Upon leaving Belfast, I was a bit nervous that my entire Ireland experience would be a let down. I was afraid that every town I visited would look a lot like any other city in America. But as I temporarily forgot, not every town in America looks the same.
Six to seven hours later, my bus pulled in to Galway. I was so focused about trying to figure out where I was going that I forgot to just look around. My breath caught in my throat as I opened my eyes upon this new place. It was nothing like Belfast, and I could immediately sense the town’s charm.
The first thing I noticed right off the bat, was the lack of street signs. Mild panic set in as I began to walk, trying to figure out how I was going to find my way to the hostel. By the grace of God alone, I turned the correct way and happened upon my hostel within seconds. I checked in and compared to the hostel in Belfast, this place seemed like the Ritz-Carlton – a bathroom and shower (large at that) in the room, lots of space to place luggage, and most blessedly – only women in my room!
After showering and settling in, I decided it was time to explore the town. Only having an idea of where I was at and where I was going, I began wandering in the direction that I thought the tour guides were pointing me too. As I rounded the final corner I had to laugh, it was glorious! In front of me stood tall old buildings in the most brilliant colors of goldenrod, coral, soft green and baby blue. Most were accented in fire engine red, electric orange, and grass green. Fresh flowers hung near the doorways and deep awnings covered outdoor seating. The street was jam packed with people. Every language you could imagine was being spoken. I floated on this could of euphoria into a pub to grab a bite to eat. I flipped open my book and settled into the ambiance of this wonderful place called The Quays. Later that evening as I was walking back to the hostel I was lured into a pub by the familiar sounds of traditional Irish music. At that particular moment, my soul felt content.
The next morning I started my day with a run around town. The pep in my step matched the thrill I was feeling from running around a new town, with no route in mind and no street signs to guide my way. One of my favorite things to do is to run without direction or time constraints. To rely on the senses and the pounding of one’s own feet. To just run. In the span of 30 or 40 minutes I had managed to get myself thoroughly lost and thought it only appropriate to retrace my steps; and that is what I did.
Once back at the hostel I cleaned up and headed back out to check out the town at a slower pace. Before long, I was feeling out of my element and lonely. I had some postcards I wanted to send so I wandered into a shop. As I was trying to sort through my mishmash of Euro, Pounds, and American Dollars, a kind older gentleman asked if I would like to be shown to the nearest post box. I jumped on his offer and followed his quick step down the street. At the post box he asked if I would like to join him and his friend for coffee. The ache of loneliness dimmed at this offer and I gladly took him up on it.
At coffee I discovered that my new friend, Pete, was indeed a Busker, someone who performs for tips, generally a musician. His friend was a journalist for the Galway newspaper. We had a fantastic time talking about a few of my favorite things, socialism, Obama, and the Gate’s Foundation. Later, Pete offered to show me around Galway. I learned all kinds of things about Galway, including the fact that Claddagh (the traditional Irish ring) is also a place in Galway, and that those who live in this community consider themselves separate from Glaswegians. After my tour, I went back to the hostel to rest and catch up with my loved ones via the internet, however not before making plans to meet back up with Pete that evening to search out traditional Irish music.
That night we met up for a pint and were talking and laughing when we connected with a pair of twins from the States. I was stunned and delighted, and only more so when I realized that they not only were staying at my hostel, but they were also in the same room. We all headed over to a pub called the Crane. It was by far the most beautiful and authentic pub I visited while in Ireland. The tables were low and the only seating offered were three-leg stools. Quickly Bridget, Molly, and I made friends with another young woman from Australia, named Teagan. She too was staying at our hostel, so it was clear to the 4 of us that we were meant to meet and spend the evening together. Pete soon departed our company realizing that spending time with four young women was actually quite boring for a man in his 50’s. The four of us talked and laughed and sang and clapped late into the night. When we finally made it back to the hostel we fell into our beds with satiated souls.