You drink.
And if you’re not a big fan of Guinness or other beers, it’s expensive. The first couple of weeks you try to embrace the culture. There isn’t really Irish-style food. They speak English and the accent is pretty easy to understand. The dominant race, religion, and customs are the same. So the one thing you can maybe adapt to, three pints a night, you give a shot. Only to realize Guinness is still gross and the mixed drinks you enjoy sipping in moderation really add up. So you stop going out except for special occasions and you make it okay but you may still be missing out.
You say things like ‘grand’ and ‘craic’ and ‘cheers’.
You want to pick up the accent and sometimes in your head you have it but as soon as you try to speak it, it’s a disaster. So instead you pick up a couple of the terms and throw them into conversation so you’ll be less of a tourist. Your American accent gives you away however, you’re not a true Irish person and a semester abroad won’t change that. And the one thing that may stick, asking where the toilet is, rather than calling it a bathroom, is weird and not charming in the States.
You don’t eat mac and cheese.
And you miss it so much. Food in Ireland isn’t particularly different from food in America so you adjust. You eat the slightly less sweet peanut butter and embrace Ranch dressing on the rare occasion you find it. You’re only here a semester, in a small kitchen you share with four other girls, so you don’t buy many ingredients and instead make tacos, rice, pasta, and quesadillas on an endless loop. You cherish the three boxes of mac and cheese you brought with you and while you love the experience and the healthier and less processed options all around you and the fact that you haven’t been to McDonald’s once this semester, you keep a plan of all the places you want to eat as soon as you’re back in America. It goes: Noodles and Company, Chipotle, IHOP, Taco Bell, and Zombie Burger, specifically the loaded fries, because you miss places you didn’t think you would.
You walk.
A lot. And you hurt yourself doing so. A lot. You come from snow and ice, out of shape, and in shoes you never bothered to break in and you walk 15 miles and your arches collapse. You live in pain for the first two weeks. You still feel the occasional strain. In Berlin, you fall down in the street because you’re not used to the uneven sidewalks. In Rome you fall again, twice. The second time cutting your exploring short and your left foot is still bruised, three weeks later. You walk to and from the bus stops. To and from Aldi with loads of groceries. And frantically across campus in your nonexistent gaps between classes.
You look both ways, about four times, before crossing the street.
And you try really hard not to get hit by the deadly quiet city tram. You finally adjust to standing on the other side of the escalator or walking on the wrong side of the sidewalk before you get yelled at by German men who drive and exist on the right side when you visit. You hope, even if you haven’t driven in Ireland, that you’ll still be good at driving when you return to the states.
You have a lot of struggles with the showers.
You work yourself into a fit the first night when your shower is terrible and soaks the entire bathroom. You learn when the best times to shower are and know one of your roommates is probably going without hot water because of your cleverness but you do what you can to not freeze. You don’t get long, luxurious showers. The occasional bath is out entirely. Bathing, something you do to calm yourself, to take time to think, to remedy an ill-feeling, is now a chore. You long to return home for an hour-long shower with high water pressure and a confined tub.
You travel.
You have to see it all. You don’t know when you’ll be back. You start a competition with your friend about who can see more countries. You argue over whether Scotland, Wales, Northern Ireland and England are all separate countries. You’ve been to all of them. You check off some of the items on your map. You long for the others. You accept that you won’t be making it to Morrocco this time around. That you won’t see the Northern Lights or spend the Polish money your father gave you because he didn’t foresee ever needing it again. You exhaust yourself, and your bank account, crossing things off of your bucket list. You feel like maybe you’re not spending enough time in Ireland. Then you feel like you’re spending too much time in Ireland. You look at more plan tickets and consult your planner.
You see truly beautiful landscapes.
You do travel Ireland. You see the Cliffs of Moher and the Giant’s Causeway and the Hill of Tara and the Ring of Kerry. You’re more impressed with some than others. You get rained on quite a bit. You see that it’s always green, even when the sky is grey. Constantly. You see sheep on the rolling green hills. You conspire to steal a lamb. You really want to hang out with the sheep. You squeal on the bus when you see them and get made fun of for your obsession. You start to cross the counties off of your list.
You miss home.
You’re more homesick than you’re willing to admit. You may be fiercely independent but you also know that your return keeps getting closer. You miss the familiar. Your bed. Your sheets. Your cat. The reasonably priced laundry. Mac and cheese. You have strange cravings for things you hardly do or use. You want to play Mario Kart suddenly. To watch a movie that isn’t on Netflix. To colour in your colouring books.
You have to work to keep in contact with the States.
You don’t get to talk to people who matter to you very often. You have to schedule everything ahead of time. You wait for emails overnight because it’s daytime back home. You do Skype interviews, sometimes from Italian airports, sometimes from your bedroom. You wait for text backs and responses to urgent questions. You hope you didn’t miss too much while abroad.
You miss the bus.
Or rather the bus misses you. It doesn’t come. Or it leaves five minutes early as you’re in your last steps to the bus stop. You get on the wrong train. Google Maps steers you wrong. You stress. You pay a lot to ride. You’ve only missed something important once.
You make do.
You accept your lack of mac and cheese and appreciate the fresh eggs and less processed dairy. You wrap your feet when they ache or bruise and you walk on. You see things some people may never get the chance to see. You spend a lot of money but know you’ve been saving for this and can afford to. You jump out of the way of cars driving on the left side of the street and you take the next bus because you’re in Ireland and you’re lucky, grateful and adaptable when needed.
