It's Been a While Since We Last Talked
June 26th
For the past couple of weeks I've been pretty quiet, but not much has been going on. Well, there have been one or two things to make the time a blur - not booze-induced, either (well, with the exception of one Saturday night, but I'll get to that). All told, I've just not been up to much, only staying in Galway, working and hanging out and reading (though I have been a little irked that the telly is gone).
I've also had trouble getting writing time. The flat has been a madhouse for at least the past week; my flatmates are very, well, sociable, and then, on top of that, I have apparently opened the Galway branch of the BootsnAll hostel (but it's been fun). Virginia Woolf said that a writer, in order to write, must have money and a room of one's own - with a lock on the door. By extension you have to be a bit unsociable, but that's a bit impossible when you're living with people.
I anticipated my first guest at the BootsnAll Hostel, Galway: my mate Ram (pronounced like 'CD-ROM,' and has nothing to do with male sheep), who I met way back in March while I was gallivanting around Eugene, Oregon. He had been planning to come to Ireland for a few months during the summer, and when he found out my working visa plans he said he'd let know when he arrived, which was last Wednesday, and we met in Eyre Square last Friday.
It was good to see him again, but I was soon going into work for the evening - for which Ram was quite happy: he makes jewelry himself, so he came with me and I introduced him to all the staff. He also wanted to set up at the Saturday Market and see if he could sell any of his stuff.
After work, we were supposed to meet a friend of mine, but she stood us up (all is okay there, though - she's very forgetful, and lately has been buying me lots of coffee out of both friendship and guilt. Apology accepted, as far as I'm concerned).
So Ram and I went out to the Roisin Dubh, one of my fave Galway pubs. While not trad, Roisin's is a great venue for live bands of all tastes and styles, and I love going there; and we both had a good time, though when we left at 12:30 we decided not to bother with anywhere else, and went to sleep after only a couple of pints.
On Saturday (the 17th), I was going to try to write about this, but I wound up being needed to work a whole day, instead of my usual lunchtime gig. Work was brilliant though, as everyone was off their heads with hangovers. When I came in at 10:30, Paula and J.J. were still trying to shake the vodka-and-Red-Bull out of their heads. I felt especially sorry for J.J., our goldsmith: he was making a ring, and had to set three diamonds in it - which requires hammering. I don't think I need to elaborate.
Even Mary, one of the owners, was still in a poor state (and she didn't come in until noon). "Remember last night, when my ankle was hurting so bad that I could hardly walk?" she asked me. "Well, I spent the rest of the night dancing."
Crazy people.
God, I love my job.
Everyone recovered gradually though, and while talking to J.J. (much later in the afternoon, with the ring - and the hammering - quite thankfully finished) I soon found myself invited to go along with him and some mates to Gort, a village about 15-20 miles south of Galway, just east of Co. Clare. It was a small place, he said, but the craic (pronounced 'crack', and has to do with good times, fun, music and people and booze and such - not little white rocks) he said was brilliant, so by 8 p.m. (he said 7, but you know how Irish time is), I hopped in J.J.'s car and we went to Gort.
Before that, however, when I came home from work at six I had just missed a call from Jacinta who, it turned out, was calling from Athlone, the midpoint on the bus ride from Dublin to Galway. She rang back around 7:30: "Ant, I'm through with Dublin, so I'm homeless and in Galway. Is there space on your floor?"
Isn't there always?
So Ram and Jacinta were in the flat, whilst I buggered off to Gort (well, I never have claimed to be a good host), but once there, J.J. was right: the craic was brilliant. I sat around with J.J. and a few of his mates (though it seemed that J.J. knew everyone in Gort). Soon enough the tiny American fit in just fine with the big Irish lads, as we sat in the pub, briefly cursing England for beating Germany at the footy, but mainly just talking about music (J.J. also plays the bagpipes), discoursing on the increasingly depraved, materialistic state of a more-monied Ireland, and swapping jokes and stories.
The night was grand. I've had some good times in Galway, but none this good; however, things took a bit of a bad turn when I was four pints in and someone started putting vodka-and-Red-Bulls in front of me. I hadn't realized I'd pissed anyone off, but I was too pissed (and not discourteous enough) to refuse - and from here the night got a bit blurry, though I do remember us dancing in the disco across the street.
Somewhere around 5 a.m., after a drive through Irish backroads that stunt drivers may use for practice grounds, J.J. and I crashed out at his parents' house, in Fairmount, Co. Clare. I only even remember the name of the town because J.J. told it to me again the other day; at the time, the only thing I could remember was that there was a lake near his house - but even that I remember only because he showed it to me the next day.
Sober and showered the next day - with only a mild headache - and now fed (J.J.'s mum made us lunch), J.J. and I got in the car and set off back to Galway.
If there is anything I miss about the States, it's driving. I miss having my own car, miss being able to jaunt off whenever and wherever I pleased. Today was a gift - a reminder of that fun: the sun was out, the air was warm; Ireland was actually remembering, if only for a day, that it was June, hence time for warm weather - and J.J. and I drove on, down the backroads, windows down, breathing in country air that took away what was left of last night's piss-up.
Back in Galway, I hung out with Ram and Jacinta - and then wound up hurting my foot, in a bit of a nasty fall, the details of which I'll spare you (however, I was sober at the time). I'm doing fine, though, only a bit of a sprain (so Mom, if you're reading this, relax - I'm fine).
The rest of the week has been pretty unexciting. I've been staying in; my foot hurt, and it was winter for all but a couple of days last week. The season change didn't help; when it goes from 80°F and sunny, to 45°F and cloudy and rainy, it can make your sinuses want to explode. "The way the weather changes is one of the reasons a lot of foreigners don't stay in Ireland long," said one of my friends, a Galwegian who's dying to get out of town. "I'll probably leave, too."
She can add me to the ranks, that's for certain.
So other than work, recuperation, reading and conversation, I done very little - though I'm soooooo glad that Ram and Jacinta are here, and that I have a library card (if you haven't read any of Irish author Roddy Doyle's books, make your cerebrum happy and do so).
Not too exciting, huh? So you see, there's been little reason to write, so I haven't for a while.
I'm back now, though...
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