Making friends

I was doing some thinking while I did the dishes last night. As I reviewed my daily activities, I realized that I do a lot of things that could be classified as romantic, except I do them alone. Two days ago, for example, I spent a few hours sitting on a rocky beach eating a picnic lunch and gazing out over the bay. I regularly take leisurely walks around the cobblestone paths of Galway, and I’m planning a nice little trip to Dublin next week. I’ll probably check out a few cafés, maybe see some shops. All by my lonesome. This insight prompted further analysis, in an effort to understand the cause of my solitude. I then came to my second great epiphany of last night’s dishwashing session: I have no friends here. I certainly have plenty of acquaintances, the people I meet in the pubs and with whom I play music, but not really anyone who I can call up and plan to meet up later that night. That’s not actually entirely true— Chris Doyle and Lauren Finn, two ‘09’s from Williams, recently arrived in Galway to study (a word I use loosely) for the semester— but the point I mean to make is that I haven’t met anyone in Ireland who I can call up as such.

Before you feel too bad for me, though, I should mention that I like to think of my friendlessness as a conscious decision on my part. Making friends and sustaining friendships when living outside of any organized social environment (i.e. school, a job) takes a good deal of effort and time. That’s time and effort I could be spending playing the mandolin in a pub, reading, working out or teaching myself the harmonica. I bought a harmonica for 30 euros a few days ago after watching a sweet video on YouTube of some guy beatboxing and playing the harmonica at the same time. I decided that if there’s any time to teach myself how to do that, it’s now, when my only real responsibility is to complete a three-page paper over the next 2 months. Best 30 euros I’ve ever spent. In any case, while it’s nice to have friends around, there have just been other ways I prefer to spend my time. I’m also quite happy with the friends I have back home, and see no need to replace them, even if they aren’t as hyperchic and Eurostylish as many of the young people around Galway.

I should also throw out a little disclaimer here. While I prefer to attribute my isolation to my own devices, it’s more likely a confluence of multiple factors. To be more specific, I bought a bike a little while ago, and with it, a helmet. I don’t remember the last time I wore a helmet. I got one because I live a good ways out of town, and am easily startled by fast cars, especially when I’m on the road as well. To put this in perspective for all of you non-Irish readers, there are a lot of people who ride bikes here. I have seen many of them. Of these many, I have only seen a handful of helmet-wearers. These people all fall into one of two categories: the elderly, and people who wear spandex. Fortunately I haven’t seen any individuals who fall into both categories, but I have heard that they do exist. Anyway, my helmet-wearing tendencies have dealt a serious blow to any street credit I may have possessed before, especially since my bike model has the name “Wildcat” emblazoned in big red letters down the main bar. I’m excited for a burly Irishman to point out this irony. I also carry my mandolin around everywhere. Thus, there I am— pedaling around town, a bright blue helmet strapped to my cranium, a mandolin in one hand, resting on the left handlebar, with my right hand wobbling to control the Wildcat, all while surrounded by the aforementioned Ben Sherman-wearing, designer sunglasses-sporting young people of Galway. I’m just saying that while I’m not actively seeking out friends, I’m also not coming off as the type of person others would want to be friends with either.

He then told me that I should consider taking the dog home. I explained that I live in a single room a mile and a half away. I have no place to put the dog. “There’s really nothing you can do?” I asked. Sean shrugged. I was tired, hungry and frustrated. Sean then made matters worse by repeating his request, but in a patronizing way: “You were nice enough to bring him in, perhaps you’d be nice enough to take him home.” I considered being nice enough to tell him where he could shove it, but instead decided to fume quietly while the dog attempted to play with and/or hump my leg. Eventually, I caved. I told him that I’d take the dog home, but asked if I could at least get a ride back, since cabs are expensive. Sean scoffed, but did pick up the phone to call another officer. His conversation went something like this:

Sean: Hey, boyo I’ve got this kid here who-

Other Officer: (says something)

Sean: No really?! Haha that’s fantastic.

Other Officer: (says something again)

Sean: Hey that’s great. You enjoy yourself. Hahaha!

Sean then turned to me and told me, quite seriously, “they’re busy.” I said I would wait. After 10 minutes, he told me to get a cab. I said they don’t take dogs. He told me I should try harder. He then reiterated that the other officers were busy. “It’s cool,” I told him. I then asked if maybe he could give me a ride. He said no. I then bummed around the station for another 5 or 10 minutes, only because my presence there was pissing him off, and then ended up leaving the station to find a cab. I finally got a ride with a South African cabbie named Tim, and over the course of the drive, we came to the conclusion that the Garda are useless. It felt good to vent. Anyway, I put the dog in the garden, bought him some Pedigree Lamb ‘N’ Poultry in Gravy and then hit the sack. I called the number on his collar the next morning (no one had picked up when I called the previous night) and the owners came by, said thanks, and were on their way. I waved goodbye to my friend, but he just wagged his tail, licked himself and jumped into the car.

A few nights later, I was drinking a pint in a pub while picking up some tunes on my mandolin, and I started to do a little more reflecting. Not only do I not have any friends, I realized, but also I don’t really hang out with anyone except old dudes. One look around the pub revealed that I was the only individual under 30, and of the musicians, the only one under 45. I looked up and saw one old guy who stuck out— he was dressed rather conservatively, and looked strangely out of place in the pub. He spoke little and mostly just sipped away at his drink and watched the musicians play. At the end of the night, a visiting American guy named Mark passed his guitar around so that all the musicians could sign it, a “unique souvenir,” he called it. All the musicians, myself included, signed it, and then Mark started to put it away. All of a sudden, the conservatively dressed man motioned for the guitar and the permanent marker, so that he too could write something. I was interested to see what gems of wisdom this wizened old Irishman would impart. Before he started writing, though, he furtively glanced around the pub, and then began violently sniffing at the Sharpie.  He then giggled, and repeated the gesture several times. Once his tittering had subsided, he scrawled something on the guitar. When he handed it back to Mark, his signature of “KOWABUNGA!” was clearly the largest text on the instrument. It was at that point that I realized that I’m going to be okay. I might not have any friends, or anything that resembles a decent social life, but I do hang out with old dudes who take hits off Sharpies and have no problem writing nonsense on other people’s treasured possessions, which is almost as good.

I leave you with that. Much love, and stay well,

Auyon