Yesterday, a bracing blustery very Irish day, I sauntered across the Lee River bridge. I was feeling fine, better than fine, really downright fantastic: hey, look at me, at home in Cork after less than 24 hours; here I am, taking command of this city, making this place mine; I am Sophisticated Traveler; I am urban and urbane; I am. . . and then a fart suddenly bellowed forth from my nether regions. I kept walking, but at more of a slink than a saunter.
Clearly, however, the gods had determined that I hadn't been punished enough. Pushing on up the hill to the hostel, I found myself walking behind a small boy dancing alongside of what looked to be his grandfather, who was carrying a new scooter. When the boy turned to glance at me, I smiled broadly and nodded in an effort to signal, "Hey, cool! A scooter!" The boy's face crumpled. He ran to his grandfather, clung to his leg, and gasped out something about "that crazy lady."
Good lord. I am not Sophisticated Traveler. I am Scary Crazy Lady. With gas.
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