Mid-December 2022. Heavy snow. 

All Ryanair flights had been canceled indefinitely.

My friend Kayla and I  

               caught an Uber from Stansted Airport to downtown London,

                       then took several trains to Crewe.

                              Then U.K. train strikes started,

                                    so we took a taxi to Holyhead

                                           and got onto a ferry

                                                   to see a blue island 

                                                           emerge from the waves

                                                                   and turn dark green, defined.

                                                                             We finally arrived in Dublin.

*

The Dublin Port looked modern. Crowded, messy, full of life. Having survived border control, we entered another hallway that led to the exit. The grayish sky, still bright, illuminated the passage. Conversations there had a different intonation. We were supposed to meet Orla, my colleague with whom I had co-organized an environmental TEDx conference in 2021 but had never met in person. “Orla! Hi!” I shouted.

*

When it got dark, we went to a concert at Coláiste Íosagáin, a girls’ secondary school where Orla was about to perform in a choir to celebrate the school’s 50th anniversary. Pupils in green sweatshirts and kilts welcomed us as we entered the building. Approaching the gym-like auditorium, I saw some older people in suits. I was asked to talk in Irish to one of those people. Feeling unsure about their pronunciation, I timidly recited the only three Gaelic phrases I knew. Much to my relief, the man nodded approvingly and welcomed us to the concert. Only after the encounter did Orla tell me that he was the school principal. I was glad she didn’t tell me that earlier—it saved me the adrenaline. 

Everything at the concert—the speeches, performances, and even the conversations among those sitting around us—was in Gaelic. Orla’s choir gave a phenomenal performance of Vivaldi’s Gloria, followed by an orchestra with traditional Irish instruments playing upbeat folk tunes. Feeling the music, the entire audience started clapping and stamping their feet in synchrony. 

As the melody traveled in the air, memories of my past history and literature classes resurfaced. I had been taught in school that Ireland’s history was marked by desolation, pain, and oppression. But at that very moment, there was no sadness in the room. I felt invincible confidence. Growing up in a multicultural environment, I was aware that not all cultures had this confidence. I suddenly realized that confidence and oppression are not mutually exclusive concepts. 

*

The next day, Orla and I arrived at a boys’ secondary school called Ardscoil Rís where we were going to plant a tree. Orla gave the boys a bag full of spindle, willow, whitethorn, rowan, birch, blackthorn, guelder rose, and holly saplings, and dozens of spades. Following the teacher’s instructions, the boys started digging at the front side of a grassy area next to the school building. It was time for me to plant a tree, too, for the first time in my life. A few days earlier, I came up with the idea of naming the first self-planted tree the “Tree of Hope,” just because it sounded good. But at that very moment when I placed the sapling into the ground, I realized that hope might actually be planted and actively maintained by us. Just like a tree. I silently wished that the Tree of Hope would give the boys strength.

On our way home, we stopped by a meticulously-carved old building called the Casino Marino. Surrounded by an immense and vivid grass field, the building looked desolate but beautiful. It possessed the kind of beauty that was impossible to have without solitude. I could never know how many events, cheerful or sad, the Casino had witnessed. Could those memories still live in its walls? What did it think of them? I realized that no matter how much I study, there are certain kinds of knowledge I can never acquire. 

When it got dark, Orla and I took a train to a pub she called “a famous Guinness place.” When the train crossed a large river, a harp-shaped bridge and purple and pink city lights reminded me of the cans of Guinness I saw in a friend’s dorm room in Oxford. I had seen cans and bottles of Guinness countless times before, but I had always decided not to try them, because I wanted the moment of me having my first Guinness to be in Ireland. This moment is going to happen in minutes, I thought. I couldn’t contain my excitement.

*

The pub walls were embellished with Christmas lights and a TV screen showing the World Cup semifinals. I took my first ever sip of Guinness. It was mild but tasty, unsweetened but soothing. It actually tasted like home, but I wasn’t able to tell why. A man offered us two empty seats. Orla asked me to say my three Irish Gaelic phrases, so I did and decided to add in “Sláinte!” The man laughed and went away but Orla kept laughing. Her laugh was so infectious that it made me laugh too. I laughed and laughed and laughed until I was out of breath. What I felt in this space must be what some people would call the “craic,” an Irish word for good times, I thought.

*

At dinner with our TEDx teammates, we drank Merlot and talked about our lives, plans for the future, and problems in our current world. To my surprise, all my teammates looked way bigger and livelier than on Zoom. Every teammate had a different personality, and I felt as if I was entering multiple unique dimensions I did not want to exit as I talked to each of them. It was the combination of these personalities that made our team become our team in front of my eyes at that very moment. I felt as if I had witnessed something black-and-white become full of color, something static become full of motion.

*

It was the last morning of my Ireland visit, the morning I dreaded, for I did not want to leave Dublin. After packing my bags, we headed to the coastal suburbs of Portmarnock for a site visit. The orderly line of delicate white houses seamlessly transitioned into the lime green forests at the seaside under the azure sky. Flocks of gulls were flying over the sea, and stretches of land appeared and disappeared near the horizon. At the seashore, a small forest of cordylines guided our way. The rays of the sun and thriving cordylines made Dublin look almost tropical. Soaking in the sunshine, I forgot about time and place. You couldn’t have guessed it was December. 

*

Portmarnock was the most otherworldly of all sites. Everything there, from the pastel blue sea to the bright green fields, was so unbelievably bright. As I walked atop a hill, a neat row of saplings divided the vast field into two. The slight downward sloping field and the perfectly horizontal skyline enclosed an acute angle for the sea to occupy. The pastel colors and simplicity of the landscape made me think that it could have been in one of Picasso’s early landscape paintings—such as Seascape or Mountains of Málaga. It felt like being in the middle of nowhere. But, for the first time in my life, I didn’t feel lonely at all and actually loved being in the middle of nowhere. I felt beautiful, just like the Casino Marino. 

For lunch, we went to a seaside cafe near the village of Malahide. Colorful strings of wisteria flowers were hanging above the tables, and red and white poinsettias decorated the counter. The tables were display cases one would see in museums—pieces of shells, fancy antiques, and ancient photos were placed into compartments and protected with a glass ceiling. I savored my roast chicken sandwich and heavenly cappuccino as I gazed at the sky through the windows.

*

I took a seaside stroll in Malahide on my own. Unlike the sea in Portmarnock, this sea looked much darker. The sun made the surface of the water look as if it had thousands of stars floating on it. The dark blue waves reached the magnificent black stones of the beach in perfect harmony. The water was welcoming me, and I walked down the stairs to embrace it. It’s funny how each sea and ocean I have encountered in my life has a different aura, I thought. The shallow sea in the Bahamas, cheerful; the deep ocean in Rhode Island, melancholic. This sea evoked a sense of calm that enveloped me. Some might have walked by the shore holding hands with their loved ones. Others might have visited this sea in hopes of receiving an answer to their despair. It was on one of these Dublin beaches that James Joyce’s Stephen Dedalus found spiritual enlightenment. For me, it was this seaside that made me appreciate my life. At that moment, I was simply grateful to be able to observe something so magnificent. 

*

Walking toward my gate at the airport, I came across a tiny souvenir shop. Looking at the items covered with Dublin insignia, I chuckled at the thought of squeezing an entire experience into an object. The “Dublin” T-shirt could never represent the multitude of places I explored. The Guinness fridge magnet could never recreate the side-splitting laugh I shared with Orla at the pub. Before I even left, I started craving the past two-and-a-half days I had spent in this city. 

Today, I still crave those life-altering days. I may be taking notes in a lecture hall, dancing with my friends at a party, or sitting on the couch alone at home, but that doesn’t stop me from 

          catching an Uber from Stansted Airport to downtown London,

                     taking several trains to Crewe,

                                 then taking a taxi to Holyhead,

                                           and getting onto a ferry

                                                      to see a blue island 

                                                               emerge from the waves

                                                                          and turn dark green, defined.

                                                                                     And finally, arriving in Dublin.

                                                                                     In my head.