Dusting Off -- Dublin, Ireland

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The colors of the houses are bright in Ireland. Perhaps they painted them such vibrant shades of yellow, green, red, and blue to add contrast to the usually dreary horizon. Perhaps it’s because the houses are mostly of similar Georgian architecture, and the Irish individuals wanted something to help set them apart.

I didn’t look back. I didn’t give the immigration officer a chance to change his mind and send me back to Philadelphia. I rolled my bag through the terminal with weary determination, caught in the headache inducing state between tears of panic and elation, but too stressed to do anything but sit down and stare blankly at the cold floor.

My journey had almost ended before it began. How else have I failed to do my research? How many immigration officers will there be, threatening to send me home because of my own stupidity/naivety? I thought of all the support I’d received from friends and family throughout the course of 2012/13. I thought of how close I’d just come to letting everyone down. I ate a fruit and nut bar and my cotton mouth sucked the flavor right out of it. It could have been a horse manure and gasoline bar and I wouldn’t have known the difference.

Okay. I’m in. What next? Money. I need money. I scanned the terminal for an ATM as I stuffed the fruit/manure wrapper into my front pocket. Aha!

Two of the ATMs were malfunctioning. The one remaining that worked properly had an intimidating line. I sighed in resignation and joined the stagnant queue. For some reason my card only allowed me to withdraw 20 euros. Which was unnerving, but I thought that 20 euros would be sufficient to purchase the SIM card I needed to make my phone calls. I went to the Vodafone shop and saw the cheapest SIM card for 20 euros. Not including tax.

Christ.

What now?

Lucky for me, Ireland buses and airport terminals have plenty of free wifi. I logged in to eircom and posted an emergency facebook message.

Irish friends! I'm in an emergency. Can I get phone numbers?
Volunteering is now considered work in Ireland. I almost got sent back to the states. I'm in Ireland (by the skin of my teeth), but now have no place to stay.

I received loads of responses within minutes – from all over the world. Friends from the states recommended friends in Ireland. Friends in Europe recommended friends in Ireland. Friends in Ireland offered me their homes and advice. I decided to catch the local bus to Lochlann’s, a friend met on my previous Ireland adventure. I found a ticket machine and inserted my precious 20-euro bill and punched the 90-minute travel button. Nothing happened. I punched the button again, harder.

Nothing.

“It just ate my money,” I said to no one in particular. “That was all I had.”

“Lemme give ‘er a look,” a toothy English chap offered his services. He pushed the same button in the same exact way and out popped my ticket and change.

“Good god, thanks so much. Ireland really hates me today.”

After nearly two hours of screeching and jolting through Dublin and twenty minutes of confused wandering around the city centre, I arrived at Loch’s stop. I was the last person on the bus, so when the driver saw me tipping my phone back and forth to best view the directions Loch had sent me, he asked “Dja need any help now, findin’ where yer goin’?”

I love Irish bus drivers. They might be the friendliest lot of people I’ve ever encountered. This is what Ireland’s supposed to be like.

After a quick chat with the driver, I headed to Loch’s. The driveway was familiar. The houses were familiar.

Familiar felt good. So, so good.

His beautiful garden reassured me. 

His quirky blue house with its temperamental toilet and tastefully cluttered presses cheered me up. He gave me a big hug, empathetically listened as I spilled my woes, and fed me a banana and some blueberry tea. I started to calm down. Keep in mind that it’s past one o’clock Thursday afternoon by now, and I’ve been awake for over 24 hours and am suffering from painful lady-times. Reaching a state of calm was no small feat.

Breathe. Eat banana. Breathe. Drink delicious tea. Breathe...

Well... what now? I’m safe in Ireland. I have plenty of places I could stay. Should I move on to George’s even though the immigration officer was so against the idea? I told the truth. I am George’s friend and I’m only helping him around the house. Should I go to Roisin in Cork? Cathal? Should I stay at Loch’s? What now?

George is my friend. I’ve been looking forward to seeing George for over a year now. George needs me.

I still have time to catch the last bus to Tipperary...

Should I take it?