In which Creampuff travels to the Emerald Isle in a plane barely larger than her own ass.
I knew when I agreed to go to Ireland for Jecr’s wedding that a) I would HAVE to go for at least three weeks and travel around (I’d never been off my own continent before) and b) the trip would be, how you say, “debt-financed”. They say “if you don’t have it, don’t spend it.” I say “Aw, shut it!” And then I try to grab their wallet, ‘cause they probably have money. I had a few savings and a pitifully small amount of credit. After committing some mild fraud involving posing as a student, I had all the credit I needed and the planning began.
The plan was Toronto to Dublin (shitty charter), Dublin to Cork (bus), Cork to Galway (bus), Galway to Belfast (catch ride with Jecr’s future brother-in-law Anch), WEDDING!!. Then Belfast to Glasgow (ferry/bus), Glasgow to Edinburgh (bus), Edinburgh to London (train), London to Paris (chunnel train), Paris to London (ditto), London to Toronto (shitty charter).
The other Canadian bridesmaid, Caho, was traveling with her beau. We’ll call him Barty. They wouldn’t be meeting up with me until 2 days before the wedding in Belfast. My good friend Jeba, whose sister lives in London, agreed to meet up with me in Cork and we’d do the rest of the trip together. She turned out to be a great choice for a traveling companion, as she is a relaxed, resourceful creampuff who likes to walk and sit and eat when I do and was poor like me at the time. I found out recently that Jeba doesn’t read blogs unless she’s mentioned in them, so Jeba – enjoy, man.
And so, Leg One: Dublin!
The city that never sleeps! Or stops drinking! Ever. Even at 3 a.m. when Roro, who hasn't slept in nearly 46 hours, is curled up under the dodgiest top bunk in the Republic, hoping and praying that the Scottish boys who had a "pint of breakfast" won't vomit on her carefully scrubbed sandals.
While Dublin, as a city, was rife with history and ancient relics, like the Book of Kells at Trinity College and my tour guide, the hostel experience was less than stellar. The staff were surly like my knitting instructor and complicated questions like “Hi!” were greeted with cold stares and vague gestures. When I asked one of the desk staff a question about how the phone card he'd just sold me worked, he looked at me like I'd taken a dump on the counter and rubbed it around. I made the executive decision to wait 'til Cork to use a phone, dumped my bag in the "secure area" and wandered out on O'Connell Street.
I loved my tour of the city and spent some quiet time next to a flatteringly thin statue of Oscar Wilde in a park that’s only open to the public on one day a year - Bloomsday, June 16. I didn't know what Bloomsday was at the time, because I am a hick and never read Joyce. All I know is that people were wearing their clothes backwards and pints were cheap. By 6 p.m., the pubs were so full that people were spilling out onto the street and drinking their Guinness on the sidewalk. Local dogs lapped up the spilled foam and joyfully humped newly attractive lamposts and my sandals. It was a real party atmosphere and had I not been so sleep-deprived due to my overnight flight on Air Shitty (Where Every Seat is First Class!!) I might have joined in more of the revels with Denise and Michelle, the glittery girls from Manchester. Thanks to Ada, Janie and Tara from Newcastle and their Scottish boyfriends, however, I got Bloomsday revels up the ass at 3 a.m. and felt that really, I had missed nothing.
Saturday morning, I hied myself to the bus station and bought a sandwich for breakfast. The label said “bacon sandwich”, but I assumed there would be something else in the sandwich also. Like some L. or T. to go with the B. But this sandwich was basically bread, an inch of delicious, crispy bacon and more bread. The Irish – they don’t mess around with fancy fixin’s. And I appreciate that.
My habit of dehydrating myself before long journeys stood me in good stead when I got on the Bus Earinn conveyance to Cork and realized there was no shitter, ladies’ or otherwise, on the bus. The bus did, however, smell faintly of urine, which led me to conclude that the back of the bus had been the site of some clandestine whizzing, possibly into a bottle.
I congratulated myself on eschewing a morning coffee and settled in for the ride. As the bus pulled out of the station, I applied my chapstick. I was only a few hours away from kissing the Blarney Stone, people. I wanted to be ready.
