Dinner at a Truly Authentic Irish Pub

The Philosopher takes a meal at Sweeney's; and then continues to muse about cars.

One of my deepest fears is that someday, Ireland will become like the rest of the world. I fear that someday, concrete, power lines, high-rises, and retention ponds will move in and corrupt the green island. There are so many parts of the country that literally look like they were torn from myths and legends. As you drive along a frighteningly lonely road somewhere in Connemara National Park, County Galway, you almost expect to see a troop of riders from Rohan coming over a hill, spears and shields glimmering in the sun. There is simply nothing out there to remind you of the year 2007.



My musings were abruptly terminated by a crackling of static coming over my two-way radio. One of my partners announced we would stop for lunch in a little hole-in-the-wall pub that had somehow appeared out of nowhere. We had made our way into a sort of steep hollow, where a bowl-lake was peacefully embedded in a massive string of steep mountains. The pub was nestled in a niche beside the lake, surrounded by a rare grove of trees. The road was so narrow through this hollow it seemed more like a driveway to the pub.

The teensy sign read, “Sweeney’s”. That’s pretty Irish. My convictions were further confirmed by the massive Guinness poster decorating the front door. “Guinness! The Staff of Life!” Another one read, “Guinness is Good for You! Gives You Strength!” Aye, says meself, a different kind of strength.

Three American journalists in their twenties walk in a virulently Irish pub. Sounds like the beginning of the worst joke ever spoken. But it was reality for a second, and boy was it strange. We walked in, and blinked in the darkness. It seemed like this pub had never met a light bulb in its life. The only light was the diffused gray glow coming from outdoors. Thus, it gave a poignant power-outage atmosphere to the place. But it didn’t really matter, because the beverages were nice and chilly.

The man behind the bar, who I assumed was Mr. Sweeney, looked like a cross between a 60-year old Simon Pegg and a Model A Ford. He was your stereotypical Irish chap, minus the tweed cap, which was nevertheless sitting atop the modern cash register. The register was probably the only thing that reminded me I was in a financially-dependent, modern, electronically connected world.

There were two other patrons in the pub, both at the bar, relishing some exceptionally foaming pints, and talking what I think was English. Their diction was masked by the thickest brogue I have ever heard. They would have unceremoniously given Prof. Henry Higgins one honking heart attack. These chaps were dropping H’s like peanuts on the floor of a roadhouse saloon.
Nevertheless, it was quite entertaining; a true opportunity to soak up local color.

We asked the bartender if he served anything good for lunch. He said something about “senwishes”, which we reckoned to mean “sandwiches”, and curtly asked us to take a seat. The two chaps drinking their pints turned 90 degrees for about 5 seconds to stare at us, then went back to their conversation. We didn’t feel completely welcome, but we didn’t feel the least bit shunned.

The lunch was fair fare: a very large sandwich with a strange mystery meat that was surprisingly delicious. To be honest, it didn’t really bother me that I had no idea where this meat came from, or the fact the sound of a barking dog had suddenly stopped after the bartender went to go prepare the victuals.

I love the country of Ireland. It’s everything a country should be: long, winding, empty roads, a grand total of about 3 major intersections, about 100 yards of big motorway, and roughly 2 traffic jams a day. Ireland is essentially the world’s best kept secret, and I desperately pray it stays that way.

I muttered this quick prayer as we exited the pub, after a very satisfying dinner. It had started to rain, and a massive fog bank had swiftly rolled in. It was an unearthly sensation: the swooshing sound of the rain was the only sound we could hear. No birds, no creaking trees, no other cars on the road, nothing. It was terribly cold, and the sunlight was transformed into an eerie, gray luminescence. For some reason, it was claustrophobic, chilling, and desolating. As I walked toward my Mini, I found myself walking faster, desperately wanting to settle myself into the familiar, warm, cozy interior of my car.

That is one of the things I love about cars. They are familiar friends in strange places. Especially when driving in uncharted territory, cars become almost like loyal companion, like a faithful golden retriever that won’t leave your side when you trek across strange, barren lands. They allow you to be comfortable and secure while exploring and observing the inhospitable outdoors. The fabulous Mini just magnifies this effect.



DISCLAIMER: THE NARRATIVE DESCRIBED IS COMPLETELY FICTIONAL. A PRODUCT OF THE AUTHOR'S WILD IMAGINATION.

On the Tarmac at Shannon Aerphort

The Philosopher has eleven hours to kill, and he's got a Mini.

Expanses of green, good earth spread before my eyes as Aer Lingus flight one-twenty-something touched down in Shannon Aerphort in western Ireland on a fresh Monday. The tarmac was lustrously shiny, following one of Ireland’s famous 5-Minute Downpours. The timing was exceptional; the perfect start to what I hoped would be a perfect two weeks. I was arriving the morning before the rest of my company to collect our cars and make preparations for the journey. My itinerary went something like this:

Depart from Los Angeles: 8:00 am. Arrive at Newark International Airport. Depart Newark 7:00 pm, as the sun sets. Fly across the pond, head-on into the sun, and arrive in Ireland at around 7:00 AM. Jostle my way through customs, take care of formalities, eat breakfast for the second time “today”, and wait for the cargo plane to arrive at 8:30 am from Baltimore. (Don’t ask why the Publication didn’t just have the Minis sent over straight from the factory in Oxford.) Walk out on the wet tarmac, and help unload the three little mites from the gut of a monstrous cargo jet. Great! Now I have three cars on my hands, and eleven hours to spare before the rest of the crew arrives. What to do?



I decided to choose my Mini and go for a recon mission in the surrounding area; and find some victuals and lodging before the party arrived. The next two weeks would be a “wing-it” assignment; ergo, the Publication hadn’t made any arrangements save for the overseas shipping, an overnite hanger for storage, and finance. We all agreed that to get a feel for the country, we should mix it up, make mistakes, and break as much conventional tourist protocol as possible.

I had my pick of three Minis, all the same, save for color. The choices: fire-truck red, banana yellow, or British racing green. I chuckled at my “early bird gets the worm” good fortune and jumped into the green one. There is something simply irresistible about a Mini Cooper S in British racing green, with white bonnet stripes and driving lamps. It can truly make kids happy at petrol stations.

I get myself all comfy in the Mini’s gloriously cozy interior, and press the Button. Yes, the new 2007 Mini comes with a Button. Just like its competitors, the Ferrari F430 and the Bugatti Veyron, the Mini has an on/off tapper, and it is tons of fun to press. I jiggle the shifter knob for feel, and then plunge it into first. Heck, yes. That works.

Something that bothered me a bit was that our Minis were American models fitted with temporary Irish licenses; therefore the steering column was on the left. It is a pain in the arse to drive on the left side of the road with the steering column on the left. It feels wildly unnatural, compared to how driving on the right side of the shifter knob feels wildly natural. Odd as it is, driving in the British Isles feels easier and more...well, correct than driving on the right side of the road. But, alas, we were fitted with leftist Minis, but it was a small irk that was colossally overshadowed.

The new Mini Cooper has that perfect amount of refinement and funkiness to please any discriminate auto enthusiast. If Steve Jobs were to design a car, he would come out with something very similar to the Mini. (Only the entire center console would have to be removed and replaced with an iPod click wheel.) And not only is it stylishly brilliant, but its engineering and driving is truly in a class of its own. Except the fact that the power window controls are in the center console, I can’t really think of anything wrong with the Mini. Yet. I still had two weeks of hardcore driving to put it through.

The Magic of Mini

The Philosopher gets an assignment.

The tacky-poster-laced cubicles of the Publication were abuzz today, as my editor has just announced three staffers will be Chosen to do an overseas assignment. When we read the memo on the bulletin board, we all sort of looked at each other the same way Olympic ping-pong athletes would look at their antagonists. Around here, it’s almost mortal combat to see who will earn the privilege of being sent on such an assignment. Of course, it is always in a spirit of friendly, campy competition, but it still gives us a motive to impress the Editor-in-Chief more than usual.

The next day, three shimmering 2007 Mini Cooper S models were squatting on the tarmac behind our offices, looking like they had been yanked straight from the Italian Job. White bonnet stripes, driving lights on the grill, sport kit aerodynamics, magnesium-alloy wheels, etc. They aroused the 5-year old inside of me instantly. I wanted to jump right in and take one for a spin. But I gave it up for Lent, since I would be driving them in Ireland in a couple weeks anyway.



There is something simply magical and charming about the Mini Cooper. Sure, small pocket cars are a dime-a-dozen; just stroll through the showrooms of your local Honda, Toyota, and Mazda dealerships. Even Chevrolet jumped on the bandwagon and whipped up the Aveo and the Cobalt. Aspirin tablets on wheels are all the rage nowadays, since you’re made to feel guilty if your car gets less than 30 miles to the gallon. But none of the above have captured the hearts of millions like the Mini Cooper.

Why is that? Listen up, ladies and germs, the Tarmac Philosopher is about to speakenz.

The Mini Cooper has that distinctive automotive feature called character. It has the appearance of something special, something other than your ordinary people mover. Ever since the invention of the car, designers have strained to give their brainchildren character, yet only a few have become as noticeable as the Mini.

People enjoy looking at the Mini. It has balanced proportions; the butt doesn’t make the bonnet look big. It is not opulent; but not boring. It is all-around attractive. I hate it when people say the Mini is a “cute” car. “Cute” is a word I despise when used to describe a car. The word “cute” should be used to describe puppies, babies, and little white cottages. The Mini Cooper is not “cute”, it is “attractive”. There is something at the heart of the Mini’s design that people love: character.

So there I was, sitting in a cabin full of character, relishing the fact that in a fortnight I would be gleefully zipping around in a Mini Cooper S in one of the most beautiful countries on earth. There’s nothing in the motoring world like going on a 16 day adventure-drive with two of your buddies driving Mini Coopers. That is Webster’s Dictionary’s definition of fun.

Stay tuned for updates from the Green Isle.