Becoming a Subversive -- Creeslough, Ireland

Our time in Ireland is quickly drawing to an end. And while I'll embrace the warmer weather, the stinkier cheeses and the cheaper wine of France, I'll miss the windy, untamed, stark landscapes of Ireland's west and north coasts. 

There are few places in which I feel more alive. 

Martin drove Misho and me north along the coast to Bundoran, one of the famous surf spots on the west or Ireland. He and Misho donned thick wetsuits and plunged into the choppy Atlantic Ocean with their boards. 

I did not plunge into the choppy Atlantic Ocean. While Misho and Martin braved the freezing water, I sat in the car and did some writing. Not only because I'm a wimp, but because the wind and the cold of Ireland's coast has been aggravating my chronic sinusitis, and I'd rather not spend the next six months in and out of doctor's offices. Again.

Martin dropped us off at a good hitching spot on the N15, and told Misho he'd see him in Bulgaria come August.

I love that I found a Bulgarian for my Bulgarian to couchsurf with. Win. 

As sad as I was to say goodbye to Martin and Strandhill, I was dreadfully excited to get started towards Creeslough.

Because of Ger.

I'd sent a request to Ger nearly a month earlier and had been messaging him on and off ever since. Because his messages destroyed me. I would collapse into fits of laughter after each correspondence. Which isn't at all unusual for me, but still.

"You're welcome here. Here is Creeslough, north Donegal. It's fantastic here - hills, beaches, shores, woods, forests, rain, lots of rain. Bring a coat. Creeslough itself hasn't got much, it's a fine example of a one horse town where the horse died or wandered away. But there's fantastic places all around it.

Misho doesn't have a spare bottle of Mastika stashed away, does he? I kind of got the taste of that stuff from my Bulgarian lodgers friends. At least it was palatable, unlike the stuff they drank. I'm sure the European Space Agency is still trying to figure out where all their rocket fuel is disappearing to.

You should be aware that somehow I seem to have acquired a cat. He's stinker, and probably evil. He and I have reached a state of armistice, but some people may be allergic or simply not like cats. Going by this specimen, I don't blame them.

Also, I'm currently waging a low-intensity campaign of subtle subversion against typical rural Ireland small mindedness. I might call on your assistance for that. More info on a need-to-know basis, but the target is the beating heart of rural Ireland, the Bingo Session. I'm driving them bonkers...."

I'd write Ger back as often as I could, just so I'd have more opportunities to laugh.

I can't wait to meet this person. Holy bananas. I think I'm more excited about meeting Ger than seeing Donegal. And I've been wanting to see Donegal since my first trip to Ireland in 2011.

Our first ride was a truck driver (and Trump supporter) who brought us all the way to the outskirts of Ballybofey (Irish town names are the best). 

"I've got to drop off my truck," he told us as we tossed our bags out of the lorry. "If you're still here when I get back, I'll give you a lift to the other side of town."

We were still there.

The further north we get, the more difficult it seems to hitch. Maybe it's because the north experienced more conflict recently than the south? It's the opposite of Scotland, though. People up here seem so suspicious. Unfriendly. Closed off. 

So our truck driver (now car driver) dropped us off on the other side of Ballybofey (BALLYBOFEY!) and Misho and I hitched from there. With a particularly zealous chap who was involved in some sort of religion that led him and his multitudinous daughters and sons to Israel every year. 

"I just have to drop by my home for a bit," he informed us as he veered off the main road to Letterkenny. "So we'll take the back way."

"That's fine," I said, thankful that it was a friendly zealot and not the "when are you getting married?" chap at the wheel.

"Want to come in for some tea or coffee?" Zealot asked when we pulled up to his farmhouse.

"That's really nice of you, but we've still got to hitch to Creeslough," I said, impatient to meet Ger.

When my desire to meet someone overwhelms my desire for a cup of hot coffee in fucking IRELAND, it's a pretty monumental event. 

Misho and I stopped at the Aldi in Letterkenny to purchase some groceries for a Bulgarian dinner. My Bulgarian hadn't been able to smuggle any mastika to Ger (he came with only a carry-on bag. Of which I am very jealous every time I have to shoulder Fat Ellie), so we offered the substitute of a Bulgarian meal.  And by we, I mean that I habitually offer Misho's services as cook, artist, and person who knows just about everything there is to know about music whenever I send couchsurfing requests.

"Hey Misho, I told our next host that you're a cook and that you'd share some recipes with them."

"You pimping me out?"

"I mean... I guess so."

Creeslough is only twenty-five kilometers north of Letterkenny, but it took Misho and me over an hour of waiting on the side of the road before we managed to snag a lift. Most drivers just blazed by us with stern or disgusted expressions. One even flung open his door to yell at us, and although I couldn't quite make out what he was saying, it didn't appear to be all that supportive. A smattering of drivers made the familiar apologetic gestures right or left to show they were turning off, but most Letterkennians seemed pretty hostile to hitchhikers.

We're allowed to be here... I thought, feeling a little sick. I know we're allowed to be here. It's not a motorway. There's plenty of space to pull over. We're not endangering anyone. But... but all these people are making me feel like a menace.

This is one of the more frustrating things about not owning a house and a car and working a nine to five. The looks. The looks that make me feel like I'm not only worthless, but my existence is detrimental. Because I'm not a part of a system. Because I'm not contributing the same way so many others are.

We caught a lift at last to Creeslough with a friendly, well-educated Irishman who had also done a lot of hitching in his youth and understood the coldness of folks around Letterkenny.

"Where do you need to be dropped?" he asked as we approached Creeslough.

"Umm... " I flipped through Ger's messages on my phone. "Near the petrol station would be great."

"We just passed it. I'll pull over here and you can walk back up the hill."

"Perfect. Thanks for the lift. We needed you."

We quickly managed to find our host's home and let ourselves in the back door (not because we're disrespectful couchsurfers, but because it was cold, and Ger had told us we could). A few minutes later, our host arrived.

I want to stay here for weeks, I thought as I looked around Ger's happy home, complete with art from Africa, fishing paraphernalia and probably the most terrific cat I've ever met.

I operated as sous chef while Misho directed the preparation of patatnik, a Bulgarian potato, egg, mint dish, and Ger built a fire in the living room.

I love how most Irish living rooms have fireplaces. The rest of the homes are usually FRIGID, but the living room is always deliciously cozy. 

We spent the evening demolishing Misho's Bulgarian dinner, sharing fishing stories, travel stories, and drinking various liquors (Misho was ecstatic to finally drink some Irish whiskey, of which Ger had... err... no small supply).

"You say on your profile you're like Cinderella," Ger said, confused when I asked for a shot of poitin. Which, according to Wikipedia, has been known to make people go temporarily blind.

"I'm like Cinderella in that it's hard for me to stay up late," I countered. "It is not hard for me to drink strong alcohol. I like the things that burn."

Misho and I settled into our respective bedrooms at around one thirty that morning. As I drew the thick blankets up to my nose, I experienced one of those moments of blissful contentment (which may or not have had something to do with the poitin).

Even though I occasionally end up on the receiving end of "you're a menace" look, I'm the one who gets to hang out with people like Ger and his nameless cat. And I'd gladly take all those looks if it means I get to keep experiencing evenings like these. 

Well... maybe not GLADLY... but I'll tolerate 'em. 

Ger took Misho and me on an adventure along the coast of Donegal the next day.  

The timid sunshine (sunshine always feels timid in Ireland.  It's as rare as a hitchhiker in Letterkenny. Up there in the sky, looking at all the clouds passing by, and tremulously insisting, "I have a right to be here... I think?"  ), chilly breeze, daffodils in bloom, and Ger's stories made the morning one I'll remember.

My life has the best ups and the worst downs. 

And what a fucking up this is. I know that people say that you can't truly appreciate summer without winter, ups without downs, Gers without Diarmuids (all the people are saying it), but I reject this. 

All of it. 

Rejection. 

I believe I could spend the rest of my life with people like Ger and never stop appreciating. 

And I think most people say that they can't appreciate ups without downs just to help justify/tolerate the downs. 

We learned that one of the blokes responsible for the Hyde Park and Regents Park bombing in 1982 lives in Donegal. And under the terms of the Good Friday Agreement, he can't be convicted for killing eleven military personnel.

Imagine having a guy like THAT For a neighbor. Holy bananas. 

Ger treated Misho and me to the best coffee I've had in Ireland. At an adorable, colorful shack on the beach.

As Misho wanted to visit some sea cliffs, Ger obliged and drove my Bulgarian and me along some small, serpentine roads to a rugged, wind-blown landscape wherein the ocean dramatically meets the land. As it so often does in Ireland.

"I'll stay here, but you should hike to the edge," Ger peered through his binoculars in search of fishing boats. "Just don't fall off. Don't know what I'd tell Couchsurfing."

Misho and I did not fall off, no thanks to the gales that buffeted us as we fought our way through slick mud and prickly heather to the vertical edge.

Our final night at Ger's was splendid. We became excellent friend's with our host's nameless cat, who enjoys lying on its back and having its armpits scratched. For ages.

And when seven thirty rolled around, Ger and I hopped into his car and sped down to the infamous bingo session.

I donned my most epic, ridiculous harem pants just for the occasion.

"How does it feel to be a subversive?" Ger asked as we filled out our bingo sheets in vain.

"Doctor's orders, number nine!" the bingo lady called out.

 "It feels pretty hilarious," I crossed off nine on my sheet.

What does a doctor have to do with the number nine? 

"Unlucky for some, thirteen."

Ger takes a different couchsurfer with him to bingo every week. Before me, there was a Mexican girl. Before the Mexican girl, there was a Brazilian girl. None of the little old ladies in the small town of Creeslough can figure out how the hell Ger happens to be chancing upon all these foreign women to bring to bingo.

Which delights Ger (and me), and frustrates and bewilders the little old ladies to no end. 

About ten failed bingo sheets later, Ger turned to me and said, "Well, you're no lucky charm, are you?"

"Guess not."

But what we lacked in euros, we made up for in funny looks. Hehe. I want a project like this. 

I mean... I guess my whole life is currently that project. 

We returned to Ger's home, where we drank whiskey, played cards and cuddled the nameless cat.

I don't want to leave. Oh, I so don't want to leave. But what a place to return to someday. By the time I make my way back to Creeslough, all the little old ladies here will have gone completely off their rockers. Baha. Yes. I'll have to come back.