Traveling Lost
I was young.
Of course if you’d called me young then, I’d have scoffed. Offended.
At 21 I felt worldly. And was acting the part too.
The bulky backpack I carried was stuffed with toiletries and clothes. The canvas satchel slung over my shoulder held a journal, red lipstick, my passport, a Lonely Planet Guide to Ireland (where I’d dog-eared the cheapest hostels) and my traveler’s checks. I was young 20 years ago, traveler’s checks were still a thing.
My plane landed, and I found myself alone in a country where I didn’t know a single soul.
In the pre-smartphone era, this seems like a bigger deal.
I’d splurged and got a hotel for the night — didn’t have a choice really.
St. Patrick’s Day in Dublin, Ireland is popular for both tourists and locals, and all the hostels were booked.
I’d arrived in the morning, and the clerk at the hotel informed me my room wouldn’t be ready until three, or “tree,” as he pronounced it — his accent prompting a giddy stomach flip — you’re here, in Ireland!
I sat on a bench at a nearby park, absentmindedly eating a packet of cheese and onion ‘crisps,’ and enjoying the warmth of the sun.
Everything felt fresh, so special. Even the garbage bin. Smaller than the ones in the US, the green basket seemed to be levitating. Labeled in both English and Irish — bruscar. I tossed my greasy empty potato chip bag inside.
Now what?
I’d poured so much of myself into getting here. Planning, packing, and dreaming. Besides meandering around the small island, I didn’t have much of an agenda.
When I was finally given access to my room, I showered and changed into clean clothing — jeans and a black T-shirt — and headed out to the pub.
It was loud, crowded and smoky.
Dimly lit with a slightly yellow hue, and yes. A lot of green. Trad music blasted from the speakers.
From the state of many of the patrons, it appeared they’d been at it for a while.
I elbowed my way to the bar, “Pint of Guinness, please.”
“You alone?” the barman asked,
“Yes.”
“Hey, lads,” he said gesturing to a group of nearby guys, then pointing toward me. I wasn’t quite sure what or why, but that’s how I ended up meeting Martin.
Hours and a basket of fish and chips later, we’re back at my hotel.
In bed.
I’d “snuck” him in after closing time, giggling as I showed the security guard my key card: proof that I was allowed entry despite his glowering disapproval.
The only clothing we’ve removed is our shoes. We both wear Converse sneakers, which have landed in a heap on the carpet. We lay next to each other, propped up by pillows, talking.
Martin’s a Catholic from Northern Ireland. Born after the intensity of ‘The Troubles,’ as they’re referred, he’s in Dublin for school. Attending Trinity College.
Martin dreams of being a writer.
There’s something intimate about connecting with someone when you know you’re never going to see them again. You can open up, reveal parts of yourself: freely, deeply, openly. You’re both fully present, reveling in shared connection and commonalities.
At 19, Martin is respectful and easy to talk to. Time disappears as we lay next to each other.
I wouldn’t have admitted it back then, but see now. I find it’s easier to connect like this with men, and part of the allure is the tension.
Martin is tall, and adorably attractive. I’d felt that little flicker of interest in my belly at the pub. The two of us sandwiched close together; the rest of the lads disappeared into the periphery. I leaned in so he could light my cigarette — a spark — that smile.
Before inviting him back to my room, I’m clear: it’s just to talk — I have a boyfriend.
I have a boyfriend.
I wouldn’t have admitted it then — and honestly, I don’t think I was even aware — I craved validation. I wanted people to like me, the person residing in the body.
I needed proof — proof I was worth spending time with — even if it was just to talk and nothing else.
The sun’s beginning to appear when Martin finally leaves. I don’t have a cell phone, so he gives me his email.
Internet cafes are popular, and I tuck the scrap of paper with his cramped handwriting in my journal.
Alone. I briefly sleep after arranging a wakeup call so I didn’t accidentally miss checkout.
The phone rings. I wake with a jolt, hungover. It’s just me again, and a deep familiar trench of loneliness.
Prolonging the inevitable end of a relationship back home that has run its course. I’ve never experienced a breakup before.
I end up meeting more men. The handsome American from San Francisco. We spend hours at the tiny pub in Doolin laughing, chatting and having fun. He immediately gives me his sweatshirt when I get cold, removing it and handing it over, pre-warmed by his body. When the pub closes, he insists on walking me back to the hostel. Giving me a hug and kiss when we part.
Then there’s the oddly irresistible man from the Czech Republic, who begs to give me a foot massage. I’ll admit, I’m tempted to say yes.
I get myself into a few prickly situations but managed to escape, relatively unscathed.
I keep going — spend six weeks discovering new ways to distract myself from me, from pain, from responsibility.
Travel is how I discover I’m lost, and it’s all too easy in retrospect to know what I needed.
What I was actually looking for.
