I sit in the window and watch the world outside explode. The latch is broken and the wind fights my body for control of the panes framed in wood, my shoulder wedged against the corner to keep the cold out. The streets are abandoned today, the arts week tourists undoubtedly hiding inside, wondering what they are doing here. The few souls unfortunate enough to be outside, or ignorant enough to not realize the danger, walk with heads bent against the 74km an hour winds whipping through town. The tiny triangle flags hung over the square flap furiously in the wind, and I'm impressed by their resilience to stay in the air, as tables and chairs and signs fly across the sidewalks and streets against their will. Text pour through the work group chat, one after the other. "Please don't go outside today unless you really have to, guys."
Yeah, no problem.
I fetch the keys from the stairwell and let myself into the restaurant in the gray morning light. The calm after the storm. The town quiet again, after the attack of the winds that tore through. Tables still lay sideways in the street. Broken flower pots litter shop fronts.
As I flick on the bar lights, sending last nights ghosts into the far corners, my mind once again wanders to how much Workaway revolves around trust.
I've been here a few weeks now, but I've known where the keys for the bar were nearly since my arrival. The kitchen is never locked, the door to the apartment building, though it has a key pad to punch in a code, is rarely ever shut, and the staff apartment is certainly never secured. Our open door policy taken to a whole other level of literal, as the door is propped open with a huge stone 90% of the time, even in the middle of the night.
Open arms, saying, "Hello, stranger, welcome to our lives. Be a good person. Don't take advantage."
It's lovely.
But the longer I'm here, the more I can see that it's not just a workaway thing in this situation. It seems to be more of a small town Ireland thing. There is simply a level of trust, and honesty in the air. You see it in small things...regulars being allowed to start tabs and come to pay them the next day, no sweat. A local couple approaching to tell me I had dramatically undercharged them on my first busy night serving, instead of taking advantage of the cheap bill. Staff being taken at their word.
A few nights into my first week in Clifden I sit at the bar, counting out my tips. I approach the register, but pause before I open it, not wanting to cause unease or suspicion.
"Hey, Dave," I turn to the barman, "do you want to count this before I change it to make sure it's right?"
"Why?" He shoots back, "You shorting us?"
"Of course not, it's 20."
"Then I don't need to count it, do I?"
Sound logic. I wish everywhere was so straightforward and simple.
There's a strange tension in the bar when I come in for my dinner shift. A thinly veiled, collective expectation as I place candles on the tables for the coming darkness. The scattered pairs and triplets seem to watch me from the corners of their eyes, feigning relaxation.
What is going on in here? I wonder to myself, continuing evening preparations for the last busy night we're likely to have this year.
"Hey Maia, when you're done, can you help me?" My coworker calls across the bar.
"Of course."
I come around the counter, searching for my task. "What's up?" I ask.
She leans in conspiratorially.
"Don't look, but I just wanted to warn you...table one, in the corner..."
"Yeah?"
"They're travelers. So just be aware. They aren't being too bad right now, but if they are rude to you, tell Donal and he'll bar them."
I nod, not completely comprehending, and turn to continue my work before our whispering causes more tension.
Travellers...they are travellers...
Ah.
It clicks, and I'm left conflicted in my feelings.
They are Travellers.
They are Tinkers.
Irish Gypsies.
And everyone is tense.
But I wasn't raised to fear gypsies.
If anything, the closest description of my community back home is gypsy.
We live in our caravans, we travel constantly, we practice trades other people have no idea where to begin with, we have a tight community, and we care for our own. I'm not really sure why people distrust us, and I'm not going to be quick to pass that along to these people.
But on the other hand, this isn't my culture, and I can't pretend to know where the prejudice may or may not have come from.
The tension builds throughout the night, and I find myself surprised with some of the people complaining. They all seem so open minded and welcoming in our day to day lives, but tonight, they want these people gone. Customers and workers, alike.
Though don't get me wrong, I'm not blaming them, the travellers were being very loud and obnoxiously drunk.
It's interesting to me...everywhere you go, there is some group that is distrusted. In Ireland, they have Tinkers. In Spain, they distrust the Romanian people. In the States, it's Hispanics. Everywhere you go, you'll find someone.
I have to wonder, how much of this distrust is personal experience, and how much is simply passed down generation to generation?
"Imagine all the people...living life in peace."
As Art Week draws closer to the finale, the shows increase in frequency and size. Chicken Wing and I (yes, I have a friend called Chicken Wing) undertake the 30 minute walk down to the boat club for a fire show. As we approach, a hundred floating, glowing ships come into view along the road.
"What is that?"
We draw closer, and the hundred children holding the small boats come into focus. What an insane visual they create, standing in a group with their ships on sticks, bobbing up and down, as if on a tide.
We continue down the hill and enter into what I feel is a tiny, Clifden town burning man. With designs and symbols scattered about and set on fire, installations hanging above the ocean, and costumed characters dancing about with fire props.
The Journey of the Crystal Ship, they call it.
It's beautiful. And even as the wind bites my face, I'm so happy to be here.
The show ends, and we walk back along the ocean road to town, the almost full moon reflecting brilliantly off the water in the clear night.
There are certain moments in which you just know...everything is right.
I've become antsy here. The beginnings of claustrophobia settling in. My mom blames it on my "itching gypsy traveling feet."
I laugh, but she's right. I need to keep moving.
So yesterday I worked my last shift at the bar. With my time in Clifden drawing to a close, I want a few days to relax and enjoy the surrounding areas without the tension which is growing inside the restaurant.
By deciding to quit, I effectively ended my Workaway contract, as well, meaning no more room and board.
So today was moving day. With the relentless drizzle outside my window, I shoved all my stuff into bags and moved two streets over, into my friends house.
From here, I'll do some writing, play some guitar, and plan the next steps, leaps, bounds, and hops of my travel.
So, as always, let the adventure continue!
Yeah, no problem.
I fetch the keys from the stairwell and let myself into the restaurant in the gray morning light. The calm after the storm. The town quiet again, after the attack of the winds that tore through. Tables still lay sideways in the street. Broken flower pots litter shop fronts.
As I flick on the bar lights, sending last nights ghosts into the far corners, my mind once again wanders to how much Workaway revolves around trust.
I've been here a few weeks now, but I've known where the keys for the bar were nearly since my arrival. The kitchen is never locked, the door to the apartment building, though it has a key pad to punch in a code, is rarely ever shut, and the staff apartment is certainly never secured. Our open door policy taken to a whole other level of literal, as the door is propped open with a huge stone 90% of the time, even in the middle of the night.
Open arms, saying, "Hello, stranger, welcome to our lives. Be a good person. Don't take advantage."
It's lovely.
But the longer I'm here, the more I can see that it's not just a workaway thing in this situation. It seems to be more of a small town Ireland thing. There is simply a level of trust, and honesty in the air. You see it in small things...regulars being allowed to start tabs and come to pay them the next day, no sweat. A local couple approaching to tell me I had dramatically undercharged them on my first busy night serving, instead of taking advantage of the cheap bill. Staff being taken at their word.
A few nights into my first week in Clifden I sit at the bar, counting out my tips. I approach the register, but pause before I open it, not wanting to cause unease or suspicion.
"Hey, Dave," I turn to the barman, "do you want to count this before I change it to make sure it's right?"
"Why?" He shoots back, "You shorting us?"
"Of course not, it's 20."
"Then I don't need to count it, do I?"
Sound logic. I wish everywhere was so straightforward and simple.
 |
| The Clifden Castle ruins |
There's a strange tension in the bar when I come in for my dinner shift. A thinly veiled, collective expectation as I place candles on the tables for the coming darkness. The scattered pairs and triplets seem to watch me from the corners of their eyes, feigning relaxation.
What is going on in here? I wonder to myself, continuing evening preparations for the last busy night we're likely to have this year.
"Hey Maia, when you're done, can you help me?" My coworker calls across the bar.
"Of course."
I come around the counter, searching for my task. "What's up?" I ask.
She leans in conspiratorially.
"Don't look, but I just wanted to warn you...table one, in the corner..."
"Yeah?"
"They're travelers. So just be aware. They aren't being too bad right now, but if they are rude to you, tell Donal and he'll bar them."
I nod, not completely comprehending, and turn to continue my work before our whispering causes more tension.
Travellers...they are travellers...
Ah.
It clicks, and I'm left conflicted in my feelings.
They are Travellers.
They are Tinkers.
Irish Gypsies.
And everyone is tense.
But I wasn't raised to fear gypsies.
If anything, the closest description of my community back home is gypsy.
We live in our caravans, we travel constantly, we practice trades other people have no idea where to begin with, we have a tight community, and we care for our own. I'm not really sure why people distrust us, and I'm not going to be quick to pass that along to these people.
But on the other hand, this isn't my culture, and I can't pretend to know where the prejudice may or may not have come from.
The tension builds throughout the night, and I find myself surprised with some of the people complaining. They all seem so open minded and welcoming in our day to day lives, but tonight, they want these people gone. Customers and workers, alike.
Though don't get me wrong, I'm not blaming them, the travellers were being very loud and obnoxiously drunk.
It's interesting to me...everywhere you go, there is some group that is distrusted. In Ireland, they have Tinkers. In Spain, they distrust the Romanian people. In the States, it's Hispanics. Everywhere you go, you'll find someone.
I have to wonder, how much of this distrust is personal experience, and how much is simply passed down generation to generation?
"Imagine all the people...living life in peace."
As Art Week draws closer to the finale, the shows increase in frequency and size. Chicken Wing and I (yes, I have a friend called Chicken Wing) undertake the 30 minute walk down to the boat club for a fire show. As we approach, a hundred floating, glowing ships come into view along the road.
"What is that?"
We draw closer, and the hundred children holding the small boats come into focus. What an insane visual they create, standing in a group with their ships on sticks, bobbing up and down, as if on a tide.
We continue down the hill and enter into what I feel is a tiny, Clifden town burning man. With designs and symbols scattered about and set on fire, installations hanging above the ocean, and costumed characters dancing about with fire props.
The Journey of the Crystal Ship, they call it.
It's beautiful. And even as the wind bites my face, I'm so happy to be here.
The show ends, and we walk back along the ocean road to town, the almost full moon reflecting brilliantly off the water in the clear night.
There are certain moments in which you just know...everything is right.
 |
| Performers in town square arguing over who has to lay on the bed of nails. |
I laugh, but she's right. I need to keep moving.
So yesterday I worked my last shift at the bar. With my time in Clifden drawing to a close, I want a few days to relax and enjoy the surrounding areas without the tension which is growing inside the restaurant.
By deciding to quit, I effectively ended my Workaway contract, as well, meaning no more room and board.
So today was moving day. With the relentless drizzle outside my window, I shoved all my stuff into bags and moved two streets over, into my friends house.
From here, I'll do some writing, play some guitar, and plan the next steps, leaps, bounds, and hops of my travel.
So, as always, let the adventure continue!
Oh Maia, it's a delight to hear you're moving on towards new adventures. I could feel that stagnation in your writing the past few weeks that you call antsyness at being still too long. Can't wait to hear whats next.
ReplyDeleteYes! I did hit some writers block while I've been here. Ironic, really, since many artists come to Ireland to get inspired. It is absolutely gorgeous here, but something was lacking for my creativity. Today I will post my last Clifden blog, and from there, it's on to new adventures.
DeleteThanks for sticking with me!!