I've always fancied myself a traveler. I remember being about 12 years old and envisioning myself visiting my family after returning from a long trip to some European country, hugging my nieces and nephews and telling them stories about my travels. In these visions, I had long, curly blond hair and I was always greeted by my family in the kitchen of the house I grew up in, a relatively isolated country house that sat on a 15 acre plot. The kitchen sink had a bay window that looked onto our back deck, which sat atop the hill in the back yard that we would sled down as children. At the bottom of the hill, a creek separated a small grassy field from a dense woods, where I first began exploring unfamiliar territory in my youth. I'll never lose the feeling I'd get when I would travel out into that woods alone - "I have no idea where I am or what is over that hill but I can't wait to go see" - my feet bare and sinking into the cold mud, my arms scratched from walking through uncleared clusters of trees, my skin moist from the nighttime dew of the Ohio summer. Even after I knew that woods so well, I always felt that I was embarking on a new, unique adventure when I'd enter it on my own (which was how I preferred to explore it). The apple trees left rotten fruit on the ground that smelled sickly sweet and squished between our toes as we stepped over them, and bees always surrounded these areas just to make the adventure that much more intimidating. The water in the ponds was always brown and murky and flies always swarmed about them, and there was always a locust chirping somewhere in the distance. Ah - locusts and cicadas. My dad taught me to pick their shells off of the trees after they shed their skins to make a collection that I'd store somewhere in the garage near his work bench. My dad also taught me how to find trees just skinny enough to bend with my weight, but just thick enough to support it until I reached the top, so they would warp and bring me safely back to the solid ground. Those summers could have lasted 5 years each or 5 minutes; they will always live on eternally in my memory.
But somewhere along the line, I grew up a little and I started wearing makeup and I started liking boys and I started carrying purses and I started hating my parents and all of the stuff younger me valued just came to a halt. Those solo adventures into unknown territories took a hiatus, and I eventually found myself living in Columbus, OH, with a BA in Linguistics and Russian, bartending to support the rent on my 1 bedroom apartment downtown. And after all of the nights of cigarettes and 2am coffee and 6th beers and repeat Netflix episodes, I decided I wasn't happy. I found myself anxious just going to new grocery stores and I found that the desire to explore, that I had maybe had again when I first moved to Columbus, had simply burned out. I decided that I needed a change. So my friend Mark and I, after months of hypothetically discussing it, sat down at a strange new coffee shop one fine Autumn day and just booked a hostel for New Orleans, LA. Why NOLA? Neither of us particularly knew; the real question was, "Why not NOLA?"
A month later, we found ourselves embarking on a 13 hour drive to the Big Easy (I hate that expression, btw). As we drove over Lake Pontchartrain and into the city, I found myself experiencing that feeling I thought I'd lost - that "I have no idea where I am or what is over that hill but I can't wait to go see" feeling. We checked into our hostel, unloaded our things, and then hit the road by foot to find a decent quiet bar. We sat down and sipped our beers out on the sidewalk and just took in our surroundings. The bugs chirped and the thick fug of the air felt dewey and muddy and I remember thinking, "Most of these people around me live here, and they have no idea what kind of amazing high being in their comfort zone of a hometown is giving me." It made me think back to Ohio, and all of the wonderful things I find unamusing and commonplace, that may leave a stranger in awe. I think it's important to remember that.
During our trip, I met several young people who were just trekking it across the US, most from the UK commonwealths. And if you were to ask them why - they would simply have no response other than what could be summed up as, "Why not?" I was so envious of them, knowing that in a few days I would be back in my lonely downtown Columbus apartment, waiting to go work the same shift I've worked a hundred and some odd times.
That trip changed our lives, mine and Mark's. After I flew back to Ohio, he proceeded to travel around the SW US, and is still doing so as I write this (4 months later). After I flew back to Ohio, I proceeded to seek ways to fly back out.
Within 5 days, I decided I wanted to do this Working Holiday Scheme in Ireland. Within 4 weeks, I mailed in my complete application to the Irish Consulate in Chicago and held my breath.
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