My Summer of Eternal Sunshine

Comings, goings, & my imminent return.

The days here are long and the nights here are short. I swam in the sea at 5pm, but the blazing sun high in the sky could have tricked me into believing it was noon. I suppose, back at home, it was noon.

Long days string together to shape a season filled with reunions and departures, comings and goings. Visitors from home touch down and we hug hello and then I take them on a long walk through Trinity’s campus, a promenade down Grafton Street, and a jaunt through St. Stephen’s Green. The next day we take the commuter rail to the seaside town of Howth, and then after what feels like no time at all I am hugging my guests goodbye and they are departing the Emerald Isle.

Like when my little sister visited, a little over a month ago now. Between a walk across town and a train ride to the sea we also drove out to Wicklow County, where we spent the evening in a little cabin nestled within a field of overgrown grass and lilac fox gloves. We looked out of the Airbnb’s panoramic glass window as dusk fell upon the secluded landscape. We watched as sharp gusts of wind bent the field to and fro, yet were naïve to the chill of the outside world as the heat from our wood burning stove washed over us, leaving our cheeks flushed. Devoid of WiFi or speakers or a TV we listened to the silence as we made friendship bracelets for the Taylor Swift concert the next night. F E A R L E S S. An adjective that I, as a twelve year old Swifite, sought to wholeheartedly embrace. A feeling I strive to keep alive fifteen years later. A lyric me and my little sister— the most fearless of them all— would be belting along to in an overflowing stadium a mere 24 hours later.

My sister left on a rainy Sunday, and I sat at home, alone again, awaiting my next guests. My parents arrived a week afterwards, along with my partner, James. We celebrated the culmination of my year’s work—of my life’s work, really—over tapas in town. Charred shishitos speckled with flaky sea salt, a decadent potato and onion tortilla, tender steak, crispy potatoes, tangy aioli. A congratulatory surprise bottle of champagne, sent to the table from my friends back in New York. “Those are friends you will have forever,” remarked my dad, who still sends Christmas cards and pays visits to the friends he made when he moved to Frankfurt, alone, when he was my age.

The next day we drove across the country in a Toyota Hybrid—a car far too small for a group of people all above the height of 6’1. (I will never let James pick up the rental car alone ever again). During a brief break from the sickness-inducing vehicle, as we stretched out legs on the side of a windy road and gasped for fresh air, we encountered two Irish boys and their dog, Stella, along with a donkey and miniature pony. We befriended this entire cast of characters, offering the boys our leftover scones from breakfast— which were gleefully accepted (in line with the Irish tendency to assume the best in everyone, even strangers). After this exchange of chat and baked goods we dashed to Dingle, where we ate fish and chips and then napped on a grassy hill on the westernmost coast of Europe, overlooking the choppy, turquoise Atlantic below. How could something so stunning and inviting and calming– the sea– also be so terrifying and vast and unknown? A question I ask myself routinely this year.

We got stuck in a horse fair somewhere west of Tipperary during our drive back to our hotel. Chaos enveloped our clown-car, which was quite literally jammed between horses and Irishmen who did not seem to notice anything amiss about the vehicle attempting to navigate a street that should have been closed— a road crammed with ginormous horses and vendors. The fair-goers simply moseyed down the streets, bobbing in front of our car as they chatted, some escorted by their horse, some on their horses, some smoking darts, others drinking beers. James’s knuckles were white as he steered the hybrid through the madness. When we finally made it to our hotel, we cried tears of laughter over our (double) G&Ts, (extra tart) margaritas, and (multiple) pints of beer. The next day we played a competitive few rounds of Rummikub and ate more scones before driving to the airport on what turned into another rainy Sunday. Another goodbye.

And then, a few weeks later, my stepsister arrived. We caught up over foamy cappuccinos and scones (are scones some sort of metaphor, I wonder?) paired with strawberry jam, the sweet acidity of which was cut through by creamy butter. Irish butter, the good stuff. Then we walked through Trinity’s campus, jaunted down Grafton Street, paid our dues to the flocks of various city birds promenading around St. Stephen’s Green.

That evening at a stylish bistro we would order four Connemara oysters. When they arrived, we both agonized over who would eat the particularly enormous one. After an unresolved argument about which of us had to slurp the bulging sludge down their throat, I suggested putting it a napkin, so as not to offend the staff or (more pressingly) expose our embarrassingly juvenile oyster eating skills. Instead, my stepsister boldly hailed the waitress and asked if we could replace our oyster for a smaller one. She made it seem as easy as asking a dressing-room attendant for a smaller size in a particular garment. F E A R L E S S. A little confused but without question, the server obliged. In the end, the XXL Oyster’s XS relative was delicious.

The rest of our meal was flawless. We sipped a dry wine and ate fresh ceviche and took turns sopping up the sauce left over from our pink bavette with crusty bread. Between bites and swallows we expressed our love for each other; for our makeshift family; for our patient parents.

On our walk home we wandered into a pub with live music and an even livelier crew, leftover from the Thursday happy hour crowd. The guitarist encouraged song requests, belting out everything from Wonderwall, to Sweet Caroline, to ABBA, to American Girl (for us, the American Girls), to the Star Spangled Banner (also for us, who clearly had made our presence known at that point), and so on. We threw back Baby Guinness shots and befriended the corporate crowd. When I eventually turned to my stepsister to go home, long after the musician had retired for the evening, she said she needed one minute. I assumed she had run off to the bathroom, only to find her five minutes later behind the bar, learning how to pour the perfect pint of Guinness from the newly befriended bartenders. I laughed almost as hard as that time I found myself stuck squarely in the middle of an obscure horse fair in a Toyota hybrid in rural Ireland.

In the coming days my stepsister and I walked along the coastline of Howth, catching and releasing Irish crabs along the way and befriending a pair of harbor seals napping in the sun. We sought out a new sea swim location only to realize nudity was unabashed at this secluded, rocky spot. We laughed, we jumped in, we treaded water as our bodies numbed to the chilling shock of the icy sea.

And then, on a rainy Sunday, we said goodbye.

No more visitors will arrive to see me in Ireland, as far as I am aware. So instead of awaiting for people from home, I anxiously await news from home. News that shapes my future: the future of my career, of my apartment, of my friendships, of my family. In this state of waiting for the seismic shifts to occur under my feet and my feet only, I become exhausted with the mundane tasks of the present moment.

This ongoing status of living, however, is fleeting. For soon it will be me who is headed to the airport on a potentially rainy Sunday to return to a home that is not the place it was where I left it. To move in with a man I love in a new borough and take on a new, still nebulous chapter of life.

So, as I wait for everything to change once more, I begin to notice the little beauty of the mundanity; those special little things that have grounded me in this place over the past year. The smell of fresh croissants from the popular bakery on my walk to the gym in the mornings; the “hiya!” far too energetic for 7am from the smiley gym attendants behind the front desk; the ritual of lunch with my coworkers in the office’s library, where we use posh place mats boasting drawings of gold courses across Ireland to protect the wooden table from our microwaved leftovers; the Magnum ice creams we shared on an unusually warm Wednesday; my newfound appreciation for sausage rolls without soggy bottoms, for a crisp bottle of Bulmers, for that foamy first sip of Guinness (even though it hurts my stomach the next day); the friendly man who cuts my single serving salmon at the fish market; the savings my Tesco card affords me; the thrill of seeing my exhibition hanging in the Gallery every day; the contributions audience members add to the exhibition; Jenny’s cappuccinos from the Gallery’s café; my staff discount at the Gallery’s café; the crowds sitting on the curbs of Drury street enjoying creamy pints during those precious sunny days in Dublin; the slice of pepperoni and hot honey pizza from Bambino that tastes pretty damn close to the slices from home, the now anticipated run ins with friends and coworkers on the streets of this oversized village called Dublin; the little girl I saw yesterday pushing her toy stroller alongside her mother pushing her empty stroller; the swoosh noise the crosswalk light makes when it turns to green; the emerald colored commuter rail chugging through the city—visible from my 13th floor apartment; the lookout from this apartment, where I can see the clouds of misty rain approaching over Dublin’s mountains, warning me to wait a little longer before leaving to run errands or, at least, grab an umbrella on the way out the door; the familiarity of great art in my workplace: Degas, Vuillard, Renoir, Monet; the cold rosé chilling in my fridge beckoning me into the weekend; the slower pace of life here and the time that has afforded me to read novels and listen to audiobooks and binge watch Sex and the City with the help of my trusty VPN; the long walks through Trinity’s campus with cotton candy clouds dipping into the horizon beyond the bright green rugby fields, the routine promenades up Grafton Street amidst crowds of tourists and the smooth voices of the street’s singers; the not-so-glamorous birds of the glamorous St. Stephen’s Green; the never waning cries of seagulls; the smell of salt air on windy days—a reminder that the Sandymount Beach is a mere twenty minute walk away; the grocery store that was once intimidating but is now a comfort place; the loop through Phoenix Park that Maya introduced me to before she moved to London; the “let’s go for one” that turns into late nights of dancing to live music; the one sushi place I found that comes somewhat close to the sushi I miss from home; the scones; the butter; the train to the seaside towns where I jump into the Irish sea no matter the season; the sun that never sets.

I’ll never get over the fact
that the buildings all light up at night,
and the night comes every night
and without regret we let it go.
We sleep a little and we live.
That's what we do.

–Alex Dimitrov

During the weeks, I don’t see this night; instead, I sense it. I shut my shades at 9:30pm to block the golden streams of sunshine and trick myself into thinking it is time to go to bed. And I sleep a little. And then I wake up early to the light leaking into my room, sneaking its way around the edge of my curtains. My indication that it is time to continue on with my living. That’s what we do, after all.

The moonlight has hardly touched my skin in months. After a grey Irish winter where the days were capped by a 4pm sunset, I never thought I would miss the darkness. And yet, despite all the beauty that these glorious, long Irish days offer, the light’s steadfast presence has me craving the night sky. The glittering skyscrapers and the florescent lights and the whistles and the shouts and the music and the laughs and the cries and the subway rumbling under the sidewalk and the moon. Soon I will see the night-time again, reunited with the city that never sleeps. When this happens, I will be the visitor, retracing steps I once took as I seek a new routine.

And then, I expect, I will miss my summer of eternal sunshine.