Getting There

A lot has changed since I wrote last!  At Easter, my job ended and I said good-bye to my students... That seems so long ago now... I then spent a short week in western France exploring the Atlantic-coast cities and hiking in the Pyrenees.  I stayed with Francoise and Lucien, the French couple that befriended me upon my arrival in France, and theirs was probably my most heartfelt good-bye.  No time for tears, however.  The next day I hitch-hiked to Nice with Katie and that's where my three-week trip began.

If I recount for you all the cool stories from my trip to Rome and back, we'll never catch up, so I'll limit it to one sentence per place:  My favorite spot in Nice was a monastery with a magnificent rose garden and a panoramic view of the city and sea. In Monaco, I walked past million-dollar yachts and saw the preparations for the Grand Prix.  I decided to stay two extra nights in Cinque Terre, Italy because hiking on the cliffs and swimming off the rocks was soul-cleansing.  The best pizza I had in Italy was in Pisa: a HUGE dinner with other hostel-goers. Florence was a trip down memory lane to World History class (the birthplace of the Renaissance) and also my first taste of Italian cities: mopeds everywhere.  I met Erin in Rome and we did a killer job seeing the sights without waiting in a single line. After hot and sunny Rome, the Alps were literally a breath of fresh air and I had a glorious day of hiking on Mont Blanc... Et voila! Three weeks of travel and I'm sure you feel as if you were there....

I'm in Ireland now, in case that's news to you. But let me tell you how I got here.  After a final, lovely day in Toulouse, I touched down in Dublin and that's where it started: immigration.  Handing the man my passport, he asked: "so how long are you here for?" I could've lied and said seven days and skipped along, but the time for quick thinking passed and I answered "two months."  Wrong answer. Americans are allowed to visit for up to 3 months without a Visa, but what I'm doing is apparently a "working holiday"- a whole different ballgame.  Do you have a letter of reference? No. Is someone picking you up from the airport? No.  Do you have your host's phone number? No.  Do you have a return ticket home? No. Do you have proof of medical insurance? No... the list goes on. This ordeal caught me totally unawares; my heart was pumping like mad throughout. I felt very foolish and calmly began to imagine who I would call if they sent me back to France... But this immigration guy, although he was very stern, gave me the benefit of the doubt.  I walked away slightly rattled and sorry I had made a bad impression on the first Irishman I came across.

The day didn't get any worse, but I can't say it got much better. The most painful part was spending three times more money getting from Dublin to western Ireland than I did on my flight from France.  There was also one dreadful moment when I went to pay for a bus ticket and couldn't find my wallet-- I broke into a sweat rifling through my bags, realizing I no longer had emergency cash stashed elsewhere. I was screwed in Cork (pun?).

Alas, my wallet was there, fallen into a hidden compartment. I paid for the bus, the bus that unexpectedly didn't go the full distance to my destination.  It deserted me in Skibereen, 15 miles from Schull.  So close and yet so far away.  It was 8:30pm by this time and I vowed to be happy as long as I arrived before dark (thankfully the days here are long).  I went into the nearest pub (ignoring the half dozen heads that turn as I entered with backpack and luggage) and asked after a cab.  Within minutes the whole bar was for my cause: the lady bartender knew all the cab drivers firsthand and tried to get me a deal; another woman called every friend in her phone seeing if they'd help a stranded girl; the old men swore they'd drive me there themselves if they weren't intoxicated.  Despite this wellspring of Irish generosity, I took a cab in the end: the last, painful extraction from my wallet (if I lived through this one, I'd surely survive).

I arrived before dark, 14 hours after setting out, but not as ragged as you might expect.  Yet I'll be happy if I don't see another plane, train, or bus again for months.