21 September 2008: Westport, Ireland

I woke up with church bells ringing about 50 yards away from the van, and so did Kolja and Aisling. The day had begun.

I had asked Kolja the day before about a ride to Westport because that is where Melissa was from, and she had gone home for the weekend. She had told me that Westport was worth a day trip, and I figured that if she was still around it would definitely be fun to go. I checked my email and had one from her, telling me to come visit since I was in the area.

Since I didn't have a phone and didn't know if I'd be able to check my email again that day, and since I didn't know the first thing about Westport, I replied "I'll meet you at 4:00 on the front steps of town hall. Assuming Westport has a town hall, and assuming that there are front steps." And that was that.

I went to the Clifden bus station-- more of a bus stand, really-- but there were no buses going straight to Westport. Melissa had taken a 5euro bus from Galway, though, so I figured I might as well just go back to Galway with Aisling and then head to Westport from there. It was a bit out of the way but fine just the same.

Unfortunately, what I hadn't realized was that the 5euro bus is only on Fridays from Galway and Sundays and Monday mornings from Westport. So when Aisling dropped me off in Galway-- and we bid each other a final, tearful, heart-wrentching goodbye-- I dropped 12euro for my third bus ride of Ireland.

(By the way, only one of those adjectives about the goodbye was true. Bet you can't find it.)

I got to Westport at 3:45, which would have put me just in time to meet Melissa, and I stopped into an internet cafe quickly to see if she had responded to my email. She did, but her response said that she would be leaving on a 6:30 bus back to Galway and had to spend the time until then getting ready.

This was bad news for two reasons. One, simply because I had wanted to see Melissa. Two, because I had kinda sorta been banking on her staying in Westport that night-- as she had said she might be doing-- and thus having a place to crash that night.

Now that neither of those were happening, I realized that I hadn't a clue what I was going to do. Actually, what I realized was that I had gone to Westport mostly because I was chasing legendary status, and that four towns in four nights would have been brilliant. Which it was. But since I didn't have any sort of plan other than hoping that Melissa would be around, I hadn't a clue what I was going to do.

Well, what I was going to do was find a bed. There are no universities in Westport, and nearly all the students from Westport go to school in Galway and had already returned, so that wasn't an option. I asked a woman where there was a hostel in town, and she pointed me towards the Octagon, the main square.

When I got to the Octagon, though, I didn't see any hostels-- just nice-looking bed & breakfasts, not exactly the kind of place you can do work for in exchange for a bed for the night. Still, I figured what the hell.

So I went in and told the woman that I was in Westport for a night and going back to Galway in the morning, and I asked her nicely if there was any work that I could do in exchange for nothing more than a bed to sleep in. We talked for a bit, as she was apparently sizing me up, and then she went somewhere and came back with a key. I asked her what work she wanted me to do, and she said none. No work, just the bed. Hell, not a bed-- my own room.

A free room. I'm a legend. I swear, a smile will get you anything.

So I made myself a celebratory cup of tea-- since the room came with a teapot-- and a ham sandwich-- since I had bought a loaf and 40 slices of ham before I left Galway-- and then I went to try to find Melissa. Because even though she had said she was going back to Galway that night, I figured it was worth a shot. You know, on account of having a free room in a bed & breakfast.

I watched three different buses go by before Melissa got to the bus stop at 7:00, and I pulled out my room key and asked if she wanted to stick around for the night. She was very impressed that I had scored such a nice room in the Octogon-- she said the place was "class," and I don't disagree-- but had to get back to Galway that night, so a B&B party was a no-go.

I headed back to the hostel a little disappointed, but fully aware that this meant I was still a free agent.

Because the thing is, I was dealing with a totally different ballgame. I had my own bed in my own room in a bed & breakfast. When you're staying on someone's couch you're entirely dependant on that person. At least, you're tied to that person, since if you get separated you aren't getting home. When you're staying in a hostel, there are certain limitations on what you can do and who you can do it with.

But my own bed in my own room in a bed & breakfast? The sky's the limit. Well, it was a Sunday, so maybe the roof was the limit, but it was still pretty high.

I went back to the B&B for a bit and took a nap for an hour and a half, since it was the nicest bed I had slept on in almost a month, and then I headed out for the night.

The first place I went to was advertising "traditional music," so I popped in to have a looksy. If it was, in fact, traditional Irish music, it was traditional Irish country music. As in, country music from Ireland, not music from the Irish country. It was some good old-fashioned honkey tonk, in an Irish accent. No thanks.

The second pub I saw had a sign for "music tonight," and so I popped into this one too. What I found was, for the music tonight, a single old dude playing an accordian. And for the pub, a bunch of equally old dudes and dudettes sitting around and singing along. I must have been the youngest person in there by 20 years, easily.

It was just what I had been looking for.

This was the pub scene I had envisioned when I got to Ireland, and something I never would have found in Dublin and probably wouldn't have found in Belfast or Galway. So I sat down, got myself a pint of Guinness-- for 3.85, what a steal!-- and listened, while a bunch of drunk old Irish people kept winking at me. Hilariously.

Listened, that is, until the accordian dude started playing "Molly Malone," a throwback to my days in the best collegiate choir in the world. So I started singing boisterously and the accordian dude must have noticed, because when the song ended he asked where a Yank like me had learned a song like that. I told him, and when he nodded in approval I told him that I also knew "Molly Malone." So the accordian dude played the song and told the pub that I would be leading in the singing, and so I did. And when it was over the accordian dude handed me his accordian for all of seven seconds, and I played a single note and handed it back to him.

And that was it. I had finally done Ireland.

When the pub closed at midnight I went to a club, which was the only place still open and also free. It was alright, I guess, although the clientele was a tad on the old side. And included among the clientele was an older woman from the pub who had been one of the main singers.

She recognized me, I guess, and bought me a beer. Not an unwelcomed beer, mind you, but one that meant I was spending some time with her. On the dance floor.

So we danced a bit, and I was trying my best to smile, but I slowly started to drift away. I got pretty far, but then she noticed what I was up to and came over to me, and I swear this next part really happened. She grabbed me by the collar and said to me "Nobody puts baby in the corner."

And I swear to you, the very next song was "The Time of My Life" from Dirty Dancing. I swear to you, this is all true.

I didn't know what to do at this point, since it was almost like she had known what the next song was going to be. Or maybe she had noticed my slinking away for a while and had put in the song request to get me back on the floor. Either way, I had to keep dancing with her.

Except now it wasn't just her. There were three or four similarly-aged women (I'd put it at upper-40s) dancing with or around me, and it was clear that I was the young-American-boy du jour. It was part-terrifying but mostly great fun, because the DJ was playing a constant stream of American 80s music, which I can never get enough of and neither can Irish people, and my older women friends kept plying me with alcohol.

Eventually the music changed to something less fun, and I decided to go back to the B&B before one of my older women friends had to help me there. Because, even though it was a whole new ballgame, I still had a touch of dignity to preserve.

But only a touch.

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One other thing, although this is just a thing. On the ride back to Galway from Clifden, Aisling said something along the lines of "Music is my escape."

I was about to respond, I forget with what, but then it occured to me that I was driving along the Irish countryside, a million miles and one large ocean away from home, without a care in the world. And I realized that my escape IS my escape. I went to Ireland, or rather to Europe, to escape. I escaped to escape.

Cool, huh?