Lisdoonvarna Matchmaking Festival

I've hinted at its ridiculousness, its underwhelming, geriatric clientele, dancing to Lawrence Welk-like champange-country hits of yesteryear.  These are your grandparents, divorced and/or widowed.  Your farmers who only get out of town once a year--to the Matchmaking Festival.  Your anyone European who still does not have the Internet.  As I so eloquently said on facebook:  "it's like Internet dating for people who don't have the Internet."

Perhaps I sound a bit frustrated--poor single Kyle had to settle with matching up with your grandma (who is a real gilf btw)--but, no, that is not the case at all.  The west of Ireland, while rainy and windy as shit, is beautiful.  The Cliffs of Moher were obviously breathtaking, and looking out most of the windows in this hostel, you can see large hills, small mountains off in the distance, rolling toward the ocean.  Besides, I did not come here to find a match--I really hope no one comes here to find a match, but sadly I know that's not true--I came here for a once in a lifetime opportunity to find out and observe just what the hell a Matchmaking Festival is.  Next time, though, I'll just stay at home and make a new profile on OKCupid.  Stay tuned.

Not only is Lisdoonvarna home to the human mutation of the Pillsbury Doughboy, it's home to donkeys.

A town with a population of not more than a thousand people receiving an influx of close to 40,000 is a sight to behold.  Everyone parks on the sidewalks.  Thankfully I have yet to see any tan Buicks.  I had seen enough of those over the summer.  The reprieve from the Buicks and Chevy Impalas is more than welcome, but I still can't escape the old people.  At least these grandmas and grandpas are still healthy enough to get down and break a hip.

I talked to a local musician named Dermot, 33, and he told me the Matchmaking Festival is "a fucking joke."  And the the hotels around here are trying to seperate themselves from the "absolute fucking joke that is Willie Daly and his assinine Matchmaking book.  "The sad part," he continues, "is that Willie is so clueless that he really believes in what he does.  His magic book, his magic matchmaking ability.  He fucking believes all of it.  It's pathetic."  But he rakes in that dough.

You see, Willie Daly, a fourth-generation matchmaker, charges 20 Euro for you to fill out a one page form giving your information and interests.  He reads through all of them and matches people up and gives potential matches each others contact information.  For a mere 50 Euro, Willie will meet with you one on one to get a better idea of what you want in a match. (Fire, I want fire in my match.)  If you're truly lucky, you'll be able to touch his book, which guarantees that you'll meet your spouse within six months.

Also, he looks like Kenny Rogers.

"I really hope against all hope," Dermot concluded, "that Willie is the last generation.  This generation all around us will hopefully be the last that participates in this matchmaking debacle.  We can only fucking hope."

We can indeed only hope.