An American in Ireland

When I moved to Drogheda from Los Angeles just over 14 months ago, I was looking for a break from big-city life. I spent the first part of my childhood in Tokyo, my formative years in Los Angeles and my college days in San Francisco so living in a small town (well, small for me) was something out of my comfort zone.

It was an adjustment but that year in Drogheda was a good one. I learned to navigate narrow country roads with ease; I got used to seeing people I knew around town; I found ways to deal with the lack of variety when it came to restaurants and food shops. But even though I’m now back in a big city, it’s still a world away from where I originally came. 

(more…)

Remember a while back when I introduced Mountaineering Man on the blog? It’s hard to believe it’s been almost eight months since we started dating but it has, and now we’re taking the next step: cohabitation!

So yes, I’m moving in with MM. Though we were initially going to look for a two-bedroom place we’ve decided to move into his one-bed until that gets sorted. A lot of couples have their starter apartment and this will be ours, complete with a major lack of closet space and one, small bathroom.

Despite the tight quarters, I’m really looking forward to it. While it’ll certainly be more convenient (I’ve been living out of a suitcase half the week for the last several months, commuting between my Drogheda digs and his Dublin apartment), that’s just one small benefit. I’m excited about taking the next step with someone I not only love but really like; I genuinely enjoy spending time with him. Whether we’re lounging around and reading the paper or hiking up in Wicklow, it just feels…easy.

(more…)

There are some things so precious you want to keep them all to yourself, safely tucked away from prying eyes and inevitable opinions and questions. There’s safety in keeping something secret; it’s a preservation method, a way to keep something protected and allow space for growth without influence or distraction.

But this is a blog about my life here in Ireland, and it would be unfair to readers and downright untruthful to hold back on something as significant as this any longer. While I did slip in a little mention a couple of posts back, I have yet to elaborate. So here goes [*takes deep breath*]: I’m in love with an Irish man.

(more…)

When I first meet people in Ireland and they find out I didn’t move over for a job, they ask the inevitable question, “Did ya move here for a fella?” Considering most American women I’ve met here did in fact follow their Irish husbands back to the homeland, I can understand why people would assume such a thing. When I tell them there is no fella and that I moved here to experience a new adventure, they usually ask if I A) want to meet a man and B) if I want to have children.

Of course it would be great to meet a fabulous, intelligent, handsome, funny, adventurous, foodie-type who loves to travel and is well-versed in current events/literature/etc. (or at least someone who possesses a few of these traits!). As for the kids question, my answer typically elicits a double-take of shock and disbelief, as if I was a three-headed alien or a talking dog. I don’t know if I want to have kids and to be honest I’m pretty sure that I probably don’t though I’d never say never. Most Irish people I encounter cannot seem to wrap their brains around the concept that a woman might not want to bear children, and I’m getting used to retorts like, “Oh you’ll change your mind – just you wait!” or “But of course you do, you just haven’t met the father!” Once, an acquaintance introduced me as, “Clare, and she says she probably doesn’t want children – can you believe that?”

(more…)

The first Irish guy I really noticed was a barman named Martin. It was 1996, and I had just moved to a grungy apartment above a carpet store on Clement Street in San Francisco’s Richmond district. My local pub became the Front Room, which was conveniently across the street from my front door and where Martin happened to work. His dark eyes, adorable Dublin accent and mischievous grin instantly drew me in. My best friend Cat and I became fixtures on the pub’s weathered barstools every Tuesday and Thursday, Martin’s nights behind the bar. I don’t remember how many times he “lost” our ever-growing bar tab, which was fine considering I was living on student loans and barely able to make ends meet.

It was all very innocent. Although he was an outrageous flirt, he didn’t make a move for a very, very long time. Some would say he acted more like a protective big brother than a romantic suitor but I fell hard nonetheless. Finally one evening he walked out from behind the bar and took the empty stool next to mine. I don’t remember what we were talking about but at one point he reached over, cupped my face with his hands and gave me a long, slow kiss. The room seemed to go quiet and my cheeks turned scarlet. I barely had enough time to savor the moment when Basil, the other bartender on duty, leaned over and whispered, “That’s Martin’s girlfriend sitting on the other side of him!” As if in slow motion my gaze swept over to my left to see Martin, who’d already turned his back to me at this point, holding hands with a blonde woman I’d never seen before. By some small miracle she hadn’t witnessed his betrayal. As my vision grew blurry with tears I slipped out of the bar and vowed never to return. I found out later that his girlfriend had been in Ireland and had recently moved to be with him. Funny, he’d never mentioned her before.

(more…)