Re-Defined Life

My Everyday Life…in Italy

Today I slept in and ate breakfast in the glass room on top of the hostel. The view from that room is completely arresting. Lush green mountains rising behind terracotta houses with bending rooves. A grey bell tower rises in the center of town catching the sunlight upon sunup and sundown. And between the clumsy v of the hills you can see the port of La Spezia offwhite and blue and glimmering.

I stayed up there with the three British boys next door and we just looked and talked until about time for the hostel to close for cleaning.

Then I sent them off on their merry way walking to Rio Maggiore, the first of the five Cinque Terre towns, which is only a few kilometers away. And I, in my swishy brown skirt bought in Tuscany for five euros, and my makeup and jewelry, made my way by bus down to La Spezia.

La Spezia is charming. I like it less than Biassa, which has a peaceful and tiny appeal, but I do like it. I got off on the main street and followed it through a fish market, a cobbled shopping road, and into a garden which lead to the port.

I had two missions in La Spezia. The first was to find myself a red dress. I want a dress from Italy and I arbitrarily chose and got stuck on the colour red. And to buy an English book. I had just finished On Beauty, by Zadie Smith, gobbling the last few pages before I boarded the train for La Spezia a couple days ago, and I have been hurting to new reading material. When you are traveling alone on trains and busses and in small towns it is so essential. And being without for two days was mildly insanity-inducing.

I accomplished the second task rather quickly, obtaining a copy of Alexander McCall's detective novel (the first one) set in Botswana. And then set out for the port, where I sat and watched the girating waves and the italian older folks as they walked past the sailboats and liners anchored in port.

Everything was closed for siesta by then, so I waited to go dress shopping.

I only accomplished half of my first goal. As I settled on a red skirt and a black top instead. It is still quite flattering and I am happy with the outcome. Birthday outfit, hurrah!

All in all, a rather relaxing and ordinary day. Very quiet and now I am hurting for human company a bit. I think I will try and convince the British boys next door to let me join them for dinner and drinks as they seem to be heading back out. Being in the company of men who speak my language and dont creepily ogle me from three feet away just might be my new favorite thing. As there was a lot of that (creepy ogling) going on today. I could blame the skirt, but really I blame the Italian men. Shame shame shame on you. All of you.

You know who you are.

Shaking my finger at you.

And you know which one.

Gg

Biassa, Italy

Today I am in a small town in the mountainous coast of Italy near La Spezia. And what a welcome change it is!

I loved Verona, despite the horror of my first night there and the sickness which pursued me through my entire four day stay. Tuesday night I went to see the opera there, which is in the third largest existing roman forum and was a stunning spectacle. Colorful stage, piercing voices, and the stands full of a thousand umbrellas unfolding like spring flowers as it rained before the show. During the show the stands were a mass of candles. It was like sitting in the stars. I really loved it.

And then I left Verona and took a train to Milano, which was a mistake. Milano is dirty, ugly, and scary. It isn't often that I am scared of a place or even wary really. But as the train pulled into Milano I knew it had a vibe about it. Something bad. Something off. It was like the Jersey City of Italy.

I only stayed there one night, as booked, and even then I didn't leave my room. Lucky for me the hostel had overbooked and thus apologetically upgraded my room at a nearby hotel. So I stayed in and had Pringles and tea for dinner (I know, very nutricious. Honestly the corner store was the only thing open and close) and slept for something like ten hours.

And that I am sure contributed to my great day today. Not being sleepy. Having a lovely lovely train ride along the coast after we passed Genova and into La Spezia. Getting excited about MB joining me. Talking to the sweet South African ladies on the train who both were very motherly in a nice way and who touched my on the head with well wishes as they left the train. And then getting into Biassa and walking and eating the local pizza and talking in Italianspanish with little girls and old men playing cards. Love it. Love it. Love it.

I wish I could live here a little while. I think I could write my novel here.

Instead of just talking about it like I usually do.

Yeah.

Gg

Ostello Di Horror

This is a cautionary tale against Ostello Gioventu (youth hostel), the Hostelling International hostel in Verona, Italy.

I was happy when I first arrived. The hostel is an old villa with a garden to the side, and a view of the local castel, as well as the neon cross, which must have been the inspiration for the quirky movie version of Romeo and Juliet. It is clean. It is old. It is pretty.

And it has no locks.

Last night, when my french roommate, my spanish roommate, and myself had switched off the lights and attempted to drift into our respective dreams I found myself sleepless. The mosquitos were finding ways inside my sweaty sheet to bite my legs and arms and the room was sweltering. I put on my ipod and lay with my eyes closed.

It is amazing that I even heard the long scrape of the door handle turning.

When I opened my eyes a man had entered the room. He was tall and dark and wearing only his underwear and a loosly tied towel around his waist. My mind raced. Why was he here? What did he want? Is he lost? Looking for a girlfriend? Theif? Rapist? Drunkard?

He walked straight to my bed and I gasped and sat upright.

He seemed startled and turned toward the window.

I was too afraid to speak. I should have called out, but instead I watched him frozenly as he gazed out the window and turned to the next set of beds, peering into each one. When he got to the Spanish girls bed she sat upright, what are you looking?

He stepped back and stumbled quickly out the door, while we stared across the moonlit room at eachother wide-eyed.

It was a man!
What did he want?
Was he here to steal?
He wasnt wearing clothes!
Are you certain it was a man?
Yes, yes, I am sure!
Oh my god.
Oh my god.
Oh my god.

All three of us got up from bed and crept to the door. We slowly checked the now-quiet hallway and crept to the open-air bathroom at the end of it. We looked out on the terrace. Nothing.

I said I would go tell reception. The french girl stayed in the room and the spanish girl stood in the hallway. A chain of frightened women, trying to protect our things and get help at the same time.

I walked onto the staircase and almost ran into the man, who was staring out the window on the staircase of the womens floor. I swallowed and jumped back around the corner. Gathering my courage I made another attempt down the stairs. Unsure of what I was afraid of, and yet more afraid because of the uncertainty of his intent.

This time he was sitting on the staircase with his knees up and his underwear clearly revealed. His head was in his hands and I scuttled by and down to reception. The man at reception followed me quickly and came to the man on the stairs.

I can understand Italian most times, but not late at night with high adrenaline while the two men exchange words in our staircase. I just stared at the man and the receptionist.

He says excuse him, he was trying to get his wine.
But his wine was on the terrace.
There is no way he thought his wine had walked from the terrace and jumped into my bed.
That is not okay.
We dont feel safe.
Make him leave.

The receptionist took the man to his room, as if that would fix it. I will watch him, he said. If he comes up again we throw him out.

No, no, the french girl said angrily. You didnt see him come up before. Your desk does not even face the staircase. No! He has to leave. This is not normal. This is not okay. He was on the womens floor and in the womens room.

The receptionist told her to be quiet. Told us to go to bed.

No, we said.

We are going to call the polizia, unless you make him leave.

He threw up his hands, obviously caring less about three frightened girls than about the possibility of creating a scene. He went to the man and came back to us. He is getting his things. He will leave in five minutes.

We watched from the top of the staircase and the french girl watched from our window as he left the premises. Only then did we regress into our room, still reeling with adrenaline and sick to our stomachs.

The spanish girl wanted to blockade the door. None of us were going to fall asleep otherwise. So we moved the empty beds in front of the door and nervously laughed and talked a while before drifting into a shallow and restless sleep.

Apparrently during the night I cried out in my sleep. Both girls woke in terror. I tossed in my sleep. No one slept well. No one slept long.

So this morning at 7 I woke and showered and packed my bag. I told them I wasnt paying for a night of sleepless terror and wrote a letter to the director, who will not be back until tonight.

Even this morning they made light of our terror and the fact that their security isnt working.

You cannot tell what a person will do when you check him in, says the new reception person.

I dont blame who checked him in. I blame whoever decided we did not need a lock on our door. It isnt acceptable.

And so I am gone. I have moved to an all girls hostel with an 11pm curfew in town. So maybe tonight I will sleep.

I would like to, as a final note, ask anyone who knows my parents to please not mention this. I dont want to make them crazy and will tell them when I am safe and sound and back on US soil.

Thank you.

gg

The Italian Chasity Belt

The mosquitos of Tuscany left me with a set of sexy red bumps that remind me of the plague. And, while this has not stopped the entire male population of Italia from behaving creepily around me, I am expecting that any way it will get bad enough to warrant children's tears and gasps from the elderly. I took a photograph in the hopes of uploading it to you, since internet in Verona is half the cost of internet in Venizia, but it was so hideous I had to delete it from my camera.

Instead I will just mention that a primary count discovered something like 20 red marks not including my face and my favorite one is the one perfectly positioned (and currently scabbing) on the end of my nose. Dave called me Rudolf. And I must concur.

But you didn't get online to read about the plague, now, did you?

My last day in Venice I awoke and after the obligatory five minutes of sad staring at the plague on my face I headed downstairs to try and coo my way into staying another night. At first they weren't sure they had room, but some eye batting does wonders for roommaking, and the next thing I knew I was paying for another night in Venizia.

We (Dave and I) wandered out to the gardens at the far far end of Venice in hopes of getting into the international art show that is concentrated there. Unfortunately, Venice being so expensive and us having already spent money on a gondola ride the night before, we were unwilling to drop the Euros necessary for entrance to said art show. So we walked the perimeter and made our way to a curiously leaning tower toward the end of the end of Venice, wandered back through some neighborhoods, and U-turned toward the hostel to combat my oldladycrankiness with an afternoon nap.

On our way back to the hostel we saw what I must say is the most curious and disturbing item I have ever seen for sale. And you know, I have been around.

The item was what Dave and I inferred to be a male chastity belt. A thick metal belt was around the waist, there was a hole in the ass barely large enough to fit your finger through (not that you would want to) with spikes on the outside just in case anyone got any ideas. And the front, well, the front was a wire °cage° in the shape of, you know, the male appendage. The tip was encased in thick metal and the rest was wired.

The moral of the story being, it was wild and totally painful looking. And you definately definately wouldn't want to get aroused there. So really it wasn't just to keep from sex, but also a combatant against lust. Any movement or growth would have been rewarded with a good deal of pain.

Just imagine a community of Italian men forced to partake in this. It would be a community of Italian men with their eyes to the ground, never shouting after us °bellas°, and constantly thinking of grandpa in his tighty-whities. What a hilarious and sad scene it would indeed be.

After that hilarious tangent we made it back to the hostel and I took a nap. When I woke I was told that I needed to move beds. They had forgotten a reservation for my room was six, not five. No problem. No problem. I said. And I was lead up the thin kitchen steps to the third floor where I had been upgraded to a private room with a king sized bed and door sized windows flung open to a view of the church next door. Score!

I couldn't help but feel that my life was awesome.

Sleeping by myself for once. What a feeling!

And on that note, it is back to my awesome life.

Gg

The Amazing Maze

I arrived in Venizia yesterday to a sprinkling of rain, which then became a downpour. The cobbled streets were slick and scattered with puddles. The canals were alive with rings from the droplets. And tourists tramped on loyally through the city in bright blue plastic bags with golden belts.

From that very moment I fell in love.

When I said I was moving to Tuscany to retire, I lied. I am moving to Venice...if it isnt underwater then. I dont mind living only on the top floor of a building and dealing with torrents and flooding. Not if I could live in Venice. Wouldnt mind at all.

Today Dave (who I met in Roma, joined up with again in Florence for a day, and who came out to Venice yesterday shortly after I did), Jennifer (who I met in the hostel last night), and I set out to explore this amazing maze. We crossed bridges, ducked through alleys (I mean, they ducked--I walked normally--Oh the perks of shortness), and took photos like crazy people.

I cannot wait to upload some photos for you. Alas my internet time here costs money, so you will all have to await my return (I know, I know, you are biting your fingernails and trembling in anticipation).

-- --

In Tuscany I was staying in a small town called Tavarnelle. There is one hostel there and a handful of B&Bs, which makes for fantastic emptyness. Just enough foreign travelers to be nice and not crowded.

The hostel (Ostello Di Chianti) was an excellent choice, right outside town square with the cleanest rooms and the sweetest staff. But my favorite part, I must say, was the antics of my four night roommate.

She was an anomoly in hostelling--a woman over fifty traveling alone and staying in youth hostels. It was both brilliant and baffling. And made for interesting roommate situations.

First there was the lack of European subtlty and modesty. She was a large woman, well over 300 lbs, and had never in her life truly had to be modest. I awoke the first morning, rolled over, and almost choked on my own spit when I saw her sitting cross legged on her bottom-bunk in her pink underwear (which appeared to be a thong, though it could have also just been a wedgie) and white t-shirt playing solitaire.

Good morning, she said cheerfully and began lecturing me on the horribleness of the red swollen bug bites across her body and how they were from large mosquitos that had been driven out of Africa and into Tuscany due to a climate change.

I thought that maybe wearing pants would help with her mosquito plight. But I said nothing.

Bug bites and nakedness aside, she was also very set in her ways and motherly. Where were you? she accused when I stayed in Florence overnight after missing my bus. Why is your bag not in the locker? she asked, shaking her head.

Overall I found her rather amusing (and better than my Roma roommate who was from Brazil and continually scooted his bed toward mine while I was out of the room so we were almost sleeping together. This, I did not appreciate. And Dave helped me move his bed back away). And a grand part of the hostelling experience.

I mean, seriously, its not every day you see a half-naked overweight German in the next bed over. Am I right?

I thought so.

Gg

J.A.T.M.

I am not sure why I thought the region of Chianti (which is where all Chianti wine comes from) would be small. But, being a stupid tourist has to humble us all at some point.

I arrived in Firenze via train and stumbled around looking for the well hidden bus station, where I asked for a ticket to Chianti and am sold one for three euro. I waited 2 hours for the bus and finally was on my way to Chianti.

The bus ride was amazing. I watched as the drabness of Roma melted in the Tuscan sun to reveal lush and straight vineyards, glowing villas, raucious hills, and whole fields of sunflowers. This is my Italy. This is what I was searching for.

An hour into the trip I asked if the next stop was Chianti.
"Greve"
"Does that mean yes?"
"Greve"
"Is this Chianti?"
the bus driver looks at my like I have gone entirely insane.
"si!"

I lumber akwardly off the bus and into a nearby bookstore to get directions to via roma. In luck, it is only 1 block away! So I lumber, yet again, toward where I believe my hostel to be. 13, 15, 25, 33, 45...the numbers stop and the street ends. Confused by an address on my paper in the hundreds, I turn and wander back to the beginning of the street. 45, 33, 25, 15, 13...end. The Italian men watching me across the street are chuckling. I march up to them and show them the address. Where am I going wrong here?

Suddenly the first man starts guffawing. In Spanishized Italian I ask where it is. They all chuckle. It is 25 kilometers away. I am in the wrong town.

At this moment I think of the ticket seller in Firenze. Oh silly expectations! Why, for example, should I expect an italian ticket seller to ask the poor american girl WHERE in the massive region of Chianti she might want to go. No, no. It makes better sense to sell her a random ticket and cross your fingers.

How do you say jackass in Italian?

I wander back to the shoestore where the English speaking teenager is. My heart dropping by the minute.

I just want a shower. I just want to stop smelling like the bed of my roman hostel (read:smelling like asshole). I want to feel clean and have a glass of wine and sleep.

I show the girl the address and her eyes widen.
"Is there a bus here?"
"No, no. No bus to there."
"Excellent. That is what I was hoping. Can you call me a taxi?"
"Si, si, 40 euro, 30 minutes."

30 minutes later a jeep pulls up and a man hops out. Taxi? Doesnt look like one, but oh yes it is. There is a blonde woman in the front seat and I wonder if this is how the Tuscans make their money, pretending to be a taxi service for stupid americans who get off at the wrong bus stop.

Turns out the blonde girl was british and also in a pickle. We bonded over pickley situations and the pretty countryside, and as we drove I realized that there was no reason to be upset.

I was headed for the hostel. And tourists spend more than 40 euro on things that are a lot less beautiful than that taxi ride was, every single day.

So really Mr. JackAssTicketMaster did me a favor. Thanks JATM!

And now I am in Tuscany, which may just be my favorite place ever.

I think I am going to retire here. If my stomach can start not rejecting the food I eat.

Love,

GG

Step Two in the GigiScursion

The time in Austria has been ever better than I hoped. We have walked the streets enjoying the old architecture--cobbles, castles, cathedrals, etc--; we have eaten in small out-of-the-way cafes and large touristy restaurants. Eating Goulash, Schnitzel, and a fatty pork leg served with unfiltered beer (which made me dismally ill for an hour or two).

But my favorite thing about being here, by far, is the company. Heinrich has been a great host and a blast to see the city with and I love his friends. They're unique and quirky and everyone's humor somehow meshes, though it would be easy for it to be continents apart.

Last night we played poker (and I lost, but not until after I'd cleaned up in the middle of the game with amazing hands and or amazing bluffs if I do say so myself) and then went to the museum quarter by bike. The young people of Vienna, it would seem, have deemed this quarter the best place for after-hours conversation and imbibing. Cheap beers, lots of smoking (very European), and people sprawled over interesting stone pieces that are conveniently shaped to allow you to lean back in them and sit partially upright/partially reclined. Apparrently they paint them a different color every year. Last year was red or pink (depending on who you talk to) and this year is an ugly brown-yellow-drab color. Anyway, it's an interesting place and I wish we'd had someplace like that for people to hang out in any of the cities I lived in. Even New York, as far as I know, doesn't have anything really comparable. But of course, everything in New York (buildings aside) is half the size of everything in Vienna. Apartments, parks, fountains...etc.

So today is my last day and we're going to bike to the Blue Danube and then tonight go to a concert. But for now, we're waiting for his new washer to arrive (washer in an apartment! Who knew life could be so lovely!).

Then tomorrow its on to Italia. Step three in Gigiscursion.

Stay tuned.

Gg

More Male Nudity - Welcome to Austria

I finally made it to Vienna after an excruciating night in the Dublin airport.

I thought I would save money on a hostel and time on the bus ride and sleep time (as I wouldn't have to be up at 4, but could sleep till 5:30 instead) by crashing at DUB, but the fates were against me.

1. Everyone else had the same idea. Curled up on a chair I listened as more and more people arrived, spread out blankets and sleeping pads and rotated chairs this way and that. Everyone, it would seem, sleeps at the airport. Like, this is totally normal.

2. The first leather chair I confiscated I had to abandon due to having a bladder the side of a pinhead. Instead of trying to go back to that seat I found a new one and curled up there. Ten minutes later the guy who had been sitting next to me before had moved to sit next to me again. Weird and coincidental, but not much else. My pinhead bladder called again and I lugged myself to the restroom, finding a new chair upon exiting. Again, creepyguy (as I have now dubbed him) moved to be next to me. I have no idea what he wanted, but clearly what he wanted had nothing to do with me getting a peaceful night's sleep. So I hopped up and acted like I was off to catch my flight and went downstairs to a different waiting area where I used the handy dandy bike lock I'd brought along to latch my backpack to the bench, used the carribbeaners to latch myself to my carryon, and subsequently fell sound asleep.

3. A crick in my neck and extreme cold woke me and I decided to relocate. The catch to this is that someone else took my spot and I found myself without a chair. All taken. So I relocated down a windy hall to a room just outside the bathrooms. There were a couple people sleeping on the floor and I took up residence on a gg-sized shelf outside the bathroom doors, where I slept for the next three hours or so. I need to take a vote: which is funnier, me sleeping on the shelf outside the restrooms or me sleeping in the luggage compartment of a moving bus? Let me know.

Anyway, you can see why I'd be totally shot by the time I reached Vienna, even after sleeping the entire plane ride here. Heinrich showed me around the city a while and I was struck by the character of Vienna. It is very unique and old and likeable.

During our walk in the city we turned down an alleyway/sidestreet to get something to eat at a little bar Heinrich knew (which turned out to be FANTASTIC, really) when we both noticed a man walking toward us. He was wearing a t-shirt and underpants (tighty blueys, you know) and swinging a plastic bag between his legs. Desperately trying not to laugh or look him in the eye we walked by, and as soon as he was past tears started rolling down my face. What the hell.

I laughed because it was ridiculous. I laughed because Heinrich seemed barely phased. I laughed because HOLY COW. The world has conspired to show me lots of male bodies as of late, eh? Italians, Austrians--the question only remains: will France and Ireland join the party?

Anyway, I was talking about the man later and called him "Mr. Fancy" which made Heinrich laugh and somehow stuck. So, Mr. Fancy, if you are out there reading this. I mean, if you know how to work a computer and understand made up words like tighty blueys and somehow managed to find this website in the first place--hello to you.

I dedicate this entry to anyone who has ever accidentally come across a Mr. Fancy. Or been one.

Cheers to the nakedness.

GG

Half Naked Italians, Oh Bliss

Yesterday the makeup of our hostel changed entirely. The loud American group moved out (is it terrible of me to hate them a little and be embarrassed for my country?) and the sweet French boy hitched a ride onward and the hostel was quiet for the day.

As evening came on a British family moved in as I was eating dinner. Hello and cheers and jolly good and off to my dorm I went to write to David and read before turning in early. Peaceful until the door bust open and in poured six Italian men with their backpacks. I was thrilled beyond all reason. Particularly when moments later after saying hello to me and telling me they were from Italy they began to undress and walk around the room in various states of undress. I was more shocked than anything else and couldn't tear my eyes away. I kept wanting to giggle at how hilarious the whole thing was, me just sitting on the bottom bunk getting a free show like that. How many cows would dad have if he knew I'd spent the night in that room? Enough to start a farm, surely.

After that I was too riled up to sleep. I kept wanting to laugh out loud, feeling simultaneously creepy and giggly, so I went downstairs for a cup of tea.

As I walked into the kitchen I startled a blonde girl not once, but twice. She started once when I opened the door and started again with a shreik when I said "sorry". Turns out her and her boyfriend, who were in there making pasta, were from Australia and traveling through Russia and now Ireland on holiday. We had a nice chat over tea and pasta and they invited me to hitch a ride out to Newgrange with them in the morning. Hurrah!

So this morning, bright and early, we headed out to the tomb mound at newgrange and explored that and then they dropped me back in Slane. I was so glad for the company I nearly exploded from happiness. I liked the back woodsy nature of the Irish countryside, but I'd been dying to talk to someone--so much that I'd begun talking to myself out loud. Meeting them and the Italian boys and the British family was all too much for me. I'll be living off the endorphins for a long while yet.

And from Slane, as the bus schedule on Sundays is horrible, I hitched a ride with a father and his son to a town just outside Dublin. I remember most about the ride that the father was in finance and that made me think of MV and that the son had HUGE blue eyes and said he wanted to be in the army when he grew up. Very sweet and lovely people. God, I love the irish.

And on that note, I'm back in Dublin (ee-yuck) and about to head on to the airport and crash there until my early morning flight to Austria.

Cannot wait to see Heinrich, who says he's going to take me to do the Sound of Music things...won't mother be jealous.

Tata for now,

Gg

P.S. SP, you should know one of the italian boys had a mullet

P.P.S. David, how jealous are you right now?

Please, Sweet Irish Person, Pick Me Up!

Out here I feel as though I have Ireland all to myself. In Dublin the main roads are still crawling with tourists and European students, but not county Meath. Not the little villages.

I walk to town in the mornings (I'm staying 2km outside of town. How's that for exercize?) and get a scone and some tea and have a chat with the locals at the sweet little bakery (food out here is ten times better than Dublin) while reading my irish book and feeling very proud to be the only American in town. Though next week this little village will be crawling with them, as there's a Rolling Stones concert at the local castle. I'm just waiting for the day that I walk in and order a scone only to find the Rolling Stones are also having scones ("hey, Mick, what's up? Just having a scone, eh? Very irish weather we've been havin, yeah?")

The one thing that I was unprepared for on my little small-town-ireland adventure was the inaccessability of things. The hostel is down a long thin no-sidewalk road frequented by trucks and, though no one mentioned it, I think it's really meant for people with cars/rental cars/maybe bikes. Everything else is car-accessable to. After I'd climbed the Hill of Slane (one of the truly most beautiful places I've ever been--ever)I walked down a road that signs marked as being directly to the Battle of the Boine site and then Drogheda. I didn't think I'd make it all the way to Drogheda, but perhaps Boine. The more I walked the narrower the road became, but it wasn't until I was 7 km in that I realized that there must be nothing between Slane and Drogheda and that walking along a thin shoulder of a country road wasn't the brightest idea I've ever had (this is why mom and dad don't get to read this journal--I intend to write all the totally stupid totally dangerous things I end up doing). So I walked to a farmhouse, stood out front, and stuck out my cute little american thumb. Please sweet Irish, pick me up!

Right as I was getting discouraged a car pulled over and a cute little old man bid me hop in. The man's name was Patrick (I know, not cliche at all!) and he was headed to Drogheda. Perfect! I said. And thus I had a ride to Drogheda. Turns out that he used to be a cab driver in NYC (hah!) and has traveled the US. He said I looked very American (and on a sidenote, I believe this to be my brown eyes. I have noticed that all the irish girls have green or blue. Brown is the rare one. I think I've seen two brown-eyed irish girls since I've been here. Two.) and we talked about his family (4 kids) and his wife who was sick. He was a decent, hopeful, and lovely man. And I can only hope that his situation turns out okay.

Drogheda really wasn't much of anything. Hitchhiking there was much more exciting than arriving, and I only stayed a couple hours, having some pub food (better than Dublin) and then catching a 3euro bus back to Slane to make pasta at my hostel.

I also cancelled my hostel in Dublin, so I don't have to go back there. Just straight from Meath to the airport. No more Dublin for me.

Gigi

P.S. so glad to be in good shape. Here I am walking like 10-15KM a day, maybe more.