After 16 hours afloat, our indie pop tribe has landed in Ireland.
We drove to the coast of Normandy to catch the ferry. How strange it is to finally arrive at the places bearing these famous names from the history books. Such a short time ago, Westerners were slaughtering each other here in bloody battles. These same locations are now so bafflingly calm, sane, civilized. Our van passes quiet rows of grey houses, with people politely going about their daily errands. We park at a modern grocery superstore that sells couscous and carrot salad in brightly lit, clean aisles. Is it naive to suggest this shows there is some hope that a similar transformation could someday take place in all corners of the globe?
Cole lugged dozens of venue beers onto our ferry voyage. An employee told him this was not allowed. “It’s full of water” Cole told him, struggling under the weight of a giant case loudly labeled, “PERONI.” The worker let it slide (perhaps our first taste of Irish alcoholic solidarity?).
Darwin and I scrambled onto the windy deck of the barge and couldn’t contain whoops and squeals as we watched the black frothy waves rise high into the air. “WE’RE REALLY GOING AT A GOOD CLIP!” Darwin screamed, an observation he repeated several times throughout the night. The band cuddled up in front of a laptop and soaked in the glow of an episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation. “There’s always a twist!” Darwin praised as the plot thickened.
Not everyone enjoyed the sea’s motion, but I was in heaven lying in my bunk. It felt like the entire Atlantic was rock-a-bying me to sleep.