Letter 7

Trips that take us

Dear Reader,

Rain can be spitting and the plane might settle downward in a cloud of mist but the deep green grassy squares, traced with a squared pattern of stone-grey walls, offers a warm welcome.

Shannon Airport in the West of Ireland is a small airport, though much bigger than when I flew out of there nearly 25 years ago after living and working in Galway, just to the northwest.

That cool spray, that brilliant emerald view, always brings comfort and a sense of peace and home to me.

Jack running along the Claddaugh one morning in Galway.

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It’s been a transformative seven years in a lot of realms. The kids have gone from preschool to middle-school as I faced shrinking opportunities and pay in my career of journalism. An arguably decline of American civility and kindness followed by a few years of global pandemic mean more introspection, more melancholy days, and more gratitude for things like unselfish interactions that once seemed ubiquitous.

As Covid numbers declined, and the ages of our children climbed, I realized last fall that it was time to take them out of the country. The maps spreading across our walls, the books squeezed together on the shelves, the care packages from my lovely friend Donna, my “good ‘ole days” stories of living abroad - my son and daughter needed to see things for themselves. There is a big world out there and travel is an essential tool for keeping minds and hearts open.

I have little natural confidence in most things. Usually I awkwardly make my way through conversations and work, my imposter syndrome surfacing as I second-guess what is the best course of action, but traveling, especially in Western Ireland and Europe, comes reflexively.

So, Ireland it would be and seeing the images from the lullaby “Galway Bay” I sang/sing might finally appear to the kids in modern form. For the kids it was a stamp in their Passport. For me, it was like a visit home. For as soon as the international flight began the “a”s in my speech softened (“to-mah-to”), potato chips become “crisps,” cookies “biscuits,” fries “chips” and whether cold and wet from the rain, or tired from a long day, the only solution is a cup of hot tea with hot milk and sugar (of course). A few days later my cheeks pinken in the temperate oceanic climate as the moisture softens the skin and hair. It’s been over a century since my family crossed the Atlantic but the positive evolutionary allure adjustment to Missouri’s dry and humid Midwestern climate is still apparently years away.

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I can’t recall why I decided to live in Ireland. It might have started at the end of college. I had returned to my hometown to work for the daily paper. I attended city council and school board meetings in the surrounding towns at night but my mind was always wandering and it was likely then that I became obsessed with travel essays that I would find in the library. When my two good friends invited me to travel around Ireland for a week, I jumped. Then the plan grew. I would acquire a student working visa since I had been taking a few computer coding courses at the local community college. Then when my friends left from our driving trip around I would stay, work and live. My friends were the only ones who knew of my plan. To save money I waited tables at a local restaurant when I wasn’t covering a meeting, keeping all my tips in a large plastic cup with a lid in my refrigerator. 

One decision I made was that I was only taking whatever my surplus Army backpack could hold.

We had originally bought them when hopping trains and staying in hostels through Spain, France, Italy, Germany, Austria, Switzerland and Czech Republic a few years previously. It just made sense and the simplicity of only having a few clothes to wear, some journals, books and a few shoes left a lot of room for other head space and experiences. 

For nearly a year I worked in the Cobblestone Cafe in Kirwan’s Lane in Galway, serving tea and scones, soaking up the youthful culture, the music, the craic. I lived in a flat with five other young people, including Donna, who became and is still one of my best friends. We would make dinners on Friday night and I would make requests for her to sing and play guitar (usually the Animals’ “House of the Rising Sun”). As often as we could we would dance late into the night at whatever club might be open. 

Donna and Traci, 2000 (at the club) and 2023 (at the Claddaugh)

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My first return visits after leaving Galway in 1998 were only a few years apart. The last trip I was newly married and Ireland was reaping the rewards of the Celtic Tiger. Prices were higher than before. The American dollar didn’t go as far.  I remember meals seemed more Americanized and super-sized. Flash forward to a few weeks ago, whether my lens was different or perhaps time skewed my memory, but Ireland is now a bonafide European country. Engineering in everything was resourceful and polished. Lights and water were motion activated. Everywhere had minimal necessities but with a communal efficiency. What was most amazing was how Ireland has managed to keep its national spirit (the Irish language is having a resurgence across the country and not just in the Gaeltect region of the West) while keeping its welcoming reputation and policies of taking in refugees of war (a majority of Eastern European and Ukrainian people) in need of work and living arrangements.
I took Heinrich Böll’s Irish Journal: A traveler’s portrait of Ireland along for the trip. One of my German flatmates, Bernt, had given it to me before he moved away from Galway. I read it years ago but one section particularly struck out as I considered my current worldview. 

“A cup of tea at dawn while standing shivering in the west wind, the isle of saints still hiding from the sun in the morning mist. Here on this island, then, live the only people in Europe that never set out to conquer, although they were conquered several times by Danes, Normans, Englishmen - all they sent out was priests, monks, missionaries, who, by way of this strange detour via Ireland, brought the spirit of Thebaic asceticism to Europe. Here, more than a thousand years ago, so far from the centre of things, as if it had slipped way out into the Atlantic, lay the glowing heart of Europe. (Pg. 7)”

It’s hard to conquer or colonize elsewhere when fighting off invasions and English oppression at every turn. This might be part of the spirit to help those fleeing other places.

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It was a memorable first trip overseas (I hope) as the kids were good sports in my attempt to live and travel like locals in the off-season, which included even more rain than usual. 

We did have our share of funny travel stories – I lost my breakfast after a rocky ferry ride to the Aran Islands, we had not one, but TWO flat tires in the middle of Connemara. Help was an hour’s drive away but the kids occupied themselves in building a fort of stones and brush.

My daughter decided to create her own souvenirs for friends and put some sand in a bag. The Irish Customs guy at the Shannon Airport and I had a good laugh when I realized that he had flagged my 10-year-old’s backpack because it contained a gallon-sized Zip loc bag of a grainy substance.

And for one beautiful hiking day, followed by a still, dark night in that most remote corner, I felt like queen of the Aran Islands.

Go raibh maith agat - thank you for reading.

Warmly,

Traci