And now, after 5-and-a-half days of Aran Island craic, I’m back in Dublin:
Or more accurately, here:
A-CHOO. Sniff sniff sniff. HONK. Sniff sniff sniff. Cough. Cough. Cough. Really, there’s no better place to be. Trying to get over my flu and get my strength up for the next week, when the Bruce hits town. Make that the Bruce times four – that’s Diego, Joy, and my parents. Usually, when you’re an expat, you have to go to them; sometimes, they come to you. And none of them have been to Ireland before. They’re operating under the popular fallacy that Ireland is a land of eternal thunderstorms, swimming with sheep and clovers, so each time we’ve spoken over the past couple of months, they’ve asked, anxiously, how the weather will be when they’re here. Each phone conversation. As though I can see the forecast months in advance. As though they didn’t believe me the first 10 times. As though I can do something about it. It’ll be almost spring by then, I tell them each time. Sure, I guess it rains on and off but doesn’t it rain back home? I don’t know; it was 2 degrees out today and it hasn’t rained since last week. Man. Pack what you’d usually wear in winter/spring.
They’ll thank me for my advice. Days will pass, and then the phone will ring again.
“How will the weather be when we’re there?” they ask.
What can I say? Bring an umbrella and hope.
And a box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch.