F**k my life

Dramatist, I am with the title, but well-deserved I think. First off, Tralee is absolutely beautiful—probably my favourite place so far. Cynthia’s house is just up the hill from the beach, and since the gulf stream is coming up from the tropics, the water is so warm and delightful.

But sadly bright, sunny, and otherwise gorgeous days are not something I can appreciate when I have a headache the size of Mick Jagger’s lips—which just turned 65 I learned on the tellie. I woke up feeling sort of ill and could barely eat anything for breakfast (coffee is my new friend), and when we walked along the beach I felt iffy and after about a mile had to sit down.

However we have things planned for the day! Can’t spend our time lollygagging about the pretty house. Our first stop was at this home-made cheese shop up the road and up a very bumpy, windy hill, which is one of the mortal enemies of my stomach. But the owner was gone, so we made it down the hill and a little ways before I have that recognisable taste in my mouth. So I toss my hair up in a bun, tell my dad to pull over, and leap out onto the shoulder.

Let me say that vomiting up very strong coffee—or anything, really—into a bush is not fun at all. But oh, it gets worse.

I insist that I’m fine to continue on to Dingle—funny name for such a quaint little town—over Conor Pass—incredibly narrow, windy road up the mountain. We eat lunch at this little pub (I had maybe a quarter of that sorry excuse for a chicken sandwich) where I get sick again in the bathroom.

Okay, I’ve been sick before. Just drink some water and I’ll be fine.

Joanna and I went down a few doors to this awesome hat shop, where I get a necklace and a garnet ring. What? says you. Not buy a hat? You love hats! Well yes, says I, but not ones that cost nearly 300 Euro. Well, actually those are the only kind, apparently, that I do like.

We met up with my dad and treaded over towards this weaver’s shop Cynthia told us about. However sick little I can’t make it farther than a little health food shop/café in a side-alley with a woman out front giving Shiatsu massages. Well that sounds nice, so I ask for one.

And it was nice. Very nice. I’ve got a massive headache, shaky limbs, something like Arthritis in my left-side joints, and a lower back that feels like someone’s slowly dragging a wool-comber down it. Naturally it’s going to feel good.

Until the woman—there was some discretion as to whether she was French or Belgian; I think she was Eastern European—tells me to sit up and I start feeling nauseous again. Just after I ask where the closest bathroom is, my stomach clenches and I rush off the chair. I barely make it around the corner of this alley before *blugh*.

In front of this strange woman, in front of the shopgirl who’s come out to empty the trash, in the view of the patrons eating inside. Throwing up water, since that’s all I’ve got left. As if the side of the road wasn’t bad enough.

Of course, mortification doesn’t hit until we reach the main street and I think, “Oh ye gods, I’m going to be that American girl with the pretty hair and half-an-accent who got so relaxed she vomited.”

And my dad tells me that ten days is about the time my older brother took to get sick when they came to the country. This… does not help. He was ten. I am eighteen. He drank too much river water. I… did something to make myself violently ill.

As I have said before, whoever or whatever decided I should have my bodily processes should be nailed to a wall and have the inside of their eyelids tattooed.

Now it’s the next day, and I’m feeling better, but dreading being in the car for hours and hours and being around people for four more days, since that could be what made me sick in the first place. Cynthia and I talked about it. I’m a very private, solitary person, and I’ve had next to no alone time on this trip. I need alone time; ‘salso why I’ve been so mood. ‘Just leave me alone!’ I thought last night amid the delirium when everyone came back the first time.

My head still hurts, and all I really want is a shower.