september 10 - day 4

Cork

I took the trains from Dublin to Cobh/Cove on the southern coast. I was searching for the seaside charm and cuisine I'd heard so much about from the likes of Rick Steves and night-time reruns of Anthony Bordain I'd watch after mom was in bed.
The staff at the tourist center/chamber of commerce were nice enough to watch my pack for me, and I walked out into the drizzle to see the town. Five minutes into my stroll along the waterfront I saw two locals reel in a feisty, black eel that must have been 3 and a half feet long. It started raining harder as I hiked around the charming old town admiring the bay, and before long the remnants of hurricane Hannah kindly pointed out which parts of my new gear are not waterproof. While a few drops of water will bead up nicely on my daypack, adventure pants and Spokesman-Review Valley Team wind breaker, they are useless in heavy rain. I took refuge in a huge, gothic church on the hillside and prayed for a few minutes while warming up and figuring out what I was going to do with the rest of the day.
If I'd had an umbrella, it would have been useless. The wind picked up and it felt like I'd be blown backwards, up the steep hilll I was decending on my way back to the train station. After a futile search for a seafood restaurant reccomended by the singer in Dublin (it's on the second floor of a building across from the old post office) I ducked in to a hotel restaurant. I felt the well dressed guests looking at me in my soaking clothes as I ate Irish stew and cursed gently for forgetting once again to look up how much I'm supposed to tip in my Ireland guidebook.
I took a commuter train back to Cork and found a hostel called Bru above a bar. I met a nice Australian in the room. He was in town looking for a job as a prosthetics specialist in Ireland, where it is apparently easy to find work right now. We shared a pint at the bar where I met another traveller. He and his teacher girlfriend were visiting from France and I got to try out my French for the first time in years.
Cork is as a big, down-to-business place that's a lot more blue collar than central Dublin.
The downtown is as archetecturally grand as other large Irish cities and just a bustling with shops, tourists and glitzy storefronts. I was staying across the river. It was still a busy, decent place but I had a close call walking back to my room that night. I was snacking on my last pouch of US trail mix as I walked when a man who looked to be about 40 walked up to me.
"Hey, give me some peanuts."
He reached out his hand, and taking him for nothing more than a drunk guy with the munchies I poured some trail mix into his hand.
"Look at this," he said, showing me a jagged line of stiches closing a cut on his knuckle.
"Fuckers," he said, shaking his head.
As he walked away I saw him glance at the woman he had been walking with earlier and I knew that something had happened.
I felt for my wallet and found it but looked down to find a tuft of my left pocket turned out.
Fortunately my consistent worrying about this sort of thing had paid off. My wallet was deep in my other front pocket and my passport, cash and all but one credit card were securely in my money belt.
All of the guidebooks say violent crime is rare in most of Europe while pickpockets are prolific. My dad used to say that if you're with a bunch of people and being chased by a bear, you don't have to be the fastest runner in the group. You just can't be the slowest.
It pays to be one the smarter tourists in town.