Losing My Voice -- Belfast, Ireland

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?  

I want this costume. But I wouldn't wear it as a costume. I would wear it as pajamas.

Misho and I spent a couple of hours meandering through Belfast's walking streets, picnicking by the River Lagan and laughing at names of funny restaurants and pubs.

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.

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. 

Hedges and Cake -- Coleraine, Ireland

Oliver had warned Misho and me about the difficulties of hitching from Letterkenny to Coleraine. In great detail. 

"People in Northern Ireland are suspicious. And you've seen the roads yourself. You've seen the roads over there. Very dangerous, as they say. No room to pull over. You can hitch to Derry and then take a bus to Coleraine, that's my advice for you. I gave the same advice to other couchsurfers, I did, but they just went off and done their own thing, as they say. Couldn't get a lift. Finally, they had to find a bus back to Letterkenny. "Oliver," they said, "we didn't take your advice and now we've got no place to stay. Can we come back and stay with you another night?" "Sure," I said, because I'm on couchsurfing to help people. I'm not a four star hotel, but I give a square meal, some tea, a warm fire, a roof over your head. What more do you need, as they say?" 

"Not much." 

I said. 

Normally, I wouldn't allow myself to be so influenced by advice, but after our abysmal experience hitching the day before, Oliver's warning seemed credible. And I... err... did not want to end up back at his apartment saying, "Can we come back to stay with you for another night?" So after a hearty breakfast of bacon, eggs and potatoes, Misho and I shouldered our rucksacks and walked down to the Aldi. 

I can't stress enough that Oliver was a very kind fellow. Just too much for me, personally.

We picked up some essentials (peanut butter, chocolate and cheese) and then set off out of town. But on the sidewalk just outside of Aldi, we spotted two perfect bananas. 

Just sitting there. 

Chillin' on the pavement. 

"I FOUND MY BANANAS!" I hollered in delight. 

"This," I put the bananas into my BANANA bag to hang out with the peanut butter and chocolate, "Is going to be a good day." 

It took another twenty minutes of lumbering along with Fat Ellie before we found a spot that seemed workable. I let go of Fat Ellie's straps and she plummeted to the sidewalk, where I gazed at her with loving resentment. 

How. HOW are you so fucking heavy? 

Misho dropped his backpack to the ground. It landed with a far less resounding thump.

As all backpacks are animals of some sort (because it makes me laugh to think of carrying animals around), I've started referring to Misho's backpack as the "Armadillo." Because it's all round and compact and Misho meticulously rolls up all his clothes into tiny balls when packing his armadillo. I tease him for this, and he always comes up with some plausible excuse for his aberrant behavior.  

But I think my Bulgarian baker just likes to roll things into tiny balls. 

I had very low hopes of being picked up. In fact, I was already working out how long it would take Misho and me to walk back to the bus stop when a Polish chap pulled over. A Polish chap with an unpronounceable name who went far out of his way to drop us off at a good location in Derry. And hopped out of the car to give us proper hugs before he drove off. 

"What just happened?" I beamed. Shocked. So unbelievably happy. Chocked full of the warm fuzzies which occur when someone goes out of their way to make your day a little easier. 

And when a complete stranger with absolutely no agenda goes out of his way? 

It doesn't just make me happy. It makes me hopeful. 

Misho and I spent a couple of hours walking around Derry. The city was beautiful, full of old buildings, narrow alleys and publicly inebriated hooligans. There was also a bridge, the Peace Bridge, where Misho and I sat and relished the silence. 

Which I sorely needed, after the two day barrage of "as they say." 

These are the moments I remember that I am, in fact, an introvert. I need my own space. Especially my own headspace. Which can become difficult when constantly living in the homes of others. 

Misho and I took the four o'clock bus to Coleraine, and then strolled over to the McDonald's where we were to meet our host for the next two days, an Australian woman named Sarah. 

Thus, for the second time in my nearly twenty-eight years, I found myself ordering something at McDonald's. The first time was in Venice in 2011 when I needed wifi to contact a couchsurfing host. 

I bought an espresso. And I hated myself. 

Waiting for Sarah in Coleraine, I ordered a cappuccino. And I hated myself a little for actually liking it. 

Misho sent Sarah a quick text, just letting our know that we'd arrived a tad early and were hanging out inside the McDonald's. Which was lucky, as Sarah had also arrived early and was waiting outside in her car. 

"I hate waiting," the gregarious redhead said. "I was so afraid that you were going to be late and I was going to have to wait." 

I like this woman already. 

We drove for a few minutes through the countryside before pulling into a long driveway leading up to what looked like a freaking mansion. Two balls of fluff ran towards the car, one black, one white, both barking ferociously.  

"I keep trying to run them over," Sarah complained, "but it never works." 

Sarah has been traveling the world for over a year, using housesitting websites to get around. And she takes couchsurfers to keep her company. 

Bless her. 

 

Our Australian host gave us the tour of the mansion. The kitchen, the two lounges (one with a pool table), the bedrooms and the bar. Each room was decked out with gorgeous furniture, artwork, rugs. 

How am I here right now? 

Then Sarah said, "Right, who wants to come with me to get the garbage bin?" 

"We can both go," I shrugged my shoulders. I had the strange feeling that even getting the garbage bin with Sarah would be an adventure.Which was confirmed when we had to load into the car and drive down to the main road to retrieve said bin. 

"Right, Misho, since you were last, you get to sit in the back," Sarah directed. I laughed and Misho moved the back of the car. Sarah lifted the rear window and handed Misho the garbage bin. 

"Okay, now just hold on." 

So Misho held on to the bin as Sarah drove back to her house. 

"I like when surfers come on Sundays so I can use them to bring back the bin," she smiled. Then glared at the fluff balls when they attacked again. 

I would get so tired of dogs like that SO quickly. 

 

"Right, now the horses," Sarah flew through her house sitting duties. "I've got to bring in Seven and clean her feet. She's such a bitch."

"Oh, I can help with that!" I exclaimed, ecstatic to finally feel useful.

So Sarah let me borrow some work boots and I trudged through the mud to get to Seven.

And Sarah was right. Some horses are just bitches. And Seven is a prime example of a bitchy mare. 

But it was so lovely to feel like I could competently do something helpful. I could lift the feet, pick them out, brush them off. Lead Seven into her stall.

And it was nostalgic to smell like horse poo again.

As a teenage horse girl in a family who practiced alternative medicine, I think I grew up smelling like a  mixture of horse poo and peppermint oil.

No wonder I didn't have many friends. 

Sarah cooked us dinner that night. And it was wonderful. And then we all piled into a king size bed in one of the many rooms upstairs and watched "Hunt for the Wilderpeople." And it was wonderful.

"Would it be okay if we just stayed here tomorrow?" I asked Sarah as we started to gameplan the next day. "We've been moving around so much lately... and we're really tired. It would be amazing if we could just rest here."

"Of course you can," she said. "And if you bring the bitch in before I come home from work, then we'll have time to visit Dark Hedges and go to Portrush for cake."

"That. Sounds perfect. Yes."

So Misho and I relaxed the next morning. And it was exactly what we needed.

This trip to Ireland has been such an incredible experience. But it's been hard work. Like, really hard work. I'm exhausted. Days like this are so necessary for me. Days where I can just stay on the couch and write and drink coffee and disappear inside a monstrous duvet.

When Sarah returned from work, she drove us to Dark Hedges, as promised.

"It's my favorite place in Northern Ireland," she told us. "You'll see why."

And we did.

Planted by the Stuarts in the in the 18th century to impress visitors (um, mission accomplished), these beech trees are now two hundred years old. And gnarled and magical and epic.

Then Sarah drove us to the coast for the last bit of daylight.

"And now, cake," she said as we loaded into the car.

This woman makes the best adventures. Ocean, beautiful trees, CAKE. 

"It's only five pounds. Such good value. For a huge piece of cake!"

When Sarah said huge, I dismissed it as "European huge." Which is usually equivalent to an "American normal."

But the size of my slice of scrumptious cake made even American huge look barely average.

We took the cake to go (mine wouldn't even fit in a takeaway box) and drove back to the mansion just outside of Coleraine. Where Sarah made Misho and me some delectable sweet potato soup. And we shared stories and laughed and ate soup and cake.

And it was good. It was all so good.

Giant's Causeway and Glenveagh -- Letterkenny, Ireland

Ger left for work bright and early on Monday morning. I'd woken up an hour or so before to write, drink some coffee and cuddle the nameless cat in the silence. All the healing, settling things.

Coffee... you have zero effect on me, except comfort. You, dear friend, set the stage for relaxation. Which is probably why I can drink you directly before bed and then sleep like a pineapple.  

"It was so good to stay with you," I said goodbye to Ger. "Sorry I wasn't any better at Bingo. Better luck with the next couchsurfers you take. Oh, don't leave just yet -- let me grab Misho," I rushed down the hall.

My Bulgarian stumbled out of bed, bleary-eyed and fluffy-haired and mumbled some sort of barely intelligible thank-you and goodbye to our host. 

"You shouldn't have woken him up," Ger laughed at me as Misho then made his way back to bed. 

I shrugged my shoulders. 

Saying goodbye is the least we could do. 

Late into our final night at Ger's, a young married couple from Utah pulled into the driveway in a rented car. However, since Misho, Ger and myself were drinking whiskey and playing cards, I didn't pay them much mind. Just noticed how odd it was that they politely declined Ger's offers of delicious whiskey. 

Who, in their right mind, would say no when an Irishman offers them whiskey?

"And why do you speak Finnish?" Ger asked Todd, the young married man."I read on your profile that you speak Finnish." 

"I spent two years in Finland. 

"What for?" 

"A mission trip." 

The next morning, when both travelers politely but firmly turned down coffee by saying, "we don't drink coffee," I put all the things together.  No coffee + no alcohol + so young and already married + Utah + two year mission trip in freaking FINLAND =... 

Only religious people would go to one of the wealthiest countries in the world for a mission trip. Gosh. Forget about sending aid to schools in Nepal, let's send Mormonism to Finland. Where they can sit in saunas and ride reindeer in between converting the masses of unbelieving Finns. 

...

Is that unfair? 

...

It's probably unfair. Bourget, you're being unfair and mean. Stop it.

 ...

 

I hate religion so much. And I have a hard time not putting practicing religious people into a box whose edges are defined by what I know about their religion and nothing else. 

Which isn't helpful. In part, because I am NOT an expert in world religions. In part, because there's so much more to a person than how they practice what they believe. And my visceral reaction to religion keeps me from seeing people as whole, complex human beings. Which kills any chance of me actually connecting with them.

These Mormon couchsurfers seem nice. So... be friendly, Bourget. Try to release them from your uneducated stereotypes and preconceptions about Mormonism. Try to find out who they are outside of their religion. Because the nuances that make us unique have nothing to do with religion. 

I would be obsessed with cheese were I Catholic, Mormon or Scientologist. For instance. 

The couchsurfing Mormons turned out to be extremely welcoming, and offered the two spare seats in their rental car to Misho and me.  

"We're going to Giant's Causeway today, you want to join?" 

"Yes. Yes, please." 

A trip to the Causeway that doesn't involve hitching? So much yes. I get to look at all the cars whizzing by and think, "I DON'T NEED ANYTHING FROM ANY OF YOU." 

Which is a very nice feeling. Extraordinary, in fact. 

The very nice Mormons drove us to Giant's Causeway, sometimes on the left side of the road, sometimes on the right. 

"Wrong side of the road, Todd," Jaime's gentle voice would chide her husband every now and then. I admired her calm. If it had been me riding shotgun, and my partner had been driving on the wrong side of the road, my reaction would have been a bit more... animated. 

We arrived at the Causeway about two hours later and unhappily discovered that it cost about ten pounds a person (back in the UK, so back to pounds) simply to park the car. But that once we parked the car, the Causeway itself was free. 

That's how they get around the National Trust. Look at those Irish working the system. 

The National Trust is one of my favorite things in the whole world over. It's an organization in the UK that makes nature free and accessible for everyone. So if people want to make money off of nature in the UK, they have to be sly about it. Which is why they charge you to park at the Giant's Causeway, as they are not legally permitted to charge you for the nature itself. 

Ten pounds is a lot.... I mean, it would be worth it, no questions about it, but... ten pounds is two days worth of food. It's a lot.

'What if you drop us off right before the parking lot and then we can just walk to the Causeway, you can park the car and meet us there?  And we can split the cost for the parked car later?" I asked Todd, trying to brainstorm my way out of the sly parking fee. 

And if we're asked how we got to the Causeway, we can just say that we hitched. No problem. Not like we haven't been doing a lot of that lately, I thought to myself. Because I always plan on the worst happening.

So Todd parked the car while Misho, Jamie and I scampered over to the side entrance for Giant's Causeway. No questions were asked, and we successfully met Todd on the other side of the visitor's center. Which you're only allowed to use if you've paid your ten pound parking fee. You're not even permitted to buy a coffee at the visitor's center without paying your ten pound parking fee. 

Are you kidding me? Come on, Ireland. Calm down. It's a cup of coffee, for Chrissake. Do we need to make some sort of organization that ensures coffee is accessible to everyone along with nature?

The coastal wind was wild, turning my cheeks, nose and ears bright red and making my head ache. 

This. Is not what the doctor ordered for my sinusitis or conjunctivitis. Oof. I hope I don't get sick. Before last year, I didn't really care so much about whether or not I got sick. I had more of an "Eh, it happens," attitude. But now? After being sick with something or other for most of the previous year? 

I'm fucking tired of being under the weather. I want everything to just WORK. At the same time. 

The air was bitingly cold. The blue, grey ocean roared and crashed into the black rocks lining the shore, sending white spray into the wind. 

The boring story is that Giant's Causeway was formed by cooling magma. The more exciting story is that the causeway was built by a giant. An Irish giant named Fionn mac Cumhaill. This fellow was challenged to a fight by a rowdy giant across the North Channel (as is the way with giants), a Scottish bloke named Benandonner. In order for the giants to meet for their proposed brouhaha, Fionn mac Cumhaill constructed the causeway.

Why did the Irish giant have to do all the work? What was Benandonner doing? Kicking back and drinking whiskey?

My favorite version of this legend is that Fionn mac Cumhaill suddenly realized that Benandonner was rather on the large side (to me, this seems like something he should have looked into prior to agreeing to a brouhaha). Hence, Fionn became significantly less enthused about the melee for which he'd just constructed a massive causeway. To get himself out of the fight, Fionn mac Cumhaill's wife simply dressed him up like a baby and tucked him into a cradle. Then when Benandonner came calling, asking for a fight, Fionn mac Cumhaill was nowhere to be found. Just a freakishly hairy "baby".

"And if that's the size of Fionn mac Cumhaill's BABY, the giant himself has got to be enormous!" thought Benandonner. And the Scott promptly turned tail and fled back across the causeway to Scotland, wrecking the passage as he ran so that his opponent could not follow.

Again, this doesn't seem fair. Fionn did all the work and all Benandonner does is tear the damn thing up. 

This legend also explains why there are identical basalt pillars on the other side of the North Channel. 

Even with tourists bustling about, taking seventeen thousand selfies and stuffing coins into crannies for good luck, the Causeway managed to still feel wild. Magical. Other-worldly.

Todd, Jamie, Misho and I finally left the basalt pillars and set off down a trail along the cliff edge.

How is it possible for nature to be this stunning? 

I tied off my Martenitsa on a bit of golden, flowering gorse, making my silent wish and wondering why Northern Ireland's spring couldn't feel a bit more like, you know, spring, and less like, "IT SHALL BE COLD AND MISERABLE FOREVER AND ALWAYS SO GOOD LUCK WITH THAT."

You can only get away with being so abominably cold because you're pretty. 

We made it out of Giant's Causeway without having to pay a cent. For some reason or other, no one ever asked Todd for his ticket. And none of us protested this oversight.

Part of me wants to celebrate not having to spend ten pounds to see nature. The other part of me feels guilty for not supporting the maintenance of said nature and is worried about what my best friend, Park Ranger Janet, will think about me when she reads how I'm always skulking about, not paying for my tickets to nature. 

We drove a short distance to the Carrick-a-Rede Rope Bridge.

We were told that it cost 7 pounds to cross the 66 foot bridge that hung suspended 100 feet above the wild water. But that it cost nothing to walk along the cliff and just look at the bridge.

So that's what we did.

On the drive home, Todd and Jamie told us a bit about the rest of their trip, including the fact that they planned to crash in Dublin's airport the night before their departure.

"Umm... have you ever done that before?"

"No. Why?"

"Because sleeping in airports to save money always seems like a great idea beforehand. And then when you're actually doing it and the day after you do it, you hate yourself. Sleeping in airports is miserable if you're not able to check in. And you won't be able to check in until four hours before your flight. If I were you, I'd hang out at pubs -- they have good music so just order a -- " I paused as I tried to remember a drink Mormons are allowed to imbibe. "Just order a sparkling water or something. And listen to music until the last bus to the airport."

Todd and Jamie dropped us off at the home of our host in Letterkenny at around six that evening.

"Thanks so much for letting us tag along! Enjoy the rest of your trip," I waved to the couple as they sped away.

I'm glad we get to meet a new couchsurfer, I thought as we rang Oliver's doorbell. But I wish we'd just been able to stay with Ger. Since they're so close to each other anyway.

A middle-aged man who did not look like Oliver answered the door. But this hardly threw me, because couchsurfers rarely look anything like their profile photos.

"You're looking for Oliver, aren't you?" not Oliver asked us, eyeballing our bulging backpacks.

"Yes," we nodded sheepishly.

"He's the apartment over there," the man nodded to his left.

"Thanks!" I said as not Oliver closed his door.

We rang real Oliver's doorbell and were greeted by an impressively tall Irishman, who also looked nothing like his couchsurfing photo.

"Want a cup of tea? Coffee?" our new host asked us. After pouring our drinks, Oliver proceeded to tell us all about his trip to Poland for a friend's wedding, his recent birthday party, all his couchsurfing experience (good and bad), and his philosophy on life, the universe and everything.

I tried to chime in occasionally, but was never able to finish a train of thought. So I stopped trying to chime in and just nodded and "mmmhmmm"ed every now and again.

It's like a barrage, I thought, feeling myself withdraw.

"Can we cook dinner for you?" Misho asked, when he had a moment.

"Anything you don't like?" I inserted.

"No fish," Oliver said. "Everything else is fine by me, as they say."

Misho and I walked to the nearby shop. And I missed Ger. With whom I could have conversations and not just hear stories about all the couchsurfers who didn't clean up after themselves.

Oliver is a nice guy. He's kind. He's generous. But holy bananas, he's an exhausting person for someone like me. 

I let Misho do most of the engaging that evening. He was able to talk with Oliver about film, music and video games -- all the topics which completely elude me. I just warmed myself in front of the fire and ate my pasta.

The next day was cold and wet. Our good luck with weather in Ireland appeared to have run its course, and Misho and I were experiencing the real Ireland.

Harmen would be proud. 

Misho and I left Oliver's at ten am to start hitching to Glenveagh National Park, a famous forest just 20 kilometers away. And after standing on the side of the road for an hour and a half, a fellow finally pulled over for us.

"Saw you standing there. Felt so sorry for you that I turned around to pick you up."

"We're glad you did. We were about to just walk back. No one was stopping."

"Where you heading to?"

"Glenveagh National Park."

"Don't know where that is. I'm heading up to Dunfanaghy. Gotta drop off a load of motorcycles. I've got fifty of them I need to get across the border before they put border control between Northern Ireland and the Republic."

"Fifty motorcycles?"

"Yeah, I've got fifty motorcycles and a mustang."

"Gosh. Good luck with that."

"So where will I be dropping you?"

"You can leave us at Termon and we can hitch from there."

He took a picture of us in front of his van before driving off. Probably to prove to his wife and kids that he'd encountered the critically endangered species of "hitchhiker."

We stuck out our thumbs for about half an hour. Then we gave up. And just walked ten kilometers to the park.

What is it with people in the north of the south of Ireland? They're so fucking cold in this area. Cold and mistrustful. 

From beginning to end, it took my Bulgarian and me four hours to travel the twenty kilometers from Letterkenny to Glenveagh.

It was worth it.

We found a bus to take back into Letterkenny, though. There was no way I was going to stand on the side of the road again that day.

Back at Oliver's, our host prepared an Irish dinner of potatoes and sausage and meatballs.

"A warm, square meal. It's not four star, but it's filling, as they say," Oliver tends to end every other sentence with an"as they say." Even though some of the things he says I've an inkling that no one else has, in fact, ever said.

We watched one of the Star Wars films that night. One of the new ones. I'm not sure which.

Which drives my Bulgarian crazy. Not Star Wars. The fact that I never know which one I'm watching.

I'm discovering several methods of driving geeks bananas. Misho is my case study. Methods include: referring to Chewbacca as, "that weird bear thing," and just getting all the films mixed up. Or saying that I prefer the new films to the old ones. Or that I can't even remember if I've seen all the old ones.

I'm surprised Misho and I are still friends. He's a very tolerant human being, my Bulgarian.