I've been in Ireland—and Frankfurt and London.

Ireland is complex place. The culture is its stereotype manifest, and yet more, as you'd expect, but palpably darker than I imagined.

On your approach, you see the small land mass in the distance, the myriad lights failing to make a grand city, and the airport, even at close range, small. When you enter the airport, you sense that this place has been poor, and as you begin to explore, you quickly sense the boundaries. They are near. Your mind imagines the past—dear god the present yet—this island the encompassment of a world view. To be content here is to embrace insularity.

Did you witness the bigotry when you went? The Catholic stronghold not only on women's virtue but on the very kernel of behavior?

Hold these in context as you pursue the sights and history of Dublin and the places farther afield. You know about the centuries of subjugation, of Potato-Famine starvation and busywork, of imprisonment. Foreign oppression upon self-oppression.

I considered the effects of Irish-American culture on American culture generally.

But this is the subtext.

Overtly, it's a jaunty place, selling its shamrocks and Guiness just so you are not disappointed. And that smile, pulled from the corners of the eyes, the lips moving gently in a wry joke, is the embodiment of charm. Everyone seems to have the gift of gab.

Yvonne was itchin to bust out of Dublin so we went to London. Booked a cheap flight and found a room near Knightsbridge on Hotwire.com.

On the flight over, just as the plane tilted in descent, we heard the enormous and eccentric woman three rows up cry out, "ARE WE GOING DOWN!?" And then, without waiting for an answer and hedging no bets, she commenced a litany of prayer, to every force of good imaginable, including Obama. In 16,000 feet of descent she narrated a passage to certain death that inspired strangers to snicker to each other amid the opposition of silence. The woman, her gods, the silence, the quiet chuckles. When the plane touched down, she ceased, sat upright, and looked around, relieved. I wondered if she actually thought the plane was crashing or whether she felt she had to pray to prevent the demise.

A half a day's travel. Central London. A subway line closed, people rerouted. Football games sucking fans through the tubes that were open. We waited out the lines in a lunch spot above ground before continuing to the hotel.

And finally at the hotel, our cheap-rate fixed, they'd accidentally booked us a double. To correct the error, they put us in singles on the half-floors. You open the door and ascend a flight of stairs to the small room stowed behind the stairway. It was the same size as the tiny room in a Japanese business hotel. A room without neigbors. We looked out the back, at porches and hanging plants.

We walked to Harrod's, that famous place. Without a Thanksgiving holiday to stay the Christmas shopping, the store was in full-on Christmas mode in mid-November. To me, it was like a Las Vegas theme hotel without the gambling. The Food Hall especially seemed like Willy Wonka's chocolate factory, so fantastical were the food and candy displays. Throughout, the classes juxtaposed. I saw people who looked like they could have been Princess Diana's school chums and wealthy oil baronesses from the Middle East queued at counters with tourist riffraff such as ourselves.

We bought marshmallow strawberries, striped mints, and toffees in a tin, and we had cream tea—tea, scones, jam, and clotted cream—at the cafe.

On the return, the rails were damaged between Victoria Station and Gatwick Airport and we were stranded on the train for an hour and a half, causing us and everyone else that afternoon to miss flights and turning our discount fare into a money hole. Just when we thought we might travel all night by bus, train, and ferry to return to Dublin, Yvonne used the name trick to soften the woman at the travel counter and inspire her to call in a deal rate on a hotel and a booking on the earliest BA flight the next morning.

All stranded travelers were doing the same thing. Hotels were jammed, and none had enough transport to pick up the sudden mass of travelers waiting at the airport shuttle stops. It was fucking cold but we dared not leave the platform unless we miss the van when it came; when it did come it had enough seats for only eight people. While the driver tended to the back hatch, Yvonne grabbed the front cab seat and pulled me in alongside her.

The next morning, we were on the first flight out. It was a full-fare flight, uneventful.

In Dublin, a literary pub crawl, the Book of Kells, some shopping, some eating, some meeting friends, and for me, generally, ample opportunity to relax.

Spent a day in Frankfurt on the way to Ireland. A six-hour layover gave enough time for Wolfgang to meet me at the airport, show me the part of Frankfurt that survived the carpetbombing during WWII, and to eat lunch with his family.

Flew Lufthansa direct to Frankfurt. They give you wine and Ritter Sport. Nice! Over Greenland, a man seated in the row behind me vomited all over his row-mates. Six people stood up at once, causing a stir. I turned to see them gingerly grabbing their baggage from under the seat. Later, flight attendants covered the seats with blankets. Later still, the man still ill and confined to one of the bathrooms, the attendants asked for a doctor among the passengers. Luckily, one was onboard.