11 September 2008: Belfast, Ireland

I woke up this morning at 6:00, showered, packed, and said bid adieu to Jiane. And then I was on a bus to Belfast.

I was pretty excited for this next adventure, not only because it was a new place but because, more than that, it was potentially a totally different place. To be perfectly honest, my knowledge of "the two Irelands" was pretty minimal before coming to Dublin, and if you had told me that Ireland was two different countries, I wouldn't have been shocked but it definitely wouldn't have been something I had given much, if any, thought to.

In the days leading up to my departure from the Republic of Ireland to go to Northern Ireland, I had been told that the two were very different. Or, to be more accurate, I had been told that Dublin and Belfast were very different, but not merely in the way any two cities are different. It was more like the two embodied the qualities of their distinct countries.

Anyway, I was excited for the trip, but dreading going back into the UK, since it meant I'd be back on the pound again. That devilish pound.

When I got to the bus station, the very first thing I did was call a bit of an audible on my plans. Because I want to go to both Belfast and Galway, I had originally thought I'd just get a one-way to Belfast for €10, a one-way to Galway for €24, and a one-way back to Dublin for €13. But what I realized when I checked the prices was that a round-trip to Belfast was €22 and a round-trip to Galway was €18. That would save me two day's worth of food and also allow me to come back to Dublin in between for any length of time. It was a done deal.

(And for those of you keeping track, the round-trip to Belfast was more than two one ways because €10 was the special deal on the earliest bus. The regular price was €13, making €22 for a round-trip a saving of €4.)

The bus ride was noteworthy because I fell in love for the first time of this trip with the girl sitting behind me. She's from Vancouver and was on her way to Belfast to see some friends for the day before beginning a year-long missionary thing in the Mediterranean. Except it's on a boat, and she'll basically be helping to sail a sailboat the whole time. Sounds pretty rad, if you ask me.

When we arrived in Belfast I helped the girl, Randi, find an internet cafe, because that's just how chivalrous I am. After I saw her off to the land of cyberspace, I headed to the Queen's University campus, stopping off at a hostel along the way to reserve a bed for the night. Partly as a worst case scenario, but mostly to drop off my small backpack.

Then I put on my game-face and headed to open day at Queen's University.

Like I said before, I think, the open day at Queen's University was the deal-breaker when I was deciding where to go from Dublin. Because it was an open house for prospective students, I had figured there would be loads of free food, on account of QU being a well-to-do school and them trying to impress their well-to-do prospective students. I also figured that, with students milling about to talk to the prospectives, it would be a piece of cake to find a place to crash. All I'd have to do was find the student who looked cool and confide in him or her my true, 23-year old, identity.

Anyway, I got to the campus and, boy, right off the bat you could tell I was going to stick out like a sore thumb. Even before you consider that I'm not exactly 18 years old or a high school senior, bear in mind that 95% of the students there were in their school uniforms: suit and tie for the boys and dress for the girls. I was wearing jeans, t-shirt and hoodie, and was carrying my pack with me. One of these things is not like the other.

And then, of course, there is that 18-years-old-or-a-high-school-senior thing. Of which I'm neither, and not even close. Because I kept my pack with me, I was planning on explaining that I had graduated from high school two years ago and had been traveling the world since then. And now that I've traveled for two years, I'm ready to go to college and don't really feel like going back to America to do it. It just so happened that I was in Dublin as this point in my travels and had by chance found out about the open house. And, since Queen's University was on my list of schools I was considering, it was perfectly convenient for me to come to the open day. And, rather than failing to pass as 18, I was 20. Hopefully.

So that's what I was working with as I entered the main hall. What I also had to work with was some legit-ass planning. I walked up to the information desk and said in my best, most sheepish freshman voice "Hi, I'm pretty out of place here I guess, but I'm thinking about coming to school here. I don't really know where to begin." The woman picked up a program to help me find what departments I was looking for, and BAM! I had already pulled out the slip of paper where I had written two talks I wanted to hear, what time they were at, and where they were being held.

She was definitely impressed at how legit I was.

The woman also asked if I wanted to speak to a British student about the culture shock of going to school in Northern Ireland. Like it could get any easier, I said yes, but because it COULD get easier I asked if I could speak to an American student instead. Because there was no way in hell a fellow ex-patriate would deny me a place to crash for the night.

Unfortunately, she said that there weren't an Americans available to talk to. That part isn't unfortunate. What's unfortunte is that she followed that with "Do you mind speaking to a British student?" Lovely. Now I'm the asshole you doesn't like British people. Awesome.

After setting up a meeting-- with a British student-- I went to my first talk of the day, for the education department. I got there a few minutes early, and now I was still sticking out like a sore thumb, but even better I was sticking out like a sore thumb in a tiny room filled with uniformed school children. The only other people not wearing uniforms were a couple girls, and I went over to talk to them.

They weren't in uniform because they had graduated a year earlier and taken time off to work, and thus weren't with a school. They were real friendly, and at least they were older than the rest, and were looking a little awkwardly out of place too. Which was cool.

We talked for a little bit and I regaled them with tales of my wild adventures from two years traveling throughout South America, East Asia and Europe, and when we went in the three of us sat down together.

The talk was pretty standard, and largely unintelligible because of the professor's accent. My favorite part, though, was when the professor took about five minutes to explain that "there are two different sides of your brain, the left side and the ride side" and "the left side controls creativity and the right side controls order." I mean, he literally spent five minutes to explain this to us. I'm glad he did, too, because I'm retarded.

Anyway, that was the education talk, and after it was over I had to race over to the English talk. You know, because I'm considering attending the Queen's University for my undergraduate education. Becky and Lauren, the two girls, said that they would wait for the English talk to end and then we'd get lunch.

Waiting for the English talk, then, was when I fell in love for the second time of this trip. With a girl in the English department who came in to speak for a little bit. Now, I've got a thing for red heads in general, but this girl was literally the most beautiful girl I think I've ever seen. I'm not exaggerating. Unfortunately, the talk ran long and I was late for meeting Becky and Lauren, and so I had to race out the minute the talk ended. Not like I would have done anything about it, anyway, but you know.

(The cool thing about the English talk, though, is that the professor basically devoted her entire presentation to how enjoyable (read: EASY) the life of an English major is. Not like I didn't already know that, but boy she would have sold me.

When I came out of the talk I headed to the fountain where Becky and Lauren were still waiting, but I realized that my meeting with the British student was literally three minutes away. So I told them I had to run off to this thing and they said they'd wait around until it was over. Because I was an inconsiderate asshole and they were very sweet.

As I was walking up to the meeting, which was in the main hall, a group of girls started giggling as I walked by. They called out "Hi, backpack" and then one of them-- presumably the bold one-- asked if she could take a picture with me of us with our thumbs out, like we were hitch-hiking. I'll tell you, if I were 17 years old I'd have been in heaven.

The talk was, as you shall see, bogus as hell. By the numbers it was a success, as I had six cookies and two cups of tea. But here's the kicker.

Literally less than a minute into our talk, the girl Josie asked me where I was staying for the night. I said I wasn't sure, and she said that she had just moved into her flat for the year and there was an empty bed, and it was OK with her if I crashed there that night but she had to ask her roommate. I figured I was money, and so for the rest of the chit-chat I was charming and sweet as pie to her, and just the prototype of a good dude. I regaled her with tales of my wild adventures from two years traveling throughout South America, East Asia and Europe, and the deal was, for all intent and purpose, sealed.

But then the meeting ended, and she got up and started to race out of the room. I asked her about crashing at her place, and she said "uh, well, I didn't ask my roommate." I asked if I could meet her somewhere later to see if the roommate had said it was OK, and she said "but, you see, I have to ask my roommate." So then, trying to make it simpler, I asked if I could meet her somewhere later if it was a yes, and if she didn't show up it would be a no. She said "yeah, sure" and left. So now I was meeting her later. And had no idea where I would be meeting her. I'm guessing it was a no. Bogus.

On the way back out, the same girls who took a picture with me were still sitting on the steps, apparently waiting to take another picture with me. These girls were literally in love with me. I don't want to toot my own horn or anything, but seriously, if I were 17 years old my time in Belfast would have been very good. Very very good.

(Also, the problem with the Catholic School Girl bit is that the real thing is hotter. It just is. But the real thing is also actual school girls. So it's a trade off. I suppose it just depends on how much jail time is really worth to you. It's an individual choice, really.)

Anyway, I had had my fill on those six cookies for lunch, but Becky and La were starving. Since they had waited nearly two hours for me I figured it'd be pretty rude to ditch them, and we headed to the student union to get something to eat.

At least, we came for the food. But we stayed for the discoteque.

And this really was the funniest thing of the whole experience. It was 1:30 in the afternoon and this place was absolutely bumping. There was basically a steady stream of kids coming down, with nearly all of them in their fancy uniforms, and then the guys would take off their coats and the girls would go into the bathroom and put on makeup, and then they'd just start bopping around for a bit. And afterwards, when it was time to see more of the campus, they would just go back up and go about their business. I couldn't get enough of it.

Incidentally, and contrary to what I had expected, other than the cookies and tea there wasn't a bite of free food to be found at the open house. Apparently the University administration though an afternoon dance party would be enough. And, to be honest with you, it would have been for me.

Becky and La were still hungry, and the temporary reprieve from my cookies was beginning to wear off, so we headed to town to get some food. Becky really wanted to go to Pizza Hut, which at least would have been better than McDonald's or Burger King-- both to be found here-- except that it cost £5.95 for the lunch buffet. So the two of them got the buffet and I got the pizza they brought back to the table.

(Side story: That price was for the adult buffet, and I said to Becky that I should tell them I was 12 years old in order to get the kid's buffet. She said, and I quote, "Right, you couldn't pass for any younger." Younger than 20? Or younger than how old I actually am? Bam.)

After lunch I said goodbye to the girls, because in the end I still needed a couch and they still lived at home. So I headed back to campus and met four dudes who had come to Belfast for the open days-- actually, they came to Belfast "for all the pussy at open days." Their words, not mine.

They said I could crash on their couch and, maybe against better judgment, I accepted their offer. They were going to the bar, and I still had to get my small backpack from the hostel where I had stored it, so they told me to meet them at a bar called The Giraffe and we parted ways. I picked up my backpack and headed to the bar, and when I arrived they weren't there. I waited a bit, and they still weren't there. I waited a bit more, and they still weren't there.

I got stood up by a bunch of high schoolers. I was beside myself.

So it was back to the union and very little luck since only a few students had moved in yet. This is, of course, on top of the very little luck I had at the open days, which was truly baffling to me. I must have approached about seven different "student leaders"-- so said their shirts-- and told them I had come from America for the open days and needed a place to sleep for the night. I asked if there was any way I could be set up with a student in my expected field of study, and not one of them helped me. It was like they were able to see clear through my juicy, bold-faced lie. How dare they.

Finally I met this dude Alex, who couldn't offer me a place to sleep but instead handed me a £10 note. I could barely lift it.

(Yes, I've used that line about a dozen times since then. I'm a real comedian.)

So Alex gave me £10 (ten POUNDS, get it) and, though I initially refused, realized I shouldn't put up too much of a fight. So I graciously accepted it, thanked him profusely, and walked back to the hostel.

Only about 100 feet away, though, there were a couple dudes, and I figured I'd try one more shot for a couch. And wouldn't you know, this one hit.

It was a couple dudes, Glenn who goes to Queen's and Clark who goes to Cambridge, and they were on their way to get some alcohol. They welcomed me into their house almost immediately, and then even bought me some beer. Hospitable indeed.

We went back to Glenn's place and a couple other friends came over, and we just shot the shit for a little while. These kids were pretty cool. And that's even considering how much they loved boy bands. Especially 5ive. These dudes loved 5ive.

When it was time to head out for the night I asked Clark where we were going, and he said to a place that was "part bar and part dancing." That sounded promising enough.

We ended up at a discoteque.

Now, I have nothing against Belfast is a college town and I would have much rather gone to a college bar.

Here are the main problems with discoteques. Or, at least, this particular one.

1) Everyone is young. That's not entirely true, of course, but everyone who is actually into the thing and flipping out on the dance floor is young. That's a universal truth about discoteques.

2) I don't know any of the music. This is partly a product of #1 and partly because it's in Europe and eurorave discopop isn't exactly what I listen to. And yes, I just made that term up.

3) 75% of contact in discoteques is accidental. Or "accidental." This is the one that really annoys me. In a discoteque, because it's about 1000 people in a 10x10 foot cellar-- and I'm distinguishing from a night club, which is entirely different-- there's no room to purposefully approach someone. And even if you can, that's just not how you do it. So you have to either accidentally get knocked into someone or you have to get real close to someone and wait for someone to "accidentally" knock you into someone else. Nuh uh, not for me.

Not to mention, and this is part of the absurdity of this particular one, it was a discoteque for the indie/hipster crowd. Tight jeans for everyone and a bunch of drunk emo kids freaking out. I had no idea what to do with myself.

So what I DID was what you do everytime you frequent a discoteque. I got really drunk, had the requisite make-out-with-someone-else-who-is-really-drunk, and hated myself. What a time.


I hate to not end this post on that note, since I feel like it's the way to do it, but there is something else that absolutely has to be said. When I asked Glenn and Clark for a couch Glenn agreed on the spot to put me up. That's great and all, but it's pretty easy to be nice and agreeable when someone asks you for a couch during the day. But there is nothing worse or more annoying that someone flaking out after they've agreed to put you up.

(And I don't mean the four kids I met first, since they were punks from the start. Doesn't count.)

As we were leaving the discoteque Clark got into a cab to head home and Glenn was nowhere to be found. The other two guys were about to get a cab too, but since I couldn't find Glenn I asked them to call him. He was with some girl, and I waited about half an hour before he showed up.

Now, I know it seems like I shouldn't be complaining, since I made him leave the girl-- which, under other circumstances, would have been a total dick move-- but the fact is that if he hadn't shown up after that half an hour I would have been completely screwed. Not only because I was supposed to be staying at his place but because all my stuff was there and I didn't know his address. Or his phone number.

And so the thing is, having someone ask if they can crash on your couch is like finding out you're pregnant. If you choose to have an abortion, I don't have a problem with that-- after all, it's your body. But if you choose to go through with the pregnancy, you can't get drunk every night because if you do the child is going to be retarded.

If I ask you if I can crash on your couch and you say no, I don't have a problem with that-- after all, it's your house. But if you choose to let me crash, you can't go ahead and ditch me at 1:00 in the morning because if you do I'm fucked.

It's as simple as that: yes or no. But don't flake out.