Stuff Jo Knows ...: (#tbt) - Ireland or Bust

Seems kind of funny to be going from this amazing Portland summer weather to nine straight days of Irish rain.

Earlier this week I started to get a little bit excited about tomorrow's Close Family trip to Ireland. I mean, sure, a few hours before that I was pacing around upstairs like a tiger in a bullpen, shuffling and reshuffling piles, aimlessly trying on clothes, and making lists of totally irrelevant tasks (look up acro yoga, register Francie for daycare, email an old mentor, try out my new Nike Fuel Band). So yeah, more anxious than excited. But then, as Alex and I talked through some logistical components, I felt something similar to anticipation. But maybe that was thanks to that 1/4 Ativan?

"Have you checked our passports to make sure they haven't expired?"

"What about a carseat, do we bring ours or try and rent one there, taking our chances to install it in the cars they drive on the wrong side of the road?"

"I'll take care of getting cash at the bank. I think I only budgeted a couple hundred bucks, which obviously isn't enough."

"We need to call AT&T and ask about our iPhones, and let the bank and our credit card company know we'll be out of the country."

"I think I'm excited! I don't have much of an agenda for the trip, as really we're just along for the ride, but I'd love to go for a hike, just us, or see something epically beautiful. Maybe take an overnight to Galway. Or go to Giant's Causeway? That's all I remember from the north."

It's not as though we just learned of our international multigenerational trip - it's been planned for a few months - but I have difficulty letting myself get excited for these kinds of things (excitement leads to expectations leads to disappointment, amiright fellow pessimists?!?). My feelings thus far have mostly been anxious (go figure), and only recently did I ever-so-briefly let sneak in a bit of excitement and anticipation. And a touch of nostalgia ...

***

In the Spring of 2003 I took my first-ever trip overseas. I was to study abroad at the University of Ireland in Galway. I'd been afraid of flying for several years, and my dad was sweet enough to help me build the courage to entertain my wanderlust by gifting me "practice flights" between Portland and Seattle. Sure enough, my confidence boosted (and with an active Rx for Valium), I was ready to get my first European passport stamp (at least, I think they still did that back then). I left on New Year's Eve 2002, a red-eye to London, where I traveled alone for the first time ever. I made my way to Dublin and then to Galway on the west coast of the country in time for my study abroad program.

In many ways, I have some of my fondest college memories from that time. No single, defining event stands out, but I loved the simplicity of my life there. My college classes required only a modest amount of my time, and mostly reading contemporary British literature or Social Psychology texts. I walked everywhere, seriously, everywhere. I had time and a great place to exercise on campus. I even played on the women's university soccer team. The grocery stores all sold Nutella and cider. I could legally go to the bars. They still played American music - I specifically recall dancing at some club to 50 Cent's "In Da Club/It's Your Birthday" and thinking that I might have died and gone to heaven. I met the first boy I ever thought I could maybe love, and we exchanged handwritten love letters (I have since entirely forgotten his name, and wouldn't even recognize him if I saw him in the grocery store; fortunately there's no risk of that, because if I do recall correctly, he was from the East Coast and the older brother of one of my fellow Americans?). I made some new friends, one of whom also attended UPS (shoutout: Hi Melissa and Jesse!). I traveled more than ever before, including short and cheap flights to London to meet up with one of my good college girlfriends, to Scotland, Paris, Italy ...

I had plans to stay in Western Europe through the summer, after finishing my Spring semester, and do the white girl college backpacking thing. But life had other plans for me, unfortunately. Somewhere in the midst of Spring Break travel - prior to even finishing my Spring term - I landed myself in a Venetian hospital, not a single English-speaking provider to translate what ailed me. There I spent 10 days in a ospedale, IV's in my arms, hands, and feet, a tube through my nose leading to my stomach. I later learned that I was diagnosed with a bleeding ulcer, but it's difficult to say whether or not that was accurate.

The hospital experience itself is an entirely extra story. Briefly, no one spoke English. No one. The small "health and medicine" section of my Italian language translation book was mysteriously absent. Literally, the book skipped from page 45 to 82. The friend I was traveling with, Kathleen, contacted my father to let him know I was in the hospital in Venice. He made his way from Oregon to Italy, no definitive information about which hospital, no definitive information about my illness. I couldn't speak (the NG tube somehow irritated my throat?) so had to write down all my communication. By Day 3 I had nothing to read, and my dad couldn't find any English magazines or books near the hospital. There were no TV's. I was housed in a room with three other women, all elderly. One of them appeared to be comatose, some sobbing family member praying and crying at her bedside for hours daily. The woman next to me, at one point, ripped out one of the many tubes connected to her, spattering a tiny bit of blood on me and my bed. I was later moved to another room, again with three elderly women roommates. This time, though, they all seemed to simply be enjoying retirement in the hospital. Nothing obvious was wrong with any of them. And they were kind to me, my temporary Italian nonnas. Finally, once I'd had enough - MORE than enough - and still very little understanding of my diagnosis, treatment, or prognosis - I signed some paperwork that I now imagine was acknowledgement that I was discharging against medical advice ("AMA" in the medical community).

I never did get to see the rest of Italy. Instead, my dad broke me free from the confines of the tubes and hospital beds and escorted me home to Portland to a familiar and English-speaking hospital. I never did finish my Spring term in Ireland. One of my roommates packed up my belongings and mailed them home to me in Oregon. I never did learn what actually happened to me, as there was no evidence of a bleeding ulcer (usually there's scarring), and I was not found to carry the H. Pylori bacteria (a common link with ulcers). In hindsight, I believe that I maybe had a severe reaction to some kind of a garlic intolerance - I was eating Italian food, after all. I never did backpack Europe. My dad offered to pay for me to return to Galway, finish my term, and go on with my summer travels. But suffice it to say I was pretty traumatized by the recent events and couldn't muster the courage to return overseas. Instead I finished what courses I could via correspondence, ran a random half-marathon in Vancouver, BC in the pouring rain with my brother, and road-tripped back East to spend another summer on Block Island, RI. In a nutshell, Ireland and I have unfinished business.

***

At some point after meeting Alex, and maybe after traveling South America together, I added a trip together to Ireland to my Bucket List. His maternal grandfather immigrated from a town called Carndonagh many decades ago, and Alex still has extended family in the northern part of the country. So when a few months ago his parents, Paul and Chris, told us they were taking his grandmother, Peggy (aka Grandma Lambie), to Ireland and invited us along (and then offered to pay), despite my anxiety about flying and my fear of foreign hospitals (Italy wasn't the only one; there was also Argentina - another story, another time), it was an opportunity we couldn't pass up. Tomorrow afternoon the Husband, Bean and I fly to San Francisco to meet up with Paul and Chris and Grandma Lambie. We take a red-eye from SFO to Dublin, where we will meet up with my brother- and sister-in-law, Brian and Jen, from Detroit. The eight of us will then pack into our two rental cars and make our way ~4 hours north to County Donegal to the rental house we will use as our home base for the following week.

So as I sit here, now making functional lists of things to pack and chores to complete before our flight tomorrow, I'm feeling all kinds of nostalgia for the adventures I once had, and excitement for those to come. I managed to find a few photos from my time in Ireland, and couldn't pass up a #tbt blog post.