Ever since I befriended an Irish girl named Mara, I have wanted to see Ireland. “My family is from Galway,” she would tell me. “It is such a beautiful city. The countryside is amazing, the people are so nice, you have to go there.” Her praise of the country was backed by others’ accounts of Ireland’s beauty and charm. A year after I made Mara’s acquaintance, I crossed the Atlantic to attend King Alfred’s College in Winchester, England for a semester abroad.
Early November rolled around. I went for three weeks without seeing sun or blue skies. One day, as I consumed my morning ritual of black tea and cheese toast, I thought to myself: “Screw it, I’m going to Ireland after class today.”
I opted out of paying attention to my lectures all day. Instead I did a lot of daydreaming. I envisioned a sunrise kissing the tops of rolling green hills. Freckle-clad, red-headed girls would line the banks of a dark, frothy river of Guinness; and at the river’s mouth I would be greeted by leprechauns dancing a gleeful jig to the finest Celtic music in the land. Perfect.
The hands on the clock added up to 5:30 p.m., signifying the end of music composition class. I quickly left and hurried to catch the 5:50 p.m. westbound train. After twenty-seven hours on a train, boat and then bus (with a stop to kiss the Blarney Stone), I reached my destination for the day – Galway. I honestly didn’t sleep more than an hour the whole time.
I checked into the only youth hostel in town with vacancies. Exhausted, I threw my bag on the bed and introduced myself to my roommates for the night – Liam, Cassandra, and Terry – and despite my crippling fatigue, went out for food. I left the hostel seeking traditional Irish cuisine and folk music. Like a message from a higher power, a sign appeared that read: “Traditional Irish food and folk music.” Ah yes, my pot of gold at the end of a long exhausting rainbow. In the pub I treated myself to chips (French fries) and Jameson’s while being entertained by a Hall and Oats cover band. I returned to the hostel, locked the room door behind me and went to sleep.
BANG, BANG, BANG! “Who de fek lucked de door?” said a voice in a slurry holler as the knock at the door jolted me from slumber.
The kicking and punching continued against a backdrop of belligerent voices. I glanced at my watch: 3:30 a.m. The door opened and the lights came on. I lay with my eyes closed, hoping the noise would soon subside.
I felt the rowdy presence of people gathering around my bed – probably Terry and Liam whom I had met a few hours prior.
“I’m gonna kill you, you piece of shyte. Wake up.” a voice yelled.
“Wake up you asshole. We know it was you. We’re gonna kick your feckin’ head in.” another voice added.
“Oh shit, I locked the door,” I thought to myself. I continued to pretend as though I was sleeping through it.
“Be a feckin’ man. I know you’re not sleepin’. I’ll drag you out of dat feckin’ bed and beat the livin’ shyte out of you, git up.” the first voice slurred.
I began to wonder which voice belonged to which of my intimidating, rugged roommates. “Brilliant. I am going to die in a skeezy Irish youth hostel,” I thought.
“Mikah, wake up!” the first voice said again.
They were talking to someone else. I breathed an inaudible sigh of relief and, as one might react to a terrible car accident on the highway, I turned to see the commotion. They were yelling at the guy in the bunk below me.
“‘ey American bloke, ‘ow you doing?” Terry had noticed I was awake.
I curtly replied, “Great,” and rolled my eyes.
A knock rapped on the door and the hostel manager came in screaming, telling them to be quiet or she would call the police. After a brief argument, they obliged only to start back up again. The manager intervened again and the threats and yelling ended, only to be replaced by Terry singing and dancing along to techno music. Terry walked over to my bed and proceeded to make small talk with me. “Whut ‘re you doin’ in Ireland?” “‘ow do you like Galway?” As his interrogation continued, squeaking and moaning sounds emanated from the other corner of the room. Not thinking anything of it, he kept shooting the shit with me. “Where in America are you frum?” “Do you go ta school?” “Can I ‘ave five pounds?”
“No man, sorry, I don’t have any money on me,” I told him. I thought about my camera, wallet, and discman in a bag at the foot of my bed.
“Whut? You ‘re traveling an you don ‘ave money?” he asked, calling my bluff.
“Well I do, but it’s all locked up in the office.” I explained.
“You must ‘ave a lot if you locked it up?” he questioned.
“No.”
“Jesus Christ Liam, come already,” Terry yelled to the other side of the room and then, for the next five minutes continued to ask me for five pounds. He asked me for a cigarette. I gave him one and had one myself to relieve the frustration. The tormenting went on for a little while longer. Liam and Cassandra finally finished, the party was catching up with Terry, and around 6:00 a.m. the debauchery had finally subsided to the point where I was able to fall asleep. I woke up an hour later and left Galway behind me.
The next two days in Dublin were cold and uneventful. On the morning of the fourth day, my weekend trip had passed. However, the excitement was far from over.
I boarded the 9:00 a.m. boat back to Wales and found myself in the lounge looking for a place to sit, rest, and reflect. I eyed a table away from all the other people and as I began to walk toward it, something caught my eye. From the shadows of the corner of the lounge, an older black-clad woman whose name escapes me was beckoning me to join her. She was wearing sunglasses so I wasn’t sure she was motioning to me. I looked around me to make sure and then looked back at her. She pointed at me, nodded, and smiled. I took the seat across from her and got introductions out of the way. She offered to buy me a drink and, disregarding the fact that I hadn’t even had breakfast, I graciously accepted. She taught me some Irish slang and she bought me two more drinks: Jack Daniels on the rocks. She inquired after my age. “Twenty-one,” I told her. She told me that she was forty-six and gave me the “I’m old enough to be your mother” line.
Now this is beginning to sound pretty shady on my part so let me clear it up. I was not hitting on this woman or trying to get some action. Just innocent conversation – honestly.
Small talk ensued and was accompanied by a few cigarettes and another Jack and rocks. At this point it was roughly 10:00 a.m., I was half way to drunk and the conversation was beginning to get weird. “I bet you ‘re wunderin’ why I am wearin’ dese sunglasses inside?” she asked me.
I paused, thinking she was going to follow her question up with something else. When I realized that she was finished, I asked “why?”
“I ‘ave a disease in me eyes dat makes dem very sensitive.” she explained.
I began, “Oh, I’m sorry t…”
“I bet you ‘re wondering why I am dressed all in blahck?” she asked, cutting me off in mid apology.
“Why is that?” I asked, a little worried.
The pep left her voice and she said, “My sun killed himself yesterday, und I’m goin’ to Wales to bury him.”
I felt terrible. What do you say to a complete stranger who pours their heart out like that? I muttered something sympathetic. A moment of awkward silence went by, another round was ordered, and another cigarette was lit. Less depressing conversation rallied on only to take another odd direction.
“Last time I was on dis boat, I went outside on the deck and saw two people shagging,” she said. She asked, “do you want to go out on the deck wid me?”
My mind scrambled for a way out of it. “Uhhh, no thanks, it’s really cold out and I’m pretty comfortable here.”
She changed the subject and we continued talking. She later insisted on giving me a tour of the boat. The casino, the movie theater, the restaurants, et cetra. We ended up on the deck of the top floor. She leaned against the railing and gazed pensively into the bubbly water as it was pushed from under the boat. She turned to me and with a stoic expression she said, “Last time I was on dis boat, I almost killed meself.” She proceeded to climb the fence on the edge of the deck. I told her to come down, but eventually had to pull on her jacket to get her off the railing. She came down and I convinced her to go back inside with me. We went straight to the bar and she asked me if I wanted another drink. After that little buzzkill, I definitely wanted another drink. We had another and began talking with an old drunken Irish man. The two of them started speaking to each other in Gaelic. By the time the ice in my glass was no longer floating, the boat had docked in Wales. I told my new friends that it was nice to meet them, thanked them for all the drinks, and started to walk away.
“Wait,” she yelled to me. I turned and she walked up to me, threw her arms around me and began to cry. “I’ll miss you,” she sobbed.
I told her I would miss her too. I lied to be polite. I then scurried off into the crowd of people exiting the boat. I boarded an eastbound train, passed out, and ten hours later I was back in Winchester. Having only consumed whiskey and a candy bar and having spent the whole day on trains, I was a mess. I ran into a friend on my way back to the dorms. “Cheers mate! You look like shit! How was your trip to Ireland?”
A cloud of frozen breath exited my nose and mouth. “You probably wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” I mumbled, and went directly to bed.
Joe Lops can be contacted at [email protected]