Sunday was about leisurely leaving Paris. Going back to the most annoying airport, aside from Dublin, where your passport is checked five times. I nearly choke from the beaurocracy.
Nothing much exciting happened for most of the evening. Just a quiet bus ride through the slowly darkening Irish countryside, a thing that I find entirely comforting.
Except we took the wrong bus. Our ticket was printed with the number 13, but we were supposed to take the 14, and our bus was late. So instead of going to Killarney as planned, we arrived in Tralee at 11 p.m. last night.
I have never been to Tralee, by the way.
In the end, it wasn't really a problem at all, because our bus driver gave us a lift to a hostel in town (like a proper Irish bus driver). And waited to make sure there was space, in case he needed to take us to another one.
The Finnegan hostel was in a very old house, and the rooms were named after famous Irish writers. The Yeats room was mixed, which isn't a problem. Except that the three or so Italian men sleeping in there who snored so loud that I couldn't sleep. Honestly, it was awful.
Megan didn't notice. She took a sleeping pill and wore earplugs.
I really like the line here about "I have never been to Tralee, by the way." It makes for good comedic timing when you read it.
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