Done with Dublin,

Thursday, I boarded a plane decorated in blue and yellow. The flight was cheap so they could try and sell me things and every seat contained a young person. Together, we fidget and fiddle, pretending we're comfortable and that we've done this all before.

In customs, I am ready to beg the man behind the glass to concede. To grant me my badge of honor, but as he pulls the bulky metal contraption from underneath the counter I relax and breathe. With a bang he tells the world, "Yes, she has been to Ireland."

My jacket is buttoned high on my neck as the far too icy wind beats against my face. I check my watch again but it still says, "No, your bus is late." The man next to me, in his Scooby Doo head scarf, doesn't seem concerned, and I had peeked at his passport a few minutes before. He is Irish and would know to be concerned. Plus, I am too proud to admit this could be the wrong bus and my knowledge of transit systems is not universal.

The man at the hostel was the wrench in the machanics. He tries to be kind as he tells me that no, there wasn't a reservation made. There was a reservation made for Monday night. I try to keep my patience as I say that we are here today with no place to sleep. They are full and nothing can be done.

Another hostel is found with different lounges and different lumpy mattresses. I am grateful and sleep well in my room with twenty other girls.

In the morning I ate watery porridge and strong hot coffee and thought about learning German. When can one know they are a traveller and not a tourist, I wonder.