Read the journal and/or see the slideshow.
I'm in Dublin Airport, surrounded by large, glossy reproductions of artifacts I never saw while in Ireland this time. But right now, I don't care about that. I really just want to be firmly planted on flight SK937, on the way back to my silly little city on the Pacific Rim.
Making it to the airport this morning was actually something of a milestone, with Dave successfully maneuvering the tiny rented Hyundai through the rush hour traffic out of Dun Laoghaire and Dublin, a feat I was not at all interested in attempting. He did it deftly with no event, and I am most grateful for the passing of that leg of this entire trip more than any other. Driving on the reverse side of the road poses 100% probability for error. That's one thing. But thrown in thin lanes, cyclists, motorcyclists traveling between them, wide trucks and roundabouts, and you have the potential makings for a truly bloody accident. For his valiance, Dave will be lauded back home as a far more courageous driver than me.
I'm not looking forward to returning to work. Imagine coming back from your first trip to Europe and walking back into an office full of European tour guides. They'll want to know how great it was. I really don't want to smile and reply that it was great. Following are some other probable answers to the question, "How was your first trip to Europe?"
It was intense. It started with me discovering that I'd forgotten my passport at home when we were about two minutes from SeaTac. For his valiance in returning me to Ballard, back to SeaTac and correcting my misinterpretation of SeaTac's satellites (there's a big difference between N16 and S16) with nary a complaint or insult and only a couple of cigarettes, I will always hold Neil ultimately responsible for making sure I actually took a trip to Europe.
From there, it was a myriad of travel connections, mild culture and sticker shock, architectural revelations, automobile oddities, and personal observations. It all happens with or without you, so you'd better just grab a handle and go along for the ride.
It was sweet. I loved equally the cheerful bed & breakfasts with their charming proprietors serving up eggs, bacon, sausage, toast, beans, and some of the best coffee I've ever tasted, sitting before me in my very own pot. Little dogs walked around alone everywhere in Ireland. The Filtvedts regailed us with their constant hospitality in their stunning home and gorgeous little town in Norway. We made them their first-ever fajitas right in their own kitchen. Equally sweet and in no particular order: the pub denizens of Dingle; the traditional music live in Galway, complete with acoustic guitars, fiddles, uilleann pipes, and accordions; our efficient and skinny little rental car "Seamus," a 2000 Hyundai mini-mini-van; sheep all over the place; the older, woolen-capped men strolling on the roadside; the way the Irish say "Toystay" for "Thursday"; gorgeous, fast trains; foreign voices using cell phones; Ringnes and Frydenlund pilseners in Norway, Smithwick's in Ireland; cognac with the Filtvedts; hot dogs with dried fried onions sprinkled on them on the Oslo waterfront; the thunderstorm in Dingle that caused the proprietors in Foxy John's hardware store and pub to break out their little kerosene lamps and candles; magpies; the smell akin to rotting butter that occasionally shifted through the streets of Dublin and Dingle, and the odor of coal burning in Dun Laoghaire.
It was not what I expected. The stereotypes, of course, never followed suit (tenks God). Nor, sometimes, did the hype. Dublin seemed dirty, confusing, self-aware and unfriendly. I didn't understand the appeal of this college town. Because I had no expectations for Norway, I was not disappointed. What I found was that when we did arrive at the sites I'd eagerly anticipated, I supposed I expected them to radiate with a presence that was otherworldly and powerful. Fact is, they're just places rife with history. I didn't commune with some unseen ambivalent entity. I just touched the walls of the Gallarus Oratory as perhaps some naughty child did while attending a ceremony there some 1100 years ago. Nothing more, nothing less.
No matter how smart you think you are, you're just another dumb tourist. And you've got to allow yourself that. One of my most profound realizations, and maybe just further proof that I give my fears too much airtime, was that I'm awfully hard on myself when facing small adversities. I don't have a problem with big adversities. But when I have to walk up to a stranger and ask what I know is a really stupid question, I turn the color of Ted Kennedy. Thus, number five...
Your neuroses are intensified when you're traveling. Control freak? Forget it, you're not in control of anything. There are too many variables involved, so you're better off letting things happen as they will. Second guesser? You'll end up lost. Dave and I got each other so lost due to our mutual lack of self-assurance, but then again, our mutual tenacity got us to all of our destinations when we needed to be there. Slob? You'll do just fine! Anyone who thinks a lot about their personal condition will be amused for hours by travel. You are truly responsible for whether or not you have a good time. How daunting is that?
It wasn't 100% fun. Now, where did I get an idea that it would be? Where does it say that you better eat dinner in Dublin before 8pm or you'll be stuck eating a stale sausage pasty from a dingy, fluorescent-lit shop somewhere in the Temple Bar? Why did I think I would sleep a peaceful evening in a Dublin hostel when part of an Italian soccer team was staying in the room next to mine? Did I think I would escape the perils of diarrhea after eating said pastys? Where did I get the ridiculous idea that Europe is not populated by minors, and that all museums, sights and pubs would strictly be full of adults? Who said my travel partner and I would agree about everything every minute of the trip?
I've never felt so bitchy in all my life. Was it because I live alone and am not used to being with people 24-7? I'm sure that's part of it. But I was constantly asking myself questions like: "How can soccer fans here be more obnoxious than football fans back home?" "Why do I have to write postcards?" "Is he just trying to scare the shit out of me by hitting every pothole in the road?" "Why is the bartender serving all of his blokes twice before even asking what I'd like to drink?" "Will I ever be alone again?"
I got sick of taking pictures. This isn't unusual, but I started getting bored with trying to get it all on film. How many Celtic crosses does one need depicted? My photography started becoming too deliberate. Ultimately, you're there, living the whole damn thing at the moment, and somehow taking the picture diminishes the experience.
To really know a country, you should try driving in it. Especially backwards. Ireland should be driven through. It'll be you, your buddy, and a front row seat to some of the most mystical, colorful, hilarious, barren, and spooky countryside you've ever seen. What's even cooler than all those stone fences is stopping to hear the sound of the wind blowing over and through them. As daunting as roundabouts seemed, they're such a great idea; you stop less and yield more. You can stop in any number of quaint, individual, pub-studded towns — it's like picking out your box of firecrackers on Independence Day. You have to pay far more attention in Ireland than in the States; the likelihood that you'll be negotiating about seven feet of road shared with an oncoming tractor, passing BMW and mother pushing a stroller simultaneously in your lane ten yards ahead is more probable than finding a motorway with four lanes, especially as you travel west. Fortunately for us, we had the best car imaginable for this scenario. One thing both Dave and I agreed upon: it always felt safer to be the driver than the passenger. The driver never sees just how close to the stone walls they really are.
I think I'll travel alone next time. Not that Dave wasn't fun to travel with. He was. It's just that there are very few people on this earth that I could spend ten consecutive days with. If anyone at our workplace asks how it was to travel with Dave, here are some likely replies: "We didn't try to kill each other in the middle of the night or anything." "We are very compatible." "He can drink as much as me." "We scared each other equally with our driving." "He encouraged me to travel to Europe, and for that, he gets a big, wet kiss!" I owe Dave the world for taking on an inexperienced American for a travel partner and having patience with me throughout the trip.
I dug the infrastructure! Maybe this is all the answer I need give anyone asking about Europe. I loved the cars and I loved driving a car. We can use automobiles, streets and highways as barometers to compare our respective countries and their transportation philosophies. I saw some impressive highways in Norway. This is because it's very expensive to own and drive a car there. But the price seems beneficial to all who partake: beautiful, vast highways that connect cultures and promote safe travel.
The flights were amazing, especially over Greenland. High, chiseled red mountains sat in glacier-encrusted fjords, which turned to polar ice cap the further north we flew. I have never seen anything like it, and never thought the abyss could be so bright.
9/5/00 — Written in retrospect:
A trip is never over. Nothing is clear until it has already happened and sufficient time has passed to give it a beginning and an end. My trip only became a truly good thing after time had passed and I could look back at the experiences fondly and retell the stories. The lumps smooth out over time, and the whole experience becomes a chapter in one's life. The ass gets chapped, and we get up off it to do it all over again.
Revised 9/2008. ©1999-2008 R. Pelikan unless otherwise noted.