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?
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| 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.
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