I make it through customs and immigration and am on the bus headed to Dublin city center by 7:30PM. It’s too late to catch the last train to my host’s place in Clara, County Offaly for the night and I don’t have an alternative accommodation booked. I hop off with my one bag of luggage somewhere along the bridge on O’Connell street and cross the River Liffey. I don’t know where my end destination is, but I start walking towards the trains station.
Every few minutes, I look behind me to ensure that I’m not being followed. For the past month my ex had sporadically stalked me around the university campus in Albuquerque. He didn’t take the breakup in February well and started acting a bit strange after I rejected his proposal, which happened two days after I broke things off. We originally planned on travelling to Ireland together, and to my knowledge he still had his plane ticket. I don’t know if he managed to get on the plane, but I am prepared to defend myself in case he decided to follow me out to Ireland for the week.
The sidewalk is bustling with groups of young people dawdling about under the dim street lighting and reeking of booze. I come across a door that said Abigail’s Backpacker Hostel and quickly duck inside to ask the fellow at reception if there’s a bunk available. Fortunately, there is one top bunk left in the ladies’ dorm on the fourth floor overlooking the River Liffey. I quickly pay up, race up the stairs with my bag in my arms, and burst through the door–eager to lay down and rest.
There’s no one else in the room except for one other lady sitting on a bottom bunk wearing fishnet stockings and applying her makeup. I collapse on the bunk bed, feeling relieved that I found myself a place to stay. The lady in the other bunk starts making small talk. She introduces herself as Jenna and invites me to join her and her group for the night. “It’ll be good craic,” she says, and I let out a little giggle; I completely forgot I’m in Ireland until I heard the word craic.
I decide to join her and soon we are meandering through the Temple Bar area. Jenna tells me how she’s originally from County Clare but is currently working in New Zealand making a living as a plastic surgeon. “In New Zealand, it is almost impossible for anyone to sue doctors, even for malpractice,” she says. I am both fascinated and intrigued by her experiences and profession. Before I could get into a deep conversation with her, we begin to climb a narrow wooden staircase upstairs to a place called the Czech Inn.
The place is almost full, but Jenna leads me to two chairs that are still open at a table resting underneath a window that overlooks the stone road below. Jenna introduces me to the four people already sitting at the table. I don’t catch all the names, but there are John and his boyfriend as well as Sean and her girlfriend. For the next three hours, all of us are laughing, eating, and engaging in conversation. We talk about everything from bad tattoos to aspirations and the hours fly by.
Another two people arrive at the table and join in as though they were there the entire time. I buy everyone at the table a pint as a thank you to Jenna for inviting me out for the evening. I look down at my phone again to see that the time is now 1:00 in the morning. I excuse myself and get up to head back to the hostel for the night as I haven’t slept since I left Albuquerque and the jet lag is catching up to me. Before I leave, Jenna tells me she has an early morning flight and won’t see me in the morning. I thank her again and tell her it was a pleasure meeting her.
I wake up the next morning at 8:00 and see that her bunk is empty, and the bed is made. She came back sometime after I fell asleep and left before I woke up–what a life she lives! I haul my bag back downstairs and enjoy a coffee, staring into space as I contemplate my vacation plans, no longer fearing the possibility of my ex following me. Suddenly I feel my phone vibrate and look down at it to see that my good friend Brooke is calling me. I haven’t heard from her in a few months and I answer the phone.
While talking and catching up with her, I look up the Czech Inn on Facebook to see that the place was tagged in a post with a photo. Examining the photo closely, I see that I am in it and feel tempted to tag myself but then decide not to. Heading to the train station to meet my host from Clara, I walk away from the hostel feeling like I have returned home from a trip to the USA instead of like a tourist visiting Ireland for the first time.
Lizard's Deviant Travels 