Part six: Melancholy and sweet

Click to read: Part one: A palace and a hostel, Part two: A stolen sandwich and art, Part three: Relationship advice and edible puzzles, Part four: Tanneries and street food, and Part five: Friends and ferries

Melancholy and sweet. Those words describe the days following our return from North Africa. We knew our time together was winding down, and we were determined to make the most of it.

At the beach, we walked along the shore until we were among a scruff of bushes and leftover seaweed. We spread our towel in a promising spot, but then had to scramble back to avoid a soaking.

Next, we hiked a horse trail up the side of a cliff. The view of the town and the blue sea beyond was startling and we stopped to drink in the view… and let me catch my out-of-shape breath. From there, we joined a greenhouse tour with a group of German students. Some of them were in the eye-rolling stage and received lectures from our tour guide. J’s mind was brimming with questions, I could tell. But it wasn’t until we had munched our way through samples of tomatoes and cucumbers drizzled with olive oil that he was able to corner the guide and ask his questions.

The next morning, we toured Almería’s Alcazaba (Arab fortress) with two teammates.

On Saturday, we puttered around the center, cleaning and hanging out, then slipping over to my neighbor’s barber shop for J to get a trim.

That evening, my teammates hosted a “romantic date for two” in their living room. To dress up or not to dress up? Not to. That’s what we decided, knowing we would be most comfortable “as is.” So we arrived at the front door, barefoot and the day’s leftover sweat still clinging to our clothes.

A smoldering incense stick, music, games, discussion questions, and a massive charcuterie board. We took a few moments to orient ourselves.

“Message us when you’re ready for tea!” And then they closed the door and left us alone.

There were so many options that we hardly knew where to start. We sampled this and then that and then the other things. We paired foods, discussing the flavors and textures. Yes, for a long while our conversation revolved around food, but only because we were both enjoying the experience so much.

We played Dutch Blitz. I won, but he was such a good sport about it that it wasn’t even fun to gloat. We put a puzzle together and talked until we were yawning, or, in J’s case, until long after we were yawning. J managed to walk me home, even with drooping eyelids.

We spent Sunday morning walking around town and looking for murals and other interesting sights. J had the sermon for our team service. I don’t remember how we spent all of our time that day; I just was aware that it was passing too quickly.

Monday was our last day together. We took the bus up the mountain to the springs, spread our blanket, and sat on the thinly-covered knobby ground. We talked, played Qwirkle, and stuck our feet in the chilly stream. I managed to hike partway up the side of the mountain with him, but petered out and parked myself on a nice rock while he ran the rest of the way up. Yes, ran. When he returned, we meandered among the busy beehives we found there and managed not to get stung.

After a stroll through a sprawling Spanish town, we eventually caught the bus back to Mytown just in time to join teammates for a steaming plate of couscous that hit the spot exactly.

A few hours, a walk, and a couple of park benches later, we ate our last supper together and J washed the dishes for the very last time.

Then it was time to go.

We stood shivering in the chilly night air until the bus driver beckoned. It was over. For now.

But like J wrote the next day: “…we have accumulated some good memories and have many more to make.”

Part one: A palace and a hostel

It wasn’t cold feet. More like good ol’ butterflies jitterbugging in my belly as I nibbled rice cakes and watched his flight information from my phone. After 5 whole months of communicating, we would finally see each other… and in a completely different capacity than when we had seen each other last.

I wanted to savor the moments without really knowing how.

We had both missed a night of sleep–J on his flight and I on my overnight bus–and here we were, on the point of meeting in the Madrid-Barajas Airport, both sleep-deprived and with questionable hygiene. If we couldn’t like each other like this, we probably wouldn’t like each other for other reasons either.

When his flight arrived, I stood at the arrivals door in a near-panic, only to find that when we were face to face, he was exactly who I knew he would be. No surprises. In fact, the only surprise for both of us was how un-awkward we felt together. Like old friends or comfortable siblings with an extra layer of excitement exactly because we weren’t.

We bumbled around in terminal 4 until we found the right train to downtown. Our Airbnb rooms had canceled on us at some point during the night. So we stood in the middle of the downtown Atocha station, booking the hostel I had been determined to avoid.

Doesn’t the very word “hostel” strike a chord of dread in your heart? It sure did in mine! I imagined a dilapidated row of bunk beds, scummy showers, and an aura of unwelcome free love. J was accommodating to my fears, but our pickings were slim at this point. So a hostel it was. And, (spoiler alert!) it wasn’t at all what I had been picturing.

Since it was still morning and we couldn’t check in to our hostel until the afternoon, we wandered Retiro Park, enjoying nature, street musicians, and even a man reading poetry aloud among bright rose bushes. We sat on a bench to watch people and talk.

In our search for lunch, we walked through the Puerta del Sol, a plaza which just happened to be overflowing with people because of some sort of celebration. We watched red and yellow parachutes descend from the sky like Spanish flags, the parachuters guiding themselves to a giant stage.

At this point, J was drooping with jetlag and I kept a wary eye on him as we pushed through the crowd. We found a place to eat, and, at the server’s recommendations, ordered a plate of cured meats and cheese and pulpo a feira. The octopus was doubtless the best I’d ever tasted and we left the restaurant with enough “umph” to tour the Royal Palace.

platters of octupus and tray with cured meat and cheese

We walked to the end of an impossibly long and stagnant line. After waiting a few minutes, J politely asked the couple in front of us if we were waiting in the right line (at least, I can only assume that’s what he asked, since the conversation happened in Mandarin) and we discovered that indeed we weren’t. After relocating, we were soon granted entrance and wandered through the rooms, gaping at the ornate decor. Palaces are so curious. Do people really want to live amidst so much useless wealth? Or is it only for tourists to come and gape?

We left the palace, luggage in tow–J with his backpack for the entire 3 week visit and me with my equally-heavy backpack for a mere 3 days. We checked in at our hostel. I know I already slipped you the spoiler, but imagine a friendly clerk, a relaxed atmosphere, privacy curtains on each bunk, and all-inclusive bathroom stalls–shower, sink, toilet–with doors that locked! I didn’t even have to put on a brave front.

The rest of the evening was filled with a walk and a talk before we headed back to the hostel for a supper of leftovers, snacks, and a much-needed cup of tea.

O come, O come

The winter chill has pervaded the bones of my apartment. The tip of my nose is frostbitten, I think. (But then, do I even remember what frostbite is?) Anyway, the extra cold gives an excuse to curl myself around a cup of steaming tea and think about Christmas, the advent of the Messiah.

I could say a lot, but I won’t today. The words in my head are napping now. Do you want to sit in the quiet with me? I’ll turn on Christmas lights and light a candle. To the tune of the gently ticking clock, we can just sit in the anticipation of what is to come.

“O come, Desire of nations, bind
In one the hearts of all mankind;
Bid Thou our sad divisions cease,
And be Thyself our King of Peace.”

From “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel”

Leaving, arriving, and the perks of Spain

Leaving Illinois–leaving family, friends, and church community–was hard as usual. Well, maybe even harder than usual. I flip on the electric kettle and wait at the counter’s edge while my Barry’s tea bag floats atop the milk in the bottom of my favorite mug. I’m back in Spain and life in the States feels far away. “Well, here I am. Alone again.”

My bags are unpacked. My house is relatively clean except the random projects strewn around the living room. I live downtown and it just feels so quiet.

Then again…

A neighbor (and her irritating dog) dropped by because I’d promised her chocolate for watching my apartment while I was gone. She apologized over and over again for killing my plants and insisted I take the remaining straggler with me before she killed that one too.

Another neighbor (a new one) dropped by to ask if my apartment was for rent. Umm…

Yet another neighbor dropped by to ask if I could pick up her daughter from school. She caught me during a salad laden with chia seeds. While we were chatting, I felt a seed swelling between my front teeth. I couldn’t subtly pry it out with my tongue, so there it stayed and I punctuated the conversation with seedy smiles.

My neighbor boy dropped by to visit, strewing cookie crumbs across the floor as he made his rounds, examining everything new in the house. “What did you miss most?” his mom asked him. “Her or her toys?” He grinned and looked away. But he pointed at me.

As I was out and about this morning, I decided to make a list of the things I like about being back in Spain. The cons can go without mention this time.

The sunshine!
The accessibility to quality food, especially fresh produce.
Knowing my way around stores.
Having sales tax included in the price.
Living downtown where neighbors pop in and out and almost everything I need is within walking distance.
Good ol’ Spanish directness. (Yes, this can get annoying too, but I’m choosing the positive side today.) This morning, as I was standing at the hardware store counter, another customer plunked a packet of screws on the counter and said they were the wrong size. “How do we know you didn’t take some out?” asked the clerk, eyes narrowing. “There’s a screw of a different class.” Indeed, on a bed of bland screws was a gold-colored one. Where had it come from? There would be no getting around the fact that the package had been tampered with. I felt a giggle bubbling up but tried to swallow it down. Even in customer service, there were no niceties. No frills or lace bordering this conversation.
Amazon packages that arrive rápidamente with or without Prime.
Fast internet.
Cheap phone plans.
The reminder that God is here too.
The variety of people–colors, ages, personalities, nationalities–all piled into my neighborhood.
The late schedule. When I roll out of bed at 8:00, the streets are still pretty quiet, as if I’m not the only one reluctant to get started on the day.
My apartment. Knowing my kitchen–what utensils and pots and pans I have and what is in my fridge because I’m the one who put it there.

That’s all for now. See? I’m already feeling less alone and more… I don’t know… ready.

Photo by John McArthur on Unsplash

Alaska part 2: Where the moose and the caribou play

As I sit down to write, I realize that it’s been a while since I wrote part 1 and even longer since I was actually in Alaska. But I’m here today at last. 🙂

Moving on…

The bulk of the touristing happened in the first couple of days while the sun was shining. The week’s forecast was glum, and it wasn’t far off the mark. We spent days and partial days running errands or just at home, organizing for the beginning of the school year.

We did have an exciting incident involving a broken down refrigerated truck, laden with ice cream and Texas toast and Jimmy Dean breakfast sandwiches. Free while supplies lasted. That night, we put the kids to bed and then curled up on the couches with popcorn. There were more long talks throughout the next couple of days.

On Sunday morning, I overheard my friend tell her husband that someone had brought them some moose. “How nice. Mousse,” I thought, visions of chocolate fluff dancing in my head. “Yum.” It wasn’t until they were digging around in the cooler that it dawned on me that I was in Alaska, for goodness’ sakes, and this wasn’t chocolate.

I got to taste that moose for supper one night with a bit of barbecue sauce drizzled on top beside a slab of perfect flaky grilled salmon.

One evening, we went flying just as the sun was thinking about setting. As my friend’s husband, the pilot, explained everything to me, I nodded and smiled and wondered why he was being so informative…until I realized that he was asking me to lift the thing off the ground. Gasp.

We managed to stay alive in spite of that, and soon were gliding over mountains with no roads and no people. It was strange to peek into such an untouched land, to let our eyes adjust to seeing tiny black dots which, as we drew closer, became black bears, bull moose, or caribou camouflaged on the rocky mountainside. We watched a black bear lope along the side of a mountain as our shadow chased him. And we flew over a blue glacier snuggled into the mountains.

It was stunning.

Until it wasn’t and I was holding a little baggie to my mouth. But let’s skip over that part because it’s hardly the part I remember. When I look back, I see the magical moments of glimpsing hidden bits of creation. It was that same night on our way home from the airport that we saw a moose soaking a swamp beside the road and a black bear gallop across the road in front of us.

On my very last day, it rained. But we bravely started the several hour drive to Homer, a fishing town. The boys were excited. My friend and I spent the hours talking… when we weren’t passing out PBJs and carrots and water bottles and wiping sticky fingers or settling arguments. 🙂 We also were busy doubting our decision all of the way to Homer. The clouds hung low and wet, and with clouds, there would be no scenery. Without scenery, Homer was a waste of time, my friend said.

But as we approached the Homer Spit, it began to clear. And it was perfect. We saw a puffin, a sea otter, starfish, jellyfish, and the boys even saw a seal. We walked along the beach and soaked in the scenery. And just before we left, we got we walked along the docks where fishing boats bobbed gently in the water. The cool air was fresh with just enough of a fishy tang to remind you that you weren’t dreaming.

We grabbed one last chai on our way out.

I left that evening, but with a heap of good memories. I wish I could bottle up the beauty of that week to take it with me to Spain. Then whenever I needed some beauty in the middle of my city life, I could uncap the bottle and sip a bit of Alaskan scenery.

Sushi and smiles: What’s been happening recently

The Spanish classes of our language school took a day trip to Granada to visit the Alhambra. It was a gorgeous day and we had our own guide, which made the experience more memorable. My souvenir was two strips of bright sunburn on the back of my neck where I had missed with sunscreen. Hooray.

A Japanese classmate made me an incredible array of sushi. “You can pay next time,” she said with a smile. I went straight home and savored every bite.

A teammate and I redeemed Adra. (Read about our previous trip here.) We went without much of an agenda and ended up doing little, but enjoying it more. The fishing museum, the tunnels, the beach, and the baked cod with pisto were perfect.

I was tired on the day I went to visit friends in the countryside. The visit overwhelmed my senses and my language abilities. It was hard not to fantasize about going home and flopping down on the sofa for the entire next week. Then, I came back to a town gone crazy with Noche en Blanco and streets that were almost impassable even on foot and a stranger who thought it would be nice to take me out for a drink. Yep. Those are the moments my nightmares consist of.

Several months passed as I dreamt of a morning trip to a nearby beach town. I erased it from my schedule every time something else came up, which it inevitable did. Until one day… the chance came and I grabbed it. While waiting on the bus, I spontaneously invited a teammate and she came too! We delighted over our British breakfast. And then there was a second-hand shop and the stroll along the port before coming home to real life.

Kicking a ball around in Plaza Mayor with my neighbor boy brought a few other littles to play too. It was quite a lot of fun because these under-5-year-olds were about my skill level for soccer.
Our Spanish class met to buy our teacher a gift to celebrate the end of the school year. Someone had the bright idea of getting a classy looking bag for her teaching materials. Great idea! Except that I was completely exhausted by the time I got home. “How are we so indecisive?” I wondered. The more I thought about it, the more I realized it wasn’t indecision as much as overstated opinions. Most everyone said precisely what they thought and then acted like they expected everyone else to agree with them.
Stopping by to visit a friend turned into helping her pack her things for a sudden trip to North Africa.
The dentist charged me half price for my cleaning just because. I know I saved just over 20 euro, but with all of the other extra costs that come with returning to the States, it felt like a hug from God.
My baby neighbor boy has grown a delightful little smile that just charms the socks off of people. Well, off of me at least. 🙂 I’ve started wearing sandals.
A friend send me two bags of Barry’s Irish tea. Oh, how I savored those two cups of rainy Ireland memories!
I hauled almost 50 euros worth of olives back from the market last week. I did it with the assurance that my family will be beyond grateful.

That’s all for right now. The rest would probably bore you if you’re not bored already. 😉 My teammates have all gone back to the States and soon I leave too. You may or may not hear from me for the next three months. Probably many of you will see me instead. I’m looking forward to seeing you!

Growing older

Some days, I can’t wait to be old.

To push my walker to the grocery store and watch kind people step out of my way. To chat with an old friend about aches, pains and loved ones. To fumble with a cell phone–or whatever device the younger generation will be using by then–pressing one deliberate button at a time and still contacting the wrong person. To love and invest in the next generation or two…or three. To be able to lounge in an easy chair with a cup of tea and a book without anyone expecting anything else of me. To stop trying to be eternally young and just get to be who I am, wrinkles and all. To daily remember that age is a passage-way. I can even imagine myself enjoying being an elderly single–not having my own to belong to and therefore belonging to everyone.

Most days I still pull out those grays and keep limber with walks and stretches. And I forget that I’m not 18 anymore (until I meet an 18-year-old). But I want to stop dreading old age. Stop making negative predictions like, “If I’m already this feeble, I’ll never even make it to 60!”

Aging is hard. It’s not all cups of tea and good books. It can be chronic pain and loneliness. Is that what scares us?

I decided years ago that I wanted to age gracefully. Now that aches and pains have reminded me that “old age” isn’t too far away, I wonder if I have any idea what “aging gracefully” even means.

But just maybe it starts with anticipating rather than dreading the inevitable and being exactly, exactly in the age I am right now.

Choosing a dream vacation

A couple of weeks ago, we had a team listening exercise in which each of us had to describe our dream vacation. A teammate would listen carefully and later give the details to the larger group.

What is my dream vacation? I like to think I’m adventurous, like maybe backpacking across Europe or ending up on the African savannah. A friend and I are planning a 40th birthday trip (still a few years off, but we might as well have a blast planning). She wanted to go to Australia until she heard about the poisonous snakes. I’m still voting for Scandinavia.

One teammate said he wants to go to every English speaking country over the course of 5 years. One wanted to travel to every continent. Another wanted Switzerland, another Alaska.

I said Ireland. I’d take a small fishing village on the west coast with a stack of books and plenty of solitude. I’d soak in the wild coastal nature and eat oysters every day. Maybe I’d slip into the city every now and then for a hot chocolate and street musicians. Maybe I’d invite a quiet friend along and we could drink Irish tea and be alone together in the gentle drizzle of a rainy day.

That’s the best I can think up right now. But I’m curious what everyone else’s dream vacations would be. Well? What would you choose? Feel free to leave a comment so I can dream with you.

Back to the land of the greenhouses

If you have the time and energy, check out part 1, part 2, and part 3 before reading this final part of my family’s visit.

Somewhere along the line, the family travel journal petered out. It may have been due to the fact that Spain felt like coming home to me, not another adventure. Or perhaps it is was due to my sister’s stomach bug which made her less ambitious. Or–ahem–simply due to a lack of discipline. Regardless, some of the details of our time in Spain are fuzzy. So I’ll stick to the things that I remember…

After a teammate picked us up from the airport, we ran out to get chwarmas for supper. Sure, we could have cooked something, but none of us felt like generating any more excitement that day.

The next morning, after first breakfast at home, we strolled down the street to a café for second breakfast. My family enjoyed their tostadas, even if they didn’t enjoy the booming café music. “THIS IS SPANISH CULTURE!” I bellowed over the din.

A few of us zipped around town with a grocery cart, buying most of what we needed for the next week. Mom exclaimed over each new load of groceries we brought home but dutifully put everything away while we went out for another load. (Let the record show that we ate almost everything we bought and had to buy more!) Our shopping trip ended just in time to race–somewhat disheveled at this point–to my teammates’ place for a yummy lunch.

I tried to whip up soup for dinner but mostly just whipped up a giant disaster, which Mom cleaned up while we raced across town to pick up the rental car. The soup, partially cooked, was put on hold until the next night.

Wednesday was market day. Everyone had been looking forward to the market, but with PEOPLE EVERYWHERE it was much more stressful than they had anticipated. Before long, I deposited them in plastic chairs by the churro stand and finished the shopping on my own. It’s strange, I thought, how much I’ve adjusted to living in a crowded space, to waiting in line or catching the vendor’s attention to get some service, to holding my ground when people get pushy and reaching around people when they’re in the way. New experiences quickly become normal life.

That afternoon, we went on a greenhouse tour. Our enthusiastic tour guide showed us the variety of methods they used for planting, ventilation, and pest control. After pigging out on the samples and buying a bag of produce to take with us, we spontaneously slipped over to the beach to watch the sun set and dip our toes in the chilly Mediterranean.

We finished the evening with the North African soup I’d tried to make the night before.

Thursday consisted of mostly cancelled plans, due to my sister’s stomach bug. No couscous with my friend and no drive up the mountain. Mom and I slipped out to some North African stores. My usual shopkeepers were delighted to meet my mother. I should have brought Dad along too because they probably were wondering how the American giant belonged to a woman half her height. 🙂

My sister was busy being sick so the rest of us took it easy, putting a puzzle together, reading, and the like. My brother-in-law cheerfully fixed my leaky washer, changed out the dorky bedroom light fixture, and reassembled a malfunctioning drawer. Meanwhile, my adorable and unsupervised nephew amused himself by dropping things from the balcony, as we discovered later.

Our big outing of the day– “Come on guys. We have a rental car. We HAVE to use it.”– was going to two grocery stores: Aldi and Mercadona. Since there is a tiny piece of Roman ruins right next to Aldi, I led my family there to see it.

Dad stared down at the puny wall. “Oh wow.” Mom didn’t say much of anything. I’m not sure she even saw the wall because she spent the whole time trying to avoid the dog piles. My brother-in-law dutifully snapped a photo. At Mercadona, Dad disappeared for a bit and then came sidling over with a guilty grin and a container of pecan praline ice cream behind his back.

We tried to fuel the car, but due to the confusing labels, had a hard time deciding which was diesel. The guys stood at the pump, sniffing the dripping nozzles. Finally, I went inside the station to verify that they guys’ noses were accurate after all.

By the time we got home from our mini-adventure, my sister was feeling a little better. But she was not feeling good enough for pecan praline ice cream. So the guys took care of it for her…and for the rest of us, come to think of it.

The next day, we took the rental car up to the mountain lookout. We bounced all of the way up, the guys discussing the quality of the tires and such. We got out and admired the view of the sea of white plastic greenhouses before heading back down. By then, the clouds were moving in and visibility was limited.

My downstairs neighbor brought up a big plate of couscous, which hit the spot. Besides wandering over to the Spanish pastry shop and the nearby park, we didn’t accomplish much else that day.

I guess we were storing up energy for the next day. Saturday we went hither and yon–to Immigrantville to visit friends, to Almería to climb up the Alcazaba. Then back to Immigrantville for tapas in a loud and crowded tapa bar. Then to visit another friend who insisted we come in for tea and sweets. Then finally, home.

I whipped up a pot of puchero and then a few of us returned the rental car. Handing over the keys was melancholy, like our time was winding down too quickly. And it was. Sunday was our last day together. We were in charge of team lunch, so late morning we worked on food prep and then spent the rest of the day with the team for lunch and a church service. I was pleased to see my worlds unite: some of the people I know best in the world getting to know each other.

By Sunday evening, part of me was ready to get back to real life, but the larger part of me was trying to hold on to every single minute.

They left early Monday morning. I came home from the airport to wash a load of sheets. But I chose to leave the tiny fingerprints on my windows at least for a few more days.

Ireland- part 5

I am determined to finish writing about my trip to Ireland today. I doubt it can be as much fun to read as it is to write because it is I who get to relive all of the memories. And with time, the bad memories fade–the exhaustion from a missed night of sleep, the grimy cottage, and so on. (Although, for the record, there aren’t many “so on”s.) It is the good memories that grow and blossom and put a little burn in my heart: that marriage of pure happiness and incredulity.

So, where did I leave off?

Saturday. I will skip over the morning escapade with the washer and the dryer and our hostess because I already wrote enough about our experience. We arrived downtown during a morning drizzle. My friend stopped to ask directions from a group of jolly men sipping their foaming Guinness outside of a bar. She did it for the experience, I think. For the kicks and giggles. It turns out the men weren’t Dubliners and couldn’t help us despite their trying. But they fit well into the friendly Irish stereotype we had already formed in our minds.

We managed to find a market after studying a map and then trailing someone with a market cart. We paused at one of the stalls for some mouth-watering paprika almonds and a free sample of creamy mozzarella balls. The drippy weather and the live music made the tiny market charming, although we probably couldn’t find the place again if we tried.

wooden buckets with savory market goodies

We meandered to the Chester Beatty Library, but when we stepped inside, we both decided we’d rather not do the tour. We may never know what we missed, but it was nice to decide to miss it together. We caught a bus to Phoenix Park, where we picked up free tickets to tour the President’s house and then crossed the sunny lawn–yes, the sun was beaming by then!– to a picnic bench under a tree. It was there in that slice of heavenly greenness and almost-warmth that I was able to say a prayer for our Airbnb hostess and my own attitude toward her. The residual irritation of the morning faded and stopped marring the day. We ate our picnic lunch. Without trying, we had planned the perfect amount of time to eat a relaxed lunch and then meander down to the tour bus.

We were about 15. A very small tour. Our guide was amazing, explaining the obvious points of interest in the house as well as the lesser noticed nuggets that mortalize history somehow. Some of the other people on the tour added a layer of excitement, like the elderly gentleman who decided he was thirsty and went over to help himself to the bottled water on the president’s desk. And his wife, as composed and sweet as a queen, continued to look composed and sweet in her darling hat even as her husband raided the president’s personal stash. We admired the ceilings–I especially enjoyed the Aesop’s fables one–, the artwork, and the vast back lawn.

After the tour, we refilled our water bottles and headed back downtown. For the first time, I managed to nab a seat in the front of the upper level double decker bus.

Our next stop was a Luke Kelly impersonation concert on the lawn of Saint Patrick’s Cathedral. We had thought we’d like to tour the cathedral as well, but nope. That was another tour that we both decided wasn’t something we wanted to add to our afternoon. (Is it any wonder I came home with a stash of travel money still in my wallet?) So we sat on a concrete lip of the edge of the sidewalk and watched the concert and grew chillier.

concert in lawn of St. Patrick's Cathedral

Then, at my friend’s insistence, we decided to use the free hot drink vouchers we had been given upon entering the concert. We stomped into an elegant hotel restaurant in our winter gear and backpack… maybe looking a little homeless at this point. And we almost lost our nerve, but my friend wanted a cuppa badly enough that she summoned her courage and soon we both had steaming to-go cups of milky Irish tea. We meandered down the street and then stopped to sit on the pedestal of a statue just across the street from the Christ Church Cathedral. We talked about life. People may have looked at us oddly, sitting there on a statue at a busy intersection with our cups of tea, but I’m pretty sure we didn’t notice.

After our tea, we were hungry. We walked to Lundy Foot’s, a restaurant that offered a traditional beef stew. In retrospect, it may have been more of a tourist attraction than a real Irish pub. And the musician was playing Jonny Cash. But the men at the bar (my sneaky and blurry photo below) seemed Irish enough and animated the atmosphere, especially after a couple of “jars” and a goal or two in the soccer game.

The beef stew was amazing. So was dessert. We left, flushed from the warmth of the place, and wandered home, happy.

I have very few pictures of Sunday. We had decided to take one day of the week where we would not plan anything. Originally, it had been our “curl up in front of a fireplace” day, but since that was no longer an option, we walked down to the bay. We spread our rain gear on the grass and held a mini church service, ending our time by praying for each other. It was a special time, minus the dog poo on the bottom of my friend’s shoe. We ate our picnic lunch and then strolled up to Insomnia, a coffee shop, and picked out some comfortable chairs. I ordered tea with tea brack, which didn’t end up being my favorite, most likely because it was packed with raisins which I don’t especially like.

We read and journaled in perfect together-solitude. I even crocheted. Then we returned to our Hairy Haven to pack up. We said our goodbyes before bed and I left the house by 5 the next morning.

The bus app directed me to a stop. When the airport coach came, I held out my public transit card hopefully. The driver asked if I had a ticket. Instead, I asked for directions to a Dublin airport bus that would accept my card, but he didn’t know. I finally nodded and decided to pay the extra money to save myself the hassle of finding the right stop. I pulled out my wallet.

Then he asked, “Is this your last day in Ireland?”

I nodded. “I’m going back to Spain today.”

He pushed my money away, patted my shoulder, and quietly said, “Get on board and make yourself comfortable.”

And with that, beautiful, wonderful Ireland sent me back to Spain.