An Irish Way of Thought
A breakup or - when others start to cry, you cry yourself
"Actually, I didn't want to cry..."
It is Sunday and the weather outside seemd to have acclimatised itself to the mood. Every single person said good bye, all did it after each other which is even worse than wiping the tears out of the corners of the eyes together.
Nobody familiar is left and the new world lies there at the other end of the airport, waiting for me. You keep listening the good old songs with all their memories and their safety stored in it and you also carry on writing on the portable computer, that is now not only companion but also that kind of protection, that keeps me calm and distracts me. Wouldn't I have the possibility of writing now, I became crazy of unease, forecast and suspense. But this way, I see the faces around me much coolly, just calmer. I can cope better with the thought of doing the first big step away from family, friends, girl-friend, although you shouldn't count your chickens before they are hatched. There is still homey ground under my feet, still there are sort of german people starring at you in a kind of arrogant way, waiting for their login - maybe for a new home as well. Nobody is interested in what you gonna do wherever you are going. Everyone for oneself - myself with the support of my friends and their thoughts that escort me as well as the letters of courage and the tears of good bye.
But... when others start to cry, you cannot help but cry yourself
To be moved to tears just by the others' emotions, to be troubled by so many wishes for the future, I see myself on a new way, a new journey that has been done "successfully" by so many before me. Experiences that nobody ever wants to miss again, unforgetable, worth to be done by everybody... I also want to suck everything in, want to know the smallest thing, want to gain the slightest exerperience and I am looking forward to a piece of unknown that propitiates me so far. The pictures of good bye leave back beautiful memories behind my eyelids and in spite of tiredness and exitement I am looking forward with hope in my face.
Smooth shivers
Quiet drizzle accompanies me on every third step, many glances are just going to nowhere and everywhere, admiring different types of construction, different lineaments and different kinds of handling things. An impressive university presents itself with lawns (like in the best english gardens - not that I have seen any so far...). Old, lazy acting buildings side alongside with brand new constructions from the latest past. What looks like a maze in the first place, becomes the daily walk with its shortcuts and almost secret places very soon. Much stays untouched, some undiscovered.
Almost everything is close to or even on campus: bank, drinks at every corner, theatre, sports hall and even the college bar are just one step away. Everybody has his or her aim, some just aimlessness itself, the other sex, the next bank branch, internet access, the next course, a little snack, a bit sport or sometimes just the next dry spot...
During the day swarming and traffic on the left side, drums in the streets, comedians doing their daily show, jugglers down in shop street, some coins in the rain which don't get picked up by anybody anymore, already early in the day lurching persons, later flyer for cheaper club-entry, still or even again people moving backwards and return...
In the evenings crush within irish walls. Out of the pubs sounds of various instruments fly by. They ban but make the people move at the same time so that there is no rest by standing still. Fascinating attentiveness. There seem to be stereotypes of any single nationality everywhere, but every single one exudes the same shine out of its face. From time to time another old man is tottering around on acount of too much drinking and all that comes out of his mouth is incomprehensible Gaelic... Then he goes back to the bar or in front of the door - not often without purpose. You never know if the gaelic words are meant to be a praise for the musicians or some muttering words against the people shoving by, because they either want to get in for beer or out because of the same reason.
Again, the night gets down not only on the masses of the youth hostel inhabitants, lets many people get together at the tables, having a last talk about god and the world or makes them thinking about going back to bed again, waiting for the next day, with heavy bones that are tired of many hours walking around. The next day will come soon and it will push you forward, or just push you.
Others just have theirs second shower, get dressed for the daily "patrol", don't want to let time make them go to bed. For them, every day is a Saturday and never the right day to get back your needed sleep. The night starts earlier and is present the whole week, charming with its weekend-like character and there is no need for need that the days in the middle of a week give way for those that relax again because they are everything at the same time: every day afresh. Many have the same goals, only a few seem to let others be part of it, let them go the same way. The youth has still its own impulse. Just a question of time, I suppose. The next morning is gonna come for sure and one isn't half as tired as one would have been at home, after having danced the whole night. It seems to me that this kind of planning and using the nights has its own clever character...
Habituation
If one is used to hustle around through the streets with many others and follow the same procedure every day, but with a good deal of various people, safety quickly gets prevail and shyness gets less, which lets appear an offensive that becomes bigger and bigger and shines for all the friendly looking people and also makes friends very fast. But one does not know not for a long time yet what is common and true hospitality, gastronomicly ulterior motives or just enorme helpfulness.
But heyday is reached when you know, that the roof above you head is save and yours, when you see the same wonderful people every day again close to yourself and when those people bring other nice ones, when the circle closes and sometimes not less than one dozen happy youth from allover the world are sitting around a table and like each other... All are together, all bring food from their jobs and share generously, talk about the first and next big university things, dream of already seen wonders of nature or still prearranged locations, show photos of people and their structures or of powerful nature's creations. One grows together and experiences to have a similar start. But it doesn't feel good here either when there are people going home again (that you just got to know better) with sad looks, leaving nothing but the connection by internet or snail mail. At least a bit, but not even a fraction of what your take with yourself kept in your head...
Regain
Sometimes there is the feeling of going my own ways... or driving them. I vault myself on the saddle without big preparations, equipped with donuts, cookies and milk, with my digital camera and lots of desire for exploration. Water is my continueously companion. First on the left side, on my way back righthands. At the same time the wind seems to have invited himself as a homelike guest. But too bad, no lee to escape it...
The sun is plays games with the clouds and makes cycling harder just by her abstinence, with presence it's one of the finest pleasures that one enjoys with slightly closed eyes and wind in the face as if there was nothing else that had be taken care of. The sun not seldom is the only factor that brings good or less good mood, cause it really can push that mood down if there have been already too many of those drizzly days with too many puddles in the streets... But - as always - it depends on how you handle such a situation for having those days as a reason to stay at home, drinking that hot chocolate in front of the tv and get lulled... ;-)
Beaches, an immense number of fields, that all of them are surrounded and separated by stone walls, plain land with cows, gulls that show their little children what a decent approach for a landing on the coast takes, silt that follows the waves' rhythm and never overbalances, ruins and stinted, left buildings whose magic won't be escaping for a long time. Cold stone canyons, misty mountains on whose grounds water gets whiped back and forth. Here and there a little Jesus on the side of a sailed road or on the top of an almost untouched scarp, red cabbage and thousands of different kinds of green and brown, barely animals but whenever there are some they appear in big flocks. Sometimes the sunshine gets into the most hidden corners - then, five minutes later, one would've been much drier if you had hidden yourself under the water... Then rainbows, some of them, patient, gorgeous present.
One finds sanctuaries that are filled up with grounded stones that lost their rawness by this one human treatment, but recovered it by their actual meaning. Wind is searching for its corners and edges here as well, its escaping routes while the sun is shining on those "human souls" of this left area, but way above it, there are already the clouds of the next thunder-storm chasing each other again.
There are people who maybe have lost their view for the vicinity and don't really see anymore, what they have around them. They don't see those sporadic flowers that are battleing the roadside, they miss birds, splashing of water or the wind - maybe because of years and years of their existence which became too usual. For them the green of the grass is self-evident, naturally, the ocean's blue not new anymore, the sky's and clouds' grey not more than facade. Rarely one sees them with an open mouth or a dreamy gaze walking around. Maybe for relaxation in another part of the country where they're walking alongside with some foreign tourist every now and then and re-discover the "sights" of their island again. Then, umpteenth, they listen to the visitors' enthusiasm and wonder little or get reminded of those gorgeous corners of their country, feel like being able to see things with maiden eyes again, maybe think that it's not really worth it going here and there again. But - isn't everything worth being looked at with a closer look?
The remaining desire to discover, the energie of seeing things on my own account. Things that got boring for a majority, unimportant for many. Not for me though, maybe because I haven't stayed long enough yet, maybe as well because every unseen thing is a good thing, maybe because my view is sharpened a bit for those in particular. And therefore I let down all my worries, lie down backwards on the stones far away from every human soul (at least it seems to be like that), let the sun whisper warmth into my ears, breath in, breath out... Just be, just live. Sometimes it doesn't take much...
Goodbyes
New things draw attention almost every day again.
Sometimes it feels like one is still a child and had to discover the whole thing because one doesn't get it by one's own what others have to tell, what others already saw and experienced and just want to pass on. When you remember, you just see yourself in the middle of the crow, the only colored spot, glancing to the distance.
Then, sometimes suddenly und unexpected, otherwise often planned and predicted, people say goodbye and return home althoug one cannot let them go, yet. One wants to keep them staying, one wants to be child with them, conqueror or one just wants to be on one of the millions of pictures that are taken by cameras, artists or the own imagination... But sometimes, it just doesn't work and one has to say goodbye. And that's one thing you cannot really get used to very easily...
At the edge of Europe
Rough winds at the coast, salty oceanair, shallow bights on the one, slamming waves on the other site of the island. Several meters high they smash against the steep cliffs, the water bright blue because of the spray. On the islands long forgotten but nevertheless often visited sanctuaries of the past, that have built their own cult, that occupy their own magic.
Everything in miniature that reminds of the human. Everything in little amounts but decorated with much love. But is it about the own life, the family, the "clan" one doesn't save stones, one isn't stingy with defending ideas but one drudges until the end of work! And in the end, the walls of the defensive fortifications clamber dizzy heights and form almost impregnable stonehills with the cliffs' rockwalls to which they lean against.
A Christmas far away
"You just know, what you got when it's gone..." isn't just like that one of the most familiar sayings these days and as well as for most of the other corners of life you can apply this one to the greenest spot of Europe, too - for Christmas. Home drew many friends and "studymates" to the far points of Europe and the world and exposed them to either snowstorms or the hot sun uninhibitedly. They decorate pine needles with christmas ornaments, houses with crazy flaring christmas lights, dance into the new year. Ireland on the other side offers nice autumn weather, cold and colorful, full of chilly sunshine. Sometimes it es enjoyable to walk towards the quiteness, but often it is not less than bitter if you let flow the thoughts about home. Familiar church bells reach the ear through the phone and extend the dumpling in the throat, snow is falling there where one is missing it not just a bit over here. The cold exists and the material for snow is there as well, but obviously the white magic isn't desired that badly and therefore there are again puddles instead of snowdrifts...
Nevertheless the nipping cold stays and with it the clear nights, the clammy fingers, the red noses... Stones give themselves unaffect, mountains again hide behind thick walls of mist and awaiting for all that may appear. The lakes are glassy, thousands of stars are glittering inside, thousands of glistening fish, jewels as far as the eye can see. Outside the city everything is silent, one can see bright enlightened houses gleaming from far away, inviting or seeking - who knows.
Once more a frantic urge to spend bursts within the walls and people become desperate by thinking of a not repeated, nontrivial and nondeclarative present for their sweethearts that pleases and doesn't make them go to expense at the same time. One tramples on each others feet in the streets, jumps in line for certainly getting the things that one has in mind. One arrives exhausted at home and wishes Christmas would be already accomplished and past. One rushes from one meeting to another, eats, eats, eats, eats and is too lazy too get up for anything, is happy about the latest presents for some days (if presents) and soon forgets who they were from... THINK
The big finish
Many feasts are celebrated, every single holiday is welcome and gets a lot cheering as such, hence used to give oneself up to the delights of drinking, to dance and sing in a rollicking mood and remember the good old times. One shakes hands friendly, gives out the dark Guinness for each other and is glad about life, the presence and forgets the future for a few moments. It's not important anymore what is coming but that life is being enjoyed at the very moment. The Helloweenshop turns to the Christmas-Special, then to the normal Joke-Shop which changes into the St. Patricks-Shop again. Whatever one needs, green-white hats and red noses always decorate the shop windows. One can see the proud of the country within them...
But nevertheless, there comes the time again when you have to leave behind all the fresh underwent, new experienced and new gained things. Heavy hearted one has to say goodbye to your own four walls you've gotten fond of, to your flatmates and those who still stay a bit longer in their foreign home to take one, two more of the breaths that make you feel so good when you have the leisure and time to recognize that.
One says goodbye to families, to studymates, to very close friends and recognizes that one was here and there the last time and cannot really believe it, really take it as true, yet, that one is already closer to the homeland than one likes.
Then the last day arrives, one partys boisterous once more and tries to oppress thoughts of home, push them to the subconsciousness as well as one did tried it the past weeks to enjoy what is left. But it doesn't work well. More and more friends arrive and say goodbye, wake up the sad mood in oneself and leave crestfallen without wanting to have another look back. Those who take things easier are looking forward to see you again, planning a meeting already and are thinking convulsively when they can spare time for a tour through europe, an american road-trip and leave into the night with a light "See you soon!" on their lips.
Time will show what remains of all the promised visits, regular letter- or mailcontact in the end. It is certain that many have become friends for life who - although they might not say hello every three weeks - will always have their doors be opened and of course they are also welcome in the ones own country, in front of ones own door and will like remembering whatever has happened. Mishaps, evenings from which you came home with a laughing stomach ache, more than just mulicultural parties, sullen or obliging neighbours, helpful or stubborn studymates, drunks and their funny accidents, trips to the farest away corners of the isle and their always different living and reacting inhabitants, personal impressions and lessons, both painful as well as heartful ones.
The worst is that you still can see your friends again, but the assembly with all together on one heap won't be ever the same again. They will always open their arms, will always be reachable more or less easily but the old group of people will never be together again, sitting in front of the fireplace, in the kitchen or in front of the TV, the group that insecured the pubs, that filled the dancefloors with action and many faces with more joy. Phrases like "Do you remember..." and "Good times...!" will more often decorate the lips of each of them, possibly bad times become valuable and worthy experiences that one doesn't want to miss again, because everything led to what you have now: something good. And still, to get used to ones home-home again seems to be more difficult than one thought. One misses the friendly way of the foreign country, its habitants, the charme that isn't the same twice.
Also the things which oneself maybe hated are missing all of a sudden and leave a hole which can be patched only slowly and with difficulties. One gets frightened that one assimilates if one just is at home long enough again, but be sure: all of you who have been abroad take something with them that nobody can take away again. One consumes it, tells and gets on others nerves with it but one doesn't care, because one became a part of the music, a part of the whole and left behind a lot in return to all the valuable small things that one has in the backpack.
I am missing the words, although many have described what could have happened in every single other country in the world as well. But what really happened is hardly to be wrapped up in phrases of the humdrum and routine use. You have to experience it to be able to feel it...
Until next time...