díomá sa daingean.

This weekend, after pulling an all-nighter on Friday to finish my last history paper of the semester, I decided to treat myself to few days in Dingle.  Let me tell you, it was like Ireland in a storybook.  Everything was green, the water was a sparkling aquamarine, and the people there wave hullo to everyone.  It had all the potential of a relaxing mini-vacation, but I came home more tired than I had been when I'd left.  Which is saying something given my state of mind when I left.  I had a long bus ride (see: 6 1/2 hours) to think about why I felt so disappointed--like I'd missed something--and, aside from the fact that I wasn't able to see the Beehive Huts (the whole reason I went down there), I think I've managed to put my finger on it.  It's because I was traveling alone.

Kerry from the Bus Eireann window.  No joke.  I was that kid, but it was so beautiful, I didn't want to miss it!

Now, this may come as a shock to many of you that know me, especially since I came to the realization a few weeks ago that I feel most comfortable on my own, not having to worry about anyone else, not having a constant reminder of how young and shy and boring I can be.  But, really, traveling alone, in theory, is excellent.  I can do what I want when I want and no one is there to make me feel silly for wanting to go to bed before midnight, and, when I travel alone, I don't have to suffer that extreme disappointment when someone turns down the invitation to travel with me.  For those of you that don't know me, I am both a small child and an eighty-year-old spinster wrapped in a Jen tortilla.

 My first solitary hostel stay and no incident.  Practice for unfamiliar places like Italy!

Anyway, I made the huge mistake of approaching Dingle with the intention of making everyone else wish they'd come with me.  This was both absurd and unnecessary.  No one had turned me down because they didn't want to travel with me, or because they didn't want to go to Dingle.  In fact, no one had turned me down at all.  I hadn't invited anyone, and, really, who doesn't want to go to Dingle?  A cute harbor town in Co. Kerry, it's exactly like I said: a storybook.  But I still wanted to make people jealous, and starting with that negative goal which eventually degenerated into indecisiveness, I managed to sabotage my own trip.

Boy, it's a good thing I know how to learn from my mistakes, eh?  That wasn't even sarcasm, and, looking back at my Dingle pictures, I've reconsidered my statement that I was disappointed in Dingle.  What I was disappointed in was myself, and you live and you learn.  Like when I fell into a frozen fountain last December, I don't make the same mistake twice, and I've decided that life's not worth living if you're going to constantly live it for someone else.  Why should I care whether someone wishes they were doing what I was doing?  It doesn't matter what anyone else thinks, as long as I am happy.  So, with that, I will give you a short (you're all scoffing in disbelief, but I can be pithy when I put my mind to it) recap of my GOOD trip to Dingle this weekend.

Heather... plant, not person.

 Daisies!  Daisies!  And more daisies!

I woke up at seven a.m on Friday to finish editing my paper, pack, run to school, print & turn in my paper, run to the bus station, buy a ticket, and catch the 10 a.m. bus to Limerick.  From Limerick, I hopped to Tralee, and then to Dingle, and I arrived around three p.m. with another girl who was also traveling alone and staying in the Rainbow Hostel.  It was really nice to have someone to walk around town with, especially since the sun was shining and it was probably around seventy degrees.  No joke.  I was wearing a t-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops!  Soaking up that vitamin-D, mom.  Are you happy?

 The furthest western point in Europe.  They say the next parish over is Boston.

It was really cool because Dingle is in the Gaeltacht, which meant I could practice my oral/aural/reading skills while casually strolling the streets.  I actually spoke to shop owners in Gaelic, saying 'hullo' and 'thanks a million' and 'bye' when appropriate, which was a huge confidence boost.  Plus, as a general rule, I've found that little places in the Gaeltacht are considerably more comfortable and the atmosphere feels friendlier.  I think I read every sign in that little town, but what was even more awesome, is that I understood without looking at the English!  :)

 This is a plaque on the Falla na Scríbhneoirí.  I got the first line...maybe  It says "Yes, the old woman is me."

On Saturday, I woke up early with the intention of renting a bike and riding along Slea Head Road at my own pace so I could stop-off where I wanted and what-not.  I also just really miss my little red bike back home that may or may not still be missing a pedal and a basket and all the other parts that mysteriously fell off last semester.  Alas, as I walked into town, it was cloudy, and I began thinking about topography again.  Little Ohio Girl can ride her bike forever at home, but Ireland actually has what all you ~*Minnesotans*~ would call real hills, and sidewalks disappear when you least expect it, and big tour buses scare me a little even when I'm on them.  Needless to say, I psyched myself out and changed my plans to include a mini-bus tour instead.  Since I was only one person, I could squeeze on last-minute quite easily.

St. Mary's Church.  I almost went to mass as Gaeilge here, but forgot the time overnight so decided to skip out.

Honestly, I should have rented a bike.  It would have taken me probably eight hours (it was 28 miles), but I would have saved 10 euro and I wouldn't have been thinking the whole time that if only I'd rented a bike, I could have stopped here for a picture--and here, and here, and there, and here, and... But I enjoyed the tour, overall.  We saw a lot of little baby animals--Spring is in the air!--and some really cool sites.  Including the monastery at Riasc, which was completely underground save for one stone-marker until some archaeologist from Galway thought it'd be cool to excavate.  We also saw the Ventry demense household, which is relevant to my 18th-Century Ireland history class, and the Gallarus Oratory, which relates to both my Celtic myth and archaeology class.  It's a little younger than the round beehive huts, but it's still really awesome, and the only one of its kind still standing in Europe.  Legend has it that if you can fit through the window in the back, your soul will be entirely cleansed.  Too bad it's really impossible to accomplish.

 Gallarus oratory.

The rest of the weekend after the tour was spent meeting people at the hostel and around town.  I taught this nice woman from New Zealand some words in Irish because she was aggravated that everyone thought she was English, and I told this guy from Arizona all the cool things about studying in Galway.  The girl I mentioned earlier and I went to this great restaurant by the harbor for dinner and bonded with a really sweet family over a sinfully delicious piece of chocolate cake, history, and Irish dialects.  Then we hit the pub scene, had some Bulmers, listened to some trad, and I was goaded into giving an impromptu dance performance by a group of drunk Americans.  All in all, great craic!

Looks like a sleeping giant?  Y/N.

So, I'm glad I had this experience before I embark on my Adventurous, Solitary Grand Tour of Europe.  I think, if nothing else, I'm starting to grow up.  Of course that's a feeling that is just about as horrifying as walking into work with no pants, but, at the same time, it's amazingly empowering.  When I go home, I'll still want my mom to cook me dinner and give me massages and watch documentaries with me, but I'll have learned things about myself and real life that are really nothing short of priceless.