The days pass, the miles and kilometers roll by (depending on the country), and the Internet remains a dream, a rumor whispered in hushed tones, stories told in back alleys about a place around the corner or in the next town. Now we are at a place that has Internet, but, in the words of the desk attendant, it’s a ripoff. When he told me the price, I choked and agreed that I could wait another day. There’s a cybercafe just up the street…
“But Jerry,” you ask, “you’re a cheap bastard; what are you doing in the sort of hotel that can charge out the wazoo for Internet access?”
I’m glad you asked.
Had you been reading the episodes in chronological order, you would have already seen the name Sligo (rhymes, most likely, with “I go”). We passed through on Christmas day, and everything was closed. Well, we’re back, and now there are things that aren’t closed. Unfortunately, any affordable accommodation is either full or… closed for the season. It was a little bit late in the evening when we got here, and after a long series of strikeouts we were faced with the prospect of moving on to a different town, to arrive even later and face ever-diminishing chances of people even answering their doors, let alone having room. The other prospect that loomed out there, that we had mentioned a couple of times earlier when it was still funny, was the all-nighter. Sligo really isn’t where we wanted to end up tonight, but we were all ready to get out of the car and into a comfortable bar.
Then we found the Sligo Southern Hotel. It is big, and fancy, and twice what we’ve paid for rooms so far. After a brief pow-wow and a room check we decided to accept their hospitality for the night. Now we sit in the very nice bar, of a pricey hotel in a town that once again is unable to provide us with what we needed. It looks like a really nice town, too.