Whether the matutinal charred blood had anything to do with it or not, the ferry trip from Holyhead to Dublin flipped my equilibrium. Upon arrival in Dublin, I still swayed side to side no matter what I was doing. As you can imagine, the past 36 hours spent in vertigo have left much to be desired. Unfortunately, so do our accomodations. Filled with the wildest bunch of teen to early twenty-somethings yet, The Rainbow Hostel is the wrong place to be when you're on a short fuse. Our roommates (we've got eight) hail from Espana, Poland, France, and Italy. Amada (can't be how you spell it, but at least it's phonetic) is French and originally from Senegal. An accountant for Ford Motor Company, he's intelligent, quick to smile, and has such humorous facial expressions that they alone transcend the language barrier even though his English is quite good. Martin, a tall, skinny guy with short sandy curly hair and black-rimmed glasses, doesn't know English as well and kind of bumbles around in general. The three of us designed our own trilingual musical empire to become "millionaires" (their word) while still maintaining the integrity of acoustic sounds from each of our nationalities. Of all the foreigners I've met this trip, I'd never have guessed that I'd dig these two guys so much, but "Master Martin" and Amada are definite islands in the sea of male crudeness around me.
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