It’s a Saturday and I’m spending most of my time at the university. Why? Well, there are no courses, no lectures, nothing a student will get points for. Still, I’m far from alone. Some 70 students are in the audimax, the biggest lecture hall of the University of Vienna, even more outside and in several other rooms in the building.  The spirit in the audimax is relaxed. Low-tuned background-music, people are talking, studying. Some walk through the lines with huge brooms and garbage bags, other use chemical means to remove graffiti from tables. Now and then the music is turned off for announcements from the podium. The securities started to lock lecture rooms for the weekend, please seize some to keep room for work-groups; there is a Gramsci-workshop in lecture hall number 21 hosted by two students; a guy working at the podium needs a charging device for his iPhone. In the big hallway in front of the lecture hall a couple of info- and food-desks are crowded by more chatting people. In lecture hall number 34 the work-group “plenum” debates organisational problems. After a while they are replaced by the work-group “finances” which tries to figure out how to finance the demands.

It’s not a normal Saturday at the University of Vienna. Since Thursday a group of students have seized the audimax to protest against the situation of students in Austria. It started as a demonstration against the Bologna protest organised by students of an Art-University but turned into a much broader movement, organised through facebook and twitter. This movement wasn’t organized by existing organisations and so no one really knows where all of this is going. But a lot of people put a lot of time and effort into figuring it out.

After three days the “official” list of demands looks like this (and was translated into several languages):

Unbearable conditions in the educational system have forced us students to mobilize!

The Bologna Process in Europe has lead a economization of education and universities are turned into educational institutions for private corporations.

We have squatted the main building and are resisting!

We call for following movements, solidarity campaigns and resistance by all European universities!

We claim:
-enough money for each university place
-free access to education
-all real democratization of the universities
-self-determined learning and living instead of pressure to perform
-no restrictions to master degrees
-independent teaching and research
-stop precarious working conditions
-no restricted extra curricula
-stop neoliberalism!

We encourage all European universities to demonstrate solidarity -

For myself, I can’t say I would sign this without any reservations, but I do agree with a lot of it. And as a student at the University of Vienna I also see that a lot is going wrong right now. So I’m glad that something is happening here.

One last thing. The reaction of the responsible minister Johannes Hahn was something like that: “First I have to know what the problems of the students are.” The conditions of students in Austria are a media-topic for months already. So one of my personal problems is that I would prefer a minister for sciences that reads a newspaper once in a while.

I tried to be reasonable, the day after I had walked from the Giant’s Causeway along the coast to my hostel in Ballintoy, but those Irish people wouldn’t let me.

It was another day with typical Irish weather. Weather like everyone expects when coming to Ireland. Cold, windy and rainy. Fortunately enough I hadn’t experienced a lot of those typical Irish days while travelling, apart from that in Malin Head, so I decided to have a quiet day. A short walk to the Carrick-a-Rede Rope Bridge, a lot of reading and working on my travel-diary that was all I had planned. I waited for the rain to take a break and set off towards the bridge. It wasn’t far away from the hostel, just about 20 minutes by foot, so I soon passed the little hut that marked the beginning of the short walk to the bridge. Everything was abandoned, apart from a couple of workers, extending the tourist-facilities for the coming summer-season, and I went on for the last kilometre along the coast.

I already knew that the bridge was closed until April. A couple of other tourists, equipped with travel-guides had told me about the taking-down of the bridge. Carrick-a-Rede is a rope-bridge to a small island, originally erected from salmon fishermen and used to get taken down every winter because of the rough weather-conditions. Now the salmons are gone and the bridge has become a tourist attraction. When I finally approached the bridge I was standing in front of a concrete door frame, blocked by a door of metal bars. On the right side of the frame the cliffs fell down over 20 meters, on the left side a huge rock blocked the sight down to the sea. The owner of my hostel had told me the day before that this was the first year in which the bridge hasn’t been taken down because of security-preparations on the island.

The rock on the left side looked inviting enough to climb it and from up there I could not only see the bridge without bars in my way, I also could step right to the edge of the cliffs, falling down to the sea. From the rock I could easily step on the doorframe and I wondered if I shouldn’t just climb down on the other side and cross the bridge on my own. Looking down I could see that I wouldn’t have a problem getting there, but wasn’t so sure about getting back up and over the frame. So I decided to be reasonable, follow the security warnings and head back to the hostel.

I was still fighting with myself about the skipped opportunity when I met my hostel owner and his wife. The two of them were walking with their dog along the coast. He immediately approached me, asking how I’m doing and where I’m going. I told him about my walk to the bridge and that I had taken some pictures and was now heading home. He looked at me and smiled.

Ya’ know, some daredevils just climb over the door.

Then he turned around and followed his wife down the path. Some daredevils, that was all I needed. I too, turned around and headed back towards the bridge. The hut, the kilometre along the cliffs and a couple of minutes later I – again – stood in front of the door. Getting over it via the rock was easy enough and I finally walked over the bridge. While the old fishermen’s rope-bridge really consisted of just two ropes – one to stand on, the other one to hold on to – the modern bridge is completely safe, although the sight 25 meters down to the water is admittedly rather daunting.

The island itself was tiny, green and empty. No sign of any security-preparations, I could walk right to the edge of the cliffs everywhere. While I took more pictures and failed to see Scotland at the misty horizon it started to rain again and the wind became stronger and stronger making walking back over the bridge even more shaky. Eventually I climbed back over the door.

I never talked to the hostel-owner about my dark daredevil-side, and only bragged a little bit in front of the two German girls, who stayed at the same hostel, invited me to the pub to get rid of their last British pounds that night and gave me a ride to Belfast at the next day. But that’s a completely different story.

I had spent about a week in Port Ronan, a couple of houses on Malin Head, a peninsula proud to be the most northerly spot in Ireland, when for the first time I was going to have really bad weather. It hit me on the way to the beach.

My hostel was everything I could dream of, after travelling for three weeks. Clean, heated rooms, hot water, a living room with a small bay looking out on the sea, kept warm by one of those old wood-fired cooking stoves and really nice owners. They lived in their own house, right next to the hostel and I shared the 25 bed house with only one other tourist. On my arrival they had told me everything I needed to know about the peninsula, and I had seen almost all it had to offer on the first three days. They only spot I haven’t been was the Five Finger Strand, a sandy beach with stationary sand dunes in the south-west of the peninsula. So on the fourth day, I grabbed my camera and left the hostel early in the morning.

It was quite a walk to the beach, about 8 km, and after half an hour it started to rain. It began really harmless, I wasn’t too worried, it was just a little sprinkle. Unpleasant, because of the strong wind, but I was already used to that. Never before in my life had I experienced such strong and permanent wind as on Malin Head. So I wrapped myself into my coat, bowed my head and kept walking against the wind.

My optimism soon proved to be completely unsubstantiated, the rain grew stronger and stronger and so did the wind. I almost had to run, just to keep moving forward. The wind was lashing the rain into my face, my efforts to protect me with my hoodie failed miserably. When I finally made it to the beach I was soaking wet, my clothes sticking to my body. I tried to find shelter in a little church standing next to the beach, but could only hide in its wind shadow, as the doors were firmly locked.

Standing there, as stiff as possible, because every move seemed to squeeze the wet and cold clothes closer to my body, I watched the rain jumping back from the headstones on the small graveyard next to the church and silently cursed whoever locked the doors the one time I really, really wanted to go in.

After a few minutes I decided to go home, leave the beach where it was – a five minute walk from where I was standing – have a hot shower, grab my book and stay in the hostel for the rest of the day. Again I wrapped myself into my soaking coat, bowed my head, stepped out of the wind shadow and started walking. In that very moment the wind ebbed away, the rain stopped from one second to the other and the clouds broke up. Sounds kitschy, was kitschy, but lifted my spirit enough to give the beach another shot.

Five Finger Strand

I walked around high, grass-covered sand dunes and stood in front of the sea, on a beautiful sandy beach, the dark clouds reflecting where the sand was wet from the retrieving waves. On the other side, where the sand was dry, the wind became visible. Low clouds of sand, floating swiftly over the beach. The wind here was even stronger than before, this time drying my clothes and covering them under a thin layer of sand.

Alone at the beach I spent some time there, until I was completely dry again, but exhausted from walking against the wind on the loose sand. On my way home I met a bunch of cows, running around on the road, followed by a nice old Irish guy who tried to get them back where they belonged.

Fuckin’ wind, he let me know how they had escaped.

I also saw a dog tearing the wool of a sheep that was lying on the floor and only ran away when I started shouting at its attacker. I don’t know what happened to it because the dog followed it behind the house after glancing reproachfully towards me. That probably had something to do with the wind too.

Dog undressing a sheep

Anyway, I made it back to my hostel where I took my shower, washing layers of brown sand of my body, and finally retired into the warmth of the living room.

My favourite spot

]]> http://jaae.wordpress.com/2009/09/29/walk-on-through-the-wind-walk-on-through-the-rain/feed/ 1 jaae Five Finger Strand Dog undressing a sheep In the hostel http://jaae.wordpress.com/2009/09/24/melmoth-and-me/ http://jaae.wordpress.com/2009/09/24/melmoth-and-me/#comments Thu, 24 Sep 2009 13:48:59 +0000 jaae http://jaae.wordpress.com/?p=180 ]]>

Through the first half of my Christmas travels Melmoth the Wanderer was a faithful companion. I had started with Maturin’s novel shortly before I left Limerick and had read it while waiting at the side of the road for my next lift, in parks and on ferries, in front of the open fire of the hostel on the Aran Islands and on top of Mount Errigal, the highest mountain in Ulster. The dark story about the devil’s servant on earth had made a stronger impression on me than books usually do and I can’t say if this was just a result of my own travels. Anyway, the story was even creeping into my dreams and always present in the back of my head while I was wandering Inis Mor, climbing ancient stone forts and church-ruins. But on one day in I was going to be accompanied by Melmoth in a slightly different way.

Mount Errigal (749m)

It was in Donegal. For a couple of days I stayed in a big, brand new and completely empty hostel in Dunlewey at the foot of Mount Errigal. This day I set off at 9 am, ready to storm the top. Well, I was ready, but not prepared and failed miserably to find the path. After ten minutes I found myself in the middle of a meadow, completely surrounded by water. I had no idea how I managed to get there, but no matter what direction I tried, the water immediately filled my hiking boots. Eventually I found my way out, with wet feet and a seriously damaged spirit. I hadn’t made it farther than 50meters over my hostel and as my escape route went downhill I abandoned my plans to crest. Instead I decided to hike into the Poisoned Glen. And that’s where I met Melmoth.

My way towards the Glen ran along a couple of houses with gardens and dogs in all sizes. One thing they all had in common was the absence of closed garden-gates. At almost every house I passed an angry, nosy or playful but always barking and jumping dog rushed towards me, resulting in strange changes of walking-speed on my side. At the last house, placed shortly before the Glen, which opened up into a brown, muddy-looking valley, a black dog with white belly and white legs, of the perfect size, not big enough to be scary, but substantially bigger than those ratlike breeding-races, was lying on the lawn. He was watching me carefully, but was neither barking nor jumping nor running towards me. When I had passed his house, I wondered what was different about that dog, why he wasn’t acting as crazy as all those other dogs, especially after he had heard them barking for the last 10 minutes. So I turned around to have a final look at him before I advanced further into the valley.

I turned around and there he was, still lying on the grass, motionless. But something was different. He was about half the distance closer than before. Time for me to speed up again, but I hadn’t even turned back towards the valley, when he was already sprinting past me following the path I had planned to take.

My friend Melmoth

I was seriously baffled, when he dashed past me, stood rooted to the ground, now motionless myself. This made him stop too, he turned around and waved his head, like saying “C’me on mate, let’s go!” And as soon as I started walking again, he ran ahead, making clear who was setting pace and route on that day. In the next two hours we walked together into the valley and up a hill on the side of it. Most of the time he would go far ahead or fall back, but he would always come back to me. He would go after sheep, chasing them up and down the hills (useless knowledge: a sheep can run downhill faster than a dog) but leave after a while to come back and check on me. I soon gave him the name Melmoth and maybe it was just my imagination, but I swear he listened to it.

After a couple of hours, we had made it up the hill bordering the valley to the west and for the first time took a break together, looking down at the Glen and Dunlewey Lough. On the way home, taking the short route by going down the steepest side of the hill, Melmoth refused to go ahead for the first time and I had to push him just a little bit. But we made it back to his house, where I walked backwards around the next bend of the road, pointing at him to make him stay. The last I saw of him, was his nose under the fence waiting for me to turn around so he could again follow me.

The next day I made it up to the top of  Mount Errigal and there finished reading Melmoth the Wanderer.

In that last night, while I was signing coasters and Theo earned a new nickname, our host Johnny hit the pubs too. He played guitar with the Mulkerrin Brothers in the American Bar and later joined us for a couple of pints in Joe Mac’s, another pub. In the end we were all pissed, and so was Johnny. I shouldn’t see him sober again.

Theo had planned to leave the island the next morning but missed the ferry and had to stay until the afternoon. In the few days we had walked the whole island together. One of our walks led to the most spectacular archaeological sight of Inis Mor, maybe even of all Ireland. The ring fort Dun Aonghasa is believed to have been built in the Iron Ages. To get there you have to pay entry, walk up a hill and share the place with legions of tourists. Normally. We just walked through the open gate and had the whole place to ourselves. Dun Aonghasa is situated next to more than one hundred meter high cliffs. It looks like someone has cut off a third of the ground, leaving a clean edge on one side. If that place doesn’t give you vertigo, there must something wrong with you.

Shortly after Theo left a new guest arrived at the Artist Hostel. A guest Johnny was really looking forward to meet. He was especially intrigued by the name of the 20-year-old Australian student.

Bonnie Palmer, like a fuckin’ movie-star, he told everyone after reading her reservation-email.

It soon should show that the enthusiasm wasn’t mutual. Bonnie, who had studied in Dublin, was welcomed by a drunken old Irish guy who didn’t exactly hide his interest. After showing her around, he grabbed me and pulled me into the living room. His face close to mine he whispered:

Stay away from her! I’ve seen her first.

And he was serious. A little later he told the Belgian guest An to look out for her boyfriend Peter, because he might go after Bonnie too, then turned away, uttering:

I don’t like ya. You’ll take her away from me too.

An and Peter fled to the pub.

I was reading in the leaving room, but when I heard Johnny asking Bonnie for the fourth time where she is from and what she is doing I decided to join them in the kitchen. Holding on to a cup of tea Bonnie was leaning against the sink with Johnny standing next to her, talking and trying to move closer and closer, ignoring her obvious discomfort. Before they could complete a circle around the kitchen table where I was sitting, I asked her if she was up for a pint with the Belgians. She seemed really relieved when we were leaving.

We found the Belgians in Joe Mac’s and after another couple of hours with Guinness (a sudden short appearance of Johnny next to us) and singing Islanders it was about 2.00 am when I noticed Bonnie almost falling asleep at the table. That she not wanted to be alone in the hostel with the drunken Irishman wasn’t exactly a difficult conclusion, it still took me a while. Well, blame it on the beer. But eventually I asked her if she wanted to go home.

Leaving the Belgians where we had found them Bonnie and I went back to the hostel. It was dark but there was light at the end of the way. The kitchen of the Artist’s Hostel. On the way there we had talked about Johnny hopefully sleeping already. Guess what, he wasn’t. To reach the entrance of the hostel you have to pass the kitchen window and there he was. Sitting at the table, with a cup of tea and talking and gesturing to himself. Or so it seemed.

Now I had met Johnny as an extremely nice, entertaining and, maybe most importantly, sober guy. A great musician with an abundance of stories about the people on the island he was a great host. So I looked a little bit different on what we saw through that window than Bonnie, who had never experienced these qualities. And entering the kitchen didn’t help.

Hey guys. Have you met ‘em, he said, pointing at the two empty chairs next to him.

Without a word Bonnie disappeared in the dorm room. I stayed and was introduced to the two women he was talking to. Always being better with faces than names this wasn’t an ideal situation for me, so after a while I retreated too.

Some time later Johnny knocked at the dorm room, whispering my name. Back in the kitchen he told me he needed money. I hadn’t paid for my stay, but wasn’t sure if he would remember later and therefore offered to pay half of what I owed.

No, no, no, not askin’ ya to pay. We’re friends.
You said you need money, I owe you money. It’s alright.
No, I’m just sayin’ I need money. We’re friends, aren’t we?

Writing it now it seems he wanted me to lend him some. But back then I just convinced him to let me pay half of what I owed.

The next morning Johnny was gone. He had taken the first ferry to go to a funeral in Donegal. An, Peter, Bonnie and me were left alone in the hostel. I stayed for two more days, peaceful but also somehow boring, and then left, leaving an envelope with the rest of the money on the kitchen table. There was no one I could have given it to.

The End

When Tony had left to look after his horse he was replaced by John, another Irishman from Dublin. A musician and gifted teller of all sorts of stories (but not a ‘storyteller’ in the primary sense) he was to be our host for the next couple of days. And he was sober… for now.

Besides me the Artist Hostel housed a Belgian couple and an American Student. Peter, a Klezmer musician, and his girlfriend An, a storyteller, photographer and puppet builder, were slightly older than I and Theo who studied in Italy for the year. The whole group was completed by an old white-haired woman I never learned the name of. As a neighbour living in a mobile home she used the bathrooms, the kitchen and the washing machine of the hostel and appeared whenever the fireplace was lighted. There might be some mystical connection here…

On Christmas Eve, after spending the day exploring the island with Theo Peter and An cooked dinner for us. They had met a guy in the pub the day before who had promised (and delivered) them fish and a traditional receipt. Very salty, but also very good. Afterwards Johnny played and sang some songs on the guitar in front of the fireplace before we moved into the pub. There we had our first big entry.

In times of no-ferry-connection tourists are not a very common sight on Inis Mor. The usual response we got is best described by how a slightly drunk old guy approached us in the pub.

And what are ye fuckin’ Americans doin’ on the fuckin’ island on Christmas?

None of us had a good answer to that.

My hostel-mates where great company, we talked, laughed a lot and drank even more Guinness. The pub was full of locals, no seat was empty and they sang in turns. I already mentioned that practice when I wrote about my twenty minutes of fame (that actually happened two days after Christmas, fuck chronology) but it’s worth telling you more about.

Imagine a normal pub, a lot of booze, a lot of noise and suddenly you here someone shout.

Aoife sing a song!

Aoife, in the middle of a conversation, shakes her head, but it’s too late. More and more people catch on.

Come on Aoife! Just one! Sing something, Aoife!

Aoife is still reluctant, but she probably knows she doesn’t stand a chance. The whole pub is now looking at here, asking her to sing. Finally she grabs the hand of the person besides her. Everyone goes quiet. You hear only one voice, no music.

After she is done, people cheer, shout and eventually get back to their conversations until someone goes again.

Hey Brian, sing a song!

We soon learned that the longer someone has to be asked, the better he or she usually is. And that those, mostly men, who just start singing on their own, are usually the most drunk. But no matter how good one is, once the singing starts people shut up and listen. I heard men and women, old and young sing in Irish and English, always grabbing the person next to them, their hands going up and down in circles (I was told that has something to do with the rhythm). Even we tourists were asked at one point, no problem for the musician Peter and Theo also sang, but I couldn’t get over that barrier inside my head. It’s a shame because I think it’s great how natural music comes to these people. No wonder the Irish are so gifted talkers, if you grow up with singing solo in pubs full of drunken people talking can’t be much of a problem.

A flyer on the wall next to our table invited us to another Irish tradition. On Christmas Day all over Ireland people go swimming in the sea for a good cause. Or as our by now more than just slightly drunk old friend called it ball-shrinking for charity. I wasn’t able to find out though how exactly charity benefits from that. Anyway, Theo and I missed that event when we went looking for an old stone fort the next morning, maybe there was our subconscious at work.

It took us hours and a walk around half of the island along spectacular cliffs to find Dún Dúchathair, the ‘Black Fort’. Climbing up and down the rocks and crossing 500 stone walls (and least that’s how it felt) was exhausting enough and on the way back one of those walls brought about my downfall. Jumping down I twisted my ankle and, having some experience with torn ligaments, could feel something snap. Back in the hostel my foot was already twice its normal size. The next day I spent in the hostel (Ok, I did go to the pub at night, but you do know that story already. Let’s just say it was magical) and the next three weeks I ran around with a bandaged foot.

But the story isn’t going to turn boring just because I was knocked out. Entry Theo, the goat whisperer.

My American hostel-mate decided to go for a walk along the coast. At night. And already on the way back to the hostel Theo heard a sound behind him. He turned around and looked at a goat. Not a big story on Inis Mor, an island full of animals. I saw sheep (though not that many as one might expect), horses, donkeys, chickens and roosters, dogs, cats and even some seals. But this special goat somehow fell for the big baseball player from Pennsylvania and started following him. Now, there isn’t much street lightning on Inis Mor which means it was pretty dark. And being on the high road (literally, there are only two roads, a low road and a high road on Inis Mor) all the traffic to the pub had to pass the two of them. So, worrying for her safety, Theo pushed his new friend off the narrow street every time a car came by. Until he found himself caught in middle of the spotlights of two cars. One of them opened the window.

Is that your goat?

He explained his problem to a car full of young men on their way to the pub, who, after much laughter, offered him a lift and thereby freed him from his follower. Or so he thought.

Later in the pub, while I was signing autographs, Theo started talking to a bunch of girls. After a while one of them got hold of his camera and flipped through the pictures. Suddenly she burst out laughing.

You are the goat-guy!

The story had already spread.

To be continued

Still to come: The last part of my Christmas trilogy. The big finale, what happened when Johnny wasn’t sober anymore and what did we actually see through that kitchen-window? Missed the first part?

Four days after Christmas I was standing outside my hostel and gazed through the window into the kitchen. With me was Bonnie, a student from Australia and while I was more amused than shocked, Bonnie seemed more horrified than amused. For her it must have been the bizarre climax of a very, very strange day. For me it was just another weird moment in an absolutely comical but great week.

It had begun in Limerick where, after the first semester of my Erasmus-stay had just flown by, all my friends had left to go back to their various home-countries for the holiday. All I knew was that I wasn’t going home and couldn’t stay in my apartment as I had given it up and dumped all my stuff at a friends place. Studying over a map of Ireland I came up with a plan and little later I waited with my backpack at a roundabout in Limerick, holding a sign saying ‘Galway’ and ‘Doolin’.

Both of these places have ferry-connections to Inis Mor, the biggest of the three Aran Islands and the idea of spending Christmas with a bunch of Gaelic-speaking islanders seemed strangely appealing to me. I didn’t have to wait long for a ride (lucky enough the guy was going to Galway as someone told me later that there was no ferry from Doolin during the winter season) and on the 23^rd of December I set over to Inis Mor, together with a bunch of locals and their extensive Christmas shopping. The deck was full of packets of all sizes, some already gift-wrapped. From flat-screen TV’s to food everything one could possibly need was on that boat.

In Kilronan, the ‘biggest’ of the ‘towns’, I spent two hours running from one closed hostel to the next or rather from where I had understood these hostels were until I finally found the only open one. The Artists Hostel, a lovely little place, with its unique staff would become the epicentre of all that was going to happen.

Tony

The first to welcome me was Tony, a middle-aged man from Dublin who was helping out as the owner of the hostel left the island to celebrate Christmas with her family. He showed me around and told me how lucky I was to get a place in the hostel as there was no ferry back to Ireland for three days. I hadn’t known that. In the evening I was sitting with him and two other guests in front of the TV, talking about the world and his wife, and watched Tony getting drunk from the coke in front of him. His eyes became smaller and smaller, the TV louder and louder and the questions increasingly bizarre.

Where are ya from?
Austria.
Aah, not Limerick?
No, I study in Limerick. Just for the year.
Limerick, hm. Grand.  Stab City. Are ya workin’ for Dell? Loosin’ ya job, ah?
No, No, I’m studying there.
Studyin’? (looks at the TV) Ya know, here everything is for the children, education, music dance. Do ya have kids?

When he got up to get coal for the fireplace I finally spotted the vodka-bottle he used to spike his drink. Now everything made sense. After he returned (without coal) we continued our conversation, now going where the TV led us. And the more the alcohol took its toll the less controllable the remote control became. Eventually we got stuck with horse racing.

Horse racing is important, ya know? Racing is important… ah… forgot your name. Fuck it. It’s very important. Do ya understand the importance? It’s my horse is faster than yours. You’re polish, where are ya from?

I fled to the kitchen. After a while Tony popped in too, turned on the water boiler to make tea and left. Five minutes later he came back, turned on the water boiler and disappeared again. Another five minutes later he returned, turned on the water boiler and, guess what, left. Two runs of the same procedure later he returned and, to my amazement, took a cup, put a tea-bag in it and filled it with water. Something was obviously wrong. You can understand my relief when he returned a couple of minutes later, completely ignored the cup and turned the water boiler back on. Never change a running system.

The water boiled once again before Tony returned for the last time.

Goin’ to look after me horse, he said and left.

To be continued.

Still to come: more increasingly drunk Irish, a lot of music and what we saw through the kitchen-window.

December 26 is an important day on Inis Mor, the biggest of the three Aran Islands. Right in the middle of three days without ferry-connection to Ireland the local pubs reopen from their one day christmas-break. Needless to say, it is a day of celebration. December 26 was also the third day of my stay and the day I injured my ankle while jumping over an ancient stonewall. But that shouldn’t stop me from having one of the strangest nights of my life.

The locals honoured this day with traditional Irish music and dance, paradoxically in the American Bar. Old and young, male and female filled the small room around the bar, leaving only about two square meters for the dancing. We were right in the middle of this vibrant mix. “We” means me and my fellow tourists and hostel-mates: Theo, a student from Pennsylvania, Ann, a Belgian storyteller and puppet-builder and her boyfriend Peter, a Klezmer musician.

The Mulkerrin Brothers, three young locals who a few weeks later won the All Ireland Talent Show on RTE, played in one corner of the little room but now and then guests started to sing too. It’s a weird thing to watch for an Austrian guy when a whole bar turns completely silent just to listen to one voice singing. And most of them really knew what they were doing… but even if not, people give them respect.

Theo rapidly won the acceptance of some older locals, by singing the first verse of Bob Dylan’s Mr Tambourine Man. He had found a place at their table and was now trying to figure out their strong Irish accent. Meanwhile I was sitting at the bar with the two Belgians, a filled and a couple of empty glasses of Guinness. At this time we were all already used to the attention we draw on us, every time we entered a room. The locals didn’t really expect tourists at that time of the year, and so I wasn’t too concerned about the bunch of little girls watching me from a safe distance. That turned out to be a mistake.

“Harry Potter”, “little girls” and “autographs” were the only words I understood from the stream of words a local suddenly poured over me. He wasn’t too patient about my confusion and signed me to follow him. The Belgians watched amused when I obeyed slightly concerned and seriously baffled. Owen, as I later learned was his name, led me to the other end of the bar, bridging the safe distance to the same group of little girls whose shy interest I had dismissed as the usual notion of “What’s a tourist doing here?”. Now, standing in front of them, Owen’s earlier words suddenly made sense. The girls, aged between four and ten, believed me to be Daniel Radcliffe, the young actor they had seen in so many Harry Potter-movies. And Owen thought this was very funny. And that it would be even funnier if I would play along and give them some autographs. The beer took its toll and I found myself asking little girls for their names and if they liked my movies, signing beer coasters, and talking about my latest project on the New York Broadway.

I was still signing coasters for little girls who missed out on the first autograph-session a couple of hours later, when the whole thing started to seriously gnaw on my beer-soaked conscience. Leo and the Belgians however found it incredibly amusing, constantly assuring me of my striking resemblance to the 19-year-old Brit. I can’t be sure that even happened, because my memories were increasingly blurred, but I was told it even increased when I tried on Peter’s round glasses (that admittedly looked like those of Harry). The later the night, the patchier my memories but I know that some other things that happened in that night better be buried in oblivion.

However, for the rest of my stay I was constantly guarding my back, waiting for the revenge of a group of disappointed, furious about being outrageously tricked, little girls. It never happened.

If you ever go to Buenos Aires and want to party do it on Sunday, because on Monday everything is closed anyway. The only open thing to do I could find was the legendary stadium of the Boca Juniors, la Bomboñera. I took a tour as the only English-speaking guy with a bunch of South Americans and therefore enjoyed a lot of attention from the pretty female guide. Before speaking to the group in Spanish she would always speak to me in English. Finally I got the attention I deserve…

La Bomboñera holds over 57.000 people and is home of one of the two big clubs in Buenos Aires. It’s painted in gold and blue, the colors of the Boca Juniors since they lost their first colors (black and white) in a bet to another team. It’s said the colors were taken from a Swedish ship (La Boca is a harbour-district). A special restriction applies to red, the color of the local rival River Plate. It can’t touch the walls (directly) and even sponsor Coca Cola has to obey that rule. We visited the incredible steep stands, the changing room of the visitors and the museum. I would have loved to see a game in that atmosphere.

The night was Flora’s last in South America so we went to have dinner in a little Parilla where I had the best piece of meat of my life. On plastic tablecloth and with a not so good wine. Afterwards we looked for a club that hosted a tango-competition. We were pretty late, it had started in the afternoon and we didn’t have to pay entry, and saw only three rounds of eight couples dancing to three songs on the same stage. There were people from all over South America but also Asia and Europe (Italy, Germany and even Serbia). I have no idea how you would judge those people, each couple seemed to do completely different stuff, but my favourite was a little old lady with a bigger, long-haired gentleman. They jumped around like teenagers. Teenagers that are very good at tango. I’m not sure, but it might have been the same woman (ok, probably not) who sat in a side-street of San Telmo at the Sunday-market and played little cooking-pot-drums only stopping to raise a sign that said ‘Show me the money!’.

I also learned more about the complicated story of Flora’s French-German-friend. She came to Argentina with two friends and their flight home was on the 22. It was cancelled and while they were on their way to get a new appointment her bag was stolen, containing nothing than a few books, a cellphone and her German passport. So this night her friends left without her. Then the blessings of a dual citizenship started. The French embassy wanted a copy of her French passport which is in France and the porter of the German embassy told her it’s a French problem as she was born there. And anyway it was too late as the embassy closes at 11am. Another day and another walk to the embassy later she eventually made it inside the German embassy where suddenly everything went without any problems. She can get her temporary passport tomorrow, hopefully.

In the morning Flora took off to the airport and I started a trip in the past. First to the famous Ricoleto graveyard where Evita Peron is buried next to a lot of important Argentinians. A lot of the names I saw during the tour (I came just in time to join the group and it was for free) I knew from streetsigns in practically every Argentinian city. The graveyard consists only of tombs and looks like a little village. We were told the spots are owned by private people who only have to pay a little tax every year. If they don’t pay, nothing happens. Therefore the tombs range from huge to tiny and from perfectly well maintained to completely desolate. We heard the story of the military whose body was stolen from young Peronists (after they had killed him) to swap it with Evita Peron’s which was ‘held hostage’ by the military junta. And of the young woman who was buried alive. A statue of the young woman with her hand on the doorknob reminds of that tragic story. However, the statue is outside, so it looks like she wants to get in. The old guide had a seemingly endless knowledge about this place. Some of the tombs look like houses, with glass-doors through which you can see the coffins. It’s a weird way to spend one’s money, if you ask me.

After visiting Evita’s tomb (she is buried with her parents after an Odysee through Italian graveyards, military captivity and a villa of her husband) I went to her museum in one of the most expensive parts, where the kioskos sell bottles of champagne instead of cans of beer. The museum is a neat place with some old stuff she owned and more interesting video-material. But not exactly a must-see of Buenos Aires.

Back in the hostel I started to get ready for my own leaving and then accompanied the French-German girl to her flight-company. She had troubles getting a new flight and wanted an English-interpreter, just to be sure. First it seemed she not only would have to wait until the 29th, but also have to pay for changing her flight (although her first one was cancelled and she had been promised the free change by a ‘Natascha’ at the airport), but after a while everything seemed to work out. She has to go to the airport on Thursday and will get a flight on the same day. Hopefully.

And the moral of the story: Do not book AirComet!

Like the first time we booked into the Art Factory Hostel in San Telmo. Five nights for me, so I had more time to see the city. Palermo, San Telmo and La Boca, the Museum of Fine Arts, of Latinoamericano Art and of Evita; there was a lot to do.

In the last week the atmosphere between Flora and me got a little bit tense and now somehow we started going separate ways. First we wanted to go together to a dinner with Lucia and Elisa (the girls I had met in Uspallata), but minutes before we had to leave she changed her mind. So I grabbed two bottles of wine and went alone. I met the girls in Elisa’s apartement, a really nice place half an hour walk away from the hostel, we had a great dinner and wine and when I walked back to the hostel it was 4.00am.

The next morning, not very surprisingly, I slept in and just managed to get up before the breakfast was over. After a while I started walking (a lot of walking these days) to Palermo, a district in the north-east of Buenos Aires, where a lot of bobo-style art-galleries and restaurants and designer-boutiques have transformed an old run-down district into a hip tourist-place. The open markets kept me busy for a while and when I had enough I changed to the dozens of book-shops on Avenida Santa Fe and Avenida Corrientes. One of these shops (somewhere near Santa Fe – Callao) has to be the greatest bookshop on earth. Ok, the Guardian begs to differ, in their ranking it only came fifth, but come on, it’s a theatre that houses a bookshop! A theatre! Parquet, tiers and gallery are full of bookshelves, in the loges comfy seats invite to stay and read and the stage is turned into little coffee-shop. The best bookshop ever. Unfortunately all the books were in Spanish, so my visit was pure sight-seeing. Back in the hostel I fell asleep reading (boring I know, but did I mention the walking?) while Flora went out with a French girl that stayed in the dorm with us.

The best bookshop in the world

The next day I visited another bookshop, an English one this time, and then the famous San Telmo market. San Telmo is the oldest district in Buenos Aires and the market is full of antiquities, art and music. Running around taking pictures an old guitar-player noticed me and tried to tell me his life-story (and make me buy a piece of paper for 10 pesos). He jumped between English and Spanish and right after I finally made my escape an older woman started to tell me about her family. She had overheard that I am from Vienna and had to talk to me because her mother was from there. In the evening I visited the Museo de Arte Latinoamericano de Buenos Aires, the best one so far, featuering mainly modern art. I also wanted to see the Evita-museum but ran out of time. Maybe I should take the bus or metro sometimes. On the other hand I found a great market walking home, wouldn’t want to miss that. On Plaza Francia, with more interesting hand-made stuff than anywhere else.

My guitar-playing friend

Flora’s French friend turned out to be half German, so I can actually understand her. Although they are still talking French all the time.

Two more days, more walking, more shops and more museums ahead. I actually start to like Buenos Aires.