DOING IRELAND ON THE CHEAP (Part 3)
by Richie Patton
part 1 of this story can be found here
part 2 of this story can be found here
I pressed the one button, again, thinking if I do get more water it'll be warm as I'm used to at home. More steamy, skin-smarting water shot out. Gyrating around the stall while covering delicate parts, I finally succeeding in rinsing. The second dose of water stopped without any help from me, again. I stood there missing the frigid end to my showers back home. I had a little talk with myself – Yeah, Richie, all a part of, uh-huh, I know part of the adventure. At least there is cold air coming through this window. Minutes later, cooled to satisfaction, I returned to the empty room.
Brushing my teeth at the room's small sink, I was soon smothered by the stifling air. I propped the room door open slightly, hoping for the desired cross ventilation. Cool air started to circulate. Relieved, I put my things away, shoved the folded thick comforter aside and climbed the ladder at the end onto the top bunk. Only a few feet from the ceiling, it felt as if all the sweltering air was trapped there and pressing down. In minutes, I was sweating. Be patient, I warned myself – my Catholic Irish American mother was keen on enduring most everything uncomfortable and I had been so conditioned from an early age – it won't be much longer before the cross ventilation will blow away the hot, stagnant air leaving behind fresh coolness. I laid back, reviewing the day. I was reminding myself what I had to do in the morning when it struck me the open door was an invitation to anyone in the 400-bed hostel to pilfer my things and those of my roomies. Reluctantly, I climbed down the ladder, shaking the scarred metal frame with each step, and closed the self-locking door. I was tempted to see if I could get another room, but by now I was so tired I just wanted to lay down and catch a pile of Z's.
In the swayed sack I looked around the sordid room, laughed at myself and noticed the large round stool. I thought, that'll be a good way to leave the bunk without shaking it and bothering Vincenzo when I have to relieve myself in the wee hours. My benign prostrate problem was an unwelcomed but constant nightly visitor.
I positioned the stool just outside the wall of bags and boxes on the floor surrounding Vincenzo's lower bunk. Form my perch above, I gauged how in the dark with feint light coming though the uncovered window, I could drop silently onto the stool's broad top, step quietly to the floor and exit soundlessly out the heavy entrance room door to the nearby bathroom. Confident, I re-checked my tiny travel alarm clock placed on the cover of a large round wall light within an arm's length of my head. Determined to get a good night's sleep and be fresh for my first day's research, I tried to put everything out of my mind, including the fact it was already after 11:00 p.m., an hour past my normal bed time.
Suddenly, I was awake, squinting around the room. There, by the window, I spotted someone rifling through a back pack. Uh-oh, a thief. My adrenalin surged. What can I do? I was thinking about dropping down off the stool and confronting the burglar, when he turned. From some of the light filtering in through the window, I made out his profile. I sighed in relief. It was the young American, Joe, I had met earlier. A moment later, he had his toiletries and was headed out the door. The alarm clock read 12:37 a.m.
Sighing, I laid back, wiped sweat from my face and wiggled around to get more comfortable on the thin mattress. Go to sleep, I silently commanded myself.
Rifle shots! Huh? Where? Was I dreaming? More of them, not as close. I listened closely. Somewhere in the distance yet another. I peered around. Snoring rose from several bunks now occupied. What the heck's happening? The “Troubles?” No, that's Northern Ireland. I spied movement in the dark. It's the quiet Scotsman who bunked below Joe Ferguson. Then, a few feet from me, he was out the door. Instead of easing it to a quiet close, he let it slam shut. It sounded like a rifle retort. The others? Of course, the echoed sound of the other doors closing in the rambling four-story frame building once a convent for nuns. Several young residents had nicknamed it the “bed factory.” It was 2:27 a.m.
Crap, will I ever stay asleep? From as early as I could remember, I was a real bear when my sleep was interrupted. Images of my bedroom at home with my quiet wife in an equally quiet country neighborhood, reminded me what I was missing. Remember, Richie, it's all part of the … yeah, yeah, I know, the adventure. My frustration and Irish temper were rising. A troubling sign. And, I continued my internal dialogue ... you're saving at least one-half to three-quarters of the cost of B & B's and hotels, y'know. Sure … sure. The thrift of it all was some calming. Sleep!
I awoke, again, rudely. Oh, crap, I have to go now. The prostate urgency had to be honored – and quickly! Holding back, I scooted to the edge of the bunk, sighted the shadowy top of the stool (that appeared to be in the same position I had placed it earlier). Good, this should be easy. I launched myself out from the edge of the bunk. Oh no, my feet aren't making contact with the stool's platform. Suddenly, the heel of my right foot bounced off the rim of the stool. Catapulted forward, my feet hit the floor. The rest of me was lunging off balance. I heard the stool banging against the floor. Flailing to right myself, I crashed off the lockers toward the window. I thrust my arms out, hoping to feel something solid and stop myself. My hands connected with the wall on either side of the window. Hunched over, I peered out the open window to the yard four stories below and a decrepit statue of Jesus. Whew! That was close. I could have … Instead of completing that thought, I gave thanks. From behind, there was a chorus of mutterings and angry grumbling; then, quiet. It was 4:07 a.m.
Back in the bunk, I finally nodded off. Then, what seemed like only minutes later, I was jangled awake by the loud insistence of my alarm. It was already 5:30 a.m. For a few minutes, I contemplated sleeping in, but reminded myself of my mission. But first I needed some cool air.
Sweaty, my problem lower back complaining of a soft mattress and feeling as though I was drugged, I walked out to the unheated hallway. Alone, I enjoyed the cold. As my head cleared, I started to anticipate the day ahead – shower, breakfast, a day of successful research …
During a brisk walk to the National Library, while trying to sightsee, questions plagued me. How can the atmosphere at the hostel be better? If it can't, how much inconvenience do I want to put up with to stay within my tight budget? Would I be better off spending more for more comfortable accommodations, but have a shorter stay? If I shortened my stay, would I accomplish my goals and enjoy time for the craic I anticipated. Where might I be tonight?
Epilogue. I did stay at the hostel five more days before heading for more picturesque locations. After six days of dizzying microfiche viewing, I had little for my efforts (that would come during a later visit to County Wexford). Finally, while the result of my quest was not to my satisfaction, I ultimately had a most enjoyable visit – unforgettable sights seen, memorable people met – Irish and other Europeans, alike – and more mighty craic than I deserved.
~~~
Richie Patton is the author of the 'Paddy O' & Curly Slim' Saga that you can view at his Amazon Page
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