Misho and I drove out with Sarah early the next morning. Our cake-loving Australian dropped us and our bags on the side of the road, said a quick goodbye and hurried off to work.
I liked her. I hope we can be travel buddies one day. We'd make good ones, I think.
There were several routes that led to Belfast from where Sarah had dropped my Bulgarian and me, and after about an hour of trying different options, we settled on the one right before a large roundabout. We were eventually picked up by a fellow who wasn't driving all the way to Belfast, but dropped us off just before the motorway that led to Northern Ireland's capital city.
Within five minutes, a BMW pulled over.
Did a BMW just pull over for HITCHHIKERS? That never happens.
But it happened. And it was one of the best rides of our three weeks hitching around Ireland.
"I own two hostels and a bed and breakfast in Belfast," our ride told us. "I get a lot of backpackers coming through... so I make it a point to always pick them up. Where do you need to be dropped off?"
"Oh, anywhere in the city center is fine. We're couchsurfing tonight, and our host won't be able to meet us until later this afternoon. So we were just gonna walk around until then."
"How about I take you to my bed and breakfast? You can leave your bags there so you don't have to carry them around for the rest of the day. It's in the city center. The bed and breakfast."
"Gosh, that's great. And so helpful. And we'll be able to have such a better day without having to cart the bags around. Thanks."
"And if your couchsurfing host doesn't work out, you can stay at one of my hostels. For free. Just let me know," and our driver gave us his card.
People like this are in the world. What an amazing world I live in.
"Help yourself to tea, coffee," our ride said after we'd stashed our bags in the office of the B&B. "Stay as long as you want. I'm going to head out now. Good to meet you and maybe see you again later."
Does it get any better than this?
Misho and I relaxed for a bit, then wandered out into the city of Belfast.
It feels quirkier than Dublin. Lest touristic, for sure. Quieter. Dirtier. Funnier. More industrial, maybe.
Founded in 1888, Belfast is the second largest city in Ireland, boasting a bustling population of 330 thousand. Which tells you something about the size of Irish cities.
It was originally settled by Protestant English and Scotts (after, you know, they'd relocated the local Irish), but as its economy soared, Irish Catholics from the south began to migrate north to Belfast for jobs. Jobs in shipbuilding, tobacco, linen, rope-making. Eventually, the Irish Catholics reached a one third minority.
The Protestants discriminated against the burgeoning Catholic population, and kept them relegated to lower labor positions. So the Catholics petitioned for home government, proposing a bill that would oust the English and Scott Protestants and put Irish Catholics in seats of power. They hoped this would end the discrimination.
The bill was overruled in the House of Commons in 1886. And riots broke out. Riots in which 31 people were killed and hundreds were injured. And nothing else really happened.
Belfast lost five hundred lives during the Irish War of Independence and suffered severe bombings during WWII.
Belfast's most recent conflict in its bloody history is "The Troubles."
The Troubles was a sectarian conflict which raged from 1969-98.
So for nearly thirty years, the backdrop to life in Belfast was blood. Street violence. Assassinations. Bombings.
All in all, 1600 people lost their lives due to this sectarian violence. Not soldiers. People. Men. Women. Children.
Families.
Yes. 'Cos that's definitely what Jesus would do. Oppress and antagonize and murder people who believe something a bit different.
I mean... God would do that in a heartbeat. And did. All over the Old Testament.
But Jesus?
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| I want this costume. But I wouldn't wear it as a costume. I would wear it as pajamas. |
We met our Couchsurfing host, a chap named Andrew, in front of Botanic Rest (our ride's B&B) that evening. Andrew's profile had sent me conflicting messages, and I was worried that our last experience couchsurfing in Ireland would be "one of the weird ones..."
On the one hand, under the "Teach, Learn, Share" segment, Andrew had written that he could teach "Deep Acceptance & Peace."
Which did not enthuse me. As a yoga instructor who teaches around the world, I am well acquainted with crazies who believe that they can channel alien energy into holy mountains, that cow shit becomes a superfood if they meditate over it hard enough, and that ideally, one should survive purely off of sun energy.
And all these people are convinced that they can teach deep acceptance and peace.
Why is it that the people who firmly believe they can teach the world acceptance are the ones so disconnected from the world?
On the other hand, under the "One Amazing thing I've Done" segment, Andrew had written, "cycle 1000 miles through Africa by myself!"
Which did enthuse me.
Andrew seemed normal enough, though. Which was reassuring. He drove us to his home just outside of the city center and introduced us to the bathroom, our couches in the living room, etc. Then I connected to the internet on my phone to download a map of the city and received a facebook message from Sarah.
Our awesome Australian.
It was a picture of what appeared to be lacy pink underwear.
"Where do I post this and your phone charger?"
hehe. She thinks I wear lacy pink underwear. Hehe...
I sent her a quick message, telling her the underwear were not mine. But not telling her that I do not, in fact, bother with the stuff at all.
And I have all my phone chargers... I wonder what she's referring to...
WAIT!
Oh, holy hell.
My laptop charger.
I left it plugged in behind the bed. I did. I left it. Fuck.
I frantically foraged through Ellie anyway, spilling her guts of clothes and paints and mango wood bowls from Thailand onto the floor.
It would cost 80 euros to buy a new charger. That's a lot of money.
Fuck.
What am I going to do without my laptop?
I messaged Sarah and asked if she would mail my forgotten charger to the address in Ambert where I would be meeting Francois and Teddy the next week.
Good thing Sarah was such a great host/person. Imagine if I'd left the charger at Diarmuid's. He probably would have just thrown it out.
I felt deflated. Defeated. Devastated.
I hugged my Bulgarian and cried a little.
"I know it's just a charger. And I know I'll get it back. But my blog... is my consistency. It's my connection. It's my comfort. Writing down my story is what helps me process and channel the chaos that is my life. Even living without it for a short time feels scary."
Misho bought me a feel-better chocolate bar.
Maybe it's time I hang up my travel boots for a while. If I can't even remember to pack my bag properly, there's something wrong. Maybe I'm just desperate to unpack. To settle in somewhere.
I'm tired.
I didn't really re-inflate for the rest of the evening and relied heavily on my Bulgarian for cooking dinner and engaging with our host.
This is when I'm a bad travel buddy. And an intensely irrational person. It's only a blog, for Chrissake. Hardly anyone reads it. I could just write down my experiences in a journal like normal people. But here I am, reacting like my world is crumbling around me because I can't write for what, two weeks?
It's two weeks of no voice.
Our flight wasn't until six pm the next day, so Andrew drove us to Belfast's market in the morning.
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| I wanted to buy these Father Ted coaster's for my friend Cathy, but there's no way they would fit into Ellie for the next few weeks of travel. |
Misho finally bought his oyster. He'd been pining for an Irish oyster since before we even arrived on the Emerald Isle. But they'd always been prohibitively expensive, so he'd just sighed regretfully and continued to pine.
But at one pound a pop, my Bulgarian could afford to leave Ireland with a bang.
After the market, Andrew took us to tour several famous pubs in Belfast, during which he kept touching me in oddly familiar ways. Not sexual. Just... familiar. The way my father might touch me.
I don't appreciate this kind of uninvited touch. I don't appreciate it at all. Is it because I've got trauma or is it because it's unnacceptable behavior?
Andrew dropped us off at the central bus station at three fifteen, and we boarded a bus for Belfast's international airport.
"He was a nice guy," I mused. "But I wish he wouldn't have kept touching me."
"Yeah, he was touching me too."
Why do people feel like it's okay to do that? I mean, I'm obsessed with acro yoga and massage. I'm used to and LOVE touching and being touched. But there needs to be clear, joyful consent and the touch takes place in a certain space with certain expectations.
It's not just someone casually putting his hand on your shoulder as you're walking through the park.
When we arrived at the airport, we checked in no problem, made our way through security and then were greeted with this:
Ireland. You're hilarious.
Our flight was an hour delayed, so I wrote our host in Lyon to let her know that we'd be arriving around midnight instead of eleven. Then Misho and I just waited in the airport, feeling a little melancholy. Our adventure through Ireland had been hard work, and we were looking forward to buses and lengthier stays in France, but...
... but I'm going to miss this chapter, too. The thrill of catching a lift after waiting for an hour. The faces of the drivers. The feeling of camaraderie with my Bulgarian. Just the two of us on the side of the road, with our signs and bags and thumbs. I'm going to miss how he would always make super artistic, fun signs.
And my signs looked like baby scribbles. Bad baby scribbles.
And he would just raise his eyebrows and say nothing.
And I'd get defensive and say, "well, you can READ IT, right?"
...
But every chapter needs to close at some point. And I'll carry the stories with me. In an easily accessible place, so I can whip them out and think of Ger, of Sarah, of the super awesome Mormons who drove us to Giant's Causeway. And of the nameless cat who let me scratch her armpits.
Of the moment Misho realized he might be able to surf in the Atlantic.
Of the courageous, shameless person I become when I hold that scribbled sign.
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