Little Miss Disaster

"Honey, can I make you anything? How about some buttered noodles?"

My mom was trying to feed me again. So far today, I had been offered goulash, Italian sausage, macaroni and cheese, and leftover Chinese food. Quite the cornucopia, considering I could barely choke down some coffee this morning.

"Hey, do you need any more of those sinus pills? Remember how you were half dead when you got here and that one pill cleared you right up? Here, take like half of them. Do you want the whole bottle? Here, honey, just take the whole bottle."

My dad, on the other hand, was busy pushing pills. He had dragged his basket o' medication out of the kitchen cupboard and was offering me everything -- well, except the Vicodin.

Why were my parents acting like this? Because it was the day I had to fly back to Dublin, and needless to say I was having a nervous breakdown. Those of you who read the entry a while back about my conduct in airports are familiar with the kind of state I was in.

Back when I first left, I thought my problems were caused by the fact that I inherited my father's wanderlust and my mother's homebody tendencies. But now, really thinking about it, I am pretty sure I didn't inherit the wanderlust. If I had, the thought of getting on a plane and flying to another country (which, by the way, is my second home) would probably not make me want to puke.

At least I didn't cry through any airports this time. I did have to re-pack my carefully arranged suitcase at LAX, since it was over the limit. I did have a minor panic attack when they delayed my flight to Heathrow, then when I missed my flight out of Heathrow, and then when I discovered it was canceled anyway. I got airsick for the first time in a long time on my ten-hour flight, sandwiched between the window and two French (Swiss?) men, one of whom I had to climb on a seat to get over in an attempt to make it to the washroom before passing out. I sat on the runway for an hour in London, praying my bags would at least make it to the right plane after all the confusion.

Truth be told, even without the crying, I am clearly not a graceful traveler.

I also realized something, somewhere between the cab ride and the unpacking. I am so over traveling. I'm over going somewhere new, getting used to it, uprooting myself, and having to do it all over again.

And I'm over this whole living in another country business. Ireland is great, sure, and obviously I've been able to stick it out so far. But frankly, it's weird living someplace where everything is different. Every single thing. You don't know which side to pass someone on the sidewalk. You don't know how to dress for the weather. You live in fear that, since you don't have a car, you will walk one block too far and find yourself stuck in a horrible neighborhood with no way out. When you go grocery shopping, you never know what you will find, how expensive it will be, and whether it will taste like it's supposed to. Tipping rules are different and confusing. The laundry is different. Paying rent is different. And every single person you pass on the street has an accent. Oh wait, no -- you're the one with the accent, and the one who has to feel stupid every time someone says something you don't understand.

I'm also over feeling this homesick every time I go somewhere. And I'm really over knowing that even if I did just stay in the States, nothing would be the same anyway, because no way would my parents let their grad school dropout sponge off of them.

So in conclusion, living abroad sucks, and since I'm locked in for another six months, I'm screwed.

Oh, and Happy freaking New Year.

When Irish eyes are...crying?

The thing everyone has been asking me is, "How was your flight?" as if this plane ride was somehow different than any other extended amount of time in a vehicle of mass transportation. I mean, it was a flight, it was long, but it was fairly uneventful, almost anti-climactic. It was really only notable for the amount of times I totally lost it before I even got on the plane (three, at last count).

Can I just say that I am not a graceful crier?

There is a picture of me somewhere at the age of two or three, peeping between the bars of my crib with my face screwed up, eyes bright red and marvelously puffy, just screaming my poor little lungs out. My crying face has not changed a bit since then.

Faced with the possibility of crying myself through five airports in a week, I imagined myself getting quite good at crying, maybe even being able to control it. I would shed a small, graceful tear in Buffalo before breezing through JFK and Shannon Airport with aplomb, making little jokes with the immigration officers and generally conducting myself with dignity.

Instead, I found myself openly weeping at Burbank, Chicago Midway, Buffalo-Niagara International, JFK and Shannon. I did the full face-screwing not once, but three times in Buffalo: once when saying goodbye to my father via phone, once when leaving my mother, and once in the restroom while trying to convince myself that now would be as good a time as any to completely lose it.

And on top of it, my brain had disappeared. I considered myself a fairly smart kid, resourceful, able to get myself through various situations with something approaching competence. But that day in JFK, I was barely able to pay my overweight luggage fee and find the right gate. My luggage seemed overly complicated, full of straps and hooks and wheels that all must be configured in very specific ways in order to keep the bag rolling, upright, and closed. I’m actually a little surprised that my large case didn’t fly open in the middle of terminal 4, sending underwear and other necessities scudding down the concourse.

Somehow, I did manage to pull it together and get through customs dry-eyed and with some semblance of maturity. No doubt there'll be more tears as the week passes and as I'm forced to actually move to Dublin (next Wednesday, actually) -- and aren't you lucky? You get to hear all about it!

I promise, the next entry will be somewhat more cheerful, but I feel like I should write down everything, you know, not just the positive. Moving is hell in itself, but moving to a foreign country? Even scarier, even if I have been on this side of the pond before.