Fernweh

My mother always said I was headed for a place that I couldn’t control; a place that I wouldn’t be the center of attention in; a place that I would get lost in and I would eventually lose myself in said place.

It pains me to admit that her prophecy has come true and it pains me even more to admit that the place she was talking about (a place I always thought would be hell) is actually the Dublin Airport and that I would get lost amid a group of men with long beards and thick scary accents, and while I would do my best to wrestle my way out from between said scary men I would actually just cause myself to get more caught up in them.

From the other side of a ginger haired man on my right I can hear the voice of my best friend, Westerly Shields, chatting with one of them men about how to say ‘potato chips’ in Gaelic. The group takes a sharp right turn and I nearly stumble and fall; I’m only saved by the rough hands of a blond beard.

“Um…West, is there any particular way that we can, I don’t know, go to the bathroom?” I ask, walking on my tip toes to make sure that she can hear me. The evil, shaggy laugh of Westerly floats to me.

“Come on, Hilda! These nice men are showing us to the baggage claim; you can honestly wait until then!” She chirps before returning to learning the words of food stuffs in Gaelic.

I groan and slap my feet back to the floor so I can walk in a sulky circle of men. Somehow, when I said that getting the men on this trip would be easy, I didn’t think that coincidence would hand me this situation. In fact, I’m sure that if it wasn’t for Westerly, I wouldn’t even be in this situation right now. All it had taken was her tapping on the shoulder of a man twice my height and three times my weight, a pretty smile thrown his way and now here we are being escorted across the airport. Don’t get me wrong, it’s nice to have someone you places but not when you’re sure that those particular someones probably smuggle drugs across a country. And Westerly says I attract a bad crowd.

I feel, rather than hear a voice say ‘we’re here’ and I look up to see the giant turning turnstile that has my possessions on it somewhere.

The biggest man shakes Westerly’s hand before he steps out from in front of me and the other ones slowly melt away in the crowd, I’m stuck turning around in a circle like an idiot because that move was so much like a scene like a movie I can’t believe that it actually happened.

Westerly slides up beside me with a wide grin on her face.

“Did you see those guys? They were huge and so sweet! I’m relatively sure they bikers too! And that one with the tattoo of the naked lady on his arm taught me all kinds of awesome words. I can now successfully order a pizza with cheese and Canadian bacon in Gaelic. Beat that,” she gushes, elbowing her way through the people. I follow behind her, rolling my eyes so fast I’m amazed that they don’t pop out of my head.

We make it to the baggage claim where we snatch up out bags (mine a blue duffel bag with a bong lovingly drawn in white sharpie on the side and Westerly’s an orange thing completely packed with everything but the kitchen sink). There’s a current of people heading towards the front of the airport and with a deep breath we let ourselves get swept up; my mind rewinding to twelve hours ago with I first stepped onto the flight from Houston to Dublin, my hair mussed up and my stomach sweating underneath my sweater.

It’d been a long and annoying flight, filled with Westerly humming the tune from Gilligan’s Island and a woman beside me talking non-stop about her children but despite that I’d never been more excited in my life. The farthest away from home I’d ever been was Washing D.C. on a school trip in the tenth grade and the thought that in just a few hours I would be walking through a strange land completely excited me.

But now that I’m here a sense of nervousness creeps into my belly and I feel like throwing up. Why did I ever have this idea to come on this trip, I’ve barely even seen the world and my people skills are completely obsolete and I’m bound to get arrested at one point of the trip, probably when we hit London.

The large glass doors leading outside looms ahead of us, Westerly gives a shriek, causing an older lady to scowl at us and I swallow down the feeling of vomiting that’s taking a hold of me.

As we pass through the doors I breathe in deep and brace myself for the bus ride ahead.



“Jesus H Christ, my ass hurts so much after that bus ride, it’s like I’ve been sodo-“

“I’m going to cut you off right there, but please, feel free to continue that statement in your head,” Westerly tells me, stretching her arms above her head like a cat. Around us Dublin runs on, with teenage girls in short skirts and long coats and men dressed in business suits.

The red and brick façade of Isaacs Hostel stands in front of us, colorful flags waving merrily in the wind. Readjusting my duffel bag I take point, shouldering my way through the front door. Inside there’s a quite a number of people, including a tall boy with dreadlocks down to his knees. I’m too busy admiring his hair to notice when I make it to the front desk, instead running smack into it. I can hear Westerly cracking up behind me and I do my best not to say something rude to her.

A young boy with bright blond hair and thick eyebrows turns away from a computer to study us, his hands reaching out to splay in front of him.

“How may I help you today, ladies?” He asks in an accent so thick that I can barely understand him. It takes a moment for me to process his words before I can answer.

“Uh, yeah man. I’ve got a reservation for two under the name Hilda Beard. For uh, like two nights and three days?” I tell him, tapping out a rhythm against the counter that sounds suspiciously like ‘Flight of the Bumblebee’. The boy grins at me before typing something in his computers and reaching to a drawer to pull out a red card.

“Welcome to Ireland, girls.”