Find the Color

What color typically comes to mind when you think of Ireland? Green?

Well, you wouldn't be wrong. From the sea green of the foamy waves crashing into the coast to the kelly green of the miles and miles of rolling hills to the emerald green of the Irish flag whipping in the wind, I felt as if I were awash in a sea of green.

But, let me tell you another color that seemed to dominate the landscape in Ireland: grey. Between the slate grey of the endless clouds above to the misty grey of the sidewalk down below, it might've been a bit difficult--in any other place--to not let my mood turn grey as well.

Luckily, I was in a place that is, in fact, brimming with color: I just had to look for it.

And I found it, alright.

I found it around the unexpected street corner in an abstract mural splashed with sunshiney yellows and sapphire blues, splotched with baby pinks and fiery oranges, splattered with ruby reds and forest greens.

I found it as I hunched my shoulders over my ever-tattering map in a friendly pat on the shoulder and a gentle "Can I help you find something?" coming from the voice of a complete stranger.

I found it when I let down my umbrella--realizing it was useless--in the magenta, violet, scarlet, and navy doors, leading into otherwise drab, brown buildings.

I found it as I shed my sopping wet coat in a charming corner cafe, infused with aromas of coffee, chocolate-y pastries, and warm shepard's pie.

I found it just when the dreary rain was getting to me in a patch of cheery petunias situated in the courtyard of St. Patrick's cathedral. Their vibrant faces pointed to the sky, they were engrossed in the rain's pitter-patter symphony, hanging on to the ping-ping of every last drop.

I found it in the warm embrace and contagious smile of my curly-haired friend who I hadn't seen in almost a year, but who nevertheless took me under her wing to show me the true Dublin.


I found it in the basement of a pub in the foot-stomping, knee-slapping, head-bobbing  rhythm coming from the combination of the Irish band's reedy flute and gravelly, husky voices, rounded out by the mellow, velvet-y acoustic guitar.

I found it the next day at the Cliffs of Moher in the soft blue sky streaked with a few gentle brush strokes of pinkish-white clouds--a gentle background for the jagged green cliffs that jutted into the skyline.

I found it--when I could barely keep my balance--in the ripping and roaring wind at the Cliffs that brought with it, clusters of pearl-white foam from the turbulent turqoise Atlantic below.

Depiste the rain, despite the cold, despite the grey, I found that color.

Now, it's your turn.

Going Home: Part 2

It took me by surprise how easy it was to fall back into the rhythm of a place I hadn’t set foot in for almost 2 years.

Walking back from the bus station in the pre-dawn 5 AM hour with my friend—who so graciously sacrificed his sleep to ensure that I had someone waiting for me—I felt like I hadn’t missed a beat.

While we chatted—a bit drowsily—about past memories and experiences, it was so hard to believe that it had been almost two years.

My heart almost immediately fell right into rhythm with the living pulse of the city.
The same rhythm that coursed through my veins as we trekked our way—with ragged breath, I might add—up the same Castillo de Santa Barbara that I used to run up several times a week.

The same rhythm that I could feel reverberating through the speakers at the discotecas* in the oh-so-familiar barrio.

And the same rhythm that I stepped in tune with as I navigated the same streets back to my host family’s house.

Zigzagging through the familiar streets, I was inundated with so many thoughts: What if I forget how to speak Spanish? What if I get lost trying to remember where the piso* is? What if it’s not the same as before? What if we run out of things to talk about? What if? What if? What if?

Still drowning in so many thoughts, I was so distracted that I hit the wrong apartment buzzer. Great start, right?

Heart pounding in my ears, I slowly made my way up the dim stairway to piso 1C; I still couldn’t believe that this was happening. This was real—not a dream. Real.

And it was then, when my feet finally hit the top stair and my host mom came bursting through the hallway, tears in her eyes, that the reality of it all hit me for real this time. I was home.

As we passed the next four hours chatting and laughing and reminiscing and crying and smiling, I couldn’t help but think: how lucky am I that I have more than one place to call my home, that my heart belongs to more than one place?

But you see, that’s part of the problem: Everywhere I go, I leave a little piece of my heart—in some places, just a tiny fragment is left, but in others, a whole chunk is ripped out, sometimes leaving imperfectly jagged edges.

And so, as the next day and a half flew by, I began to struggle with the fact that when I boarded that bus for the nearly 12 hour journey back to my new home, that once again, I would be forced to hand over yet another piece of me—only this time, the hole remaining was even more gaping than before.

How can someone feel full or content when pieces of her heart are divided up between so many different places?

Sounds a little disheartening, right? Well don’t worry, it’s not all doom and gloom, and here’s why:
I’ve got this theory: every place I go has a piece of me, but filling those vacant places are scraps of memories, bits of experiences, shreds of new places.

Sure, they don’t all fit together perfectly to fill all of the gaps, but that’s life right?

I do know that now, with so many places etched into my heart, my being is so much more enriched than it ever was before—even before it had the gaps when it was ``technically” full.

And besides, while the empty spaces that have been torn away may bring about feelings of nostalgia, those vacant spots also remind me of how lucky I am to call so many places home.

Going "Home"

Go to any airport, bus or train station. Upon finally arriving at your destination—when your most likely swollen feet finally touch the ground—here’s what you’ll see:

Eager, scanning eyes of parents anxiously awaiting the arrival of their wanderlust-filled daughter.

Jittery hands and swinging arms—some gripping handcrafted “welcome” signs that still smell of pungent permanent marker, other poised to wrap their long, lost friend into a giant bear hug.

Feet shifting back and forth ready to break into a run—no, a sprint—upon the first sight of their other half.

Lips parted, ready to call out at the first sight of that familiar highlighted ponytail or bright red purse.

Can you picture it? Okay, now that you’ve got all that, keep walking—past the signs, past the clusters of waiting people, past the gate marked ``arrivals.”

At this point, you may be in full focus mode, zoning in on the signs marked taxis, baggage claim, metro station. But, if you are like me, you might pause for just a minute too long or glance back at the onslaught of reunions already in progress and you’ll be inundated by a wave of confusing emotions:
nostalgia, envy, anxiety.

And then, if you’re really like me, you’ll chide yourself: Why is it that I feel like this? I am about to embark on yet another adventure-of-a-lifetime. I shouldn’t be the one to envy others right now.

Don’t get me wrong, I love to travel—I live to travel—but despite what my Facebook and Instagram feeds might suggest, travel isn’t always sunshine and roses.

Between the getting lost, missing baggage, culture shock, and delays, sometimes travel can make you feel just a teensy bit lonely and overwhelmed.

But don’t worry, soon enough, you’ll be one of the lucky ones who has arrived at a place that you can call home. For me, this was my trip to Alicante.

I had people waiting for me. Gone were the nerves, the jealously, the homesick pit in my stomach. I was going home.