Wanting to escape the relentless rain in Dublin, I decided early Friday morning to head west for Galway. I took a long walk through the city with my backpack, following the River Liffey back past the Guinness storehouse until I eventually came to Phoenix Park, home of the Dublin Zoo. Peacefully walking along Smithfield Avenue, a two lane road running through the expansive green park, I casually stuck my thumb out like a hitchhiker and enjoyed the stillness of the morning. I heard a car approaching from behind and suddenly the morning calm was rudely interrupted by the chirp of a siren. A Garda (police) car pulled alongside me and a uniformed officer informed me that it was illegal to hitchhike from within city. I responded that I thought it would be okay since I was in the woods, at which point the officer said “Ah, nice try. Hop in, I’ll give you lift to the coach station.” I shrugged and thought ‘why not?’ AFter a bit of begging, the officer was nice enough to let me ride up front so I didn’t feel like a convict. At one point he even gave me his hat and encouraged me to stare at people through the window to see their reactions–basically bestowing a superpower on me. I asked if I could take photos, but he said not to since he could get in trouble for letting me ride shotgun. When we arrived at the coach station I warmly thanked him for the lift and the superpower.

I bought a ticket for the next bus to Galway, though it might have been wise to ask if there were faster options. For anyone looking to make a similar trip, be aware that there are two bus lines that run between Dublin and Galway. One follows the major roads, has minimal stops, and gets you to the Atlantic coast within two and a half hours. The other bus line—the one I mistakenly took—takes a sadistically serpentine route that last closer to five hours. While there is a wealth of vibrant countryside and stone ruins to take in during those five hours, the other side of that coin is a very claustrophobic and turbulent onboard restroom that makes you quite sorry to be alive.

I arrived in sunny Galway a little after noon with no plan or prior knowledge of the city. There was a hostel within eyesight of the bus station, but I decided to pass it up and take a much-needed walk around town. I was immediately struck by the quaintness of Galway’s squat stone architecture; drastically different from anything I’d seen in Dublin. I passed more than a few hostels as I walked, and I popped into the more colorful looking ones to inquire about prices. At one point I wandered into a more residential looking area where an old bearded gentleman walking his mastiff warmly chatted with me about his favorite things to do in “wee Galweh.” The gentleman also pointed me in the direction of Galway’s most curiously named and well-reviewed hostel, Snoozels.

The weekend rate at Snoozels hostel was comparable to the others I’d visted, but with the added benefit of a plush common room complete with a pool table, acoustic guitar, and comfy looking couches in front of an impressive entertainment system. I checked in, locked my backpack in the cage under my bunk, and joined the international group of miscreants hanging out in the common room. Like in Dublin, the number of Australian backpackers there surprised me, albeit pleasantly so. There was also a burly Scotsman there with his girlfriend, a smartly dressed young guy from Iraq, and a handful of Spanish speakers from various parts of Central and South America.

At my suggestion, the poker set came out for a friendly, low stakes game. I like playing poker with new people, as it is a game that quickly reveals a lot about a person’s personality. The Spanish speakers playing were animated and silly, greatly juxtaposing the stone faced guy from Iraq who was as unreadable as Falkner. The Australian girls giggled a lot when they were dealt good hands and the big Scotsman had an arsenal of Zoolanderian faces that he would dawn whenever the pot grew. It was a fun, lighthearted way to get to know everyone.

Unfortunately though, the game was cut short by a flood of Irish guys eager to watch the Ireland vs Scotland soccer game on the big screen TV. They came prepared with an assortment of bottles and cans that they were eager to share. I brought my own half bottle of Jamesons left over from Dublin to add to the festivities. Now being half German, I often feel like I should be more of a soccer enthusiast. I played for school teams for the better part of seven years, and yet, I find the sport hard to watch with all of the outrageously petty fouls and faked injuries. However I saw no such pettiness in the Ireland vs Scotland game; undoubtedly one of the most brutal and intense match ups I’ve ever seen. Players on both teams were repeatedly tackled to the ground, tripped into cartwheeling summersaults, and just generally abused throughout the game—but they would get right back up, wipe the blood from their faces, and keep playing. I learned from the Irish guys (Dubliners) that the game was only an exhibition match. I suppose the finality of the non-tournament game is why those feuding rivals so desperately wanted to win on skill and merit rather than on a technicality. There was electricity in the air of that common room for the entirety of the game. After an Irish victory, the guys went out for more drinks while I opted for an early night in bed.

The next day I joined the Australian girls for a walking tour around Galway. The tour began at the center of town in Eyre Square. The square was a mess of construction that our guide explained was an unfortunate precursor to the winter wonderland the square was annually transformed into. We toured through the historic Latin district, so named for the early Spanish settlers who colonized the area. We meandered in and out of High Street, the festively decorated, cobblestoned main drag that wound its way from the heart of the Latin district downhill to where the River Corrib emptied into the north Atlantic. As the tour rounded a corner to arrive at the towering church of St. Nicholas, a fantastic bazaar of local vendors selling homemade foods and crafts in the church courtyard swallowed our group whole. In my effort to see all the wares for sale and buy a bowl of stew, I lost sight of everyone. Despite my best efforts, I was unable to find the walking tour again.

So I carried on by myself to adventure through downtown Galway. The amount of street musicians I saw as I walked was staggering. After chatting with a couple of lute players I learned that Galway is one of the last remaining unregulated busking cities in Ireland, making it a hotspot for aspiring musicians to come and perform to the tides of tourists that flow through the city.

I passed more than a few promising looking pubs that I made a mental note to revisit later that night. When I finally reached the river at the bottom of High Street, I found myself standing in front of the overwhelmingly famous yet underwhelmingly small Spanish Arch—the last remnant of a stone wall built in the late fourteenth century. In the early eighteenth century, while under Spanish control, two arches were cut into the wall to allow free passage along the quay for traders and merchants. Then in 1755, an unprecedented tsunami destroyed a portion of the wall, leaving only the few yards of stonework seen today (I learned all this from a Portuguese university student who asked me to take her picture).

Passing under the little arch I found myself at the entrance to Galway city museum and decided to loom around. While the museum featured a few examples of historic and contemporary art from the region, it dedicated the majority of its floor space to the history of the Galway Gaelic Football team. From what I gathered from the photos and videos on display, Gaelic football is a bit of a hybrid between soccer and rugby, though with a much smaller and infinitely more zealous fan base.

A little stone bridge brought me to the other side of the River Coribb and I followed the river upstream until I reached the impressive Galway Cathedral. I went inside and carried on my tradition of lighting Catholic candles with my Zippo lighter. I do this partly because I feel the small donation for the candles generates some good karma, but mostly because I thoroughly enjoy the way a Zippo flicking open echoes around an otherwise silent church.

Back at the hostel, I reunited with the Australian girls I lost during the guided tour. After resting our tired legs for a spell, we ventured out into the evening to experience the Galway nightlife. We geared ourselves toward the Latin district again, where music could already be heard from across town. Along the way we made a quick pit stop to take photos with a dapper statue of Oscar Wilde.

It was around that time that I suddenly began to notice a lot of beautiful women walking around, and when I say beautiful I mean runway model caliber. It was a chilly night and yet these girls were strutting along the cobblestones in vibrantly colored, radically revealing dresses that left decidedly little to the imagination. A flashback to the beginning of the guided tour that day reminded me that Galway was a college town; these must be Irish college students. It seemed that the majority of these girls walking toward the pub and club scene—with their bright lipstick, flawless fingernails, and voluminous hairdos—were all hanging off the arms of these disheveled, unkempt, unruly looking Irish guys. The juxtaposition was so dramatic it seemed almost comical. The Australian girls noticed this too and we discussed the curious cultural oddity at length with fascination.

The three of us followed a crowd into a large, three story pub called The Kings Head. The inside looked like a castle, which sense since it was an eight-hundred year old medieval building. The middle of the first floor was a sunken dance floor overlooked by balconies and a live band on a second floor stage playing Irish folk rock.

After a while we left the overcrowded Kings Head and popped in and out of live music venues throughout the Latin district: Tig Cóili, Taaffes Bar, Front Door, Tigh Neachtain, The Bunch of Grapes, Murphys, and The Quays to name a few. As most of the establishments had some sort of security at the door to bounce undesirables, I was very lucky and grateful to have my two lovely Australian friends with me. Places I suspect I never could have gotten into on my own held their doors wide open for the two pretty Aussies and their plus one. It was a fun filled night full of music, dancing, and mingling with locals; the kind of night that ended with a large pepperoni pizza and a front row seat with numerous new friends to a velvet sunrise over the bay.