Saturday, August 29, 2009

Tired & Emotional

Some nights just kind of get away on you don't they, and that is what I realised about 3.15 this morning when I found myself in a Karaoke Bar with one of my mad Irish friends. Dreadfully hungover today; popped down to Caulfield to see Abbey & Bella, came back and carbo loaded, and am presently pissing round on net having done my ironing for the coming week. Wild.

Anyhooo, below was written in the week before I departed Ireland in March. The year there went so fast, and it was tricky at times but I don't regret it for one moment. Now there is a bit of distance between where I am now and where I was then, I feel ok about posting it. Onwards.

The third day I was in Dublin, I was ready to head back to the airport and leave. Finding things tricky, and the place despite being friendly was strangely impenetrable and for the first time in my life I was so afflicted with homesickness it ached.

I had woken early to leave the worst hostel in the history of the world. I attempted to have a shower, there was no hot water in the mouldy, cold bathroom. I sat in the common room in the corner, while some boys from Italy talked infront of the TV, and began to contemplate the consequences of going home after only 3 days. What on earth possessed me to do this? I have a home and a career in Melbourne. And more importantly, people who knew me! This was clearly a hugely arrogant move on my part.

I started to make my way over to the new hostel with my large coffin like bag. My back was aching so despite having very little money to myself, gave up and I flagged a taxi down. The driver happily assisted me with my bag, and sat me in the front and asked where I was and where I was going. It was the first time someone had spoken to me all day, and I burst into tears.

The poor cabbie would have been 40ish, a Dubliner, having a quiet day of driving round and finds a greasy haired kiwi hysteric in his vehicle. He offered me a tissue and a cigarette (to have once I got out, its a $3000 fine for smoking in cabs here) and upon hearing the fact I was a kiwi recently arrived in Dublin, and not knowing a soul, got on his cellphone and called a fellow cabbie who was a kiwi to take me out for a drink.

There was also the story of the passport control officer, commenting on the blonde photo in my passport and saying that my darker locks 'look very well' and I should keep 'them that way.' Try getting that from the Home Office.

And then there was John, darling twinkly eyed John with his bushy beard, who didn't know me from Eve, but was happy to escort me around Dublin, take me out for drinks (and pay for them as he knew I had no money, despite being skint himself) and befriend me like I was one of the gang for years, not some random woman who was friends with his exgirlfriends sister's friend. I don't know what I would have done without him and Paddy as my friends here; they are both kindred spirits. Ann-Marie and Felix, letting me stay at their house, AM lending me clothes to wear to interviews, Felix and his dark sense of humour.

There are so many stories of lovely Irish people. People are so lovely. I will miss it here more than I thought.

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