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. 

"When Are Ye Moving to Connemara?" -- Strandhill, Ireland

I'm starting this post from what our host refers to as "the special lounge" somewhere in the boonies of Northern Ireland. Misho is sprawled out on a brown sofa across the room from me, chuckling while watching a video on his StupidPhone. The floor is carpeted in red, a stately wooden bookshelf stands across from me, filled with important looking leather bound books. Wooden beams line the white ceiling, an ornate silver fireplace squats on black tile to my left and white elephants serve as end tables beside each chair. 

How did we end up here? 

Our couchsurfing host is a house sitter. And she happens to be sitting a mansion. Complete with jacuzzi (just in case), bar, multiple lounges, a pool table and several bedrooms. There are also horses, dogs, cats and a four wheeler. And a dairy farmer named Andrew right next door, who seems to be good fun. Or craic. Which is a word I've been hearing so much lately that it's starting to seep into my vocabulary.

But I still don't say it out loud. I don't want to be that person. The person who spends three weeks in a country and starts using the lingo just to sound cool. So even though I would love to say, "what's the craic?" instead of "how are you?" I refrain. In total, I've spent six months in Ireland during the last six years. Which doesn't seem like quite long enough to earn the right to start "craic"ing.

Misho and I checked out of our Galway hostel at ten o'clock. We only had 140 kilometers to hitch, so I wasn't too worried about the time. However, it took us two hours before we were able to find a decent place from which to hitch and then catch a ride out of the miserable city.

"Thanks for stopping!" I sighed as Misho and I loaded our bags into the car of the Polish woman who'd pulled over.

"Sorry if it smells," she said, gesturing to her sleeping baby in the backseat. "She threw up a while ago."

"No problem," I assured our lift. "We're just happy to be out of the cold."

"I'm only going to Tuam," the woman warned us.

"As long as it gets us out of Galway."

We stumbled out of the car in Tuam, thanked the Polish woman and got ready to hitch.

"I made a mistake," Misho frowned.

"What?"

"I left my sketchbook in her car."

"Oh no! What was in there?"

"Just some sketches... and I have pictures of most of them... but what will we write on to hitch now?"

"I'm a vagabond. I'm the queen of resourcefulness," I said, digging into Ellie and pulling out my packet of "important documents."

Guess I can sacrifice this for the cause... I began to scribble "SLIGO" onto the blank side of a sheet of paper from the hospital in Chiang Mai. So on one side was the name of our destination, and on the other was my diagnosis of chronic allergic sinusitis.

Woohoo. 

 We caught our next ride with a couple of quite proper middle-aged women on their way to Knock airport to drop off a rental car.

"We'll need to hitch from Knock airport to Westport," they told us. "There won't be any buses, since they're all still on strike. So we picked you up for good karma."

I grinned in the backseat, imagining these two women in their high heels and fancy clothes thumbing for a ride.

Now that's a roadside attraction. 

We were dropped on the side of the road just before the women turned off to the airport. So with three rides down and fifty kilometers to go, we stuck out our thumbs for the fourth time.

Why does no one in Ireland seem to travel very far? 

A red car (red cars never stop) stopped for us.

"Where are ye goin'?" a fidgety little man with a spectacularly thick accent greeted us.

"Sligo," I said, wondering how he'd missed our sign.

"When are ye gettin' married?" he asked me, and I cursed myself for sitting in the front seat.

"I'm not getting married," I tried to keep the annoyance out of my voice.

"You like Connemara?"

"Well, we didn't really have a chance to see it this time. Maybe next time I'm in Ireland."

"When are ye moving to Connemara?"

"I mean, it seems like a nice enough place... but I probably won't move there anytime soon."

My answers must not have suited the fidgety Irish bloke, because he pulled over five kilometers later to let us out.

"Thanks for the lift..." I said, confused, but grateful to not be trapped in the car with the bizarre little man.

"You want some bacon?" Misho asked, peering into the butcher's shop in front of which we'd been left.

"Well..." I considered our budget.

"Let me treat us to some bacon," my Bulgarian insisted.

"Okay," I conceded. It doesn't take much for me to concede when it comes to bacon.

The little man sat in his little red car and watched us the entire time, sending prickles down my spine.

After procuring our streaky bacon, we walked to the other side of Charlestown, found a decent enough place to hitch and stuck out our thumbs for the fifth time that day.

Freaking Ireland. 

Five minutes later, a man in a classy car and a business suit pulled over.


"Someone's watching out for you two," he commented, a little amazed at himself. "I haven't picked up a hitchhiker in twenty years, but I saw your sign and had to stop."

"Well, we really appreciate it," I laughed. "Our last ride was a little strange."

And we spent the last forty-five kilometers to Sligo talking about his family, their recent trip to Bulgaria, and life in Ireland.

"Where do you want to be dropped off?"

"Is there a Lidl or an Aldi nearby? It would be great to do some shopping before we meet with our host."

"Sure, I can drop you off at Aldi."

So Misho and I bought some cheese and chocolate for lunch (we have a very well-rounded diet. As in, if we continue to eat like this for much longer, we will both be remarkably well-rounded), and a pile of vegetables and eggs for dinner.

Then we lingered in cafes and on park benches until we met with our host, a Bulgarian/Lebanese fellow who lived in a surfing village ten kilometers west of Sligo. While waiting, we were accosted only once by an evangelist named Eric, who gave us pamphlets about Jesus and told us how wonderful it is to know that you're forgiven.

"I was like you, raised in a home without Jesus, but I found him," Eric preached. "And he's changed my life."

See, this is where you fail, I thought as Eric continued to assail us with religious rhetoric. You don't even ASK what my background is before you tell me that I'm wrong. You just assume that I'm like you. You don't take the time to understand that I grew up with Jesus. My entire existence was oriented around Jesus. And finding a way to live WITHOUT Jesus is what changed my life for the better. 

The rain finally chased off the Irish evangelist, and Misho and I ran under the awning of a nearby pub to hide.  

This might be the first time I've been grateful for rain in Ireland. 

Martin met us around six o'clock and drove us to the beach near his home in Strandhill.

"Have to see the ocean once today."

Martin and Misho talked about the waves and surfing, and I worked on my Slavic squat while breathing in the cold ocean air.

What a surprise. I had no idea Sligo or Strandhill would be so lovely. But this might be my favorite stop in Ireland on this trip. 
 

Martin and I cooked up a dinner of bacon, leeks, onions and rice in his warm, friendly home. We shared dinner, wine and conversation with Martin and his flatmate, an alternative healer named Helen.

We were even able to wash our laundry. Which had been sitting at critical status for the last three days.

I can still smell NEPAL on this shirt, I wrinkled my nose as I threw my longsleeved smartwool into the wash. The last time I wore that was... sitting around a fire in the mountains near Pokhara. Out trekking with Matt. Mmmm.... the smell of two month old dal baht. Hello. 

Martin drove off to work in Sligo the next morning, and Misho and I strolled around Strandhill. 

Since my clothes were in the wash, Misho (who rations his clothes like he won't get to wash them until going home to Bulgaria), let me wear his plaid shirt. Which went stunningly well with my poofy Thai pants. and... errr.. lumberjack hat.

Misho and I withdrew from the cold, whiling a couple of hours away in a bustling seaside cafe. I dreamed and schemed about my summer, and he sketched a sneaky Bulgarian in my new journal.

Then we hitched into Sligo and spent the afternoon ambling around the town full of cafes, bakeries, craft shops and nary a tourist.

This place has all the things that tourists like... but... without the tourists. 

Sligo. Who'd have thunk. This place is fantastic. 
 

Martin met us after he finished his work at the hospital, and took us for a walk along the Garvoge River.

We made it back into town in time for a screening of 'Atlantic', a documentary about fishing villages in Ireland, Newfoundland and Norway. And how the Irish government has given away nearly all of Ireland's fishing rights to the EU.

On one hand... I feel sorry for all these devastated fishing villages. But on the other hand, I feel like they're just arguing about who has the right to rape the ocean. There's nothing in this film about actually taking care of the ocean and aquatic life. It's just about politics. 

Which feels rather superficial. 

Martin, Misho and I spent the rest of the evening drinking at a pub in Strandhill and listening to live music.

I needed a couple of days like this. In a HOME. With someone who not only let me wash my stanky laundry, but even cooked a dinner and bought some drinks. And it's not as though I NEED people to cook me dinner and buy me drinks. What I need is to NOT feel unwelcome or like I'm doing something wrong. Which is what Diarmuid made me feel. Martin and Helen treated me like I'm worth supporting. That my lifestyle is okay. 

And boy, do I need that sometimes. It's isolating enough to travel the way I do. I need all the Martins and Helens I can get. And I will never stop being unbelievably grateful that Martins and Helens are out there. 

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.