It looks like autumn, it feels like autumn, the school bus on my street sounds like autumn, yet I am still at home, working during the day and watching TV at night. There's no homework, no class time, no dorm room, and most distressingly, no Ireland yet.
My new academic year starts a month later than at Boston College, which means that while all of my friends have already settled into their off-campus apartments, I'm waiting around with half-packed bags, biting my nails over how many roommates I will have, never mind whether they're going to like me or not. It's my fault, really; Trinity College Dublin offers a semester startup program to become familiar with the city, campus, and lifestyle. I elected not to go for some nonsensical reason like, "I want to taper down my crazy work schedule and finally get to spend some time with everyone before I go." To which my present self says, "Um, what everyone? Everyone is gone, stupid.'
This leaves me at an odd, month-long standstill that is a bit much for my type-A personality. In essence, I've gone stir-crazy. When surprised people ask what I'm still doing in town, my standard response is, "I don't know!" - (implode). This September - which most would relish as an extension of summer - has been completely unsatisfying and unproductive (and sorting my clothes into "will wear," "won't wear," "sell for Euros?" piles doesn't count). Most of my days, I'm not doing much except folding socks and pining for an aisle seat. As such, this has wreaked havoc on my inner Lisa Simpson, who cried, "Grade me, look at me, evaluate and rank me!" to my boss the other day after hours of idling. I don't know what's happening in Boston, I don't know what's happening in Ireland, and it's almost midterm - panic attacks, commence.
That's not to say I don't have plenty of people around to fill me in on what I'm missing. It appears that in spite of my fascination with Ireland for all these years, I'm the only one who's never been there. World travelers have come out of the woodwork to let me know what an amazing time I'm going to have. They've lent me books of colloquial slang (way to piss on my strawberries), asked me to find great grandfathers' names on memorial walls, and even my oral surgeon gave me a pint of ice cream and the business card of his cousin's bed and breakfast. I've heard tales about safe and funny hitchhiking, reuniting with long lost cousins, finding soul mates and throwing picturesque weddings, narrowly avoiding death while biking along streets with no names, and the drink, the drink, the drink.
Although exciting to hear at first, at this point, each new story just makes me more anxious about my idleness. This may seem silly and overdramatic, because well, it is. But there's a difference between feeling bored and feeling useless, and owing to the influx of Ireland-related stories, the latter has struck. To be perfectly honest, when others tell me about their travels through Ireland while I pour the trillionth cup of coffee, I am jealous that I have nothing Irish to share but my blood. I have this irrational fear that when I get there, there won't be any memories left for me. Which is ridiculous, of course, because no two experiences are exactly alike. But that doesn't settle my uneasy stomach. I worry that if I stay on this side of the Atlantic for one more day, there won't be any good times left.
But then again, if I'm part crazy Lisa Simpson, then I'm also part rational Lisa Simpson, and that part has noticed a few trends. One thing that each storyteller has had in common is the gift of gab - they want to tell about their visit, and they would like to devote some time to it. It's never just, "Sure, I've been," but a blow-by-blow of the entire experience. And whenever I need to call Trinity because I have randomly decided in my mind that my housing has been revoked, they take plenty of time to assure me that it hasn't, that they're just not in a rush. This has been a shock to my hurry-up-and-go approach, but as the international adviser told me, "I know it's frustrating for you, but it will all work out. Really." Clearly a good dose of patience is on my menu, and my few correspondences with the Trinity administration have tipped me some spoonfuls. Lastly, not a single story has ended badly - going to dinner with two friendly strangers generally wraps up with "the best meat pie ever" rather than loss of limb. It's as though wrong turns, blown money, and lost time are mere blips on the radar screen. Is Ireland a magical land where nothing goes wrong? Of course not - but no one ever seems to focus on their mishaps upon returning.
So why am I? Is it frustrating that I'm still here? Yes. Will it be worth the wait? I'll let you know.
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