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.

Mastering Spanglish

Currently I’m sitting comfortably in an overnight bus ride across northwest Spain headed to Barcelona from Madrid. I decided Friday I would fork over the 150 euro round trip ticket (not a bad deal) and fly into Aeropeurto Madrid-Barajas. Originally I planned to stay two days in Madrid and four in Barcelona, but after talking with my Turkish friend Elif, she suggested that if I’m going to do Spain between Madrid and Barcelona I might as well spend more time in Barcelona, “You will know when you get there, just trust me!” is what she repeated multiple times through her noticeable yet still understandable accent.

             We ended up talking a good amount of time educating each other about our two vastly different countries. Turkey, largely located in Western Asia is still awaiting approval from the European Union to become one of its members, and for this reason Elif needed to acquire a visa just to visit Ireland. This made me grateful to have a US passport and I explained to her that although everybody thinks America is this amazing country, it's flawed in so many ways, beginning with our grossly indebted economy to our crooked political leaders. She told me that Bush made a bad move when he sent troops into Iraq, because this ultimately caused a civil unrest in her country. I never try to have my blogs too opinionated on political issues, so I’ll just end it there. 

            Back to the point, I ended up tweaking my itinerary (flexibility is key) and decided to spend an extra day in Barcelona, taking one away from Madrid. In effect, today was similar to the two day excursion I had in London a few years back. There’s just too much to see and do in these cities for only a couple days. I ended up flying into Madrid Friday night around nine o’clock and these are some of my first impressions of visiting a country where I was unable to speak the primary language, albeit while travelling solo.

Working with two Mexicans at a pizza shop the past few months turned out to be somewhat helpful, but what I was learning was mostly Mexican slang. You don’t hear people in Spain greeting each other with “Capassa Wei?” and cat calling “Chicas”. It’s more of a “Que-tal?” type of vibe. This made navigating the Spanish metro, which for some reason seemed even more confusing then the tube, a little difficult. However, it only took a couple trips to make sense of the layout. Without having European service with my iPhone I was, and still am left with relying on the old fashioned ways of maps and human interaction to reach destinations, which I enjoy. The difficult part is picking out the people you think speak English. There are many, many white skinned Spanish which throws a wrench into simple skin identification logic. There are also many dark skinned Spanish who speak English fairly well.

The first English speaking interaction I ended up having was on my first metro ride while sitting across a girl wearing orange soled Nike frees. I told her her American identity was a little obvious, which she agreed when I pointed out her black Northface backpack. She was from Raleigh, North Carolina and thankfully ended up directing me to Puerta del sol, the heart of Madrid just a few blocks from my Airbnb. I already knew from the emails I was getting from my host Lorie, who also lived in the two bedroom apartment, spoke zero English. Compare that to myself who spoke zero Spanish and our interactions made for a lot of pointing at objects, smiling and laughing. She ended up being very friendly and helpful however, as much of the Spanish are, by helping me find plug converters, maps and food among other necessities.

Casual Selfie with Lore, my AirBnb Host

Staying only one night in Madrid I knew I needed to experience the nightlife firsthand. The first bar I went to that night was essentially a disco party playing old American hits and some other English songs I had never heard before. The DJ even had a soul patch and a curly black afro. The first handful of Spanish girls I came across, who also thankfully spoke some English, greeted me with the double kiss I had thought was mainly customary in France. It’s actually quite mind boggling how open and affectionate the Spanish are. There really is no such thing as frowning upon public displays of affection here. The metro, the café shop, the street corner, the museum exhibit, you name it, there’s face sucking happening. If your're at a club they’re also very forward about asking your sexuality. I think it’s definitely good for some because if you're questioning yourself and mildly attractive you will be forced to declare a side, so to speak, if you have one. Take for example the bearded fellow who put his hand out as if he wanted to  shake mine while I was sitting on the edge of a stage chatting up a short-haired, bandana wearing Spanish gal who looked easily twenty something (she revealed she was thirty something and eventually went on to shut me down because I was "too young"). Back to the handshake from this spunky Spainard. I obliged his handshake only to have my hand lifted and kissed. He then put his other hand out and said, “Your turn”. I took his hand and brought it to my forehead, avoiding his advances yet still having some fun about it.

I can't judge a whole population on a single experience, but I can say that no matter what sexual preference they may have, the Madrid nightclub crowd seem like a ruthless bunch. The girl who I was talking to said she had been with only a few Americans before and that their respectful ways often threw her for a loop (this was not working in my favor). That made sense to me as some just want to cut to the chase, and  others may be drawn to arrogance for whatever reason. The Spanish really enjoy their drinks as well. You’ll often see three to four beer taps at the front counter of simple take out restaurants. Where as in America most bars that primarily serve beer will have decent food, in Spain restaurants that primarily serve food will have beer. It would be like Chik-fil-a serving bud light on tap. Tough to picture, yes?

Waking up yesterday morning with only a day left in Madrid I had a rough agenda set. What I was able to squeeze in included seeing Madrid’s most famous museum, The Reina Sofia, as well as their most famous park, Parque de El Ritero. The highlight of the Reina Sofia is hands down Salvador Dali’s most influential and critically acclaimed piece of art, “Guernica.” Originally part of the Paris 1937 Art Exhibition, the piece was used as a political statement against the oppression Spain began experiencing from the German bombing of Guernica the same year the piece was unveiled. So famous, that even using non-flash cameras were banned from the viewing area. Coincidentally, I choose to do an art review of Guernica in my art appreciation class a few years back, which may have influenced the chills that ran up my arms as I walked up to the over 25 foot long piece.

After the museum I took a jaunt across the street to Ritero Parque, a massive tree laden park with towering statues and a glass palace set on the edge of a lake. Like most parks around the world on a sunny day, Riberot was buzzing with activity. Everything from frisbee throwing, to roller blading to just lounging around seemed to define this park. It wasn’t until I reached the final strip when I got some much needed human interaction. Along this strip area they had ten foot long hubs attached to one another selling different genres of books. Off to the side of one I came upon a dark skinned Spaniard punching away on an old fashioned typewriter. At first I started looking around for a place to give tips, wondering what kind of act she was putting on. I soon realized Silvi, as she would later introduce herself, had no monetary incentive, she was writing her friend Mario a poem. Mario, a kind, dark haired fellow who offered me a sip of beer from his clear plastic cup was standing next to Silvi and grinning as he watched her punch away on the antique writer.

As she continued to type I told her about my writing background and she asked what kind of writing I did. I explained I had several preferences, poetry being one of them. She immediately asked if I wanted to write something and we somehow came to the agreement we would swap poems about each other. She typed mine first as I scribbled down in my notebook what I would type for her. When she finished she gave me a quick tutorial on how to work the dated machine and I was off, realigning the type face and crossing out several letters in the process. 

            While I was writing several of Silvi's friends came up to me and started asking what I wanted to do in Madrid. I told them what I had already done and then pulled out my notebook to to show them suggestions from friends. I went down the list and mentioned bull fighting might be something to check out. They immediately shouted, “No!! Do you know what happens at those fights? They slaughter the bulls!” I vaguely remembered hearing something about this and said, "So, you want me to cross it off the list?" "Yes! Justin, cross that one off!", Silvi pleaded with me. I agreed one hundred percent. Upon hearing my name, and in an extreme bout of coincidence meets divine interconnectedness, one of her friends immediately said, "Oh, it’s Justintime!" I replied, "Yes! You are correct (origins of this name can be traced back to here). Once Silvi and I finished typing we asked who should read who's first, and at first we said, let’s do it at the same time! Then it dawned on us that although this was an interesting proposal, it may not work out so well. So, she read first, and myself after. She had a nice free verse style, and mine was more of an attempted end rhyme scheme. Both equally genuine. This was Silvi's: 

During our poetry slam, an otherwise perfect seventy-five and sunny Spain day quickly became partly cloudy with some light rain. This became a subject in both our poems; hers is pictured above, along with a photo she took of me typing below. Before we parted ways she invited me to come out with her group of bohemian amigos who were headed to a restaurant just outside of the park. Had I not had a bus to catch to Barcelona in less than two hours I gladly would have joined them, but this is how life typically goes when your living day to day. She did offer me one of her pickled vegetables (a baby onion I think?), which I was originally turned off by, but then thought, sure. I accepted and we said our goodbyes as the Spanish do, with some cheeky kisses. That onion was quite scrumptious...

So far the Spanish experience has been much different than anything I have ever come across, but in a fresh, new way. It’s become quite obvious that you can find friendly and open people no matter where you go. Just make sure they’re not too friendly, or you may have a story or two to tell. Cheers!

Wickets In Dublin

            Three days into my second trek back to Dublin and already a different kind of journey has begun to take shape. When I was here three years ago I was studying abroad, but mostly touring, confined to an itinerary with a set stipend each week along with due dates for writing assignments every few days. Looking back now this gave me the structure I most likely needed at the time, so I’m grateful we had some amazing professors guiding us along the way. However, having a premeditated itinerary can create many limitations. What if you enjoy one town more then another and would like to stay longer and go back? Maybe you meet a group of people and they give you more reason to stay in a certain location? Many of us can’t imagine traveling without a specific plan set in place. There’s just too many unknowns. You may feel you are not in control when you’re living day by day, and yet, this is the journey I’ve chosen for myself.

When living in the moment is the only thing that matters you feel more alive and more real because of it. Now I’m not saying I didn’t enjoy my study abroad just because I had calendar planned out for a few months, I made some of my best friends and did some of my best writing on these trips, but I am saying  that having plans did tie me down, and when you’re untethered there’s no feeling that compares. Conversations can go anywhere, along with your feet. Expectations go out the window (another key part to living a satisfying life) and you tend to be focused in the present and overall you begin to start living at your best.

Take my first day in Phoenix Park for example. While I was experiencing the park for the first time I was awed at the sheer amount of open space in such a dense city. I had the opportunity to nap outside on what most locals were calling the nicest day of the year. After being awakened from a dream into seemingly another dream I started pacing the rest of the park only to come across a soccer field in the far distance just across the street at the parks end. Naturally I began walking toward it and to my surprise it looked like nobody was playing. Out of the corner of my eye I ended up spotting a group of guys playing what looked like cricket. And cricket it was. There were five of them; one from Pakistan, one from Brazil and the other three from Iceland. The Icelandic folk met the Pakistani while he was traveling in Reykjavik. The Brazilian they had just met in Dublin.

The Crew

As soon as I snapped a quick photo, one of the very few on these first couple days, the ball I had just caught frozen in the air on my camera had rolled right to my foot. It was the most cliché introduction of my life; I picked up the ball, threw it back, and then I heard “Hey! You want to come pay with us!?” For the next two hours I spent my time learning how to hit and pitch a cricket ball (a little harder than it looks). Afterwards the fellas cracked a few pounders and we began explaining the different paths that brought us to Dublin. It was nice to spend some time with people with similar mindsets, who understood the rewards of travel and joys of being in a fresh space. Reh, the Pakistani orchestrator of the group, invited me to come watch his actual cricket match the upcoming Saturday and I told I’d definitely come if I was still in Dublin. We then went our separate ways and I checked into my hostel which continued to literally and metaphorically open the doors to adventure stories and instantaneous connections.

Some of the closest fellow travelers I spoke with included a couple graduates from the University of Wisconsin, a Turkish Erasmus student currently living in Czech Republic, a  future Brazilian lawyer, and a pair of fighting Illini twins from chi town. I also had the good fortune of meeting a fellow American student at a show that was being played by an American electronic/pop group the night before. This American was spending the summer in Dublin with her family and working for an organization whose goal it was to prevent and solve the homelessness problem in Dublin. With all these new connections I was also able to strengthen some old ones as a good friend from our JMU club soccer team was in the area for his study abroad. Meeting new people is always a good time but there’s nothing that compares to seeing good friends overseas. It’s like seeing a new side to old friends because neither of you have ever been in a similar space like this before together. It also helps when their second to last night in a five star hotel is your last night in a country without having made prior bookings. Robby, if you’re reading this, you’re the man! Currently I’m in Spain and the next post will have some first impressions on that country, the people and their culture (so far). Cheers!

Karma Happens

            This blog sure is getting dusty, and to all my dedicated reader, mom, I apologize. As many of you may or may not know, the past few months (actually more like 7) I’ve been working at a pizza shop in my hometown of West Chester, PA called Saucey Pizza. I’m actually really surprised I have yet to write anything about it here, I guess my excuse is I’ve been busy with grad school. Some of you are probably wondering, "What kind of name is Saucey?" It comes from ether the saucey swirl we put on our pizzas or the state people are in when they walk through our doors on a Friday or Saturday night at 2AM. Both suit the name well. If you’re from this area you know that because Saucey is set up in a college town within the vicinity of roughly 20 bars it acts as a refueling station for those sober enough to remember its location (the main intersection of town across from our three story courthouse). This job has offered me the opportunity to deliver pizzas to the crack dens of downtown West Chester, clean up vomit off the floor, break up fights over nothing, and party with my boss. Aside from the crack dens it’s like college all over again! I actually did get to party with my boss in college (shout out to the Rickster if your reading this), but thankfully I never had a reason to knock on the doors of any notorious Harrisonburg meth houses (this is the only blemish to JMU’s otherwise friendly mountain town). I studied English at JMU, and lets just say my knowledge of W.E.B Dubois and the concept of double consciousness is useless at Saucey. The majority of people I serve have no consciousness. But that’s neither here nor there. The reason I’m writing this piece is not to inform you how wonderful my life is, but instead to offer some proof that the sometimes misinterpreted idea of karma does in fact exist within our lives. The story I’m about to share is a pretty extreme example of how it works, but it is still an example nonetheless.

            Let's first set the scene. It’s Thursday night somewhere between the hours of 10pm-12pm, essentially the lull between the hungry college kids who just finished a late night of studying and the stampede of booze hounds that arrive after the bars let out. My coworker Gage, a few years out of high school, is in the back chatting with our cook Jose as he swings around a foot long piece of dough by his waist side. There’s a brother hunched over the corner counter with a hazed over look in his eye munching away on a couple of slices. I’m at the register helping a sweet girl who’s acting extremely giddy. I can’t tell if she’s taken aback by my good looks or if she’s just this way all the time. As I take her order I glance at the door and see an older gentleman walk, sorry, stumble in and he begins to start a conversation with Gage. I couldn’t hear what he was saying initially, but from what Gage later told me the man excessively used the word “jamoke” to describe the brother hanging out in the corner, adding this extremely racist piece of advice, “You make sure to tell your boss you keep all N****** outta this establishment. I won’t accept that.” (Sadly this still exists in our world and if I had heard this at the time I would’ve refused service on account of bigotry). What I did hear was, “That guy (pointing to me) is he a jackass too?” By this time I had finished serving the girl and was now staring straight at this forty something year old white guy wearing an orange polo and a navy windbreaker. He had a disheveled comb over and a face like John Calipari. This is what ensued.

            “Are you talking to me?” I replied.

            “Your damn right I am.”

            “So, you always go around calling people jackasses?”

            “Just you.”

            “Ok. Do you want pizza?” (Surprising how fast people change their attitude when you have something they want.)

            “Yeah yeah, I’m just fucking with you!” He extended his hand as if to conjure up some type of formality. “Billy Edwards.”

            “Billy, I’m not shaking your hand. What do you want?”

            “Come on. Lighten up!”

            “Ok. What, kind of pizza do you want?”

            “Come on, just shake it.”

            “Tell me what kind of pizza you want or you can leave.”

            “Alright. I’ll take that one.” Billy pointed ambiguously toward the the glass display case housing the pizza.

            “Um, pepperoni?”

            “Sure, sure, whatever.”

            I looked over towards Gage who was standing behind the glass display and gave him a nod. He grabbed a slice of pepperoni and slid it into the oven. Billy now had his arms folded with his elbows resting on top of the counter. I decided to see if I could piece this guy together as I waited for his slice to warm.

            “So, what do you do Billy?”

            “What do I do? You wanna know?

            “Yeah, I do.”

            “I run the fuckin’ mafia.”

            “You run the mafia. The West Chester mafia?”

            “NOPE. The Italian, the Irish. Run ‘em all”

            “What about the German mafia?”

            “The German? Just know that I run this goddamn town. Don’t even think about fuckin’ with me.”

            “Alright, not fuckin' with you. I think your pizzas done.” I turned around towards the over, opened the door, put the slice of pepperoni on a paper plate and dropped it on the counter. “It’s going to be $2.50" 

            “$2.50!? You know what, how about I try your pizza before I even think about paying you for it?" He reached across the counter, picked up the slice with one hand and sloppily raised it above his mouth and chomped down on it like only a smashed forty something year old man could do. “Hmm, pretty good.” He dropped what was left of the slice back on the plate, threw his right arm in the air, middle finger displayed and slapped his left hand against his right bicep and casually blurted, “Fuck. YOU”. He then turned around and slowly staggered out the door.

            “Don’t ever bother coming back here again!” I yelled at him. Feeling as though that didn’t quite do justice to what just transpired I tried for a more personal insult, “I hope you drive!” Being an otherwise gentle soul I almost said, “Don’t” instead of “I hope”, furthering the frustration of the moment. By that time he was already out the door. The next customer in line was a couple who just witnessed what went down and bursted out laughing at my departing comment to Billy. They tried to make me feel better by joking about Mr. Edwards mob connections, but there was no denying the awkward tension still in the room. Gage was pretty dumbfounded by the whole situation, and afterwards he called his stepdad who owns a salon in town and is apparently friends with all the big wigs of West Chester. He had never heard the name Billy Edwards in his life.

            The next fifteen minutes of that night went along pretty normally, and then I looked out the window and saw a police SUV parked in front of the shop. An instantaneous feeling of redemption came upon me as I left my post behind the register and went outside to investigate. Located on the corner just to he left of our entrance I saw a group of three police officers surrounding a man in an orange polo. I immediately went up to the police officers who were standing with their hands on their hips staring at Mr. Billy Edwards, head down and shoulders shrugged with his hands in his pockets. I introduced myself to the officers, explained what had happened just a few minutes ago and told them all I wanted was an apology from Billy. He apologized, but it wasn’t gratifying at all, only because it felt like a parent making their child apologize to a neighbor for wrecking something on their lawn. If they didn’t catch Billy there’s no way he would’ve apologized, but at the very least he did pay for the slice and even gave a dollar tip. That also didn’t mean much to me. When I asked Billy what were supposed to think next time he comes in the shop, one of the cops interrupted and said I’ll most likely never see him again as he was “out of state”. I thanked them and as I began to head back I saw one of the officers detach a pair of cuffs from their belt as they motioned for Billy to turn around.

            When I got back to the entrance of the shop there was a group of five or six people congregated outside. They had seen me talking to the officers and filled me in on how Billy got nabbed. Apparently he had been walking in circles up and down the block and when he decided to cross the main intersection to get to the other side of the street (ignoring all crosswalk signs of course) a police car coming the opposite way almost hit him before laying on his horn. Billy was stunned by the horn and just stood in the middle of the street glaring at the officer. After he continued walking across the street the cop circled back around the block and found him on the corner in his inebriated state.

            While this remains the most belligerent customer I’ve ever dealt with, it comes nowhere close to the drunkest, as Billy was still able to form coherent, albeit offensive sentences. It's never fun dealing with bigots, but I was thoroughly entertained as I am most nights. More importantly, that run in reinforced my belief in karma, an age-old concept derived from a balance of morals and actions that run our universe. As most of us understand, the more good you put out into this world the more you’ll receive, and the same goes for the bad. I’ve seen it work both for me, and against me, and it seems the older we get the more we become aware of this universal truth. There remains however, a fine print that goes along with this theory, and that is for those who commit good acts only on the basis of expecting something good in return, the less likely some kind of good will be reciprocated in the way they are expecting. This is because karma isn’t a predictable system of exchange created by humans, its driven more by faith and a willingness to believe that everything you need and deserve will be provided for you when the time is right. That’s why people who ask themselves daily, “What about all the good I do? I’m always doing the right thing and I never see anything in return!” don’t seem to receive the benefits of karma.  It’s like watching a tree grow. You can give it all the sunlight and water you want, but if you sit by it and stare at it all day you will never see any growth come about. However, if you come back periodically with the belief that it will in fact grow, the more easily you will see the change and benefit from its fruits. In the case of Billy Edwards, he burnt down whatever kind of tree he had and got to experience an instant kind of Karma.

            With all that said I hope you go about your day doing good things and spreading love because it’s the right thing to do, not because you expect something in return. Know that all good deeds will eventually be repaid and that all wrongful actions usually find a way to come back around and bite you. 

            Thanks for taking the time to read this and keep stopping by the blog, as the summer months begin approaching I will be updating it more regularly!

Merry Weather

All these spots reversed the clock

Where we found blue hen glass made to last

Ribbon burnt along the road

And brought us through to Timbuktu

Cheese and butter was the other 

Grilled by hands without a brother

Roots reached through empty glass

Out the window overpass

Now or former was rewarded

To the man from which smoke distorted

Buying vegan water from a martyr

Didn't make us any smarter

But the show goes on

And kids still dance on our lawn

We never tried to play for keeps

Each of us a daydream feat