The Greatest Night Yet: Adventures in Hippie Heaven!

sorry it's sideways. it's fitting, though. read on.


The most exciting part of this entry regards last night. It was a night of drinking and revelry with a bunch of French and Belgian hippies and some delightful Swiss girls all in the most incredible accommodation/hippie shanty ever conceived. That will come at the end.

First, my exciting nature excursion of the day. I went to Connemara National Park. It’s a whole lot of bog and some pretty mountains. There is a trail that leads up to the summit of one mountain. It was a difficult climb, kinda of like getting to Quincy’s 6th floor when the elevator is broken. Super stairmaster time. It was unusually warm and sunny when I started the trail. I didn’t need my jacket. Well, Murphy’s Law smacked me in the face. As I climbed higher and higher, the view became more and more spectacular. However, at a certain point, I was able to see to the other side of the mountain, which afforded a much grander view than previous sections of the climb. It also afforded me a view of heavy rain in the distance. Of course, I was already near the top, so I might as well get there and then try to run down the mountain and beat the rain. The rain came fast. Right as I reached the glorious summit, hard rain, horizontal from extremely high winds, started pelting me mercilessly. I huddled on one side of a large rock for some cover, but realized it wasn’t going to protect me enough to justify sitting at the top of a mountain as a storm rolled in. So, I started moving. I got wet, but luckily the wind was worse than the rain. In the intense battle with nature, I managed to click a couple photos, but wasn’t able to truly enjoy the environment. Here is one photo while I was getting wet:



That evening I go to the place I planned on staying for the night. At first, it looked like a pile of junk with a few doors. Aluminum roof, random sofas sitting outside, bikes, foosball table, plants, dusty old trinkets. As this French dude about my age showed me my room and gave me a quick tour, I realized that I had come upon the gem of all hostels in the world. I have no idea how to describe this place to you, but I’ll try. The few pictures I have will give you a sample of how each and every corner of this palace was filled with classic memorabilia and intriguing artifacts. Filling the hallways are photos of jazz icons and odd signs and posters from all kinds of places. Each room (which houses 4-8 people in bunks) had its own name on its door. One was “Church.” Another was “Acapulco.” Some rooms had beads in their doorways—automatic hippie status. One of my favorite posters was a vintage Australian piece of propaganda to get Aboriginals to use condoms. It had a comic book drawing of an Aboriginal man in a superhero outfit with the title “Condoman.” In his word bubble, he said something to the effect of “Don’t be shame, get your game.”

The basement had all sorts of treasures: collections of dusty books, skulls of various animals, pots and pans, bottles, records, instruments, and so on. So at night, they have a bar in the hostel that they open up. I’ll try to describe it. It is below-ground, but open-air, underneath the aluminum awning. It’s like a square pit with ground level acting as a balcony encircling it from above. Around the upper balcony area were three chill-out areas, replete with couches, cool oriental curtains, a Guinea pig, a couple cats, and a dog. Down below in the sweet pit-bar was nothing short of the perfect hanging out place in the world. Again, filled to the brim with all kinds of dusty old shushkas and tchotchkes (you can look those up at dictionary.com). I sat on a stool with the staff and other boarders for the entire night drinking Guinness, eating vegetable soup, doing card tricks, and talking deeply about life and American vs. European society. The whole time, an incredible soundtrack of folk music from the 60s played prominently. Strangely enough, I was the only person from America or Ireland. Everyone I was hanging out with spoke French fluently. There were 2 French guys (I’ll get to Alain later), 1 French girl, an awesome 60-year-old Belgian hippie dude, a Belgian girl, and 2 Swiss girls. Others came in and out, but that was our main group for the night. The Swiss girls, Vanessa and Eileen (I’m sure I just butchered those), were really cool. We talked a lot and Vanessa tried to translate for me every time the others started chattering away in French. The Belgian dude was seriously The Dude. There is no other way to describe him than being The Dude from the The Big Lebowski. Watch that movie and then imagine him chillin in this hippie heaven talking about how he runs a pub in Belgium, but comes here every time he wants to clear his head. He comes a lot. He’s going to retire and buy this scuba diving place nearby along Killary Harbour. Oh, also, there was this bell hanging over the middle of the bar surrounded by old books. On it was inscribed “Titanic 1912.” After I prodded one of the Swiss ladies into ringing it, we quickly found out that ringing the bell means you’re buying a round for everyone. The Swiss girls were really fun, so if you’re reading this, Vanessa and Eileen (sorry for the spelling again), you’re now sort of famous. Apu was going to stay behind and party with them, but as I started driving away, he came running and joined me once again. You’re a true friend, Apu.

Alain, the French guy who helps run the place, was hilarious. He drank a lot and then started doing these card tricks for us. He was amazing. He did some tricks that I couldn’t begin to understand and others that I could begin to understand but still couldn’t grasp. So the two French guys and the Belgian dude drank Pastisse the whole time. It’s like absinthe. It louches. Louching is something I learned about by reading my trusty bartender’s handbook, but I’d never actually seen it. Basically, when mixed with cold water, it becomes cloudy and starts to form a sediment. Whatever, look louche up on Wikipedia. I’m not as fancy as Pablo, who makes all these fancy links that facilitate his brilliant allusions to things elsewhere on the web. I type this stuff on my laptop then run to an Internet café and upload everything as quickly as possible.

I also think I parked illegally. There’s a sticker on my car. I think I owe money. I don’t know what else to do. I’m in a parking spot, but I don’t have the necessary tags/permits to park in Clifden evidently. Ok, I think that is enough. I had a fancy multi-course dinner tonight. In the room were a mom and dad with two young girls. The dad was feeding one soup by putting it in his mouth, spitting it back onto a spoon, and then feeding it to the girl. Bird-style. I guess that’s the new trend.

Day: 13
Guinness: 19