I trundled into the city of Belfast from the airport on the bus and made my way to the hostel to drop my stuff off, then headed straight back to wander around a bit. My first stop was the St. George Street Market, a huge, crowded, noisy event filled with families munching crepes and little booths selling overpriced jewelry. I loved it and looked around for a while, but the market closed just an hour after I got there. I therefore headed out into the city and tried to maintain interest in what I was seeing, but my sight was getting bleary and I couldn't breathe through my nose. I made it to the Victoria St. shopping center (the first proper mall I've seen in Britain), went up to the observation tower for a good view over the city, and took a look at City Hall, but by the time I finally staggered into the TI, my body was in full mutiny. My ears were so stuffed with cotton that I couldn't hear either myself nor the information guy, who took one look at me and suggested that I just get some rest. This sounded pretty good to me, so home I went.
It was still mid-afternoon, but 1) there was nothing in particular that I had my heart set on doing and 2) I felt awful. I know I said that I wouldn't complain anymore, but I'm trying to faithfully record the events as they transpired. I decided that it would be a better idea to just take it easy, so I watched some videos on the iPlayer and chatted with my mother until dinnertime. I bundled up for the cool evening wind and tottled down to the Tesco, which did not stock any real fruit juice (!) so I got fruit instead. Oh, and chicken soup; my Portuguese, Canadian, and Australian roommates agreed that this is the best food for a cold, so maybe it's a universal cure. I ate my dinner and chatted with the aforementioned roommates as they primped to go out for the night, then I just Internetted until I finally fell asleep.
As a side note: What is so wonderful about "going out"? I cannot understand it for the life of me. First, since you're traveling, you have to bring extra clothes, shoes, jewelry, makeup, etc., which all translates to more weight to lug around. Second, then you have to take the time and energy to get dressed up. Third, you then have to go out through the cold to a too-warm, too-loud pub/bar where you have to shout to be heard, where everyone around you immediately sets about getting themselves thoroughly besoffen, and all chance of intelligible and even vaguely interesting conversation goes out the window to find a nice cafe where people are less drunk. I wouldn't be interested in doing this even with my own friends (although they probably wouldn't be too interested in it either; we're kind of "drink Mike's Hard Lemonade, watch movies, play board games, have interesting conversations" kind of people), much less with people I'd never met before.
And yet, sometimes I wish that this sort of thing appealed to me. I wish occasionally that I had the desire, much less the self-confidence, to do something with my hair, wear a stupidly uncomfortable dress, and drink beer. (Eugh.) The problem is, I simply, genuinely, don't. Everything I say to the sort of people who do comes out tied in knots. It's ridiculous. I've been lucky enough to find friends in my life who like to do other, more fun and less alcohol-focussed things with their evenings, and I hope I can find more, but wherever those wonderful people, they don't go backpacking through Britain in August.
Anyway.
Feeling significantly better in the morning, I packed up, checked out, and headed to the Botanic Gardens and Ulster Museum. I gave the museum a quick once-over, lingering for a few extra minutes in the exhibits about Ireland, and then took myself off to the Mela, a big festival being put on by the Indian community. I had a train to catch, so I only saw the very beginning of it, but it looked epic--Rama, , and were there on stilts and everything. I got myself a bowl of stew and headed reluctantly to the train station.
Since I had a day to spare and Belfast wasn't keeping my attention, I'd decided to spend the extra night somewhere more up my alley, and I have a soft spot for oceans. With a bit of guidance from Rick Steves, I found myself gasping and gwaping out the window like a four-year-old as my train pulled into the gorgeous seaside town of Portrush.
Portrush is...well, it reminded me quite a bit of Cannon Beach in Oregon. It's pretty cute, but almost everything there is holiday-oriented, and since it's getting cold (September comes in just a few days!), most of the summer crowds are gone, so the whole town feels a bit abandoned and deflated. This suited me just fine; I dumped my stuff off at the hostel and caught the next bus up the coast to the Giant's Causeway for a bit of nature therapy.
The Giant's Causeway is, essentially, some oddly-shaped rock formations that the ancient Irish decided must have been made by giants. ("Obviously." -Sherlock Holmes) It's actually not too hard to see why; the Causeway is made up of hundreds of hexagonal stone pillars, all interlocking but separate, that extend out into the sea towards Scotland. It's the bizzare regularity that's striking, really, because the whole structure isn't very big. Although, being American, maybe I'm biased, because "big" in my book is like Bryce Canyon or something, and we're not talking f****** huge until we get to the Grand Canyon. THe scale here is a bit different. Anyway, although the Causeway was interesting, the best bit was just walking around the cliffs, hearing the crash of the waves, enjoying the sea air and the dramatic ocean views.
You know how they say that people tend to resemble their dogs? On the way back up from the Causeway, I inadvertantly started to talk to an older gentleman that--and I mean this in the nicest possible way--resembled his bloodhound in every respect except for the giant floppy years. Despite moving at a snail's pace as he huffed up the hill, in the time it took to get to the top he told me that he and his wife had been breeding champion bloodhounds for years, that they were going to a wedding in Scotland, that some relative's son had killed himself, and that people who persecute homosexuals are usually closeted gays themselves. Imagine hearing all of this in a North Irish accent, with no warning or connection between topics whatsoever. I did a lot of nodding and smiling.
I had dinner back in Portrush at a cute little cafe and then took a walk to the end of the spit of land upon which Portrush is perched. The wind howled and shoved me all over the place, but I watched the sun go down in a somewhat unimpressive splutter of pinkish orange before heading to bed.
I dragged myself out of bed this morning much later than I'd hoped, but I still had a couple of hours for a leisurely walk on the beach before my train left. I padded down the soft sand, admiring the wind and the waves, all the way down to where the beach encounters some imposing white cliffs strongly reminiscent of Dover's. It was such a relaxing treat to just meander and look out over the waters, but eventually I had to get back to the train.
Which gets me to where I am now: on a train. I'm heading to Dublin to meet Heather, a relative of some sort of one of my mother's patients. It'll be nice to have someone to talk to!
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