Clare Visits the Metaphorical Cliffs of Insanity, Makes Plans To Visit The Actual Cliffs of Insanity

Since I spent most of my last post talking about things I’m bad at, this time I will write about something at which I excel: OVERTHINKING (The almighty spell check doesn’t think “overthinking” is a word. I say it is.) I spent twenty minutes last night agonizing over whether I should take the bus or train from Drogheda to Galway (spell check also doesn’t think “Galway” is a word, which I think proves my superior knowledge). Once I get started on something like that like that, it’s not long before I’m nearing The Cliffs of Insanity: “The train is way more comfortable than the bus. But I can’t afford 65 freaking euro when the bus is 25…But it is so much easier to get on the wrong bus than then  wrong train, and I’d have to transfer to a different bus in Dublin and that freaks me out because what if I accidentally buy a ticket that is only good on one of the buses I need?” I finally reeled myself back in when I got to, “What if the driver gives me one of those looks (you know, the look that public transportation employees, from New York to Belfast, save for unusually stupid passengers)?”  Of course, when I sourced my stress to the possibility of feeling like a stupid tourist, I realized that I wasn’t actually facing a real problem. I am an intelligent, grown human being with thumbs: I can figure it out. Also, I am a tourist.

I figured it out. Took the bus, easy as pie. Cheap, free wifi, onboard WC, and the driver did not seem inclined to hate me. Plus, a nice one hour layover at Dublin Airport for coffee and an a pain au chocolat, which is my travelling abroad breakfast treat. I love airports. Despite the fact that thousands of people must do it every day I felt quite cosmopolitan eating a French pastry in an Irish airport watching the news about Russia (I’m not the only one who suspects Vladimir Putin leapt, fully formed, out of an Ian Fleming novel, right? I’m picturing a volcano, somewhere in Siberia, that opens to reveal a lair with shark tanks in the walls and a fluffy white cat on a throne…”I killed you too quickly last time, Mr. Bond.” In all seriousness though, there’s scary stuff going down in Ukraine, keep the people in your thoughts and prayers.) I made the Airport to Galway reservation on my smartphone over the free airport wifi. It is possible that I am not being at all careful enough with using my credit card over whatever random open wifi signal I can find in various foriegn countries, but there you are. I needed a bus ticket. 

The drive was lovely once we left the environs of the airport. There are parts of the Dublin/Belfast route that resemble parts of America’s heartland; then you come over the crest of a hill and understand why people love this country. Even in the most fertile regions of the U.S. I’m not sure we have that shade of green…when the sun comes out after a wee bit of rain, the land, sprinkled with sheep and ruined stone towers, looks absolutely luscious. 

There’s a small part of me that felt like it was some kind of betrayal to my Scotch-Irish ancestors to take touristy bus tours while I’m in Ireland (as opposed to, I don’t know, walking from Cork to Belfast in my bare feet or picking up work on a sheep farm?) but then I did a tour to The Giant’s Causeway from Belfast, and it’s the best thing I’ve done in Ireland so far. Naturally, we had a charming ginger guide named Patrick. I was the last person to board the bus, so he offered me the jump seat next to the door. This placed me right under the windshield so I was almost surrounded by glass–definitely the best view on the bus. We stopped first at Carrickfergus Castle, and as we pulled in Pat the Guide told us what time we’d be leaving again and then showed the group a small paper clock, which he adjusted to 10:25 and placed near the steering wheel, “for anyone who’s not too sure of my accent.” He did a nice job with combining facts (Carrickfergus was a garrison during WWI and an air-raid shelter durng WWII), and legends (“They say that fairies live under the hawthorne bushes. Now, the farmers here are hefty guys, strong as oxes. You ask if they believe in fairies and they’ll say no, but they won’t disturb a hawthorne bush!”) and comedy ( “We should fit through this tunnel okay, as long as they haven’t changed it since yesterday…”) I was taking notes the whole way so I could write about it later. On the way back to Belfast in the evening, Patrick played a soothing mix of Nora Jones, Eva Cassidy, and Bread over the intercom, which made me laugh for some reason. It was enormously fun, so I’ve already made two day-tour reservations for my stay in Galway: the Cliffs of Moher (the ACTUAL Cliffs of Insanity!) and Connemara. I almost didn’t make the second reservation, because I hate to miss time in Galway City, but Ennis, my next stop, is only an hour away. This is the great part about traveling alone: if I feel like it, I can come back to Galway for a few hours. I can do whatever sort of crazy thing I want. Have you ever had the sensation, “No one in the whole world knows where I am right now?” It’s a beautiful thing.

Advertisement

“How Not To Get Trapped In A Horror Movie” or “Roommates Who Speak English Can Be Okay.”

Fact: there is something a little shady about hostel-shopping, a feeling that, for me, sprang from the very idea of sleeping in a dorm with complete strangers, which seemed to be entwined with an unlimited potential for horror-movie-esque situations. I wasn’t sure at first what my standards should be. The second time I planned a budget trip to the UK I knew what my priorities were and had learned to trust the reviews on the hostel booking websites. Like choosing a regular hotel, it’s just about knowing how to read the descriptions and what words to look for (even if you have to actually translate it them into English). One decision that must be made, for better or for worse, is whether a high security rating is important than a high cleanliness rating. If so, go ahead and decide exactly how low a cleanliness rating you are willing to deal with….For my part, I can stand less than pristine showers if I have a locker for my stuff and more than one door between the bedroom and the street. That said, I never risk a less than 75% guest approval rating, however cheap it is. Again with the potential for scary. 

Be prepared to be entertained when reading hostel reviews. These will range from the poetic: “Could do with better, less gloomy lighting. Especially now that rainy Autumn approaches” to the enigmatic: “Disliked: No hoter from chicken tap and mold dishes were everywhere in cabord” (Whatever. There were enough English words there to convince me not to try that place)…from the self-assured: “Disliked: had to fully dress if we wanted to go to the kitchen” to the gruesome:  “Rooms are filthy. BLOOD on the window sill in the bathroom very doubtful that the beds had been changed, mold growing on the curtains.” (WHAT)

Do read plenty of reviews to get a good idea about a place, though, because sometimes reviewers disagree: 1. “Disliked: The rooms smell like dog. The dog was nice though.” 2. “Disliked: The killer dog.” Another didn’t like that “The internet connection was crap and a Chinese girl used our shower.” One person left a 91% approval rating for a Glasgow hostel but complained, “There was no electric shock in my room.” (Like I said: priorities.) Then there are the hostel reviews that sound like witness statements on Law & Order: Abroad: “…The room smelled really bad due to some weird man who stayed in the room, and the light bulbs were stolen…There was commotion when the drunk Frenchmen staying in the same room returned from the bars which was slightly annoying.” LOLOLOL (hostelbookers.com and hostelworld.com)

Yes, your standards have to be a little…different when staying in hostels but it is absolutely possible to find blood, mold, and killer-dog free hostels that are perfectly safe. On occasion, you might even get a comfortable bed and a reasonably temped shower, even a complementary bowl of cereal for breakfast. You will certainly meet some interesting people, like my Edinburgh roommate Rita, who was born in a small village in central Germany and is now is a law student in Berlin. We bonded over being klutzy and forgetful and, case in point, having recent burns to deal with while we traveled. We laughed about what the staffer who cleaned our room when we left would think about all the bandages and burn cream in the garbage. We found a lot to talk about: the joy of being mistaken for a local when visiting a foreign country, how embarrassing it is when you can’t understand someone’s accent, and the need to get away from home for a while. And who knew that it would ever be useful to me to know about the various scandals and paramours of the recent presidents of France? And then I found myself being asked and able to summarize the current Ukrainian rebellion for a European, which made me feel all kinds of smart.

I knew that Rita and I could be friends when she told me that every time she visits a foreign House of Parliament or government center she likes to buy a pen or pencil as a souvenir. That sounds completely like the kind of random, sentimental thing I would do. When I said I was from the US, the first thing she said was that she wanted to go there, especially, she paused to confirm the word, the “Fingerlakes Region?” She recommended both Berlin and Munich as places to visit if I ever go to Germany, but not during Oktoberfest, when there are just too many drunk guys to grab at you. She was fascinated and amused to hear that in one of the parts of America that I am from, Wisconsin, there is a proud German history and that they also celebrate Oktoberfest with gusto.

It doesn’t surprise me anymore but I’m always interested at how closely the rest of the world follows our American politics. It was a surreal moment when Rita from Germany, a great fan of Barack Obama, and I laughed about having seen the same “Mitt Romney, Gangham Style” video on YouTube in 2012. It made me remember a conversation I in Stratford-Upon-Avon with a couple of Australians, who had been glued to their televisions as much as I had in November 2012,  praying that the Democrats would prevail. Rita asked what it was like living in a place as conservative as Texas, and “Isn’t it really hot there?” I had fun explaining about Austin being different and, “Yes, it gets very, very hot there.”

I love travelling alone and I can be truly happy with my earbuds in all day. But I am so glad I stepped out of my introvert zone to get to know my roommate in Edinburgh! We traded email addresses in case we ever visit each other’s countries. Maybe someday we’ll have coffee in Berlin and catch up. Maybe not, but, either way, I feel lucky to get to add that three day friendship to my list of experiences.

“A multitude of small delights constitutes happiness.” Charles Baudelaire