Craic

In Gaelic, fun is referenced to as "craic." I remember stepping off the plane in the Shannon airport at five in the morning with an hour of sleep in my exhausted body (my flight buddy decided that making oragami with the seat lights on was of vast importance) and stumbling onto our tour bus. We definitely did not waste any time leaping into our journey. The tour guide, Satyan, began exclaiming about all the "craic" we were going to have, and I think that at the time, we all thought he meant the actual, illegal substance. It was not until we were nearing our destination of Killarney did he finally explain that craic was fun, and we were going to have lots of it.

I think back on that trip all the time. We began in Shannon, drove to Killarney, explored the Ring of Kerry, bumbled along to Dublin, ferried to Wales, and meandered through the English countryside until we reached London. The craic was certainly abundant. I remember on one of our last nights in London, Chad, the ever-enthused future film maker, interviewed us all about what we missed most of home. I sat there in the corner with the camera drilling into me, and I felt my eyes well up with tears. I didn't miss anything, perhaps because I did not know where my home was. And I still don't. I feel like I'd be happy as a traveler, a nomad of sorts, writing and seeing the world without pause.

We drove through the Ring of Kerry, a path through the mountains and along the coast famous for its pure beauty. When we reached the top of a mountain, we were warned that it was going to be freezing, despite the beams of sunlight. I stepped off the bus and immediately drew my peacoat closer to my neck. The wind was brittle and a bit brutal. But it was so beautiful. To our left, we could see the glittering Atlantic. We were surrounded by hills and craggy rocks and cliffs and grassy knolls everywhere else. My breath caught in my throat. I threw my head up to the sky and felt the surge of wind steal through my coat sleeves, and I was staring at the world from another continent. Everything felt so sharp and poignant and in my reach. I felt alive. I felt infinite. I pivoted on one foot and absorbed the entire experience. I think I subconsciously did that so on nights like these, when I feel like I'm as dull and exhausted as a sloth, I can remember that I was once brimming with feeling. I wish I could revive that passion again.
Then I held a baby lamb. It was a perfect day.

I keep hearing the lyrics of City and Colour instilling themselves in my brain: "I've seen a palace in London, I've seen a castle in Wales, but I'd rather wake up beside you and breathe that old, familiar smell."

I'm in a nostalgic mood.