The lone ranger adventure, part 3
This is part 3 of my 'travel alone with no plans' series. You can read the other parts here:
- Part 1: London, the beginning, and finding Brighton
- Part 2: Cambridge, punting, and London again
- Part 4: Paris, Disneyland, and a return to London
- Part 5: Wrapping up London, and going home
Day Ten:
“All the things you probably hate about travelling -the recycled air, the artificial lighting, the digital juice dispensers, the cheap sushi- are warm reminders that I’m home.”
Unlike Mr. Bingham, I've grown to hate business travel. If travel is over-romanticized, then business travel is even more so. It's fun the first few times, but nothing is more grating than having no time to relax and having no time to explore wherever your destination is.
Like Mr. Bingham, however, I love airports. They're one of the few places you see people leave, people arrive, people celebrate reunions, people mourn goodbyes. But I also love them because they're like mini cities, reflecting some idea of what that particular city values.
For example, RyanAir apparently requires you to print a boarding pass. And if you've already checked in, it costs you fifteen pounds. Crazy. Thankfully I had spare change and went to a cafe to print it out on my own. It's always the little details you don't expect when you travel—the ways that other people do the things you consider basic, mundane, and take for granted. It's part of the adventure.
That said, sometimes things go the other way, where you see how other people run things and you wonder why we don't adopt a few of them. One example I think the TSA could take a page from: When you go to put your bag through security scans, instead of a single-file line that has to unpack bags and put them on a conveyor belt one by one, they have stations. At each station, you get a large bin where you can unpack your stuff, and when you're ready, then it gets put onto the conveyor belt. There's no 'line', and therefore no rush. If you need more time, you're not holding anybody up, because they just put their bin on the conveyor built whenever they're ready. Genius.
When I queue up to board my plane to Dublin, I happen across two women with a very young boy and a crying baby. The boy runs around and one lady runs after him. The other lady is struggling to comfort the crying human larvae while moving three or four pieces of luggage.
I offer to push the carry-ons, and even the car seat. With just a backpack, both of my hands are completely free, after all.
"Oh thank you very much," she says to me, "you are very kind."
"I have an older brother with kids about the same age," I laugh. "I get it."
Parenting it seems, is a nightmare everywhere. The women don't stop thanking me, even after the plane has landed.
Sometimes changing the world, other people's worlds, is very simple.
Later, I'm on a bus and I hear two guys talking. I had forgotten that Irish was also a language, and think maybe they're speaking that since I don't understand anything they're saying. But then I recognize a random "the." Then another "today." And then "man."
Ten minutes later, I realize, they're just speaking English. No offense intended.
I get to my hostel and unpack my bag. I realize I'm getting very good at being organized with unpacking and packing my bag. I know exactly which objects are where and how to place them in my locker. On top are my SLR camera, resistance band and toiletries. Then my other pair of shoes. Then socks and boxers. Then my shorts, other pair of pants and shirts, neatly rolled and stacked together. It's like a neat puzzle, that is also super easy to repack.
I go out and find some dinner on my own. I've gotten used to it, in some regards, eating by myself. But I still can’t help but feel people staring at me. Why is he traveling alone? Did he break up with a girlfriend/boyfriend? Is he heartbroken? Maybe a fresh out of college grad?
Also, I can't get over the strange way the wait staff always address people at first: Are you okay, sir?
What they mean is the equivalent of: Hi, what can I do for you?, but I'm always taken aback by it. Um, yes, I'm okay, I'm not hurt or heartbroken or something like that. I think.
There are some Canadian girls in my room when I come back. We chat for a while and share travel stories. We don't share names, which seems to be common when you're on the road. What's more important is what you're doing, or where you're going, and where you're from. I guess those are the things that are important in this slice of the world, and will be what's shared when everyone goes home to tell stories about their journey. Or so it seems.
They ask if I want to go out for a drink. I say no because I have an early start tomorrow and I'm still sick. One of them in particular is very cute. She happens to be going back to London for a few days. Maybe I ought to shift my plans? Who am I kidding.
I weirdly miss Brighton. I have no reason to go back, and again no one to share it with. I think I'm just memorializing it as the one true place I went to on a whim. Every other place had some sort of plan to it. And I think if I go back to relive that I'll just be disappointed.
I get a notification on my phone that Arsenal wins their game. I silently cheer.
Day Eleven:
I have a moment of panic. I can't find my passport, which is arguably the most important thing I have with me. If I can't find it and have to report it lost, I'm not going to be able to leave for the next few days, but more importantly, my mind isn't going to be at ease.
However, this the big advantage of having your life be composed of a rucksack, a locker and a jacket: There's literally three places my passport can be. And eventually after searching through each one, I find it. It's just in a different pocket than I've been putting it. Crisis averted.
I leave in the wee hours of the morning to catch a tour bus that will take me and about forty other tourists all around Ireland, including the much-vaunted Cliffs of Moher—the real reason I wanted to come to Ireland in the first place.
Speaking of the Cliffs, I was honestly a little disappointed. Some things you just have to experience, and there's no way a picture does it justice. Lonely sandy beaches, the Grand Canyon, the Hong Kong skyline, all of these are things I would put in this category. The Cliffs of Moher, less so. Pictures actually do a pretty good job of capturing what they're like.
I quickly take my SLR out of my bag, which I purposefully brought on this tour to take pictures of these cliffs. But I find that my phone seems to be good enough, given the lack of great lighting today. I pack my SLR back into my bag, maybe for the last time. I write more about that here.
Despite my disappointment, I hike around the cliffs for a while, and eventually it does grow on me. Nature is one of those things that I find so awe-inspiring, that they are the touristy things I do like to do. I sit for a little bit and imagine the idea that maybe these really are things that a god created. If so, pretty artistic god that's out there.
Hiking around the Cliffs of Moher.
Part of me wanted to criticize myself for taking this bus tour, which is a total tourist's way to travel. But I admit that sometimes, these tours are not actually a bad way to go. It turns out that the roads in Ireland are all pretty narrow and hard to navigate, and since I only have two days here, it's nice to pass on that responsibility to someone else.
I also actually enjoy the stories and historical commentary the driver gives us as we go along. Ireland is a country with a lot of very interesting history, some of which I knew, most of it I completely forgot. The arrival of the Celts, the non-invasion of the Romans, the still very recent religious conflicts, and the split of the country into U.K. v EU territories. History, like many things, is something that's most fascinating and compelling when you're in the country of where that history occurred, and have met people for whom that history affects.
The tour stops at a pub in a very small town that seems built for locals only. I sit with a few Canadians and chat about where we live, more favorite travel stories, and of course, the American election. We never share our names. Not knowing somebody's name is starting to feel normal.
We see some more of the countryside on our way back to Dublin, as well as stop in a few small towns. I notice that most of Ireland is untouched, which makes for some incredibly stunning landscape. But it's also a reminder that Ireland is, and has historically been, a relatively poor country without a lot of development of industry.
What they lack in money, however, Dublin makes up for in musical talent. Maybe it's the water, the weather, or the beer, but on my walk back to the hostel, I pass by a dozen or so bars, and each one has incredible live music echoing out its doors. The singers sound beautiful, none of the musical instrument playing is clunky, and the compositions themselves all sound great.
I'm treated to a musical duo back at the hostel where a girl is singing R&B originals, accompanied by a guy on acoustic guitar. She's slick, and pulls out a very convincing cover of Alicia Keys. He's just practically the best acoustic guitarist I think I've ever seen. They're both also super attractive. I stay for their whole set, obviously.
Afterwards, I run down to catch the guitarist and ask him how he got so good.
"Aw thanks mate, that's very kind of you to say," he says. I think I understand him with about a two-second delay. "Lots of practice."
"How long have you been playing?"
"Eighteen years."
"Damn," I laugh, thinking that I started playing guitar about twelve years ago but have never bothered to really try to get better, or anywhere near his level. "What do you play? Scales? Learn from books?"
"Everything. I find a song and then learn how to play it. Anything I can get my hands on."
I head back to my room, inspired to spend a lot of time when I get back home practicing guitar, and even my piano and drum skills. I want to be that good.
The Canadian girls are also back. We finally exchange names.
"I have to ask you something," one of them says, "what do you think about your election?"
Like I said, everybody asks. Because it matters to everybody.
Day Twelve:
At night I see something I wish I didn't. Men, the advice is, please always wear underwear. Boxers. Shorts. I don't care. Your body has a mind of its own and you don't know what it will do or what poses you make at night.
Anyway.
If there's one thing that I really do miss about home, it's my bed. I really miss my bed. It's one of those things where I hate to compromise, and hostel beds just don't cut it. I'm tired of hostel beds, and I think my body is starting to feel a little sore.
I also miss people, so I text my brother and a few other friends. I wonder if I'm missing out on them, and if they feel like they're missing out on me.
Tell you what I don't miss: lots of clothes. It's nice to be on the road with exactly what I need. Sometimes I think my possessions at home owned me, more than I owned them. And this reminds me what life is like when it's the other way around. Maybe I just need a guitar and keyboard. And maybe a small kitchen. And my nice bed, naturally.
I decide to take this day easy. I'm still sick as it is.
I do eat an Irish breakfast, which is some mixture of eggs, probably pre-frozen hashbrowns, about two tiny cherry tomatoes and some bread. It's not great, and I wonder how I'd do this different in Seattle with hipster roasted potatoes, better eggs, richer tomatoes, you know, basic American breakfast stuff.
I wonder if this is somehow the equivalent of a white American telling Vietnamese that they've been doing pho wrong this whole time. Maybe Irish breakfast is fine exactly how it is.
I'll be heading to Paris tomorrow, and I remember that I know no French and so I load up YouTube and practice a few phrases. I know I'm going to order a croissant at some point, and so I imagine myself walking in and announcing un croissant, s'il vous plait! to amazing fanfare.
I do one more touristy thing: the Guinness storehouse tour. Thankfully, the Canadian girls show up to hang out. The tour is perfectly mediocre, but it was made more enjoyable in the company of friends; a reminder that some things are simply better shared.
I do get to pour my own pint of Guinness, and I immediately start wanting to be a bartender. I love the idea of people coming to talk to you, and the idea of serving people something fun. But I think about all the hobbies I have and how maybe I need to start pruning, and I scratch the idea.
I go back to the hostel and watch everyone else pack. They have large suitcases and talk about how they'll need at least an hour to finish. I smile to myself, because I know it will take me less than ten minutes to repack the puzzle that's my one bag.
I think about how tomorrow I'll be leaving again. It was perfect timing; there's not much more I want to see in Ireland. Still, somehow having decided where steps four and five would be, before having taken steps one and two, feels less fun. And honestly, right now I think it would be nice to go see Northern Ireland in the U.K., since the weather right now is amazing (which is rare) and I find myself fascinated by the country's history, and the countryside is just beautiful. It also would be nice to do a stop over in Scotland before heading back to England.
But those options will have to be for another trip. That's the price of having chosen a stop already like Paris.
to be continued...