Katharine, Dublin

I took a look around the--for lack of better words--lobby. “Well…it’s no Regent Beverly Wilshire, but I think we knew that before we came in.”

Now, take a minute to try and picture this scene: seven “young adults” (ranging from eighteen to twenty) in grubby we-just-got-wasted-and-some-of-us-had-sex-in-hammocks-while-the-rest-of-us-slept-on-the-ground clothes and greasy masses of hair, surrounded by luggage, instrument cases and amplifiers (slight mortification in of itself, I’m not gonna lie)…we must have looked like complete and utter shit. And Americans, to boot!

Since John was the least hung over of us (save for myself), he was sent to the front desk to deal with the irritated-looking Irishman, leaving the rest of us to collapse onto the gross linoleum floor.

“First the airport, and now this?” Andrea whined. She moved to position herself practically on top of Jekabs’ lap, and I remembered just how much of a germaphobe she was (she’s a little bit Monkish, actually). I smiled sympathetically at her.

Leaning against Alli’s legs, I looked up at Devin. “What exactly are our plans for tonight?” We weren’t going to start sightseeing till tomorrow, and we had a good six or so hours of daylight left.

He shrugged. “Dinner, probably…” he glanced around at the group. “I’m guessing the time change/alcohol combination wasn’t really a great idea on the first night?” By was of response, we all just looked at him with expressions that said, “No shit, Sherlock.”

John returned then with an annoyed expression and a fistful of keys. “Long story short, the hostel overbooked, meaning all the separate rooms are full, meaning we’re all boarding with another group in a co-ed dorm.”

My mouth literally fell open, as did Andrea’s, Alli’s and Hillary’s.1 “What?!”

John’s eyebrows furrowed even deeper. “If you want to go take it up with my new pal Eoin over there, then go ahead and be my guest.”

We all ventured glances at the tall, lanky concierge. His scrub of red hair flopped over brilliantly green eyes, and he had freckles that stood out blatantly against his pale skin. He would have been pretty cute, except for one not-so-tiny flaw.

“What the hell did you say to him, John? He looks pissed as hell!” was how Alli chose to phrase it. Yeah. Not too blunt, but she got her point across. Her observation was not incorrect.

Stan, who had been uncharacteristically quiet for the past few hours, was the first one to break the silence. “Guys, right now, I really don’t care who we room with, or if we accidentally see each other in our underwear--”--At this, Alli snorted and glanced over at Jekabs and Andrea--“I just really want to get some sleep, some food, and something more to drink, okay?”

When he mentioned more drinking, I looked up at him, worried. Maybe it had been a year since I’d seen him, but I happened to remember that if Stan talks about something seriously for more than about three minute and forty-five seconds, there is probably reason to worry. And he’d been talking like this all day. His utterly depressed facial expression was leaving me to wonder just how meaningful his relationship with what’s-her-name had been. Maybe, I thought, I underestimated the relationship. Maybe we all did.

Hillary must have been going through an identical thought process as I, because she reached up a hand to give Stan’s shoulder a comforting squeeze. “No more drinks, Stanley.”

The dorm room was smaller than I had imagined, and that’s saying quite a bit. There were ten pairs of militaristic-looking cots equipped with a sterile blanket (Andrea was thrilled) and starchy pillow. I hoisted myself up onto a top bunk and buried my face in the pillow that was lying forlornly at the edge of the thin mattress. I wrinkled up my nose; maybe Andrea wouldn’t be too pleased. As clean as the bed materials may have been, a funny odor still clung relentlessly to the pillowcase.

“Oh, God, it really does smell like feet. That’s disgusting.” I looked over to watch Stan’s reaction to the word ‘feet’. His face didn’t move at all. This situation is even worse than I thought. I glanced over at Jekabs, who was unpacking his clothes into the small dresser separating our beds. He raised his eyebrows and shrugged, as if to say, Don’t look at me, I have no idea what to do!

None of us knew how to deal with the situation; with any other boy in our group, we would have known how to act. Unfortunately, it was Stan’s world that was coming undone, and he happened to be…the gray area, I guess you would call it. Had it been Devin, we would have gotten him a hooker and some drinks. Had it been Jekabs…we would’ve locked him and Andrea in a closet, or cupboard, or bathroom, just like the good old days. Had it been John, we would have hugged him and played video games with him. But what were we going to do with Stan?

“I never liked Christian anyway,” I said loudly over the music. Stan nodded. Actually, it was more like a spastic head wiggle than a nod. “Bastard,” was all he was able to force out. I winced. Goddamnit, I thought, how did this happen? We all came to Ireland and we end up trying to comfort Stan because his Fuck Buddy bolted.

I leaned in to shout into his ear: “Stan, I’m going out to dance for a bit, okay? Don’t leave, okay?”

He waved his hand at me. He’s gonna be in so much pain tomorrow.

The dance floor was crowded. I fought to find a familiar face, nervously tugging on my skirt every few seconds.

I’ve never been particularly comfortable in social situations. Even at eighteen, I was horrendously awkward and self-conscious, not to mention I wasn’t particularly dance inclined. Salsa I could do. Theatre dance I could do. Ballet I could do. But when it came to breaking it down and getting funky with it (I flinch noticeably just saying that) in clubs and bars, I just wasn’t the kind of girl who was able to bust a move in any way, shape or form.

My friends, however, weren’t nearly as inhibited. Although I couldn’t see them, I could very well guess how they were spending their time. Jekabs and Andrea would be near the middle of the dance floor, dancing close together; Alli, Hillary and John were probably floating around some table together, shouting to be heard over the throbbing noise, and Devin was probably over near the bar talking to some very pretty girl. Probably trying to convince her, seduce her…I shook my head fiercely, not wanting to waste my time pondering Devin’s sexual activities.

I stood in the crowd, chewing on my already gnawed fingernails. Frightened, lonely, unsure. Hurrah for wallflower eighteen years olds; I was old enough to fight for my country (not that I would ever want to, but, regardless), old enough to sign contracts, old enough to vote (FINALLY!). All that was at last mine for the taking, and yet I remained utterly pathetic and barely able to drive an automatic shift on a car. Yeah. On top of all that, I’m a stick shift kinda girl2.

I wound up resorting to wasting the night away crowded around a tiny table with Alli, John and Hillary. The three of them were pushing thick drinking glasses around the wooden surface when I arrived. I picked up one of the heavy mugs and looked through it. My friends’ laughing faces filled the concave, cylindrical frame before my vision focused on one of the bartenders. I lowered the glass to get a better look.

For the first few seconds, I thought that it was a very cute boy working behind the counter. Then I realized that the bartender was, in fact, a Shane McCutcheon3 look-alike. A loopy smile stretched across my face. I knew how I wanted to spend the rest of my night. First I had to get over there and start talking with her. But before that, I had to let someone know of my debatably dastardly scheme.

“Alli,” I yelled, pushing on her shoulder. “Check out the chick working the bar!”

1 Note the fact that only the girls were horrified by this new development. Please take this moment to cast suspicious looks in the general direction of Devin, Jekabs, Stan and John.

2 Whenever I think about stick shifts, I think of this one line in my favourite book: “I can’t drive stick shifts. Maybe that explains why I’m a lesbian. Well, kind of a lesbian at least.” The same thing applies with me and automatic shifts.

3 Boyish hairdresser lesbian from the TV show The L-Word.