Five Months Later
Visiting Dog’s Bay Beach in Roundstone with friends.
After nearly five months in Ireland, we’ve settled into our new life across the pond. The last time I wrote to you, we had just arrived in Ireland, during a particularly warm spell, and when I think back on those first disorienting weeks — the unreasonable amount of money we spent at Spar on a few measly groceries or our daily step competition to convince ourselves to brave the two-mile walk into town — I think of warm, grassy air and this twinkling realization: we did it. We’re here.
Back then, Ireland was a beautiful song I did not know and could not sing, but bit by bit, we’ve learned the tune, and we’ve written our own alongside it.
Over a few short months, we started graduate school, opened an Irish bank account, retired old SIM cards and learned new phone numbers, grew accustomed to walking and walking in the absence of a car, settled into a new house, found jobs, made friends, hosted family, received permission to stay past the initial 90-day allowance and pocketed new Irish residency cards.
After a date night out in Galway – in our rain jackets, of course.
Stopping for coffee at the Moher Cottage (10/10 recommend) on our way to the Cliffs of Moher.
We spent our first semester absorbed in the task of discovery, just where is here and how do we fit? Through the MA in Writing program, I formed especially deep friendships with two other women, one American and one Irish. We even took a short trip to Paris to celebrate a birthday, my first girls trip with friends. My program has continually challenged my craft and encouraged me that I’m in the right place. (And after undergrad saw me at three schools in three semesters and more than as many major changes, this has been a giddy revelation.)
Shortly after arriving, I also joined the small front-of-house team at a cafe by-day and wine bar-by night, and can now count Euro with proficiency, explain the contents of a “morning bun,” and craft a helluva good flat white. It’s here, among Irish coworkers who have become dear friends, that I have found a home of sorts. They have educated me on Eurovision and Guinness, the horrors of the leaving cert and joys of The Late Late Toy Show, and (after laughing at me for doing it incorrectly) how to both pronounce and spell Irish names like Cliodhna (clee-na) and Fionnaula (fi-noola).
Weekdays are marked by walks to campus, classes and hours spent reading, writing and offering feedback to classmates. Evenings are spent nestled away in a pub or on a patio as Guinness appear and disappear before us, like the Galway rain. Weekends are spent at the cafe bagging bread and pastries, and Guinness often finds its way into weekends, too.
I’ve found that most days feel like… life. It’s happy, and it’s hard and exhausting, too. We’re still in a pandemic, and we’re far from family and friends back in the U.S. We miss hugs and tacos and long drives through Virginia mountains, but little by little, we’ve created a life that we love here, a life we are excited to keep living as we finish out our degrees.
The running habit I started a year ago has consistently brought me out to the paved walkway that runs along the coast of Galway Bay. The path is so close to home that I can see it from our front entrance, and by the time I reach it, I’ve not even hit a half of a mile. To my right, high grasses in faded chartreuse hues murmur on rugby fields, and to my left, the sand is dotted in beached seaweed. I try to run this route as often as I can, often extending my run and turning onto the causeway that leads to Mutton Island, where the wind is free to whip, and the water laps in a cold silver-blue. It is here, every time, that I am washed anew with awe. We are here, here we are, and I’m reminded how magical that is.