Belfast and the gorgeous Antrim Coast continued (tons of pictures)
November 09, 2005
One thing I realized (which has perhaps been obvious for a while now?)while in Ireland is how low my self-esteem must have plummeted these past two years in Egypt. Before I moved back here, I was the most happy I had ever been with myself, despite the fact that I was a good 40 lbs (probably more) overweight, and I didn�t really take much care in how I dressed, and I wasn�t really going anywhere with my life, etc. But Egyptian demands on how girls dress and present themselves socially are high. Add to that the fact that I feel like a guy hasn�t even so much as looked my way in the two years I�ve been here, and the ability to hold an intelligent conversation is not very highly valued here on the whole, and I have basically turned into the type of girl I generally scorn�the kind who needs external validation of her looks and character, especially from guys.
Anyway, I only bring this up because the amount and type of male attention I received in Ireland was (and is still) surprising to me. On the one hand, my waning self-esteem made me kind of oblivious to the attention while it was being given ( �Was he just flirting with me? No, of course not.�), but in retrospect�and after confirmations from friends and siblings�it�s been unusually gratifying. I also bring it up because Yibba wanted to know if I will be embarking on a Harlequin-type chapter in my Ireland escapades. If we�re talking about the sort of insecurity and cheesy pick up lines that drive romance novels, then the answer is yes. If we�re talking about the romance that is the purpose of romance novels, then, sadly, no.
Enter Neville�the hot Bermudan mentioned in the last entry. On my first night in the hostel in Belfast, after eating and showering and such, I went down to the hostel basement which doubles as a gaming/tv/smoking room. (It looked pretty cool, painted by previous residents, with big, comfy couches, though the poor pictures I have of it do not do it justice.)
There I met two German brothers�Felix and Paul�who extolled to me the virtues of hand-rolled cigarettes and generally talked my ear off. In an attempt to escape Felix� especially boring chatter, I ran upstairs with the excuse that I wanted to check out the vending machine for a quick snack. As I was contemplating whether to get something sweet or savory, a voice behind me�that sounded much like Sgt. Luther Robinson�s from the movie-version of Hedwig�said, �Don�t do it.�
Like a scene straight out of a movie, I turned around to find a tall, slender black man lounging on a loveseat with a grin on his face. He said again, �Don�t do it. I thought about it earlier, but decided against it. That shit�s bad for you.� He then asked me where I was from, what I was doing in Belfast, and then�patting the empty space on the couch next to him�told me to sit down and chat. We chatted a bit, but because Neville was just *so* confident and easy-going, thus for some reason making me uneasy, I made some excuse about having left my bag downstairs, and tried to leave. But Neville wouldn�t let me go until I agreed to have breakfast with him the next morning before I left on the day-long tour up the Antrim coast that I had booked. And so I promised to try and make it, though I�m not a morning person and the tour bus was leaving at 9 etc., etc. And then I went back downstairs and ended up hanging out with the Germans and the two patriotic Canadians (one of whom was tall, skinny, and obnoxious, and whom I obviously found attractive, because God forbid I go for the actually good-looking, interesting, adult as opposed to the insecure, pasty-faced, obnoxious child) until about midnight.
Anyway, my time in Belfast was very much about boys, boys, boys, and their apparent admiration of me and I�m sure I will indulge myself in more stories about that later because it did result in a funny/cute incident. But the reason I went to Belfast in the first place was mainly two see two things: the Antrim Coast, especially the famed Giant�s Causeway, and the political murals in western Belfast. Therefore, the rest of this entry is better told in pictures.
On the drive up the Antrim coast
I felt like I was being mocked�
And you know all those clich�s about Ireland being all castles, and sheep, and cow, and green hills? They�re true.
At the Carrick-a-Rede rope bridge (which is also featured on the cover of the Rough Guide Ireland)
Being afraid of heights, I did not actually cross the rope bridge, only admired it
An artsy stairway shot
And finally, we arrived at the Giant�s Causeway, which was, frankly, a little underwhelming, but cool nonetheless
The path to the Causeway
Our last stop on the tour was the Bushmills Whiskey distillery
