One thousand words and 6 weeks to cover what may be an experience of a lifetime.

It seems almost too short, doesn’t it?

So, let’s make this clear: this is going to be a partially rambling rant about the entirety of my time here. Forget the architecture, forget the ‘art’ beats. This is all me-time.

Socrates, upon realizing that he knew nothing (that is, he was able to admit that he did not know everything, unlike most other people who will spout nonsense in an attempt to not appear ignorant) declared that he was the wisest man in Greece as the Oracle of Delphi had foretold. In reflection, then, while I will not claim to be the wisest man in Ireland (or even in this group), I will admit that even after a month and a half in Ireland, I know nothing. I will not attempt to affect some sort of faux-wisdom that comes from travelling to different places. I won’t try speaking with a  brogue, and I won’t reply to every comment or question with “Well, in Ireland, you see, they do or think or say ‘x’ or ‘y’ or ‘z’”.

I arrived here 6 weeks ago knowing nothing about Ireland – apart from some travel tips from friends and family who had visited previously – and I will leave knowing only a little more than nothing. Because, while I can tell you a little about the histories of Dublin, Donegal, Howth and other places, I still don’t know them. I haven’t grown up here – I haven’t even spent a truly significant amount of time here. Sure, I can give you directions in Dublin if you want to get to Stephen’s Greens, or even if you want to go to a good, non-tourist filled pub, but that’s knowledge on a surface level. Dublin, and by extension, Ireland, isn’t my home. Not really. I’m a tourist, an outsider, someone to be tolerated and, after a while, forgotten in the stream of constant faces of other tourists that come and go. I won’t make a single impression upon anyone here, not really.

So how do I change that?

Because, after 6 weeks, I have an itch. A tiny, little itch, you see, but it’s there, under my skin. While I’m here in Ireland, immersed in green lands and, every so often, a good bit of craic, I can ignore that itch. But even after a week in Dublin, I start to get that itch again, even though Dublin is as every little bit as much a part of Ireland as the rest of it. But I wanted something else. It was something I found in Donegal, in Glendalough, in Dingle as I explored the hills, mountains, forests, cliffs and fields. It was a moment of semi-self revelation, a split second of natural ecstasy. As I stood beholding the scenery that unfurled in front of me, a jolt of electricity would dance up my spine, and my entire body would seize up and stiffen as that lightning danced under skin tightening into goosebumps.

It was a sensation I had never felt before, and now I’m addicted to it. And it’s going to be the reason why I’ll constantly want to return.

And why wouldn’t I want to return? The Irish are a friendly lot who don’t mind strangers in a pub butting into their conversations – most times I was invited by a nudge of an elbow, or a hand on my shoulder. They don’t mind Americans wandering into their towns and watering holes, and are always ready to give a recommendation on where to find a drink or a bite to eat, or to give directions to a weary traveler as to where the nearest hostel is. And as I’ve said before, the landscape, what I mainly came here to see, is something that the eyes can drink in constantly for weeks. Every time that I’d thought I’d become tired of my trip – the sort of fatigue that comes from being separated from your normal methods of mental refreshment and being forced into an entirely new environment – something new and different would spring up and re-energized me.

But I digress. My initial ponderance was to whether or not I could eventually call someplace else – Ireland, specifically – my home. If I want to make an impact on the people here, if I want to be remembered by others, how do I accomplish that?

The answer seems so simple.

Time.

Time changes everything. Just look at Colin, one of the IES representatives. Even with an American accent, he’s picked up Irish mannerisms so well you’d have to do a double take to confirm his country of origin.

Which, of course, only hardens my resolve to return.

-Brian Hamilton