Just A Small Town Girl

In recent weeks, a few people have said to me, "I've been binging your blog".
Personally, I binge TV shows that keep me wondering, books I simply can't put down, or movies that draw me in. I binge things that keep my attention, even if I have other things I should be doing. It's hardly a choice, at times.
Of course, words like "binge" have different meanings to different people, but I am incredibly humbled and wowed to think some of you could feel remotely close to this feeling when it comes to reading my scattered thoughts and adventures.

I started this blog for me, as a way to remember with more clarity than just my mind.
I consistently posted once a week for my dad. Before I left he said, "I know you'll be busy living and you won't always message quickly, but I want to keep up with you. Just post at least once a week for your old man, okay?"
"Once a week?!" My eyes went wide.
He teased me and said one blog a week was no big deal, I could surely get it done.
But as the weeks have turned to months, so many of you have reached out with kind words about my writing. You have told me how much you look forward to each week, and now I have developed a sense of responsibility to you all. To keep posting. To keep living the best life I am capable of. To keep improving.
So, I'm still posting every week for my dad. And myself. But now, for you, too.
Thank you so much for coming back week after week and reading.
I hope I can live up to your expectations.
Let's get back to it.

"Air Crash"

I head to Madrid for my remaining nights in Spain, and have a good few days of wandering around. I plan to meet with Silvia, one of my Camigos who lives there, but life happens and it doesn't quite work out.
She sends me a voice message.
"Okay, Maia, I have a mission for you. I wish we could have spent time together, but I still have things to tell you. I have hidden a letter for you in my favorite place in Madrid. You have to travel there, and tell the bartender that you are Maia, and ask him for the letter. But, you have to do it in Spanish. Also, the letter is in Spanish. Good luck on your mission!"
Then comes an address.
Okay, let's go on a mission!

I arrive at this restaurant and stumble my way through explaining what I'm looking for. Finally he understand ands pulls the cash drawer out, a thin envelope hiding beneath.
"Para; la reina del fuego" (For: the queen of fire)
I sit down with my coffee and peel back the flap of the envelope. The image on the card, alone, makes me cry. A woman coming out of a snail shell. "That's what I'm doing," I think, and slowly begin translating the beautiful words printed on the other side.
What a sweet mission she has sent me on. To journey across the city to a new place to seek out and translate beautiful, encouraging words about oneself.  Some people are just so kind.

Fountain of the Fallen Angel: Lucifer

After the amazing, open, and trusting experience that was the Camino de Santiago, the universe saw it necessary to remind me that not all of the world is so open and trusting.
Some of you know from my social media that I've come to Ireland this week. I've wanted to come here for a long time.
The wheels of the plane unfolded and touched the runway, and I was overjoyed to have finally made it to this fairytale land.
For all of about 10 minutes.

A row of unhappy faces peers out from behind glass walls.
"Next."
Slowly, we inch forward.
My turn arrives and I approach confidently, handing over my passport.
After five months, plus my travels before, I have gotten very used to being on this side of the glass, and I've never had an issue, so I don't even consider I may have one now. Even in England, which is notorious for turning people around and sending them home, the officer was pleasant and sent me through with the minimum amount of questioning.
My luck had to end sometime.
He questions me in disbelieving circles, each answer sending his eyebrows higher and my hopes lower.
Questions about my plans, my accommodation, my money, my job, and on and on. He asks me where I'll be going after and what I'll be doing there.
"And after Germany?" He says.
I falter, "I don't know..."
"So your plan was just to come into Ireland and hitchhike around."
"What, no? I'm not hitchhiking, sir." Is he trying to back me into a corner? I think to myself. Is hitchhiking illegal here? I have no idea, but I certainly never said I was doing it.
He gets more and more aggressive, insinuating I'm lying, demanding to see my bank account. I say I'm happy to show him, but I don't have a cell phone, so we'd need to use his computer.
"You don't have a phone?" There is that distrusting surprise again. Shit.
Explaining myself seems to only get me farther in trouble.
"How much money do you have on you in cash?"
"I'm not sure."
"Well I need to know," he demands forcefully. His voice a barely restrained shout.
I swing my bag off my shoulder, "You're welcome to look in my wallet. It's probably less than 50 euros."
"So let me get this straight. You're a single female, traveling alone. You don't know for how long. You have no friends here. You've already been traveling for five months. With no plan. You have thousands of dollars, but you can't show me, because you have no data on your phone. You have no job, and nothing to tie you down back home, and you don't know when you're going back. Right?"
Well...sure...when you put it all together, I can see how it looks bad. My eyes start to well up. What happens if they don't let me in? I wonder. Do they send you back to the country you were in, or do they send you home? I can't go back home. I'm not ready. I still have so much work to do.
Another officer steps up and taps my accuser on the shoulder. "Why don't you take a break?" He says quietly.
The new guy sits down as I desperately try to access the wifi on my dying phone to show them my bank account.
"Okay," he starts, "a month is a long time."
I'm allowed three months here! I want to shout, but I stay quiet.
"Why do you want to come to Ireland?"
"I've always wanted to come," I say, trying and failing to keep my voice steady. "It's beautiful here."
I can't stand how easily I cry.
The idea of people not trusting me just seems to tear apart my soul.
"Okay, okay. Stop crying. He was just doing his job. This is immigration."
"I've never had so much trouble crossing a border. I haven't done anything. I just want to see your country."
The look on his face says he knows his counterpart was being overly aggressive. I finally access my account, and turn the phone around to show him my funds.
"Okay," he says in an upbeat fashion, as though that's all they ever needed to see.
He stamps my passport, but doesn't hand it back.
"Stop crying, okay? We can detain you just for crying."
He doesn't laugh or smile, and I can't tell if it's a joke, but I hold my breath to stop the shaking, and he finally gives me my documents.
"Enjoy, Ireland."
Ha. Thanks, dude.

Friends...I think I am at the beginning of tired. Today I sit in a cafe in Dublin...I've been here writing and editing for hours, and though this is my only day in Dublin, I feel no pull or desire to explore the city. How many new things can you see in a few months? I feel relieved that I will be spending a month in one place. From tomorrow until October.
Traveling keeps my soul healthy, but I'm looking forward to visiting the same cafe more than once. To being somewhere long enough to decide on a favorite restaurant. To fully unpacking my bag.

My brain can't seem to catch up to the fact that I'm back in an English speaking country. I keep faltering before greetings, searching for the proper words or phrases, before realizing...they are the ones I've grown up with! ha.

My Irish start was rough, but I hold out hope that I will enjoy my time here. Shoot...it's meant to be my longest stay so far, no plan of moving on until at least October, so losing hope so early would be a sad day indeed.

It takes two buses and four hours to get from the west coast of Ireland, clear across, all the way to the East shore. Four...hours... I can barely get to the next major city in Texas in four hours. Travel here still blows my mind.
My bus pulls up and I see Maya standing at the stop, watching the door of the bus expectantly. Any unease I was feeling vanishes. Maya is one of the girls I became close with back in May, when we were both working in Fano, Italy. Her friendship helped me through some of the struggles of that situation, and seeing her again, waiting for me in a new country fills me with joy.
I wave out the window as I'm waiting to debark, and her face lights up when she catches the movement. She jumps up and down, waving frantically, and I feel like a little kid again, giggling on the bus.
The woman in front of me turns around, "Oh, you're Maya's friend?"
"Yes! And I'm also Maia!" I laugh.
This must be a small town indeed.

She brings me to my new home and introductions begin. So many names. So many faces. Everyone already seems to know a bit about me (presumably from Maya, as she sold them on my hire), and I'm left to catch up as quick as possible. There are four people living in the staff apartment, but many more come in and out of the doors throughout the day.
When I ask Naomi, one of my Italian roommates, she tells me four people live here, two people come in the evening and cook in the kitchen, but don't sleep here, and sometimes people pop in to use the shower. I laugh. The place is a wreck...my first impression is a bit concerning. There are dirty dishes scattered around. All the surface areas are cluttered with things. I worry about the cleanliness of the blankets and pillows on the couches. I'm reminded of being a kid and refusing to go to certain people's houses because I was scared to touch anything. I'm kind of scared to touch anything here. But I'm in it now. And I suppose I have slept outside for plenty of occasions, so I shouldn't be a snob.
Yeah...this is what it must be like having young roommates. I've only ever lived with older ones. Time to embrace the rowdy, disorganized ways of the youth!
Let's do it.

Despite the state of the apartment, my impressions of the people themselves are all positive, and with each interaction, I'm more and more sure I made a good call.
Even my new boss, Donal, who was particularly grumpy at my arrival and didn't speak to me, somehow made me feel at home. When the other workers apologized and tried to reassure me he's not usually like that, I just laughed. I had some grumpy bosses back home. It's a familiar touch.

Today I learned that in Ireland, you do not ask a customer if they'd like "cream and sugar" with their tea, or they will look at you like you're insane and say, "No...milk is fine."
My training days go smoothly, as I've been both a waiter and a bartender before, but it does surprise me a bit that they accept volunteers in these positions. If I'd never had a service job, I think I'd sink under pressure stepping into this place. I guess you just have to trust people.

It's a strange feeling, although not unpleasant, to be back in such a normal life.
It's like...a normal life, with subtle hints of magic.
I live in an apartment with four other people, work one typical service industry job in a pub, and another job cleaning holiday rentals a few days a week. Spend my off hours reading, playing guitar, and sharing pints with my roommates. Spend my days off going on hikes, or visiting castles, or walking down rural roads to the beach, or hopping on a bus to head into Galway for a bit of a bigger place to explore. My bag is unpacked. I have a dresser to myself. My clothes are actually clean, and I don't look like a tourist. I already recognize people who are walking down the road as I sit in our upstairs window and watch the town center, coffee in hand. It rains at least once a day, which means there are often rainbows, and if it hits 60 degrees, the locals complain it's hot, but for the first time I can remember, the cold doesn't bother me. It's just part of the Irish charm, isn't it? I don't mind the gray days either. I like watching the rain from the window sill.
It's a quiet existence. A simple one.
I have regulars at work again.
And neighbors.
And coworkers.
And roommates.
It's strange, after so much movement and adventure, to realize, it's okay if I don't fill every off hour with adventure. I'll be here over a month. It's okay to sit and read a book. I don't need to feel guilty about wasted time.

I'm in a weird place between, "Maybe it's time to start thinking about going home", and "I could easily be gone still a year from now."
But it's useless to stress over such things.
When the time is right, I'll feel it. Until then, I'll be over here infiltrating Irish society, one Guiness at a time.