Travel Letter 2: Trying to Find My Feet

People are scattered all over the airport. Those who didn't manage to claim one of the few seats spread across the two terminals are stretched out on the cold tiled floor instead.

You can still buy a coffee, and there isn't a queue for the toilets.

I try out a few different seats and take life as it comes.

I have to admit, though, that I'm curious about what Belfast will be like.

Until now, I've had Alex with me throughout the journey.

From here on, it's just me.

And, truth be told, I've never actually been to Belfast.

Still, I've travelled alone often enough to feel reasonably at home on the road.

The next seven nights are somehow going to be spent in Northern Ireland.

The only real reason I chose it was a feeling I had some time ago—that it might be somewhere I'd enjoy living for six months, just for a change of scenery.

Perhaps I should have booked somewhere to stay before arriving.

But then again...

I'll be landing so early in the morning that surely something will work itself out.

I'd been quietly hoping to win the lottery this weekend.

Apparently not.

Which means my Belfast budget is a little tighter than I'd planned.

Even so, if I couldn't afford to sleep indoors every night, I could probably at least find a bed for the first couple of days.

From what I'd managed to dig up, there were three hostels worth looking for once I arrived.

On a good weekday, at least in theory, you could still find a dorm bed for under twenty pounds.

How anyone manages to charge the equivalent of sixty-five Norwegian kroner for a large coffee is beyond me.

Still, I try not to think too much about money.

Slightly more frustrating is the fact that the café doesn't actually serve ordinary black coffee.

Only an impressive selection of speciality drinks.

In the end, the slightly bewildered woman behind the counter assembles what can only be described as half a litre of industrial-strength Americano.

As the night wears on, the airport slowly begins to wake up again.

The people sleeping on the floor gradually start moving.

Presumably to loosen stiff muscles...

...and equally stiff backsides.

Which works out rather well.

It means a few power sockets along the wall become available, giving me a chance to recharge my electronics before heading for security.

The queue isn't especially long.

Just long enough for me to be diverted into the Special Assistance line.

So, quite unexpectedly, I find myself waiting alongside the airport's oldest and most care-dependent passengers.

Fortunately, I sail straight through without raising any major red flags.

I'm still running on far too much coffee and far too little sleep, but otherwise everything seems to be in order.

They do ask to inspect my tins of snus, but since I have nothing to hide, they wave me through with everything intact.

Naturally, there's the obligatory march through what feels like an intestinal tract of duty-free shops before reaching the departure lounge.

There's still another two hours before they'll even announce which gate I'm supposed to head for.

I make the customary lap, poking my head into the electronics shop, the LEGO store, and a bookshop.

Really, though, I just want somewhere to rest my legs.

The only free seats are a row of bar stools at one end of the terminal.

Fortunately, there's no law against ordering a pint.

Problem solved.

I've effectively bought myself a seat for the next hour.

I have a friend from my high school days in the United States.

Life hasn't always been kind to him.

In fact, we struggle with many of the same things.

Depression isn't a particularly pleasant travelling companion.

It's also one of the reasons I'm on this trip.

To interrupt old routines.

To collect a few new experiences.

Besides...

You're always making progress when you're moving.

Moments like these are often the best time to catch up with an old friend.

After all, when you're already waiting to move on, there's nowhere else you need to be.

Time passes quickly in good company.

Before I know it, I'm suddenly in a hurry.

Or so I think.

As it turns out, that's not quite true.

Once again I'm sprinting through an airport, convinced I'm about to miss my flight.

Only to discover, when I finally reach the gate, that I've run to the wrong one.

I'm flying into Belfast City.

Not Belfast International.

The gate staff politely send me back to the departure hall to await further instructions.

Slightly out of breath, I climb all the stairs again.

I decide to count it as morning exercise.

On my way back, a man comes charging towards me with panic written all over his face.

"Do you know where Gate 563 is?"

I don't.

But I can at least tell him he's running in the wrong direction.

He needs to turn around.

I genuinely feel sorry for him as he battles upstream through the crowd, forcing his way between people while I follow behind.

"I'm not going to make it!" he shouts.

As it happens, I've simply been on entirely the wrong side of the terminal.

So the walk begins all over again.

Back through the departure hall.

All the way to the far end on the opposite side.

There, a shuttle bus is waiting to ferry us across the apron between the aircraft.

At last...

The right plane.

To the right airport.

The plane touches down ten minutes ahead of schedule.

Just like that...

I'm in Belfast.

There's no passport control and no fuss.

Just straight out of the terminal and onto the road.

At first it's nothing but tarmac and an absurdly long network of fenced walkways. Then, just as I'm beginning to suspect I've been sent on the longest detour in aviation history, I find a metal gate leading into what looks suspiciously like a cage.

It only opens from my side.

A moment later, I'm standing at the entrance to another Victoria Park.

Not the one in London.

The one in Belfast.

It's considerably quieter.

For the most part, I have the paths to myself, chatting to the birds, interrupted only occasionally by the odd slightly overweight jogger.

Then I reach the edge of the park.

Beyond it lies Belfast Harbour.

Enormous cranes.

Huge industrial buildings.

This is where the Titanic was built.

I take photographs of things that are probably of absolutely no interest to anyone else.

Gates.

Rubbish bins.

I'm simply enjoying my own company.

Humming to myself whenever I'm sure nobody's watching.

Eventually, it's time to deal with a couple of practical matters.

Breakfast.

And perhaps somewhere to sleep tonight.

Although it's only half past nine in the morning.

I decide to begin with coffee.

First Coffee in Belfast

Gradually, I begin to reach more populated streets.

Or perhaps people are only just beginning to wake up around me.

By pure coincidence, the very first thing I pass is a coffee shop.

Unlike the barista at Gatwick, these people know exactly how to make proper coffee.

They even let me smell the beans before choosing.

While my coffee is being prepared, I ask whether they know of anywhere decent to stay in the city.

They do.

The first place they mention is Vagabond.

That feels right.

I normally order the largest coffee available, but I'm pleasantly surprised to discover they only serve one size.

I settle at one of the many small tables, spaced just far enough apart to make everyone comfortable.

The coffee is excellent.

Apparently I'd unknowingly picked the coffee manager's personal favourite the moment I smelled the beans.

As a reward, he finds me a larger mug and quietly adjusts the recipe so I still end up with the large coffee I'd been hoping for.

While slowly working my way through it, I book myself a bed in one of Vagabond's dormitories.

It's far too early to check in.

The sun is beginning to break through.

I may as well go and explore.

It's still far too early to check in, and the sun has decided to make an appearance.

I may as well keep exploring.

Before crossing the bridge into the city centre, I stop for one more coffee.

Then I take a few more photographs and eventually come across a supermarket.

Excellent.

I've actually been looking forward to doing a bit of price reconnaissance in Northern Ireland.

I'm pleasantly surprised almost immediately.

There are plenty of special offers, and prices are noticeably lower than anywhere else I've visited where the currency is the pound.

I manage to buy both lunch and dinner for the equivalent of about a hundred kroner.

Not bad at all.

I don't really know where I'm heading next.

So I simply walk.

In some direction.

By midday, though, I decide enough is enough.

I've been awake all night, wandering aimlessly around a city I've never visited before.

It's definitely time to treat myself to a welcome pint.

I poke my head into the first pub that looks promising and ask whether it's all right to charge my phone while having a beer.

It absolutely is.

I become the day's very first customer, settle into a blue leather sofa, and order an Irish lager.

I still haven't quite figured out the city's energy.

It feels clean.

Comfortable.

Orderly.

Cooler than I'd expected, with almost everyone wearing jumpers. Then again, it's the wind rather than the temperature that catches you out, so a light jacket seems like a sensible companion.

While my phone slowly recharges, I spread out a map and work out the route to my hostel.

It isn't particularly far.

There aren't many turns to remember either.

For once, I'm quietly optimistic that I'll find my way without any technological assistance.

I realise I'm a little nervous about arriving.

After all, who knows who I'll be sharing a dorm with tonight?

It could be anyone.

For quite a while I considered booking a private room. It's my first night in the city, after all. But the price difference is simply too great.

So I put on my brave face and decide to jump in.

Worst case, I tell myself almost out loud, I can always pack my bag and move somewhere else.

Then I find myself getting slightly annoyed with myself.

I've done this plenty of times before.

Sometimes there's a bit of awkward silence.

But it's never unpleasant.

And never dangerous.

The truth is, it's not the people I'm anxious about.

It's the moment before they become people.

That short journey from the doorway to the bunk bed, while I'm still just another stranger in a room full of strangers. No role. No history. I know perfectly well that nothing is really at stake. Nobody expects anything from me. And yet there's a strange resistance somewhere inside me, as though I have to cross an invisible boundary before I'm allowed to simply exist in the room.

It's a kind of social gravity.

A silent expectation that something is supposed to happen.

Or perhaps just a fear that nothing will happen at all.

And there I am, still wearing my backpack, suspended in that tiny vacuum before reality decides which direction the evening is going to take.

If you've never stayed in a hostel before, let me reassure you straight away that it's usually a perfectly harmless experience.

That said, it's worth doing at least a little research beforehand, and I would generally recommend choosing hostels that primarily cater to backpackers.

Some hostels also accommodate homeless guests or people in temporary housing.

That doesn't mean they're bad people by any stretch of the imagination, but it can feel a little intimidating if it's your first time staying in a shared dormitory.

Otherwise, checking in is much the same as at any ordinary hotel.

Most hostels also offer private rooms at a higher price if you'd rather have a bit more privacy.

At Vagabond, as I mentioned, I've booked a bed in the dormitory, and I arrive early.

The friendly guy behind the reception desk has a ginger beard and his hair tied back.

He's just checked in another guest, a woman who speaks very little English.

He talks to her slowly and clearly, while everything he says is simultaneously dictated into his phone, which instantly translates it into another language.

He invites me to join the tour of the hostel, glancing meaningfully at both of us whenever he reaches an important point.

Like the fact that all the books, board games and musical instruments are free for guests to use.

That there's complimentary tea and coffee in the kitchen.

And that they offer a laundry service should anyone need it.

He shows us how to unlock the doors using the key fob attached to our key rings and asks everyone to keep the noise down and be respectful after eleven o'clock.

Once he's finished explaining everything, the woman is given her key.

She's staying four flights up, in the Yellow Dorm.

He then takes me back to reception.

By now I've got a genuinely good feeling about the place, so I decide to extend my stay from one night to two.

They're fully booked on Wednesday, which means I'll have to move on and find somewhere else to stay.

One problem at a time.

I take my blue key and make my own climb up four flights of stairs to an eight-bed dormitory.

Three of the beds are already occupied.

Their owners, however, are nowhere to be seen.

I eat a few pieces of pork crackling, sit down on a chair, and place my shoes on the windowsill.

For the first time today, I simply stop.

Take a breath.

I can already tell it's going to be an early night.

Travelling the world alone is surprisingly demanding.

At least at first.

Your senses are working overtime, and you spend your days somewhere between self-preservation and exhilaration.

I'm glad I managed to book that second night.

Something tells me I would have slept straight through tomorrow's checkout otherwise.

After a couple of hours' rest, I feel ready to squeeze a little more out of the day before finally calling it a night.

My hostel is filled with art.

It's almost impossible to turn in any direction without finding something worth stopping to look at.

As a result, I make slow progress down the stairs, accompanied all the way by the sound of two violins drifting up from somewhere on the ground floor.

By the time I finally reach reception, I feel as though I've seen more contemporary art than I did at Tate Modern.

I stop to say hello to the two young women playing the violins and compliment them on their music.

They blush, giggle quietly, and carry on playing while I head into the kitchen to make myself a cup of instant coffee.

Two spoonfuls.

I take my mug into reception, where there's a different member of staff on duty.

His name is Harry.

He's originally from England, but for the past eighteen days he's been living in Belfast and working here at the hostel.

He's still not sure whether he'll stay, but, like me, he had a feeling that this city deserved at least a chance.

We spend the next coffee chatting while the live music continues in the next room.

The sun is still shining, though, and I'd quite like to spend a little longer doing absolutely nothing.

So I wander over to the Botanic Gardens, only about a five-minute stroll from the hostel.

It's a beautiful park, full of little corners and unexpected discoveries.

In one secluded spot, a man is playing with a squirrel.

In another, a young couple are sharing a cannabis joint.

People are laughing.

The atmosphere is relaxed.

Groups are playing football, volleyball, croquet and throwing Frisbees across the grass.

I spend the best part of an hour photographing every sticker I can find on the lampposts scattered around the park.

Eventually, though, it's time to head back to my dormitory.

A few more people have arrived, but I don't think anyone would accuse us of being an especially sociable bunch.

All eight of us quietly keep to ourselves, and I have a feeling that's exactly how the evening is going to unfold.

By now I'm far too tired to mind.

As soon as it starts getting dark outside, I climb into bed.

The world can wait until tomorrow.

After coffee.

I was actually about to go to bed when it occurred to me that I should probably eat something first.

Then, of course, I made the mistake of saying hello to the people who turned out to be my new roommates.

Suddenly, none of us seemed quite so unsociable after all.

In fact, it turned into a genuinely pleasant evening.

Pleasant enough, at least, that I go ahead and book a bed here for my final two nights in Belfast as well.

That means I'm only homeless for the three days in the middle of my stay.

I'm sure I'll think of something.

Perhaps a little excursion somewhere.

Because I always think it's too early to go to bed, I join a small group downstairs in the common room.

I sink into an enormous brown leather sofa and half-heartedly follow a film playing on a television mounted in one corner.

I really should have gone to bed.

I'm just a little past the point.

Sleep, apparently, isn't much of a priority for my body at the moment.

I wake to the first rays of sunlight filtering through the window at around half past six.

A couple of the others are already awake, and I exchange a quiet good morning with the friendly girl from Essex who helped me figure out my earbuds the night before.

The room still feels unmistakably sleepy, so I get dressed and wander downstairs to the kitchen to make myself some breakfast and a cup of coffee.

Apparently, nobody else has had that idea yet.

I have the whole floor to myself while I sit and contemplate the possibilities for the day ahead.

A quiet day is probably the sensible option.

The last thing I want is to spend it rushing from one place to another.

So the immediate plan is simply to let the day unfold on its own.

It isn't exactly warm, but the forecast promises uninterrupted sunshine.

In the common room, where the hostel serves a simple breakfast included with your stay, guests have covered the walls with messages written in every colour of marker pen and crayon imaginable.

Greetings from Argentina, Iceland and Tokyo.

Some of them slightly rude.

Others encouraging complete strangers to smile at the world.

Photographs left behind by former guests have been pinned to the walls, while every remaining surface is packed with contemporary art and pop art, just like the rest of the hostel.

I have a couple more cups of coffee and pay a visit to the tooth-brushing facilities before heading back upstairs to gather what I need for another day of wandering.

No particular destination.

But plenty of purpose.

I leave the hostel, turn right, and somehow find myself back in the Botanic Gardens, where I'd been the evening before.

This time, though, the enormous glasshouse—Palm House, I later discover—is open.

To my great delight, it's just me and an astonishing number of plants.

It's peaceful.

Warm.

Comfortably humid.

Half an hour disappears before I even notice.

A little further into the park stands the Ulster Museum, which strikes me as a sensible place to spend the rest of the morning.

I have a few questions.

Even though it's quicker to fly here than it is to Alta, I realise I don't really understand what's been happening in Northern Ireland.

Admission to the museum is free, and my budget certainly isn't overflowing, so I have all the time in the world.

I wander through the galleries without much of a plan, reading whatever catches my eye.

Trying to piece it all together.

Gradually, a picture begins to emerge.

People seem divided in two different directions.

Some want Northern Ireland to remain part of the United Kingdom.

Others want it to become part of Ireland.

Unionists and nationalists.

Protestants and Catholics.

But it doesn't really feel as though religion is the heart of it.

It feels more like identity.

Who you are.

Where you belong.

Eventually, I begin to understand that none of this is new.

Ireland was partitioned in 1921.

Most of the island became independent, while the six northern counties remained within the United Kingdom as Northern Ireland.

There was a Protestant majority there, and many Catholics found themselves at a disadvantage—in employment, housing and politics.

Then came what is now known as The Troubles.

From the late 1960s onwards.

It began with civil rights demonstrations.

Before long, it became something very different.

Bombings.

Shootings.

Soldiers on the streets.

Neighbourhoods divided from one another.

There were several sides to the conflict.

The IRA on one side.

Loyalist paramilitary groups on the other.

And the British Army caught in the middle.

One photograph holds my attention longer than the others.

It's from Bloody Sunday.

Soldiers firing at demonstrators.

Civilians.

It feels like one of those moments when everything simply spiralled.

Around 3,500 people lost their lives during those years.

It wasn't all that long ago.

It wasn't until 1998 that a political settlement was finally reached through the Good Friday Agreement.

Power would be shared.

People could identify as British, Irish, or both.

Things became calmer.

But they didn't disappear.

It feels more as though everything is still there.

Just beneath the surface.

I read about the peace walls that still stand.

About neighbourhoods that remain divided.

About Brexit making things more complicated once again.

I continue through the museum, but it's difficult to fit all the pieces together.

It still feels unfinished.

As though I've gained an overview.

But not yet an understanding.

There's so much to see that, after a while, I begin to feel completely saturated.

Several times I'm convinced there simply can't be another gallery beyond the next doorway.

But it just keeps going.

One floor leads to another until I eventually reach the fifth floor, where four separate art galleries await, many of the paintings dating back to the seventeenth century.

As I mentioned, admission was free.

Otherwise, I'd have said you get an awful lot of culture for your money at the Ulster Museum.

Instead of dropping a donation into one of the collection boxes by the entrance, I buy a few postcards from the museum shop and a very necessary cup of coffee from the café.

Then I make the mistake of checking my bank balance.

It's not an especially uplifting experience.

So I track down a supermarket and buy something solid that I can eat in the park.

That's where I meet a crow.

It wanders over for a chat, and we break bread together.

I name him Stjerten.

We both agree that a spicy chicken wrap is perfectly decent food.

By now it's already afternoon.

The day has slipped away.

I take a drink from my refilled water bottle and begin weighing up my options.

I could sleep on a bench in a quiet street.

The available temperatures make that a distinctly unappealing prospect.

Besides, rain is forecast over the next few days.

Finding somewhere to sleep is only part of the problem.

A person generally needs to eat a couple of times a day as well.

And I'm gradually running out of activities that don't require any money.

Stjerten looks at me with what I choose to interpret as meaningful understanding.

I know he's right.

Time to phone home and see if it's possible to borrow a few chiefs.

Life as a hostel guest slowly starts coming back to me, and I suddenly remember how wonderful it is to spend an hour or two there in the middle of the day.

Most people are out doing their own thing, which usually means plenty of good stories and cheerful conversations once everyone drifts back later in the afternoon.

It also means you have much of the place to yourself.

A little peace and quiet.

Time to think.

Time to recharge.

On my way back, I stop at a post office to buy stamps for my postcards.

And what do you actually write on a postcard these days?

It's a dying form of communication.

Which is precisely why I think it's worth keeping alive.

The message doesn't have to be important.

It can be complete nonsense.

A little poem.

A silly joke.

Or almost nothing at all.

Whatever you write, it somehow carries a hundred times more meaning than a text message.

If I could still send a telegram, I'd happily do that too.

A couple of hours later, the financial situation has sorted itself out.

It means borrowing from next week's budget, but if I want to preserve both my sanity and somewhere dry to sleep, there isn't much choice.

For a moment, I consider dropping by to tell Stjerten that everything has worked out.

Instead, I decide to save that visit for another day.

The rest of the afternoon can be spent doing something equally sensible.

Just somewhere else.

Any further activity requires an afternoon coffee, which, conveniently, is free in the hostel kitchen.

I ask Thomas, who's working the evening shift at reception, whether mixing the light and dark varieties of freeze-dried coffee was his invention.

Without hesitation, he claims full credit for the creation.

Coffee in hand, I settle into one of the sofas and strike up a conversation with a newly arrived guest.

She's from Dublin, with Moroccan family roots, and she's thinking about moving to Belfast.

Before long, we're deep into a conversation about the political tensions in Northern Ireland.

Ordinarily, I try to avoid both religion and politics.

But after everything I'd taken in at the museum earlier that day, I find myself wanting to talk it through.

We exchange stories from our lives and drift between serious subjects and completely unimportant ones for the better part of an hour.

Eventually, though, it's time to head back out into the world.

I continue with my little secret project.

Every time I'm out wandering the streets, I keep an eye out for stickers on lampposts, utility boxes, and anywhere else people have decided to leave their mark.

I ignore anything with a QR code or an obvious web address.

Everything else gets photographed.

I started collecting them back in London, and by now there are a couple of hundred sticker photos on my phone.

I've discovered it's a wonderfully entertaining way to explore a city.

Like a treasure hunt.

When I return from a long afternoon walk, my new friend from earlier is back as well, and we spend another hour talking about life experiences, inevitably drifting into a few existential questions along the way.

It's nice to have a proper conversation again.

The music is playing at exactly the right volume, people drift in and out, some are cooking dinner, while others are arriving for the first time and being shown around the hostel.

I sip a mango juice and feel thoroughly content with how the day has turned out.

Most of the people in my dorm have moved on.

Only the girl from Essex and I remain.

Her name, it turns out, is Fortune.

She's in excellent spirits after spending the day on an excursion to the north coast.

While we're chatting about our respective adventures, two more girls arrive.

American students, one studying politics and the other ethics, with only a couple of weeks left of their semester abroad.

They've taken a spontaneous trip over from Dublin, determined to tick Northern Ireland off their list.

We chat for a while, and they occupy exactly as much space as travelling Americans always seem to.

Which also makes it painfully obvious when, not long afterwards, they begin to fade.

It's clear they should probably have gone to bed some time ago.

I excuse myself and wander downstairs to the common room.

Thomas and Bob, who both work at the hostel, have just started the evening's horror film on the television in the corner.

I follow it only intermittently.

Mostly, though, I simply enjoy the quiet company.

A couple of hours later, we all head off our separate ways.