It took an extremely random cigarette with a backpacking young German man to make me, almost two years later, finally realise what Emma and I had shared in New York was merely an almost clichéd romantic interlude; and that my ulterior motivated pursuit of her across the Atlantic to her hometown of Brighton was never meant to have amounted to anything more than it did. As much as I believe both of us genuinely hoped it would. Still, to this day I would have treasured one kiss on top of the one she gave to my cheek shortly before disappearing from my life forever. (She did live with her parents at the time, though, so that certainly didn’t help.) Heartfelt, sigh. I hope she’s happy, wherever she ever is and whatever she’s ever doing. Now, the matter of the German bloke was serendipitous under the circumstances, so deserves an explanation. I was sitting smoking the first couple of puffs of rolling tobacco out of an antique pipe, of all things, earlier this afternoon when he caught my attention by saying “Hi” while approaching the front of the house, I returned the sentiment, and then he asked if he could sit with me awhile. A more unlikely event I could only imagine. It certainly is a small world. He was a backpacker working his way for a solar company around the suburbs while in the final couple of weeks of a journey through Australia he’d commenced some nine months earlier. We discussed many things, mostly relating to travel. But it was when I mentioned during my travels that I’d met a girl in New York and chased her to the UK, even though I was always half-planning on heading over there anyway, when the abovementioned realisation laid its seed in my brain. He understood, as most men would, didn’t judge, and we continued on to talk idly about inter and intra-geographical love affairs and likely resultant feelings of rejection and heartbreak. He certainly made me feel like jumping on a plane again and laying the foundations for another story similar to the one above I’ve been relaying to you. One day, soon – unless I get my act together and fall in committed love and buy a house.
Alright, I’m back. Sorry. My brother came home from work and decided he wanted to have a few beers and cigarettes out the front while shooting the proverbial shit. Where was I? Oh yes, Emma. There’s nothing further written in my journal pertaining to the end of my previous post about meeting an Aussie bloke, while drinking Guinness and enjoying a choir performance, who reminded me of her through his own pursuit of a love interest to Dublin. So I’ll close that chapter, right here. But it was at this point in my journal that I noted how Emma had taken the extreme step by that day’s standards of un-friending me from Facebook. I wasn’t overt about it or anything, but since she’d rejected me more than a week ago back in Brighton it was probably discernable, at least to her, in my status updates that I was dealing with rejection. Plus, I must admit, before leaving London for Dublin I’d Facebook messaged her (I didn’t have a working texting/calling phone plan almost the entire trip, since being cut off by Vodafone in San Fran) letting her know my movements, and that if she changed her mind I would return to Brighton as quickly as possible. Still, considering those admissions, I thought it harsh that she’d un-friended me. Guess she was just trying to drive home the point. I responded incredulously to this turn of events to her in one more Facebook message, which she didn’t reply to, and wished her a sincere Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. Then I dealt with the newfound pain by publicly bagging out Coldplay on Facebook, in regard to their awful, derivative Paradise song which featured at the time on previews to the otherwise outstanding movie Life of Pi. (The book is as usual much better.) It really is a terrible song, Paradise, and even if I hadn’t been dealing with yet more minor heartbreak I reckon I’d have gotten on Facebook and made something of an arse of myself by denouncing it to them, anyway. Needless to say, they didn’t respond and almost certainly couldn’t have cared less for my opinion.
Finally, I can get back to my, and I hope also yours, vicariously, enjoyment of Dublin. There’s nothing to report about my 10 or more kilometre walk back from The Sugar Club to my hostel virtually on the other side of the city, on account of my almost certainly having gone through about 10 pints that night. So, I was “pretty sure on Thursday I dragged my arse getting doing something”. Translation: I was hungover and certainly sleep-deprived so didn’t feel capable of leaping out of bed into the smear of cold gray city outside the hostel’s warm walls. The reason I’m certain I was sleep deprived, is because of one of the fat old snoring guys I mentioned I seemed to be exclusively sharing my dorm room with while staying in Dublin. (It’s time for a small and belated note on dorm rooms, while I’m at this, as it’s just occurred to me that not everyone reading this will necessarily have had the masochistic pleasure of staying in one. Imagine your bedroom is the size of a garage, and instead of one bed there are anywhere between six or 12 individual bunk beds in it. Then imagine you’re sharing the room with anything between one or 11 other people, all with wildly varying schedules, and you often might actually wake up to find a new person in your room even though you went to bed at 3am the previous night. And also imagine every one of the people sharing your room has a veritable rainbow of different types of electronic and biological noises they make while asleep – the latter of which might be created or at least exacerbated by any number of drug habits (and the former of which refers basically to phone alarms that could go off at any time). I’m digressing, and it’s possible I already told this story, but a friend once told me about his time at a hostel in America, in which one night a person in his room had a bad acid trip and started strangling one of his dorm-mates. That pretty much sums up hostel dorm rooms. Potentially, total madness.) So during this particular red-eyed Wednesday night, some fat black guy’s alarm started alarming every 15 minutes or so from about 1am. But it would never wake him up. I needed to do something short of actually touching him to alert him to the problem. And did so by opening a window (which from memory faced a wall and did little else but let in almost freezing air), then slamming it down “accidentally”. It startled him awake, and while he looked at me with what I swear was pure fear I told him his alarm had been repeatedly sounding. He said sorry, and thanks, and blessedly left. Which then left me to finally descend deliriously into a Guinness and brunette choir siren-fuelled slumber. Sleep was though, of course, delayed by a question I can’t to this day answer: who, not to mention why, sets an alarm for 1am while staying in a hostel?