New York, or What?

The renewal-of-passport application will be going off the next time I get to a post office, so now I’m wondering again: where should I go?

The favourite at one time was Sydney, NSW, but now I’m thinking more New York. New York has two advantages over Sydney (well, three actually, but let’s not consciously offend any nationalistic sensibilities.)

1) It’s a hell of a lot cheaper to get there.

2) I’m unlikely to bump into anybody I know and disappoint them.

But I’ve already been to New York, and I don’t generally like to go to the same place twice. And then there’s the bigger question. Why would a country boy like me, a near mystically mad being who seeks the secrets of Avalon and gets on better with birds than people, want to go to a stinking, noisy, hopelessly overcooked place like New York? Good question. Contrast, I suppose. Besides, the stinking, noisy, hopelessly overcooked place does have something oddly compelling about it, even though I can’t think of anything specific I want to see there. It’s something to do with the energy, I suppose; and I bet they’ve got a Rick’s Bar somewhere. Must have, surely.

Helen thinks I’ll find all I want by making the short trip to Ireland. I didn’t the last time I went. I drank a lot of Guinness, got passed over (fortunately) by two American women in favour of a couple of young guns, and had a strange ‘encounter’ in a wood that I swear was responsible for a series of problems that went on for several years. Oh, and I was assured that if I took the road out west and hitchhiked, I’d be sure to get picked up in no time. I gave up after about five miles and spent the day alone on a beach. Mind you, it did give me some of the material for The Gift Horse, so it wasn’t entirely wasted. And genuine Liffey water Guinness was something of a revelation.