What was my best trip in 2009?
Is it possible for a trip to be the best and the worst at once? It seems so.
I went to Ireland this year, you see. I have red hair, and a wee bit o’ Gaelic blood, and I’ve always wanted to go. And so I put my wish out there. On a sigh. Or, actually, in the middle of a rant among girlfriends. I said, “I’m about to turn 40, my life sucks, I haven’t traveled in years – cause unless it requires a passport, it doesn’t count, and I really wish I could go to Ireland!”
I say things like that on a fairly regular basis.
But on this one day in March, a very dear friend in the midst of all these fabulous girlfriends, actually paid attention. With an impulsive “I’ll go with you” and a wave of her wand – or, actually, a few thousand hotel points – she made it happen.
Before I could take a breath, but just in time for me to dismiss her impulsiveness, she’d bought her airline ticket.
And so, I bought mine.
And we went.
Eight days. Driving back roads as much as possible. Laughing and singing and drinking our way through Kilkenny, Waterford, Cork, Kerry and Shannon before returning to the amazing city of Dublin for a final few days of pub crawling and rugby viewing.
It was green. Very, very green.
The beer was good. Very, very good.
The people were friendly. Very, very– well, not that friendly, but really nice.
And I felt like I was able to breathe again, after months of suffocation.
I was born to travel. I love doing it more than doing almost anything else you can imagine. I hold strongly the belief that if more people picked up a passport rather than a gun, we would obtain peace. I spent my 20s living out of a suitcase. And when too much time has passed between one trip and the next, I miss the freedom, challenge and adventure of travel like an amputee misses her limb.
This trip was stupendous. Even when my friend tripped over a curb our last day and sprained her ankle, thereby putting the kabosh on our much anticipated literary pub crawl. We simply shrugged off the change in plans, as one becomes adept at doing while traveling, and lounged in the hotel room debating the highlights of the proceeding week.
Neither of us had any way of knowing that seven days later, she would be dead of complications stemming from that damned sprained ankle.
I am left with beautiful pictures. Bittersweet memories. An unshakable passion for travel. And complete confusion. I still wade through a shitload of emotions with the weight of molasses. I struggle to reconcile the joy of the trip with the devastation of its aftermath, to retain the hope I rediscovered for myself in the midst of despairing grief for… everything.
There are seven stages of grief, I’ve been told. I thought they would come in a brief, orderly fashion, like months of the year. I was wrong.
And now, I just really wish I could go to some forgotten island in Greece and let the sun and the sand and the sea dissolve all the pain that comes with life. But then again, if I’ve learned one thing this year, it is definitely… be careful what you wish for.
If you’re still reading this, you may be wondering where the hell the positive, pleasurable spin is in all this. After all, this was supposed to be one of the BEST moments of 2009, right? Here’s what I can give you or, perhaps more importantly, give myself…
I spent eight intense, incredibly memorable, very personal days with an amazing woman who gave me more gifts with her friendship than I will likely have time to pay forward.
I journeyed through a greater spectrum of the human experience as a result of this trip than ever before.
And I’ve now been to Ireland.
I can recommend it.
Gwen Bell
/ December 1, 2009Thank you for taking the time to share this. It moved me, as I’m sure it will move others. And because I have had the opportunity to share in both your friendship – and the friendship of the woman about which you speak – it resonated all that much more. To think something as seemingly trivial as a sprained ankle can set off a series of events. But then, I guess that’s how life happens, too. A couple making eyes at each other across the room at a cocktail party and a few years later, a life.
The other unfortunate thing about grief that they don’t tell you? Like travel, the bug and the memories of it, there’s no shaking it off. At least there’s no way to shake it off that I’ve discovered. And I’ve tried it all.
But companionship in it makes it bearable.
emmajames
/ December 1, 2009Gwen: Thank you. Two simple words, but a wealth of feeling.
Cheney
/ December 1, 2009What a powerful story. Having not read your blog before, the middle of your post stopped me cold.
It makes me glad I signed up for the Best ’09 challenge, otherwise I might not have been able to read it.
People are amazing. The fact that you were so able to see the beauty in this trip, untarnished, is proof of this. You sound like an awesome friend.
Bryce Widom
/ December 1, 2009I just learned, through your blog, that at this very moment (12:04 am), the moon has fattened into its ripest form. Maybe the moon does rule the emotions. Or, maybe your story would’ve fallen like a solo drop, down and down into the core of me, rippling through the black – regardless of celestial clockworks.
What I mean to say is, thank you. I didn’t know exactly what I was jumping into with Gwen’s “Best of 2009″ invitation. I didn’t guess that I would read anything quite so profound as what you wrote here.
While I’m decently aware of my inner strife, I struggle to name it openly. It’s far easier for me to talk about my strolls on the sunny side, while I trip up when speaking of my ventures down the darker alleyways (fear, grief, anger – especially anger). I’m inspired by your courage to tell the story of your deepest and profoundest moments, wherever they fall on the spectrum of emotions.
I’m learning to navigate this, in part through my paintings. It amazes me to witness that it’s not the painting that’s most challenging for me – it’s the sharing of the painting. Similar to this, right now…it’s 12:33am, 29 minutes have passed since I began writing (and re-writing) this. I’ve gnawed on my nails, I’ve developed a crick in my neck, I’ve held my breath, I’ve breathed. I type, and delete, and type again. But your story is still here, on this page. You’ve stood your ground, claimed what’s true, what’s good, what’s…beautiful.
As will I, to the best of my ability.
*grateful*
Delisha
/ December 2, 2009Thank you for sharing your story. I know it must be hard to share something so personal with the rest of us.
Nic Bridges
/ December 2, 2009That’s an amazing and heart-wrenching story – I don’t know what to add other than thank you for sharing it.
natalyn
/ December 2, 2009What a shockingly sad story! I was not prepared for what I would read here. I cannot imagine the range of emotions you must feel at any given moment, though I do know what it is like to experience deep loss. She sounds like a wonderful friend and so do you.
blanche
/ December 2, 2009thank you for sharing. i’m a redhead and was born in kilkenny. i haven’t been there since i got married to my israeli husband in 1996. i really want him to see my homeland. he’s stopped there on flights only to refuel so he jokes that he’s been there a few times.. but we really need to get our butts there. i’m so sorry about the loss of your friend. i saw gwen mention you on twitter and came over to read. i like what you said about the 8 days with her… i’m doing the challenge, too. usually i blog about my husband’s art or his work with horses but this challenge is making me point at myself more… glad i joined in. have a great holiday season!
emmajames
/ December 2, 2009First of all, I just want to say to everyone… thank you. I’m a bit overwhelmed by the response I’ve received to this post, both here and via email. To address each of my fabulous commenting readers who arrived after the first:
Cheney: Welcome to PN. I look forward to following your stories as well. It’s so great to take this journey with a troupe
Bryce: Your art is inspiring and your sentiments really moved me. And the gratitude goes both ways. Thank you!
Delisha: Strangely, it is very cathartic. Thanks for your understanding.
Nic: Thank YOU for coming by, understanding and taking the time to comment. Welcome to PN
Natalyn: Thank you for your sentiments, and I am so sorry you have had to experience deep loss. I would not wish it on anyone, though I know it is an integral part of this bizarre thing we call life.
Blanche: Yeah! I loved Kilkenny. What a journey you have obviously been on! I look forward to following your story, too! Hope your transition to Israel has been a smooth one.