The Good Girl's Guide to Getting Lost Read Free Page A

mass of cranes pierce the gray sky. I saw them on the way in from the airport, too. The whole city seems to be in a state of renovation. New buildings shoot up higher and higher next to structures that look as old as time.
    â€œAre you headed out?” the stranger inquires. He looks up at me. No, I’m not headed out, I think. Headed out where? All I want is to sleep, to just close my eyes and start over again tomorrow, when I’m less overwhelmed.
    But I nod because it seems, from the way he asked the question, that I should be headed out, that heading out is the thing you do once you arrive in a new city alone with no idea what you’re doing there.
    â€œWant some company?”
    â€œSure,” I say. I gingerly tear the Dublin section out of my Irelandguidebook, and then there is nothing left to do but leave the room with this stranger, still grimy after my long flight.
    Matt is Canadian. He’s been in Dublin for a few days, waiting for his brother to turn up. They’re backpacking for eight weeks through Europe; the next stop is Germany.
    â€œWhat are your plans for the summer?” he asks me.
    â€œWell, I might … I’ll probably just … I’m not sure, I guess,” I stammer.
    â€œIf you have time, you should go to Galway. Try living out there for a few weeks and see how you like it.”
    Of course I do have time. Time is all I have, stretching out like a waking dog, but go live somewhere I’ve never heard of?
    â€œIt’s great crack,” he declares.
    Here we go. Here’s where things with your new drug-dealer buddy get weird, I think. Matt must notice me flinch, because he rushes to explain. “
Craic
—that’s the Irish term for a good time. You know, good drinks, good company, good music.”
    â€œOf course,” I bluff unconvincingly.
    â€œWhere to?” Matt asks.
    When I shrug, attempting to convey that I’m easygoing as opposed to completely disoriented, he tells me that if we take a left, we’ll hit Trinity College. Now, Trinity I know. All the best universities, whatever nation, have been drilled into me by my father. McGill is the Harvard of Canada, St. Andrews the McGill of Scotland, Oxford and Cambridge a debatable tie for most prestigious in England. Every time my dad lectures somewhere elite, he procures for me a souvenir sweatshirt from the campus store, the way some people collect stamps or magnets from different cities.
    Trinity is a fortress. Spiky wrought-iron gates surround the massive stone structures. An enormous wooden door serves as the main entrance, though people move only through a small aperture cut into it, no wider than to allow two at a time. A constant glut of tourists and students dribble through it.
    Inside, the sounds of the city are muted. We traverse the cobblestones, pass the rows of bicycles lining every path and the looming arch where tourists listen attentively to guides, and head to the Book of Kells exhibition, where ornate Latin manuscripts transcribed by Celtic monks are housed. In those days, a young monk entered the monastery at fifteen or sixteen years old. He received a tonsure, a shaved head, the mark of a slave. He also accepted a new name. Then he undertook a life devoted to the study of God’s word, fasts, and manual work. It is a sign of my somewhat disturbed state of mind that I’m jealous of this imagined monk who, day after day, transcribed minute letters by hand with a creaky calligraphy pen (and it’s not like they had Wite-Out back then). I’m jealous because he knew his exact purpose in life.
    It’s nearly six P.M. when we emerge, and the narrow streets are buzzing with Dubliners returning home, their heads bent against the rain. The air suddenly feels cold and lonely. I move closer to Matt without realizing it, awkwardly bumping into him. I’m apologizing when I glance into a brightly lit pub where the customers are glowing like an