eons to form their black sands. Even more amazing is the image of this continent as a once-upon-a-time tropical land whose plants and trees turn up as fossils buried in those black sands, a land from which sections detached and sailed away to become today’s South America, Africa and Australia.

Here in today’s Antarctica our ship skirts icebergs sculpted by wind and water into blue caves hung with stalactites, turrets clear as glass. Seals and penguins hitch rides on their glazed surfaces like commuters on public transport. Whales glide under our zodiacs, large and pale as the bottoms of pools.

On our daily landings we step around skeletons picked clean except for inedible flippers and claws. Our guides gauge every ripple of air as a possible overture to gales that will hold us hostage on shore for hours. To keep my fingers from freezing I learn to press the shutter of my camera without removing my insulated gloves.

Try to play God here, and you’re bones on the beach. In wild places like this, where life evolves at its own pace, according to its own mechanisms, I can slow down, think, regain my balance. The stark reality pushes aside my own nonessentials and zeroes me in on the best in myself.

As our zodiac hurtles across the snow-shrouded sea, I have the sense of a more recent past coming to life. Our invisible destination is a pebbled beach that, along with multiple other Antarctic locations, witnessed an epic slaughter of marine wildlife between the late 1800’s and the mid-1960’s. Here rest the rusting remains of machinery that processed the blubber of thousands of whales and, when the whales ran out, seals, sought in earlier years for their fur. Ultimately, even penguins became victims, feeding the hunger for oil destined to light lamps and lubricate newly invented machinery in far-away countries. The animals were taken in such numbers that many, thick in the water for centuries, reached the point of extinction in less than fifty years.

Straining our eyes, we begin to make out a blurry shoreline. Gauzy scarves of snow stream from figures bent against the wind, passengers and guides who left the ship on earlier zodiacs. The boat crunches onto volcanic rocks that emerge slick and glistening as we swing our booted feet into the surf and stagger onto the beach.

Through the snow flinging itself across the landscape, swaybacked wooden structures and spires of shattered machinery appear and disappear. To my right loom three rusted tanks the size of small buildings against whose shelter we lay our backpacks. Monuments to the butchery, these stored the oil.

The base of the farthest tank reveals a recently chiseled opening and through this all fifty of us make our way, one by one, into the gloom of an enormous interior. Cylindrical walls rise to a ceiling far above our heads, its fluted-umbrella shape pockmarked with points of luminescent snow-light. We fumble across a floor crisscrossed with pipes, at one time filled with steam or hot water to keep the oil from solidifying in the cold. I feel dizzy trying to fathom the number of slaughtered animals whose oil would have filled this one drum alone.

We are gathered in this place for a reason that I find deeply disturbing. A passenger, blessed with an operatic voice who enjoys performing before fellow passengers when he travels, has suggested that he sing for us within the oil drum. The acoustics are said to be phenomenal. To transform this memorial into a theatrical showcase seems to me to belittle the desecration that occurred here.

Layered in sweaters under a sky-blue windbreaker, the singer mounts a heap of burlap sacks. Wind, amplified within the hollow space, thunders against the drum, shakes and rattles sections of loose metal. We, the audience, ankle-deep in mud and pipes, wait.

The man holds aloft a tiny Walkman, pushes a button. From it issues a sound, dreamlike in this environment, the thin voices of violins barely audible above the storm’s din. Despite my disapproval, goose flesh prickles my neck and spine.

The soloist hits “stop” and begins to sing. Into the huge echoing chamber pours the beauty and tenderness of de Crescenzo’s “Rondine al Nido”.  The man’s tenor voice is rich and mellow, a meditation within the storm’s chaos. Next comes Giordano’s “Amor ti Vieta”, its loveliness threading through the howling wind.  Softened by the drum’s half-light, the singer’s self-importance fades, revealing dignity and passion. Tears run down my checks.

The concert lasts less than five minutes. Its effect on me is both unexpected and remarkable. With the storm stripping away attitude, the music has emerged as more than entertainment. It is an element that springs from something magnificent and unmarred in humanity, a beauty of spirit that has  transcended centuries of ego and aggression.

As the other passengers and I make our way through the blizzard, heading for the zodiacs that will take us back to the Polar Star and, ultimately, to our far-off cities and towns, I carry with me a reminder that within mankind exists a force that is capable of shining a light into all corners of the world, the radiance of the human soul.