A couple of months ago (I honestly can’t believe it’s been months, but whatever) the husband and I went to Ireland. Now that life has slowed down to a non-deadly pace, it’s time to share my adventures.
I have a ton of Irish lineage so heading over there was a dream. We bought the road trips of Ireland book, I forced my husband into doing hours of research, and we were ready to go.
We jetted off to Ireland, grabbed our rental car and headed to Cork! Not gonna lie, the signs in Ireland are way more tourist friendly than the ones we have in America, so we found a super important Cathedral on our way.
Then we arrived in Cork. By this time the jet lag/red eye flight blues hangover had set in. One of the things we read about in the guide book was this stall in a market that had the world’s best olives. I love olives, so finding this miraculous treat became my number one priority.
We found the market and scoured the place in search of olive bliss. And we found it! An entire stall of just olives. Olives stuffed with things, olives from far away places, olives with names I’d never heard! And they were…awful. Spongy, slimy, nasty little things. It was the fourth most disappointing olive experience of my life.
I was distraught, so the husband in his great wisdom made me take a nap. There is a good reason I married him.
Fast forward to after nap time and exploring more of Cork and finally finding a restaurant. We had our firstIrish stouts and I ordered a fancy desert. The server asked if I was just having desert and drinks, and I said that was all I knew I wanted to eat at the moment so he tried to take my menu!
My menu was my comfort object, the world’s promise to me that I wasn’t going to starve. And he tried to take it away from me!
So I spent my first night in Ireland cradling a menu like it was my first born child.