Aisling's Summer Diary

Chapter 2 | Southeastern Hospitality

7 p.m.

The café was closing up for the night and still no sign of uncle Ciaran, so we decided to see if we could find the hotel on our own.  I seriously regretted packing that extra suitcase—those teeny wheels do NOT work in sand!   

But what am I whining about?!  We’re finally at the beach, and it is GORGEOUS—not at all like the ones I remember from all those family vacations in Florida.  There wasn’t a single condo in sight!  Actually, there wasn’t a single anything in sight, just a loooong stretch of sugary sand, a bank of high, grassy dunes, and the greenest ocean I’ve ever seen!  Trá Álainn!  Whoever came up with that name (it means beautiful beach as Gaeilge) got it just right!

8 p.m.

We had been trudging along for ages—no Ciaran and no hotel.  I was dying of thrist!  WHY didn’t I pack my water bottle?! 

Then Ali spotted something.  It was so far down the beach, I couldn’t make it out.  Maybe it was a mirage?  But Siobhan saw it too and bolted down the beach.  When we caught up, she was peering in through a side window.  The place is awesome!  Sea views from every room, stone walls (old school!), and a killer Buddhist décor (which Siobhan says must be a new thing for uncle Ciaran)!  I tried to imagine uncle Ciaran in his suit burning incense and doing yoga.

Inside, the hotel was candle lit and alive with climbing plants.  Overhead a soft monkish chant reverberated from some hidden speaker.  A fountain gurgled in the center of the lobby, and on the reception counter, we were met by a smiling, flower-strewn Ganesh. 

Ali yanked Siobhan into the dining room.  There was a massive poster on the wall: a COSMIC costume party!  To celebrate the hotel’s grand opening!  Tonight!  Uncle Ciaran is full of good ideas after all!

We were about to head upstairs to find him, but when we rounded the corner into the lobby we ran into this tall, New Agey lady in the lobby.  She was wearing a bold batik sari and loads of wooden bracelets, and she bowed when she greeted us.  It was all a bit O.T.T.  She handed us a couple of flyers and told us we were very welcome to come along to the party—everyone was welcome.  Siobhan thanked her and angled her way to the reception office, but Ciaran wasn’t there.  And that’s when New Age lady’s welcoming spirit began to evaporate.  She curtly asked if she could help us, and Siobhan, a bit sheepish now, told her we were looking for the owner.  Again, she bows and sort of gestures to herself.

I thought Siobhan was going to explode, she was so shocked!  “But where’s Ciaran Kelly?” she asked, and then New Age lady looked like she might explode!  Siobhan pulled out her uncle’s book and pointed to her photo, and the woman turned an unnatural shade of red.  She straightened up, and, her voice quavering a bit, told us to GET OUT—we weren’t welcome!  Then she grabbed a handful of smoldering incense sticks and literally chased us out of the place like she was exercising demons!  So much for peace and love!  Whoever that woman is, she’s an absolute nut-job!  I almost busted out laughing when she chased us out of the place like a bunch of stray cats.  And the entire time she was wailing, “I am calm, I am love, I am peace!”  I am going to reek of patchouli for weeks!

Siobhan couldn’t figure out why, instead of uncle Ciaran meeting us, we were ambushed by a crazed Irish yogi!  Ali said he must’ve been called away for some important meeting—that happens to his Dad all the time—and Siobhan agreed, but I could tell she was getting tired of finding excuses for her invisible uncle.  

Then WAY down the beach we spotted a gang of surfers, all of them trotting toward the sea in a black knot except for one—a shortish, fattish dot.  “Uncle Ciaran!”  Siobhan whooped after him.  When we caught up with him, he kept right on heaving after the younger surfers who were, by then, breaking through the shallow surf.  He kept hollering for them to wait up, but they just laughed and kept on, and then he tripped himself up on his leash and almost face-planted on the hard-packed sand.  One of the boys, a stocky, stubbled dude with a sharp-nosed board, paused, spat into the water, and said, “What’s wrong, old man?  Can’t keep up?” 

Ciaran was trying to untangle himself from his leash and wriggle the top half of his wetsuit on, but his stomach kept pooching out.  He left the suit hanging loose and ridiculous on his hips and bounded into the water, yelling for “Nico” to hold up, but Nico dug harder into the water, paddling further and further out.  I could just barely make out his gravelling voice over the breakwater: “Don’t you get it, old man?  We don’t want you hanging around!”  And just as he disappeared over the outside break, he yelled back, louder this time, “You can’t just buy your way in!” 

Ciaran froze midstride.  His shoulders slumped and the board drifted behind him and was toppled in by a knee-high wave.  He turned slowly to the shore.  Siobhan charged into the water after him, shoes and all, and gave him a long, squashing hug.  At last, the famous uncle Ciaran.  Let’s hope he’s better at running a hotel than he is at catching waves!       

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