My Wee Beginnings

Most people are good at beginnings; they're exciting and new and no one is thinking about the details and people are caught up in the wind that swirls around them. Beginnings are often the best part really - the momentum, the pace, the simplicity - all beautiful when you've just met someone new. Unless that someone new is an immigrations official. And unless those details that you weren't thinking about are say, legal issues relating directly to immigrating all the way from the stuffy, grey, airport side of the queue, to the other, glorious, Irish side of the queue where you know for certain that everyone is drinking Guinness and playing a fiddle and eating little potatoes.

I'm not good at beginnings. For example, when travelling, one thinks of a few details needed to begin afresh at one's destination. Let's see how I fared.

-Passport: check
-Clothes: check
-Multiple Journals and Books of Poetry: check
-Money: ___
-Address of Destination: ___
-Telephone # of Destination: ___
-Proof of My Reason for Visiting, all necessary for entry into the country: ___

"You realize how serious this is James?" she says. "You could be rejected for this."

The thought of remaining in an airport and paying more hundreds just to turn around and fly 12 hours back to California and completely forfeit my stay in Ireland because of simple forgetfulness gently settled over my brain like the simultaneous collapse of several thousand small galaxies. There was nothing I could do - no salvific piece of paper stuffed in a pocket to prove anything. Just my very honest admission that I was planning on staying for three months without any money, and volunteering at a place I didn't know the address or phone number of, or anyone's full name that worked there.

"Do you think if I showed up in America with nothing on me and just asked to be let in, I could just walk in?" She says. It's always worked for me, I think, hardly remembering in time that immigration officials are highly trained to explode at the least sign of humor.

"How do you plan on getting there?"
"The bus?" stupid! stupid!
"But how will you find it?"

Luckily, I was able to explain that I had studied google maps and was confident in my ability to reach the center. You see, I explained, there are two roads in Rostrevor. The one that goes away from the sea, and the one that goes along it. The center was on Shore Road, I knew that much, so I'm bound to find it eventually, I told her.

"It's your lucky day James" she says finally, writing my date of expulsion carefully, and tilting her head with a surprisingly motherly look of disapproval coming from such a young, bonny immigration official. "I've made a note of you in the system though, and you'll have to do better next time."

So there you have it. Ireland's Most Daft Travellers list.

But eventually, with more help from google maps and friendly bus station workers, I made my way in a half sleep to Rostrevor. That lovely official didn't know what she was talking about; when I asked the driver of the public bus how to get to the center, he wouldn't hear of me walking and promptly took the bus off course to drop me off at the door - after he stopped for a wee cup of tea of course.

And so my first week has passed as most first weeks in foreign countries do: a little drama, a little jet lag, a little settling in, and inhumane amounts of tea.

And now for my list of things to do in Ireland.

- Have Guinness on tap from a tiny Irish pub among jolly drunk cursing locals: check!

My work here is done.