Out of Egypt:

"this brings a whole new meaning to 'he who does not work does not eat'"

-John Buchmann, baking chicken just now. It smells good. I think his chicken with cream of chicken soup will be better than my fried potatoes with curry sauce. We'll see.

I was saying last night to him and Adam Parsons that I don't have much money to travel so I can only travel through food. We were out at a Lebanese restaurant at the time, which was brilliant (British usage). Five pounds per person for breaded whitefish (with the eyes), pitas with tomatoes, lettuce, cucumbers, etc., cheese and spinach pastries, several other appetizer-like things, and, best of all, hummus. And it was all hallel, so my Muslim kosher-ness is secured. The waiter actually asked us if we ate beef before he sent back our order for the chef to prepare. John and I had arak, a Lebanese "spirit" (as the waiter called it, in an awkward moment when he tried to explain to me what it was) which is anise-flavored, like licorice, pale white, and hits you with the force of a hundred camels.

Next door there was a sleazy club, also run by the owners of the aforementioned Lebanese restaurant/hookah bar. It shared a bathroom door with the restaurant, so I, after emptying my bladder, took a peek inside to see how things were going on the dance floor. It was packed like sardines in there, colored lights spiraling, vaguely foreign house music pounding. A rather unattractive British woman glaring at me, since I had hit her with the door when I cracked it open to look in.

Before going to the Lebanese restaurant, we had stopped at an Irish pub near Gloucester Green. They claimed to have the best Guinness in the city, which I thought was a lie, but it was, indeed, good, although still too bitter for my taste near the end. I also had a Harp lager, which was probably the first lager I've had in my whole time here. Despite being excited about the change, it was not as good as I'd hoped. It was rather watery and tasted too much like Corona. It might've been good with a large hamburger.

Some people from the "drinking classes" (as the Oscar Wilde quote above the bar would suggest calling them) were down in the darkness near the musicians were performing. They were dressed like workmen and had obviously consumed quite a bit, I suppose to top off a hard week. I watched one of them go from banging in time along to the music, to almost tripping on the steps, to spilling almost half a pint of beer while carrying it back to the table, to finally nodding off in sleep.

As for the musicians, they were quite good. At first, I wasn't so impressed since I couldn't converse with all the noise and they weren't playing anything I recognized. However, once the fiddle player struck up "Whiskey in the Jar," I was glad that they were there. I found myself tapping in time, maybe even singing along a bit, and wishing that there were people there willing to dance. But no, only lots of young British students flirting with Spanish girls. Yes, I suppose the Irish pub experience is a bit contrived, as Jonathan Kirkpatrick, our Junior Dean, would say. But the musicians closed out the night when last call came around 12 (so early, as we from the States would say) with a bodhran song - one man, one woman, and a whole lot of drumming. It was not boring.