An abbreviated trip to Dublin

 "Hayden-Jordan cousin collaboration."

 "Ahoy my touristy mates."

"Island in the stream."

"Human molly posing with statue molly's rack."
"Carvery lunch needs no caption." 

"Thoughts from a beer drinker." 

 "I got you giant Guinness."

"Babes of Emerald Isle."


Wearing it well

Nobody speaks the straight truth like Rod Stewart, especially when he’s crooning “You wear it well” or even “Do ya think I’m sexy.” But what if you were to combine those two, like when chocolate first met peanut butter?

Lately, we’ve been getting pictures of folks wearing it well buddymollys style around the world; the verdict: Yeah, we think ya are sexy.

What’s up Peru, what’s up?

What's up Guatemala, what's up? 

Morocco, jump on it.

Where do you wear it?


Lady Lisbon and Papa Surf

Before winter shows her fangs here in Germany, Jeremy and I traveled to Portugal for one last dip in the sun.

Sandwiched between a few days of beach lounging and sporadic surfing in the small town of Prahia da Fonte de Telha was one compact day in Lisbon. 

Jeremy and I had previously been schooled in the ways of malasadas and Portuguese horseshoes thanks to living in Hawaii, but no city has eluded us quite like Lisbon. 

We consider ourselves well-traveled and take pride in our navigational skills when it comes to public transportation in foreign cities. We put forth effort to learn enough words to communicate - order beer, exchange pleasantries, find a toilet, you know, the important stuff. 

Lisbon, however, was a cruel, cruel mistress – beautiful and captivating with her narrow, cobbled streets and sidewalks, (when a trolley passed and you happened to be on a sidewalk, you literally had to suck in your gut) tiled walls, staggered buildings ...
and winding walkways ...
filled with art and mystique. 
We’ve been spoiled by the German efficiencies that were lost on us in the bustle of Lisbon. Streets are not well-marked, no signs exist for the Metro – you just have to stumble upon it - points of interest do not announce themselves and no train or bus schedules exist … anywhere. Even Rick Steves’ directions let us down at times, much to the chagrin of his biggest fan. 
In between meandering around in a state of confusion, we managed to find a flea market where I was reminded of home. 
We visited the Jeronimo Monastery, 
 and sampled wine at the Port Wine Institute.

The 40-minute trek back to our beach hostel took a record time of 3 hours on public transportation with a savings of 14 euros. (I question our frugality at times …) 
Our flight left early Monday morning so we thought it best to call a taxi. We failed miserably. 

After 40 mintues on the phone with 4 different cab companies we had no idea whether they were even coming. In our best broken Portuguese we would request pick-up and give a location. In return we received an earful of the unknown language. With a cringe, we replied “uh, não compreender.”

In an attempt to simplify Jeremy asked, “taxi vir? sim ou não?” (taxi come? Yes or no?) to which our dispatcher replied “sim ou não, OK!”

"Yes or no, OK?" Huh?

We were at our wits' end, expecting to miss our flight when I walked outside and saw the 127 bus pulling around the corner – the bus we knew would take us to the train station.
We ran down to catch it, still packing our bags and began the long trek to the airport. A train and short taxi ride later – we arrived, but our journey home was only beginning. Our first flight was delayed, second flight was cancelled, and we missed the direct train from Munich to our hometown by a matter of minutes. What should have taken about 6 hours turned into a 17-hour ordeal.

Despite the constant confusion and apparent inefficiencies, we still managed to fully enjoy ourselves in Portugal and will definitely be back. 
Many times the universe presents us with lessons, humbling us as only travel can. On this trip, we were reminded that regardless of how calloused our gypsy feet have become, we are walking into many cultures for the first time ... and we still have a lot to learn.