BAR HOPPING

While spending the summer in Galway, studying at best infrequently and wandering almost nightly, I quickly discovered that the tone of the evening was often set by the pub our troupe selected. If, for example, the King's Head Pub at the far end of Shop Street was our destination, I knew that my night would inevitably begin with a tasty meal, usually with the delicious Irish Tapas sampler served unceremoniously in a big tin bucket. Stumbling into Tigh Cioli, on the other hand, always meant a quick round of Irish Flag Shots (creme de menthe at the bottom, Bailey's Irish Creamer in the middle and a splash of Jameson at the top) to tantalize our taste-buds. To experience more authentically Irish tunes, Taafe's would be our destination. There we could sit for hours, listening to whatever band had landed a gig at the local favorite. Exceptional generosity on my parents part always meant a long walk down to the Salt House at the bottom of Shop Street, where an entire wall is dedicated to the literally hundreds of ales, stouts, lagers and porters they kept stocked. When our wallets were thin, however, there was a single pub that we inevitably gravitated towards - The Hole in the Wall. Cheap drinks and an accommodating group of local youths brought us back again and again, making that place the usual end-of-the-night hot spot.

Foreign

Perhaps the most exotic destination I have had the privilege to visit was on the African continent's northern coast -- Morocco. While our foray there only lasted a day and wasn't really logically connected with my Spanish class's trip to southern Spain, it was easily one of the most memorable parts of the trip. We toured the thin, winding streets of a small city and it seemed that around each bend was a strange new surprise awaiting us. In the marketplace, the strange scents of pig meat, left hanging and fresh from the slaughter behind vendors, and foreign spices stung my nostrils. All around the hubbub of the language -- I believe it was Arabic -- sounded oddly musical. Old men, seated in out-of-place looking wire chairs, watched us as they sipped their drinks. The sights and sounds will stick with me forever.

The Ranch

When I was young, maybe ten or so, my family made the long trip across the countries breadbasket to the mountainous and rustic state of Wyoming. It was the first long road trip my parents had attempted with me and my two sisters, and they had chosen to rely upon a small television that played VHS tapes to keep us quiet. The week long trip my father had been in charge of putting together brought us to a ranch where we went on daily rides into the forests and up the mountains of the west. While I don't recall much from those days, I will always remember the sheer sense of timelessness in that place. Mountains dipped into forested valleys. Tough grasses stuck up from rough, rocky crags. The ranch was something otherworldly next to the streets of Chicago.

Lollapalooza

Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming "Wow! What a Ride"
--Hunter S. Thompson

Clouds of smoke billow over the masses, shaking at waves of audio boomed from speakers the size of Mini Coopers. Beer vendor stalls ring in the crowds, funneling Budweiser and Bud Light pounders out to the thirsty concert goers. I can't tell who has the stage now, but it doesn't matter. We are caught in the music, in the crowd and in the summer sun.

Hosted in Grant Park, nuzzled in between the Chicago skyline and the deep blue waters of Lake Michigan, Lollapalooza is must-attend event. With dozens of artists visiting the city in a three day span, there is something for everyone. Rock and rap, techno and old-school jams all make an appearance. Six stages are scattered throughout the park, each with its own distinct vibe. In the techno district, teens splatter neon paint across white shirts and pink, sunburned skin. At the main stage, families gather on the small hillside on picnic blankets. I stand in the middle of it all.