We got a late start, but made it to the Isle of Capri before noon. Our first priority: The Blue Grotto, aka La Grotta Azzurra, known since the Roman Times and visited by Augustus Caesar. To get there in 2010, you hire a boat in Capri’s Marina. The big boat takes you past these amazing cliffs of insanity to rowboat jockeys. Then you wait near the grotto entrance for your rowboat turn, and then your guide takes you into the legendary sea cave. The process takes an hour for a five minute cave tour but the journey makes it all worthwhile.

As we approached the cave in our little boat, I had that same sensation I do in the opening moments of The Pirates of the Caribbean. Here, there are no rails.

The blue reflection is spectacular. Our guide sang well, putting others to shame. Instead of sailing back to Capri’s main harbor, we asked our guide to drop us off at a pier nearby.

Then, we took a bus to Anacapri, a small town way, way up. We found another pizzeria for Quattro Formaggi (this time with blue cheese amongst the usuals).

Our next stop would be the chair lift to Monte Solaro. I’m not sure what I expected but it was definitely something more akin to chair lifts at ski resorts. At Monte Solaro, you sit in a singular wooden chair and ride for 20 minutes high above the fields up the mountainside to a viewpoint with a cafe. It was mostly very peaceful & my favorite spot on Capri, barely edging out the Grotto. I loved it so much that after an hour in the cafe we nixed plans to hike down and took the chairlift back. I considered the roundtrip journey again.

We spent some time walking around Anacapri, the Capri Palace, & Villa San Michele’s grounds before riding back to Capri for gelato and a final ride on the funicular down to the Marina.

The last hydrofoil leaves around 6, which seemed early on paper. After a day full of sights & crowds, this 6 hours felt perfectly adequate for a day trip.

More pictures from our day in Capri here:

When practicing la dolce far niente, one still must eat. We chose Inn Bufalito for lunch.

It was no Da Franco (a little bland, actually) but gave us plenty of energy for wandering Sorrentine alleyways & the marina, and to get our bearings.

We ended our day at Il Buco, a well-known place in a restored convent. We had our second great dinner in a row: local prawns, octopus ravioli, buffalo mozzarella made nearby & served 4 ways, fettucine with walnut sauce, and baba au rhum.

The service was even better than our dinner, though maybe this was unusual — Mr. T overheard the nearby table remarking to each other that the staff was fawning all over us. I say hey, sometimes you just hit it off. I’ll take the good times.

Good food isn’t a guarantee in Italy — during a 2004 trip, I encountered as many downright bad meals as decent ones. Foodwise, I’d been disappointed & resigned myself to not being into Italy. Maybe France was just more my speed? But. I also know I am in a very different place in my life now. I’m much better at finding good places; I’m much more comfortable traveling in unknown circumstances. I wanted to try it again, and not solo unlike last time. So when it came time to choose springtime honeymoon destinations and given our predilection for Mediterranean destinations, Mr. T & I decided it could be the perfect setting between the coastline, potential for great food, & plenty of things to see and do. The Sorrentine Peninsula! Pizza! Pompei! Panini! Capri! Lemons! Gelato! Positano! The Amalfi Coast! Sunshine!

We arrived shortly before noon in Napoli Capodichino. Between transit & late afternoon snacks & naps, we weren’t out for dinner in Sorrento until 9 PM. How southern European of us! We picked simple: a pizzeria written as curiously beloved by locals. Curious, as in, the author wasn’t exactly sure why the patrons packed the place despite the crowds & plastic silverware and disposable cups. Curiously packed & beloved by locals? This sounded like a recipe for success to me.

Yes, dinner blew my expectations away. I knew immediately we’d come to the right place. I considered the police officers waiting for their pizza to be a good omen. When our number came up & we were seated, I ordered pizza alla diavola & Mr. T chose a pizza with parmesan & arugula and some sort of prosciutto or ham or something. I’d give you the name, but it doesn’t really matter because anything these guys at Da Franco put on their pizza tastes amazing. Plus, it turns out there’s not standardization amongst titles and their corresponding ingredients. Each establishment interprets their pizzas as they see fit. Pizza alla romana can mean anchovies in one place where anchovies are the centerpiece for pizza alla siciliana somewhere else. That’s Italy! Always mixing it up!

This pizza was something else: the flavors amazing & the crust was cooked to a perfect char. It was refreshing to spend 20 euro on dinner for 2 when we’d been ordering a single entree in Dublin for the same.

We noticed everyone else polishing off their own pizzas, but Mr. T & I could barely make a dent in half. I caught our server’s attention to ask for a takeaway box. He winked, then demurred: “Of couuuuurse.”

Then he brought us this box. Oh, Italy!

I added in a little more shopping & some last visits to places I’d investigated but wanted to explore further.

After my failed attempt last week, I decided to head back to The National Museum (of Archeology). It’s what you’d expect. Plus displays of thousand-year-old REAL bodies of those found in bogs. Did I mention the bodies were real? And maybe some of them had been a bit mangled in the farm equipment used at the bogs? But they were displayed anyway?
More tamely, there was another exhibit on the sacred sites at Tara and others of Celtic or Viking significance.

Next up, The National Photographic Archive. This shoulda been a win. The current display was Witness to War, regarding the 1916 uprising and subsequent civil war. After the Gaol & other sites, the displays seemed lacking & received about 10 minutes of my time. Apparently I’ve turned into a snob about how photographs are presented in galleries, since I expect them to be a step above what I see in our lunchroom at work. My standards might be high, I don’t know.

After a quick stop at Tante Zoe’s, the cajun-creole place in Temple Bar (I know. I couldn’t help the curiosity.), I spent some more time shopping on Grafton before taking my late afternoon stroll through St. Stephen’s Green.

For dinner, we half-heartedly put our names in for reservations at the uber-touristy Gallagher’s Boxty House. I visited 6 years ago and liked it, but during our 45-minute wait, we stumbled upon Zaytoon’s Persian. Doner Kebab sounded perfect after 2 weeks of potatoes.

Tomorrow, we go to Italy!

We are nearly done with our main visit to Dublin this month. Since I was in the final stretch, and not reconciled to leaving, I took a long walk to The National Gallery & Grafton Street’s shopping options this morning.

Turns out, I’m a big fan of Irish artists of the 19th & 20th century. Namely, Paul Henry and his contemporaries. I’m a sucker for the way they use color and the mood of their work.
Then I learned in the giftshop that my book full of walking routes is packaged here differently as History and Mystery walks. Maybe it means they did the American packaging right that I wouldn’t be as interested in picking this up than the one I did:

The state of the Euro vs. Dollar being what it is, I’d avoided shopping. I remembered a few things I wanted to investigate regardless — so, off to Grafton Street. I hit up the fance Irish Department Store Brown Thomas for clothes and the hidden Dublin outpost of Ladurée. I picked up several lovely things though the shopping curtailed after a stop at the sweets. I would’ve gone back to the other departments, but the shopgirl doling out les macarons was a bit big for her britches, all eye-rolly like she had health insurance just for existing. So, I left Brown Thomas for the more earthly Marks & Spencer, where they didn’t have some clueless 21-year old who made me feel like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman trying to shop for her first nice dress. (I did like the good sir out front, though.)

Too much money later, it was time for dinner at The Winding Stair with Mr. T. Very good, but as we’re spoiled by great meals all week, this fit right in & didn’t make a name for itself. I’d go back, especially for the bookshop on the lower level.

We took a long stroll home via the Liffey.

On my way back to get ready to meet Sasha for dinner, I made what was supposed to be a brief stop at one of the coolest ideas for an exhibit ever: A Woolly Wonder: Hyperbolic Coral Reef at The Naughton Institute slash Science Gallery, a part of Trinity College Dublin. They had a few reefs represented, an area to participate by crocheting (interactivity!), and even a Maths exhibit to demonstrate the geometric models of crochet and the ocean. You can read more about the hyperbolic coral reef exhibit here. And there is even a TED Talk about the project.

I spent far more time there than I planned. Here are photos I took:

Dinner was at L’Gueuleton, yet another fantastic recommendation from Sasha, but this time WITH Sasha. I had the goat cheese tomato tart, Mr. T had the Toulouse Sausage and potatoes. AMAZING food & cozy atmosphere in a busy part of town. Recommended. I wish we had this place in Seattle.

Then I took the DART out to Dun Laoghaire for another afternoon walk by the sea.
Once upon a time, James Joyce lived here. He later set the opening scene of Ulysses at this tower.

Temps had turned for the colder, so I took a break in the Joyce museum. The lady in charge was so kind — asking quickly if I was a stranded traveler, were my plans affected? I told her we still didn’t know if our honeymoon would be in Italy or not. But then I voiced that there were far worse places to be stranded and we had weeks more of exploring to do in Ireland should our flight be cancelled. She said that was so lovely to hear. It was true. I left the Museum, resolving to read Ulysses sometime.

I walked another mile or so before heading to the train station for pub night with Mr. T’s colleagues. Time to watch Barcelona vs. Milan!

Kilmanhaim was built as a humane prison based on the theories of Jeremy Bentham but spent far more time housing “criminals” during the famine and rebels during political conflict. The leaders of the 1916 Easter Rising were executed here. Its last inmate became the future prime minister of Ireland. The doors were officially closed for good in 1924 after over a century of operation.

As our guide talked of how the British could have fed the Irish during the famine, how crops did grow in Ireland for shipment back to England while the Irish suffered The Great Hunger or migrated, I couldn’t help but think of the news story I’d read that morning. The one about all that food bound for Europe, rotting today in Kenya due to grounded planes.


From the Gaol

Afterward, I walked back from Dublin 8 past the Irish Museum of Modern Art — past the outdoor exhibits and Royal Gardens and past St. Patrick’s Hospital and the Guinness Storehouse.

In the field at Irish MMA

Before dark, I caught a bus at Christchurch back to our hood by the Grand Canal. For dinner, Mr. T & I paid a repeat visit to one of our favorites: Juniors Deli. If you ever visit Dublin, Juniors needs to be in your top 3 places to dine. We walked home along the canal.

But first, we awoke in an overcast Belfast. Overnight, we could hear beleaguered hotel staff shepherding a British stag reveler to his room (notice a theme?). There was confusion as to where his friends were staying but they weren’t big fans of him lying in the hallway. By the way, ours was the 10th floor, home of the Bill Clinton Suite. I took this picture for my Mom. She’ll be so proud.

I’d be pissed if I were Clinton since it was across the hall from the elevator. Sidebar: I’m still not sure what was going on, but a ton of people were rappelling down the face of our Hotel this morning as we waited to pack up our things. The people watching seemed festive, so I assume nothing was awry.

After taking a few pictures of the murals in Belfast (no, no, certainly not intimidating!), we decided to take the quickest motorway north for more time-sensitive places first.

The skies cleared as we arrived in Bushmills. We drove right past throngs of Sunday churchgoers to find the Distillery tour, where Bushmills has bottled for hundreds of years and where their new owner Diageo now bottles Jameson’s. There were families in our tour — reminding me of the time my parents took me on the Anheiser Busch tour. Sadly there were no clomping Clydesdales here, so I don’t know if the kids carried away the same positive memories I did. Nor could they get any stuffed animals to keep for the next 25 years. Old Bushmill’s should look into mascot opportunities. Lunch post tour in the distillery was great. Irish Stew Steak on potatoes! I bet there was whiskey in that and the lunchroom lady kept calling me Love.

Next stop: Carrick-a-Rede Rope Tour. This isn’t the sort of thing I’d normally hunt down, but it was on our way to the Giant’s Causeway draw. Tip: I’d go out of my way for this place; it’s gorgeous. You hike to the rope bridge to take in more views which were spectacular.

Finally we arrived at today’s biggie: The Giant’s Causeway.

It’s a UNESCO World Heritage Site, but also part of the National Trust, like Carrick-a-Rede. Mr. T had heard of this amazing geological formation years ago & suggested we visit. Stacks and stacks of hexagonal stones. It might not have made my radar otherwise & was a vacation highlight. Legend has it that Finn MacCool build the road to visit his lady in Scotland & a rival giant smashed it all up. In the interest of conservation (of our time), we took the bus to The Stones. Wise move, because we had plenty of energy for the cliff walk remaining. The coast views were amazing.

After our walk, we took advantage of our location to continue a drive through the Glens of Antrim. Shortly after the Causeway stop, Mr. T & I switched driving duties. Confession: there was a half an hour there where I thought I might die. I started looking out the side window instead. It was getting pretty late in the day & we started worrying places would close up shop on Sunday nights in such a rural region (less than 2 million people in all of Northern Ireland). So we stopped at the end of the Glen drive in Carnlough.

Turns out, Carnlough is the home of the Londonderry Arms – one of the best un-researched happy surprises of our trip. I now understand why food folk rave about Duck Confit. Their “Crispy Confit of Duck Leg nestled on Champ and braised Red Cabbage drizzled with a sweet Chilli Sauce” is to DIE for, Bahbara. To die for. The cabbage was a surprise hit as well. I cleaned my plate of it, for the first time. And now that I brought it up, another surprise of this trip has been learning the Irish are obsessed with two spice profiles right now: Cajun or anything with Sweet Chili sauce. In some of the less notable establishments I was grateful for that sweet chili bottle hanging about. Also helpful to know — champs = mashed potatoes. That took me a week to figure out.

As seen on the M1 Motorway, just north of Dublin.
The rest of the drive was dedicated to getting back to the Dublin Airport. We arrived closed to midnight with a few mishaps (I’m blaming the space cadet from yesterday at Dublin Airport Hertz) but everything got turned in and we wandered to the taxi stand to catch a ride back to the city centre. This was the third or fourth day of suspended flights in European airspace & the place was eerie. We had to wake up the driver at the front of the queue. He drove us back quickly, lamenting the slowness, how it would be 2 weeks before any resumption of normalcy, and he laughed a little too heartily at our upcoming Saturday plans to fly to Italy. Hrmph. Well, there are far worse places to be stuck than the British Isles.

For more pictures of our day in The North, here’s a slideshow.

As this morning’s driver took us to the agency at the airport, in typical chatty Irish fashion, he asked where we were headed. I replied quietly and skipped over the Belfast part, “…County Antrim” (the county on the northern coast of Northern Ireland). He countered with an “Oh dear.” And never mentioned it again. It turns out many Dubliners have hung onto old notions and outdated fears of The North.

Mr. T nominated me for the driving given my one day of experience in the southwest. We hit the M1 & 20 minutes in when I realized the flake of a car agent at Dublin Airport Hertz (who ended up being full of misinformation regarding tolls and returns and whatnot) was incorrect about a full tank. Grr. After a checkin call to let them know our displeasure & to credit our account accordingly, we’d catch a gas station before the Northern Ireland border — gas is cheaper in the Republic than in the UK. Except, there was no sign we’d crossed! So there we were at a Pound Sterling cash-only gas station with only euros 2 km north of the border. Allegedly.

We backtracked to a station that proclaimed “Proud to Be Irish!” A good bet & 45 euro of gas later for a half-tank, soon enough we were checking into the infamous Europa Hotel at lunchtime. We were peckish, so this was excellent timing for the Saturday St. George’s Market. It turned out to be one of the most enjoyable markets (for me) in northern Europe. There were stalls of a variety of foods with a notably more British bent than I expected. But better. At one stall, I went for the curry sampler. Mr. T went for the hog roast.


In my defense, she seemed to be loitering for a snapshot.

The takeaway options were as varied, as were the food products.

I tried the Spicy pie.

But skipped the seaweed buffet to contemplate the spice bins.

After lunch, we wandered a little more through some of the clothing stalls and a neighborhood or two before heading to The Merchant Hotel.

Have we any of these Rain Skirts at the fairs in Seattle?

I’d read somewhere that the Merchant had the most expensive cocktail in the world per Guinness World Records. Yeah, I wasn’t going for that, but some of their other noteworthy options. We chatted up the bartender (pictured on page 54 of the bar book, next to the Clover Club recipe) while the famed Afternoon Tea went on in the grand rooms next door. Sure, the drinks cost $15 USD, but this was absolutely the one experience where this was worth it.

After, we wandered Belfast with a shopping stop here or there and an illuminating Black Taxi Tour of Unionist (Protestant) areas, Shankhill Road, and “The Peace Wall.” Later we paid an early evening visit to the Crown Bar, noted for its private Victorian era “snugs” — booths with doors! I wish my pictures had done the booths justice.

A friend in Dublin recommended some great restaurants like Deane’s or The Ginger Bistro…but it turns out the grounding of flights sent a lot of British to Belfast for hen & stag nights. We could only get a reservation at Cayenne for 10 PM. DUDE. Seriously? After a week without needing reservations in Dublin? After our luck in NYC where we walked in at Babbo & were readily seated? I half dreaded Cayenne — the restaurant had been on No Reservations (oh, irony!) and I worried it was over-hyped. But once Mr. T ordered that Irish lamb, the wait seemed so worth it: the best lamb we’ve ever had. You could sense the locally-raised, grass-fed impact more than any other meal we’d had. I don’t know how prawns with spicy lemon lentils & soy mayonnaise nor salt & pepper squid with nahm jim sauce could seem so magical but they were. I recognized the chef from that Bourdain episode chatting with customer friends; I’m convinced his presence after a brief period away promoting other places has raised the bar.

We ate so much we were grateful to happily walk home at the end of this great day, past many a drunk Brit, who freely swayed and shouted in the street. Certainly not hungry anymore: