200 decibel
loud snoring woke me up. I cautiously collected my stuff and left the hostel. At
nine am, Galway seemed to be just waking up: shops were being opened, waste
bins were being emptied and the streets were being cleaned up. Two hours of
sightseeing later, I had been to the St. Nicholas Cathedral, walked down
Kirwan’s Lane and almost missed the not so special Spanish Arch. Now that the
sun was standing high, I crossed the bridge and went to the beach to kill the
remaining hour until my bus towards Dublin would leave. Smiling towards the sun,
I had to think of Philipp, who had promised me nothing but bad weather. Only
seconds later, I needed all my strength standing against the strong wind. At the
same time, I got slapped in the face by heavy rain, hail and salt water. I found myself soaking wet within
ten minutes, which left me no other choice than to
return to the hostel and beg for them to let me into their bathroom again. Inspecting
the damage, I gave up and pulled on the only try piece of clothing left: my
pyjamas. Three and a half hour later, everyone on the backed Friday afternoon bus
had asked me about my clothes.
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