Home > Uncategorized > OTOOLEFAN GOES TO IRELAND – Part 3

OTOOLEFAN GOES TO IRELAND – Part 3

April 28 – Today it was time to say goodbye to Christy McKenna and make our way toward Galway.

We were hitching in a bad spot and two hours passed. We still had no ride. So we decided to split up. Steve started to walk on, saying, “See you tomorrow.”

We planned to meet each other at the Galway Tourist Office.

In a matter of minutes I got a ride from this lady driving a van. I told her about Steve and she picked him up about 22 kilometers up the road toward Galway.

She dropped us off in the middle of the town called Tubbercurry.

It was at this point that we got the weirdest ride thus far in the trip. “The Green Blur” we call it.

The man who drove us had curly red hair, a curly red beard. “I was looking for horns,” Steve said.

As soon as we stepped inside the car, the man put on his Irish songs, drove 100 miles an hour and never said a word all the way to Galway. When we got out of the car, Steve said, “I need a beer.”

You see, Steve rode in the front seat and his view was quite nervewracking.

That, besides Air India, was the fastest I’ve ever gone.

So I was in Galway! The stretch of Ireland that’s supposed to be Ireland at its finest. According to the two girls who picked us up, Galway City has “brilliant night life.”

Galway City itself is dingy and untidy. It’s the first town where there’s a tourist undertow. Backpacks of all shapes and sizes could be seen; tour buses filled with expressionless tourists.

It was here we realized just how precarious our financial situation is. Unforeseen purchases have killed us.

It was here also we realized we were burnt out from traveling to a different town each day.

It was here too that we developed our starvation plan: One meal a day – a greasy box of fish and chips from a chain called “Super Mac’s.” We affectionately refer to our daily rations as “the allotment.”

We ate our “allotment” in Kennedy Park. This park – which is nothing special –  is dedicated to John F. Kennedy. It was here in 1963 that Kennedy addressed the citizens of Galway.

Maureen told us that Galway was a fun place and a university town. She told us to go to a pub called “The King’s Head.”

We did. It was nothing special and soon it was time to go to bed.

April 29 – Today was our second day in Galway and our first day staying in the same place.

Today was another scorcher. We walked to Galway Bay and then layed out on the beach.

It may be the appropriate time to speak of the Irish girls. When an Irish girl is pretty, there is no girl more beautiful. That combination of black hair, freckles everywhere, and milky white skin drives me wild! I’d like to kiss them all.

Later on in the afternoon, we went to St. Nicholas’ Cathedral.

The church was impressive and large. The silence was loud.

I began to reflect on my life back in Clinton. I could only think about my mother. I still can’t believe she’s no longer in the world. I became sad because it hit me again just how much I miss her. I remembered how much it still hurts and how much of a void I have in my heart that can never be filled.

I lit a candle for her, which if it’s anything like she was, will burn brighter than all the rest.

God, I miss her.

Went to “The Crane” and got souced.

April 30 – Someone has to narrate this apocalypse, so I guess it shall be me. My hands are still numb as I write this. The boom has been lowered. Today we felt the first drops of rain, and then we felt more drops.

“The rain will relieve the monotony,” we joked.

We got soaked. Our goal was to get to Clifden and rent bicycles so we could enjoy supposedly the most beautiful scenery in Ireland.

There were two backpacking girls who passed us around noon.

All in all, Steve and I walked about six miles. We didn’t get one mother-fuckin’ ride. Not a soul stopped to pick us up!

Meanwhile, the rain pelted us from all angles. We should have taken the bus. Everyone told us that hitching from Galway to Clifden was easy.

These sober notes are being written from within the indifferent confines of a Bed and Breakfast. The town we’re in is another greasy little town, greasier than Mount Charles. The only thing good about it so far is that they have a launderette.

Name of town: Moycullen.

Needless to say, we do not hold a high opinion of Moycullen.

“This is the night when I should have bought that scotch bottle,” Steve says, laying in his bed.

I’m listening to the rain beat off the window – God, it sounds cold. Come to think of it, our room is pretty fuckin’ cold too.

This was the worse hitchhiking day of the century. I challenge anyone to match it.

The only way this day could have been saved was if we got a ride home from Van Morrison.

But I must get a perspective on things. This is the first day it has rained in over a week. Still, it sucks.

“One out of eight days you get fucked over,” Steve says.

Well, so far it has been an action packed week. It’s been the best week in a long time. I know that doesn’t make sense, but all this walking had made me loopy.

Both Steve and I are writing in our journals and waiting for the heater to kick on.

The image I recall the most from this day is late in the afternoon when we were making our last stand at hitchhiking. We were in the middle of town, next to a phone booth. Steve and I put our knapsacks in the phone booth so they wouldn’t get entirely soaked. Sure enough, a few minutes later a woman had to use the phone. We left the bags in there and she made her call. Soon she was laughing and laughing. Meanwhile, we’re right next to her getting puddles sprayed at us as the cars whizzed by. I know, big deal.

When we got to Moycullen, we saw those two girls again that passed us earlier. We hope it’s raining hard on them, wherever they are.

What else can I write? Nothing. We’re stranded in Hell Town. We’ve been confined to our beds. That last sentence was interrupted by a creepy crawler. It turned out to be some kind of cockroach. I smashed him in half with the “Let’s Go: Ireland” book.

The only time people stay here is when their truck breaks down. What a rip off this place is.

Bed and Bullshit. Above Steve’s bed:  3-D picture of Jesus.

We are trapped.

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  1. February 26, 2011 at 7:18 pm

    So much fun. I never get tired of reading this piece.

  2. February 26, 2011 at 5:23 pm

    How Old were you then, Don?

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