They’re After Me Lucky Charms!
Our group started as nine, then two split from us in Berlin. Once we were seven, a third and fourth went to separate places after Germany as well. Then we were five. Two members of our group were left in Berlin having missed the plane; we were now three. The three of us would complete our task and, despite the burden of public transportation, reach our destination. We were, as a friend put it, in the Lord of the Rings (credit for the wholly appropriate analogy goes to Amanda Jones, who I think we decided was Sam).
Our entrance into the country was not without a rough patch. Amanda and I, being American citizens with Italian visas only staying in the country for three days, had no problem getting through the passport check on our way out. The third member of our group, however, was not so lucky. A few weeks earlier, she had made the comment that she might not be able to get into the UK with her Chinese passport and Italian/American visas, so she decided to come with us to Ireland. We pleaded for her to double-check and make sure that she would be able to go with us without any trouble and she assured us that she would be able to. Well, she didn’t check. Amanda and I were called back over to the passport check stand, having already associated ourselves with her, and asked a series of questions. Finally, the clerk made a stand: “I have two options here. I can refuse your entry into the country, on the basis that you have no credentials to visit Ireland, and you will spend the night in prison. Tomorrow, you will be deported back to Berlin.”
Our friend: “Haha… and option two?”
This is a serious matter! Don’t laugh at the man! You are about to be deported back to a country where not only are you not a citizen, but you have no contacts, no plane tickets back to the center, and no one to help you. For Christ’s sake, this is the kind of thing that people make sure about well in advance so that they don’t, you know, end up in prison. She’s lucky that we were there; only two American students with solid heads on their shoulders and a dire understanding of the situation would have been able to get her into the country at that point.
And breathe…
I cannot stress enough how awesome it was that everyone… wait for it… spoke English. Amanda made a point to ask everyone as many questions as she possibly could; we had conversations with bus drivers, cab drivers, people waiting in line, gift shop employees, everyone; ordering food was simple. We were not only able to read menus but also ask about specials, what came with the food, where our hotel was, where the bus station was, how we could get to where we needed to go; it was refreshing.
A Subtle Warning
We took a rather uneventful bus ride from the Dublin airport through the main city and towards Galway. Though a rather uneventful trip, it was worth the extra time (as opposed to a train) to get to see the Irish countryside. “Gorgeous” is the best way I can describe it. It has a sort of melancholy beauty to it; the fall colors contrasting with the archetypal rolling green hills painted a firework-riddled landscape against a grey stormy backdrop. Leafless branches reached skyward, their slow yet steady march stunted by the coming winter. Sunlight broke through the clouds as it made its final peek over the horizon before the moon clocked in after the passing twilight; it was a thing of beauty. It wasn’t long before we found ourselves in the Galway bus station.
And that’s when the adventure started. As it turns out, the last bus headed towards our hostel had left at four in the afternoon. This meant that we had to take a private taxi from Galway to our place just outside the Cliffs of Moher, quoted at 50 euro. Expensive, sure, but what other option did we have? Soon the three of us hopped into the back of some random Irishman’s van and set off into the night. It sounds sketchy, and let’s be honest, it was. We really hadn’t the slightest idea where we were going or where he intended to take us (though we hoped to God it was our hostel; getting robbed and left in the Irish countryside was not part of our travel plans). The man drove like me, sliding the van through corners and driving what seemed to be well over the speed limit. We were able to catch glimpses of the meter as we were turning and found ourselves getting more and more nervous: seventy, seventy-five, eighty euros. After climbing a hill called “Dead Man’s Pass”, a road that our driver was so kind as to point out to us, we arrived at the entrance to our hostel. One hundred and eleven euros. Luckily, the cabbie was nice enough to knock it down to an even hundred, despite the fact that he only quoted us fifty. What other choice did we have but to pay the man?
The hostel itself was a bit sketchy. Upon entering a dimly-lit lobby, a slightly-frazzled man whom we can only assume was sleeping, stumbled into the room and asked us if we were the Jones family. Remembering that we had booked a family room, we explained to him that we lost two of our group in Berlin and that it would just be the three of us for the night. Between small talk and awkward silences, he showed us to our room. We learned that he was originally from Berlin and wasn’t actually the manager of the hostel; he was the custodian. Left in charge of the place, he hadn’t seen any customers for two days and declared himself quite lonely. He mentioned this a lot. A bit unnerving for us, I must admit. After bringing in two separate space-heaters (apologizing for the lack of a central heating system many times over) we decided to venture out and grab some Chinese food. Under a veil of silence we slipped out the door and abandoned our creepy custodian. Upon returning with the take-out, we locked ourselves in the room for the night and slept with one eye open.
Our bus was going to leave the next morning for the Cliffs of Moher at 8.15 in the morning. We woke up at some obscenely early hour to get ready and make sure that we got to the bus stop on time. This would have been fine and dandy had we not been locked inside our hostel. Yes, the main entrance of the building had been locked by the custodian, trapping us inside the creepy building. In a moment of panic, we turned all of the lights on in a random order and flipped all of the switches under the reception desk; nothing. Then an idea occurred to me: maybe they have the same fire codes in Ireland that they do in the states… a fire exit perhaps? Luckily there was one posted around the back side of the building and I, in a brief fit of vengeance and laziness, propped the exit open and left it that way. Take that, creepy custodian, for locking us into the building.
Cliffs of Moher
After a confused conversation at the stop, we managed to make it onto the bus and headed out to the cliffs. Definitely worth fighting the early morning, the rain, and the cold. Very picturesque, exactly what you would picture an Irish coast to look like. I’m a bit disappointed in the size of the viewing towers; not that high, super windy, and impossible to take pictures from. Have to admit, though, that I did steal quite a few bits of slate from the Irish coast; that’s a real souvenir.
We began our long bus trip back into Dublin that afternoon. Via some confusing directions from both the internet and random Irishmen, we wandered around downtown Dublin until we managed to find out hostel tucked away in an alley. There we discovered that not only had our lost friends arrived at the room well before us, but they had already set out to find food. Deciding to do the same, we moved up the street and found a place called O’Shae’s; seemed Irish enough. We get in and to our surprise run into our friends who just happened to run across the same place and had the same. Coincidence? Yeah, probably. God’s getting pretty good with the dice.
Our last official sight-seeing day was spent cramming every tourist locale in Dublin into a single afternoon. We began with Christ Church and Temple Bar, made our way over to St. Patrick’s, and then over to Dublin “Castle”. It was here that we discovered something strange: just as everything is bigger in Texas, everything is smaller in Ireland. The castle itself was really only a single tower joined to a large palace complex similar to what we had seen in Prague. Not only was the castle itself sized not defend anything larger than a suburban house, but they were charging 10 euro to get in and see… pretty much nothing. We passed it up quickly and stopped by Gruel for lunch. Wonderful sandwiches, tasty soup, and the only brownie I’ve had in Europe; great lunch.
We then made our way over to Phoenix Park, an impossibly long trek made to look simple by the scale of our map. The memorial there mimicked the size of the castle tower and was nearly dwarfed by the surrounding trees. It began to rain steady, soaking us to the bone. We hurried into the Museum of Modern Art Ireland (IMMA) and took the time to dry off while looking at confusing paintings, architectural drawings, and witty writings on black and white photos. By this point everyone had pretty much been drained by the rain and the cold. A friend and I decided to head back and change into warmer clothes; somehow I was convinced to go boot-shopping in the process. About an hour-and-a-half of shoe perusing later, we met up with our friends and had another dinner at O’Shea’s.
Christ Church, Interior
And there wasn’t much else to it. We crashed early and made our 11-something flight. Miserably early, sure, but it got us back a day early and in time for dinner. That’s something, right?
…Right?
The View from a Train 