here comes the sun...

First off, some changes need to happen. This blog is too long so it will be cut in half and all the D’s will go: details, douchebags, and dilly-dallying about getting to the point. Right.

Liverpool, England is not only the birthplace of the Beatles, but that of my friend Phil, my host and caretaker for the week. We met in Bolivia, a land and time of absurdity where clothes are covered in llamas and our nocturnal lives were dictated by the bar we worked in. We slept all day to drink all night and life was good for being such shitshows. Meeting in the real world was both weird and surreal. Clean clothes, regular schedules, and a presentable appearance were not things we were used to seeing each other in. Luckily, we had office meetings to attend to.

Office meetings is code for spliffs. Try using it in a sentence. For example, “I was in the office all day doing paperwork.” translates to “I’ve been stoned all day.”. Or “reading these blogs are a lot better with office meetings”. Feel free to spread the word.

Phil lives with his mum, dad, and brother in a small house in Skirmsedale, a half hour train ride to Liverpool. Yet in the first days of my being there we made it into town quite a bit, mostly for early drinking as the train last runs close to midnight. We bar hopped and pub crawled at all times of days consuming tequila and sambuca, but mostly beer. I can remember the majority of it and it was great fun.

The very first pub was touristy and historic but necessary: the Cavern. The Cavern was the underground bar the Beatles first got famous for playing in. The walls are scribbled on, the beer mugs plastic and dingy, and of course, this was during the realm of time my camera wasn’t working. Of course.

On a side note, there was a day I sucked it up and purchased a new camera online sent ahead to meet me in London. While I took my camera to a professional to fix, it was basically the same price as a new one so I opted for new. And yes, this camera was deemed broken by the professional and everyone who saw it. Why it magically started working 15 minutes after I purchased a new one, a week after it “broke”, I’ll never know. But it does function now, although it sounds like a baby lamb when turning on and off.

Before I continue with stories there are other necessary characters to introduce. While I mentioned Phil living with his family, I neglected to say this was one of the greatest families I’ve ever met and I’m near ready to file paperwork to be adopted in. (Not really Mom, please don’t worry or get jealous.) But truly it’s the family that drinks and smokes together that gets along the best, refer to my family at holiday gatherings. But the Norris clan live together everyday, and quite harmoniously I must admit, although it is well lubricated with common hobbies. Which means I fit right in.

Phil’s mum has a laugh and spirit that lights up a room. His dad was helpful and kind. And his brother and I got on from the moment we met as if I knew him as well as Phil. I was at my ultimate comfort level with this family and there are not enough kind words to express how welcomed and joyous I felt around them. That’s why most of my time here was spent indoors, relaxing, and really appreciating a home away from home. And cooking. God how I missed cooking.

One story worth mentioning was that I happened to come the week of the funeral for Phil’s Nan, his father’s mum. Phil neglected to mention this to me prior to my arrival so I wouldn’t be weirded out. Fair enough. When the day came after only a few days past my arrival, I opted to sleep in and relax while the family went to mass for the formalities. By 10:30 am the entire clan was in the bar drinking to the honor of their Irish mother/Nan. Phil was sent to collect me as by mid afternoon everyone was well lubricated and I was ready to begin.

The wake was a joyous occasion filled with food, alcohol, and memories. The party continued back the belated’s house and I felt very lucky to be apart of such a truly sacred cultural event. Luckily, she suffered very little as 6 weeks prior to her death her cancer was diagnosed and not much time was given. Goodbyes were said, family stood close by, and the grieving process already begun. She felt no pain, only the love of those around her. I could only hope to be so lucky and go out as she did, with life being fulfilled and celebrated.

Another worthy anecdote is that of the Grand Nationals, which is much like the Kentucky Derby, crazy hats and all. Oddly enough the country’s largest horse race was in their backyard and because it was insanely expensive and all consuming to attend, we enjoyed it in the comfort of the living room well equipped with “ice cream” from the ice cream truck aka marshmallow fluff on a cone dipped in flavored sugar topped with a Flake candy bar. Both weird and delicious.

While this three day event prompts endless betting on horses with truly bizarre names, I placed only one bet on the final and biggest race of all. With approximately 40 horses to choose from, I was handed the list and told to choose one and the bet would be placed for me. Considering my streak of bad luck lately, two pounds was placed on “Don’t Push It”. The near five minute long race was led strongly by a couple of horses, when out of nowhere, mine came up from behind and stole the show with mere seconds to spare. An incredible finish no matter who you were rooting for, but for me a true victory. Was the Universe finally ready to return some of the karma I had hoped was built up?

That evening we celebrated by buying pizza and wine with the 14 pounds the winnings yielded.

That Sunday Phil and I needed to escape and have a real adventure. We got on several trains, left civilization, and headed for unadulterated nature in the Great Lakes region. A series of small lakes, mountains, and proper English country cottages filled out the sprawling green hills bursting with sheep. The lambs were the best part.

We aimed for a campground in a small village but when they didn’t allow campfires it became clear campsites were not worth the 30 pounds we were prepared to spend. So we went for a walk outside of town and up and into the forest nearby. Neither of us had wild camped before, meaning without a campground, which sounds easy enough but scary when thinking about for the first time. Also, I knew the likelihood of us two fuckups setting a whole forest on fire was unnaturally high. Yet finding the perfect spot was the most difficult part but soon enough we had made a home complete with two tables, a bench, and even a dishwasher. (aka a river that you could leave dishes in all day and when you come back, they’re clean!) We even had a spot to literally hang your hat.

Two nights and three days were spent making fires, hiking everywhere we could, and finding all the small pubs and local breweries our map luckily showed us. We tried our best to buy only wine and beer and had brought our own sandwich makings and “tinner”, aka things wrapped in foil and stuck in the fire to cook. It was here I discovered home isn’t only where the heart is, but also where you cook your can of beans by the fire. And nature is a great place to call home.

Time away from the computer, television, and general noises of society always yields constructive thinking time. While Phil and I shared seemingly endless conversations (and office meetings), there was still time and space for us to each sort out our own heads. Phil was planning on starting his own salon(ps he’s a hairstylist), but is now ready to leave that project in order to live and work in New Zealand. I had my post wedding in May plans to sort through.

Honestly, I was ready to quit for awhile and move to New York to live that life for a year or so starting this summer. I was even checking out apartments online. But being outdoors in the sunshine and natural beauty the world had to offer I couldn’t help but change my thinking. I needed the exhilaration of adventure and exploring and I’m not quite ready to give that up. At least not without seeing Southeast Asia first. And truly if I watched every penny I could very easily get to Asia with some cash to spend on getting around. And so it was decided. I will fly to South Korea in June and then backpack Vietnam and Thailand with some good friends and live up the crazy life as much as I can before my inevitable return home.

With the decision made I felt settled and rejuvenated. Yet not quite ready to leave the Norris clan. Luckily the Universe sorted out plans and a bus ticket for me three days after the one I originally purchased. Turns out the Norris’ weren’t ready for me to leave either. A few more relaxing days later filled with wine, cooking, and office meetings and I’m now currently on a bus bound for London. I’ve been there before but only as a tourist. The next few weeks I will settle in with Charlotte and sort out plane tickets and official plans.

Who is Charlotte you ask? The short answer is my hetero-life partner who is full of wisdom, inspiration, and shit. The long answer is you will have to read my next blog to discover more about the crazy and beautiful Brit. Trust me, you’ll want to.

the adventure continues

Make a list of everything vital to you while traveling. A top five list perhaps. Now cross three of those items off your list. Life will suck for awhile, but you can survive. As long as you have your health, everything else is survivable. I’m learning this right now.

When I last left off I was in Galway; a beautiful town nestled on the western beaches of Ireland. It’s surrounded by green rolling hills and endless good views. I happened to be visiting my friend Laura at a busy and inconvenient time but she was still lovely enough to insist I still come and visit. She was working, taking exams, moving house, and also hosting other guests right before and after I left. Somewhere in between this we had some quality talk time covering everything we had been through in the last couple of years and what we were planning on doing with the future. As well as head out to the bars for some much needed drinks.

By the time Laura returned from school Friday night I had slept in, went for an exhilarating run on the beach, and had a long hot shower. I was ready to go out as was she after an all day essay writing session which involved a computer crash. Pre-gaming at the house brought us to the Rosin, the best of all bars in Galway. For my Chico friends, relate it to the Bear with the various levels and opportunities to change scene, all with good craic (fun). There was a band competition that night which meant amazing music and hot lead singers. I enjoyed them both equally.

The accomplishment of the night would have to be me finally scoring seeing foreskin in its natural state. Now I know this sounds really weird but all my gay European friends can vouch for the fact that I’ve always requested to see their manhood because I’ve never seen one with a hoodie. Unfortunately, my friends are prude or insist that there’s no reason to get it out unless there is gratification in it for them. Selfish bastards. Now I know some of your might argue I have in fact seen one before, err, several times. But to that I say I wasn’t really looking at it, and in the state I see it there’s no real difference, if you get my drift. So I must say thank you to the kind (straight) boy who was open enough to unzip trow and give me a gander in the middle of the upstairs crowded smoking lounge. Something else to cross off my list. Check.

In case you were wondering, I wasn’t interested but he did in fact hit on me for the rest of the night. I really shouldn’t have been surprised.

Saturday day involved hangover and moving houses so the night involved water bottle bong and Zombieland. I needed a night like that. Sunday we went for a coastal drive and did the proper Irish afternoon with a Guiness and soup in a pub on the water. Gorgeous. We went out that night again at the Roisin, because why go anywhere else. I met my first Irish boy who I deemed not a douche and actually a great person to talk to and get to know. Plus he was appreciative of me talking about monkeys so much. But it was my last night and he had just recently started to see someone. Timing is everything. It’s just good to know there’s at least one you can find.

I managed to catch the bus back to Dublin in time to have an entire day with Dee out in the country. She had just started her two week spring vacation and had just a few days before she was leaving for her own trip to Tenerife, a vacation hot spot in the Canary Islands. We spent a lovely, although rainy, afternoon in a beautiful wooded area that boasted Ireland’s oldest mill. Really, it was a just an overpriced shopping store and restaurant, but the meal was an abundance of healthy and delicious goodness and it was great to get out of the gloomy city.

That night her boyfriend and company were watching hours of UFC so the two of us headed out for a walk. Then maybe a pint. Or two. Or a pitcher. Or three. This is the night I lost my wallet.

After a long lock in and hours of ridiculous stories with Joe the barman, we stumbled home a block away and called it a night. (Note, a lock in is when the bar closes so no one is allowed in and no more alcohol is sold but you are allowed to finish in peace. Or in our case, have the barman pour a pitcher of beer on the house and throw some peanuts at us so we won’t leave for food.) Once home, a hit near killed me so I passed out quickly on the coach unchanged, shoed, and in a seemingly uncomfortable position. The morning came and went and the alarm to wake at 8 am never rang.

Why set an alarm? Obviously not natural for me, which meant this morning was important. Because of the immigration officer story I already told, I now had a detrimental stamp I wished to cancel before I left. I was now attempting another try to get this sorted, being that I was not allowed to phone or email them without getting a response via snail mail. Inconvenient bastards.

Needless to say I didn’t sort out my stamp so I had to leave the country by the end of the day to remain within the legal status with Ireland. After a long hangover morning, it wasn’t until I went to get some food I discovered my wallet was missing. I knew I paid for a pitcher at the last bar and had only come home to pass out. I figured all I had to do was wait until the bar opened and went back to ask for wallet, only arriving a few hours later than I expected into Belfast. But nothing is ever that simple when you’re testing Murphy’s Law.

The two afternoon barmen couldn’t find it and even called barman Joe and he claimed he had never seen it as well. Fuck me. I was now officially stuck without any cash, cards, and had to leave the country within a few hours. Fuck me hard.

I quickly had to cancel all my cards and of course, call Mom. I’d lost my wallet before in Egypt but I had a team of friends to lend me money and help control me and my emotions. This occasion was different. Time was of essence and I needed to quickly form a plan. Wiring myself money was both expensive and overly time consuming, but I had no other option. I had pulled out just enough to get me through a week or so while I mailed my debit card onto my future host in Liverpool.

I barely caught the last bus into Belfast and sent a text to my friend Amanda picking me up that said, “Will be there around 11:15 pm. Must go to police station right away. Will explain later. x”. Because you see, if I didn’t get a stamp from a police station proving I was in Northern Ireland and out of the Republic of Ireland by the appointed date, I would receive illegal status and probably not be allowed back in the country. Not that I’m planning a return visit anytime soon, but I wouldn’t want to cross it out at any point in the future.

So with 30 minutes on the clock I was nervous they would be uncooperative or make this more difficult than it needed to be. Honestly, I was also worried about the bus crashing on the way up because Murphy’s Law seemed to me testing me that day, particularly when trying to pick up the wired money. To top it all off, it was snowing and this area is not entirely used to snow storms so the bus was abnormally shaky and I spent the journey figuring out the future BBC headline. Fortunately, I arrived safely and the policeman was more than happy to help calling immigration officers “wankers who try to run the world”. Agreed.

When safe and warm back at Amanda’s house I was able to drink cider by the fire and chat with her family for awhile. Things were already better. The following cold and snowy day we spent shopping and going to the cinema, always a great experience in another country. Only I hate that they only had only sweet popcorn, salty wasn’t even available. Bullocks.

Thursday was my favorite day because we set out early for a short road trip that included a tour of Bushmill’s whiskey distillery, the Giant’s Causeway natural wonder, and Carrick-a-Rede the rope bridge. Although I don’t like whiskey I had to respect the oldest maker of it in all of Ireland and arguably the best. Turns out a Hot Toddy is quite delicious which is warmed whiskey, water, clove, and sugar. Warms the soul.

The Giant’s Causeway is one of the natural wonders of the world and a beautiful and amazing sight to see. A stroll down to the beach brings you to an interesting phenomenon where there are hundreds of hexagonally shaped stones at varying heights that makes you wonder how structures on Earth are actually made. Sure the scientists claim something about volcanic activity, but the varying myths about a fight between an Irish giant and a Scottish giant provides much more entertainment. Hopefully, I’ll get pictures of this place up soon; you have to see it to understand its interest and beauty.

The rope bridge was unfortunately closed but the drive through the rolling Irish countryside spotted with sheep and cottages was more than enough to thrill me. We made it back in time for a proper Irish college student dinner of potatoes and beans. Then it was onto Amanda’s friend’s house for a drink and chill session. Of course her friend managed to convince us for a night out in town, one filled with karaoke and dancing.

Amanda and I met in Malta 4 years ago which means there is a special unbreakable bond, regardless of the fact that we hadn’t spoken in ages. This also meant we were both capable of entering a room with no one dancing and soberly get the party started. I love that girl.

Our Friday started strong with a run through the gorgeous back roads of her house and then immediately getting ready to go out drinking in Belfast. Now this happened to be Good Friday which meant bars all shut early, hence our effort to get a start on mid afternoon. We managed to drink an entire bottle of wine each before we even got to the bar in town. We had dinner and then met our mutual friend Steve from Malta. A Malta reunion, no matter how small, always means loads of fun and alcohol. And that we had.

While dancing during the later part of the night is when it all began to go horribly wrong. Steve innocently dropped my camera thusly breaking it, never to be recovered. On the way back to Steve’s place someone threw an egg at me, hit me, but thank goodness didn’t break. At this point I was pretty drunk and unfortunately PMS-ing so this is when I started to gripe about the Universe. Back at Steve’s we took some hits before getting a ride back to Amanda’s house, about a half an hour outside the city. It was in the car I discovered my phone was missing and that’s really when I got too loud and ridiculous. Amanda was good enough to make tea and toast when home but at this point I was already well into a mental breakdown.

I was crying my eyes out surrendering myself to the Universe, begging not to be challenged anymore. First my wallet, then camera, and finally my phone, all within a matter of days. Could have done without the egging, PMS-ing, and immigration officer problems on my first day as well, but alas, the pile had grown overwhelmingly large and I was finally ready to admit the burden in full. And I needed to call my Mom, desperately. I’m sure every mom loves receiving phone calls from their drunken daughters crying and saying everything has gone horribly wrong, but my Mom dealt particularly well with it. Truly I just needed to know she was still alive and then I figured everything else was okay. Eventually my computer died, I crawled into bed, and did my best to sleep off the negative energy.

Luckily Amanda’s mom loves to bake and had already made fresh homemade scones before I awoke. That alongside a great cup of tea is already a better start to the day. A lazy day was much deserved and needed and I finally put my photos on my computer, knowing full well I might be inviting a new disaster to unfold. Eventually I sorted myself out and we managed to go out and start collecting people to go out drinking in town for the night.

Our first drink at the bar was short lived as everything was closing early and the evil ex-boyfriend made an appearance. This situation was both frustrating and dangerous and so we left for the Catholic dance club down the street. Side note, Amanda and most of her friends are Protestant and while no animosity sits on the surface, beneath it brews a history of war, prejudice, and family honor.

Most of my questions about Northern Ireland had to do with this line between religions, a line that is deep and fresh yet something I knew very little about. And quickly for those at home completely out of the loop, England long ago invaded Ireland and converted much of the north to Protestants while some adamantly remained Catholic. Over time the island was eventually divided into two separate countries creating seemingly more conflict. The Catholic IRA formed and fought ferociously against British rule whose supporters tended to be Protestant. The war was about more than religion although the sides decided by it; it was about who had control over Northern Ireland. Luckily, in our lifetime the war has slowed to a halt and while car bombs are rare the animosity is still felt more often than not. But back to the evening.

We escaped to the dance club having loads of fun dancing to great music with lots of smoke and lights. The talent was not strong this night but the hottest douchebag was more than interested in me. Luckily I could spot a douche a mile away but was bored enough to tease him a bit. This is how the conversation started:
“You’re gorgeous.”
“But I’m American.”
“You’re gorgeous.”
“You’re going to have to do better than that.”
“Can I buy you a drink?”
“Now you’re talking!”

This guy was already too grab happy on the dance floor, but alas, he was tall, had blue eyes, and was quite fit actually. So naturally being the slag that I am I brought him to the slightly abandoned couches in the back for a proper snog. I’m pretty sure I was decently cruel when talking to him and teasing him but deemed it necessary as one of the first things out of him mouth was his insisting I come back to his place. I repeatedly told him I wasn’t interested in that and he maintained we’d only watch a DVD. I’m sure. Really though, why do guys keep trying when they are so clearly not getting anywhere?

So I decided to make matters worse, entice him for awhile, only to jump up and run off to the dance floor because a good song was on. Once out there, I kept telling him to go away and tried to get his friend to take him away. But then teased him again. It felt quite good really, playing this game I knew I had entirely too much control over. A little while later I took him back to the couch only to run off soon after again, this time prompted by Amanda’s exit. While this might seem unusually cruel for me, I really do take pleasure in fucking with obvious douchebags and causing them what must be little pain compared to the damage I’m sure they’ve done. That and I don’t want an STD.

After we left the club we joined some friends back at a house party well under way. A drink and several smokes later I was gone for the night, but enjoying every minute. Another boy took interest in me and I again refused to do anything but still managed to lead him on a bit. When we made it home at half five I was very amused with my immature and cruel behavior yet felt no remorse. Only a desire to eat much needed drunk munchies.

Easter Sunday was something that concerned me a week prior; I had no desire to impede anyone’s family gatherings and knew nothing of their cultural activities this day. I only knew bars closed early all weekend long and in the Republic of Ireland the weekend was dead. It was interesting to find out the day had no real special value; it was Easter Monday that was celebrated more. Yes, Easter Monday is the day after Easter which was given as bank holiday meaning no one would work meaning people would be curing themselves of their Sunday hangover. Or more precisely, drinking all day Monday. But I was due in Liverpool Monday morning and only had Easter Sunday.

Nothing special during the day, a short visit with Amanda’s friend and we made it home in time to feast a large dinner, but it was nothing out of the ordinary for this traditionally large Irish family. Every Sunday afternoon brought the entire family around culminating in lots of food eaten at no particular time, simply presented as a buffet table you could partake in whenever you so choose. The day was decidedly different though for me based on the chocolate egg I received from Amanda’s family. It was the mini-egg one too, which for anyone who knows me, knows that is like crack cocaine for me. Truly I felt welcomed.

Easter Sunday night meant plenty of bars being closed so we somehow turned up at the very local bar in Randalstown, the country bumpkin town Amanda actually lives in but never goes out in. Unexpectedly this place was cracking and the music had a decent number of people rocking out on the dance floor. I was assured by Amanda and her friend that an American accent was very rare in these parts and I was going to attract much attention, apparently in a good way. I hadn’t even spoken before some drunken man was kissing my hand and telling the bartender things I couldn’t begin to hear, accent and noise level considered.

We began imbibing rounds quickly, preparing to make our debuts on the dance floor. A Rihanna request was put in and before I knew it a call for the Californian girl was made on the microphone and apparently I needed to make an appearance on the dance floor. Nice. I later got asked if I was the one from California. Can’t escape it I suppose. And another bloke started talking to me about Canada even though my friend was shouting “she’s from California, not Canada, you dumb cunt!”.

As for the talent in the room, it was mediocre at best. The best option was of course, the bartender. Shocking for me, I know. He was the only one with a good looking face and lacking the cocky attitude. I needed help sparking up the conversation but once it got going it became clear he was a traveler. Nice. But a 21 year old traveler working a bar in the sticks. And he was a bit gap toothed and hairy cheated. Now I know you’re thinking there is no way for this guy to possibly be attractive but I must say his overall face was excellent and I loved his causal attitude. That and I had spent the last three weeks constantly stretching the truth when looking for hot men. Obviously my mark has gone slightly off kilter.

No matter, I left wishing I had more time and while I had already convinced him to take me to the airport in the morning, I ran out leaving him with a kiss on the check and wondering what that crazy American girl really wanted from him. Once home and still wired from the evening, Amanda and I sat with scones and tea sharing our final quality conversation regarding ex-boyfriends, traveling, and the good old days of Malta. I went to bed with three hours to sleep until I needed to be awake and still I couldn’t stop my head from swirling.

A short nap and car ride later, I made my plane to Liverpool, England and was ready to embark on a whole new series of adventure. While a detox was badly needed, I was staying with Phil, my bartending squat-crashing friend from Bolivia and knew no such thing existed near him. Plus that day was Easter Monday, that glorious drinking day I mentioned earlier. And I knew my meager two hours of sleep would not deter either of us from heading out. But that’s another country and of course another blog. I’ll leave you knowing one key piece of information: we went to bar with tequila for one pound a shot. My favorite was coconut flavored.

The final count in the whole of Ireland was three weeks; two in the Republic and one in Northern Ireland. My last encounter here was a week in total. This time I stayed sober for only two days and it’s no real wonder I lost my wallet, broke my camera, and near lost my phone. It’s alarming my liver and lungs are still functioning, as far as I’m aware. Update on the phone situation. I soberly found it a day later in my coat pocket. How unexpected. As for the wallet, barman Joe did find it but only after everything was cancelled and I was long gone. It’s due to be sent to England next week. The camera is being taken to a shop in a couple of days and with any luck it will be sorted. If not, I’m prepared to burn another $100 or more on a new one; cost of traveling.

With all the frustration and mental breakdown behind me, I’ve realized all you really need when traveling is a pair of legs and knowing your friends and family are behind you. Sure my computer can still crash and ipod can quit, the last two items on my most necessary items list. And I’m probably jinxing myself right now but alas, challenges are due to arrive and generally in full force. But I am still physically capable of adventures and my Mom is safe and happy at home so in the end I can’t ask for anything else.

I am beyond fortunate when I think of all the amazing friends who have taken me in and taken extraordinarily good care of me. Abbie in New York opens her home to me whenever I decide to stride by. Dee went above and beyond being helpful when it came to both the immigration and wallet situation. Laura made a huge effort to be there for me and accommodating regardless of her frantic schedule. Amanda made me feel on true vacation not allowing me to lift a finger to help and knew exactly what to do while I had an emotional breakdown at three in the morning. And now I’m with Phil, whom from the moment I was picked up at the airport I’ve felt at home with. A proper breakfast of pancakes with bananas, coffee, and a spliff told me I have the best friends in the world. And nothing can take that away. And those friends have proven all I need when I’m backpacking around Europe. Friends, and a strong liver.

Fer feck’s sake, you eejit….

“I have every right to deport you right here, right now. And I will if you don’t keep your smart mouth shut. Now wait here while I call the British immigration services to see what they have to say about you.”

Welcome to the Republic of Ireland.

Yes, it’s true. I met the biggest asshole of my life entering Ireland. It wasn’t even 5:30 am and I hadn’t had any sleep. I knew I was waiting in the wrong queue when the large bald man scowled down the long line. The entire time I was considering moving to the cute boy’s line next to him but reckoned I looked too awful so I stayed where I was. Big mistake.

I couldn’t tell you exactly what I said to anger this turd of a man so much. It started off that I had no concrete dates of where I would be, but instead a long list of places I was intending to visit, like any other backpacker. He told me to stand back and wait for everyone else in the room to be done before he intended to deal with me. I might have scowled a bit but only because I knew my friend Dee was awaiting my arrival on the other side and she didn’t have much time before she had to leave for work. When the impotent bastard finally called me forward (ok, I’m not sure if he was impotent but I think it’s a fairly accurate assumption based on his foul demeanor) he asked a series of questions, none of which he like my answers to. He proceeded to write down some information: names, dates, places I’ve met people, where I’m going each month. With every other answer he tells me to “keep my smart mouth shut” and didn’t like it when I didn’t answer him because I was told to do this. I knew at this point I wasn’t going to win.

From the very beginning he was threatening to deport me and while I knew this was extremely unlikely (they can only really make you buy an expensive ticket home on the spot) I decided to humor him and let the stupid prick fulfill his power trip. I could tell he didn’t believe a word I was saying to him and was certain I was in Ireland to steal jobs from the locals. By the way, Ireland was hit extremely hard by the economic recession and I’m not sure I could even pay someone to hire me here. He didn’t even believe I had a legitimate friend on the other side whom had come to collect me; I couldn’t pronounce her name correctly (Deirdre, not De-dra…like I would know, I’ve only called her ‘Dee’) and we met playing with monkeys in Bolivia. How could that possibly be true?

He went to prove me wrong only to discover everything I said matched up. How unfortunate for him, he really wanted to send me home. He then went to call the British Immigration sure that they would insist I was sent home as well. In between this he proceeded to lecture my lifestyle choices calling me “ridiculous” and that “this was no way to live a life” and “I’ve made some serious poor life decisions”. I assume this bitterness developed from envy being that he was stuck in a god-awful booth for hours on end while I am young and free to do whatever I please. At least this is what I continue to tell myself.

Two hours later my spirit was broken, I had dramatically cried every tear out of my system, and I was starting to believe this pitiful man could actually send me home. When he finally went to stamp my passport I stupidly told him I had been to Ireland before, and no, there was no stamp in or out. He then started calling me illegal and was ready to tear into a whole new speech on how absurd my life is when a massive swarm of people showed up needing to be filed. He rolled his eyes and knew this battle was lost, but I knew he was still hungry to deport someone else. He begrudgingly gave me a stamp but not the traditional 90 day tourist visa as I deserved, but a 2 week “get the fuck out of Ireland or we will deport you” stamp. I was informed that once in Northern Ireland I would have to (willingly) go to a police station to get them to stamp some entry thing into my passport so I wouldn’t have any future troubles with the Republic of Ireland. The problem is this stamp itself is trouble; it will serve a red flag to every immigration officer I ever encounter from here on out. Thanks asshole.

So once cleared for entry I literally ran past the gate, up and down several flights of stairs, grabbed my backpack and eagerly searched for Dee on the other side. Dublin has a surprisingly small airport and she was nowhere to be found. It was also after the predetermined time Dee said she would have to leave by if my flight came in late. I was so disoriented and broken spirited at this point I simply got on a bus headed toward the center of town. Plus, I couldn’t stand being in that airport for one more minute.

After I missed several decent bus stops in the center of town, I got off only to walk aimlessly searching for something open with wifi so I could look up Dee’s address. I found a shopping mall boasting free wifi yet nothing inside was open. So naturally I threw myself on the ground and opened my netbook I was thanking myself for buying before I left. Right when I got the address the security guard sternly told me I had to leave. To be fair, I looked pretty haggard and homeless at this point. I sweetly asked his help for directions and when he realized I was merely a hippie, not a hobo (often confused), he pointed to where I needed to go and I set off for the long and tiresome walk.

While it was cold outside, I was dressed in layers and carrying way too much stuff. The entire walk I was cursing the immigration officer and planning various anti-Irish facebook status updates. It then occurred to me that maybe this happened for a reason; maybe the Universe needed to push me out of Ireland for whatever reason I couldn’t foresee. While this was probably true it was simply easier to curse constantly in my head. Either way, I was in the middle of an adventure and happy to prove to myself that traveling is never as easy as it seems.

I showed up at Dee’s apartment a sweaty wreck and was surprised to find her there. She had actually been waiting for me the entire time at the airport; she couldn’t go to work thinking I had a good chance of being deported. The officer promised to call her when I was released and so she settled into a café with coffee and a newspaper. She was not looking for me. And I was not looking for someone not looking for me. Damn. She only came home because I had posted on her facebook wall earlier that I was on foot heading to her apartment. She was now several hours late for work and the officer managed to ruin not only my day, but hers as well. He knew exactly when she had to leave for work and released me merely 10 minutes past that time. Conniving bastard.

Don’t worry though, the story only gets better from here. Dee and her boyfriend had already set up a comfortable bed in the living room. I was given tea and a spliff to calm down and slowly I was beginning to appreciate being in Ireland. After a long and much needed nap, Dee returned form work as did her roommate, Yvonne, and three of us girls just sat around chatting for awhile. Eventually Dee and I set out for wine, take away dinner, and a couple of groceries for me. The evening was calm but exactly what I needed. It was also similar to what most of my nights in Ireland would turn out to be.

The following day was March 17. In case you don’t have this day permanently marked in your calendar like myself, it is St. Patrick’s Day. We started it off with a proper Irish breakfast: Guinness. I argued I needed food and Dee came back with “Guinness is food. It’s got barley and iron in it. Plus pregnant women drink it. Well, not loads of it, but still.” I will never understand Irish logic but I sure do like it.

The early afternoon was spent standing on my tippy toes being well-squished trying to watch the parade. I didn’t catch everything but the bit I did watch was fascinating. The “floats” weren’t terribly large but intricate in concept and execution. The theme apparently changes every year and while I never found out the official one, my best guess was children’s stories. I could point out Alice in Wonderland, Aladdin, and a Bug’s Life. It all seemed so random but fun to watch as the people danced down the street with swirling floats and DJs blasting techno. I couldn’t find one thing that said ‘green’ or ‘St. Patty’s day’ but enjoyed it nonetheless.

Afterwards Dee and I quickly headed into a bar in the infamous Temple Bar area before the crowds swarmed in. We got out pints right before the masses flooded into the room but we managed to get ourselves a standing spot next a table right in front of the lad on stage playing guitar and singing. It was a genuinely good moment because the drunken crowd was singing along to some great classics. After our one pint we headed back to Dee’s apartment to prep for the party she was having that night. By prep I mean there were already guests there drinking so we joined in.

Hours later more guests arrived until we reached near capacity for their apartment. It was all good fun though as there were two groups: smoking and non-smoking. I stayed in the strictly alcoholic section with Dee until later in the evening when I wandered over to the group that never stopped rolling. Ok, time for personal commentary. There is a vast cultural difference in smoking habits between Irish and Americans. First of all, California was blessed with fantastic greenery and laws supporting it, hence smoking it in its pure form is the only acceptable habit. “Spliffs” do not exist. Plus we hate tobacco in general. In Ireland, the price is absurd and the quality terrible. So the habit of rolling their own spliffs have taken off and it is not uncommon to find up to four people rolling at a time in one room. Personally, I’d rather one good one but hey, this is about learning other’s culture. Another interesting difference is the fact that you smoke as much as you want while leaving some according to the number of people in the room. We were raised to “puff, puff, pass” and one would be made fun of if they babysat or bogarted the joint. Here, you have your share and then pass never planning on seeing it again. While I was very appreciative of everyone taking good care of me I can’t help but maintain California has better traditions in this matter, hands down.

Now back to St. Patty’s. By this point in the evening I was well inebriated and still totally fucked from lack of sleep and jet lag. Of course I was the first to ass out but after laying in the dark for a few minutes everything swirled around me and I had to expel everything from my system. Being the courteous houseguest, I held it in until the bathroom was available and made my mess into the toilet. Yes, this seems obvious but I can’t say the same for the other houseguests. I later found out there were two others that got sick that evening. A couple no less, and while one vomited in and around a trash bucket in the Yvonne’s room, the other got sick in the hall….and on Yvonne’s iphone. Lucky Yvonne.

The next day I learned just how common it was for the Irish to “get sick’, particularly on St. Patty’s. There was sick in the hall and covering much of the streets in Dublin. So in fairness, I fit right in. I really wasn’t that hungover but still needed to rest. Of course in the evening when Dee returned from work I was back on the bottle. She insisted “you’re only in Dublin for a week. You’ll either be drunk or asleep. It’s the rule.” No argument here.

First some quick background on the history of Dee and me. We met in Bolivia at an animal sanctuary we worked at in the jungle. Our love for monkeys, red wine, and late night dance parties with gossip is what bonded us. I knew coming here that instead of buying bottles, we should have just gone for cases of wine. If only there were a Costco here. But alas, we made due and also made dinner. I had insisted on showing her true guacamole seven months ago in the jungle and now I was finally capable of making it. We gorged ourselves rotten on quesadillas and I eventually fell asleep in a food, wine, and spliff coma. Actually I did this every night in Dublin. (Side note in case Dee can be incriminated: She does not smoke spliffs. Ever. But those in her company tend to. That’s all.)

I wish I could say I spent the days strolling the streets, soaking in the atmosphere, and visiting fascinating spots all over town. But this wasn’t my first visit here and I was more keen on sleeping in being that I hadn’t adjusted to the time zone. I did manage to make it to the gym with trainer Dee a couple of times and very much appreciated her kicking my ass a bit there. The following few evenings were variations of the evenings before, every one filled with good conversation and great atmosphere. A great highlight was the brewhouse pub we went to Saturday afternoon to watch the rugby match. Irish rugby is a big deal and this game with Scotland was supposed to be good. And it was, but would have been better if their kicker didn’t suck and they won in the end. Their comeback was impressive though, yet the highlight to me was simply the spirit in the room.

Sunday was my favorite day because we managed to get out of the city and went for a drive through the country to Glendalough. Luckily, it was a sunny day but that also meant swarms of people interrupting my nature time. Nonetheless, I thoroughly enjoyed walking in nature through the trees, near the lake, and up a rocky mountain. There was even an old tower I swear Rapunzel lived in. On the steepest, most open, and most difficult part of our walk it started to sprinkle rain. The sun remained out when the sprinkle turned to legitimate rain and I wasn’t sure what to make of myself while I was sweating (hence wearing only a tank top) but getting very wet in the process. Eventually we decided to make our way back down but then I noticed some holes in the path. Since St. Patrick had chased out all the snakes many years ago I was certain these were the homes of leprechauns. I insisted they come out and give me a pot of gold or at least tell me where the rainbow would end, but alas, the only response I got was Dee saying I had lost the plot, she was completely embarrassed , and I should keep my yank accent to myself. I then shouted something about ‘eggplant’ and ‘freedom’ but eventually we made it back to her car where much needed snacks were awaiting us.

We took the long drive back to Dublin and I thoroughly enjoyed all the scenery while Dee answered every one of my endless questions regarding politics, history, and general culture. The evening was spent in town imbibing pints with her good friend and his Greek visitor. We were eventually forced to leave being the last people in the bar and were drunk enough to eat falafel and curry chips. Some douchey Scotsman yelled at me for my “North American accent” and I had to wonder if this was really fair to Canada.

It was way past time to go home as Dee had work early in the morning, but I was able to sleep in and meet her at the gym in the afternoon. We attempted to make it to the Guinness factory that evening but failed. So since Irish culture was shot for the night we went to eat at a place called ‘Captain Amerca’s’. Nice. We went for the irony, photos, and beer tower. We did pretty well for ourselves and were yet again the last to leave.

The following day I attempted to sort out my immigration disaster from the week before but it seemed pretty obvious this was going to be as difficult as getting a compliment out of the officer I originally dealt with. Thanks to a strike in the passport office and an already overwhelmed office filled with determined Nigerians seeking refuge, I didn’t stand a chance to get a ticket to even be seen. The good news is Dee and I made it to the Guinness factory that afternoon.

A self guided tour filled with way too much reading lead us up to the Gravity Bar that sits atop the entire city of Dublin. The end of the tour included a free pint of the most perfectly poured Guinness. Truly, it is a marriage of both art and science to pour a pint correctly and I finally acquired the appreciation for all 119.5 seconds it takes to pour. Unfortunately, some other people didn’t share this appreciation when they got their free pint. These fools simply took a sip for the photo and then fucked off. I’m not liable to explain what happened to said pints but at least I have some respect for Irish culture.

Being our final evening together, Dee and I opted for wine and tapas at home. We went to town at the grocery store covering all ethnicities including Mexican, Italian, and Arabic. We even stopped first for the best chips (french fries) in all of Dublin at Burdock’s. While Dee firmly believed in the tradition of unadulterated salt and malt vinegar, I couldn’t help my Americaness and insisted on ketchup. I think at the end of this night I needed to be rolled into bed. The Irish do not fuck around when it comes to eating, drinking, or smoking and I could use a good body detox right about now. But alas, I was due in Galway the following day.

My final morning in Dublin was spent (finally) being a true tourist. Dee and I boarded the Viking Splash tour which is an amphibious WWII vehicle (DUKWs) which basically means this odd looking bus/boat thing can be driven into the water. We were shown around the city, given interesting trivia, and shouted at the pedestrians aka “Celts” on the streets. I spent the afternoon packing and waiting for my next adventure to begin.

My lovely friend Laura, whom I met long ago in a land far away known as Malta, was kind enough to pick me up and drive me to her home in Galway on the other side of the island. She had conveniently been in Dublin competing for an internship and the timing was perfect. I arrived last night and am happy to report that was my first sober day in Ireland. Not sure how long it will last.

Today I spent in pajamas writing this bullocks and am waiting for Laura to be done with work. I am not sure what my time in Galway holds for me. I have visited here before so the tourist kitschy bit doesn’t interest me and luckily her roommates all said “you’ve been here before, right?” when they saw me. I’m aware I leave an impression everywhere I go but haven’t decided yet if this is a good or bad thing. I suppose it depends on what sort of day I’m having. And other than the first shitty morning I arrived, the days in Ireland, although grey, were certainly filled with pure enjoyment. Let’s hope my second impression is better than the first, whatever that was.

Bright Lights, Big City

This is my first official blog on the road. Yes, it’s only been a matter of days and not an incredible lot has happened, but this particular blog goes out to everyone who doubted my ability to keep up writing regularly. Maybe it’s the stormy weather outside or the fact that I have an evening alone but I’d like to think of myself as Carrie Bradshaw in the Big Apple. I’ve got the hair, the laptop, and the dating drama which really makes me believe this fantasy is true somehow. Maybe I’ll even step out for a cigarette.

But enough daydreaming, this blog is supposed to chronicle actual events. And I actually am in New York right now loving and living it up. Every time I come here I start scheming how and when I’m going to move here. This time I’ve convinced myself Brooklyn is well worth the commute. I still am not sure when this move will happen but this visit has shown me when I’m done with this next trip I really will be ready to settle down in one place for a year, and now I’m sure it will be here. A surprisingly easy decision considering the roaring wind and rain outside and my soggy boots. Yet this is all future talk. Let me focus on the present. (Sorry I get so easily distracted…..oooh, look, shiny!)

I arrived safe and mostly sound in New York late on a Wednesday night. The stress from packing and preparing had finally melted away on the flight. After navigating my turtle-like structure around on the subway I had the wonderful pleasure of finally meeting the boyfriend of my amazing friend Abbie, with whom I always stay with in New York. My approval was quickly passed and a quiet yet fun evening ensued.

My first full day I slept in but still managed to make it to the MOMA, my favorite of all museums in the world. The Tim Burton exhibit alone was worth the trip, I’d recommend it to anyone in the area. I have not quite realized the expanse of his body of his work in total. Burton is extraordinarily creative, detail oriented, and a bit nuts. I respect and admire all of his work but am very certain I wouldn’t even want to spend one day in his head. Other exhibits enthralled me as well, particularly the performance piece in the main stage area that was opened a couple of days ahead of schedule. (Lucky me.)

After these exhilarating few hours I visited Abbie at her new office located in a trendy area downtown. In the process of strolling around, waiting for her to finish work and figure out our next move, I loaned my lighter to one of her coworkers. When I went out to collect it she was loaning it to some hot mess on the street. I didn’t care to notice this woman’s face but did acknowledge her bloody knuckles and general disheveled look about her. It was her clear blue eyes that caught my attention and made me realize this particular hot mess was Courtney Love. Yes, it is true and was later confirmed by the coworker who carried out a longer conversation with her. One might wonder why I didn’t stick around and spark up with the rock star but alas, I had to leave and D-List celebrity stories are not really my thing. (Unless of course I have a blog to mention this useless stuff in.)

So then I went on my way to Brooklyn to meet up with a mutual friend of ours, Deena. We met at a Mexican restaurant for several margaritas waiting for Abbie to finish up work and meet us. A long evening of great conversation ensued which was well lubricated by alcohol, chips, and salsa. Abbie eventually headed back to Manhattan for a good night’s rest before work the next day. Deena and I on the other hand continued the evening back at her place to smoke some refreshing herbal medicine and continue drinking ourselves into a proper Thursday night coma. Naturally I ended up crashing there in her sister’s spare bed but before I did I had decided her and I would make excellent roommates one day.

The next morning (err…afternoon, it’s all perspective I suppose) we strolled out in the miserable wet weather for some Brooklyn bagels for breakfast. Now I know this bit doesn’t mean much to anyone out there but my family. Being that my Jewish father grew up in Brooklyn, I was raised to believe two truths in the world: one is that the New York Knicks are the greatest basketball team ever, no matter what, and also that Brooklyn bagels are superior to all other bagels in the world, including Manhattan. “It’s something in the water” I’ve been told and have been repeatedly reminded that I don’t know a good New York bagel unless it was made in Brooklyn. Glad I could finally check that off of my to-do list and make my family proud at the same time. My personal verdict: delicious! Although I’m still not sold on the water part, I suppose a proper taste test might resolve the issue.

I managed to sort myself out and went to the gym later that day as if it justified what I drank that night. When Abbie and I were done showering, but still in pajamas with crazy hair and deciding if we should even step out that night, not one, but two groups of her friends randomly stopped by to coordinate some plans. One group included a long time friend of Abbie’s I’ve had the lovely pleasure of meeting previously and she was accompanied by two of her male coworkers. They were already well into the middle of a happy hour binge and we promised to meet them at the divey Irish pub next door before we went out for the night. As if we ever would make it out of there.

The five of us began imbibing alcohol quickly as we could see the karaoke machine being set up. In the process of preparing our ridiculous selves I quickly got to know one of the coworkers, the cuter blue eyed one of course. Before long I realized that this man was me, only with a penis. What I mean to say is we had everything in common including being overtly passionate about environmental issues, throwing caution into the wind while traveling, and of course, a sarcastic and inappropriate sense of humor. He had even already accomplished one of the top goals in life: to road trip the US in a bio-diesel fueled vehicle while making a documentary about meeting people along the way. Damnit. I wasn’t even drunk before I was smitten.

The truth is I very rarely meet men I care to get to know better, let alone actually genuinely like. And the best part was he actually seemed to like me back! (Ok, let’s be honest, he was definitely more drunk than me at this point. But this rarely happens and I wasn’t quite sure how to deal with it.) A few karaoke songs and several amazing conversations later we were in the ladies bathroom stall making out. In case you were wondering, this is me being prude. It’s better than doing it in the bar in front of your friends.

Anywho, I didn’t want to cross any major lines that night but I wasn’t ready to say goodbye. I only had a matter of days to enjoy this amazing new person and I wasn’t going to waste a minute of it. He had already planned on spending the following day all alone in his apartment watching movies while it poured down rain outside. He offered me to come over and enjoy the day together and so I made him promise no hanky panky that night. (Ok, so maybe a little hanky but no panky.) Since Abbie’s apartment was next door to where the bar was (yes, our friends had already ditched us there) I insisted we go up so I could get my toothbrush before we left for his place. And of course we had the same toothbrush, Preserve, the number one brand for hippies. Only something that stupid would make me swoon.

A short cab ride to Brooklyn brought us to his studio apartment that was clean, energy efficient, and fully stocked with vintage suitcases and a very nice bicycle. I was beginning to wonder if this was the reason why the Universe had brought me to New York. Truthfully, New York was not planned in the original itinerary. Only because I had missed my flight in New Orleans three weeks prior was I here. (A partial reimbursement and stupid time constraint on the free ticket which need not be fully explained, explains this.) I had suspected all along it was for a bigger reason. I eagerly awaited the next day when light would better reflect the situation.

The reality is this is not a fairytale. He was no Prince Charming and I most certainly am not a princess. I’m Carrie Bradshaw, remember? Which means there would be mixed signals, utter confusion, and a sad reality check about dating in New York. I couldn’t sleep in (ridiculously odd for me) so I read a book and occasionally tried to squeeze in a snuggle. Several hours later he awoke and we chatted in bed for a long while, still with the same interesting and involved conversations. But the morning was different. No kissing, holding, or romance.

He insisted on taking me to the Farmer’s Market so we could buy some fresh organic local goods so he could cook me breakfast. We braved the rain and there was an odd sense of comfort I felt being near him as we strolled through the very wet city. Once out, he wanted to show me something nearby, which turned out to be an indoor flea market full of 80’s sweaters and old maps. It was like I didn’t even need to bother to tell this guy about myself because he already knew. Eventually our hunger got the better of us and we made our way back to his place. Before long we had a delicious breakfast and started to get to know more about each other’s pasts, and not things you would always share with someone you’ve just met. This entire time I’m thinking ‘what an amazing, thoughtful, sweet, and inspiring guy! Wait, why are we not kissing?!?!’ And that, my friends, is a question I’ll probably never get the answer to.

Eventually it was time for me to go and he insisted on walking me not only to the subway, but he swiped his card so he could make very sure I got on the right train. Normally this would really upset me as my extremely independent personality highly objects to anyone treating me like an incompetent child. But no, I was eagerly awaiting that goodbye kiss. But a genuine hug was all I would receive, not even a phone number, and I was sent on my way.

I spent the next hour or so on the subway trying to figure out what exactly went wrong. By the time I made it back to Abbie’s apartment I was on the brink of tears. It wasn’t this guy in particular (ok maybe it was a little) but the reality check of my life had sunk in. As long as I’m living my dream traveling the world and going where the wind blows I will never have a relationship. The last few years have been quite enjoyable checking different types of men off my list. (Guy with accent? Check. Marine? Check. Inappropriately younger guy. Double check.) But the truth is I have finally reached a point where I want someone to share my life with. No, not marriage or anything absurd like that; I’d simply like to have one man care about what I’m doing. I want to feel comfortable in someone’s arms again, share crazy adventures together, and of course, have regular (amazing) sex. Is that too much to ask for?

The truth is I don’t often meet someone I’d even as potentials, but whenever I do, they’re not interested in me because of my lifestyle choice. What’s the point in falling for a girl who has openly admitted to leaving them in a matter of days? The longest I have ever been in one place since college is 4 or 5 months, and that’s when I’m transitioning through home when I’m overworked and without much of myself to offer. On the road, it’s a matter of weeks I’m in any one place. I get that this concept is frightening to most people but it exhilarates me. And I just want to find someone to share these experiences with. Which is truly surprising given my normal innately commitment- fearing background.

So here I am: alone, rejected, and confused. It’s Saturday night and the weather is still super shit outside and Abbie has gone to work her last shift as a hostess and doesn’t seem interested in going out after. I decided to blog and reach out to my compassionate man-hating friends around the world. In the middle of an email rant a knock comes at the door and it’s Abbie’s neighbor whom I had met a couple of times before. He said he wasn’t going out but his friend was and they were downstairs drinking and would like for me to join them. And that, right there, is New York. Because before you can even finish ranting about one boy, another one knocks at your door.

And so I had to finish this blog several days later on my flight to Ireland. I’ve had some time to reflect on this boy situation and now I can also fill you in on the rest of my time in New York.

I made it downstairs and wasn’t offered so much as given a beer and shots of jager. These two boys held lively conversation and I was happy to read one’s old sex blog and after some discussion, I was inspired to put myself out there (sexually in a blog I mean). Which is why I was so honest earlier and will continue to be. True understanding can only be made if all the facts are laid out. So enjoy the facts, at my expense, and sorry Mom and Dad that you are unfairly exposed to a part of my life I’ve managed to keep very secret. Our next gathering will have no shortage of conversation I suppose.

Anywho, the night continued when Abbie got home from work and we easily convinced her to head out with us to the meatpacking district. We went to a couple of different bars and I made friends with a pair of Argentineans I insisted on taking in under my wing. They were cousins, a guy and a girl, and had just moved to New York a matter of days ago. Their English wasn’t bad but I insisted on speaking in Spanish…with my beloved and awful Argentinean accent. Nobody really understood why I was hanging out with them all night but I suppose it was nice to be around people I felt instinctually comfortable around. Plus I had to remind them they couldn’t smoke inside. A habit I myself acquired while in Argentina.

Due to the time change we didn’t get home until 5:30 in the morning and I suppose we weren’t totally sober when we went out for champagne brunch the following Sunday morning. Deena came out from her Brooklyn cubbyhole and we ventured to Blockhead’s: my favorite (cheap) Mexican restaurant in the city. A couple of hours later we had made good friends with our server and he brought over some shots of tequila on the house. You would think by now I would have learned not to drink tequila after lots of champagne; I’ve made this mistake several times before. But no, it didn’t occur to me until many hours later when I couldn’t fall asleep because I was hung-over.

That evening was calm. I spent some time with Deena smoking cigarettes and sorting out my defunct love life but resisted the urge to head back out to Brooklyn based on the fact that I was leaving the next day and knew I would never make it back to Manhattan with enough time. So I stayed in with Abbie and her boyfriend eating delicious New York pizza and being lazy.

The next and final day of this adventure was boring. Ran a few errands. Went to the gym. Packed my bag. Strived to make it to the airport on time. A task I’m happy to report I didn’t fuck up…again. (But as usual I almost did.)

So here I am, eager to get into Ireland and begin a whole new bout of debauchery. Something tells me New York was only a warm up. Abbie isn’t a heavy drinker herself and the Irish, well, it was difficult back in my heyday of Malta to keep up with them. I’m always up for a good challenge though. And this time I came prepared with keg cups and ping pong balls so I may spread the glory and joy of that which is beer pong and flip cup.

The beginning of the end...

One week from this very moment I will be boarding a plane and never looking back. I have been on many planes before and have countless numbers more to board, but this time is different. This trip of mine has an new goal involved: to stay gone as long as humanly possible. I am known for my “trips” and the fact that I am constantly coming and going from somewhere. Yet I ultimately return home to sort myself out and make more money for the next trip. Will this point come again? Most likely. But with this particular expedition I would like to change the overall location without transitioning through home. Do I have enough money for this? Probably not. Will I go a bit ridiculous over time? Outlook is good. But the truth is I don’t have a Magic 8 Ball so I simply have to leap into the great unknown and hope the Universe will take good care of me, as it usually does.

While I am leaving myself open to the opportunity soaked wind, I have already lined up the first few stops on the road. First I land in the Big Apple: New York City. One of my all time favorite places in the world, I can never get enough and it’s been over a year since I last visited, which means I’m experiencing withdrawals. I’m lucky enough to have amazing friends to stay and go out with while I’m there who actually serve as the foundation of these visits. If it were not for one particular friend, I would never have gotten past infatuation with New York. We’re full blown lovers now and I have her to thank for that.

After a long and what I’m sure will be entertaining weekend, I make the big leap over to Europe. First port of call is Dublin, Ireland, and I arrive less than 24 hours to St Patty’s Day. Since the theme of this year’s travels is “celebration”, this is definitely the way to kick off the trip. I am fortunate enough to have a good friend pick me up from the airport, take me in, and show me a proper good time. The length of time I stay with anyone is not usually predetermined, but generally within a week I’ll be on my way again. And post Dublin lies an array of similar adventures all over Ireland. My path will trace to anyone I know who has invited me in to crash on their couch. We will go for a drink and reminisce about good old memories while creating new ones. Whenever the debauchery in Ireland has come to end I will make my way to England for more of the same ridiculousness but with different accents. The only truly solid plan I have is to be in Germany by May for a friend’s wedding. This event is the foundation of the trip; the reason I started planning it in the first place. I intend on spending two weeks absorbing the culture and getting carted around like an unaware puppy, being that I speak no German and in this small town English speakers are hard to come by.

After my final obligation to the world is fulfilled, I will truly set sail abroad. Plans post wedding include bartending in London, living and working in Amsterdam, bumming about in general some more while making my way down to Morocco, or getting on a plane and landing in somewhere in Asia. The dollar goes a lot further there and the experiences get weirder. I have never been to any part of Asia yet and find myself having dreams about it more often. June is a far away place right now and I have not a clue what my money situation will be or how much longer I will want to stay in Europe. Luckily I don’t have to make these decisions now. They will unfold themselves for me as time goes by and it is a beautiful process navigating through the unknown.

This blog’s purpose is simply to outline my intentions and starting path to all my friends, family, and readers. This is the jumping off platform. This is my last moment of sanity. Because the last week I’m home I get anxious, nervous, and over-focused on accomplishing tasks and seeing as many people as I can. The surrealness of leaving hasn’t sunk in, yet the packing overwhelms and consumes me. This blog is merely an introduction to my world and I hope you follow along as I discover where I’m going and what I’m doing. Updates will be made (hopefully) regularly and frequently. The intention is not to be wordy, but simply to outline my experiences and observations as I make them. (I promise nothing about the length of these updates.) Ideally they will come in handy if you’re stuck in a cubicle and the desktop background just isn’t cutting it. Maybe I can provide the escape we all need at least a little bit of in our lives, even if only for a day. I hope everyone reading this goes out and discovers adventures of your own. A new restaurant, joining a fun club or class, getting out of town for the weekend; we all must make the effort to seek variety and excitement in our lives and I implore all you reading right now to do this for yourselves. And when you don’t have the time, read my postcards. Welcome to the world from my absurd point of view. Enjoy.