Accessing mobile data and public wifi is a real bitch in Europe. Picture yourself on the dawn of Y2K. No really. Close your eyes and remember it. Feel The 1999. This is my life.
I visited Ireland for the first time this past weekend. It was an experience forty-three years in the making. The Bestie is Irish too. I wanted to text and call and email her every time I turned a corner, however: see above. So I jotted some notes into my Smartphone instead. Voila the Copy/Paste:
Irish people still speak Gaelic.
Irish people speak Gaelic to me.
Irish people have red hair and blue eyes. Like, all of them. And legs as big as tree trunks.
I’m wearing my hair curly. Fuck it.
My friends are yelling across the bar to me. They call me “Cokk-lin.” I just met them. I think they like me. I think they are also friends with my cabbie from earlier today.
There are seagulls in Dublin.
Our ancestors crammed onto tall ships called Famine Boats and traveled eight weeks across the Atlantic Ocean to find a better life in America, that is, if they survived. Twenty percent of them died at sea. I knew this, right?
Don’t tell Irish people in Ireland that you are “Irish.”
If you should decide to fly to Europe, fly to Ireland and I will meet you there. Don’t rattle your nerves trying to see Paris. I’ll always send you lots of pictures and provide plenty of tales about Paris. Ireland is a place to see for yourself. Because you don’t see it. You feel it.
But don’t fly into Dublin. That is a really fucking scary experience. (Maybe Shannon is better?)
I’m back in Paris now. I visited the American Ambassador’s Residence today, and then had lunch at an Irish pub with my American friends, and met some Arabs on the Champs-Elysées. I got a rejection letter from Corium Magazine for “I Never Minded Public Transportation.” All in all, I’d call it a successful day.
I miss Ireland though. And I miss The Bestie, too.