The Gender Delusion

It’s been a couple months since I’ve written on here, and I can tell you it’s not because I’ve stopped writing. It’s mostly because I’ve stopped traveling! Only temporarily, however. As I’ve told many of you, I’m most inspired to write when I’m outside of my Southeastern Pennsylvanian hometown and immersed in new, fascinating cultures. I have indeed continued writing, it’s just the majority of my writing has been for the classes I’m taking to complete my Masters in mental health counseling. I’ll be exactly halfway through my program after this semester, which means that I can finally look forward to actual counseling within the next year or two, not just convincing inebriated customers at the pizzeria that no, just because you got kicked out of ---insert bar name here---, your life isn’t over.

So, why am I blogging now? Well, it’s mostly because the content I’m about to share with you is the same follow up email I sent to a doctorate student completing a research dissertation. That means less writing for me, and more knowledge for you, like I just cracked a double egg (for every two birds killed with one stone, a double egg is birthed). It was through this research dissertation that I was reminded of a subject that effects every one of us, every single day.

Anyone going to school for psychology, counseling or any scientific profession for that matter can relate to the hundreds of emails we receive monthly to participate in X research project for a group of doctorate students at X university. Traditionally, I delete many of these emails without even looking at the content. Either I was really bored this day or my cat somehow managed to open up gmail, because I somehow read the subject of the research, “Process of How Men Encounter Their Gender in Counselor Education”, and thought, “Hmm, how do I see myself as an aspiring male counselor in a room filled with 75% females?” It’s nothing new to me, as JMU classes were roughly 60% female, but as many of you could guess, counseling is a profession filled predominantly with woman, so that compounds the ratio, not to mention my current school was exclusively female up until 2005. Any who, I emailed back the sender of that email and after a brief, casual interview style phone call, they determined I was in fact a good fit for the study.

You may be curious as to what my “participation” in the research has been like thus far in the process. It’s been pretty simple, actually. Once they determined that I was a good fit I electronically signed a confidentiality agreement and we then met up via video chat and spoke for about an hour, myself answering questions from the principal investigator in a free flow style conversation. Soon after, I sent the investigator an email just to relay some thoughts about the subject material of the research, nothing specifically about the actual research being conducted, but more of a reflection on my experience. Here’s that email (As far as I know, sharing this isn’t at all breaching the confidentiality agreement I signed. I read that agreement, several times):

Participating in this study has actually helped me understand my own story in a more personal and enriching manner, while also providing me insight into the process of conducting actual, meaningful research. You could compare it to construction, for example. Unless you’ve had the specific experience of helping to build a bridge, you will never fully appreciate, or understand how that bridge was built.

I thought it was interesting, and quite paradoxical, how myself and my classmate used the words aggressive and passive to define each other. Just by saying aggressive, that lady came off as aggressive, and by me saying “passive”, it may have seemed like I was being passive aggressive. However, I was merely making a point, although many may have viewed me as being aggressive simply because thats how the other student choose to categorize me. See what I am getting at here? This was also the point of the TRUE pizzeria story I shared in that email. That's a prime example of how these passive/aggressive characteristics are attributed easily to both genders.

Often times what ends up happening is the words we use to describe people, or the way we perpetuate others, is usually what leads to their self-concept of themselves. If you constantly tell a child they are no good, well, they are going to believe you and end up, “no good”. As one of my friends said in a discussion recently, “Look at the way we stereotype drug addicts as violent. No wonder they act out aggressively and often end up in jail.” Its not a coincidence that countries like Ireland and Denmark have an extremely more effective prison and rehabilitation system for these types of people. Those countries don’t label these people violent users, but instead, people who choose to use drugs. We pathologize our drug users to the extent that they are seen as monsters who cannot, will not, fit into our society. I think this stigma, along with the gender stigma, is slowly, yet surely changing, but it takes acknowledging these stigmas in order to go about changing them.

In order to move forward as a society, I believe each person needs to be viewed as an entire, complete person. Not based off their gender, religion, sexual orientation or income. Not based off stereotypes ether. People need to realize that you can’t tell who a person is just by looking at them. You find out who a person is by having a conversation with them and getting to know them. Although I’d like to love and treat everybody the same, I can’t, because their gender, their diversity, their identity, dictates how they see me, in a potentially much, much different way then how I see them. 

Arise and Shine

The Owl

It’s been a little over three weeks since I’ve had my mind and body rejuvenated, reinspired and reawakened by Arise music, yoga and art festival at Sunrise Ranch in Loveland, CO. The fact that I won't be able to take part in another sacred fire ceremony in the foreseeable future has begun to set in. As Nandhiji, the main yogi who lead those fire ceremonies would say, “We must continue to reach for the stars and live as the infinite, infinite, beings we are”.

Arise Music Festival wasn’t your typical music festival with mainstream bands playing for crowds hyped up on designer drugs and neon glowsticks. Instead, the festival takes a much more conscious approach to the music they play, the food they sell and the activities they organize. It’s also heavily impacted by art done by local artists, from the metallic sculptures spread throughout the grounds (see the owl above), to wooden structures built by festival goes and hand drawn masterpieces painted during the shows.

Another aspect being present at Arise did for me was re-instilling the value of community. It’s important, probably the most important thing that makes wherever you live the place you live. The special thing about music festivals, especially smaller scale ones like Arise, is that the festival creates a community within itself. There’s much more than just music listening and supposed drug use happening at gatherings like Arise. Do you like doing yoga? Wake up before 11am and hang out with some of the coolest yogis around the area. Like playing music yourself? You can learn how to play the djembe from a native drummer. Maybe you’re into holistic wellness? Come to a workshop with Brigitte Mars, a lady who’s been studying herbal remedies for over forty years.

If you really want to feel impacted, you could also take a walk around the “wisdom village”, where the sacred fire is tended to for the entirety of the festival and a healing labyrinth is laid out. Arise even had a mini children’s village located on a grassy knoll just outside the main festival area. It also helped that the ranch was surrounded by red rocks jutting out from the top of the hills with a gigantic reservoir out in the distance. This festival was also at the top of my list for best food vendor selection I have ever seen, hands down. You could find everything from vegan falafel meals to bison burgers and sweet potato fries, not to mention a separate outdoor tea and coffee café.

Loveland Landscape

While the non-music side of Arise was nothing like I’d ever seen, the lineup at arise wasn't the kind to draw in mass amounts of people from out of state like Bonnaroo or Coachella does, but that only made  room for more local bands to shine. That included Colorado bands like The Magic Beans from Nederland who played main stage and the Jaden Carlson Band from Boulder, who played at the smaller speak easy stage.

I can't possibly touch on every one of the fifty plus bands that came out, but I can say that every genre from jazz funk to folk rock was played. The heavy hitters included Edward Sharpe and The Magnetic Zeros and Trevor Hall closing out the final night, along with Polish Ambassador, Emancipator and Joe Russo’s Almost Dead headlining the first two nights respectively. The Human Experience, an experimental solo Dj, also closed out one of the late night sets. There was also a stage solely designated for EDM music that played during and after the late night sets.

The common thread to all these performers was they ether all make super funky beats or they perform music with conscious lyrics, sans all the fluff we hear in today's mainstream music about trap queens making pies in the kitchen. I actually had the opportunity to meet a few of those artists during my last shift volunteering backstage on Sunday night.

Before I got backstage on Sunday I attended a panel discussion on how social and environmental change are affected by music. The panel included Josh Fox, director of the Gasland documentaries, Alex Ebert, lead singer of Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros, Peter Yarrow, an activist who famously wrote “Puff the Magic Dragon”, along with his daughter Sarah Yarrow and a final speaker by the name of Lyla Johnston, a Dine tribe native who graduated from Stanford University and is a member of the black hills initiative, a movement to return the sacred lands of the Black Hills back into the hands of its native tribes.

Unify

The panel was an intriguing discussion on how music is so intertwined within our society, to the point where “the earth spins to the tune of A minor” as Ebert said. During much of his talk he explained how only the most courageous music has the ability to change us, and that those who aren’t putting their realest stuff out there are doing a disservice to themselves and the industry.

The environmental film director Josh Fox discussed his third documentary he just completed after visiting every continent (except Antarctica) to gather information on the impact of fracking. Peter Yarrow sang a bit for the crowd and talked about his time with Pete Seger protesting the Vietnam War, adding that our government still has not made a formal apology for the ramifications of that war.

Peter Yarrow’s daughter, Emma Yarrow, talked more so on the spiritual impact of environmental travesty’s going on around the world, mostly due to fracking. She explained through a metaphor of the land representing our mother how we are injuring and polluting her through these devastating practices. She went on to sing a native song a cappella that was beautiful and moving. Soon afterwards Alex Ebert sang an original song titled “Mother”, which was seemingly written about his own mother, but applied perfectly to what the discussion was about.

The final speaker, Lyla Johnston, discussed her role as the lead organizer of the Black Hills Unity Concert, a three day music festival seeking to bring awareness to the plight of the Black Hills in South Dakota. Most people aren’t aware that the heart of the Black Hills are uninhabited because the land is so sacred that it remains a place for prayer and reflection only. Today the government controls 90% of the land and is seeking to mine the hills for gold. These detrimental mining practices, much less in a sacred place, has called for people like Lyla to rise up and spread awareness. This unity concert is just another example how music has the ability to bring people together for a common good.

The talk that afternoon closed out with a Bob Dylan original lead by Peter Yarrow called "Blowing in the Wind”, The chorus of that song repeats, “The answer my friend, is blowing in the wind”. It only took a minute for everyone in the crowd to stand up and begin singing the chorus together. Each one of us locked hands with the person next to us and began swaying from side to side. You didn’t have to look far to find a few tears in the crowd; it was easily one of the most moving experiences of the whole festival.

Oatmeal for Baby Wipes?

At the end of that panel discussion I tried to go up to Lyla because she said earlier she grew up in Taos, NM, and that was to be the next stop on my road trip. However, she was looking super busy and I was already mildly star struck by her speech and her presence with the other artists/creators on the stage, so I bailed. I didn’t have any problem going up to Alex Ebert however, who I dapped up in Iowa while I was sitting in the staff/volunteer lounge at Hinterland. I asked him if he remembered me, but he couldn’t even remember playing in Iowa (they played six different shows between these two festivals). He eventually remembered after I reminded him of the stage set up, “..Big amphitheater style surrounded by trees at the bottom of a hill” I said.

“Yeah, yeah that’s right. Ok, I remember you now, you were sitting at a table working, but not really working?”

“Yup that was me. (I had just gotten finished my shift and was waiting for my friend to get out of the bathroom when the band walked in.) When’s the new album coming out by the way? I heard the set at SXSW" I asked.

“It’s coming. I can’t give you a date, but you’ll start hearing stuff. I need to finish some mixing when I get home.”

Although Alex couldn’t give me anymore info on the new LP, I read somewhere that he’d relocated to New Orleans not too long ago so I asked for some good spots to visit once I got there. One he recommended was the Spotted Cat, a pretty well-known bar/venue on Frenchman street that requires the purchase of a single drink in order to become a lifelong member. Another place was Frady’s, a tiny corner market in the Bywater that has some of the best po’boys you will find in NOLA.

Later that night upon showing up for my final volunteer shift I was told my post would be at the backstage gate entrance. This was a first for me and I got thrown right into the mix when Lyla approached my coworker and I asking if we would help pass around buckets in the crowd to raise money for the Black Hills Concert after she made a “speech”. Her speech turned out to be a free style poetry jam and my coworker and I used the buckets to pound out the percussion as we sat on the ground just below the stage. After her speech we hopped the fence and made are way into the crowd to collect gratuities. 

Once we got backstage again we set the buckets down and removed the small lights we taped to the sides of them. One of the lights fell and rolled across the grass floor right next to a man with a shaved head wearing beads around his neck. It was quite dark and I didn’t see him until I literally bumped into him and realized it was Trevor Hall doing his vocal warmups. I apologized for bumping him and he just looked at me like I had three heads as he continued milling about in circles making these strange, ghostly humming sounds. I was still a bit awe struck as I had never met the man before, but I eventually did a few minutes later and hooked him up with a nice yellow and green offset spiral tie dye.

Trevor Hall would be the one to close out the festival on the main stage that night with a few other bands playing afterwards at the smaller stages. On my way back to my tent that night I couldn’t help notice a ring of caution tape in the middle of the main path leading back to the campground. In the center of the taped off area was a box propped up above a hole with the words “DO NOT MOVE, MOLE HOME” written on the outside. Apparently there was a whole slew of baby moles running around earlier in the day. The hole was originally surrounded by a ring of rocks and eventually evolved into the picture you see below.

The protection of the mole hole for me represented the compassionate nature and respect for life in all shapes and sizes by those at Arise. It’s also a pretty funny that people would go to that extent to help out a fellow creature. At the end of the day, it just goes to show that loving each other, our land, and our animals, is sometimes the only thing real. 

Mole Hole

Best of the Midwest

It’s only been a month since my trip to Europe and already I’ve sprung for the road. Desire, close friends and family and a really chill boss have all combined to make possible an excursion that has seen a first leg from Philly to Chicago to Iowa and now Denver.

   

Currently I’m sitting poolside at an apartment complex in downtown Denver, CO. The sun shines a little brighter through the clouds here and the air is full of fresh mountain air with an occasional waft of natural herbs. Volleyball is king here and the outdoor leagues are seriously competitive. I burst a blood vessel in my arm last night trying to bump the other teams serve. I also got flagged for grazing the net after throwing down a devastating spike.

Denver is also the most conscious farming city I’ve ever stepped foot in. Just outside the city I passed a sign on the side of the road that read, “If you ate today…thank a farmer”. That pretty much sums it up. Not a lot of people process how exactly they get the food they eat, and just like the emphasis on farming communities in Ireland, Denver has the same type of outlook that inspires people to buy local and eat right.

Before I got to Denver I had a chance to pass through the farming communities of another state; good ol’ Iowa. A lot of people told me how boring the trip would be through Iowa, as it is covered almost entirely with rows and rows of corn. However, I definitely took a liking to the green pastures, corn row patterns and slightly rolling hills all along the highways. 

John Neal's Mural in Des Moines, IO

The goal passing through Iowa was not only to continue the adventure to Denver, but also to make a stopover in Des Moines where a first time music festival I would be volunteering was set to take place. Due to flash floods early in the week (which would’ve made camping a nightmare as it was set on a river) it switched locations at the last minute to St. Charles, just a half hour south of Des Moines. This ended up working out even better as the main stage was set at the bottom of a hill surrounded by a natural amphitheater of trees.

First time festivals are always an interesting experience, especially when you’re a volunteer. The event essentially unfolds in front of your eyes, making improvisation and adaptability crucial to the festivals functioning. Of course, there’s a basic makeup that makes every festival a success, but there are a lot of X factors that go into making each festival unique, such as location, crowd size, weather predictability, so forth and so on.

As far as Hinterland went, you got a pretty accurate idea you were somewhere in the Midwest. All it took was a look at the main stage video screen, which was hung with metal cables by a giant forklift. You could also get an idea from the giant glass mason jars that hung like chandeliers above the stage. Even if you were blind, you could still tell you were around the Midwest with all the Minnesotans and North Dakotans who speak like Canadians.

I actually got to camp next to a couple from Fargo, North Dakota and we had a really fun time bonding over music and art as we strategized ways to avoid the thick Iowa heat. Music festivals, and camping in general offer an intriguing dynamic because you find yourself in a temporary space that you treat as your own home. The regular hospitality you would offer guests back home you get to share with complete strangers who often times, as in my case, become good friends.

The performances at Hinterland were quite amazing that weekend. Old Crow Medicine Show put on a vibrant and enthusiastic performance that turned the place into a hoedown as they closed out the festival Saturday night. Lucius, one of the bands I came to see also made a whole new following of fans with their soothing vocal harmonies and on point percussion. St. Paul and the Broken Bones, a seven piece from Birmingham, AL was easily one of the standouts of the festival. The lead singer showed up in his traditional suit and tie get up and brought down the house with some of the rawest blues singing you’ve ever heard. Probably my favorite performance of the night was by seasoned folk touring ensemble Yonder Mountain String band. With the recent addition of a new female fiddliest the band brought you along for a ride you didn’t want to get off of.

Hinterland. St. Charles, IO

Out of all those amazing performances, the best may have been the one we had back at the camp site after the shows that night. I was determined to get a crew of musicians together as the night before there wasn’t much going on, and  by selling tie dyes early that day and checking wristbands the night before I had already made friends with at least five people who had instruments with them. We set a place and time right after the shows let out, but neither the place nor time held up as its quite hard to round up five plus people to jam together, much less last minute at a music festival.

However, everything ended up working out as it always does. We got together two acoustic guitars from Colorado, a steel one from Cedar Rapids, a harmonica acoustic guitar combo from Iowa City and myself on Djembe playing percussion. We also had an amazing female vocalist from somewhere in Michigan. All of this culminated in some extended jams the likes of the Beatles, Shovels & Rope, Neil Young, and Mumford and Sons. A few highlights from that jam session included a cameo by a white rapper from Minnesota and a collaboration between the steel guitar male singer and the female singer who transitioned beautifully from “Wagon Wheel” into Jason Mraz’s “I’m Yours”.

That jam session was just another example of how music can bring people together. It may have been on a much smaller scale then the festival, but it was also on a much more personal level. Hinterland taught me a lot about Midwesterners and it also rekindled my old flame for volunteering and helping to serve others. This upcoming weekend I’ll take part in another music festival in Loveland, CO that combines Music, art, yoga and workshops on social change. That should make for another amazing experience, which I’ll surely include on here, but right now I need to walk my good friends white lab, the least I can do for housing me in this incredible city they call Denver. 

The Hitchhikers Guide to Ireland Part 2: Conquering Slea Head

Before I conclude this hitching experience to one of Ireland’s most picturesque locations, I think it’s relevant to tell you how I even heard about the town of Dingle in the first place. A few weeks before I left for this trip a trio of Irish lads came into the pizza shop as they had just recently made their way over to Newtown Square to work for a Software company and were out for some West Chester craic (Irish for fun). We chatted for a while about places we’d been and I told them the plans I had brewing in my head. I had been putting off buying my plane ticket for months, one of those things I knew I wanted to do, but just couldn’t pull the trigger on. As we do as faith based beings, I assigned my own meaning to this encounter and promptly purchased my ticket that night.

One of the most important things I got out of that conversation was the town of Dingle. I had never been and they insisted with great passion that this was a spot you couldn’t pass up. They were also from County Clare, which is just a stone’s throw away from Dingle and this gave me even more reason to take their word for it.

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Once I made it to Dingle and the row of hostels in the city center I was really surprised and a little nervous that the first hostel I stopped at turned out to be booked for the night (..on a Tuesday). I did get in some small talk with the host there and he invited me to come watch his Gaelic football match the next day. I had never seen Gaelic football live, and even if it was amateur it was something I would later take advantage of.

I continued down the street and came to the purple exterior of “The Grapevine”, which turned out to be the most friendly and communal hostel I had ever stayed at. It was essentially a four bedroom home acting as a hostel with a kitchen, dining room, and family room on the bottom floor with bedrooms on the next two levels filled with bunk beds. The current manager was few years older than me from California and the other main employee was around the same age and from Dingle. This was the perfect combination because you had the familiarity of home as well as the perspective of a local under your fingertips.

That night I walked into a family dinner being made for the hostel, but respectfully passed it up for some of Dingle’s signature fish and chips. Before we went out we had two or three guitars going in the family room for a mini jam session. We ended up at the only bar in town open after midnight and after a couple pints of Guinness I retired early because the next day I would take on Slea Head, Dingle’s most grueling bike trail along the Western end of the peninsula. A biker in Galway had told me about this circular route that makes up part fhe Wild Atlantic Way and spans about 60K all along steep cliffs and winding road. I knew I wouldn’t be able to stay in the saddle the whole trek, but I was pumped to put my most recent biking skills to the test.

Down by the Sea

The next morning and my only day in Dingle I woke up to a downpour ringing against the windows. I had some communal jam and toast and chatted for a while with the housemates before the sun shot through clear skies. A big lesson Ireland teaches you is to take every day as it comes, and this day was a perfect example. I can’t tell you how freeing it is to be away from the weatherman and weather forecasts that overcrowd our televisions and smartphones. Sure, knowing the weather is important for planning big events and knowing what to wear, but in the end it can always change and keeping your head devoid of what the next day’s weather will be like clears away expectations and makes room for happier, more present thoughts.

I ended up asking Cole, the hostel manager from Cali, if he would let me borrow his semi-rusted out cruiser sitting on the back patio for my journey. He said of course, and it ended up saving me the 20 or 30 euro it would’ve cost to rent a bike. I filled up my tires at the bike shop next door and made my way for Ventry, the next town over. Before I left I got some advice from Robert, the local hostel worker who pointed out on the map where a good place to turn off and head back to Dingle would be. After I got to Ventry, there was a waiter having a smoke on a picnic table on the side of the street. I stopped to make sure I was headed in the right direction and got even better advice on where to turn off to avoid a painstaking mountain climb. I made it about five more miles along the coast before I stopped a third time to buy some baked goods from a lady selling out of her van just before the beach at Coomenole Strand. I revised my route one final time after she gave me one final piece of advice on where to turn off.

Commenole Strand

Commenole Sketch

Once I made it to the inlet I sat my bike next to a waist high stonewall and walked down the side of a hill to reach the shore. The water was absolutely frigid but my body temperature was steaming so I jumped in and lasted about two minutes before I hopped back out. The view was absolutely stunning so I made a quick sketch of the beach and headed back out to the trail. As soon as I got on my bike and started to peddle I could feel a significant lag in my front tire. I stopped immediately to feel the tire and could tell it was completely deflated. I inspected the tire for any major holes or slashes but found nothing. I talked to a few folks in the parking lot to see if they were headed back to Dingle but had no such luck. In the back of my mind I knew I wanted to finish the ride, even if it would be with a flat tire, so I continued on.

I managed to make it a mile before another biker passed me on the opposite side and I flagged him down to ask if he had a pump on him, which he luckily did. It was no use however, because as soon as the tire was inflated it would just lose all the air within a couple minutes. I thanked him and ventured on, making it another mile before a shirtless man wearing aviators stopped me to ask if I was alright. I told him about the tire, and in a thick English accent he said, “Oi mate! I think I have a kit in my boot!” He went to the trunk of his enterprise rent a car and pulled out a patch kit. He told me I could have it and I graciously thanked the Liverpudlian for his help and slinked on.

A fierce determination fueled me to keep going and not even half a mile down the road I spotted an RV parked just off the side of the road. This RV was home to an older German couple who were very friendly, but spoke limited English. I was able to convey my problem and the fact that I needed a pump in order to fix my tire. The woman, who did all of the talking spoke some German to her husband who went back into the RV to retrieve a small pump and a couple cartridges of CO2.

When he came back out the wife explained the pump would only function with these cartridges, similar to the ones you’d use for paintball. I took the tire and tube off the rim with the help of a screwdriver and began searching for the hole. I ended up finding a pinhole size puncture right in the middle of the tube. I applied the patch kit and threw the tire back onto the rim while the German man inserted the cartridge into the pump and managed to inflate the tire while white CO2 mist sprayed about. The two cartridges seemed like they were holding, so I thanked the couple and went on my way.  Before I left they said they would be heading my direction in fifteen or twenty minutes, and if they saw me struggling I could hop a ride.

Approaching Mount Eagle and the "Beehive Huts"

I saw the couple’s RV a few more miles down the road while looking over my shoulder. They pulled over just behind me so I decided to stop and let them know everything was alright. They tried to convince me to ride with them back to Dingle, but the tire was holding up fine and although I had 10-15 more miles to go the stubborn American in me wanted to finish what I set out to do. 

I would explain to people that the ride in itself was a borderline sensory overload. Biking along a coast, nonetheless hundreds of feet above sea level, combined with an infinite view of the Atlantic Ocean and sunny skies was enough to make me fall of my bike. I practically did a couple times. It's an incredible experience to just look to the side and see crashing waves, giant rocks and seabirds cruising about. The pictures and video here don’t quite do it justice, but it gives you a good idea. I can’t imagine being a local or living nearby and being able to bike that trail on the reg. I ran into several people whose reality that was. 

The last five miles of the route I took was a relaxing straightway just barely on a downward slope, which helped make up for the last few hills I had to climb to make it there. When I got back into town it was just before eight and I decided to see if I could still make the football match that was scheduled to start at seven. I rode to the bar we went to the night before in order to ask for directions to the pitch and who walks out but the German lady that helped sort out my bike situation. She had a look of astonishment on her face I thanked her again for the help and we went our separate ways for good. I ended up catching the last fifteen minutes of the Gaelic football match, which turned out to be pretty entertaining. From watching two people run into each other at full speed with no pads it became pretty obvious that the Irish don't have much regard for their bodies (tipped off by their drinking habits).

I would go out later that night and be confronted by what I thought was a stranger who greeted me with a hearty handshake. It took the guy several explanations to explain he was the one who lent me the patch kit. At first I didn’t recognize him in the slightest with a shirt on and no glasses, but when I did I gave him big hug. These re-encounters I had in town were another sign fate was in my favor; I got to thank these generous folk again and they would know I safely conquered Slea Head, rusted out cruiser, flat tire and all.

The Hitchhikers Guide to Ireland Part 1: Galway>Dingle

When we think of the term “hitchhiking” there’s almost always a negative connotation that goes along with it, especially if were talking in America. For whatever reason hitchhiking has lost its presence in the states and those that rely on such a means of transportation might be viewed as someone that’s dangerous, homeless or otherwise not right in the head. In Europe and various other continents around the world, however, hitch hiking is more alive than ever, to the point where some countries view it as a societal norm.

So how did I end up in a van with a former dog sled trainer halfway around the world? I first heard about hitching from an Australia friend I met in Barcelona. She had been utilizing the good in people as a means of transportation for the better portion of her adult life. This is the first person I got to know who genuinely thrived on a constant lifestyle of travelling and working abroad. The truth is, if you’re not tied down, your young and you have some sort of decent income then short to long term travelling can be one of the best things you’ll ever experience in this life. Of course she’s had her share of close calls, awkward moments with creepy drivers, and nights sleeping in parks, but none of this discouraged me from the idea of hitching, mainly because her countless success stories outweighed the bad.

Once I left Barcelona a couple weeks ago, the only plans I had made were to get back to Galway from Dublin, and then to Dingle at some point. After studying some maps the route from Galway down to Dingle in the Southwest seemed like it would be the perfect opportunity try out my friends suggestion. Certainly the amount of friendly folk in Ireland would create good conditions for hitching, and everyone I spoke with agreed this was a country where hitching was looked upon as a fairly common practice. So, after only a day back in Galway I decided I would head out to the N4 and try my luck.

On the trek down, like most things in life, the first hitch I caught was easily the best. It didn’t even take five minutes flashing a cardboard sign with “Limerick” scrawled across the front in green colored pencil before I caught a ride just before the bus stop (Hitch tip: For longer distance hitching always indicate the closest big city rather than your actual destination. You’re more likely to have someone pull over heading to that town rather than getting really lucky and landing a ride to your final destination).

Still standing with my sign I saw out of the corner of my eye a guy with a curly brown afro and a corduroy suit jacket waving me over. He’d pulled just around the corner in the car park because he didn’t want to stop in the bus lane. I followed him to a beat up burgundy van with purple flower petal stickers slapped across the sides. I threw my pack in the stripped out back and hopped in.

For the next hour I got to chat it up with Ian, an ex-dog sled trainer and current child social worker who was an Irish native on his way home from a ZZ Top concert in Cork the night before. I would describe Ian as a sophisticated hippie, one who is a free thinker yet still dresses well and not quite burnt out from years of drug experimentation. Ian lived for years doing odd jobs in Mexico City before pursuing his love for dogs and getting a free place to stay in Norway training huskies. He said he picks up hitchhikers whenever he gets the chance, mostly because he knows what it’s like to be the one waiting for a ride.

Give Me A Sign

The time in Ian’s unkempt van flew by, and unfortunately he could only take me as far as Gort before he had to turn off. He gave me his number in case I got stuck and mentioned his roommate just so happened to be twenty minutes away and on her way to Shannon airport, which is about another hours ride closer to Limerick. I should keep an eye out for a bright orange van he said.

After we parted ways I threw my stuff down just before a roundabout and put out my sign. Just like before it wasn’t five minutes before another car stopped, but they actually misread my sign for another town, so they continued on. A few minutes later a white worker van pulled over, and two behemoth Irish brothers inside told me they were going as far as Innis, a small town just before Limerick. Wanting to keep moving I squeezed in the front seat next to them. I could barely understand what the one brother was saying under his thick Irish rambling. Apparently they were on the way to Innis to look at a car for the one brother’s wife. They were nice enough, and when I thanked them for the ride the one brother I could understand shrugged it off and said, “Every man’s entitled to a lift”.

Once I got dropped in Innis, I had my first interaction with some fellow hitchers, a French brother and sister duo trying to get to Limerick for the night. The three of us posted up just before another roundabout, and after about twenty minutes rotating the sign holding we decided to start hoofing it to a main road towards the town. There was only a limited stretch of highway before the actual motorway, which is illegal to hitch on and the Garda will often pick you up for it. Not the type of ride you want.

We ended getting quite lucky after about a half hour of walking when we had one of those odd looking florist minivan types pull over. There was a guy inside driving the van by himself and was easily the nicest of all the drivers I had. He had a bag full of soccer balls in the back for the coaching he did for his two kids. I recall talking about the beautiful game for much of this ride, but unfortunately he could only take us to the outskirts of Limerick, which was the beginning of the hardest part of my journey.

The only money I ended up spending was to get in and out of the black hole of a city that’s Limerick, or “stab city” as it’s commonly referred to for its prominent nighttime street crimes (Luckily we had arrived here on a sunny day at three in the afternoon). We waited fifteen minutes at a bus stop just outside the city to catch the next one going into the city. Bread and clementines were exchanged as the duo told me the story how they snuck into Body and Soul, one of Ireland’s biggest music festivals, just the week before. This isn’t really the smartest move if you believe in karma, but sometimes the travelling lifestyle doesn’t afford much cash, which still doesn’t make it right but explained their reasoning.

The ten minute bus ride into limerick got a little interesting and quite awkward when a local recognized my accent and rightly pegged me for an American. She went on to tell my about her neighbor’s grandson who was apparently one of the lucky ones who survived the balcony collapse in California. I had heard the news a few days earlier, but the way the lady was talking to me made me feel like I had to represent that event and form an opinion solely based on my nationality. Shit happens was all I could come up with (I didn’t choose those words exactly, obviously). The lady was an eccentric one way talker, so whatever I said didn’t really matter anyhow. This wasn’t even the first time someone has come up to me asking for an explanation for a shooting/freak accident, but it’s definitely the first time in another country. Strangely enough I actually do have a slight connection to that accident through a friend in Galway who works for the crisis intervention company responsible for sorting out the aftermath of the bodies. Depressing stuff.

After we got off the bus the three of us headed to the tourist office to get some maps and plan our next moves respectively. One of the lady workers very confidently suggested the best hitching spots on the other side of the city. This was another sign hitchhiking was a pretty common occurrence in these parts. The French brother and sister stayed at the office to figure out a place to stay, and my next hour and a half was spent getting through to the other side and waiting for a ride. This easily took the most amount of time between any lift.

French Travel Mates

The next ride was the fourth Irish driver in a row (makes sense I guess?). He came to a skidding halt on the gravel side of the road and popped the automated boot to his black Audi. I stepped into a car filled with deep bass and three Irish twenty somethings with buzz cuts and tight t-shirts. The driver began switching lanes like he’d just bought, or stolen the car. I couldn’t tell which. I didn’t ask. We exchanged hometowns as he was changing the songs from his house trance mix every thirty seconds. The driver asked if I did any drugs, as if he had them right there, which to be fair is a common question I get whenever my hair reaches a certain length. “High on life” I like to respond to these questions. Corny indeed, but I needed to say something to combat the feeling I was in a scene from the movie Trainspotting. They told me they had just been “out for a drive” in Limerick, which is ether shady or sad depending on how you look at it. Either way I thanked them for continuing my journey and we parted ways on a rural road surrounded by thick brush.

I was now on the outskirts of a really small and obscure town called Askeaton. It took roughly fifteen minutes for a beat up maroon sedan to pull over. Inside driving was Kevin, a twenty five year old Irish factory worker. He told me he could take me as far as Listowel, only two towns away from Dingle, which ended up being a good thing, considering his emotionless demeanor. We shot the shit, and never got too personal in our discussion, but I could tell he was a little skeptical in the whole hitchhiking lifestyle. “You know what your doing can be dangerous,” he said at one point towards the end of the ride. I brushed it off and said of course, but people generally have good intentions. He then said something similar to his first comment, “Bad things can still happen,” which then made me feel a little uneasy in this guy’s presence.

I was relieved to say the least when we got to Listowel (Hitch tip: For a different reason then the first tip it is never wise to reveal your final destination early in a conversation. If you sense some bad vibes from your driver you can always just say the next town is your destination. Not until you’re sure this person is bearable and safe should you reveal where you’re headed. The same goes for drivers, as it’s generally a good idea to ask the hitcher where they’re headed first and decide later if you’d be willing to take them further if you’re even headed that way).

While this last ride probably made me feel the most nervous, the next one would have me feeling the most awkward.  I got a ride in Listowel from a Romania house cleaner who spoke limited English and could hardly comprehend what I was saying. She had these really peculiar eyes that were bugged out and felt as though they were looking into your soul every time she made eye contact with you. Definitely not the most ideal person you want driving you, but she could only take me as far as Tralee, which again was a good thing. Tralee is a fairly large city with an affinity for roses, so once she dropped me off I had to walk through to the other side, getting some directions along the way from a local who was wearing some artsy Stonehenge ear rings. She drew me a map and I jokingly asked if she could add some trees to the directions. She obliged and we went our separate ways.

Tralee would be the last town I passed through before reaching Dingle. Passing through is actually a really nice feeling that is both fleeting, yet enjoyable. You’re in a place you know you’ll only be for an hour or so and yet it’s special because of your limited time there. In this way it’s like a microcosm of life itself. A lot of people never lose the feeling that they’ll live forever, and then it’s too late when they realize they won’t. So hitching really can put this into perspective. Back to my last ride to Dingle.

Another black Audi would pick me up in Tralee, but instead of a pale skinned Irish lad it ended up being a black chap from London. He had the London accent and the type of energy that helps carry a party, always cracking jokes and commenting on whatever positivity surrounds you. I told him I was jealous of his ride to work, which consisted of green pastures and coastlines that extended as far as you could see. Mike lived just outside the town of Dingle so when he said he’d take me into town and grab some milk I was really surprised and grateful.

He told me the story how he’d met his Irish girlfriend in England and how they’d come to own 500 acres of Dingle land through a family inheritance. After seven hours of hitching I wasn’t quite in the talking mood but tried to keep an upbeat attitude nonetheless. The conversation was mostly concentrated on Dingle so I didn’t have much to add other then what everyone had told me about it's majestic scenery. Mike ended up dropping me off right before a row of hostels and we said our goodbyes. Eight hours, and seven rides later I had finally made it to Dingle. The bus takes six hours and in a car its about four, so not too shabby for a first timer. It wouldn’t be until the next day when I would discover why the journey down had mattered so much. 

Retiro Park Hitchhiker Poetry in Madrid (Might need to zoom to read!)

What Does it Take to be Lonesome?

Before I began this trip a little over two weeks ago I was receiving a lot of mixed reactions when someone would hear my answer to the question, “Are you traveling with anyone?” There are some who gasp at the proposition of traveling by one’s self. Then there are others who encourage the solo adventurist. The truth is, it’s pretty difficult to give a reliable opinion if you’ve never experienced it for yourself.

This is my first time ever traveling alone for an extended period and I can honestly say that each day of my journey has been full of meaningful interactions and enjoyable activities, otherwise not possible had I not been traveling on my own. Traveling with your family, a group of friends, or even just one other person, be it a significant other or good friend, has multiple benefits. Mostly it’s the comfort of knowing the person or group of people with whom you’re traveling with.  You can confide in them, you already know you can have fun with them and you know well where each of you is coming from, literally and figuratively. These benefits are huge for people that need a constant companion, as there’s no guarantee you’re going to hit it off with a fellow traveler.

With that said, it can also be said that the road is full of people who are successful, friendly, and open minded. As I said earlier, much of my interactions with these people wouldn’t have been possible had I been traveling with others. For example, although three years ago I formed lifelong connections with some really amazing study abroad classmates, it wasn’t so easy meeting fellow travelers or locals because we would be out with the same group of people each night. Being alone is an opportunity in itself because the energy you expend goes to forming new connections with people from all around the world. That is unless you believe in meaningless conversation and you’re just interested in shooting the shit with strangers, which you can do just as easily back home.

Barcelona Beach

The best form of travel by ones self I’ve found that fosters connections that are both instant and long lasting are staying in dorm hostels. It’s better to go for the eight bed compared to a two bed because you save money and have more opportunity to meet others. If you’re traveling, especially if you’re in your twenties, there will be always someone you can relate to. It gets easier the more you travel because you’re able to expand your commonalities from knowing the customs in your hometown to knowing customs of individual countries. I can’t tell you how much I’ve learned just from being genuinely interested in someone else’s origins. Did you know Kazakhstan borders the largest lake in the world? That lake is the Caspian Sea. Yeah, it got me too. Did you know that Australia used to be a penal colony? It’s true that a large portion of their country are descendants of prisoners (..some Aussies can be hard to trust). What about Catalonia? This region in Spain is more than its romance language suggests. It’s an autonomous community vying for an independence that has the potential to send its governing country into an unthinkable downward spiral.

Being open to this information is the only way you’ll receive it. Same goes for friendships. By having an open mind you have the potential to accomplish whatever it is you set out to do. I really wanted to skateboard while I was in Barcelona. I went from borrowing one from a stranger at a skate spot, to inquiring where a traveling German purchased his, to being loaned a deck from an Australian friend’s Catalan roommate.  It took some luck to make it to the point where I was carving Barcelona’s infamous concrete parks and granite ledges, but I did it. All it took was being genuinely interested in another person, the fact that they may be good looking is just a plus. As long as you’re genuinely interested in something, be it a hobby, an activity, or a cause, there will always be a means to participate in it. Maybe you’re into running? Almost every major city has a group you can join. Same goes for yoga. Do you play an instrument? There are open mic night’s everywhere. Maybe you want to dedicate a month to subsistence farming? Many CSA's will take you on immediately! All you have to do is seek it out and you’ll discover the world opens up to you when you’re open to it. This is a truth that’s really hard to disregard.

Another truth I’ve always knew, but really got to experience on the road is that spontaneity is one the most important keys to happiness. Routine and predictability put a lot of humans into ruts. It did to me. A lot of us aren’t experienced, or settled enough to handle the typical 9-5. That’s ok, because were not all the same, and we don’t all grow the same way. It takes copious amounts of spontaneity in some of our lives to reach a peak happiness. I also think spontaneity is important because when things happen that we don’t have planned or that we haven’t already thought about it tends to lead to a fresh experience. When you don’t create expectations or have any assumptions the only thing left is to fully live in the moment, and that's where the magic happens. No matter if you’re an adventure seeker or homebody, the world is always trying to give you the resources to live a positive and present existence. All you have to do is want to live it too.