Back to Reality

Hello Ireland

I land with a thud.

The cold Dublin air hits my face as I step out on to the tarmac.

I left Lisbon at 6am. Arrived back to Dublin at 9. Slept all the way.

Not caring about my co-passengers if I snored. My new found confidence of not giving a hoot.

Because I had managed to squeeze every last article of clothing I used in the past week into a tiny child’s size back pack, I exit the airport swiftly.

Even expediating the trip by chancing my arm and taking the EU passport holder’s route. With my Australian passport.

Feeling reckless, I speed past the snaking queue of non EU residents. Smug.

The regular question at the booth - “Why are you permitted to stay in Ireland?”.

I don’t chance my arm by quipping something witty like “I’ve endured 22 years of marriage to an Irish Man”. Or “I’ve done the Catholic thing and produced four healthy Irish children”.

Instead I answer “I live here”.

He stamps my passport and I continue on my way.

The parking machine eats my ticket and screams a ridiculously high figure for one week’s parking. In my excitement to get to Portugal it appears I’ve mistaken the “holiday” car park for the “weekend” car park. It has cost me dearly. I’m not going to let it dampen my spirits.

I alight the bus and locate the car. Strategically remembered by the thoughtful photo I took of it when I left it there a week ago.

The driver’s door is open. That’s a story for another day involving a lost passport, a missed flight and a locksmith.

The key turns and reassuringly the engine starts. Reliable. Old. Familiar.

I drive out onto the motorway. Blankly.

Such contrast. The reassuring bubble of creative solidarity at o Jardim 1. A new found team. Cheering on my creative endeavours. Sunshine. Warmth in so many of its definitions.

I pull into the nearest decent coffee shop. Order an Americano and a croissant. The request to warm the croissant should have been a warning.

It’s not flaky. Or light. It was organic. I eat it anyway.

Plug in my phone. Pull out my notepad and begin to write.

Gently ease back into my morning ritual. I’m back.

My ears become accustomed to the tick Dublin accents.

I felt my book was ready. With professional advice, I realise it’s not. It has a long road ahead of it. If it is to be heard. Understood. Magnified.

It’s daunting. But the path is clearer. And it’s exciting.