End of a Season

Well, friends, I'll be honest...What I said in my last post, about focusing on writing, and playing guitar, and all that? Yeah, that's exactly what I did this week. Except I wasn't focused on writing this thing, like...at all. I've been hiding in my bedroom, sheets of my story scattered across the bed, marking them fervently with red ink, attempting to edit my sentences into perfection.
I've been focusing heavily on writing my book. Something I hope to share with you all by the beginning of next year.
I hope.
Whether or not that's at all reasonable, is yet to be seen.
My point is...I haven't been writing my blog this week. So let's see what I can pull up for you, shall we?

I sit at the end of the bar, sipping a tea, and sketching on a notepad. Two strangers come in and sit down a few chairs over.
"Hey, can I get a Guinness?" One of them asks when Dave makes eye contact.
I see Dave's mouth pull up in a smirk, and ready myself for whatever smart ass comment is about to come out of him.
He walks up to the guy, and extends his hand across the counter.
"Hi, I'm Dave. How are ya?"
The guy shakes it, obviously confused.
"This is Ireland. We say hello before we go shouting orders." He states, straighfaced. "Now what did you need?"
I can't help laughing, but thankfully the stranger does, too.
In fact, when I officially meet these guys two nights later, they are still going on about Dave being their favorite person in Clifden.
Some people just have a knack for pulling off "smart ass".

With the end of tourist season in Connemara, Arts Week being a sort of unofficial closing of the summer chapter, the people of the area need a party to shake off the tourists, and prepare for winter. Luckily for us, Macca steps up to the challenge year after year, and Saturday finds all of us preparing for the annual blow out of the season.
Guests filter into the house through the kitchen, and it fills quickly. They carry cans, and bottles, and cases, and before long the table in the beer tent is overflowing with options.
I sit on the kitchen counter, watching the procession of guests, and talking to Larissa and Ronan, bass bumping in the background, and bodies beginning to wiggle to the beat. A quick glance at the clock tells me it's 10pm, and I'm sure I'll be home within a few hours. I haven't been drinking in the last few weeks, and decide to break that streak tonight, so I can't imagine I'll last long. But I plan to enjoy the time I have!

I stand at the top of the stairs, waiting for the bathroom, and someone rushes up them frantically.
"The cops are here!" They shout in my direction, and for a second my heart squeezes in panic, and my brain starts running through my options on how to avoid trouble.
Except...wait a minute. I'm not doing anything wrong.
No drugs, and I'm well over the legal drinking age. I shrug and maintain my position outside the toilet.
What a stressful life I was living before...always looking over my shoulder, planning escape routes, accepting my potential for arrest. Unnecessary.
What are they going to do now? Tell us to turn it down? Ask us to go home? I chuckle to myself, relieved to be out of a life in which paranoia had a purpose.

I'm beginning to fade quite rapidly, and Dave and I are both eager for a place out of range of the thumping speakers inside.
We walk out the front door, sun well up by now, though the clouds keep us in a misty dawn feel for hours, and Dave pulls open the back door of a large work van.
"Who's is this?" I ask, climbing into the empty shell.
"I don't know."
"You don't...know." I just laugh, settling in against the side, and within minutes we've got a group of people, climbing in beside us, or standing by the back doors.
"Van chillin'!" One guy exclaims, "Good thinking. Keeps the wind off ya."
They roll cigarettes and we pass bottles and I listen to the stories they have to share. Too tired to participate much, but happy to listen none the less.
Eventually the group filters back inside, and we're once again, two people, sitting in a strangers van.
A man walks out of the house, and straight to us. He stands at the back door and chuckles.
"Hiya!" I greet him. "Is this your van?"
"Sure is."
"Is it alright we're sitting in it?"
"You steal anything?"
"No."
"Then I couldn't care less. You want a beer?" He asks.
And for the millionth time, I'll say it...I love small places.
If I found complete strangers sitting in my car, even at a party, I'd be nowhere near as calm or generous as this guy is.
He sits, and we talk and share a beer, eventually attracting another crowd, and this is how it goes until nearly 10am. Van life. Chillin'. Because why not?

The taxi situation is not good. We've been trying to get a hold of one since 7am, and three hours later, we've still had no luck.
Larissa and Ronan approach us, in the same boat. "We're walking home, do you want to come?"
"Are you really? That will take hours."
"We're gonna try to hitch."
We let them go on without us, aware that the likelihood of four people getting picked up at the same time is slim to none. They'd be better off on their own.
We finally find out there's a bus back to Clifden soon, decide that's our best option, and walk down to the end of the road to wait on the corner. I crouch down against the wind, and when a car rounds the corner, Dave, in his furry leopard print pimp coat, sticks his thumb out. I see it as a joke. They'll never pick us up, dressed like this, so early in the day.
But the car slows.
"Where are you going?" A woman asks out of the passenger seat, a heavy French accent on her words.
"Clifden," we respond in unison.
"Come on."
It's a miracle.
My first time hitch hiking, and it's at 10:30 in the morning on a Sunday, after no sleep, with me in a shiny David Bowie jacket, and Dave looking like a pimp. Picked up by a French/German couple on a nice morning drive while they're on holiday.
Life is funny sometimes.

We finally make it in the door.
I clean the makeup off my face and come downstairs where Dave is making pizza.
I stand there for a minute, processing the night.
"Do you realize we just spent over 12 hours at that party?" I finally say.
"I know. And we didn't do drugs," He responds.
"And we didn't do drugs."
I laugh and high five him, relieved to have someone on the same journey as I am.
"Thanks for being my sober buddy tonight."

With the craziness lived through, and the personal tests passed, I settle back into a few more days of dedicated writing time before I head out of town. With winter fast approaching here in Ireland, the days of unexpected sunshine have slowly ceased, and the clouds have returned, bringing frequent drizzle and winds with them. But this suits me fine. The perfect weather for a cup of tea, and hours of pondering prose.

"Traveling is like flirting with life. It's like saying, 'I would stay and love you, but I've got to go. This is my station.'"