Unfortunately, the traffic turned out to be incredibly sparse indeed.
"There's no one on the road this morning," I shuffled my feet and frowned, optimism slipping down my lips. "Wait... it's SUNDAY. Fuck. We're hitching on a SUNDAY."
Misho seemed a little confused at my sudden hostility towards a seemingly innocent day of the week.
"Nobody picks up hitchhikers on Sundays," I explained to my bewildered Bulgarian. "They're all either at church or they're traveling with their families. Tessa and I made the mistake of trying to hitch from Sofia to the Bulgarian/Romanian border on a Sunday. Ended up stranded in a field of sunflowers for hours."
So Misho and I moped on the side of the road outside our hostel in Annascaul (I may or may not have done the majority of the moping), rubbing our hands to keep warm and laughing at drivers to maintain a fragment of our shattered optimism. Misho even started to hold our "Ennis" sign on top of his head to increase the amount of surprised double-takes.
I feel like we're resurrecting a lost art.
We lingered on the side of the road for nearly an hour, a lone car whizzing past every five minutes or so.
"Fucking Sunday..." I muttered darkly.
You'd think that folks would be particularly generous on Sunday. But no. They're all heading to church to learn about how generous they ought to be.
"You're very grumpy this morning," Misho observed. My Bulgarian is an artist. And artists observe things. Like grumpy Americans who aren't getting a lift as soon as they like.
"Grumpy McGrumperson," I glowered at the deserted road.
And then Jason, a young Irish builder with piercing blue eyes, stopped to give us a lift to Tralee.
The warmth of his van resuscitated my flagging optimism.
"I can drop you off at the bus station," Jason told us. "Even though the public buses are on strike, there is still a private bus operating between Tralee and Limerick. Should cost about ten euros."
"I'm feeling too optimistic right now for the bus," I smiled, momentarily forgetting Grumpy McGrumperson. "Maybe drop us off outside of Tralee and if we get stuck, we can walk back to the bus station?"
We didn't get stuck. We caught a ride with an elderly couple all the way to Limerick.
"I think it takes a lot of courage to travel the world alone," the woman commented in response to my travel saga.
"I think it takes a lot of courage to commit to one place."
Courage I still don't quite have... but courage that feels close enough to taste. To smell. A new home finally seems more like a beckoning reality than a hazy dream.
Misho and I stood on the roundabout outside of Limerick with our signs for nearly an hour before we were able to snag ride number three.
But what a ride it was.
"And where are you heading, then?" the elderly fellow at the wheel asked.
"Well, our sign says Ennis, but we want to get to Doolin. Just thought it would be smart to hitch to Ennis first. Where are you headed?"
"Oh, nowhere in particular. We're just out for a drive, we are," the woman in the passenger seat replied. "It's Mother's Day in Ireland."
Mother's Day AND Sunday. Jesus. I'm surprised we got any lifts at all.
"We can take you to Doolin, sure," the old man nodded as he sped onto the motorway.
Misho and I looked at each other in amazement.
"That would be so wonderful," I gushed my gratitude.
"Have you seen Father Ted's house?" they asked as we neared Doolin.
"I have, but Misho hasn't," I replied.
"It's only a ten minute detour. Would you like to see Father Ted's?"
"We would love to see Father Ted's."
And so, for the second time in four years, I ended up at the home of Father Ted.
By the time they dropped us off in Doolin, I'd gone and gotten attached to the elderly couple and "goodbye" felt a bit more painful than usual. It was one of those brief encounters I'm sure I'll carry for ages. When people ask about my experience in Ireland, I'll retell the story of the couple in Clare who happened to be out for a drive and decided to go in our direction.
It's amazing how such little moments can create such lasting memories.
I messaged our host, an Irish eco-sweater maker named Diarmuid, to tell him we'd arrived in Doolin. Then we puttered around town for a couple of hours, waiting for Diarmuid to respond with instructions. When our host finally replied, it was to say that he wouldn't be back at his studio (where we were surfing) until seven thirty, so that we ought to take ourselves to the Cliffs of Moher in the meanwhile.
We didn't make it all the way to the cliffs, because Ellie is the size of a well-fed water buffalo, and does not, a pleasant hiking buddy make.
So once we found a soft patch of grass with a decent enough (spectacular enough) view, I eagerly relieved myself of my water buffalo and gracelessly collapsed onto the earth beside her.
Hitchhiking will always be an adventure, but it will never be easy. All I want after a day of hitching is a cup of tea, a glass (or three) of wine and a bubble bath.
Which isn't ever NOT what I want... but still.
We began our long walk back to Diarmuid's as the sun began to set, and I cursed the bad timing under my breath.
This is one of the definite downsides of couchsurfing. Lack of flexibility. Needing to comply with the schedule of another. Missing out on a sunset over the Atlantic Ocean near the Cliffs of Moher because we need to meet our host at seven thirty.
"Have you got sleeping bags? Campin' stuff?" Diarmuid immediately asked when we arrived at the studio.
"No...I have a sleeping sheet," I timidly answered the brusque Irishman.
"Well, I have a sleeping bag," Misho offered.
"Right then, here's a sleeping bag one of you can use," Diarmuid pointed to a bag on the lone, small couch.
Where will we sleep? I apprehensively looked around the studio with its tiny couch, fireplace, cement floor and sawdust everywhere.
"Here's the bathroom. Light doesn't work. You can use the kitchen here," Diarmuid blazed ahead. "Did you bring groceries, now?"
"No... we couldn't find a shop in Doolin," I responded even more timidly. Feeling like I was doing absolutely everything wrong.
"There isn't a shop in Doolin," Diarmuid seemed impatient. "You've got to buy your groceries in Lisdoonvarna."
"Oh, I'm sorry. When I was here four years ago, I remember buying cheese and meat at a shop in Doolin. Guess it must have closed."
"Are you hungry?"
"Yeah, but we can just go out to a pub or something."
"Pubs are expensive. It'll cost you fifteen euros."
"I know, but we can't walk to Lisdoonvarna."
"Just ask, like. I can drive you. All you got to do is ask."
"Hey, that would be fantastic."
"All you got to do is ask, like," Diarmuid repeated."Do you know what you want?"
"Yeah," I looked at Misho and shrugged.
"Well, I can only take one of you. Just one seat in the van."
"I'll go," I volunteered. If there's one thing in this world I win at, it's quickly assembling cheap ingredients into some manner of meal.
"Right, we'll be back in fifteen minutes," Diarmuid told Misho and his Italian couchsurfer
"Thanks so much for driving me," I broke the silence in the van. "It's really kind of you."
"It's just a drive, like," Diarmuid brushed off my gratitude. "Not as if I'm walking."
"Still. I appreciate it."
At the shop, I frantically flung butter, rice, onions, garlic, butternut squash, cheese, mushrooms, courgette and eggs into my basket. Then rushed out to where my host was waiting in his van.
"You don't have to run," he commented as I heaved the groceries onto the floor. "I may come off as really hard, but I'm not. I'm a good person."
"Mmm."
"Do you mind if I drive to see the sunset?" Diarmuid asked as he started the engine.
"No, not at all. It's gorgeous tonight," I stared at the brilliant pink sky.
Back at Diarmuid's studio, Misho and I began meal prep. Diarmuid sat on the fridge and regaled us with stories about his stalker from Colorado (who is also a yoga teacher, oddly enough).
"She came and smeared menstrual blood outside the house, telling me she was pregnant. And I was all, do you know what menstrual blood means? Then she sang outside my window for a whole day. Had to call the Gard."
We were also told the many ways through which humanity has destroyed the planet (which is true, just a moribund type of conversation). And we became aware of his love for rescue chickens.
"Make sure to visit the girls out back before you leave," our host instructed us.
"How many chickens do you have?"
"I used to have six, but now just three. They were rescue chickens, see. Two of 'em died and a fox got another. We've got loads of foxes in this part of Ireland."
Then Diarmuid showed us little chicken suits he knitted for his rescue chickens. And I thought of my mom.
"Can you not shower today?" Diarmuid asked as we sat down to our dinner of squash and rice. "To save energy. Just because you used the stove. You can shower tomorrow."
"Sure, we don't need to shower..." I replied, trying to keep the frustration out of my voice.
We're not allowed to shower because we used the stove to cook dinner? This feels a little... extreme.
We spent a sleepless night on Diarmuid's sole couch, Misho sitting up and me lying down with my legs flung over my friend. Our host had told us we could saw one of the wooden pallets to bits, to make a fire in the hearth. But the fire only crackled on for an hour or so, and then the large workshop settled into a cold that made poor Misho shiver from where he sat. Eventually, I relocated to the freezing, cement floor so that we could both be horizontal. And as I lay there, trying to sleep in the pile of sawdust that was once a wooden pallet, I remembered some of my original expectations about returning to Europe.
I'd hoped Europe would be the land of unsurprising hot showers and soft beds.
Yet here I am, in a pile of sawdust on a cement floor. With not even a cold shower available to me.
Expectations are the worst.
When morning finally dawned, Misho and I stumbled into the kitchen, utterly exhausted and slightly delirious.
I slept better in fucking Nepal.
We sluggishly fried up some eggs for breakfast and then ambled into Doolin for a cup of coffee.
I facebooked Hanne, the Danish woman with whom I'd spent some remarkably meaningful days during my previous trip to Doolin, and we settled on a time to meet at a pub that evening. Then I drank my coffee, pined a bit for my fruit bowls and cheap cappuccinos in Thailand, and told my Bulgarian I was ready to adventure to the Cliffs of Moher.
It would have been perfect to stay with Hanne again. But... but I get really nervous about making the people I want to keep in my life feel used. Like I want them for their resources and not for you know, THEM. This woman has touched my life profoundly. She helped facilitate one of my first experiences with stillness in the Burren four years ago. And I don't want my first interaction with her in three years to be, "Hey, I'm coming to Doolin -- you got any spare room?" I'd much rather it be, "Hey, I'm coming to Doolin. You around? 'Cos I'd love to see you."
Misho and I slowly, slowly made our way towards the iconic cliffs.
We stopped to frolic about the tide pools, to snap some photos and to comment for the 72nd time about the excellent weather we chanced upon.
"It doesn't even feel like we're in Ireland," Misho squinted into the sun. "It was like this when I was in Dublin and Kilkenny last September. And the buses were on strike then, too. So now all I know about Ireland is that it's always sunny and the buses never work."
"It was sunny when I was in Ireland four years ago," I mused. "The buses weren't on strike, but the bus I took from Cork to Doolin broke down half way and I ended up stuck in the blazing heat on the side of the road for a couple of hours. So they're either on strike or they're breaking down."
Hunger pangs hit hard at about four thirty, so we quickly, quickly rushed back to Diarmuid's to prepare ourselves some more squash and rice.
Feels like I'm back in Iceland. Except back then, it was bags of boiled rice and cans of beans.
Hobo diet.
Diarmuid and the girls out back joined us for dinner. We ate our squash, chased ambitious chickens off the table and chatted with our host about the world's imminent demise and how his stalker from Colorado recently invented the username "BlissfulCalm" just to tell him that he was going to "BURN!"
"Do you want to get a bottle of wine and watch the sunset?" Diarmuid asked us.
"Well, I'm meeting my friend at eight down at Doolin Hotel, so I don't think I have time. But that sounds like it would be fun."
"Aw, you can go down to the pub at nine."
This. Is probably one of the clearest signs that someone doesn't know me at all. When Girl says she'll be somewhere at eight, she will be there at eight. Even in Ireland.
Hanne and I spoke for three hours, our conversation lulled only by the live music every now and then. It seemed as if I simply fell into the connection I'd experienced with her four years before.
This woman exudes presence and strength and creativity and warmth. And even though she's only left a few footprints in my life, they've been some of the most meaningful footprints in my journey thus far.
"Can I give you a ride back to Diarmuid's?" Hanne asked when she noticed that my eyes had begun to droop into my empty pint.
"That would be glorious."
On the way to Hanne's car, we ambled past our host, who was smoking and chatting with a woman outside the pub in the cold night air.
"We're heading back to the house," we told him. "See you tomorrow morning."
"See you," he puffed his cigarette.
"What are you doing in the morning?" I asked Hanne before slipping into Diarmuid's studio.
"I'm free."
"Want to get coffee together before we hitch out?"
"Maybe my place? Then I can drop you off where you can hitch to Galway."
"Yes. That."
So Hanne swung by to pick us up from Diarmuid's the next morning at nine. Misho had done a quick sketch for the man of his "girls out back," but he was in no mood to appreciate the gesture.
"You just walked right past me," he carped. "All I see are some surfers and Hanne walking past, heading to my house, and I have to walk."
But... we said goodbye... and we thought you were happy at the pub. Jesus. Seems like he just needs something to gripe about.
"Sorry about that. We thought you wanted to stay. Anyway, Misho did a drawing for you," I handed Diarmuid my friend's sketch.
"Oh," our host refused to be derailed from his complain train. "Thanks."
Hanne brewed coffee for me and some tea for Misho in her quirky kitchen just outside of Doolin. And made sure to let me know that I was absolutely welcome to stay with her during my next trip to the Cliffs of Moher, whenever that happened to be. Then she dropped us off at a good hitching spot and invited my friend and me to spend another day in Doolin with her, should our thumbs fail us.
Friends like these are ones I want to keep. For as long as life lets me. My goodness.
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