The Irish Countryside from the Inside of a Bus

I woke up before Starbucks opened.  That’s the precedent for an early rising.  I was going on a tour to the Cliffs of Moher on the Atlantic coast.  The bus was scheduled to leave Dublin at 7:00 A.M.
 

I reached the bus stop early to find one frazzled driver corralling confused tourists while his co-worker smoked cigarettes and avoided responsibility.  A small queue formed.  When a brisk wind blew, the temperature hovered around 40 degrees Fahrenheit (around 5 degrees Celsius). 

 
The frazzled driver was shivering in his T-shirt.  As he checked people off his list, his lazy colleague continued puffing on his cig.  This seemed the epitome of the Irish working class:  some were diligent; the rest were belligerent. 

I climbed aboard behind some American girls, which turned out to be a mistake.  If I wish to dose off, I can easily tune out English, but when I hear mutterings of a foreign language my curiosity impels me to decipher the strange words.  This mental occupation prevents any chance of slumber. 

As it turned out, the American girls hardly spoke English.  Their limited diction was littered with textese terms, likes, and other fillers that aren’t really words.  Mostly I heard things like:  “Oh my God, that’s, like, hilarious.  Oh my God, look at those lambs.  They’re, like, so cute.”  These kinds of Americans make me cringe because they make the rest of the population look dumb.  These are the kind of ignorant Americans who enter a foreign country and expect everyone to speak clear English to them. 

The tour guide, on the other hand, spoke rapid-fire English with a thick Irish accent.  Usually when I hear my Mexican friends speaking Spanish to each other, I think they are speaking incredibly fast.  Likewise, non-natives may struggle to comprehend the Irish if English isn’t their primary language. 

Because I have much practice with a core vocabulary of often-used words, I can instantly recognize the sounds of the Irishman’s speech, which sound similar to pronunciations with which I’m more familiar.  I can also match the sound of a word to its meaning.  All of us who readily speak English can do this fairly easily. 

But when we hear foreign languages we may only hear syllables or indistinct sounds to which we cannot attach accurate spelling.  If you didn’t speak English and you heard the word vo-cab-u-lary, you may think you’ve heard four words.  Viewed in this manner, foreigners’ tongues may seem to rival the rate of an auctioneer, but, more than likely, the speed is a misperception caused by a disconnect between the ears and the brain.  We can’t recognize the words, let alone their meanings, so we have no bearings with which to accurately judge how fast a foreigner is really speaking.

If anyone on the tour bus wanted to hear the endless statistics about Ireland, their English had to be extremely polished.  I sat near a German woman who had no clue what the driver was saying.  Her daughter had to summarize the lengthy divulgements. 

A French woman near me also acted as her group’s translator because a few of her companions could not keep up with the bus driver’s words.  Once we reached a rest stop and all of us piled back onto the bus, a few couples switched seats, forcing the annoying Americans to usurp a French woman’s spot.  There were no assigned seats, but apparently this woman was either an obsessive creature of habit or a stickler for order. The French woman was mildly distraught over this disorder and eventually vented her frustration to the Americans, who had no idea what she was saying.  I witnessed the conversation, which was very one-sided on both sides.

At first, the French woman hovered near the Americans and silently waited for them to get out of her seat.  Wordlessly receiving her impatience, one of the Americans said, “Someone took our seats, so we had to move back a row.”

 

“Comment?” inquired the French woman.  “What?”

The French woman’s companion quickly translated but, strangely, chose not to confront the Americans in English to handle the matter directly.  Understanding what both sides were saying, I chose not to get involved in the squabble.   

The Irish driver, whom hardly any of us could understand, swooped in to solve the issue, but the French woman remained steadfast. 

“Tu ne peux pas changer,” she said.  “You can’t change places.” 

A Taiwanese man next to me interjected, “Excuse me.  I don’t speak English, but I think she is saying someone took her seat.”

It was an impressive sentence for someone who claimed not to speak English.  The diversity of the passengers breathed life into this mundane quarrel, and I found it fascinating that everyone involved both understood and misunderstood each other at the same time.  This scuffle proved to me that you could fight without words and without fists.  A penetrating glare is a universal red flag of pissed-off-ness.  Like her country has done many times, the French woman lost the battle and was exiled from her translator. 

 

The driver consoled the French, however.  There would be an opportunity to shuffle the seats after we stopped for a photo. 

“Apres nous arretons pour prendre des photos,” the French translator bellowed, “nous pouvons jouer des chaises musicales.”

Aside from the linguistic entertainment, the view from the window offered a serene diversion.  Mossy green fields were divided by stone walls.  Within the delineated confines, sheep wandered aimlessly throughout their limited pastures.  Their wooly coats were marked by vibrant red or blue paint so that the farmers could identify their livestock should they manage to escape.  Some of the sheep were so heavily painted they resembled cotton candy with limbs.There were also cattle, horses, and, in a few spots, el pacas, a breed of llamas.

 

The landscape was punctuated by limestone, and in one stretch a large rock slate served as a mini mountain.  When creatures could roam across the supercontinent Pangea, the rock that would become Ireland was in the Caribbean, so the natural environment is quite different from Scotland’s despite the two nation’s proximity. 

The tour guide rattled off dates and statistics with very little fervor.  He seemed to be reciting a script at times.  Every now and then he would needlessly repeat himself.  He would describe the features of a castle, which was not yet in view and then exhaust the subject before we reached it.  Then, once we could actually see the castle he would attempt to refresh the same tirade but with different synonyms.  His recitals were like the same mediocre play performed twice with a change of actors and background scenery.  With this technique, he succeeded in boring me not once, but twice.

The lesson I took from this was to be more aware of my own speech.  Like the driver, I am guilty of rewording statements to seem like I have more to say.  For whatever the reason, I feel impelled to lengthen my sentences or carry on when my listener does not visually signify his recognition.  What I should do is be more direct with my statements and delete fluffy phrases like “kind of” and useless add-ons like “or something.”  I’d wager that most of us struggle with the silence in between dialogue, so we feel compelled to fill that void with more words.      

Don’t get me wrong.  I welcome commentary during tours.  I want to learn the history from a local’s perspective, but I don’t give a damn about the parameters of the world’s largest thatched roof. If you mention a claim to fame, the feat must be noteworthy. If you have nothing worthy to mention, let me enjoy the view in silence.  Its beauty, at least, will be untainted by soporific droning.  The countryside in Ireland is very peaceful and needs no soundtrack to be enjoyed.   

Why Some Museums Suck

After being spoiled with Edinburgh’s impressive museum, Ireland’s exhibits were somewhat disappointing.  The Natural History Museum of Ireland houses a collection of stuffed animals in glass cases.  These aren’t the stuffed animals one would buy for children.  Had the museum been devoted to plush toys I would’ve stayed longer than five minutes.  Unless you are fanatical about taxidermy, I don’t see the allure of staring at beautified carcasses.

After browsing the frozen mammals, I decided I would rather watch a nature documentary if I wanted to learn about animals.  Ultimately, I’d prefer to go on a safari, but I’d even settle for a zoo, where the animals at least move occasionally.  Fortunately, the museum was free.  At the least, I used the bathroom there, so the trip was not entirely fruitless. 

The Archaeology Museum is a tad better.  My opinion is biased because I am not titillated when I stare at poorly preserved cookware that was lodged in the ground a thousand years ago.  I assume Neanderthals did not buy silverware from Target, and that knowledge is sufficient for me. 

My intention was to explore the history of Ireland, but this nation was not so willing to divulge its secrets.  I later learned the Celtics were known as the hidden people because they rarely recorded anything.  However, I managed to discover that Ireland was invaded by the Vikings who eventually assimilated into an Irish society.  The archaeology museum’s main event was the Battle of Clontorf in 1014 in which Ireland’s national hero Brian Boru was slain in battle.  He was the first king to reign over all of Ireland.  A few hundred years later, Cromwell came over, uninvited, and that’s why the Irish speak English.  If Great Britain hadn’t conquered its neighbor, then the Irish would predominately speak Gaelic, a language which still thrives today, especially out in the boonies. 

Staring at chipped Viking swords made me want to watch A Game of Thrones instead of reading the dense descriptions the museum offered.  The objects are not fascinating in themselves.  A pot does not become interesting just because it is old.  I do no salivate over my cookware, so why should I drool over someone else’s from the 8^th century? If there is an interesting backstory about the pot, I may remember it.  Sure, it is intriguing the pot is still around after all these years, but surely it must have been designed for that specific purpose. I can’t fathom why a pot-maker would design a faulty dish prone to the elements.  When future races dig up ancient Ford pick-up trucks, brush away the dust and realize they were “built to last,” should they be surprised? I imagine they will be, and so another generation will salivate over the ancient automobiles housed in stuffy museums.

A true gem that has survived several centuries is the Book of Kells, an illuminated manuscript expertly crafted by monks around the year 800.  The book contains the four Gospels as well as the New Testament.  Even after all these centuries, the manuscript’s colors are rich and lavish, like a freshly-printed, vibrant comic book.  Currently, you can see four pages of the Book of Kells underneath the library at Trinity College.  

The manuscript is protected by a glass case and illuminated by faint light so as not to deteriorate the delicate pages.  A guard stands by to ensure no funny business.  Photography is absolutely prohibited due to copyright reasons and to prevent damage from the flash.  Signs with crossed-out cameras and announcements of NO PHOTOGRAPHY are everywhere, yet a few sneaky wankers hover over the book and compose a pretty picture.  When the guard warns them aggressively that photographs are not allowed, the chump pretends not to know he wasn’t allowed to photograph Ireland’s finest national treasure.  Oh well, he must be thinking, pictures of things in glass cases never come out well anyway.

Sex, Love & Introspection

Throughout the day, my German friends and I discussed work, Ireland, and girls.  We walked behind a slender female in leggings. 

“This girl is nice,” Eric said.  “I like when they wear these tight pants, if they are in shape.”

Most young women that I’ve seen in the UK and Ireland are very fit and relatively pale, especially the ones jogging in the parks in London.  These women I’ve seen have that posh quality, quite distinct from the down-to-earth, tanned spring-break beauty of American girls.  Instead, most British women I’ve seen have their faces made up and their hair is done; their outfit is elegant and expensive.  Rarely did I see women comfortably dressed in blue jeans.

An anomaly in these parts, a plump woman in leggings strutted in front of us: 

 

“This would not happen in Germany,” my friend said.  “If you are fat, you don’t show your legs.”

 

Compared to Americans, Europeans are generally more relaxed with their portrayals and reception of sexual content.  Our Hollywood movies were censored until the 1960s when the Hays Code was replaced with the MPAA ratings system, but in Europe you can find nude bodies on advertisements that don’t cause traffic accidents.  

I grew up in an environment that repressed sex for the most part.  Fornication was a forbidden act rather than an inevitable adolescent hobby that should’ve been talked about more openly, but instead sex, nudity, and even bathroom activities are viewed as disgusting rather than natural bodily functions.  Because of my upbringing, I chuckled when I saw nude women in advertisements.  The same immature adolescent who laughed at the mentioning of female genitalia in health class was still in there somewhere because I’ve lived in a place where these secrets were dirty.

Eric had mentioned that our hostel-mate, a Brazilian man with limited English, was kissing girls left and right the previous night in the Temple Bar pubs. 

I remarked that I found that lifestyle distasteful because there is no meaning to these ephemeral encounters.  One-night-stands will only leave me feeling empty.  I prefer relationships, to be somebody’s rock. 

 

“I agree,” Eric said.  “It’s better to have feelings.  When you know someone and you know what they want...the sex, yeah, it is amazing.”

 

I wanted to interject.  I was talking about love, not sex.

“Yes,” Marcell said.  “But it is also good when a girl is giving you a blow job.”

Marcell wants to see the world.  He doesn’t want to be tethered to a relationship.  Eric, on the other hand, has a girlfriend, but says he is not quite ready to take the plunge into marriage.

In just one day, I had learned so much about these guys, and I thoroughly enjoyed their company, especially after traveling alone for a few days.  I hadn’t really had a long conversation since I left Scotland, so this bout of socializing was invigorating.  Although my new friendships were refreshing, I have to admit that I was not accustomed to traveling in a pack, so I felt the urge to break away and fulfill my itinerary. 

There are a few perks to traveling alone.  You can do whatever you want, whenever you want as fast as you want without considering anyone else’s opinion.  You can linger in museums that would have others complaining of boredom.  Most importantly, you are more likely to collide with strangers.

 

But to travel alone, you must wander down a few lonely roads.  Often there are days when my social life is reduced to business transactions.  There’s the occasional friendly chat with a waitress that can only go so far. 

 

When I walk around a city, my mind does not always wander.  I have to force it to seize an idea, and only when I’ve latched onto a category do I begin to ponder and analyze its components.  Usually I just make plans for the day, or I organize my route to another city.  Sometimes the transitions can be tricky and thus require careful orchestrations.  Often I try to envision these old European vistas as they were in the past, like when Joyce was writing about his native Dublin.  I erase the modern vehicles and pretend the pedestrians are wearing their Sunday suits, the men with their hats and the women in their dresses.

 

When not focusing outwardly, I assess my own qualities.  I list what I believe are my strengths as an individual, and then I contemplate ways to improve my character.  While I would not describe myself as shy, I am hesitant to join large groups.  I often judge strangers too quickly on insufficient evidence.  I often dismiss drinkers, dope-heads, party animals and frat boys without a second chance.  I don’t like to associate with those who frequently indulge in frivolous behavior because I unjustly assume they are stupid and have nothing beneficial to offer me.  I am usually steeped in intellectual pursuits such as reading, writing, studying film, and practicing my French.  Gyrating my body to unimpressive pop songs and consuming large quantities of alcohol to get drunk and lose myself does not tickly my fancy.  Sometimes I feel a nagging urge to loosen up and not be such a prude, but I have not yet reached a fair compromise.  I suppose I could view certain forms of debauchery as celebratory rather than shameful or wasteful.  I suspect my viewpoints on this matter have been shaped by my father’s excessive drinking and the uncertainty I face when I ask myself how a respectable man should define and present himself.     

The rest of my mental space is filled with contemplation of the future.  Since I feel slightly alienated in Dublin, this opportunity allows me to assess my home life from a fresh perspective.  When I’m at home, I find my job as a waiter in a relatively upscale restaurant to be mediocre and meaningless, although I am comfortable there and make more than enough money to cover my expenses.  I enjoy living in the city, and there are a few great friends there.  My house is very inviting, and I bask in the pleasures of watching films each night with my brother. 

But I wander if my feelings toward home are biased because I miss the convenience and constant warmth it offers.  In these sentimental mindsets, it is easy to forget about the grievances, the undesirable aspects, the feelings of incompleteness, and the urge to get out of town and refresh the view. 

When your mouth is closed and your feet are on auto-pilot, traveling alone is more often an inward journey.  The displacement from familiar surroundings is beneficial to analyze one’s life from new angles.  It is perfectly healthy to feel uncomfortable in a foreign land.  I embrace the discomfort of feeling lost and adrift.  When the scenery never changes, the familiarity can sometimes be blinding.  

A Lesson from the Germans

At the hostel, I met Eric, a 26-year-old engineering student from Berlin.  He had been driving around the countryside with his girlfriend, who lives in Cork.  He showed me pictures from his phone and offered commentary: 

“This place, it’s amazing.  You must go.”

Many Germans, including Eric, study English in school.  His vocabulary is extensive, and his pronunciation, for the most part, is spot on.  But his accent always made me want to chuckle.  He used funny words like “inhabitants” instead of “people,” and he used the word “possibilities” to denote not only choices but places to sit as well. 

His funniest faux pas was his pronunciation of lingerie.  He spoke the first part of the word as it is written as though he were about to say lingonberries.  He uttered the latter portion without a French inflection that turns those last two letters into a long A sound.  Eric would often exude great enthusiasm through his speech, and he swore almost as often as ruffians from Boston.  After traveling alone all day, his company was very entertaining. 

The next day we agreed to walk about the town with his new friend Marcell, a Bavarian expat who recently moved to Dublin.  Eric met Marcell on the telephone when he rented a car at Hertz, and they began chatting in their native tongue.  Before hanging up, the two agreed to meet near the Spire, a giant needle in the heart of Dublin’s O’Connell Street. 

The three of us convened, and Marcell agreed to show us around his new hometown.  When I travel to a foreign place, I aspire to immerse myself into the culture as thoroughly as I can manage during my limited visit.  So when I found myself lollygagging around Ireland with two Germans, I can’t exactly say I was getting the local tour, but the company was refreshing, nonetheless. 

Eric and Marcell are from two very different parts of Germany, so different that Berliners may have difficulty understanding a Bavarian accent.  For the most part, my new companions spoke in English for my benefit, and they both had unique takes on their second language.  Every now and then, they would break off from English and collaborate in German on the translation of a particular word.  The conversation was already fascinating, and these pauses only ameliorated this novel encounter for me.  Sometimes I would have to wait patiently for the translation as though the tip-of-the-tongue word were a buffering Internet connection.

“It is important for you to understand the—the specific... meaning of this word,” Eric would say as we waited for Marcell’s translator app to process his request. 

Nothing was trivial in our discussion.  Every word mattered because it was clearly thought out.  The majority of our conversation dealt with the differences and similarities of German and American life. 

On separate occasions both Eric and Marcell mentioned Nazis.  They both told me that foreigners often confront them about Hitler and Germany’s role in World War II.  Some have even hailed to them while pressing their two fingers about their lips to suggest the Hitler ‘stache. 

“What Germany did was horrible,” Eric said.  “But we are never allowed to forget it.  We shouldn’t forget so that it won’t happen again.”

 

“You had nothing to do with the war,” I told him.  “You weren’t even alive back then.”

“Exactly. But people always ask me, ‘Were your grandparents Nazis?’”

In order to console him, I surmised that maybe certain Japanese people felt similarly toward Americans because of the atomic bombs.  But this is only an assumption, which I’m sure contains at least a sliver of truth.

I could tell this was a touchy subject with my German friends, so I tried to be sensitive and to use an appropriate tone when I told them about the Holocaust literature I had been reading.  I listed some titles (Maus, Night, If This is Man, Man’s Search for Meaning), but Eric has not heard of these books.

“Maybe I don’t know them,” he said, “because I don’t recognize their English titles.”

That was probably the reason, although I wonder if Americans are more likely than Europeans to find Holocaust material to be intriguing. Since the American public was so geographically removed from the war in Europe and the concentration camps, the Holocaust took on more of an imaginary quality.  In the novel A Separate Peace, Phineas, an unruly student in New Hampshire, doubts the very notion that the United States is at war with Nazi Germany.  In his world of delusion, he claims the war is a hoax designed to placate the rebellious youth.  Non-combatant Americans were far from the action, but to European citizens the horrors were immediate.  I could understand why they wouldn’t want to stir up old nightmares.

I read in Bill Bryson’s Neither Here nor There that during the ‘90s there was still tension between Germans and other Europeans.  For many Americans I would wager that this mindset is difficult comprehend.   The U.S. has had its share of internal conflicts, but I don’t think the country has fought its immediate neighbors since Davy Crockett died at the Alamo. But even during the Texas Revolution, much of the country was largely unaffected by the conflict.  Germany, on the other hand, dominated nearly the entirety of the European continent during the Second World War.  After Germany’s defeat and dissolution, the consequences of war were widespread.  If my neighbor attacked me, it would take me a while to grow comfortable living next to him.  Likewise, if I were living in the Netherlands, I wouldn’t be so quick to forgive Germany for forcefully annexing my homeland.    

Despite the sensitivity of the issue, I risked making a joke.  As the three of us strolled through St. Stephen’s Green under a faint drizzle, I said, “You’ll find this funny.  Or least I hope you will.”      

“When I was in the seventh grade, I had this English teacher who was very strict about grammar.  If you had just one comma out of place, you’d have to fix your mistake and state why it was wrong. She was so strict about this that everyone called her the Grammar Nazi.”

Nobody laughed.  I offended them, I thought.  Stupid Americans will say anything.  I’m an insensitive foreigner.  I couldn’t possibly understand the social stigma attached to their country’s troubled past.

But, alas, the joke was simply lost in translation. 

“Oh, in English, are the commas important?” Eric asked me.

I tried not to bore him with a grammar lesson, but I don’t think I was successful.  Nonetheless, I explained the various ways you could correctly use a comma.  Once they understood, I received delayed laughter.

The Germans are a tough crowd when it comes to comedy.  As we were eating fish and chips, I told them about what I had read in a book by Chuck Klosterman (Eating the Dinosaur) wherein he analyzes aspects of American culture. 

Perhaps we’ve been influenced by laugh tracks from sitcoms.  Whatever the reason, many Americans have this habit of laughing at remarks that aren’t funny.  We laugh when we don’t know what else to say.  If one is buying groceries and the cashier says, “Nice weather we’re having,” some would laugh rather than partake in small talk.  I am guilty of this habit.  I fake-laugh in order to appear polite and to feign interest during minor interactions.  I don’t have the type of personality to appear abrasively honest, so I sometimes laugh at sentences that clearly are not hilarious.  My laughter is not always genuine. 

Chuck Klosterman is a fake-laugher as well.  When he was in Germany, he made small talk with a cashier.  After making inconsequential comments, Klosterman would laugh at his own words, but the German clerk would stare back, clearly not amused.  Ever since I read that passage, I have tried to break this habit. 

“Now I try to be like the Germans,” I told my friends.  “If a joke is not funny, I will not laugh.”

Apparently, this story was a hit because even the Germans were chuckling.

The Wanderer's Routine

The custom officers always appear polite with their small talk, but, truthfully, they scrutinize you and wait for you to trip up on their simple questions.

“What brings you to Ireland?” the officer inquired.

“Tourism,” I meekly replied.

“How long are you staying?”

I honestly didn’t know.  I make the schedule up as I go.  I book a few nights in a hostel.  If I like the place, I stay longer.  If I get bored, I leave.

“Four, maybe five days,” I answered.

He offers me a subtle, penetrating gaze searching for signs of violent compulsions and an anti-patriotic stance against his home country.  He found none, so he stamped my passport. 

The doors open to a new city.  Another quest begins.  There are many steps in this process, but first:  where are the buses?  My previous foibles in Edinburgh taught me not to be shy.  I must be assertive and speak up when necessary.  Then again, I prefer to be self-reliant.  But it was raining.  I needed faster results. 

“Where are the bus stops?” I asked a man in an orange vest who worked for a charter bus company.

He revealed the first clue.  I followed the scent and discovered a machine that dispenses bus tickets for €2.90.  Before landing in Ireland, I wasn’t sure what currency they used.  I thought they used to be part of the United Kingdom at one point, and I believed they used pounds.  I wasn’t well-versed in my Irish history, so when I overheard stewardesses on the Ryanair flight selling refreshments priced in both Euros and pounds, I deduced that Ireland was part of the European Union.  At the airport in Dublin, I exchanged my £15 for about €16.  I only used the airport currency exchange because I didn’t have much money on me and I thought it was necessary to buy my bus fare in cash. 

I checked my phone where I had stored a picture of the directions to the hostel.  The correct bus arrived.  On board, I felt inclined to sit on the second story of the double-decker, but I needed to focus on spotting my destination.  If I sat upstairs, my attention would waver.  I’d start looking all around, and I’d miss my stop.  Strategically, it was smarter to sit by the luggage rack and the door.  If I had to split quickly, my prompt exit would be more feasible. 

An automated voice announced the upcoming stops in English with an Irish accent, and then the voice repeated the stop name in Gaelic.  Both languages are liable to sound foreign to someone unaccustomed to the thick pronunciation.  At times, I thought I’d have better luck deciphering the Gaelic.  My ears were pricked for a specific cue:  O’Connell Street.  The robotic voice uttered something that sounded like my stop.  Nearly everyone got up out of their seats, so I figured this must be the place to get off. 

My feet hit the sidewalk.  The belt on my pack gripped my hips.  The chest strap pressed against my sternum.  Another traveler sidled up to me. 

“Are you American?” he asked me. 

“Yeah.  How’d you know?”  I said.

“Your accent.”

There they go again, thinking I’m the one who talks funny.  I thought my diction was neutral, but, here in Ireland, I’m the one with the unique pronunciation.  ‘Tis a privilege to be the pariah. 

The Irishman was returning from a holiday in Australia, where they are currently experiencing winter.  Apparently, it gets cold there, probably as cold as an Irish spring. 

My new friend seemed interested in me, this foreign specimen.  I patted my pockets and checked the status of my valuables.  Everything was as it should be.  My new friend was just that:  friendly.  He asked me where I was staying.  When I told him, he said, “Oh, that place is no good.  I read bad reviews.  You gotta go somewhere else.”

Immediately, I lowered my expectations.  The Spire Hostel was the cheapest in Dublin, and it fits with my protocol.  I usually choose a hostel next to an easily located landmark.  The spire reaches toward the sky.  As a result, the giant needle is rather hard to miss.  

Perhaps my philosophy failed me this time.  Oh well, I thought.  A dodgy hostel may make this trip more interesting.  I shall relish the challenge. 

I have a moderately clean bed, fresh sheets, a working shower, and a flushable toilet.  For $20 a night, I’d hardly say I’m roughing it.  Besides, this trip was not a romantic get-away.  All I need is a place to store my things during the day and a pillow to rest my head on at night.  

Once I find my new temporary home base, I’m in the clear.  I empty my bag and organize my sub-bags.  One compression pack holds my clothes.  One mesh bag holds my toiletries.  I stuff my necessities (Kindle, notebook, chargers) into my daypack.  This hostel doesn’t have lockers in the room, but I’ve realized by now you have to trust your nomadic roommates won’t walk out with your giant backpack.  There’s an unspoken code of trust.  Don’t steal my stuff; I won’t steal yours. 

There’s also the improbable and inconvenient nature of lugging around two massive backpacks around a foreign city.  That kind of theft would be so impressive that it would not anger me.  If someone resorts to carrying over sixty pounds of supplies with him, then I applaud that man’s efforts.  Nonetheless, I carry all my valuables with me and only leave my clothes in my large bag which I stash under the bed. 

I always account for the possibility that I will be robbed or burgled, which is why I carry two wallets.  I carry one in my front pocket.  Inside, I have some cash and my debit card.  I stash my second wallet in my backpack.  In my back-up wallet, I store the rest of my cash as all as my credit card.  This way, if I am pick-pocketed I won’t be strapped for cash. 

After I’ve settled into the hostel, I roam aimlessly throughout the town.  My footsteps are guided by my childish urge to see what’s around the corner.  I like to get a feel for the city without a set itinerary at first.  I find points of interest and then decide which sites to explore farther the next day. 

This is my third city in less than ten days.  By now, I nearly have a routine——a warm-up exercise to acquaint myself with a new place.  Oddly, when I am confronted with an unfamiliar land, I feel a tug in opposite directions.  My first inclination is to explore, but I also want to recoil.  During my first night in a new locale, I am usually struck with an intense bout of homesickness. 

As I strolled by Dublin’s Liffey River, I felt a strong desire to be home again in Pittsburgh, the city of three rivers.

I miss watching movies with my brother or playing silly games with my dog.  I miss how easy life can be.  The pantry is always in the same place, and I only have to restock once, maybe twice a month.  I never need directions in my home town because I know where everything is.  The water pressure in my shower is constant, and in most aspects of life I am relatively comfortable.  On the other hand, traveling is loads of fun, but it also requires a great deal of work at times.  The most crucial component of living a nomadic lifestyle is one’s ability to adapt quickly to new surroundings. 

Routines are to be cherished.  Each day at home, I would watch a BBC nature documentary while I had my breakfast.  I miss watching those shows each morning even though I can do that whenever I wish.  But it is not every day I find myself in Ireland.  I suppose I will reverse my psychology.  

When I return to the US, I will miss my routine of adapting to new cities.  I will be watching a movie like Philomena with my brother again, and I will think, “I wish I was out there in Ireland exploring,” even though currently I would be doing the very same thing I yearned to do earlier.

Habituation is a funny concept.  Many song-writers have reiterated the phrase, “We always want what we don’t have.”  Sometimes that’s true.  I could always go for a milk shake, but I never want tuberculosis.  When it comes to desire, I believe most humans want a steady routine in one form or another.  Working in auto-pilot conserves energy but reduces sensory detail.  But to break a routine, one may feel lost.  What should I do?  Where should I eat?  There is one simple solution that will solve all these issues.  To break one routine, you must form another.