In the spirit of Ireland:
William Butler Yeats once wrote "In tombs of gold and lapis lazuli / Bodies of holy men and women exude / Miraculous oil, odour of violet. But under heavy loads of trampled clay / Lie bodies of the vampires full of blood; / their shrouds are bloody and their lips are wet."
I stumbled across this poem the other day while reading through a Yeats anthology I stole from Laure on the bus ride to his grave. And, needless to say, it got me thinking about our trip to Ireland.
I'd like to consider myself a traveler, not a tourist. And although I love the three-course dinners and complimentary breakfasts, I'd prefer the trek of a vagabond (I think Clem would agree with me here). I don't think pilgrims enjoy the comfort of room service or cable TV. Not saying I'm on any sort of spiritual quest, but I'd like to believe I'm getting something out of this other than a few pictures to boast and a luggageful of souvenirs and other useless touristic paraphernalia.
Last spring break I spent two weeks hitchhiking to northern California from Montana with three friends. I lived hand to mouth, not knowing where my next meal would come from or whether I would have a roof over my head on any given night. We were hungry, bedraggled, (a few of us got the runs) but, as Yeats would say, our lips were wet. We were the vampires of the traveling phenomenon, trampled beneath the clay of experience that each new day brought with it, under the sanguine light of dawn.
Now, however, I feel like the holy men in the first stanza of the poem; sleeping comfortably (almost too comfortably) each night in a wonderfully warm bed that’s twice my size, eating like a king and spending my life’s savings on pints of Guinness. (I truly am the prodigal son…)
I've loved the trip thus far, but (as of this moment) I'm making a promise to myself to return to Ireland and travel from the perspective of the vampire. Underground, dirty, poor, and wet with the blood of passion that is borne of desperation and drips from the fangs of those who are truly mad for life.
I’ve contracted the sickness. There’s no hope now in turning back…
