“Its like a different world in Killarney,” said my dear friend Katie, only slightly exaggerating the truth we could all feel. Only a few days ago I was complaining of being restless in Cork, pleading to see more of Ireland. My wish was granted.
The streets are smaller, the sidewalks cramped with tourists. Instead of empty office building space, hollow and violated with spray paint, each storefront has well-maintained character. Horse and buggies litter the citycenter. Ice cream shops alternate with colorful pubs down the two main roads. But people seem less friendly here, for some reason. Maybe it’s the insane amount of curious visitors, or the impending football match that has people in frenzy, but I get the distinct feeling that no one in Killarney is actually from Killarney. Not being able to feel what life is like here troubles me more than it probably should. But I have a quiet, yet relentless voice telling me that I need to move to Ireland, rent a peach colored flat, and understand what life is like beyond the characteristic rolling green hills and boisterous nights downtown.
As I soaked in the bathtub this morning for the first time in years, I realized that, so far, my strongest connections in Ireland have been with food and pubs. Besides the fact that this realization mildly depressed my otherwise wonderfully relaxing morning, it occurred to me that this is probably a normal situation for a student/ tourist traveler. Honestly, I haven’t been exposed to much else. As much as I try to soak in history lessons, appreciate crumbling ruins and say more to locals besides “I’ll have the chicken. No onions, please,” I just haven’t given myself the opportunity to learn what living here is really like. The castles and ruins hardly inspire anything except a sadness and an uncomfortable awareness of how temporary life is. It seems that people are more disposed to talk when certain beverages are greasing the axles of conversation. Which, unfortunately, has it’s own drawbacks. Not to mention, journaling in a tub of lukewarm water doesn’t give me much more insight beyond the harshly lit bathroom.
Baths are weird. I always feel exposed at first yet slowly get a strange sense of security, like a weird liquid blanket. I watched my toes sink and peek through the surface because I couldn’t feel the difference between the water and the air anymore. I want to be immersed in Ireland. I want to know what it feels like growing up in an Irish household, going to class in an Irish school system, understand the issues beneath Irish politics, the emotions fueling Irish films and literature and comedy. I want to forget that I’m visiting, even if just for a minute.
The water kisses my stomach and leaves a little bubbly ring underneath my bellybutton. The water felt warm; I felt covered, like I was being protected. But, its completely transparent, down to the bottom of the white linoleum tub. Safety blankets, even weird liquid ones, are probably just what they sound like: momentary warmth. But they aren’t an excuse. They aren’t a solution. They aren’t life. They just help us get used to the water. Or help us float until we can’t tell the difference between the water and the air. (551 words)
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