#1: The Big Red One

Galway, Ireland

Ah, nothing like a few of my favorite things to close out 2011: an Irish setting, some nice hand-painted handiwork, an eye-popping color contrast, scenic bits of flaking rust, and an unexpected location (front of a Galway Dumpster, anyone?). Oh yes, and in the title, a reference to an old war movie, which I'm amazed I don't manage to work in more often considering how much time I spend watching them. I might have to spend all of next year tracking down pictures of Steve McQueen and writing about the typography in the credits of The Great Escape to get my fix. But then, I wouldn't dream of doing that to you, loyal readers...

So here we are: the end of the number line. Another year, another 365 numbers. Though sometimes the constant deadlines drove me mental, it's been so much fun picking through my collection and sharing the best and the brightest of the bunch. I've enjoyed having so many readers drop by and visit, whether you comment or just have a look over your morning coffee. I knew #1 was going to have to be special in a year filled with so many of them scattered about -- it was totally worth paying that bill late just so I could have an excuse to write 11/11/11 on that check -- and I hope this one does the year justice.

Those of you who followed along in 2009 know that even after reaching a big milestone such as this, I'm not terribly good at remaining quiet. There were the Helvetica postcards, the homages to Dublin dereliction, and the "hey-look-at-me-I'm-posting-unthematic-things-and-it's-making-me-uneasy" apologias. You can expect -- if not more of the same -- more meanderings and stabs in the dark in the new year as I continue to make disturbances in the blogosphere. But in the meantime, I want to wish you all a very happy new year and to say thank you for making Ampersand Seven one of my favorite shared obsessions ever.

#8: Crazy Eight

Galway, Ireland

#17: All Chalked Up

Galway, Ireland

#20: Swanning About

Galway, Ireland

#78: Nostalgia Kills

Galway, Ireland

My Nostalgia 2011 tour of Galway didn't go so well, at least on certain counts -- I now remember the day trip mostly for the rain and how I spent an entire lunch copying down, verbatim, the certificate on the wall from a 1989 Soviet fleet in praise of McDonagh's fish and chips. But I did stumble upon some good numbers when I wasn't being all interior n' pensive, and this is one that actually made me stop in my tracks it was so friendly and welcoming. In this age of mass production and commercial uglification, I'm a sucker for stuff done by hand, and I will do my best to document any and all such numbers I come across in my travels. It was back to near-empty pubs, soaking wet socks, and tables-for-one not long after, but at least I have this reminder that sometimes the joy isn't in re-visiting what used to be, it's in being open to surprises you didn't even know were there.

I sometimes wonder if the person who drew this address on their door had any idea that their unassuming piece of handiwork would one day, however briefly, brighten the spirits of a water-logged girl in from New York City. (Look -- it even has a snick in it!) But it did, and I'm grateful. The best promise I can make to myself is to never, ever go back to Galway and try to look for it again.

#98: Bohermore Bar

Galway, Ireland

#113: From a Dublin Train

Dublin - Galway train

Intrepid shot-through-a-train-window pictures rarely turn out the way I think they will. Shot in a moment of fleeting interest, they are often blurry, unfocused, off-kilter, and yet utterly capture that weird excitement of spotting something -- anything -- through a scratched and foggy train window that will be gone in a matter of seconds. Sometimes I hardly know what I'm shooting, only that a shape or a sign or a flash of color has caught my attention and I feel the compulsion to grab it.

This number I happened to spot on the platform as the Dublin to Galway train was starting its slow chug out of one of the stations. The triangle makes a good frame and the stenciled numbers fit ever so snugly inside. And when I look at it now, far removed, I can still imagine the quiet rocking motion of the train. I can still see the wooden slats of the platform disappearing and the passing green landscape as the train travels westward.

And I can't dwell long on the weird solitary beauty of train travel without my thoughts drifting off to the lovely Robyn Hitchcock song, "I Often Dream of Trains." Ever feel like a song just crawled up into your subconscious and burrowed there and made it its home? This is one of those for me. I have loved it a very long time, almost as long as I've loved trains.

#115: The Prettiest Water Retention System Cap in Town

Galway, Ireland

One of the first things I like to do in a foreign country -- after that initial rush of exchange rate hubris has passed and the cash machine has spit out my fresh stack of Monopoly money -- is take in the small details.

I get a lot of pleasure just noting he differences in everyday things: the shape of a faucet or the different melody when the subway doors close. I also like to learn how to ask for basic needs -- food, water, coffee, bookstore, and so on -- and can generally pick up the word for "water" quite easily, which I often learn from looking -- where else? Down. So I have pondered UISCE in Ireland and VODA in the Czech Republic and good old WATER in the U S of A.

Is it time for my annual fawning links to Manhole Covers, Etc. and Sewers of the World, Unite! yet? 'Cause I smell a golden opportunity.

Seriously, y'all. If you're not looking down at the manhole covers, sewer caps, and other distracting sidewalk shiny things of your city or the places you travel, you're missing out on something special. Consider this #115. The ornate and suggestively Celtic design on something as quotidian as a water retention system cap tells us something about how those Galwegians take pride in their city. It's sure as heck the prettiest retention system cap I've ever had the privilege to trip over while wondering if I'm supposed to LOOK RIGHT or LOOK LEFT when I'm crossing the street. And the fact that it goes unnoticed by most? That just adds to the charm. (Present company excluded, naturally.)

It's a common misconception that tourists only look up when walking through the cavernous streets of an unknown city. Oh no. When it comes to scouring a new metropolis, we sewer lovers of the world (who have never, as far as I know, willingly united in any place other than the internet) know the treasures are often hidden closer to street level. We will look down, around, under lampposts, and behind fences for treasure, crouching in alleys and kneeling in supplication before the asphalt gods for a closer look. We will annoy you as we block the crosswalks to take photographs of, what, our feet? A crushed Coke can in the gutter? We also will come for your children, but that's not till the zombie sequel film.

And whether you like to look up, down, sideways, or backwards, one thing remains clear: sometimes it's not such a bad thing to be a tourist in your own town.

#120: Well-Weathered

Galway, Ireland

It's too bad that hurricane -- excuse me, that tropical storm -- hit last weekend, since I need a good excuse this weekend for why I didn't get around to posting today's number till, oh, mid-afternoon. Clearly this infraction reeks of Post Procrastination Disorder, that rare condition that strikes one at holiday weekends when one's dutiful tapping away at one's keyboard seems a bit antiquated and lonely. Does anyone give a toss about blogs anymore? In any case, I'm happy with today's weathered offering from Galway and glad to see it up. What else? New York City has emptied out for the weekend, and I'm going to celebrate this fortuitous turn of events by curling up with this overdue stack of library books and a camera full of Iceland photos that need sorting. Happy holiday weekend, all.

#126: Spot On

Galway, Ireland

This rather large #126 -- painted on the shuttered gate of a Galway art gallery -- actually made me gasp when I turned the corner and spied it. Hunting for numbers, you get used to squinting at far-off mailboxes, zooming in on obscure awnings, and crouching over manhole covers for glimpses of miniscule numbers that when the streets hand you something like this, you feel like someone's handed you a giant lollipop.

#154: Blue Boat in Galway Bay

Galway Bay, Ireland

On a rainy day in Galway (is there any other kind?), I sat by the window of McDonagh's, greedily consuming a platter of fish and chips, gazing out at the foot traffic as it to-ed and fro-ed, wondering what the hell I was doing in Galway. I'd arrived on the train from Dublin just after noon and had fooled myself that I would somehow save my personal McDonagh's fishfest for dinner, and there I was, twenty minutes off the train, following the crunchy whiff of chipper and drifting toward the counter with visions of cod swimming in my head. I'd already figured it was likely to be the highlight of my day trip, and maybe I was setting myself up for disappointment by making the pilgrimage so early on. But there I was.

Galway and I have a bit of previous between us, and I'd approached the solo journey with some trepidation. My aim was nostalgia, pure and simple. As the train chugged its way west, I did some calculations: it had been well over ten years since I'd last set foot in Galway, and I was anxious to go back and see what remained -- or didn't -- of my fond and not-so-fond memories. On the wild, rocky shores of Galway Bay, I had fallen in love (with the bay) and had my heart broken (on the bay), and landscapes have a way of storing up memories you didn't even know you had, then unleashing them on you with gale force wind. Stepping off a train into so much history can be disorienting. I needed some fried food to ground me.

Beneath a miscellany of framed knick-knacks and vaguely seafaring-related certificates I feasted alone. I noted the sign over the door to McDonagh's that informed me MANAGEMENT RESERVED THE RIGHT TO REFUSE ADMISSION and wondered why the past tense. Nautical knots dangled in a diorama on the wall. Under the hangman's knot and the wagonner's hitch, I poured more salt onto the deliciously salty chips and noted a giant shell from the Irish Naturalist's Journal with the heading: THE OCCURRENCE OF AN EXCEPTIONALLY LARGE ESCALLOP FROM THE WEST OF IRELAND. Was this why I had come to Galway?

Gazing out gloomily at the wet, dismal day, I spent a long time chewing my lunch and reading an aged typed certificate on the wall, which I diligently copied into my notebook, for no other reason than I had no companion or iPhone handy and the grease on my fingers would've easily destroyed any book I was reading. The paper, affixed with a golden seal, read:

We certify that the establishment of P.J. McDonagh restaurant and fish delicatessen is the finest purveyor of marine food of all ports of call of the Soviet fleet in Atlantic and Pacific waters. It is with great pleasure we commend this certificate for fine food and friendly service.

Master of R/V Professor Marti

Chief Mate

Vladimir Pelipenko

Alexander Pavlov

The 24 of March 1989

The Port of Galway

I finished my fish and chips, swallowed the last dregs of warm Coca-Cola, then added my own footnote to the margin:

"The fact that I stopped to copy the entire text tells you a lot about my loneliness, I think."

The author "gettin' all introspective n' shit" on Galway Bay, January 2011