A Distant Dream

Reflections from a sidewalk in Brooklyn

Was it all a dream?

That’s how I feel in this moment, as I sit outside in Fort Greene, Brooklyn, under one of those Covid-era outdoor dining structures that now seem to be a permanent addition to the city’s urban layout. Under this plexiglass roof, adjacent to a trendy café-by-day-wine-bar-by-night, Ireland— the people, the place, the culture— feels so distant.

I am back in America, where none of my life from the past year exists. I am where I was before I moved to Ireland, in New York City, the city that has always been the city in my mind. But I am in a new neighborhood, a new borough even, where I still need to open Google Maps to navigate myself to the grocery store. Where there is no grid system. Where I am not yet on a first-name basis at my local bodega. Where I live, for the first time, with a boy. Where, I find, all of my friends have scattered to different edges of the city, to different corners of the East Coast. Where my life recalls the format of an incomplete Mad Libs:

“Allison is very __(adjective)__ in New York City. In __(number)__ months, she will be a ___(occupation)___ at ___(place)___!”

My final week in Europe, my heart nearly exploded. I was immersed within a “Love Fest,” as my stepmom aptly named it; a week of goodbyes, during which I became hyperaware of the incredible life and community I built during my year abroad.

First, at work. On my final day, a gathering in the library over tea, coffee, and cakes. Gifts presented to me: flowers and a red notebook from the museum’s gift shop, filled with doodles and letters and drawings from my colleagues across the museum, expressing their gratitude towards me and my project.

That evening, an excursion to the Royal Hibernian Academy of Arts. The opening of the 194th RHA Annual Exhibition, featuring my colleague’s artwork, followed by slices of greasy pizza and then pints at a pub nearby. Laughter, so much laughter.

Then that weekend, my going away drinks. Mezcal Negronis at a bar off Baggot Street. The gathering of an eclectic group of friends I made over the prior year: my mutual friends turned to closest confidants, my fellow expats, my former neighbors, my South African girls, my colleagues turned friends and their partners and siblings, also turned friends. These are the people I picked up along the way— or, perhaps, those who picked me up along the way. These are the people I know I will see again, on the Emerald Isle or elsewhere. These are the people who turned Ireland into a home.

And, finally, the Love Fest headliner: my last jaunt to London. A quick, 45 minute flight to say goodbye to my pillars over past year: my high school friend, Cecily, my New York friend, Jemma, and my Dublin friend, Maya. An old friendship, a friendship that grew over the last year, and a new friendship. Three, cherished women from different parts of my life who now incidentally live within a 15 minute walk from each other in East London, creating an equilateral triangle on Find My Friends—a trifecta I check in on every now and then, thrilled when their bobbing icons overlap, proud of my role as the guardian angel of this unlikely friend group that flourishes beyond my presence.

A day trip to the Kew Botanic Gardens, Indian food in a rebranded pub, a chaotic bike ride to a chill afternoon sweating in community saunas, an attempted night out that ended into our feeling old beyond our years, coffees on the balcony overlooking the canal, a sprint into a toasty pub to avoid a heavy rainfall, a visit to the Courtauld, chips and dips in the park followed by an ice cream cone. A a chili party in Cecily’s flat. Digestive biscuit s’mores roasted over a portable fire pit to end the night. An overpriced cab to London Gatwick Airport the next morning, accompanied by overweight suitcases stuffed with all my belongings from the past year, soon to be boarded onto a flight to JFK (after a hefty fine). An eager new roommate awaiting my arrival. My return home. My return to build a new home.

Images from Love Fest

Here I am, a month later, sitting on this Brooklyn sidewalk, watching the leaves fall, reminding myself how much I missed the distinguishable four seasons last year when I lived in a city where the temperature remained steady, and the rain remained steadier.

Memories from my time in Ireland flash through my mind like a dream I am trying to recall the next morning. Fuzzy around the edges, the conversations largely forgotten, but the colors, the expressions, and the feelings still vibrant in my mind.

Those feelings? Hard to succinctly encapsulate. A feeling of belonging. Of feeling safe. Understood. Accomplished. A tender feeling of longing. Of nostalgia. A beautiful feeling. A distant feeling. A feeling of immense, even cosmic gratitude.

Last year was built around a single curatorial project, a laser focused goal. But, when that was done, what was left?

Here in Brooklyn, the answer to this question has become clear: what’s left is a community. A home, built out of a city full of unknowns and uncertainty. And this, I think, is why I moved to Ireland in the first place. Not (just) for my career. Not (just) for the sake of the future. But, ultimately, to build something out of nothing, to shape new relationships, to embrace the present moment, and to do this independently—supported, from afar, by the people I love at home, but, ultimately, on my own. Completing this self-appointed challenge so that, later, when back in New York, sitting outside a trendy cafe under an outdoor dining structure, enveloped by the crisp fall breeze, questioning if it was all a dream, I can confidently say: yes.

It was a dream. A dream only I can truly understand, and feel, and relate to. A dream built out of the desires of my deepest subconscious, that submerged part of me that I still don’t fully understand. A dream that was scary and hard and, at times, left me caked in sweat from anxieties and doubts. But, also, a dream that was beautiful. A dream that I didn’t want to end. A dream that made me wish I could stay in bed a little longer, falling back into the visceral, emerald-colored world beyond descriptors.

A dream recorded throughout this blog, that I now read over and over again, reminding myself: it was all real.

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I am no longer living on the Emerald Isle; my Fulbright year has come to a close. But I still want to write for all of you, if you’ll let me. Stay tuned for some changes, coming soon.