I was waiting at a bus stop in Westport when I saw two girls loading a hatchback full of big cardboard boxes. They were gesturing at the car and seemed to be arguing about something. I walked over to them and asked if I could help with anything. Taking the appearance of an American backpacker in stride, the Irish girls asked how they might best secure a mattress to the roof of their car. Having dealt with this problem when I moved to college, I happily helped the girls carry a queen size mattress down a flight of stairs and lashed it to their car for them. They thanked me and asked if I needed a lift somewhere. I told them that I was heading for Cork on the south coast and they said they’d be happy to take me as far as Limerick—more than two-thirds of the way!

I stuffed my backpack into the box-laden trunk, but when I opened the back door to get in, I saw that the backseat was also full of boxes. “Oh, we’ll have to share the front seat,” one of the girls said nonchalantly. It took every ounce of my being to appear nonplussed about the prospect of cozying up with this beautiful Irish stranger for a road trip. “Sure, yeah, whatever,” I said with a casual shrug. The three of us piled into the over-encumbered hatchback and put the quaint little town of Westport in our rearview. At one point, the girl sitting on my lap suddenly started laughing hysterically. When I asked what was so funny, she said that she was just imagining the look on her ex-boyfriend’s face when he came home and realized that she had stolen his mattress. The girls snorted with laughter and I laughed along with them, somewhat nervously. Paint me red and call me an accessory…

After an entertaining drive down to Limerick, I said goodbye to the two lovely larcenists and got a bus to complete my journey to Cork. Cork was a proper city; much larger and concrete-laden than anywhere I’d been in Ireland since leaving Dublin. Cork felt very different from the rural Ireland I’d grown accustomed to. It had crowds of people walking along its streets, honking cars at traffic lights, and a noticeable touch of pollution in the air. I had looked up a well-reviewed hostel on my phone on the bus so I was a bit confused when my GPS lead me to a bar with the same name as the hostel. I went in and asked the bartender about accommodation. He smiled and pulled out a clipboard and told me he had bunks available until the weekend at the very agreeable rate of 14 Euros per night. After I paid him, he showed me to a door in the back that opened to a large stairwell. It turns out that above that little bar was seven floors of hostel rooms, common areas, and kitchens. I unloaded my pack, changed my clothes, and made my way back downstairs to shoot some pool in the bar.

I quickly made friends with other backpackers at the hostel. There was a girl from New York, two pairs of Australians, an exceptionally tall Englishman, and a handful of very pretty Brazilian girls. One very friendly and funny Spanish guy, named Marçel, even had a twelve-string guitar with him that he let me jam on. One of the Brazilian girls was eager to sing with me and so we spontaneously signed up for the bar’s open mic night to earn ourselves some free drinks. Before our turn on stage, we, unfortunately, had to sit through an Italian man’s very dramatic rendition of Wonderwall. When it was our turn, we got to perform for an entire hour, the Brazilian girl’s high voice harmonizing uncannily well with mine. We earned a generous amount of Guinness for our duet, which we happily shared with our group of new international friends.

The group was buzzing with energy, so we decided to leave the hostel to explore the nightlife of Cork. We popped into a nearby pub for some refreshments and were greeted inside by the deafening silence of elderly patrons who clearly weren’t looking for company. A quick look around told us that this was not your average pub. First and foremost, it was fully carpeted with bright red baize. There were antlers and mounted trophy heads of various game that had the vegetarian Aussies in our group shuddering. Despite the cold stares, the golden amber sconces illuminating the handsome woodwork of the bar made it feel very warm and cozy inside.

We crowded in around the bar and I followed my new Spanish friend Marçel’s in ordering a locally brewed ale. I got along well with Marçel and spoke to him at length about the kind of music he played. Eschewing Spanish stereotypes, he played mostly metal as opposed to flamenco. He was from a Catalonian village outside of Barcelona, a humble place of natural beauty he invited me to visit someday. The bartender in the little pub had opened a group tab for everyone, complicating things a bit when it came time to pay due to the unorthodoxly priced beers (4.35, 6.09, 5.77…not joking).

The Brazilian girls knew of a nightclub less than a mile away, so we made our way there as a loud and rambunctious posse. Downtown Cork was festively decorated with wreaths and lights, reminding me that Christmas was right around the corner. Following the Brazilian’s lead, we turned down a narrow alleyway that led to the inconspicuous entrance of a club called “Crane Lane.” There were two large bouncers at the door that seemed to be letting everyone walk in without any hassle, however, they stopped me and asked, “Hey boyo, how you feelin’ tonight? Had a few too many?” I realized that in a crowd of jackets and scarves I must have stood out like a sore thumb in my short-sleeved shirt. Improvising, I laughed and told them in a feigned Russian accent that the Irish winter weather was nicer than the warmest summer day in Siberia. They laughed and waved me in.

Crane Lane was an interesting place. The front gate led into an uncovered stone passageway filled with little tables and crowds of smokers. Ducking into a small door to the left, we found ourselves in a blue neon-lit bar boasting loud, upbeat electronic music. The room opened up around the corner to reveal a live DJ set up in front of a small dance floor where a handful of people were dancing to 90s pop hits. There was another bar along the back wall of this room, but I couldn’t help be feel a little let down by the low energy of this place. But then the Brazilians lead our group through a set of double doors behind the second bar, where the energy of the club changed entirely. The pop and electronic music disappeared as the doors swung closed behind us, replaced instead by the raw sound of a live rockabilly-blues band on stage. Before us was a barn-sized room with a wooden dance floor full of swing dancers. A banner hanging over the stage bore the band’s name, One Horse Pony. The room was packed and the people were dressed with an old-timey sense of style. It was like stepping back in time. There was yet another bar in this room, and Marçel and I ordered a couple of delicious beers from the local Franciscan Well brewery.

The Brazilians took the dance floor by storm, and while they didn’t seem to know how to swing dance, they nevertheless became the center of attention. After a while, I met a nice German girl who I attempted to swing dance with but I’m afraid I only embarrassed myself. For the sake of my pride and her poor bruised toes, I eventually passed her off to a well-dressed gentleman who seemed to know what he was doing. As I made my way back toward my friends at the bar, a large, barrel-chested man walked straight into me and rudely barked to get out of his way. I stood my ground and told him he was a big boy and could walk around. We exchanged some heated words before he finally whistled over to his equally large buddy who came over and helped drag me out of the club. I didn’t realize I was mouthing off to one of the club’s security guards… My friends followed me outside and joined me in laughing about the whole situation. We briefly visited another nightclub, but since it was just more of the same electronic pop music we’d heard before, it wasn’t long before we returned to the hostel.

I was up surprisingly early the next morning and set off on my own to explore the city. My first stop was the Shandon Bell Tower, which came highly recommended by my dad, who had visited Cork in the 70s as a vagabond himself. I found the bell tower in an isolated part of town at the top of a cobblestone street. Inside I found a young woman sitting at a small reception table requesting two-Euro donations. I happily obliged and she gave me a pair of protective earmuffs and pointed to a narrow stone stairwell.

I reached the first landing and saw eight numbered ropes along the wall with a small songbook on a stand nearby. I gave one of the ropes a test pull and a moment later heard the satisfying clang of a five hundred pound bell above me. I opened the songbook and played a handful of familiar tunes on the resonating bells for the whole city to hear—Here Comes the Sun, Molly Malone, When the Saints Go Marching In—I found myself enthralled with the power that had been bestowed upon me for a mere two-Euros. I climbed an even narrower stairwell up into the loft where the bells hung. There were more than a few pigeons that I had to swat out of my way. I climbed a short ladder from there and pushed open a trapdoor to emerge outside onto a balcony encircling the top of the bell tower. The views of the city from there were spectacular, and as I took a few photos, I felt my whole body vibrate as someone played You Are My Sunshine on the bells under my feet.

I made my way back to the bustle of downtown, finding myself right in the middle of Princes Street, otherwise known as the shopping district. I passed all the designer stores without interest, but curiously wandered into a large indoor farmers market simply called The English Market. There were dozens of little vendors selling local foods and I assembled myself a hearty lunch from their selection.

My next stop was St. Finbarr’s Cathedral, a striking gothic structure on the far side of the city. From every angle, it was absolutely incredible to look at. It was unfortunately closed that day so I just took a nice walk around it and found a nice spot to sit down with my lunch. As I passed the cemetery, I encountered two girls holding hands and walking a cat on a leash. I chatted with the girls for a while and asked for recommendations on what to do and see in Cork. They said I absolutely must visit the Oliver Plunkett Whiskey Bar. At one point the cat, which had been surprisingly docile and still while I talked to the girls, darted after a squirrel up a nearby tree until he reached the end of his leash with a jerk. The girl tugged on the leash, shouting “Down Mr. Binksy!” as the cat remained steadfastly clawed into the bark halfway up the tree. I thanked the girls for their advice and headed off, chuckling to myself as I heard the cries of “Down Mr. Binksy!” fade behind me.

After wandering aimlessly through the city and taking in the sights, I crossed a couple of bridges and found myself at a riverside bookstore called Vibes and Scribes. In an earlier blog post, I mention how I’d lost a Bill Bryson book titled “Neither Here Nor There” on an airplane. It had been lent to me by my father and so I had been looking for a replacement ever since. Well, after exploring dozens of used bookstores in England, Scotland, and Ireland—which I must say, were all very worthwhile places to visit—it was there in Cork that I finally found my replacement. Overjoyed, I took the book back to the hostel bar, kicked my feet up in front of the fireplace, and picked up with the last chapter I’d left off on nearly two months earlier.

Later that night, while my group of international friends returned to the same club scene, I decided to go to the Oliver Plunkett Whiskey Bar that the cat-walking girls had recommended. It was a warm, spacious pub with plenty of handsome dark woodwork inside. The atmosphere was warm and inviting, especially with the small Irish band comprised of a guitar, banjo, and accordion player performing in the far corner. A wooden staircase in the middle of the bar wound up to an exclusive whiskey-only bar where actual barrels of aging spirits were stacked to the top of the high-arched ceilings.

I chatted with the bartender excitedly about what to try first. After trying some different samplers and enjoying some nice small talk with the bartender, a middle-aged man in a tweed jacket walked up and attempted to order two scotches with a thick accent. I instinctively asked the man in German where he was from. His name was Heinrich, a professor from Munich, and he seemed delightfully surprised to meet another German speaker in Ireland. He invited me to join his table where I met his lovely Polish girlfriend, Beata, and an Irishman named Patrick whom they’d befriended earlier that day. I found Patrick bore a striking resemblance to Mel Gibson and I told him that. He laughed, pulled out his phone, and showed me a picture of him standing next to Mel Gibson. I assumed it was a wax museum photo, but then he showed me more photos of him on movie sets together with the actor—he was actually one of Mel Gibson’s stunt doubles! I chatted, drank, and laughed with this wonderfully unorthodox group of strangers for hours.

Eventually, Beata asked if I would like to join her and Heinrich on their drive through the scenic Ring of Kerry countryside that weekend. She even offered to pay for a room at the bed and breakfast they were staying at on Saturday. Apparently, they’d been having a bit of trouble with the language barrier and thought it would be great if I tagged along. I said I would be more than happy to join them. We carried on drinking whiskey until it got late and we parted with promises of seeing each other again soon. It wasn’t until the next morning that I realized I never exchanged numbers with them…

The next morning I walked to the train station hoping to catch a ride to the nearby town of Cobh (pronounced Cove), where the Titanic had made its last stop at Queens Ferry Harbor before sailing to its doom in the frigid Atlantic. It turned out that the train tracks were temporarily under construction, but there was a bus running there at a discounted price. I took it and found myself in the picturesque and tranquil seaside town of Cobh by noon. The emptiness of the offseason was palpable as I walked the deserted streets. I explored the large cathedral at the center of town, bought a few postcards, and enjoyed a quiet lunch by the sea. I then walked along a pebble beach and skipped some rocks along the crystal water, savoring the simple joy of being somewhere new with not a care in the world. As I walked back toward the station, I popped into a secondhand store and bought myself a nice black sport coat for ten-Euros. I wore it out, greatly smartening up my appearance. As luck would have it, I found five Euros in one of the pockets. Serendipity strikes again.

After taking the bus back to Cork, I wandered my way onto the campus of Cork University College. It was a beautiful campus with a blend of medieval stonework and modern glass architecture. As I was taking some photos, I heard someone call my name. It was Heinrich, the German professor I’d met the day before at the whiskey bar. He came over to me and asked in exasperated German if I could help with some translating; he was being given a tour of the campus by the university’s chancellor and couldn’t understand a word the man was saying. I laughed at our fortuitously unexpected reunion and happily agreed. Introducing myself to the chancellor as Heinrich’s old friend and impromptu translator, I found myself treated to a free tour of the campus. We got VIP treatment with special access to parts of the college most people were typically barred from. We were shown things like the rare books archive, the chancellor’s quarters, and the relics room where I got to hold the school’s bejeweled silver mace. After our tour, we said goodbye to the chancellor with many thank yous and dankeschöns.

Before saying goodbye, Heinrich and I made sure to exchange numbers and agreed to meet in his hotel parking lot the next morning for our drive to the Ring of Kerry. After he left, I made my way to the university cafeteria for a nice cheap dinner. With a tray full of hearty food, I looked around the crowded room for where to sit. My eyes fell on a table where three beautiful girls were laughing loudly, and after assuring myself that fortune favors the bold, I walked over and asked to join them.

The girls were more than happy to have a smartly dressed American eat with them, and they asked me all sorts of questions about who I was and where I’d been traveling. Two of the girls, Mary and Nora, had brilliant red hair that flowed out behind them, while Bree had short brown curls that playfully framed her face. When I mentioned that I used to teach yoga in college, they got all excited and asked me if I wanted to come to their yoga class that evening. I told them I couldn’t, that I didn’t have the right clothes with me, but they were adamant. The next thing I knew, I was in a girls’ dormitory trying on sweatpants and t-shirts that were two sizes too small for me. With everyone changed into yoga attire, the four of us walked across campus to the yoga class. Mary, Nora, and Bree made me out to be some sort of yoga ambassador from the western hemisphere and there was great fanfare about having an international guest. I was grateful when a calmness finally descended on the room and the hour-long practice began.

After the class, Bree and Nora invited me for a drink at their favorite bar in town, the Franciscan Well Brewery. Never in all my years of yoga classes back in the States had I ever heard girls say, “That was such a great yoga practice, let’s go knock back a few pints!” I was delighted to get to visit the brewery after so thoroughly enjoying Franciscan Well beers around town the last couple days. They had a special pistachio craft ale on tap that blew my mind.

After a few rounds, we returned to the girls’ dormitory so that I could change back into my clothes and collect my things. As I was pulling on my jeans, there was suddenly a loud knock on the door and a stern-faced old woman burst in univited. “Aha, I saw you sneaking in! No boys allowed in the girls dormitory after 10pm!” she shouted and grabbed me by the sleeve. I hastily grabbed my bag and tried to button up my shirt as I blubbered, “It’s not what it looks like, I only took my clothes off to do yoga!” “Out!” she shouted and pulled me out of the room as I waved longingly goodbye to the girls. The woman marched me out the front door, shouted at me on the steps, “You should know better,” and slammed the door behind me. I stood there on the dormitory steps for a moment, looking disheveled with my mismatched shirt buttons and open belt buckle. I got a respectful nod from a guy passing by on a skateboard. I couldn’t help but laugh at the whole American Pie scenario.

The next morning I packed my things, checked out of my hostel, and followed my GPS to the hotel where I was supposed to meet professor Heinrich and his girlfriend Beata. It was a long walk across town with my heavy backpack but I eventually found the place. Heinrich was checking out at reception when I arrived and I waved at him through the window. He looked startled. He came outside and told me that he was sorry, but he couldn’t offer me a ride anymore. When I asked him why not, he said that this trip was meant to be a romantic getaway and that he was worried having a third wheel tag along might spoil things. I hesitated a moment. On the one hand, I understood his concern perfectly, and would likely do the same were our places were switched. But on the other hand, we’d seen each other twice in as many days and traded phone numbers—he could have conveyed his misgivings before I’d hiked across the city with a fifty-pound backpack. He also didn’t want Beata to know since she was still excited for me to join them. I guess he just planned to tell her that I’d changed my mind. I finally responded to him in German, simply saying, “You disappoint me,” and turned back the way I’d come.

It seemed a shame that my time in Cork should come to such a disappointing end. I came around a corner and found myself standing in front of a big calligraphic sign that simply said Serendipity Cafe. I smiled, taking it as a good omen, and went inside for a coffee.

As I sipped my drink and thought about what to do with my day, I couldn’t help but notice the group of familiar-looking guys sitting in a nearby booth. I overheard one of them say something about “guitar solos” when it hit me! It was the rockabilly-blues band, One Horse Pony, I’d seen a couple nights earlier at the Crane Lane club! I walked over to their table and told them how much I’d enjoyed their show. I told them that I’d wanted to buy a CD from them the other night before I, unfortunately, got myself kicked out of the club. They laughed at the story and said they’d be happy to give me a CD for free. I left the Serendipity Cafe beaming at my uncanny luck. As I walked, I resolved to try hitchhiking my way out of town instead of checking back into another hostel. Once again, I was setting off into the unknown without a plan or a destination. I was lost and that’s just the way I liked it.