A Roadside Attraction -- Galway, Ireland

I'm starting this post from the kitchen of Oliver's apartment in Letterkenny, Ireland. The wall to my left sports a colorful map of Ireland's Wild Atlantic Way (and famous Irish pubs), and the cabinets in front of me are bedecked with several years worth of couchsurfing photos and travel tickets. And they're topped with empty beer bottles, even though our extremely talkative and hospitable host hasn't had a sip to drink for the last three years. 

Which isn't very Irish.

A clock ticks steadily, loudly, obnoxiously to my right. I usually don't mind the ticking of clocks, find the sound soothing, even. Like rain on window panes or train tracks clicking, clacking underneath me.

But not when I'm woefully behind. When I'm woefully behind, the ticking of clocks sounds more like an alarm that won't stop blaring. No matter how many times I hit snooze, it persists in spite of me, TO spite me. 

There are loads of reasons I choose to move quickly. And loads of reasons I loathe moving quickly. And since Misho and I have been on the road every two days since the 21st of March (and I've been moving every day or two since my Thai massage course ended nearly a month ago), I've become intimately reacquainted with these reasons. 

Pros: Meeting more people, seeing more places... and... that's about it for me, I think. 

Cons: Losing my sense of routine. Not being able to "settle in". Falling behind on things that are important to me, like this blog, my yoga practice, Skype conversations with family. When I'm not on the road, I'm researching how best to get on the road again and where to stay once I get there. It all feels very relentless and I don't get a lot of my much needed introvert time in which I can focus, relax, center, write.

So I'm behind on this blog. I've yet to write about Galway, Strandhill and Creeslough. My goal is to catch up before flying to France on the 8th of April, but... well... we'll see what life throws at me. It's awfully unpredictable these days. 

Misho and I stood where Hanne had left us outside of Doolin for about forty minutes, underneath oscillating timid sunshine and chilly drizzle. 

Adventure? Gosh. Right now all I want is to get back to a country with cheap buses that don't go on strike every few months. Ireland isn't nearly as friendly towards hitchers as hitchwiki.org made it out to be. I'd hitch Scotland over Ireland in a heartbeat.

Eventually, a father with young daughter and dog in the backseat pulled over to give us a lift to Lisdoonvarna. And I spent the fifteen minutes warming up and chatting with the cute little girl in her carseat. 

"What's your name?"

"India." 

"That's a pretty name. How old is your dog? He's so cute," I exclaimed as the puppy fell into my lap.

If I had kids, these are the lessons I'd want to teach them. TO talk with strangers. TO pick up people on the side of the road who look like they need help. TO trust. I understand that the world is dangerous, but it won't become any less dangerous by teaching children to fear and ignore who and what they don't know. 

But maybe this is one of the reasons I shouldn't make babies. 

Misho and I walked to the outskirts of Lisdoonvarna and stuck out our thumbs again. We waited for about twenty minutes before an elderly couple picked us up. 

"We hitched ourselves, back in the day. We know what it's like to wait on the side of the road." 

I wonder what will happen to the hitching culture when all these elderly people aren't driving anymore. I get the feeling it'll just die off. We're an endangered species, Misho and me. 

"Where're ye coming from?" the couple asked us. 

"We've just come from Doolin. Which we really enjoyed, but found a bit touristic. Like, there was a shop selling build-you-own miniature Irish stone walls. They were probably selling a handful of pure Irish gravel for ten euros." 

"Was the brand called chancing your arm?" the fellow at the wheel chuckled. 

"Umm... I don't remember what the brand was called..." I tried to picture the box. "I didn't really look that closely." 

"No, it's a saying in Ireland. Chance your arm. Means to take a risk that might not pan out. Do you not have that saying in the United States?" 

"Well, I've never heard it before. But that doesn't really mean much." 

The couple drove us all the way to Kinvarra, a picturesque town 30 kilometers south of Galway. 

Where we waited. And waited. And waited. 

People gave us thumbs up. People ignored us. People waved. People grimaced. One chap in a motorhome (where I'm sure there was plenty of space) pressed his iPad against the windshield to snap a picture of my Bulgarian and me as the sped past. 

See? Endangered species. We're a roadside attraction.

Finally, an empathetic woman en route to a business meeting just outside of Galway stopped to give us our final lift. 

"I can't get you to Galway, but I'll get you close enough." 

"Fantastic!" I replied, thinking she'd drop us off at the town before Galway, and we'd be able to hitch to the city center from there. 

"This is where I turn off," she slowed the car to a stop. "You can walk to the bus station across the road and ride into town for two euros." 

"But... aren't the buses on strike?" 

"Yes... oh, yes, they are. I'd give you a lift all the way into town, but I'm late for a meeting. I'm sorry." 

"How long will it take us to walk?" 

"Twenty... maybe thirty minutes," the woman guessed. 

"Oh, that's fine. If it was something like two hours, then it would be a bit sketchy. But thirty minutes is totally doable."  

So we thanked our ride, shouldered our bags and began the slog into Galway. 

"That was an incredibly optimistic lady," I moaned as the promised half hour turned into an hour turned into an hour and a half turned into TWO HOURS. "Galway fucking Galway." 

"Galway fucking Galway," Misho agreed. 

I had blisters on my feet and fat Ellie had wreaked havoc on my shoulders by the time we stumbled into our unapologetically sterile hostel. 

"Want to just get groceries from the Aldi and stay in tonight?" I rubbed my sore feet and cracked my back. "I don't think I feel like walking around much." 

So Misho made me a Bulgarian dinner with poached eggs and feta and yogurt. Which I recommend everyone try. Yesterday. 

                                    

Misho and I meandered through Galway's walking street the next day, popping in and out of art shops and lustfully perusing the menus of expensive downtown restaurants. 

Galway does not specialize in hobo food, I thought as I glimpsed three oysters for six euros. Where are Thai prices when you need them? 

In Thailand, Bourget. Thai prices are in Thailand. Where you are not. So it's time you adjust to not being able to afford oysters anymore.

 

In between groaning over food prices, Misho tried to teach me how to squat like a proper Slav. Which seems like something everybody ought to know.

"Oh, we have a yoga pose for that. It's called 'malasana,'" I settled down into my squat.

But squatting shouldn't be taught by a western yoga teacher.  It should be taught like this. By a Slav.

 We wandered along the coast and I thrust my numb hands into my pockets and tucked my red chin into my three sweaters.

There are more things I miss about Thailand than being able to afford oysters. Sheesh. This kind of biting cold is unbearable. How do people live here? I understand visiting every now and then, but LIVING? 

Misho is no western spy.

My willpower petered out by mid-afternoon, and Misho and I retreated back to the relative warmth of our hostel. Where I mercilessly fought the other hostel guests for kitchen space to make my pear and parsnip soup.

What a "meh" kind of experience. Last time I was here, there were Christmas markets and couchsurfers who actually, you know, responded. And worked hard to show me a good time in their city. But now, it's just dreary weather, restaurants we can't afford and a crowded, impersonal hostel. 

I'm glad we came... but... maybe I shouldn't have forced it. Maybe I should have taken the hint when fifteen couchsurfers just didn't respond to our requests. Maybe we should have accepted that resounding "NO" from life and simply gone somewhere we felt more welcome. 

When will you learn to stop forcing things, Bourget? Is it that hard of a lesson to learn?

Yes. Apparently it is. Fucking Galway proved that. 

The Girls Out Back -- Doolin, Ireland

The weather was brisk but bright when Misho and I stepped onto the road outside of our hostel in Annascaul. We stood armed with a solid breakfast, hitchhiking signs and beginning-of-the-day optimism, and felt ready to take on Ireland. We plopped the backpacks down and readied our signs to beseech oncoming traffic for their spare seats.

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. 

Dingle Animation Festival -- Annascaul, Ireland

I'm starting this post from the mushy brown couch of the reading room of Sleepzone Hostel in Galway, Ireland. The walls are painted bright red and plastered with posters of famous musicians. Abysmal pop music resonates through the many rooms and I escape into my favorite playlist on YouTube. 

Misho and I sent out at least a dozen thoughtful requests to couchsurfing hosts in Galway, and received two declines and... crickets for our efforts. So we decided to book a cheap hostel for two nights, because Galway really is a charming little city, and Misho ought to see it. 

And I would like to visit Galway without getting frostbite. Ugh. That was a tough first trip to the west of Ireland. 

While I type, Misho putters about the hostel's sterile kitchen, preparing some manner of Bulgarian dish with poached eggs and yogurt.   

There are worse things than traveling with a Bulgarian who loves to cook. Mmm... yes, I could get used to this.

I landed in Dublin's airport at around three thirty pm on the twenty first of March. Because of my daunting experience entering Ireland in 2013, I was a bundle of anxiety. 

Which makes sense. I mean, last time I was here, they took me into a narrow corridor, interrogated me for forty-five minutes and inspected every single item in my carry-on. 

My heart pounded and my knees knocked as I approached the stern looking woman at passport control. 

"Hello, here's the address of where I'm staying my first night in Dublin and here's my EasyJet ticket that shows I'm flying out of Belfast on April eight." 

The woman took my documents and scrutinized them for a moment, four of five blokes with badges breathing down her neck as she did so. 

She must be in training...

"What brings you to Ireland?" 

"Well, I'm going to visit some friends in Cork and Doolin and I want to explore the west coast. And I have a friend from Bulgaria whose film was accepted into a festival in Dingle, so I'm going there for a few days." 

"Have you been to Ireland before?" 

"Yes, in 2013 and 2011." 

The woman rummaged through the blank pages of my Canadian passport, which has no evidence of any adventures until I started using it in Malaysia this January. She furrowed her dark brows into a frown. 

"What were you doing in Ireland?"

"Just traveling... exploring...I think Ireland is a really beautiful country," I deliberately did not mention volunteering, after how much trouble that word had landed me when I'd proudly brandished it in 2013. 

"And these friends... how did you meet them?" 

"I've spent a lot of time traveling and I'm always meeting people. I have a friend in Cork because of a yoga training in Spain ages ago where I met an Irish girl who introduced me to a lot of her friends. I met the friend in Doolin when I was at the Cliffs of Moher in 2013." 

"Do you have addresses for any of the other places you're staying?" 

"No... I didn't think I'd need them." 

"How much money do you have?" 

"Plenty. A couple thousand in my bank account." 

"Do you have bank statements you can show me?" 

"No... I mean, I'm only here three weeks. I can show you my credit card." 

The woman frowned again. I was surprised she didn't hear the knocking of my knees. 

"Is something wrong?" I asked, bewildered by the intense interrogation over such a short trip. 

"No, nothing's wrong," the woman replied, looking over her shoulder at the blokes behind her. They nodded their heads, and the woman stamped my passport. 

I HATE IRISH PASSPORT CONTROL. Never, in any other country I've visited, am I interrogated so fiercely and made to feel so unwelcome. I don't understand it. Holy hell. 

Ellie was waiting on the belt for me when I finally arrived, appearing slightly resentful that I'd allowed her to idle there so long. Like the last kid to be picked up from school. 

Not my fault Irish Immigration has somehow decided I'm a threat to Ireland. 

Misho's flight had landed just a few minutes before mine, and my Bulgarian friend was waiting for me at arrivals with an enormous hug. 

Nothing better than someone meeting me at the airport. 

Misho had visited Dublin a few months earlier and still remembered how to get around. I, on the other hand, had forgotten nearly everything except Lochlann's quaint kitchen and the clay pot for use on safari. So Misho took over the navigation, and I gladly relinquished it to him. 

Finding my own way around a city is empowering and I love it... but sometimes it's relaxing to just stare out a bus window and not wonder how to get to where I'm going when the bus finally rolls to a stop. It's nice to just stare out the bus window. 

We met Misho's friends at Hogan's Pub for a couple of drinks before driving to their home. Where I sat in front of a fire, drank a glass of red wine and cuddled their excessively friendly dog named Freckles. 

Francesco's flat is beautiful... but it isn't a home. There are no photos on the walls. There are no messes in the kitchen. Or anywhere, for that matter. There's a coffee table with coffee table books and a bowl of oranges and bananas in the kitchen. Which does not, a home, make. 

This is a home. A place where people allow their stories to collect. And now I get to sit with Aran and Gillian's stories.

We boarded a bus Eireann for Cork at noon the next day. We'd considered hitching, but the aggressively cold weather and the illegality of hitching on the motorway deterred us. 

"If it's an adventure, we hitch. If it's an ordeal, we bus," I stated my motto out loud to no one in particular. It's something I need to tell myself every so often, as I'm the kind of lady who has the tendency to get caught in ordeals. And life is too short and too precious to spend the whole damn thing trapped in an ordeal. 

My friend Patrick picked us up from Cork Bus Station three hours later, and I experienced one of those glorious moments of complete astonishment at the kindness of people. One of those moments wherein I'm able to forget my burgeoning cynicism and just feel gratitude. Patrick is a fellow I'd met briefly during my visit to Cork in 2013, and we'd messaged each other on facebook a few times. So when Misho's film was accepted into Dingle's animation festival and we added Ireland to our summer adventure, I facebooked Patrick. 

If you have the space for a couple of vagabonds, would you be up for hosting us the night of the 22nd of March? If not, NO big deal. I can definitely find something on couchsurfing or we can stay in a hostel. I just wanted to ask you first.

And of course, Patrick said we could stay. And he picked us up from the bus station, introduced us to his hill-walking friends at a pub, prepared us a delicious breakfast the next morning and dropped us off at a perfect hitching spot outside of Cork.

All whilst sick. From what he said was a virus, but I think was some bad pudding, as neither Misho nor myself caught the sickness. 

And he would do all that for a complete stranger and for a vagabond he met only briefly four years back.     

Six and a half hours and seven rides later, Misho and I finally arrived in Annascaul, a small village about twenty kilometers east of Dingle. We'd hitched with so many people for such short distances, that our drivers blended together. 

Except for John. 

John had one seat in the front and a mountain of carrots, tables, blankets, and a timid looking border collie in the back. 

"One of you has to sit in the back," John said when he pulled over. "Only one seat up here."

"I will," I volunteered, forever eager to experience the unorthodox. 

John was a Welshman living in Ireland. A chap who'd traveled the world years back, but was currently living off the dole because his best friend had recently undergone a leg amputation. So John quit his job as a builder and became a full-time nurse to his recovering friend. 

"He's finally startin' to get around," John continued as we sped along and I struggled to keep myself aloft on a topsy-turvy table and not tumble onto the tremulous border collie. "After he's able to look after himself, I'd like to travel again. I spent one New Year's in the Saraha desert. You know those tricycles with skis on the bottom? Went into the desert with fifty people, and we all got drunk and rode those tricycles down the sand dunes. And if you ride 'em down, you have to push 'em back up. On the way up, my foot hit something hard in the sand. So I dug around a bit and pulled out a full bottle of unopened whiskey! Yeah... I'd like to travel again..." 

John dropped us off a few kilometers down the road and wished us luck on our trip. As Misho and I shouldered our backpacks and got ready to stick up our thumbs, John rushed out of his car again. 

"Here's my number," he handed Misho a slip of paper. "If you want to drop by for a meal or a place to camp out for a few days, you're more than welcome." 

This man has so little. And he's willing to share it with a couple of hitchhikers. 

I experienced another moment of astonishment. 

Our hostel in Annascaul was run by a vivacious chap named Bryan.

"You're the Canadians, then?" he asked when I told him I had a reservation for two days. 

"Well, I'm from Colorado, but I have a Canadian passport. Which I use more often these days... Misho is from Bulgaria." 

"Then why do I hear a Dutch accent?" Bryan looked confused. "I have a lot of people coming in and out of here, and I've gotten good at placing accents. And yours is Dutch." 

Why isn't Maud around to hear this? 

Bryan showed us to our dorm and explained the showers, the wifi and the morning's free breakfast. 

"Should we pay you now?" 

"Nah, we can take care of that later, like," he waved me off. 

Misho and I walked the two kilometers into town for a pint at The South Pole Inn, a pub which commemorates and celebrates the life of Irish Arctic explorer, Tom Crean. A fellow who may very well be the most badass explorer of all time ever. He participated in three expeditions to Antarctica in the early 1900s, spent 492 days stranded on ice with his men, then sailed in a lifeboat for 1500 kilometers to find help for the rest of his stranded crew. 

Suddenly I don't feel so hardcore for hitching 150 kilometers in Ireland...

Bryan had told us that the first bus between Annascaul and Dingle would pass around eleven am. But since the film festival started at nine thirty, Misho and I found ourselves on the side of the road at eight o'clock with our thumbs up. And after forty minutes of waiting in the bitter cold, stamping our feet to keep warm and blowing on our freezing thumbs, we snagged a lift. 

"We're on our way to the film festival," we told our ride. "But the bus doesn't start running until eleven." 

"The bus won't start running at all," the fellow at the wheel informed us. "The buses are on strike. Drivers aren't getting paid enough." 

"Oof. How long do you think the strike will last?" 

"Who knows? Don't see the issue getting resolved anytime soon." 

Well... guess that means we won't have a backup. I mean, I wanted to hitch anyway, but it's always reassuring to know that if no one stops, the bus is an option. And now the bus isn't an option. People will just have to stop. 

We arrived at Dingle's Animation Festival right on time, collected our passes and filed into our seats.

Look at us getting lucky with rides. Hope the rest of this trip takes a similar tone. 

Most of Friday was about guest speakers. I heard from people who worked on Mulan and How to Train Your Dragon. I heard from people who worked on The Secret of Kells. And even though I'm not an animator, I enjoyed being surrounded by such a passionately creative group.

However, Ireland was spectacularly sunny that Friday, so regardless of the bubbling creativity, I abandoned Misho in the afternoon and went for a walk about Dingle.

The awards were announced at around nine pm Friday night, but we had to hitch back to Annascaul before dark, else it would mean a three and a half hour walk. In the dark. In the cold of an Irish... umm... spring. Which neither of us were particularly keen on.

That's awkward. I hope Misho's film doesn't get nominated for anything since he won't be there to receive the award... but it would sure be great if he were to win an award. 

We shared a bottle of cheap French wine and a chocolate bar from as we watched "Hunt for the Wilderpeople" in front of a roaring fire.

Mmm... reasons I'm happy to be in Europe. Wine. Chocolate. Friends. Cozy living rooms with roaring fires. 

The next morning, Misho scribbled "BUS ON STRIKE" onto a piece of cardboard, and "DINGLE" into his sketchbook. So he held the town sign and I wielded the "feel sorry for us because there's no bus" sign, and we found ourselves in Dingle for the second day of the festival in no time at all.  

Misho spent the afternoon being productive and making connections with other animators, and I just bought some blood pudding for dinner and watched films.

We managed to get a lift to our hostel from someone who took pity on us due to our sign. Where I cooked up our black pudding and we spent the evening watching Louis Theroux and game-planning our next day.

A two hundred kilometer hitch to Doolin. Oof. Haven't hitched that distance in ages. But... Irish people are friendly. Except at passport control. And since the buses are on strike, I'm sure they'll be extra helpful. It's just... no backup plan... in the cold... Blurgh. 

It's okay, Bourget. The worst that can happen is you get dropped off in the middle of nowhere and no one will pick you up. So what? In Europe, the middle of nowhere is like, five miles away from a town. Middle of nowhere in Europe does not equal middle of nowhere in Colorado.  You might have to walk a few miles to get to a town wherein you can book a hostel. 

A lot of walking and paying for a hostel isn't the end of the world. So don't act like it is. Since you're hitching regardless of whether or not it feels like an adventure or an ordeal, approach it with the mindset of adventure. Find the fun. And the hilarity.

London Layover -- London, England

I'm starting this post from Francesco's kitchen in his immaculate apartment near Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens. His walls are just as white as they were during my last visit, and the tea kettle is still empty with the lid open (he has anxiety about mineral accumulation). The taupe blinds in the stark living room are raised just over halfway.

They can be raised no more, no less. Just over halfway is where it's at for those taupe blinds.

Just like last time, poor Ellie was banished to the backpack closet. Backpacks are closeted creatures at Francesco's. They are rarely permitted to pop their bulky selves out into living spaces, and if caught by Francesco to be lingering too long, are greeted with a "What are all the backpacks doing? I see so many backpacks! One, two, three..."

There are many backpacks at Francesco's because the generous, affable Italian hosts legions of couchsurfers. During my first night, there was a Polish couple in the guest room and a Danish American chap beside me on the living room floor. The Polish left before I could meet them, and were immediately replaced by a young Estonian couple.

"Aimee, can you help?" Francesco enlisted my aid in stripping the bed. "We must prepare for the next shift." 

A bowl of bananas and oranges rests on the table in front of me. I do a double-take to make sure they're real.

They're so big and perfect and plasticky. And don't smell like fruit in Thailand. It's the difference between fresh-baked, homemade bread and wonderbread from City Market.

There are two spotless, marble counters to my left. One counter with a stove top and another counter with a toaster, the open kettle, a sink with drinking water and a robust coffee machine.

How I've missed you, drinking water... drinking water and just... a kitchen. In general. I've missed being in a home with a kitchen. This is the first real kitchen I've experienced since my last night with Misho in Sofia. During the past three months, I've only had Ganesh's kitchen with its two burners, a propane tank, a wok-cauldron and a brooding teenage boy. Oh, and Santa's kitchen with its firepit in the corner and an elderly woman with no teeth who slaps you on the face if you wear shoes.

"I'm so happy!" I crowed as I guzzled a glass of clear, decidedly not death water straight from the tap.

My trip to London was excruciatingly long. However, as I lackadaisically moseyed over to each transfer point between three and nine hours early, there was zero stress in the three day journey.

This is how I do. 

 I even caught myself tap dancing though Heathrow and KL airport. And my fellow passengers sent me almost as many perplexed sideways glances as they toss in Boy's direction when he blissfully dribbles his beloved football through terminals.

I tapped to Sufjan Stevens through Bangkok's train station . I tapped to Jack Johnson through Bangkok's airport, where the fellow at passport control looked at me, looked at my passport, looked at me again and then commented incredulously, "But... you look eighteen!"

I tapped my way through Kuala Lumpur's international terminal to a bench without armrests. And then I waited. For ten hours. As hobos like me do who decide that saving a few bucks is more important than, you know, sleep.

Then the ten hours of sitting/sprawling/drooling on an extraordinarily productive airport bench transformed me into an unhinged creature from the impending apocalypse. And I did not tap. I just stared morosely at my phone as the hours languidly passed by. When my phone finally informed me that I'd survived until five am, I abandoned my bench to wander the airport until I collided with a smoothie shop. Where I bought a smoothie in an attempt to be more human, less apocalyptic creature.

My flight from KL to London boarded at nine am and departed at about ten. A technologically savvy but armrest etiquette devoid five year old sat in the seat next to me. And often meandered over into my seat during the course of the fourteen hour flight. I found myself taking on the role of headrest for a gently snoring munchkin more often than not.

And I can't yell at a five year old.  Blurgh. 

I arrived in London at around four thirty pm and was chuffed to discover that as a Canadian citizen, I was invited into the fastlane.

Must be because I'm a subject of the Queen of England. Knew that would pay off one day.

I didn't get asked any questions about where I was going to stay, how long I planned to stay there or what brought me to London that miserable afternoon.

"And have you been to England before?" the officer asked as he stamped my passport.

"Yes, last July."

"Last July?" the officer flipped through the empty pages of my Canadian passport. "Why isn't it marked here?"

"Because I used my American passport at the time. I have dual citizenship. I... uh.... prefer to use the Canadian one these days."

"Oh, right!" the officer glanced at my passport. "Says here you were born in California. Well, you don't sound American, do you?" he mused at my jumbled accent while apocalyptic passengers teemed behind me. "You sound... Quebecois."

"Thank-you," I retrieved my stamped passport and smiled, deciding it would be best to not tell the insightful chap that I've never, en fait, been to Quebec.

While I waited for Ellie at the belt, I opened my laptop, connected to Heathrow's free wifi and messaged Francesco. Who had already sent me several frantic messages on Skype asking whether or not I'd landed.

I grinned in wry amusement. 

This guy. Gosh. It makes sense that some people get frustrated by how overbearing he can be. But... but I just love feeling cared about. Maybe not even cared about. Just... it makes me happy that someone notices my absence. Like when Jerry the British Canadian missed me when I was late for fruit salad. 

So I messaged Francesco that I'd safely arrived in London and would be making my way to his home near Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens. And at around seven o'clock, after an hour on the tube and half an hour of walking, I finally arrived at Francesco's front door.

"Are you kissable?" the Italian eyed me warily. I had informed my host of my intimidating itinerary, so he was rightly worried about hippie stank.

"Yes," I lied. "I think so."

Wow... this is the first time I've been greeted with a kiss on each cheek instead of a hands in prayer/bow in three months. I'd almost forgotten that people kiss here. 

Francesco quickly ushered me to the shower and reiterated a few rules about the workings thereof.

And I took my first unsurprising hot shower in three months.

I was able to experience hot showers occasionally in Asia, but each moment of warmth felt like a bloody miracle. Now warm showers won't feel as magical as the parting of the Red Sea. They'll feel like a Tuesday.  

Which is a good thing, because it's freakishly cold outside. My poor body is in shock.

Francesco and I Skyped his cousin in Rome and wished her happy birthday. She remembered me from when I'd visited Francesco three years before, because I put her upside down and spun her around a bit. And for some reason or other, people have a tendency to remember events like that.

"Come visit me in Rome!" she invited me to her city.

"Yes, you should visit her," Francesco urged. "She has a beautiful, big apartment in the center of Rome."

"I probably could visit in September," I mused, feeling vaguely amused and grateful for the random invitation. And a little bit in love with my life, wherein random invitations to Rome occur. "Yeah, I could swing by the beginning of September and spend a few days with her before I head north to the wine festival in Asti."

Then I donned two sweaters and hustled down the stairs and up the street to find Maud, my hot Dutch friend who was staying at a hostel two minutes away from Francesco's. 

How fabulous is it that in a city as MASSIVE as London, we end up two minutes away from each other? 

"MAUD!" I flung myself at my hot Dutch friend.

She smiled broadly.

"Hey man," she returned my suffocating hug.

 
We shared a bottle of wine and caught up on some of the happenings during the last three years of our lives.

This person is so important to me... and I haven't seen her in three years. That feels absurd. But it's an absurdity that goes hand in hand with traveling the world. And if I didn't travel the world, I would never have met my hot Dutch friend in the first place.

Eventually, wine plus three days of travel plus jet lag finally overwhelmed my excitement at seeing Maud again after three years.  

"I... can't keep my eyes open..." I drooped pathetically onto the hostel table. "Think I should go to bed. I'm sorry."

Girl be knackered. 

"What are your plans today?" Francesco asked the next morning as he brought me a steaming cup of much needed coffee.

"Not much. Just hanging out with my friend," I mumbled through my epic jetlag.

"We meet for brunch at ten fifteen? You can invite your friend."

"That. Sounds great. Let's do it."

"But where is Bjorn?" Francesco fretted over the Dane's absence.

"He went running this morning at.. uh... six?"

"It is eight thirty now. He can't still be running. Maybe the squirrels attacked him."

"Could be."

"Maybe he lost his keys and is too embarrassed to come home. Oh, if he lost his keys, I will give him a very hard time. AH! Why doesn't he have a phone? Why does no one have phones? Ah...young people," the aging Italian grumbled.

The Danish chap eventually returned fro him run, and we all hopped into one of London's black cabs and sped over to an Italian restaurant. Where Francesco had arranged to meet with seven other Italians for the meal.

"Don't sit together," Francesco instructed us, a delighted twinkle in his eyes. "Spread out."

This person just likes bringing people together. Orchestrating conversation over food.

I want to be like Francesco one day. 

Maud and I spent the rest of our day together ambling through the quiet parts of London and drinking wine in parks. 
 

 

I also experienced a moment of euphoria when I was reunited with creamy cheese.

At one point, I found myself in London's China town. And felt quite discombobulated to see the same red lanterns, some similar architecture, not similar weather and not similar prices.

Pad Thai for eight pounds? PSH. In Thailand, that would be thirty-five baht. Psh. 

...

 Adjusting to Europe will be painful. 

...

I walked Maud to the tube at around three o'clock on a rainy Monday afternoon.

"Let's not wait three years again, okay?" I gave her a sopping wet hug. "Love you, girl."

"Love you too, man."

Blurgh. Feelings. 

Francesco took Bjorn and me to dinner at an old pub that night, then disappeared to another business meeting. None of us couchsurfers have the faintest idea as to what Francesco actually does for a living. We just know that since he primarily works from home, we're not allowed in his immaculate house from nine to five. And that he always seems to have a meeting he's bustling off to.

I'm so glad I got to reconnect with Francesco and Maud. What a perfect welcome back to Europe after three months in Asia. 

And tomorrow... Misho and Ireland.  

What a beautiful spring this is shaping up to be.