Zagreb Vegan Scene: Green Point

You know why Ireland is so green? Because it is ALWAYS RAINING. That’s what we learned anyway on our trip through the Irish countryside, on our journey from Cork to Dublin. We spent most of this time exploring County Cork after flying into and enjoying the city of Cork, because the region is home to two of the very special places we had to see: Blarney Castle and Ballymaloe. Also, as Husbo says to everyone going to Ireland, you don’t go for the cities; you go for the countryside, the gorgeous, green-as-heck, rainy-to-make-it-all-so-green countryside. And if I can so enjoy myself when it’s so cold and rainy and my shoulders shoot up so high that I get bodybuilder neck (i.e. no neck) then it must be a special place. 

After leaving the city limits, Ireland was almost hilarious in how green it was. I felt like I was on set in a young adult novel from the 1800s. All dem rolling hills! There are tonnes of castles and forts of note to see in the vicinity, but there’s one at the top of every list: Blarney Castle. Drawing tourists by the busfull, Blarney Castle dates back to about 1200AD. It was destroyed and rebuilt in the 15th century but it still counts to say it’s from the 1200s. Over all this time, the castle was besieged and captured and attacked and regained and bewitched and bothered and bewildered and everything that castles should expect to experience, over and over, so now it’s mostly a ruin. But some parts of it are still accessible to tourists, including the thing everyone is coming to see – the Blarney Stone. 

The Blarney Stone, I’ve since learned, is part of a machicolation, which means it’s a floor opening in battlements through which shit like boiling oil  (yikes) or stones could be dropped down on attackers. But that’s a much darker context than we’ve all accepted. The acceptable history of the Stone is that this limestone block above the floor opening of a particularly high battlement will give those who kiss it the gift of eloquence. And that’s why strangers for centuries have shared germs on an old piece of rock. The real legend says that the 15th century rebuilder of the castle, Cormac McCarthy (fork I thought he looked old for the earth but I guess he’s aging remarkably well), was involved in a lawsuit and sought assistance from the goddess Cliodhna. (Pretty.) The goddess told the beloved author to kiss the first stone he saw on his way to court, and lo and behold he was supes eloquent and he won his case, and the Pulitzer Prize. The Stone was then built into the castle walls. 

Another story has to do with Robert the Bruce, apparently gifting the stone to Cormac for his help in a battle that occurred like way before the latter was born at a time when neither of them would have been alive so we’re going to table that one for now.

Obviously all the stories are a load of bullshirt; the real reason we share stranger germs on a stone is because it’s The Thing To Do. So we did it. And this is not just some stone you can walk by and kiss as you tour the castle. Remember I said before, it’s part of a floor opening in the battlements. The Blarney Stone is across the open bit from where you stand, and it’s not on the ground floor. So to kiss it, you sit down on the edge, an assistant holds your torso, and you lean backwards and down so you Spider-Man kiss it while like in a wheel pose. It is super awkward to get into the right position and understand what you’re supposed to do with your body. And it is VERY scary. I am not scared of  heights (not more than is necessary) but I was very shaky when I performed this yoga of the insane. 

I’m glad I did The Thing but damn if I ever want to relive that. 

To let you get your breath back afterwards, the castle features a beautiful garden on its grounds, perfect for strolling around in the rain. 

And to remind you of the crazy thing you just did beforehand, all the plants are deadly.

So fun! Don’t eat poison!

We carried on our way through County Cork (I love saying that like the cast of The Ferryman) to another so fun and so Irish Must Do Thing – a stay at Ballymaloe. ​

 Ballymaloe House is a hotel and restaurant, and nearby they have a cookery school (that’s how we say it in the Isles) and a grain store and the most incredible garden I’ve ever seen. Like every single vegetable you could want, they have growing out there. Meanwhile my windowsill basil died. Ballymaloe is a beloved historical treasure, which Myrtle and Ivan Allen opened in 1964 to show off to the world Irish Country cuisine and hospitality. It’s the best place to stay when you’re out in the countryside because it’s like The Place, historic and beloved. Our room was so sweet and cozy and it felt so appropriate to stay there while in Ireland.

Ballymaloe is renowned for its five-course dinners and its roster of high caliber chefs and cooking students, so dinner was pretty nice. When we went, they weren’t super used to vegan accommodations but said that they of course could feed me. They started me off with a vegetable soup that was lovely (as really any vegetable soup is) and a salad with pomegranates, so even if it ended here I would have been happy. 

There was also great bread (more on that later!) so like, reals happy. As for my main course, it was a nonexciting but nonthreatening rice pilaf with spinach and roasted squash and a cranberry chutney jawn that did not really go. It was fine (I’m fiiine), but I think going back now they would be able to whip up something much more exciting.

And I did get a good dessert! Oh first up I got a palate cleanser of fruit sorbet, which is fun. You don’t get that all that often.

My real dessert though was a chocolate carrageenan pudding! Carrageenan is a seaweed that is used as a thickener. For the pudding, an Irish classic as we were told, they cook the seaweed quickly and then let it soak until it exudes lots of jelly-like substance (fun! not gross!) and then you take the jelly and mix it with milk and sugar and stuff. Mine was chocolate yay and topped with strawberries and dark chocolate ribbons. 

Overall it wasn’t the most interesting meal, but considering it was an accommodation at an institution, I was fine with it. It’s the whole experience you go there for, not just the food. At dinner that night, Myrtle Allen was seated right next to our table. She has recently passed away, so it was really special to get to meet her.

I was so excited about the carrageenan pudding being a real thing that I bought little bags of carrageenan in the Ballymaloe gift shop! We also bought a signed copy of Myrtle Allen’s cookbook (which I included a picture of because I had one). The best part of the gift shop was obviously the best part of anything on earth: the shop doggie. I pet the doggie for a while, along with two children that I did not talk to.

We also made a visit to the cooking school a few kilometers away. The grounds are lovely but pretty vast, and it wasn’t so lovely when we had to retrace all of our many steps to find our lost keys! The gardens there and on the main Ballymaloe property are real goals. I almost snatched some of the chard because it’s hard to find in London but I didn’t.

My favorite thing we did at Ballymaloe was take a cooking class! They have a few on offer and we decided to do the bread making class because we love bread so g-d much. It was so much fun. We made a few loaves of Irish soda bread to be served at that day’s breakfast, so now I know how to make that up right good. I should make that today. The recipe they use wasn’t vegan though, so they also had us made a really great brown bread so that there was bread I could eat at breakfast too. It was a suuuuper liquidy bread batter and they had me mix it by hand so it was hilarious but also like I was wearing long sleeves. I guess that was my bad though. Anyway bread is great. I was sad that we weren’t making loaves for our own taking but we still had several days of travel left so I guess it’s okay. 

So our time in County Cork was loverly, a great opportunity to disconnect from our day-to-day and enjoy nature. And rain. If you’re going to Ireland, you’re going to Blarney Castle probably, and if so, you should pay Ballymaloe a visit. 

After our perfectly lovely time in Almaty, Kazakhstan, it was time to cross into our final ‘stan, the one most believed of Herman Cain: Uzbekistan. There was no easy direct way to go from Almaty to our first destination in Uzbekistan – Tashkent – so we had to take an overnight train (but of course!) to Shymkent, Kazakhstan first, then get a taxi to the border, cross the border, and then get another taxi from the other side of the border to Tashkent. It was exhausting just to think about, but considering how relatively well our travels had gone so far, I was optimistic that it wouldn’t be too troublesome. I think I’ve previously shared on this blog that IQ quote about being an optimist and fool? Yeah. 

​To relish our final moments of Almaty’s modernity, we got an Uber to the train station instead of arguing with taxi drivers. We would have enough of that the next day, oh boy, would we have enough of that. When the car was due to arrive I shut down the little baby laptop and prepared to put it away and get my giant pack on…and true to chitty, chitty form, Windows decided to install updates then. DO NOT SHUT OFF YOUR COMPUTER. You think that maybe it was one of those quick ones since they didn’t ask first? Here’s the picture I took.

150 UPDATES. What in tarnation is that about! This is the kind of bullshit that can put me off Windows forever. I had to hold my computer open in the car, in the train station, as we waited for and then boarded the train. Can you even picture how ridiculous this crap made me look? I had a giant backpack on my back, my stuffed daypack slung on one arm, my ticket in one hand, my passport open in the other, my purse hanging cross-body, and the laptop nested in the crook of my elbow. If I thought people had stared at me before in these parts just for being a Western female traveler, hoo boy, was I in for some learnin’.

Fortunately, this train helped to balance out the fury that the computer caused me. Because of some of the less-than-stellar experiences endured on the Chinese overnight trains, we decided that our first night back on the rails after so many weeks merited an upgrade! We got a private berth instead of sharing with 2+ randos (not to be confused with randis which are usually good) and it was GREAT. And clean! The little compartment had one set of bunk beds against one wall and a little vanity table with a (clean!) mirror and small table on the other side. I thought there was a closet but the inside door was a connecting one to the next compartment, for families I guess. Our neighbors were none-too-pleased when they realized someone was trying to open the door but they had a crying baby so it’s a draw. This little room was so nice, as was the train in general. The bathrooms weren’t horrifying, AND – there was a water cooler! Guysssss! I could refill my bottles with potable water! My baby nephew says to me “drink agua!” every time he sees my water bottle and you know what Huddybear? I did!

​We placed the still-updating computer on that little table and left it to finish. When we went to sleep, it was at number 9. Of 150. In the morning, when it was at 33, we just shut it down and used up ALL of our restraint to not smash it into a thousand pieces.

​As we waved goodbye to the European-style cosmopolitan vibe of Almaty, we knew we were saying goodbye to civilization in general for a good while. Our time in Uzbekistan would comprise experiences on the more raw, less modern side of things, as our itinerary tracked ancient Silk Road stops and historically important towns and landmarks that are more or less untouched since the old days. Meaning, it would be like stepping back in time, especially considering how modern the city we were coming from was. Bye civilization!

But we didn’t realize at first just how drastic the contrast would be and how quickly it would materialize. When we got off the train in Shymkent, we needed to get a taxi to the border with Uzbekistan, and it was quite the ordeal. We asked several drivers for prices but all were oodles more than they should have been according to literally every piece of information – internet, books, hostel employees, previous travelers. We talked to a woman at an information desk by the side of the road (I don’t know if it was official; it looked like the Bluth banana stand without bananas, which I wanted even more than information) who told us in Russian to take this bus that was there and that would do the job. We were about to board but with a little more questioning, we figured out that that bus just would take us into the city center, where we would have to find the bus that would actually take us to the border, or get a taxi. The extra step seemed incredibly unnecessary and unwanted, especially if we would end up needing to negotiate with a taxi there anyway. We might as well just do that now, we thought. So back we went to argue with taxi drivers. Finally we found one who offered a not too bad price, so we agreed and unloaded our stuff and got in and…didn’t leave. The driver instead started filling the other seats with other people. We sighed but this was to be expected, right. Finally the car was full and the driver starting driving and took us to…the other side of the train station. What’s going on, we asked, not actually wanting the answer because we knew there was some bullshit about to come our way. The driver indeed spewed some bullshit, telling us to get into this other van that was there, already full of people. So this driver we had found wasn’t actually going to ever take us to the border. He was taking us to his friend with a van. He actually had the gall to agree to something he was never intending to do and then DRIVE US 15 SECONDS TO ANOTHER PART OF THE STATION. 

Oh man this shit was just the beginning.

We said are you kidding me, no f-ing way, we are not getting into another stuffed mashrutka and paying the price we agreed on as if we were getting a private taxi. So we went back to the front of the station and started all over again negotiating with drivers in Russian the best we could. One driver promised he would just take us and not fill the car with others and we said great let’s do it. We left the station, drove for five minutes down the main road…AND THEN TURNED BACK TO GO TO THE STATION. What the HELL is going on, we asked? OH – he had to pick up another person. At the station. That we had left. You said it would just be us and ALSO WTF, we said. That’s it just this one more, the driver promised. JFC, fine, we said, come on let’s go. We again left the station, and then the driver stopped the car along the side of the main road where a crowd of people were standing. He wanted to pick up another person from this crowd! And not someone he knew about, he was just going to ask if anyone needed a ride. FFS. We yelled HELL NO! Just take us to the f-ing border right now! He reluctantly left and started driving the three of us to the border — at the fastest speed I’ve EVER witnessed any car go, race cars in Talladega Nights included. I was petrified. This guy was such an asshole AND he was a dangerous driver?? Oh my god. We sped down the roads passing every car and weaving through lanes and cutting off EVERYONE else on the road and just holding on as tight as we could, terrified.

When we were sufficiently in the middle of nowhere, nowhere near anything we could see or walk to besides highway and desert, the driver pulled into a gas station along the side of the highway.  He said he needed gas, and didn’t have money to pay for it, so we had to pay for it. Are you KIDDING ME? I started screaming at him in English, I knew he could understand my hatred and disgust at him even if he didn’t know every amazing curse word I used. We are not paying for your gas, you crook! But then he popped the trunk and started pulling our bags out, threatening to strand us along this highway in the middle of nowhere if we didn’t pay up. As much as I despise giving in to people like this, we really had no choice, so I gave him a little money. But no, that wasn’t enough. Apparently gas is very expensive in Uzbekistan or something because he kept asking for more. I really didn’t want to give any more and set a dangerous precedent in case he kept stopping along the way and demanding more money, but luckily that didn’t happen. Just this one instance of extortion so I guess we were lucky. He got back in the car — I don’t even remember if he actually pumped any gas — and flewww down the highway for another hour while I sent him death ray stares from the back seat. He drove mostly in between the two lanes, stopping anyone who dared even think about passing him. I continue to wish him very ill thoughts, naming him like Arya except I don’t know his name but the universe knows who I mean. Get ‘em.

​Finally, finally, he dropped us near the border. We walked up to the gate, took a deep breath to get over the horrible experience we just miraculously survived, and then another deep breath to prepare for one we expected to be equally terrifying. See, the Uzbek border brings with it a lot of rules, and a lot of horror stories. We never heard anything as strict and scary as the stories about Uzbek border guards. They can delay travelers for hours, going through every single nook and cranny of their luggage, opening every container, going through pockets, everything. Worst of all, Uzbekistan has a VERY STRICT and VERY SERIOUS no-drug policy, and their list of banned substances includes things that we can get over the counter in many Western countries. So we had to be careful about every substance we were bringing in, and make sure we had prescriptions ready to show. But the banned substance list is serious, and it’s not something you can get around with a prescription. If you try to bring any of them in, you could go to jail. One of the substances on the banned list? Ativan. I know. Because we did our homework (do your homework!), we knew about this trouble before we left for the summer, so I only packed about as much Ativan as I thought I’d need up until this day, so I wouldn’t have to throw much out. I still had a few extra I had to toss back in Kazakhstan, but nothing worth crying over. It’s just so funny and perfect that the one thing that would have helped me deal with the shitshow that was this country was the one thing I had that they outlaw. COOL GUYS. 

When we got through Kazakh exit, we were given the forms. We knew we had to declare every kind of currency we had on us and in what amounts, so we had counted up all our shiz on the train. This is more annoying than it sounds when you have traveled to 10 countries! We had dollars, we had euros, we had pounds, we had soooo much Chinese yuan that converted to like just a few dollars but takes up so much space, we had Mongolian money, we had roubles (a significant amount since we would return to Russia after Uzbekistan), we had Kyrgyz money, Kazakh money. Man alive this really makes one appreciate the euro zone. We wrote everything down and then had to declare our valuables, including our phones, readers, and the baby laptop. We had read about other white travelers who had to unpack everything and who were detained for hours so we were super nervous. But, luckily, the border guards on duty for us were SO excited to meet Western tourists that they were pretty much just friendly and trying to ask us all sorts of questions, not about what we were carrying but about us and the west and whatever. We SO lucked out. I mean there were no toilets anywhere to be found but still, quite lucky. I guess I could have brought my Ativan in after all but better to be safe than to end up in an Uzbek prison in the driest desert with no toilets, right. 

Oh but then we had to find another taxi to take us to Tashkent. Guyssss. I never want to take a taxi again. But there are no buses! There’s no other way! You just find a guy with a car and you hope that they are trustworthy. Ish. We found an old man with an old car and mistakenly thought ‘hey maybe this old guy will be more legit and somewhat decent than the younger asshat men are.’ We showed him the name of our guest house in Tashkent and he said ‘oh yes I know that place!’ We were relieved. The guy drove us through the nothingness and into the city, where he immediately stopped, got out, and started chatting with two young women. What is going on NOW, we wondered. Then the two women got in the car with us. I know. What’s going on, we asked?? One of the women spoke a little bit of English and she explained that the driver didn’t know where the hostel was, so they were going to help them. Let’s go over this again. The man who told us he was familiar with the hostel not only lied about that and didn’t know it, but DIDN’T EVEN KNOW THE ROAD IT WAS ON. And here’s the kicker – neither did the two women. They were just helping by using their phone maps –WHICH WE HAD TOO. And they showed us that they didn’t know how to read their phone maps, because WE were the ones who ended up instructing the driver on where to turn and how to f-ing drive. It was ludicrous and so frustrating and like, are there ANY taxi drivers in central Asia who aren’t complete assholes? 

Finally, after we screamed NO, LEFT – NO YOUR OTHER LEFT about 40 times, we found our guest house, yelled at the driver to get out of our sight for ever and never come back here again, and entered the house eager to shower and relax. Naturally, the room wasn’t ready yet. 

We’ll talk about that guest house and about the rest of Tashkent in the next post. Until then, I need to go take an ativan.