GALWAY Eventually

Getting to Dublin

My Tuesday morning e-mail tells me I can now print my boarding pass and select my seat.  Only I can’t.  The British Airways website is defective this morning.  I try five times and finally call customer service, hours after most of the seats have been chosen.  The kind woman I speak with sees what is wrong with their web site. She makes some sort of adjustment and asks whether I would like her to select a seat for me.  Absolutely! 

The agent assigns me an aisle seat, which is handy if you need easy access to the loo.  A window seat is nice for this 8 hour flight because you can lean against the window to sleep.  So either one would be fine.  I have seat 23D.  Rather than feel aggravated by the B.A. website snafu, I wait for the Universe to show me the good part of this.  

As we enter downtown Atlanta, the Groome shuttle driver points out the “real Georgia gold on the top of the State building.” 

“Good,” I say.  “If the State goes broke, they can sell it!”

While I’m waiting at the British Airways gate for London, I see people come by in wheelchairs, with canes and crutches and limps.  With untied sneakers, hiking shoes, sandals.  Only plane crew have high heels.  Remember ages ago when female passengers wore heels, stockings, gloves and hats?  Folks here wear pants, long and short dresses, saris, shorts, and leggings. One Muslim woman has a sky blue caftan with white eyelet trim. 

We leave 20 minutes late.  I have a terrific seat for this eight hour flight.  Not First Class but the next best thing.  Big seat, lots of leg room.   Friendly Brits in the next seat are returning home from a “holiday in the States,” my neighbor tells me.  “We landed in Atlanta and rented a car, going up to Tennessee.  Combination of Civil Rights and Elvis Presley pilgrimage.” 

I actually sleep on the plane -- so unusual for me.  Several hours. This wonderful seat, obtained for me by the B.A. agent did the trick!   It is now Wednesday.

We have to circle around Heathrow for 20 minutes.  It is a tight connection for my plane to Dublin.  I breathe slowly, trying to stay calm as I nearly run down very long tunnels in the basement (?) trying to find my right gate.  Signs are plentiful but vague, and then stop altogether.  Oh dear! 

I see lines of people waiting in passport control.  “You’ll make it, dear.”  My heart is beating like it does hiking in mountains.  Oh, no!  I have to go through security again?  “No pictures allowed,” say the signs, so I cannot photograph the jam of humanity.  Agents and other travelers help me get a bit further in the line because my plane is supposed to stop boarding at 1:00 PM (or 1300) and that is exactly what time it is.

I arrive at my gate at 1:10 PM.  Miraculously the line is still entering the plane.  Thank you, God!  I have a cup of tea on the plane.

DUBLIN:  Arrival

Having eaten no breakfast or lunch, I am starving at 4:00 PM.  I want fat and sugar -- now!  Fortunately the airport coffee shop sells chocolate milkshakes.  Wonderful medicine.

I eventually find the right bus for Galway.  The cute, middle-aged driver heaves my heavy suitcase into storage under the bus and welcomes me aboard.  He comes from Budapest but has lived in Ireland for about four years.  “I make mistake coming to this rainy place,” he says as he gives me a cough drop and a bottle of water.   “I learn all my English on radio and TV.  No school.”

“Do you know whether this bus is going to Galway?” asks a man at the door of the bus.   As he puffs up his chest, my driver says:  “I know everything.  I am bus driver.  I am the Alpha and Omega.” 

“Please to sit up here behind me,” he asks, “So we can talk.”  Which we do for the 90 minute trip.  About religion, politics, technology, travel to Romania, and traffic.   

GALWAY

Traffic gets terrible entering Galway. My driver, who had told me he has Jesus in his heart, lets fly a few choice words when he sees that the Garda have pulled over two cars for tickets AND they are blocking HIS driveway into the bus station.   He will be late getting home so he won’t have time to walk before dinner.   Trying to control his anger, he ends up letting us off on the street.  As he gets my suitcase and points in the general direction of where I should walk, he gives me a chaste kiss on the cheek.

I splurge for a taxi (9 Euros) because the walk to the hotel is much too long lugging a heavy suitcase; I am tired.  The driver gives me some good tips.  “Eat at that restaurant if you like fish.  It is only a five minute walk from your hotel.”

“Do you know why the hotel entrance is in the back?” he asks me.  “It’s because of the extreme winter winds, which would make it impossible for the ocean-side doors to open.”

 The richly delicious seafood chowder and brown bread is so filling at the Fisherman Restaurant, I cancel the second thing I ordered (a smoked salmon salad). 

View of Galway Bay from my table.

Back in my room I watch Irish TV and putter around while my food settles down.  The sun is still bright at 9:30 PM.

ALL OF THURSDAY IN GALWAY

I wake up suddenly to sounds outside the door.  Does the cat want to come in?  What time is it?  9:30?  What?  Wait, I’m in Galway!  Will Irish Breakfast Tea help me reorient?

I spend 20 minutes looking for the special plug/outlet electrical interface I bought for the trip.  Not anywhere in my suitcase or  backpack.  It is on the second bed where I  put it last night.  Don’t try doing another thing!  Drink the tea.  Hope there’s caffeine in it somewhere.

Read email.  If it’s 10 AM here, it’s five hours earlier in Georgia = 5 AM.

OK, my brain is working slightly better.  Time to take a shower, get dressed and leave for breakfast.  I move slowly and pointlessly.

Only a bath?   Look up you idiot!

Yes, I see the round shower thingie now but where’s the shower head and how do you make the water come out of it?  I need coffee.  Maybe if I turn the round knob?  Water sprinkles over my nightgown.   Good grief!

But I successfully clean myself.

 Finally I locate all the clothing and accoutrements I need to take on my city adventure.  And out I go, with my camera and purple backpack.

I arrive at 11:45 (15 min before the end of breakfast time) at the Fisherman.  Irish smoked salmon on scrambled eggs with button mushrooms and fried cherry tomatoes:  marvelous! 

At noon, five tables of people arrive for lunch.  A stout man and woman in their 50‘s sit at the next table, admiring a photo in the newspaper.  She says to him:  “A lovely couple.  They remind me of ourselves.”

As I head down to the toilet, the chef in his white hat comes running up.  He gives me a big smile.  

   “I’m having fish tonight,” I promise him.   
   “Oh yes, I remember you from last night.”
   “What is your freshest fish?”
   “I’m having a fresh catch come in tonight.  I’ll take care of you, darlin’.” 

When I get to the toilet, I see that the big red napkin is tucked into my shorts.  That’s probably why he had such a big smile!  Forgetful little old lady, he probably thought.   Drat! 

There is also a handicap-access bathroom on the main floor.

Map on wall is for fishermen's navigation.

After I finish breakfast, the waiter asks, “Are you all finished up with your grub there?”  He’s moving to San Diego in August “indefinitely.”  I order a second mug of Americano and feel alert, finally.

I head toward Galway since I am actually south of it, in Salt Hill.  The Prom (promenade) is full of enthusiastic exercisers and amblers, enjoying mellow weather along the ocean.  A man my age in a wool cap and dark jacket walks on the irregular rocks instead of the smooth pavement.  Testing his balance, I suppose.  Or feeling like a kid.  I happily discover a public toilet.

Tide must be out.

A man in a business suit comes toward me eating a vanilla ice cream cone.  Since he was the 10th person I declare, “Folks around here sure love ice cream.”  “Well, this feels like summertime,” he explains.  It is in the low 60’s and breezy.

I see two fellows, bundled up, sitting on a bench with a few cans of empty beer cans at their feet.  They seem down-and-out, but cheerful when I greet them.   “I used to be a photographer,” says the younger one.  We talk about weather.  The older, unshaved fellow says, “It’s much colder where I come from:  Donegal.”   I tell them that I love it cold but in Georgia it’s too often hot and sunny. “Take us with you to Georgia.”

What sort of information?

It's in Irish but seems to say something about intestinal parasites.

Strange buildings, shops and interesting items for sale.  I have taken so many photos of Galway, I need to make a movie.

Hmmm.  What sort of tart?

Could this hotel be a pun on a legal statement?

A HUGE pile of rusted metal at the harbor.

 I wear a tank top, t-shirt, my bush vest (with 57 pockets) and a skort (skirt over shorts).  Feels fine for the first two hours of brisk walking, but then my arms get cold.  I had researched charity shops back home, so I head for 9 Lower Abbeygate Street.  I misread the map but Irish-sounding folks help me find it.

My kind of store.  At first there are only two customers and one sales person.  I find a good quality pink-and-gray striped turtle neck with long sleeves for one euro.  What a deal!  I am able to tell Esma that I briefly visited Bosnia (her home country) as we shake our heads over the sadness of war. 

Then we talk about thrift shops in “America.” 

“I bought this at a Goodwill store for $3.50,” I tell her, pointing to my skort.  She is willing to be in my photo.

Esma poses with me after I put on my new turtleneck.

 The area around Eyre Square is packed with shoppers but I am there on business.  I need a bank ATM and a phone store.  One minute later, they appear.

I get some more euros and a new chip for my phone so I can use data without being charged an arm-and-a-leg.  The Vodophone agent is very kind.  "Be sure to give someone your new phone number before going out walking by yourself."

  Sometimes the actual street is helpful also.

In the Travel Information office, I get free maps and ask a lonesome agent (there are five of them and I am their only customer) the best way to get from my hotel to the Aran Island ferry bus.  He says they can stop right across from my hotel. 
   “Go across the street to the ferry office.  Ask them to tell the driver to stop at your hotel.” 
   “It’s really important that they stop for me,” I explain.  Squeaking slightly, I sound a teeny bit scared. 
   “Throw your suitcase at the bus if they don’t stop,” he adds helpfully.

At the Aran Island Ferry office I meet two men who will also be on "my" ferry, I learn.  Altogether, fourteen students from Kent State in Ohio!

I have walked six miles on pavement so far.   Pavement miles are much tougher that six woodland miles.  I head back to rest my poor feet and get organized for leaving tomorrow. 

I see "We Need to Talk" signs elsewhere

But I can’t resist a free attraction right by the river Corib.  In the days before the Magna Carta was signed, back in the 12th Century, it was a private river owned by the First Earl of Ulster.  In the 1970’s, when it was closed for fishing, 200 salmon were brought up in a single net.  In the fishery watch tower, I meet a sweet English couple.  Their first time in Galway, it was supposed to be their honeymoon trip 44 years ago.  Then I keep walking.

Good place for a quick prayer

Nice placement of the advert on the life buoy stand.

Black lane is for bicycles.

After about 11 miles of walking on pavement both feet and both legs are cramping up terribly.  I sit on a bench and pray that I can get back to the hotel.  I drink a whole thermos of water with an Advil as I do foot and leg stretches. 

When I stand up, everything is fine.  I am hungry for dinner and need protein to keep going.

As it becomes evening, the wind picks up.

In the Fisherman restaurant I strike up a conversation with the couple next to me.  They invite me to join them at a table-for-three.  Tony and Sam work in Australia half a year and don’t-work in England half a year.  They have lived in California and Saudi Arabia for about two years each and have the most fascinating stories about their travels.

I am facing the bay while we’re talking.   I see a couple of dolphins over Tony’s shoulder and point them out.   I reach for my camera but Tony says, “Sorry to disappoint you, but they’re swimmers in black wet suits.”  That’s a cute story so it doesn’t disappoint me at all.

Henry, the cook, fixes me a grand plate of monk fish filet on veg, with mussels all around.  It is a fabulous dinner for many reasons.

"Actually, I think it's a bit large for me," I tell Henry.

Filet of monk fish on veg with marvelous mussels all around.

There is “Trad on the Prom” being held at “my” hotel tonight.  Irish music and dancing.  It is semi-expensive and I have seen a similar show in Richmond (England).   I want to go to bed early, if possible.  So at “home” I write up some notes and download my pictures while watching Irish TV.  I see a genealogy show where a famous Irish actress uncovers information about her grandparents’ activities against people being removed from their homes, a sad financial time generations ago.

I leave tomorrow!  I set my own alarm and ask for a wake-up call as well.  I do not want to oversleep.  But first I have to actually fall asleep.  Must have been those two Americanos after 12 PM.  (I end up sleeping four hours.) 

Here are an assortment of bird and flower photos I took on the walk, mostly along Galway Bay.  The lichen picture is for Don.

A most wonderfully melodious bird.

Even their dandelions are special.