I still don’t have my computer to edit and put up pictures, but since they’ve become avaliable, I wanted to share some pictures from the trip put up by my friends.
As seen in Annie in Ireland: Prologue (The Rocky Road To Galway) my Irish heros!
Ollie, Me and Tony
Tony and Me
Ollie and Me
As seen in Annie in Ireland: Galway Girl!
Megan, Me and Melanie
Me, French guy, and Melanie
Me and old Irish man I danced with
Me and young Spanish girls I danced with
I spent most of March 25th in Dublin Airport. Because I was worried about being late for my flight at 7:30 that night, seeing as I didn´t know how quick or reliable the bus service from Wicklow was, I left my hostel in Wicklow pretty early. It seems I never had anything to worry about because the bus arrived on time, went straight to the airport and I was there before 1:00. I set up camp in front of the McDonalds outside of my terminal and passed the 5 and a half hours until my check in information became avaliable by eating imprudent amounts of unhealthy food.
I did arrive at my terminal later that day and right away I befriended a handsome, Irish gradeschool teacher who worked in Edinburgh. After asking me what I was studying in school and why, and catching a whiff of environmentalism on me, he spent the remainder of our time together grilling me on American political issues from A to Z with a look on his face that said, “You should have a solution to this major global issue, you´re a 3rd year Biology student.” I made it through the questioning as best I could, wishing the entire time I could just yell, “Do you know what classes you take in your first two years as a science major in America? Think of any scientific field you can and put INTRO in front of it. That´s it. Let me take a nap, I don´t know anything.”
When I finally made it out of the airport, onto a shuttle and into the streets of Edinburgh, I liked it right away. The shuttle station is right next to the Walter Scott Memorial, the Bank of Scotland and Edinburgh Castle, all of which are lit up at night from below with a beautiful golden light. Unfortunately, as often happens at the beginnings of my trips, I got lost. The main road, Princes street, was under some major construction and the whole way down, tall gates blocked the view of street signs. I then realized that all of the many statues lining Princes street were also lit from below (each one looking as if they were trying to recite horror stories to every passerby,) remembered that it was almost midnight, I was almost completely alone in a strange city and that several people had suggested ghost tours of the city because of their authenticity. I walked up and down Princes street in a growing panic, praying frantically that each stranger walking behind or towards me was not a serial killer, until I found a cop who knew exactly where my hostel was and walked me there, giving me helpful tips along the way for what was worth seeing in my couple days in town. I thanked him profusely, quickly checked in and instantly went to bed.
I spent the next morning doing some very necessary laundry and updating my blog. It was a long, lazy start to the day and I didn´t get out into town until near 2PM. I spent a lot of time that day walking around, enjoying the buildings. It was Dublin´s antithesis, with every building, even the ones housing pharmacies and chain stores, offering some kind of beauty. I did tour Edinburgh castle and it truely was beautiful, but it was right around this time that I started feeling my first pangs of what I like to call “Amazement Immunity.” It was true that this building was incredible; gorgeous and historical, and nothing like anything we have in America. It did, however, look a great deal like some of the things I´d already seen in Europe, and a great deal more like everything I´d just seen that day. Amazing architecture was literally all around me, and I´d seen it all day long, in addition to last night, when it was more impressively presented. For once, feeling a little bored with sight seeing and definitely tired from the first wave of warm weather during my whole time in the UK, I left to go back to the hostel for a nap and to plan dinner.
When I got back to the room, I met three girls who had just moved in that afternoon: Brier from New Zealand, Tanja from South Africa and Madeleine from Australia, who ended up being completely awesome. We got to talking and they invited me to go out with them and the three guys they were traveling with. The night got off a little slowly — we got to our first pub hours before youngins in Edinburgh go out (who knew?) Eventually we found a relatively crowded pub with music and ended up having a great time. Tired from the days activities, Maddie and I called it an early night and headed back to the hostel around 1.
(Me, Maddie and Hamish)
——————————
The next day I really wasn´t in the mood for more sight seeing, and honestly it felt like I´d been to every place there was to go in Edinburgh, aside from some museums that I definitely didn´t have the patience for. I left the hostel late again after some more blogging and went to lunch at an amazing Chinese buffet I´d seen the day before. A little shopping for souvenirs and clothes to wear in the hot weather and I was done for the day. I went back to the hostel and met up with the girls from the day before and we went to the main park off Princes street to lay around on the grass. Maddie and I got some of the best crepes I think I´ve ever had and we all spent about an hour just relaxing in the nice weather which is exactly what I wanted to do.
We all went out again that night and had a wild time. I didn´t get into bed until 4AM which may have not been the best plan, as my flight to Paris was the next day, but it was certainly a lot of fun. I decided these were my favorite people to go out with on the trip so far and when I dragged myself out of the hostel earlyish (too early, anyway) the next day, we parted ways with promises to meet up sometime in England, where they´re also studying abroad.
I road the shuttle to the aiport with a charming boy from Brazil who´d also been in my hostel and waited around the airport, feeling a little bit like a zombie from lack of sleep. I was, however, incredibly excited to get to Paris, the longest stay of my entire trip and the beginning of the half of my trip where I would be in non-English-speaking countries and supposedly understand nothing. I was inspired a by Bill Bryson quote from Neither Here Nor There: Travels in Europe:
“I can’t think of anything that excites a greater sense of childlike wonder than to be in a country where you are ignorant of almost everything. Suddenly you are five years old again. You can’t read anything, you have only the most rudimentary sense of how things work, you can’t even reliably cross a street without endangering your life. Your whole existence becomes a series of interesting guesses.”
I hoped the same would be true of myself, as I sat back on my Ryanair flight, lulled to sleep by the constant attack on the back of my chair by the real life five year old seated behind me.
I caught the bus to Wicklow Town early the morning of the 23rd and arrived shortly after noon. I pretty much instantly fell in love with both the hostel I’d booked and the woman who ran it. The building was obviously once Mrs. Trish and her husband’s house, though they’d converted the seven upstairs rooms into home-y and comfortable dormitories. Mrs. Trish was a middle-aged, firey red-head and as Irish as it seemed possible to be, at least from my limited perspective. She and her husband offered free personal tours of the town, breakfast for 2€ (to be paid into the honesty box “if you wanted”,) cheap rides in their car to and from the Wicklow Mountains National Park for hiking, and the whiteboard in the hallway was updated every morning with listings of the best places to go for a drink and some music every night of the week (though if quiet nights were more your style, their piano, guitars, books, movie collection and TV were at your disposal.) It remains my favorite hostel of the trip so far because they seemed to legitimately care so much about your entire experience in the town. if you’re ever in Wicklow and don’t want to pay for a hotel, Captain Halpin’s Bunkhouse — best hostel ever.
I took Mrs. Trish up on the offer of a “historic guided tour” and was joined by a bunch of people my age from England. They were all funny, relatively nice and all apparently dating someone in the group, with the excepton of two guys, one of whom was gay and one who was funny, but slightly unfortunate looking. The town was beautiful and I got to see the dock from the final scene in The Guard, a favorite movie of me and my parents that had been filmed there, which was pretty awesome.
After the tour, I went for a solo dinner at a surprisingly delicious Chinese restaurant, promising to meet the English group afterwards. Near the end of my meal, the funny-single man of the group showed up to chat, take me to the pub and escape some of the bickering already plaguing his friends. After meeting and having one drink with the group, which did seem to be getting slightly arguementative amongst the couples, we all went to Ernie’s, which Mrs. Trish assured us was the place to be on a Friday night in Wicklow for music, and I loved it right away. It seemed like there were people aged 16 to 100 at the bar, all mingling together as a community. I was having an okay time with my English friends, but I sensed the girls with boyfriends didn’t completely enjoy me talking to their men and I was getting sick of being hit on by the single guy. My only other option for conversation in the group was the gay guy, who turned out to be a button-pusher, a personality type I do not enjoy in the least. So, I decided to run away and got a drink at another end of the bar to go back to my standard company in Ireland: funny old guys. My night improved right away and I made good friends with one man who was very dad-ish, obviously a kind and warm gentleman. We talked all night about all kinds of interesting things, and he told me all about his kids and insisted I come back the next night to meet his son, “a musician!” He even walked me back to the hostel because the pub didn’t close until 4. My terrible memory forgot his name the second he told it to me but I know I will always hold a soft spot in my heart for him.
——————
I woke with a start and a slightly fuzzy head at 8:55 the next morning, thinking the time change had gone through, my watch was an hour behind and that I only had 5 minutes to get ready for the drive to the National park at 10. I rushed noisily to change and gather my things, alienating my roommates in the process I’m sure, and ran downstairs only to be told that, no, it was in fact 8:55, the time change wasn’t until the next night. More relieved than annoyed, I dragged myself into the kitchen for breakfast and befriended an American boy named Dan from Penn State, who was also up early for the hike. We decided to go together and got the first ride to the mountains since the English kids who had called dibs were taking too long in Mrs. Trish’ opinion.
After a 30 minute drive, during which Mrs. Trish very entertainingly tried to trace me and Dan’s Irish heritage, the two of us set off at 11 ready for a 4 hour trail hike with the promise of a ride home at 4 that afternoon. We, of course, promptly headed in the wrong direction, wasting an hour and making sure in the process that we would have to finish the 4 hour hike in exactly the estimated amount of time, without the precious buffer for resting that I was certain I would need. All of this aside, the hike was so incredibly wonderful. I did feel like death at some of the more vertical portions of the trail, but the view from the top of the mountain was unreal (pictures to come, promise!)
We ended up practically running down the incredibly steep stairs on the other side of the mountain that led back to the start of the trail and, as such, actually arrived at the pick-up point a 4pm on the dot. We happily sat down and waited for Mrs. Trish’ green van to come around. And we waited. And waited. A few minutes after 5, a grinning and waving Mrs. Trish pulled up to two stiff, freezing, half asleep shells of our former selves. After a few minutes of chit-chat in the mercifully warm car, Mrs. Trish asked us how long we’d been waiting. “Um… an hour?” Dan said, sprawled, dozing on the back seat. She seemed shocked that we’d finished so quickly and said so. When I mentioned that I was pretty sure that we had agreed on a 4pm pick up time, since she dropped us at 11, Mrs. Trish was beside herself, apologising over and over. Nothing we said made her seem less bothered by her mistake and her brow didn’t unfurrow until she said, “Well, if I was late picking you two up, that must mean I’m going to be an hour late picking up the other group too…” I sensed she was not as fond of the large, quarrelsome group and this thought almost seemed to amuse her. Unable to do anything to fix either misunderstanding by this point, she shrugged and started chatting away, her usual self again. (Side note: She never charged me or Dan for this trip because of the mix-up. Lovely, lovely person.)
After a completely filling meal of fast-food fish and chips with Dan, I used all the force left in my body to get to my bed for a nap before meeting the man from the night before and his son at the pub at 9. This was the plan anyway. When I woke up at midnight, hours after our meeting time, with no energy in my entire body to get up anyway, I attempted to go back to sleep and shrug off the guilt of blowing them off (It didn’t work, I’m still sad about it. He was so nice, it breaks my heart to think he dragged his son out there just for me to not show up.)
The next morning I ate breakfast early with Dan, who enjoyed giving me shit for not meeting the nice man and his son (“How could you stand up your future husband and father-in-law? I bet they waited all night for you.”), and caught my bus to the Dublin Airport en route to Edinburgh, Scotland, sad to say goodbye to Wicklow, but excited to finally be moving on to my next country.
It feels like it’s been so long since I’ve been in Dublin that writing this blog post is a struggle, but I understand skipping straight through to Paris might be a tad confusing. So, still on Ireland it is!
————-
I caught a coach to Dublin on March 20th and, after leaving my phone on the bus and trudging down the long main shopping street to get to my hostel, I definitely felt like crashing. It was the late afternoon and the medicine I’d taken seemed like it was keeping my cold at bay, so I rested while looking up restaurants and local pubs to go to that night.
When I left around 8, I first found that the Thai restaurant I’d chosen had either moved or closed, and when I set off again to just find one on the way to the pub, I got lost. And then my cold medicine wore off, my head got cloudy, and every confusing step became labored. Discouraged, I went to a near empty pizza place near my hostel and was in bed by 9. I’d hoped giving up my first night in Dublin would leave me strong and ready for tourist-ing by the next morning, but I had no such luck. I woke up feeling thoroughly terrible and decided to give up the day to rest. This seemed to work well and by that night I was ready to go to a Chinese restaunt I’d picked out and find Whelan’s pub, a famous music venue that apparently still had a pretty loyal local crowd.
However, right as I was getting ready to leave, a Latvian girl from my room invited me to get dinner and drinks with a Polish guy she knew who lived in Dublin. I had been looking forward to my night, but I figured that if the guy had been in Dublin for a while, he probably knew some truely local nighttime stomping grounds, so I was game. The night did not meet up to my expectations, to say the least.
First off, if this man was any indication I do not think that my sense of humor meshes well with the Polish sense of humor. Right away the Polish guy seemed really contentious with his joking around. For example, after he told this Jewish joke (which to be honest was actually funny) I mentioned the Jewish holy text was the Torah, not the Koran as he’d said. Once he realized his mistake he said, “Oh! You smart! I’m surprised, you don’t look smart,” matter-of-factly, with no change in his expression or voice to indicate he wasn’t completely serious. When I responded sarcastically he told me to relax, he was “being funny.” I silently disagreed. After around half an hour of being put off by the not funny, often rude things he was saying, I was perhaps a bit rude back when he mentioned one of his favorite movies was Norbit. You know, one of those “one black actor, many fat suits” movies, all of which are identical and universally terrible, a fact I repeated over and over loudly until he actually looked hurt. I apologized, saying what I meant was they weren’t my taste in movies, but the whole time after I was thinking, ‘So! You can dish it but not take it, Mr. Poland?’
Then he took us to the Temple bar neighborhood which is like the Bourbon St. of Dublin so I was obviously instantly miserable. He actually took us to a nearly empty bar where the band ended every song by asking where people were from because they knew they weren’t from Ireland. That is how touristy it was. They even had the same out of place disco lights over the band as in Bourbon bars. And this was his FAVORITE bar. Like he used to go there every night of the week when he went out more often.
So eventually I suggested we go to The Temple Bar which was supposed to be a little more legit, and it was, even down to the band, though the large crowd was still almost entirely made up of Americans. And what does Mr. Poland do? Bitch the entire time about how terrible it is compared to the other “much better” bar.
The weirdest thing was that I think he thought we were all getting along really well, he had no idea he was being annoying or insulting and if I ever displayed my dissatisfaction he was genuinely shocked and pouty about it. I think he was dating the Latvian girl because through all of this, though she sort of scolded me in a quiet way for being short with Mr. Poland about his movie choices, she would only lightly dismiss the ridiculous things he was spouting out. She was always nice, even when telling me not to be rude, but how she could spend any real amount of time with this man was confounding.
————-
The next day I got off to an early start seeing as I had a whole city of sight seeing to squeeze into one day. It was on this trip that I discovered that I was maybe not the biggest fan of Dublin. With the exception of St. Patrick’s cathedral, I didn’t find many historical buildings that blew me away architecturally. There was one pretty park near my hostel, but it was very much just a park, nothing extraordinary. And when I really started looking at the normal buildings around me, the non-landmarks, the normal buildings which in so many European cities are what really put you in mind of being in another country, they all seemed to have been redeveloped in the architectural dark ages of the 1960s. There were so many boring square buildings. So many. In the end, I didn’t feel like I was in Dublin, Ireland. I just felt like I was in a city, any major city. I found this to be very disappointing and so I went to drown my sorrows in a tour of the Guinness storehouse/the complementary pint that comes with the entrance fee.
I had a great time in the Guinness factory, encouraged by an odd little father/daughter duo from England who I spent my time there with and who were delightful partners. We parted ways in late afternoon and I had dinner in a nice Japanese restaurant (good sushi, I figured, being the main upside to being in “any major city”) before retiring to my hostel for a lay down before my real, down to earth night on the town. Unfortunately, like a moron, I opened a fresh Bill Bryson book around 7 and when I finally looked up from the hilarious, engrossing stories it was 11, too late for live music after factoring in prep time and getting lost, which is something I always have to account for.
And it was then that I gave up on Dublin and instead started mentally preparing myself for what was sure to be a delightful couple of days in the tiny hamlet of Wicklow. I decided I wasn’t cut out for Ireland’s largest metropolis and that I identified much more with their smaller towns and cities. Which was fine with me.
My three days in Galway were some of my favorites of my trip so far. The previously mentioned American girls seemed cool, Megan and Melanie (Left to Right in Megan’s picture above), and we quickly became a trio. We set off pretty early on St. Patrick’s day to run some errands before the parade at 11:00 (namely, buying a UK plug adapter exactly like the ones I had so cleverly left in Southampton.)
It was clear by the end of our shopping trip that Melanie was growing tired of me. She seemed to be one of those girls who likes to control everything, and yet was somehow also bad at it. For example, no matter when we were planning on leaving the hostel or how much she had to do to get ready, it always took her like an hour after Megan and I were done to get out of the hostel. I was likewise obviously getting over her attitude, but Megan was really cool with the both of us, so at least we each had some pleasant company. We got to the parade, got an okay spot and the festivities were off.
And, as several people warned, it was kind of underwhelming. It was all families, and it had been decided we wouldn’t stop for a drink before hand (guess who’s idea that was?) and the parade was basically just citizens walking down the road. There were some cool costumes and some of the walkers pushed some really well done papier mache monsters on shopping carts, but it was so… tame. It was clear I’d been spoiled by the parades in New Orleans for St. Patrick’s day and after 2 hours of watching waving, smiling Galwegians, I was over it and suggested we go eat.
The parade was nearly over and knowing that every restaurant within a mile of the route was about to be inundated with parade goers, I wanted to go to the same bar/restaurant as last night, Skeffs. It was right next to us and the longer it took to get into a restaurant and get a table the less of a chance there would be to get an actual decent meal somewhere. I almost went by myself when Melanie trudged on past without consulting anyone else, but I was having such a good time with Megan I relented and onward we walked, through the dissipating crowd to three different restaurants which of course ended up being completely full with hour long waiting periods. We eventually found a strange little place whose entire menu revolved around baked potatoes which was good enough and warm inside. Afterwards we went back to the hostel, happy to have food in our stomachs, and took a nap before the party kicked off.
After the usualy girly getting-ready fun and our naps we were in high spirits and everyone was getting along. We ran down the stairs in excited glee — “Yay! The drinking is starting, the drinking is starting!” — and opened the door to a virtual wall of rain. After a brief interlude to acquire some umbrellas we were back on track and working out our plans for the evening. I suggested, because of the cold and rain that we have one warming drink at Skeffs and then find a place a little further into town, away from all the hotels and hostels.
The place was packed, there was a great band and needless to say, after a few drinks, we didn’t leave. We danced with girls from Spain and old Irish men, joked around with some smug Australians, met some silly guys from France, and yelled along to Galway Girl the million times they played it all night (it was quickly becoming our official song of the trip.) After a while, all our revelry was a bit too much for Melanie and she went home feeling slightly ill, leaving Megan and I to enjoy the merriment by ourselves. We met some really cool Irish guys, including one named Paddy, who offered a kiss for good luck (“Kiss an Irish Paddy on St. Paddy’s day and you’re blessed with the luck of the Irish for the rest of the year!”) and we hung out with them until the bar closed. On the walk home, Megan and I decided that the night more than made up for the slow start that morning.
—————-
The next day while Megan and Melanie went on a bus tour of the surrounding countryside, I walked around the town. I wanted to see something more than just the shops, find something that set Galway apart and I found it right away: the River Corrib. I wish I had my pictures to accompany this section, but I was instantly taken with it. The River Corrib runs from Lough Corrib (a lake) through Galway into Galway Bay and it was completely lovely. On top of this there was a lot of beautiful architecture in the area and I think I saw a monk, a real one with robes and everything. How can you beat that?
After lunch, I headed to a main square where several bars had live music throughout the afternoon. I chose one and stood at the bar with a pint of cider and spent hours meeting people (mostly middle aged men, honestly) and having wonderful conversations, while a traditional Irish band played in the background. One of the older men at the bar was so goofy and flirting with all the young girls in a silly sort of way. He told so many good jokes and stories he was almost a caricature of what a drunk, old Irish man was supposed to be.
—————-
Monday I said goodbye to my American girlfriends. I was set up for one more night in the hostel and, after the last of the St. Patrick’s day revelers departed, was one of three total guests staying there. The two other girls with me for the night were from Holland (Kyra) and Switzerland (Marjorie) and we decided to go out that night with some Swiss boys Marjorie had met on St. Patrick’s day. Both girls had studied in Galway as Erasmus students so they took us to an old favorite pub of theirs which was just as lovely as the one I’d visited the night before.
I talked with the Swiss boys for ages about music and politics and was having an amazing time. Unfortunately, Kyra and I were starting to feel colds coming on and so we split, stopping off for some unhealthy take away on the way home (Two words: Taco chips [chips as in chunky french fries] - These were so deliciously terrible for you, I’m legitimately shocked we didn’t think of them first, but we now must start selling them everywhere.)
—————-
My last morning in Galway was kind of sad. I took one last walk in drizzly, gray weather through the beautiful town, down to the bay with Kyra and Marjorie, who were likewise disappointed to be leaving. I’d enjoyed my time in the small city with the interesting little pubs and sweet people so much that I wasn’t sure a major city like Dublin could really stand up to it, and thinking like that could be at least a small part of why, in the end it really didn’t.
Coming soon: Dublin, Ireland — meh.
Hello everyone! I realize I haven’t even written about Amsterdam yet, but I figured I should start on this big trip to maybe get some momentum in posting. I’m staying in a hostel with computers and I have to do laundry, so maybe I can bust out all of my time in Ireland today. If I do, I’ll try to throw in Amsterdam really quick after.
———-
I begin my stories from Ireland with how I arrived there, which was neither quick nor entirely enjoyable, but through which I met some pretty great people. I caught a train in Southampton around 7:15pm on March 15th and transferred in the slightly scary looking Birmingham station. It was generally kind of filthy and there were several sketchy looking characters around, so I was happy when my train to Holyhead showed up early. I stepped into my train car of choice and felt like I’d entered a set of a horror movie. The whole car was grungy, the carpeting on the floor and fabric on the seats were almost worn to nothing in many places, and the florescent lights kept flickering. For 20 minutes I sat in the car by myself, except for intermittent visits from a very large mentally handicapped man who seemed to be wandering the train aimlessly.
Eventually some other people boarded, the train left the station, and I accepted the state of the fabric on the seats and fell asleep on my bags (I should preface this story by saying the night before I’d gotten a total of 2 hours sleep finishing a paper.) This leg of the journey was, in theory, supposed to last until 2am and arrive in Holyhead where my ferry to Dublin was leaving at 2:30am. After rolling into the station at 2:15 I found myself sprinting to ferry terminal only to find, once inside, that I’d missed the check in time. Crestfallen, I shared in a small bitching session with a tattoo’d Irishman from my train car who’d also missed his ferry, though one from a different company than my own (this bit of information becomes important later in the story.)
I tried to get comfortable on the floor, but the ground was so cold it seeped right through my jeans, like laying on ice, until the same Irishman came over with two hoodies from his large suitcase for me to use to sleep on. I gave kind of feeble protests out of politeness’ sake, but after seeing that he had several jackets in his sleeping area and his insistance that I take them, I accepted his sweatshirts gladly. I tried to sleep until around 5:30 when I noticed a free spot across some metal benches. Still cold, but not as directly freezing as sleeping on the ground, they were a happy alternative and I slept much better for a couple of hours.
A little before 8, I gave up on sleep, had a breakfast of pringles and sat messing around on my e-reader. Enter Mr. Shithead. I apologise to anyone reading this offended by this nickname, but none of us ever asked his name and instead referred to him amongst ourselves as various profanities. This one seems both accurate and only mildly distasteful. After strolling around the terminal for a while, this young, English hooligan came over and sat down near me on the benches. When he started talking not only was it hard to get him to stop, but he alternated between saying weird, rude or offputting things, and trying to hit on me. There was something very unsettling about him and if there weren’t any other people around I’d of been a little worried.
Some pearls of wisdom from Mr. Shithead included talking shit about a man across the room because the third time that morning Mr. Shithead had asked him for a cigarette, the man replied, “No, I don’t have any, you asked me before, remember?” He then made fun of the man for sitting with his legs crossed “like a girl.” He also complained to me about people our age always being on the internet or their phones. People like me, supposedly, as I’d just put down my e-reader, facebook open, to answer a text from a friend asking if I was doing alright after my night in the terminal. He later tried to tell me I was pronouncing New Orleans wrong (“New Ore-leens, not New Or’lins!”) and that I was incorrect in saying that most Americans weren’t as blindly patriotic as our stereotypes imply, stereotypes which he had brought up in the first place.
In short, I hated this person.
All morning Mr. Shithead continued to flap his mouth. In the process of pissing me off, he started to piss off the nice Irish gentleman from the night before (who it must be noted looked like he could beat Mr. Shithead to death) by trying to include him in our conversations while he was trying to sleep.
Eventually annoyed to conciousness, the Irishman, who introduced himself as Ollie, got up and we were joined by another Irish guy, Tony, who’d been so drunk the night before that although he’d been in the terminal in time to get on the ferry, he’d passed out and missed it. He told us that this had happened to him the last 5 times he’d tried to take the ferry to Dublin (apparently, there is a really great pub near the terminal.)
The four of us stood around for quite a while, talking and waiting for our respective ferries. The Tony and Ollie had tickets from the same ferry company at 11:15 and, as luck would have it, Mr. Shithead and I were supposed to be on the same one at 1:15. It becomes abundantly clear, very quickly, that Mr. Shithead was getting on everyone’s last nerve, but I got along very well with the Irishmen and in the end I decided to fork over the money for a new ticket to get on their ferry. It was pretty expensive, but I really didn’t like the idea of being left with just Mr. Shithead. When we boarded the ferry my companions expressed the feeling that it had been in my best interest not to get on the ferry alone with him. When pressed as to why, they told me that when Tony told him off on the side that I was taking a different ferry he was actually, legitimately angry about it and Ollie said when I was about to sit down to show them the hilarious patriotic medley that is the American passport, Mr. Shithead put his hand, palm-up on my seat. Ollie had reached over quickly and twisted his hand backwards. From that point on I regarded Tony and Ollie as my Irish Knights in shining armor and Mr. Shithead as maybe the creepiest person I’d ever met.
The rest of our journey was rather uneventful apart from some really rough seas that led to a little spilling of my cider down someone’s back (woops…) and we parted ways at the coach station good friends.
…
The bus ride to Galway was beautiful and I spent it alternating between sleeping and taking pictures out of the window like the biggest tourist in the world. Then, about 30 minutes outside of Galway, an extremely intoxicated man got on the nearly empty bus and, of course, asked to sit next to me. He spent the next 10 minutes sitting uncomfortably close, staring at me and slurring unintelligable things, while I sat wondering if I had, “Please, assault me today!” stamped on my forehead. Eventually, I heard him say something along the lines of, “You don’t like me sitting here, do you?” I told him he was correct and he moved! …One seat forward. And kept looking back and talking to me, asking me to get a drink with him and if I had anywhere to stay. After he mumbled out, “You’ll never leave me, will you?” (what???) I said, “Actually, I’m going back there, seeya,” moved 10 rows back and slumped down in my seat to hide.
Lucklily, that was the end of the bad men, though not quite the end of my odyssey. I’d though I’d been incredibly clever in putting all of my hostel check-in papers on my e-reader (don’t have to pay for printing, saves trees, etc.) What it turns our I’d really done was leave myself open to technological difficulties. My e-reader had apparently died on the journey and I realized that since I’d had to buy a ticket from a different coach company in Dublin, as by missing my ferry I missed my original bus, the directions I had written down to the hostel were wrong. And all my information about it was on my dead e-reader, including its name. I’d also left my UK plug adapter in England in my rush the day before so I couldn’t charge it. I sought help from some very nice women in a bookstore, but finally got results in a hotel in the main square. Fighting for the role of nicest Irishman of the day, the man working the desk used his own USB charger to plug in my e-reader, told me to leave it there as long as I liked to charge, let me use his computer to check my email for the hostel information and then printed off my reservation, just in case I needed it. I thanked him profusely and, two hours after getting off the bus in Galway, I found my hostel.
After putting my bags down for all of 5 seconds, I went to dinner with two American girls staying in my room, Melanie and Megan, before completely passing out for the best sleep I’d ever had in a bed as spring-laden the ones in the hostel. The next day we woke up early, eager to experience our first real Irish St. Patrick’s day…
My trip to Ireland in March is completely booked. I move onto Scotland and then France from there! How am I going to be able to do schoolwork with this trip to fantasize about??
Okay, so I suppose it is about time I do another blog post. I’m going to focus on my trip to London with this one, because it really deserves a post all to itself.
I arrived in the Victoria Tube Station some time around 9pm on Friday night, where I had planned to meet my lovely caretakers Ashley and Chris Howland. After a brief meal of tongue scalding coffee and the worst apple pie I’ve ever had in my life inside the station, Ashley and Chris picked me up and we went for a drink at a nearby pub, where there was a really terrible cover band and really drunk middle-aged patrons dancing horribly. All very entertaining.
The next day I got some London guide books from Ashley and decided to start my touristyness in Trafalgar Square, or more specifically the National Gallery, which was so amazing I will never do it justice in describing it. It did confirm my disinterest in religious imagery (you’ve seen one Jesus talking to a crowd, you’ve seen them all [exception: Caravaggio]) and in landscapes in general (exception: some seascapes and cityscapes, as seen below.) But the sheer number of paintings that inspired and amazed me made my whole morning. Below are my two favorite paintings:
2nd place: An Experiment on a Bird in the Air Pump (1768) by Joseph Wright of Derby
I am a big fan of chiaroscuro and paintings of a kind of strange nature and this one fit both requirements. I could’ve looked at this guy forever:
I just adored it. It’s so cool.
1st place: The Fighting Temeraire, tugged to her Last Berth to be broken up (1838) William Turner
I really feel I have no words for this painting. I stood in front of it for ages. I’d encountered Turner before in my Art History class in high school and I thought he was interesting, but nothing I particularly cared for. I will just say that pictures of this work do absolutely nothing for it. Seeing that sunset in person was… I really can’t think of any way to describe it. It took my breath away.
More works I fell in love with (in no particular order and not at all organized by style of date):
Witches at Their Incantations (1646) Salvator Rosa
Unknown Soldier (17th Century) Unknown
Anne, 2nd Countess of Ablemarle (1760) Sir Joshua Reynolds
Two Followers of Cadmus Devoured by a Dragon (1588) Cornelis van Haarlem
The Earthenware Pot (1895) Edouard Vuillard
Boulevard Montmarte at Night Sun (1897) Camille Pissarro
Two Friends (1894) Henri De Toulouse-Lautrec
The Gare St. Lazare (1877) Claude-Oscar Monet
A Grotesque Old Woman (about 1513) Quinten Massys
Also anything Rembrandt and Caravaggio.
Anyway, after spending almost two hours in the National Gallery, I went and got amazing fish and chips near Leicester Square and afterwards, headed to take some touristy pictures by Big Ben and Parliament, as is mandatory for every visitor:
By then, I was starting to get so cold I could barely feel any appendages. I walked to Soho, where I had 3 hours to wait for a comedy show (Andy Zaltzman of Bugle non-fame), with the hopes of finding a store or coffee shop to loiter in until then. Unfortunately, as the sun went down every shop seemed to instantly close and every coffee shop was completely packed. In the two hours I spent trying to find some place to warm myself, I found one amazing discount book store and got a few cups of coffee to go, with the hopes that the warmth in my hands and stomach would some how make it down to my completely frozen feet (this, surprisingly, did not work.) In the end, I gave up, went to the Soho theatre an hour early and had a pint and some chips and read until the show started.
England is going to have to work hard to top that show for me. Not only was it absolutely hilarious and wonderful, but I got to meet, take a picture with and get the signature of Andy Zaltzman, a man whose puns I have been an avid believer in for at least 4 years. Here is us and my drawing which he signed:
I’m not going to lie to you, I was so star-struck I was shaking and could barely talk like a normal human being. I am not good at meeting (personal) celebrities.
Day 2, Ashley and Chris were off of work and joined me on my little tourist excursions! We went by Buckingham Palace, which was pretty cool:
I will say, with all the barricades and people around, it’s hard to think of someone actually living there.
Then we walked to the Science Museum, which was really interesting and fun. We had planned to go to the National History Museum as well, but the line was atrocious, so we skipped it and decided I’d just have to come back to London sometime soon.
We finished off the day with some amazing Indian food and then my hosts walked me to the Coach station and we said goodbye. Just in case I was not as profusely thankful as I intended when we parted, let me say here to Ashley and Chris how wonderful it was of them to let me stay with them, use their books/hats to get around unscathed and for them to come with me Sunday to show me around some more. I had a completely amazing time and I could not have asked for better people to stay with. You’re both amazing!
Anyway, so that was my trip to London. I’ll update on my Southampton life in a couple days (if I can remember to do so), but I’m pretty sure doing that now after this extensive review of my weekend would be tiresome to read about.
I miss everyone back home in New Orleans and everyone at UNCW a great deal and we need to start setting up some skype dates soon, before I start getting withdrawls <3
Hello everybody! I’ve been away for a couple of days and it’s because I think my flatmates and I are bad influences on each other. We went out the last three nights and I’ve had a stupid amount of fun all three times.
The first night we went to a club called Jesters. They spent all night trying to convince me of its disgusting-ness so I wouldn’t be shocked (I, in turn, kept talking about Checkpoint Charlie’s and the High Ground to try and tell them I was used to disgusting.) After a little walk and a long wait in line (I don’t actually remember it being that long, I just remember talking about how long we were waiting with everybody) we got in, got some drinks and danced a lot. And by danced a lot, I mean kind of got squished and pushed slightly in dancing motions because the dance floor was so full. And we were dancing to songs like Stacy’s Mom and the Friends theme song. And I think I love this club so much that when I’m forced to leave England, one of the tears I shed will be for Jesters.
On a side note, it either wasn’t that disgusting or I wasn’t in a state to notice.
Anyway, the second night we went to a club on campus called the Union, where we again waited in line forever and then went inside and waited (for what felt like a longer period of time) to get drinks. Then there was lots more dancing and sneaking very slyly into VIP areas and running away from creepers. All fun. Here are a couple pictures from that night:
Pre-partying with my ladies (Kayleigh on the left, Holly on the right)
Taking bathroom pics with Kayleigh, Holly and my friend and fellow UNCW Seahawk Hanae, who lives in the flat next to mine!
And then last night we first had a little party with the people in Hanae’s flat in the common room, which was great. We went to a gay bar called the Edge for dancing and whatnot, but before leaving I had made the unfortunate decision to wear Kayleigh’s beautiful, yet ridiculously high ankle boots. From about when we arrived until we left, I was in a constant state of agony and mental self-flagellation. Though, I also had my first English cheeseburger and it was perfect.
In terms of my days here, after those nights I can’t honestly say I’ve done much with them. But I am having an amazing time.
P.S. About the name of this post, we’ve discovered that the most fun that can be had when a lull in conversation appears is to play “Say This Sentence With An American/British Accent” and to compare phrases. Apparently “Going to the store” is absolutely hilarious.
