Onto the Next, Maybe Close the Eyes - Galway, Ireland

Early Tuesday morning some time ago, before the sun made her debut on this side of the world, I was supposed to be sitting in the passenger seat of a sleepy car headed to the airport. My journey was to begin with a 6:00 AM flight to Shannon Airport on Ireland's west coast, where I would start a new chapter of my life. Instead, I awoke late, the light already filling my room as it filled the expanse of the blue sky outside my window and everything beneath it. The day had begun, and the chatter of housekeepers outside my door confirmed it.

The day prior, after spending a final day by the sea with friends, starting cocktail hour at noon to medicate the sadness that came in waves and to toast the time we had shared, the day ended with dinner with someone who has become very close to me. Pentati, the village perched on the hill visible from Agios Gordios, sits high on the hillside, terracotta rooftops poking through the trees as they spill down the mountain's backside. As we entered the village on the quad, our toes instinctively tucked into the footpegs, fearing they might catch the weeds growing from the cracked bases of the short buildings lining the streets. Buildings that have stood for generations, their history etched in the wrinkled faces we passed, sitting on terraces, smoke being sucked down silty throats and blown out towards the bougainvillea weaving through the iron bars of the patio, cold, cheap beers sweating onto the tile floors. You might be going by too fast to notice Chris’s Place, a restaurant tucked under the sidewalk, built into the mountainside. Tables line the edge, offering an unobstructed view down the west coast and the rolling hills that seem so magnanimous when you sit before them. We watched a lemon-lavender haze settle over the village, a subtle mist from the seaside air, as a quietness fell and tourists retreated to prepare for their evening festivities. 

Taking all of this in, feeling a pang from a deep part of my gut, I asked myself: Why the rush to leave? I have little awaiting me until the start of the next month. So, I decided to miss my flight the next day and stay to soak in one more week. One more week to decide how to fill my days, accepting that now, without work, I might experience a truer sense of boredom—a boredom I assume I’ll be begging for in six months, so I welcome it warmly. And then the days began to be filled with genuine spontaneity, answering only to myself and my desires, laughter, and discovery guiding every decision. Spending more time with people I have grown fond of, perhaps even begun to love.

-

When the automatic doors open from the airport, the tone cast over my face reflects off the suffocating, thunderous clouds above me. They make their presence known by threatening to release what they hold: rain. My gaze transfers from the clouds to the landscape and I laugh out loud to myself, for the Grecian sun I have traded green and wet lands. Excitement and dread toy with each other in my heart as I walk to the pickup line…

This is the beginning of my next chapter. 

It’s hard for me to grasp that what’s happening right in front of me isn’t permanent. Returning to school and being a ‘broke student’ makes me feel childish and small after living such big lives for the past five years, but this is only a means to an end. Life goes forward, and one day this time will be over. Why would I withhold an experience just because it’s uncomfortable? Uncomfortability seems to be the space I’ll dwell in for the foreseeable future, as everything about this move feels tense. Unlike my previous moves, where I knew I would eventually move on and continue toward goals or dreams, never settling anywhere for long, I walk into Ireland not particularly knowing where I want to end up or where I’m going.

This land, with all its gracious qualities, greeted me delightfully with rolling green hills and sheep-dotted fields, as did my new host, Emer. I would soon discover that Emer is a woman of the air. Sometimes you look at her, and there’s nothing behind her eyes because she’s so far out in space, enjoying the fruits of simplicity. Her wild, curly hair, casually plopped on top of her head with a clip, blends perfectly with the flowy, unconfirmed outfits that drape her tall, lanky frame. This Mrs. Frizzle character welcomed me into her home as I learned to use my new Irish legs. She lives in the countryside of Tipperary, a town often the butt of jokes about seclusion. But it would be far-fetched to be upset about residing in a place where shopgoers stop by your house with a bottle of wine, and local family drop by unannounced just to see what you’re up to. In a modest-sized home decorated to fit Emer’s eclectic and classy tone, I settled in as another house member, waking up to make coffee and dedicating periods to scouring rental homes in a land known for being unaffordable and unavailable.

At the kitchen table watching the shadows rise and fall over the kitchenette from passing clouds over the sun, I will finalize and confirm a 5-bedroom house in the city centre of Galway. To this day, I have not come to fully realize what a find this location or house is but I have a feeling one day I will realize that though the efforts of getting the keys in hand were tumultuous and emotional at best, this house is a fantastic reward for those efforts. In 4 short weeks, these rooms will be filled with 2 more Irishmen and an American, and we hope that our year of studies, work, and endeavors are filled with joy and comforts of a home that is well appreciated. We will spend weekends walking across the street to noisy pubs, dancing and singing until the wee hours of the morning, and maybe stumbling home to our beds. We will have talks in our living room arranged with a fireplace and mix-matched leather couches circling the smallest TV known to man set up at an angle that will hurt your neck after a day of binge-watching shows. Visions of Christmas cocktails and warm meals, bringing in new friends swarm my head despite the risk of none of these things happening. As for now, because there is only me and my newest housemate Meghan here, we say these dreams out loud in naivete and anxiously await to witness the dynamic. 

-

The purpose of these writings, especially about people that I interact with, is that I find myself wishing for an audience of all the people I love and care for in this world to be privy to these conversations. To share the audacity of some, and the wisdom of others, are all things I feel an undeniable obligation to relay in hopes that it would bring comfort, inspiration, and maybe even comedic relief.

Galway is a city that collects from everywhere else in the world. When you trip on the centuries-old cobblestone street leading up to a creamy marble building, its etching still bearing the names of its original proprietors dating back to the 1800s, you can feel the air of old Spanish streets. The water rushing through the city from the Loch, dodging underneath bridges built with arches, might remind you of the Amsterdam canals. The pubs are lively with loud music and boisterous patrons sitting outside, drinking a pint, much like you might observe in New York City. Yet people here interact with and care for each other with a hospitable kindness you’d experience tenfold in Mexico. Greeted by the beauty of all these things, Meghan and I wandered down the square in search of a celebratory, housewarming pint, hoping to stumble upon some live music. And that we did.

The barman handed me a shot of Jameson and a Rockshore Irish Lager after my request for something new. The lager cooled my throat after a long day of moving, and a shortage of water—it seems as though Europeans are careless about their water intake. We took our pints and shimmied through the crowd into a stuffy, oak-wooded room. Tables were occupied by friends and couples, tourists, and empty Guinness glasses. The farther back we walked, the louder the music of a three-man band playing traditional music with a guitar, an accordion, and a Bodhrán, a traditional Irish drum. The lead man sang an old Irish tale while strumming an upbeat tune on his guitar, his counterparts watching intently to keep up with the rhythm and add their flares. The crowd buzzed, energy high as people clapped their knees with free hands while the other hand worked on their beers, or bounced their toes against the chairs next to them, locked in with the beat they chose to follow. After the song ended, the band transitioned into a riff. Each musician did their own thing, creating a tune that kept the celebratory air alive in the room. No music sheets or specific instructions—just playing until one gave a subtle nod and a wink, and the other confirmed with a “one more time.” They finished the spontaneous 3, 4, 5-minute riff smoothly, to the crowd's hoots and a gesture of gratitude with a hand.

-

The man in the middle, playing the accordion, showed little facial expression. He sat stoically before the crowd, doing his job, only indicating his enjoyment through the intensity of his play. I imagine this is his hobby, born from a great love of Irish music. A middle-aged, unassuming man with peppered hair and an impassive stare, who likely started playing the accordion at a young age, perhaps coerced by his parents, only for it to transform into a religious hobby, bringing him ample gratification from the cheers of the pub crowd during the week. At the beginning of the song, he observed the crowd, no longer needing to look at his fingers as they already knew what to play. He took in the moment and the song before the singer stopped. When the song ended, and they began to improvise, his eyes closed lightly. No longer taking in his surroundings, he dove deep into the recesses of his mind, becoming one with the music. I doubt he would notice if a note was off or a beat too late, for his calm and cerebral demeanor showed he was no stranger to this rhythm. He took himself to a happy place of peace, lost in the reeling sound of the drum, speeding up with every count.

-

That… that is what I wanted to capture. Beautiful, unintentional, and simple is the love this man has for something that has probably become so casual to him. Finding stillness amid chaos and noise, producing something that fills him up and, by proxy, becomes notable to everyone in the room—what a beautiful idea. I think there’s a life lesson here that I could spend much time explaining to make this post one to glean from, but I too want to embrace the unintentional simplicity. Producing something I want to share without needing to explain. Opening the door for people to hear or read, not leading them to a well of knowledge, but merely pointing them in a general direction and seeing what they take away.

That audience I want to bring to people I meet all over the world is not one I wish to teach but one I want to expose to the teachings constantly around us at all times—teachings that are breathing, being, surviving, and hoping… just like we all are.