the burren

Haven't written in a bit because I could not find computers where I was. I spent the last few days on a bike going from place to place. Today was 60mph winds and torrential rain and it is 9 degrees C, which is 48 degrees F, so I quit the bike and brought it back to Galway. So ends the bike trip. I am glad I did not become the Polish tourist who pitched headlong into a swollen river or the Galwegian lady biker who was squashed by a Peugeot today. I hit an emotional low today, after many days of high, so I cannot muster the energy at the moment, while sitting in the computer gallery of this terrible hostel where 17 year old Europeans surround me laughing at Matthew McCougnghanhaeahhey's pretty blond head on the big screen blaring nearby, to tell you too much. Such is budget, or whatever you call it when the paltry dollar is 1:1.7 with the powerful euro, travel. I got on a bike in Galway and went to Ballyvaughn the first day, Doolin the second, around the Burren the third day, and three miles in gale force winds today before chickening out like the drenched chicken I was and heading for the city. I ran out of cash two days ago - there were no ATMs in the Burren, I learned, and the closest was a 12-mile roundtrip to the Cliffs of Moher that I was not about to do in the rain - so I have been rationing out my precious euros one heavy coin at a time. I had chocolate-covered Digestive biscuits for three meals in the last two days, and otherwise stuck to the calorie max-euro min diet, which involved eating pats of butter as well as drinking multiple cups of milk with each $5 coffee I purchased. I will at some point write all about the travel insights for other similarly stupid people who come to Ireland without plans or muscles expecting to travel by bicycle during the storm of the decade, since I have been so tired and hungry and wet (but elated, until today) that I haven't been able to think of anything except my sensations, which there are a lot of. The country is beautiful, it looks just like the postcards, or maybe the Lord of the Rings trilogy if that is your point of reference like it is mine, there are more cows and sheep than people, and it is best seen by soaked bicycle. There is lots I could tell you about limestone and mudstone and basalt now. Tip #1: bring waterproof clothes. Whoops #1! Tip #2: travel south to north, because the wind blows south to north. Whoops #2! I prefer the country to the city. With ten minutes of my return to Galway I got a "HEY HEY CHING CHONG!" call by some asshole teenager, who was out of hearing range already by the time I shouted "DICKHEAD!" back at him. But he succeeded in lowering my mood even further, and then when I had my all-brown dinner (brown chicken curry, on brown rice, topped with brown french fries a.k.a. shit on a plate) and bit on my lower lip until I bled, I was at least relieved that I had reached, at last, the nadir of my trip: cowed, cold, curmudgeonly. I am trying to decide what to do now...succumb to loneliness, and buy a ticket back to New York? The NYPD settlement is all but gone so I don't think I have the clams to do that. Continue merry lonesome travels, lugging clothes for Katie's wedding and rocks for Stephanie all around? Might could. If I can find a place to shoot clay pigeons, perhaps I should do that too; the Irish succeeded in entering at least one Olympic athlete into that event. I am starved for Olympics coverage, since the Irish only cover badminton and four person coxless boat racing, so please email me your sports commentary excluding information about Michael Phelps or Chinese doping, SVP. The Irish are fond of repetitve patterns - in their music (jigs are 10 notes repeated sixteen times, just listen), in their art (if that is what you call Celtic knot-drawing), in their sweater weaving (each family has its own distinctive pattern of knits and purls), which I think may be a result of harsh geographic conditions. When you have limited resources, creativity means you work with what you got, again and again, in repeating patterns. Whatever, that's all I can think of to say about this country. One day I'll be recognized as an American. CHING CHONG CHING CHONG.