The streets, alive with color, glisten with a hint of something special, something unspoken. Lovers embrace, strangers congregate, and the pints keep on flowing. Children with painted faces laugh and play as they chase the trails of waving flags. Galway errupts into a sea of orange, green, and white. Foreigners embrace the nation with a steady handshake, and I smile knowing I was a part of something good.
To experience St.Patrick's Day in any country is a priveledge. To partake in the celebration in Ireland is a whole other ball game. Arriving in Galway city at 1pm on March 17, I was greeted by bumper to bumper traffic, tourists lost in the hustle and bustle, and a bursting bladder. I found parking, a washroom, and a growing crowd I just couldn't resist. The cobblestone streets that made up Galway's city centre vibrated with the hurried steps of a million bodies anxious to partake in the festivities. Street performers sprinkled the alleyways and played tunes from all walks of life. Children clapped along to their Irish flutes and borons and tossed coins into their open cases .
The smell of popcorn rose over the heads of each spectator while the cafe next door emanated a freshly brewed aroma. As I shuffled through the dense crowd, I found myself fighting for space against the patio chairs and tables that lined the sidewalk. Queues for pubs ran out the door and around the corner while their table tops remain littered with drained Guinness glasses.
When I was finally able to break free from the growing crowd, I found my Swiss and German friends; Claudie and Hanna, burried beneath the madness. Arm in arm we braved the streets and took to the pubs, anxious to get the ball rolling. Three hours later we were short two bottles of wine, our pockets jingled a little less, and we were now three friends richer. As the night went on we shuffled from pub to pub, eyeballed a few bartenders, and let loose in the streets of Galway.
By 2am we were in desperate need of our grungy and uncomfortable single-beds that awaited us. So we carried on through the alley ways of Galway until we found our run down, sad excuse for a hostel and climbed all too willingly into our assigned bunks. Four hours later and too far into a deep sleep to know where we were, we were woken by what I can describe as no better than a very confused and highly intoxicated individual. He practically threw himself from the door way to the other side of the room with a single drunken lurch and in doing so cracked his head on the metal frame of the bunk bed. But this gentleman wasn't the worst of our worries. After he finally found what I assume was his bunk and not someone else's, a loud banging from the other side of the door had us all sitting upright.
"Tommy! Tommy you arse, open the door! Ahhh feck!!! Tommmmmmmmmmmy!"
This continued on for about 5 minutes, in the meantime waking up the entire hostel, until the first stumbling idiot shook himself out of a coma and opened the door. Now there were three stumbling idiots and the two who were waiting ever so patiently outside the door were fuming. A brawl immediately broke out, the three drunkards stumbled and fell over one another until I couldn't take it anymore. Now I'm a patient person, but this was getting ridiculous. So by the power vested in me I told those idiots off and they soon fell into a drunken stupor.
The next morning Hanna came running into our room with a grave expression strewn across her face. When asked what was wrong she was speechless. She merely motioned for me to follow her into the bathroom where we found the most god awful mess either of us had ever witnessed. The stench was enough to choke a horse and we gasped for relief from its burning sting. Apparently someone had misjudged the location of the toilet and that someone had the runs. As horrified as we both were, our thoughts immediately settled on the three boozers who were happily snoring away. Nonchalantly we stomped around the room, turned all of the lights on, and yelled at the stop of our lungs until all three douche bags were up and adam.
As they lay in bed they recalled the previous night's events.
"Tommy why were you yellin' at the toilet last night?" Asked Idiot number 1.
"What do you mean, I wasn't."
"Ahh sure. We could hear ya from in here. You were screamin at it tellin it to go fuck off." Piped up Idiot number 2.
By this point I couldn't hold back the laughter that was dying to escape and in between each giggle I said, "I know why..." Curiousity boiling, Idiot number 1 demanded an answer. Casually I said, "Well, there's a bit of a mess in the washroom."
"Dude, Tommy did you get sick last night?" Idiot number 2 asked out of utter disgust.
"Guess again," I muttered.
While Idiot 1 and 2 shoot out of bed to investigate, Tommy curled up under the covers in utter embarassment. It took about a minute until the silence was broken by horrified screams and muffled laughter coming from the bathroom. Tommy is sure, for the rest of his life, to be remembered as the lad who pooped on the floor.
St.Patrick's Day means something different to everyone. For some it's green Heineken, painted faces, and stumbling crowds. Others it's shamrocks settling in a creamy pint, defecating on a bathroom floor, and clapping your hand on the back of the fellow beside you in an act of pure comraderie. For me, St.Patrick's Day was a last hurray with some, a reunion with others, and a night I'll never forget.
Connemara is also home to a plethera of organic salmon farms, free range sheep, and of course, the Connemara pony. Going back to the 1500's, little but butch Scandanavian ponies ran amuck through the rocky bogs of the region, tireless in their search for true love. Then, as if their prayers had been answered, they were delivered the most studly of studs; the Spanish Armada horses. Unable to keep their composure, the little ponies threw themselves at the Spanish stallions in a fit of passion. And so what we're left with after that short but steamy affair is the Connemara pony. 
"Connemara is a savage beauty" Oscar Wilde 
