Irish I Lived in Galway

Finally finally finally made it to the motherland. Except, it's more like a mistressland to me, now that I've discovered that where I previously thought I was 62.5% Irish, I am only 37.5%. My mother failed to inform me that instead of being 100% her whole life, like I thought, she is only 50%. This is after my horrendous 2-minute speech I made during Heritage Day in fourth grade while wearing my grandfather's XL wool sweater and cap. Do not appreciate the veiling of my ancestry from the parental units this year- my dad only recently told me that he was a quarter, but it doesn't matter because his skin says he's all Italian.

Anyway, I arrived in Dublin by myself on Thursday since my sister's flight didn't arrive until Friday morning. After checking into my 6-bedroom hostel room, of which no other roommate came all night, I hit up the Writer's Museum because I would do that. I had no idea that most major Irish authors went to Trinity College, and now I vastly regret my educational decisions. After buying the complete works of Oscar Wilde, I walked around the city to find where St. Patrick's cathedral and Temple Bar was to show my sister the next day. After grabbing a dinner (mashed potatoes- I missed you so!) I basically crashed, I was so beat/hungover from the night before.

On Friday, I picked up my sister from the airport and she kept up with me the whole day, although the constant "Ugh, it's four am in Chicago"'s got a little annoying on the ears. We hit up the Guiness Storehouse, which, I must admit, pales in comparison to the Heineken Experience in Amsterdam, in case you were considering a beer manufacturing crawl in your near future. Then after a failed attempt to visit the K-sifhsldfhsdf Gaol, an example of the Panopticon that my theory teacher would have came in his pants to visit, we stopped at a local pub for a few beers and then hopped on a bus to Galway. Thankfully, because my sister is an idiot and she didn't figure out how to get to the hostel from the bus station, it was right next door. So we checked in and immediately went pub-hopping. We first saw an Irish version of an American bar where they had a mechanical bull ride. When some guys asked me to get on, I said "My heart says yes, but my muffintop says no", effectively killing the mood for everyone. I blame the 'Belfast Bomb' I had just had after failing miserably at getting an Irish car bomb. Note- they are the same, despite the confusion the bartender may feign at your asking for "a bomb". After hitting up O'Connell's Pub and Bar903 (nine-oh-tree), we got some drunk food and went home for the big day ahead of us.

The day in question was a trip to the Cliffs of Moher, a contender for the new natural wonders of the world. They were gorgeous, definitely, and tucked away into a little Irish village called Doolin or something. We passed thatched roof houses and sheep farms galore on the way, but the real beauty was sitting on the edge of the cliff, laughing in the face of the anti-suicide posts and watching the seagulls soaring below our toes. I really want to go back there again someday to contemplate my role in the world and blah blah blah. It was just reeeel purdy.

Well, truthfully, I want to go back to all of Ireland a lot in my life. The people there- they were so warm, so friendly, so down to earth and ready for a laugh and a pint. Whenever my sister and I would head into a pub, we were greeted by tons of males (seriously, the male: female ratio was so unbalanced in our favor it was unreal) who were drunk and happy. I love the lifestyle there- love your ma and da, work a little, and then go have some Guinness with ye friends and sleep it off the next day. Maybe we had such a good night because we had met some friends on a bachelor party, which is probably the prime group of people to run into in Ireland. After downing some cider, hitting up a night club (oh, THERE are all the girls), and taking a bike taxi back to our hostel, we discovered that they, too, were staying in the hostel, and not only that, but 2 doors down. I ended up passing out in their room, amidst the kind of people with dragon tattoos and names like 'Eamon'. Woke up feeling pretty disgusting but insanely jealous that these guys got to live in such a place.

The next day was a slow-moving one for us, so we walked to Claddagh and got some new rings and other trinkets. We also returned to Dublin, where we went to Temple Bar to round out the weekend. The Guinness was thick, the people were sweaty, and the live band played "I'll Tell Me Ma", my favorite Van Morrison song. And then "Hey Jude". And then "Shout." I couldn't have asked for a better finishing lineup to a relaxing weekend in a lowdown country.

This trip sealed it for me. I just finished applying to work in a number of hostels in the Galway area. Why go home when I have no job or fun lined up for me? I can see myself in Ireland. I can see myself, arms slung around new friends, cheering on Man U and throwing back potatoes like famine times are on the brink. I can see myself stealing away to a cottage for a week, with horses as my neighbors and Wilde as my lover.

But I can't see myself loving the suburbs anymore.

-Sarah