Page 7 of An Irish Summer

“Chelsea, this is Lars. He’ll be training you this week.” Lori gestured to the man standing next to her, who stood well over

six feet tall and bore a striking resemblance to a Ken doll. “He’s the recreational director now, but he spent some time as

a receptionist in the past, so he knows the ropes. You’re in good hands.”

I smiled, fighting a yawn, and shook his hand. Between the jet lag, the plastic mattress, the roaring wind, and the creaking

from every corner of the hostel at all hours of the night, sleep didn’t come as easily as I’d hoped.

“It’s a pleasure,” Lars said in a Dutch accent, nearly crushing my hand as we shook. “Ready to get started?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I joked.

“That’s the spirit.” His voice was louder than anyone’s should ever be at this hour, and it became instantly clear why he’d

been promoted to recreational director. This kind of enthusiasm would have wasted away behind a reception desk.

For me, the morning passed in a blur. It wasn’t a ton of information, and it wasn’t entirely different from working at O’Shea’s, but the combination of the lack of sleep and the foreign environment made it difficult to process.

For Lars, how ever, the morning passed in streams of light and color.

How could anyone be so excited about organizing spreadsheets and answering landlines?

“You’re a fast learner, there,” he said as he supervised me making a booking over the phone.

“I have a lot of experience,” I said. “I used to work in a bed-and-breakfast back home in Boston, doing reception and some

event planning on the side and whatever else.”

“That explains a lot,” he said. “Most of our seasonal staff are untrained, so this process usually requires a lot more work

on my end. But you’re making my job nice and easy this morning.” His smile was blinding.

“Well, I aim to please,” I said.

“How’d you end up here, anyway? What happened to the bed-and-breakfast?” If everyone was this nosy, I understood how word

traveled so quickly.

“It closed,” I said, willing to share only the facts. “The owners, Lori’s sister and brother-in-law, sold so they could retire.”

“Ah, I see,” he said. “And you didn’t want to stay in Boston?” Was this interrogation part of the training?

“I-I, uh...” I stuttered. “I’m just taking a break, that’s all. Returning as soon as the summer is over.” Or as soon as I line up a job and an apartment , I refrained from adding aloud.

“Pity,” he said, busying himself by shuffling a stack of papers on the desk. “I have a feeling you’ll be good here.”

The compliment was surprising and it warmed me for a second. Someone thought I would be good here. Then I felt the instant

pressure of having to live up to anyone’s expectations, so I pushed the thought from my mind and refocused on the training.

“Thank you,” I said, trying to remain neutral.

“Did Lori mention some of the other stuff you’d be doing besides running the desk?” he asked, and I felt my eyes widen.

“Other stuff?”

“Nothing crazy, don’t worry. We all just pick up odd jobs here and there. Whatever we need to do to keep the hostel running.

Sometimes it’s housekeeping, helping Flo in the kitchen, picking up a bartending shift, whatever it is. It’s a real community

feel around here.”

The thought of having to change strangers’ sheets repulsed me, but a group of people supporting one another at work sounded...

nice. We hadn’t had a ton of staff at O’Shea’s, and even so, we hadn’t interacted much. Everyone kept to their own jobs, but

here, I sensed I was going to have to get used to the opposite.

“And you mentioned event planning back home, yeah?” Lars clarified.

I rubbed the back of my neck, suddenly weirdly insecure even though I was the one who volunteered that information. “Yeah,

but I know that’s your thing here, so I’m not trying to step on anyone’s toes. Just here to answer phones.” I hoped my smile

hid how awkward I felt.

“I’m mostly in charge of the athletic stuff,” he said. “Kayaking, hiking, cycling, yoga, that sort of thing. So we could use

someone around here to organize some other events, now that I think about it. Maybe you could help out that way instead of

changing sheets. If you’re keen, of course.”

Was I keen? I hadn’t realized it might have been a possibility, but it would look good on my résumé. And a good résumé would

help me get out of here. And anything was better than changing sheets.

“That sounds great,” I said, trying to return his friendly smile. “Thanks.” He nodded in response, wordlessly resuming our tour.

Lars and I spent the rest of the day reviewing some of those odd jobs, changing over guest rooms, visiting Flo as she prepared

for the dinner service, going over the weekly schedule of outdoor activities and tours, and meeting some of the other staff.

“Is every day this busy?” I asked Lars as we closed out our last booking of the day.

“Sometimes busier,” he replied. “People always seem to think working at the hostel is going to be easy, but it’s hard work.

It pays off in a big way, though, since we get to meet all kinds of interesting people and show them such a beautiful place.

Helping people make lasting memories is quite the reward for the workload.”

Busier? If that was the case, when was I supposed to look for jobs? Apartments? How would I set up my life back in Boston for my

return? I forced the panic from my chest, reminding myself I still had nights and off-days. I could find the time, right?

“At least we don’t have to work around the clock,” I said, trying to gauge how much free time I would actually have. “Those

days off are probably superrelaxing.”

“If you use them to relax,” he said, leaning back in the desk chair and spinning it around.

“But if I’m honest, most of us play as hard as we work.

We use the free time to explore Ireland, or go down the pub for a few too many pints, or to travel wherever else we can find cheap flights.

There’s never a dull moment. Which leads me to our last stop of today’s training,” he said, getting up from his chair and gesturing out the door.

How could we possibly have more to do? I was exhausted, and I’d desperately hoped closing down the phones was the last item on our agenda.

“To the bar,” he said. Of course. I should have known.

His broad smile told me there was no way I was getting out of this. He was in charge of my training, after all, and I prided

myself on my work ethic. If that was the last stop for today, so be it. A drink might actually feel good.

An overhead bell announced our arrival as we walked through the door, but no one turned to look. Groups of people, travelers

and locals alike, I assumed, crowded around tables, barrels, and barstools, talking over one another and swigging heavily

from pint glasses. It was more crowded than I anticipated, and I followed Lars closely as we weaved around the throngs to

the bar.

We slid onto two stools near the wall, which was covered in notes, Polaroids, and ticket stubs from years and years of passing

travelers. I studied them, imagining the lives of these people. Had they all come to Galway just for fun? Had any of them

been forced from their job and their apartment and backed into a corner? Or was I the only one pathetic enough to flee the

country to avoid having to move back in with her parents? And if they did come to Galway for fun, what exactly did they find?

If I was honest, I hadn’t done as much traveling as I felt I should have by my age. Every time I considered planning a trip,

something came up at work, or it was too expensive, or Ada was too busy to take time off and I didn’t have the courage or

the desire to travel alone. So I probably had a lot to learn about what travelers found anywhere , not just Galway.

“And what’ll it be for you, then?” A deep voice broke my reverie, redirecting my attention to the bar.

Collin was drying a pint glass, looking at me with expectant eyes. His short-sleeve shirt revealed a collection of small tattoos

scattered over his forearms, which flexed as he dried the glass. I fought against the hypnotic effect of his spinning the

rag around and around, trying to answer his question.

I scanned the taps before remembering there was only one option. “Well,” I said, pretending to look for another bartender,

“I was hoping for a Guinness, but I’m not sure there’s someone around here who can pull a good one. Lars, any suggestions?”

“Lars, do not answer that,” he said, and Lars raised his hands in surrender, signaling he wouldn’t say a word. Collin turned

to me, releasing the glass and leaning on the bar. “And what is it you know about pulling a good Guinness, hmm?”

“I know it can’t be that hard.” I shrugged my shoulders. “Pull the lever, fill the glass, what more is there?”

“Already slagging me off, are ya?” He flashed a wicked grin and I stalled, searching for a response.

“Already what?”

His grin turned to a laugh and it made me want to crawl under the bar. “Slagging me off,” he said again. “Like teasing, getting

under my skin, you know.” I felt flustered thinking about teasing or getting under his skin.

“Right,” I said, feeling the banter slip from my fingers.

“You’ve a lot to learn,” he said, but not unkindly. “Starting with this.”

I watched him sling a glass under the tap, tilting it just so, pulling the pint with expert hands.

When the glass was nearly full, he stopped the tap and let the beer settle before continuing.

I watched the color turn from chocolate to ink, silently embarrassed that I didn’t know this really was an art.

By the time he was finished, a perfect Guinness sat in front of me.

Black as night, label on the pint glass turned outward, an inch of milky foam resting on top.

He slid it toward me, resting his elbows on the bar and his chin on the heels of his hands. On both wrists he wore thin, fraying