we bring ourselves wherever we go: four days in dublin

dublin (4)We arrived in Dublin on a Sunday morning. A fine, flat rain punctured the surface of the Liffey, and the streets were all but empty. We passed three elderly women, each wearing raincoats the colors of jewels. They, and the doors in Merrion Square provided the only color.

We’d flown overnight, a plan that seemed ingenious when I booked the tickets in February (fly out at one country’s dusk, arrive at the second’s dawn), but in reality, it was as brutal as it sounds. We didn’t sleep on the flight. Chris’s restless legs got the best of him, and he described his skin feeling as though it were crawling. The man next to us complained that this was the smallest plane he’d even ridden, and while we have less frame of reference, we were inclined to agree. We landed the walking dead. I was so tired that, even now, those first few hours seemed surreal. Compared to the constant movement of New York, the empty streets were a relief. It took a two mile walk (with suitcases, on small sidewalks and cobblestone–I still have bruises on my ankle) to our Airbnb to orient myself to the clock, to the day, to our trans-Atlantic position.

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Dublin quickly became for us a city of lessons. The four days we spent here were decidedly rocky. Jetlag made us susceptible to the anxieties we’re both having about our move, and neither of us handled well the discomfort of the unknown. While Dublin is a small, walkable, charming city with English speakers everywhere, the simple fact that it wasn’t home was enough to dislodge our equilibrium. On our second day in Dublin (the sixth of our trip), we looked at each other and said we just wanted a break from all the decision making. Breakfast — but where? And lunch — but were? And what should we do today? Where is that? How will we get there?

The short of it: Dublin is where we had to admit we didn’t have a groove.

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As we planned this trip, we both acknowledged how much we had to learn. This was to be our first trip as a couple, the first (large) trip for either of us without parents, the first we we’re taking as adults. I’d hoped traveling would come as easily to us as so many other aspects of our relationship, but it didn’t. It took some learning.

Our first day in Dublin corresponded with our one year anniversary, and in retrospect, I like the timing. Dublin stretched us, made us grow. We started our second year in a place of vulnerability. We had to get tender with each other, and honest with ourselves. Why were we at odds? Why were we on edge?

A mother once said to me that from raising children, she’d learned that most problems between people can be solved with food, water, or a hug. I thought about that on our third evening, after we’d bickered our way through Temple Bar and ended our evening early so we could talk, uninterrupted by the movement of the city.

Our anxieties are always over connection. How do we tell the other what we want? What we need? How do we ask each other to hold the places too bruised for us to even name?

And as much as these tensions manifested themselves in our traveling (we are kings and queens of “but I want to do what you want to do”), they weren’t about travel. They hadn’t anything to do with travel. We bring ourselves with us wherever we go. It’s the great myth of escape that we could ever lose our pain. In Dublin, we bickered over plans, but when we stopped to address the tension, we talked about deep-rooted insecurities, the mixed fear of and desire to be known. We talked about our move, and about how excitement is starting to blend with anxiety, with sadness.

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While Dublin ended up being less about Dublin and more about our relationship, I should clarify: Our days here were good days, punctuated by tension (not the other way around). After my anxiety to see everything! do everything! lessened, our days mellowed. Dublin is a charming city with an understated beauty. Compared to New York, it felt like a village, and we were so happy getting lost in down these twisting streets.

Our first four days here in a nut shell: Irish War Memorial Gardens were an oasis along the Liffey. The Little Museum of Dublin was delightful, and because it’s made up entirely of donations from Dubliners, it’s a fascinating perspective on this city’s history. I wish we’d gone the first day as an orientation to this city. We’re in Dublin, so we had to drink Guinness. We toured the storehouse on our second day here, and as much as the tour was an advertisement for its brand, it was fun, and the best way to share a pint. Temple Bar was far too crowded for us. The Winding Stair Bookshop was lovely; the swans in St. Stephen’s Green made me squeal, and the best food we had all week was the scones. Irish scones have ruined me for all baked goods. I’ll never be the same.

My favorite moment of all though was the quietest. After attempts at two museums failed (one was closed, the other required advance booking), we found ourselves in the Irish War Memorial Gardens. The rain showers of the morning had given way to blue sky, and a sun so warm I shed layers until my arms were bare. We found a rock on the bank of the Liffey and dangled our feet over the clear water. I watched a bird’s small, webbed feet pedal underneath the water. In so many ways, this could have been any other afternoon in the sun, but after spending six months saying to each other “baby, we’re going to Dublin!,” we were here. In Dublin! In Ireland! In the middle of this adventure! Forever let that be enough.

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new york city, dublin, london: tell me everything

We are traveling this summer! We’re going to New York City! We’re going to Dublin! We’re going to London! Then we’re going back to Dublin!

My boyfriend and I booked tickets a few months ago, but it’s taken the snow melting from the sidewalks (this week) for me to get we’re-going-to-be-in-Europe excited. I love guidebooks, and already have ones for all three cities (evidence above), but I want to hear from people who have been there. Where do we go? What do we do? What restaurants do we need to try? What museums do I need to visit? What bookshops do I need to see? What bookshops do I NEED to see?

Each of these cities have been jewels on my tongue for years. I visited New York when I was a teenager, but the other two will be all new. I’m all the things you are when you travel: excited and anxious and ready to be wowed and hopeful that it will bring with it clarity/creativity/wonder/an awakening. Mostly, though, I’m kind of in awe that I booked these tickets, and kind of in awe that in just a few months I’ll be standing on foreign soil, walking on streets whose names I’ve memorized from maps and books. In the weeks after booking the tickets, I kept turning to my boyfriend and shouting “We’re going to Dublin!”

It’s still a few months out. For now, though, I need you to tell me everything good. Heavy emphasis on books, food/drink, weird crime stuff, and anything not included in my guidebook.

rome + sardinia in photographs

This past summer, I went to Italy. My mother, whose long loved the country, took me, the gift of experience.

I went to Italy with my dad’s family when I was eight. We spent a full month touring the country — Sicily, where my grandmother’s family is from, Rome, Florence, Venice, Sirmione and Sorrento. My memories of that trip are children’s memories: Playing games with my cousins in Rome, pulling away from the sick dogs in train stations and on the streets of Naples, begging for gelato, lemon and strawberry, everyday, multiple times a day, watching my brother fly across a hotel room on a bed that hadn’t been secured to the floor.

I tossed a coin, still lira in 2001, into the Trevi Fountain at dusk, and refused to tell my family that I wished for my writing to be publishedMount Etna experienced a “flank eruption” in July 2001, and I watched BBC news reports of rolling lava and crying women: We’d been there a month earlier, heard the mountain rumbling, and even though the sky was clear, I remember my cousins and I deciding we were hearing thunder from a storm we couldn’t see. When we visited Sorrento, we swam in the ocean, the water a jewel tone that even the beaches of Sicily couldn’t rival. My memory is that the beach was rocky, but the ocean floor was covered in shattered pottery. We sliced our feet on ceramic edges, and dove to the bottom to retrieve the bright, broken pieces. This can’t possibly be right, but, like I said, they’re all the memories of a child. I saw at my eye level, filtered what I saw through eight, short years, and so much of that trip has either fallen away or has taken on a kind of magic-glaze.

This past summer’s trip to Italy was as much a reprisal of the 2001 trip as it was its own, new experience. My mom has visited Italy several times, and is familiar with Rome, in particular. As we prepared for the trip, she told me over and over again that she just wanted me to see the country that she had fallen in love with.

I’ve been wanting to, and trying to, write about this trip for several months, but I can’t quite unlock my experiences. For a myriad of reasons, the trip was as emotional and difficult as it was awe-inspiring. I found myself reckoning with a fragility within myself. I cried in the Basilica di Santa Maria in Trastevere over decisions that now feel like mistakes. I flew home with hives covering my hands and feet.

It took several months for the trip to mellow into what it is for me now: a new door opening inside of me. It was an invigorating two weeks, a thoughtful and, at times, painful two weeks, and while I was ready to come home at the end of it, I think I was so ready to come home, in part, because I was so excited about the life I had back here. Back home, I felt both new and old all at once. The girl I’d once been dusted off, and returned to where she belonged. I’m not sure I was ready to travel quite yet. Not sure I was ready to learn who I was in a foreign country while I was still so thrilled to be where I was at home.

For all it was, this trip was, above all, beautiful and breathtaking. Italy is. My mother’s kindness and generosity and excitement to show me the country she loves so much was (is) beautiful and breathtaking. Photos don’t do any of it justice, and while I’m not sure my words will either, I do hope to write more about this trip, once I’ve had even more time to let it settle.

 

what i want 2018 to be

I planned to spend time at the end of 2017 reflecting on the coming year, and when the week before the new year disappeared into more important commitments, I planned to spend the first days of 2018 reflecting, and then, I spent the first week of the year sick. Best laid plans, right?

It’s funny that all my plans to plan failed, and that I’m now two weeks in, and, aside from a few conversations with friends, this is the first time I’m meditating on what I want from 2018. (A former version of myself would have harbored fears that I’d already wasted the year, because what’s a rebuilding of myself if I can’t mark its beginning and end on a calendar).

Before Christmas, my Elise friend asked what I wanted in 2018. I told her I want to remain as happy as I am now. It was late, and I was tired and giggly; I didn’t just mean happy, because happy can temperamental. What I meant was more than happy: I want to remain as full as I am now.

2017 was a happy year, yes, but more than that it was a full year. I grew so much, experienced so much (both good and bad). I met new people, had new experiences, lived in new places. I traveled, read, drank, ate, swam in the ocean, dug my fingers in mud, laughed, cried, spent time alone, spent time surrounded. Last year was abundant. I, in 2017, felt abundant. It was the year people told me my face changed. They saw joy in my eyes, on my skin, in my body.

After drought, I was (am) a girl overflowing.

That’s what I want in 2018. I know that to say my “new year’s resolution” is to “have a full year” sounds like vague bullshit, but I don’t have a better way to describe it. My life is this beautiful, flowering, sometimes hard, sometimes soft thing that I want to love and nurture and grow. Now that I am more me — more in tune with who I am, what I want, who I want to be — I want to experience more and more of that fullness.

I don’t have checklists or plans, but rather I have directions in which I want to move. Areas of my life where I want to concentrate my energy, nurture life into.

– Cultivating friendship – 

Oh, how many times has my heart broken over friends? I’ve always struggled with friendship. Even as a little kid, I didn’t make friends easily, and when I did finally, I rarely knew what to do with them. So much of the time, I still feel this way.

While 2017 lit up so much of life, it also did a number on my social sphere. For a complex set of reasons, I either lost touch with, intentionally distanced myself from or unintentionally lost intimacy with many of my friends. (Not all of them. The friends I’ve held on to are dear, shining, bright stars to me). I shed so many tears over friendships last year. I don’t often journal, but I had to last year, to understand what was happening to my friendships, and what those losses were doing to me. Through all that hot, lonely heartache, I finally got to a place where I decided that, while the “problem” didn’t necessarily lie solely with me, the solution would.

For all my longing for friendship, I’m not very good at the work that friendship requires. I’m content being alone, and I’m also deeply insecure about the bonds that I have. I assume my presence is a burden or inconvenience, and opt, instead, to not reach out or follow up. If I want strong friendships in my life, I have to first learn how to be a good, consistent friend. My primary experience of friendship has been one of starting over (new people, new groups, new circles who will accept and maybe love me), and even though I feel that again now, I’m trying to be hopeful. If I get better, maybe my friendships will too? I want 2018 to be a good year for friendship, to be the year that I learn how to be the kind of friend I want.

– Get my financial house in order –

Last year, I lost balance with my finances. I carried a balance on my credit card for the first time in my life (small, but nevertheless there), and I struggled to figure out exactly where my money was going compared to where it needed to be going. As 2017 came to a close, I began to clean up this general “messiness.” I can be lean and disciplined when I need to, and have created a budget that work well for my life and its rhythms. But as the new year starts, I’m thinking more broadly about money than just hitting targets on my spreadsheet. As with so much in my life, I want to be intentional about where my dollars go.

A lot of what I make goes towards expenses I don’t control — rent that is a little too high, groceries that I keep having to buy, insurance that I’m goddamn lucky to have — but when I think about the rest of my spending, I think in terms of addition. I want my spending to add to my life, enrich it, not detract from it. Sharing meals with friends, owning books that set me on fire, hopping neighborhood bars with my boyfriend — these experiences, though they have a cost, bring me so joy. In 2018, I’m looking to minimize what I spend on the mindless stuff — the stress shopping and impulse buying — so that I can spend, without worry, on what fills me up, and save the rest.

Basically: don’t spend on what I don’t need, so I can focus on what I do.

– Travel-

This is so simple. I want to go everywhere. I want to see everything. There’s no one place I want to experience in 2018, but rather a thousand places I’d be excited to visit if I have the opportunity.

With the money goals that I also have, travel may not be as attainable as I’d like it to be. But while I want to work towards affording “real” travel, I also want to expand my definition of what it means to “travel.” Last July, I visited Lake Superior with my boyfriend. Even though I’ve experienced the lake a hundred times and in a hundred different ways, to experience it with someone who hasn’t was like experiencing it new again. I want to visit Toronto/ Stockholm/ Vienna/ Olympic National Park/ Los Angeles/ Boston/ London (literally, you name a place; I want to go to it), but if that kind of big-far-wide travel isn’t in the cards for 2018, I want to be equally thrilled to see and explore the bits of the world that I do get to.

Get comfortable with vulnerability –

Sometime in my early adulthood, I trained myself to keep what’s true about myself locked up. I would either write it down, or I would only tell it to myself, but I stopped telling other people. It was a lot easier to stay quiet than it was to unzip myself and hope the person I was with would hear me and understand me and treat all my fragile spots with the kind of tender care they needed.

I don’t want to do this anymore. It’s lonely, and uncomfortable, and prevents me from learning safety, and it prevents my loved ones from learning about me. But, god, vulnerability is hard. I have visceral, physical reactions to situations that require it of me. The more opened up and raw I feel, or the more intimate the information I want to share, the harder it is to physically open my mouth, physically form words, physically breath through the intensity. I want this to change. Becoming more comfortable with vulnerability is a gift I can give to myself and to the people who love me. In 2018, I want to become softer with those people. I want to be known, and I want to let them know me.

As I look over this little list, I realize that none of these “resolutions” are new to 2018. I’ve been working on financial health, on friendships, on vulnerability already. I’ve already had successes (and failures) in each of these realms. Dedicating 2018 to working on these intentions doesn’t signal a departure. There’s no “new Torrie” I’m aiming to create. Last year, I wrote that I hoped that even if the new year wasn’t better than the old, I, at least, would be better. Last year was, thank God, a much, much better year, a healing, happy, hopeful year, and I want 2018 to be a continuation of that. I want a year of more. I like being a growing person. I like knowing that I’m still getting there.