Kitchen Kat

 

Las Vegas is not an obvious vacation choice for me.  Don’t gamble.  Don’t adore adult contemporary music.  Certainly don’t relish baking in the desert sun.  Yet, I had agreed to spend 4 days on the Vegas strip with my friends Marilee and Tim.  What was I thinking?

As it turns out, there are things to do in Vegas besides feeding dollars into slot machines.  Not that I didn’t end up gambling.  How could I not?  Slot machines greeted me at the airport and in every hotel lobby.  It’s a wonder they weren’t in the bathrooms! 

 

Besides parting with a few dollars at the casinos, I browsed in a lot of shopping malls.  You name it.  I could buy it on Las Vegas Boulevard.  Reproduction furniture from the Victorian era.  Crystal goblets.  Diamond bracelets.  Clothes for any occasion.  The only things that I didn’t find were book and cookware shops, which are, of course, my favorite kinds of stores. 

 

On my third day in Vegas Tim, who now lives there, provided some respite from the rampant consumerism with a trip to Red Rock Canyon.  Located 17 miles west of the strip, Red Rock Canyon offered visitors 195,819 pristine acres deep within the Mojave Desert.  It also provided a refreshing and much needed taste of nature in an otherwise highly unnatural environment.

Gracious guide that he was, Tim also took Marilee and me to the Fremont Street Experience in downtown Vegas.  Premiering in 1995, Fremont Street boasted a 90-foot high and 1, 400-foot — or roughly 4 block — long LED canopy on which nightly light shows were displayed.  Pretty flashy! 

Back on the strip Marilee and I hit the nightly pirate fight and fireworks at Treasure Island and the outdoor fountain show at the Bellagio.  We also saw the lion habitat at MGM Grand as well as the Canadian circus troupe Cirque du Soleil and its water-based show “O,” also at the Bellagio.  “O” was utterly enchanting and a definite winner with me.

 

The three of us also dined out at an array of celebrity chef-owned restaurants.  Wolfgang Puck’s Spago.  Thomas Keller’s  Bouchon.  Todd English’s Olives.  Emeril Lagasse’s Emeril’s New Orleans Fish House.  We even squeezed in a lavish buffet dinner at the Wynn.  Meals as good as these didn’t come cheap but most were worth it.

The best activity in Las Vegas?  Without a doubt it had to be simply hanging out with friends.

In the days leading up to my flight to Las Vegas I thought incessantly of two songs — Elvis Presley’s “Viva Las Vegas” and Mojo Nixon’s “Elvis is Everywhere.”  For me Vegas was the land of Elvis or, more accurately, Elvis impersonators.  Imagine my disappointment when I didn’t see a single pompadoured, glittery jumpsuit-wearing, middle-aged man anywhere. 

Where were the Elvis wannabes? Where was the campy Vegas that I had imagined?  Twelve years ago, on my first and only other trip there, I hadn’t seen any signs of him then, either.  Had Mr. Presley left the city?  And, if so, who or what had replaced him?

 

Temples of consumption.  That’s what has usurped the King. Immense, themed hotels filled not only with gaming tables but also with toney restaurants, high end stores, and extremely pricey shows. Anyone who has picked up a magazine or newspaper or turned on his TV in the past 10 years knows of Vegas’s amazing rebirth. And, yet, I still expected to see some hint of the old, cheesy fun.

The Imperial Palace was the closest that I got to this. It was, however, more tacky than fun. I stayed there with my friend Marilee, who was attending a conference and having her college pay for lodging. Hence the choice or lack thereof. 

Located on the strip, this particular college-approved hotel featured a rusted light fixture in the bathroom and mold in the bathtub. For $50 per night we couldn’t demand boxes of truffles on our pillows but I had hoped for a toilet lid.

I should have been thankful.  Online reviews of the Imperial Palace spoke of bedbug bites, horrible smells, non-working plumbing, filth and literally gut-wrenching food.  Beyond the thin sheets, worn towels, dated furniture, and absence of a coffee pot (or toilet lid), our room was okay.     

Things got slightly more interesting once we fled the room. In the casino croupiers dressed as Alice Cooper, Pink and Billy Idol dealt cards and periodically broke into song. ‘With a rebel yell she cried more, more, more.’  More cards?  More money? In our case it would have been more free wine and beer. Anything to numb our senses to the music legends. 

So, while I didn’t encounter the King, I did experience a bit of kitsch at the Imperial Palace. Thankfully, that was all that I found there!   

 

Having followed the Troubles in Northern Ireland since childhood, I had more than a few notions about both the country and capital.  Belfast would be grim.  It would be gritty. Bomb-scarred buildings would line the streets. Police would pound the pavement, poised to quell sectarian violence. Everywhere I turned, I would see evidence of not just decades but centuries of fighting.

That’s the problem with preconceived ideas. So often they are wrong.

Thanks to generous revitalization funding from the EU and Great Britain, Belfast resembled an active, modern city.  Sleek, pricey hotels like the Malmaison dotted the cityscape. Huge, glittering shopping complexes, such as the newly opened Victoria Square, drew in hordes of spendthrifts.  Briefcase-wielding business people, not gun-toting police officers, dominated the sidewalks. Cranes and construction equipment filled the skyline.  

In spite of this hustle and bustle, Belfast was a quiet tourist destination.  During our time there most of the sites — the Ulster Museum, the St. George’s farmers’ market, which originated in the 17th century, and the Belfast Cathedral — were closed.  In the case of the 19th century St. Malachy’s Church, reputedly the best example of the Victorian architecture for which Belfast is known, the building was encased in scaffolding, missing all of its windows and not slated to re-open for several years.

A few renowned locations were open,though.  One landmark, the ornate, 19th century Crown Liquor Saloon, buzzed with business.  Probably the North’s most famous pub, it served authentic Ulster food such as champ, oysters, and Irish stew.    

 

Across from the pub stood another busy site, the 4-star Europa Hotel.  Attacked 33 times by the IRA, it held the distinction of being the most bombed hotel in Europe.  As perverse as it sounds, the war correspondent-wannabe in me found this wildly intriguing. 

 

So, what did Sean and I do while in Belfast? Well, we did what the locals did.  We went shopping.  Actually, as the dollar remains so weak (1 pound = 2 dollars; 1 Euro = 1.60 dollars), I browsed through all the stores while Sean hung out in Starbucks.  Like I said, it’s a modern city.

Driving along the northern coast of Northern Ireland, Sean and I experienced the famous ever-changing weather of this country. Sun-warmth-clouds-rain-sun-wind-driving rain-sun-cold-wind, all within a half hour. While the weather may be unpredictable, the lush landscape and breathtaking sites are not. Rather than blather on about each and every site, I will mostly allow pictures, rather than words, to capture the beauty of the land.

Sheep – They’re everywhere!

The Giant’s Causeway — The 37,000 polygonal, balsatic rock columns of the Giant’s Causeway are reputedly Ireland’s top tourist destination as well as a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

 

Dunluce Castle – On a dark and stormy night part of the cliff fell into the sea, taking the 16th century kitchen and startled cooks with it.

Bonamargy Friary – The ruins of this 16th century friary are now tucked into a corner of a golf course along the Coastal Causeway.

The town of Cushendun – Once a popular resort area, this little charming village still offers visitors ruins of Carra Castle, the National Trust house Rockport, a small beach, scenic walks and a touching memorial to the last animal lost in the 2001 foot-and-mouth epidemic.

Quaint villages – Like the sheep, they are everywhere.

Rocky coastlines – At best a low stone wall separates you from the cliff’s edge.  Safe driving and sure-footed walking are essential.

 

Carrick-a-rede Rope Bridge – Walk 62 feet across a wobbly rope bridge spanning the North Channel. Your destination? A commercial salmon fishery on Carrick-a-rede Island. I like fish. I hate heights. ‘Nuff said.

Upon hearing that Sean and I were headed to Belfast in Northern Ireland, the Dublin car rental agent responded with, ‘You’ll be wanting a bullet-proof car then.’ Jokes aside, I had expected the border crossing between the independent Republic and British-controlled North to be somewhat momentous. Interrogations. Friskings. Or, at the very least, a much-coveted passport stamp. Instead we breezed across the invisible border without any fanfare. The only indication that we had left the Republic came in the form of mileage. Instead kilometers, distance in the North is measured in miles.

Deeper into the countryside the atmosphere shifted ever so slightly. Graffiti popped up, proclaiming ‘Sinn Fein is law,’ ‘Hang Bush,’ and ‘No more British control.’ Placards posted to telephone poles and tree trunks declared ‘Abortion is murder.’ Hmmm . . ..

Saving Belfast for later in the trip, we headed north to the village of Bushmills along the North Channel in County Antrim. Home to the Old Bushmills Distillery and within a short drive to the UNESCO World Heritage site the Giant’s Causeway and the 16th century, cliffside ruin, Dunluce Castle, Bushmills sounded like the ideal stopping place. We checked into the only open hotel — the 17th century Bushmills Inn Hotel — and then ate dinner at the only open restaurant, the Bushmills Inn Hotel.

After delicious meals featuring locally produced foods, we set out to explore our surroundings. At first glance Bushmills seemed a bit sleepy, if not deserted. Homes were dark. Stores were shuttered. Not a dog or cat was on the street. Everyone must be off on a St. Patrick’s Day-Easter week holiday, I assumed.

Then Sean pointed out that many of the buildings had burnt and were boarded up, not just shuttered. This wasn’t the the sort of one-row-house-catches-on-fire-then-another-one-joins-in scenario but instead appeared to be random fires throughout the village. Toss in a periodic empty lot strewn with rubbish and rubble and the town took on a mildly sinister air. I had anticipated such sights in war-ravaged Belfast but not in Bushmills, population 1,000.

By daylight Bushmills lost its edge. Yes, the abandoned buildings, vacant lots and ‘Scum Out’ graffiti remained. People were quite pleasant, though, and no one seemed to notice anything amiss. So, we set out on foot again to tour the oldest licensed distillery in the world, Old Bushmills, and sample some of its whiskey. And, as we all know, with enough sunshine and whiskey, things can look quite lovely.

St. Patrick’s Day in Dublin is a lot like Mardi Gras in New Orleans. Minus the beads, bared breasts and beer consumed on the streets. And the warm weather. And exceptional live music. (The only traditional tunes that my husband Sean and I heard were from a middle-aged man playing a recorder in a hot, packed pub. And he played quite badly.)

What wasn’t absent were the enormous crowds and tremendous police presence. After a series of violent fights on St. Patrick’s Day 2004 Dublin now imports about 800 police officers from around the country. On every block we saw 5 to 10 ‘gardai’ in their flourescent yellow jackets, waiting to spring into action. Most often they seemed to give directions to confused and/or drunk tourists. (Tuesday’s papers indicated that they arrested around a dozen car thieves-arsonists who set the stolen autos on fire.)

Celebrants there were many. Since Ireland has banned smoking in bars and restaurants, smokers clustered around the front entrances and along the sidewalks. Inside the pubs were wall-to-wall revelers. At one point we were relegated to the third floor hallway of a four-story pub. Forget about going up to the rooftop or back down the stairs. Just drink your pint and appreciate having a spot to stand with your Guinness in hand.

Daytime was no quieter. The parade drew roughly 650,000 spectators, all decked out in fuzzy, green top hats, face paint and ‘Kiss me – I’m Irish’ T-shirts. The parade began at noon at Parnell Square on the north side and ended by St. Patrick’s Cathedral on Patrick Street, where we stood. At one point Sean and I slipped into the 11th century cathedral to check out the final resting place of Jonathan Swift, former dean of the cathedral and author of ‘Gulliver’s Travels.’ Pleasant way to kill 20 minutes before the festivities began.

As with Mardi Gras, there were loads of colorful floats and marching bands. No beads or — as with the 2005 St. Patrick’s Day Parade in New Orleans – painful potatoes and cabbages hurled from above. There were, however, live trapeze artists as well as beautiful silk balloons bobbing into the crowds.

With energy — ‘green’ energy — as this year’s theme we were treated to floats featuring the sun, wind, oil derricks, electricity (a giant red robot accompanied by a heavy metal band! talk about electrifying!) and balloons of giant dragons, fish, bugs and owls. We suspect that the dragons came courtesy of Scotland and the Loch Ness monster. All that fire breathing power finally harnassed and used for good, eh?