the Emerald Isle

Okay so I'm on a time limit here, the prices at the internet cafe are pretty steep, as everything in Ireland is really expensive. I'm writing from Killarney in the southwest of Ireland. My legs and body are really sore but I'll get to that later.

I got into Dublin at about 7 in the morning on thursday. My flight sucked and afterwards I felt like I'd been run over by a truck. I thought I was getting in at 5 PM so I partied it up on the plane and stayed up to watch the simpsons movie. Stumbled through the airport, dazed and a little confused, found the way to my hostel, talked to some kid from Sweden who was nice enough to cover my bus fare. I've discovered that a little friendliness to a stranger gets you in the door, then you distract them with stories and conversation, and they pay for your expenses. Well maybe that isn't quite whats going on...

Dublin is really small. Buildings are rarely over four stories, and the city itself can be walked over in a day. It's no NYC. I spent most of thursday, lounging around, getting rid of my jet lag. Did I mention everything is really expensive in Ireland? Looking around now, all the resteraunts I see have 15 euro entrees. Thats like 20 bucks if youre too lazy to google the exchange rate. I chatted with a few people around the hostel who were really cool compared to who I was about to meet.

2:00 AM. Someone flips on the light in my dorm, I hear what I thought was people talking. I expected to be woken up in the night, thats par for the course in hostels. What I saw was one short, drunk Irishman talking, to himself in two distinctly different voices. I rolled over and opened my eyes which was mistake number one. He shook my hand and plopped down next to my bed and took off his shoes and the room was immediately filled with an odor of dried fish and vomit. 'Mah feet steenk don they?" he queried innocently. Yeah... they do. "Oh... a geetar, gimme a blahst!" What? he wanted me to play him a song which I was nice, or stupid enough to agree to. He wanted Whiskey in the Jar. I played it. He forgot. He wanted me to play it again. I didn't. He showed me his god awful psoriasis. He really really smelled awful. He insisted that I took his cell phone number, telling me that his sister was looking for a 'filly'. If she was anything like him I'd say she is shit out of luck.

He smoke and drank in the room (neither of which are allowed in hostels) and threw the butts and cans out the window trying to hit the poor people walking below. He wanted to play my guitar but had no clue how, as he strummed away I looked right into his eyes and sure enough they were blank, and crazy.

So much for the first night, but I needed it to rest and get adjusted anyway.

The second day was a lot more successful. I took a bus to Killarney and to my dismay the kids in front of me had been to a Serj Tankian show in Dublin the night before. I was pissed that I missed it, really insanely pissed. We shot the shit for a while and pretty soon I was in Killarney. I went up the street to find the hostel a girl on the bus had mentioned.

Did I mention that my pack was heavy already? I guess not but it is, damn heavy. Shane says my abs are going to get ripped from compensating from the weight, but it might just bruise my shoulers.

damn the time is ticking here, each 10 minutes I spend posting is another $1.60 oh well, thats just how much I love you guys.

The hostel in Killarney fufilled my vision of Irish hospitality. It was all stone and wood, with a real fire crackling in the hearth. The proprietor is a bouncy Pole named Martin who runs around the place with a maniacs agenda, disappearing only to come in and out of what I assume are hidden passageways. He calls everyone 'my man' in his thick round accent (think 'Goldmember') and says fuck at least once a sentence, as a noun, verb, adjective, even an adverb.

I went out that night to have my first legal beer with a microbiology PhD from Prauge who was staying at the hostel. Following my 'keep talking, they will pay' rule I regaled him with tales of madness and mayhem from Berkeley Springs and he bought me a couple pints. We saw some street performers, two firedancers, a drummer and a whistler. One of the firedancers asked me to light her fire and I said what they really needed was a guitar. She asked if I knew anyone and I said I might.

I got my guitar and came back to help them make some euros which we did. The music reminded me of jamming back at home, out at Nate and Cy and Lynns with handrums. It was a lot of fun and when I started playing and the fire girls were going people were taking pictures and video. We shot the shit afterwards. They gave me a beer, and I stopped to take a leak in an alley, which felt very Irish.

The next day I rented a bike (the origin of my sorness, as well as a general lack of good nutrition) and cruised around Killarney. I saw an authentic castle that was in worse shape than the Berkeley castle but older. I stopped in a tree and wrote three songs. I found an old abbey that was under construction and borded up, but there was a crawlspace in back and I explored a bit. Very da vinci code.

thats all the time I have more soo

-Forrest