I feel awkward at this stage of my trip, just after boarding a ferry to Ireland. It doesn’t seem to fit into the theme of my wanderings over the past few months, or the past few years even. However, perhaps I judge too rashly…there is Guinness on tap.
In my strivings to travel as cheaply as possible, I scoffed at the extra 50 Euro necessary to have one’s own quarters during the 19-hour trip from Cherbourg, France, to Rosslare, Ireland. Additionally, I haughtily refused even the 11 Euro for a “seat” that one could, presumably, sleep in. Besides, I have a bar packed full of delicious dark Irish ales and a pack of smokes, and if worse comes to worse I’ll curl up topside of the ten-story ferry with a bellyful of liquid peace and whatever clothing articles of warmth I can scrounge from my backpack of mysteries (or so its contents had gradually come to be mysterious to me after ten weeks on the road). On the other hand, perhaps the luck of the Irish will shine upon me somewhat prematurely and a fine young (or not so young) maiden with a heart of gold and some extra real estate will take me in out of the cold. Not that this type of scenario is common on a trip such as this, or in life in general, but I must maintain such fantasies to justify my behavior after incessantly waking up in strange uncomfortable places wondering, “why did I think this was a good idea again?”
Such conjectures of the mind fade quickly, however, when entering the bar, as I determine, much as I should have assumed given the nature of this ferry travel whatnot, that this is more of a family-oriented expedition. A moment contemplating what this means for me is immediately broken by the sight of multiple dark Irish brews on tap, and I become more concerned with stashing my bag somewhere, anywhere, and freeing my whole body up for the battle to come. I dump all my belongings minus my notebook and pen onto the nearest ferry employee who, though kind enough to assist me, does not possess the heart of gold I am seeking, nor does she bother to mention the fact that she is going to lock my possessions up into a closet, where they will remain inaccessible until freed the following morning upon arrival on the emerald island. This is information that might have proved useful considering future stages of the night.
Nonetheless, I waste no further time in acquiring my first dark beverage and quaffing it feverishly while opting for a seat near the window. Here I can adequately observe both my internal and external surroundings. I start my surveyance within the bar/restaurant, looking for fellow aimless wanderers, single girls, heavy dependents on drugs and alcohol, physical manifestations of mythical creatures that would clearly indicate that someone slipped hallucinogens into my drink, and, barring any of these things, at least a cordial and lonely old man with whom I can trade rounds of drink, talk about past times forever lost, and slowly get annoyed with as the evening progressed. Alas, none of these things materialize, so I look out the window instead, hoping that with each successive beer these things will be more likely to appear, either in the real world or within my mind.
One beer turns swiftly into three and four, but nothing comes to end my ennui. I begin to scribble in my notebook a sort of stream of consciousness, which I now reproduce in its entirety for the benefit or folly of those who find themselves at this point of my story:
They’ve trapped me now, luggage is locked up til morning. What I’ve got is what I’ve got til morning…unless I buy some shit, and really, what am I gonna do with perfume duty-free at this point? A guy taking pictures of himself. The only group of single girls playing cards together, ignoring all come-ons outright. Nobody travels alone anymore, and saying that only exposes my romantic ideal that it wasn’t always that way.
I guess alcohol will have to get me through this night…again.
How much can my old friend really comfort me? He/She has always done well before, but shit man, even the best of friends falters now and again. What you got in you tonight, beer? Alcohol, eh? Well, that’ll have to do.
Back to this whole traveling alone thing and what happened to the single girls, anyway? Was this trip marked ‘couples only’? Where’s the ‘singles only’ one? ‘Alcohol only’? A bunch of beers hanging out laughing off the flirtations of the occasional vodka or whiskey that try their luck. Sign me up. A cute Guinness?
There goes the guy w/ the solo pictures, off to the ‘Adults only’ lounge. They got strippers up there? Shit. Maybe he knows something I don’t know. Nope, here he comes on retreat. Sheryl Crow – Greatest Hits. Cheer me up? Arrr. Not that I am depressed, got beer, no cabin, so apparently I have to crash on the floor somewhere. I thought the attendant was kidding, but 11 Euro is 11 Euro. And that was just for a reserved reclining chair (?). I’ll sleep in the lifeboat. Just in case. On the assumption that the captain is having as many tap beers as I, but then, he’s got to go down w/ the ship. 12 beers against the cold, cold ocean depths. Whee! Armed only w/ the cockring, or so the story goes.
Grinning fat man. Hopefully at the bottom of the sea there’s also a grinning fat man. That would help somehow. Perhaps St. Peter is a grinning fat man. ‘Hello, welcome to heaven! Stop at the McDonald’s. Good eating!’ And then, Bush starts making sense. Heaven is made up of burgers and oil. Oil also seems to be tied to the grinning fat man. Unless you’re Cheney. Humorless fuck. He’s the hell-oil connection perhaps. Works for me. Even the heavens are fighting over Texas tea.”
And so it went. Should I have reproduced that intoxicated rambling with a nugget of poignant satire in its entirety here? Perhaps not. But the decision has been made and I stand by it. Besides, at this point in the evening I find myself shivering through multiple back-to-back cigarettes while watching the sun go down from the top deck. Then I realize the buried mysteries of my backpack would do me no good tonight, and the only means by which my possessions can aid me against the cold bite of an ocean-going evening would be if I promptly smoked my entire pack of cigarettes as a prelude to lighting myself on fire. It’s a two-pronged attack: first, fire is warm; second, fire consumes nerve endings, which would be causing me to feel chilly and uncomfortable in the first place. Win-win. My senses then return to me briefly so that I might reconsider my self-immolation in flames and mull over other options that would not result in my untimely death. Beers are a great assistance in times of need, but at my current level of intoxication I would soon be locked in mortal battle between passing out and going broke. I need an alternative.
I wander aimlessly up and down the endless decks in a half-drunken giddy, but the best alternatives I can find are a movie theatre playing the latest Will Smith epic and a room full of half-assed video games. I stall on a decision by walking more, grabbing another beer, and once again wandering the upper deck, smoking a cigarette, and staring out at the endless ocean. I scan the area persistently for mermaids, giant squids, the Loch Ness monster, Poseidon, and travelers of the female persuasion whose similar aimless wanderings have brought them to this place, at this time. Alas, all of these dubious creatures elude me, robbing me of a far more interesting evening than the one I seem destined to experience. I pull in one last drag, sigh, and resign myself to a movie, just to kill an hour or two until the bar picks up.
I mosey down two floors of the ship and reach the cinema just in time to hear the ticket-taker tell the people in front of me that the projector isn’t working. Hmm…fate saving me, or tormenting me further? I swing up to the video games but can only entertain myself there briefly. It all leads me back to the bar, another beer, and a further cigarette on the top deck watching the sun go down. It is beautiful, in fact, and there are very few people up top to enjoy it with me, as the air has turned quite chilly in the last hour. It mellows me quickly, and the view of time changing palpably as the sun disappears combines with the alcohol in my blood and the smoke in my lungs to bring the shortness of life to the forefront of my mind. I sense the temporary. I can sense my own death approaching in the distance. And I feel alright about it all.
I take my stoic ass back inside, and as I enter the bar there are two musicians playing acoustic guitars. Smiling involuntarily, I order a beer with a mindlessness approaching instinct or reflex. I sit up front and lean back in the chair with my beer close by and forget about all the things that led up to this. For all my attempts to fashion and mold my evening and life into something I imagine it should be, the result comes out very differently…but equally good, or better. The duo breaks into a rendition of Jim Croce’s “Car Wash Blues” and I drift into thought…
I often think of life as an endless river flowing through a canyon that is far too steep to be climbed. There are infinite bays and coves and places to explore along the river, but ultimately you must put yourself at the whim of the river in order to find new places. That is to say you cannot just start hiking overland. So, you must jump into the merciless flow and, when a desirable stopping point is found, you must paddle tirelessly to reach it. But the desired cove may not be attainable due to local rapids or high water discharge, or the cove that seemed full of promise from a distance may really only trap you in a barren land of brush and stinging nettles, waiting for another opportunity to float in search of better locales. The river is my metaphor for how we each control our own destinies, but only to a point, and how we must choose carefully between fighting like hell to reach the coves of our choosing, and when it may simply be better to let the river take us to a wonderful place we never knew we wanted…
Of course, the night ends shortly thereafter, with the bar closing at 10pm, robbing me of the right to get shit-eating drunk and pass out in the inappropriate location of my choice. Instead, I crash between the aforementioned 11-Euro chairs (between, because the chairs don’t recline properly), which apparently no longer cost anything, with my shoes as pillows and not nearly enough alcohol in my system to make it acceptable. This will have to suffice as my cove for the night, stinging nettles and all.
Swimming lessons begin again tomorrow, bright and early.
“May you get what you want” –Old Gypsy Curse-
0 responses so far ↓
There are no comments yet...Kick things off by filling out the form below.