[witty Irish proverb]

Can't think of any at the moment that aren't worn out and corny. I do have a joke though:

When Noah had loaded up the Ark and the Flood waters were rising, he passed by an Irishman stranded on a small bit of land.
"Noah," said the Irishman, "Have ye got any room to spare?"
"Feck off," said Noah, and sailed on.
"Ah, sure," said the Irishman, "It's just a little rainstorm anyway."

Okay, so it's a heck of a lot funnier when it's told by an Irish ferry man shipping you back over to the mainland in the middle of a down pour. Ireland is fucking beautiful, fucking cold, and fucking wet. Jaysus Chroist, as Jenny the tourguide says (brown hair and freckles, it's torture). And we all got drenched on Blasket Island yesterday. But it was worth it. Slept in Killarney and then drove on to Dingle. I'm surrounded by about thirty Aussies, and a few Canadians and Kiwis. They're very nice, mostly 20 somethings, but I feel very...I don't know...queer, among them. I miss Paris. I miss the possibility of London. I'm formulating big plans for Dublin, at the end (yes, I'm still completely busted. I'll just smile real pretty, play up my Aw Shucks Midwestern Gal and snag me a sugarmama. I have always relied on the kindness of strangers...)
So I'm in Galway now, and I probably should go out later and check out the ceilidh dancing (I did tons of half-assed midwestern ceilidh dancing back home, I shouldn't pass up the chance for the real thing). But I'm tired. And I'm an introvert, and being surrounded by thirty straight total strangers is wearing on a girl (actually, I shouldn't assume. There's an older Aussie woman who referred to her "girlfriend", but it was impossible to tell if she meant "my hottt! lesbian lover" or "my friend who's a girl").
So, that's where I'm at, now. Trying to eat as cheap as possible. Taking lots of pictures. Trying to stay dry. Trying to be sociable. Trying not to ogle the Canadian blond (blue eyes) with the amazing figure. And I am having fun. Listening to the Chieftains and silently quoting Yeats ("Lake Isle of Innisfree" is poetic comfort food for me. It's like a talisman when I get stressed). But I will forever, forever regret missing that play in Dublin.
On to Inish Mor tomorrow.