Itching to go somewhere outside the realms of the post Soviet world, I booked a flight to Ireland with Harpswell. To make the trip even more drawn out, our flight would leave from Vienna and therefore making a train ride from Budapest to Vienna necessary. We both took Friday off from school and headed for Keleti pu. immediately after our lessons on Thursday.
There were several things to be excited about as I boarded the green (HÉV) train that runs along the Danube to get to the train station where I would meet Harpswell. For one, I was about to experience a slight change of scenery. The more detailed anticipations included: being able to speak English to the locals, being able to read all signs (excluding the Irish equivalent above or below the English), seeing a friend from Britain, sampling Guinness fresh from the source, long train rides around the country spent gazing at sheep and rolling green hills, oh and being able to speak English to the locals.
More than anything, I needed to get out of my apartment in Budapest. It’s not so much the city of Budapest from which I needed to flee. It was the routine of teaching and not understanding why exactly I don’t like it anymore. And why I don’t have the same feeling of enthusiasm about Hungarian culture like last year. I needed to stop feeling like I was merely existing and going through the motions of work just to fulfill my contract.
Harpswell and I popped tiny mandarin oranges while saying “szia” to western Hungary. The sun quickly dropped and we pulled into Vienna at night. After meeting two of our hostel mates from Chile and learning that they wanted to find work in Germany, we tucked ourselves into bed attempting to rest for the big trip ahead of us.
Having an unusually fitful night of sleep before, I made another attempt to pass out in the Vienna airport before our plane took off. After being subjected to another flight with a blood curdling screaming child we landed in Dublin. The bus ride to the city center infected Harps and I with perma-smiles. The quintessential tourists with our huge backpacks and ever revolving heads taking in every pub front, colorful door, neighborhood…wondering if our double decker bus had taken us into a movie set.
I liked Dublin…it felt small and manageable with a little river called the Liffey cutting through the middle. True there were many cranes (not the birds) disrupting the Dublin sky, but I looked past that easily and basked in all things written in English.
My favorite bridge over the Liffey River
That night, map in hand, I navigated my way to the Temple Bar District, where I met up with my friend. It was the first time in Dublin for both of us. The weekend passed quickly and Harpswell and I headed out to St. James Gate, home of the Guinness Brewery. The brewery was massive, containing seven floors. The first floor exhibited the ingredients that go into Guinness: hops, barley, water, and yeast...and the brewery didn't hold back any extravagance with their displays. First, there was the sandbox of any child's dream filled with not sand, but barley. Then, we moved onto the hops, climbing up a wall...then onto a fairly big waterfall.
Yes, I could drink this everyday.
What a way to teach what goes into a beer...I know I'll never forget it now. From there, Harps and I paid to get into St. Patrick's Cathedral. I distinctly remember seeing lots of dusty flags unwilling to hide their age hanging on the inside. The souvenir stands, however, had exploded upon entrance to the cathedral and sadly you were immediately bombarded with postcards, rosaries, statues, and other trinkets.
It was onto a train the next day...to Galway...
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