Case in point: What’s the craic? The Irish’s routine greeting. You’ll hear it in pubs, on street corners, over tea at work. I’m convinced you would even hear it in crèches (aka daycares) so that children learn it as part of their essential Irish upbringing (but I didn’t have time to research this officially). Unfortunately, the word is pronounced just like the English word “crack”, giving rise to potential awkward misunderstandings for tourists, especially those unaccustomed to this Irish turn of phrase.
 
It is used so frequently, I have secretly wondered if tourists sometimes think the country is teeming with drug addicts, searching high and low in every pub and meeting place for a bit of “craic”. Personally, I would love to use the word craic but when sliding off my lips, it comes across as a nasty violation of linguistics instead of hip greeting. Regrettably, I had to try it once to learn that lesson the hard way.

After returning from Spain, I realized my time in Ireland was running out (6 weeks to be precise) and there was still so much I wanted to see. Therefore when the weather forecast miraculously showed a little sun icon, I impulsively purchased a tour to visit the Cliffs of Moher - Ireland’s most famous landmark.
 
But after submitting my credit card details and hastily pressing Purchase, I was seized by immediate, but brief, regret. Was it a good idea to rush just for the fleeting hope of a little sunshine? 

​Personally speaking, our Basque Country trip couldn’t have come at a better time. I needed the hard manual labour to calm my mind since it was currently reeling from my disappointing news. Overwhelmed, I allowed myself to put blinders on and avoid facing the fact that I am back to square one: back to pitching this unorthodox idea and trying to figure out where my next mid-career internship would come from. But when you are trying to manoeuvre an unwieldy rototiller (that bolts unexpectedly like a dog that’s seen a squirrel), there is little mental energy remaining to worry that my soul sabbatical isn’t quite going as planned.

Back in January, when Martin spontaneously suggested we organize a work-bee to help Joseba, with his new project Olabe, I had no idea the magic that was waiting for me in Basque Country.
 
Basque Country, in case you haven't heard, isn't like the rest of Spain. Proudly perched on the northern Atlantic coast straddling the France-Spain border, the Basque region has its own language, culture, culinary traditions, and a distinctive geographic landscape. It has forested mountains peaks that reach for the sky and rolling valleys spotted with farmhouses that are vaguely akin to the Swiss countryside. And then there is the rugged coastline, dotted with surf beaches and battered by mighty Atlantic swells.
 
After a quick flight from Dublin to Biarritz, Martin, his wife Jill, his cousin Enda, and I hopped into the rental and began our journey to Olabe. Our unforgettable road trip led us through a string of small villages with names we struggled to pronounce, from Gernika to tiny Ea and drop-dead gorgeous Lekeitio.
 
Without fanfare, we crossed from France into Spain and soon after I remarked to myself “why is there suddenly Romanian on all the signs?” Truth be told, I don’t actually know what the Romanian language looks like but I just knew that this wasn’t French or Spanish. It was like Dorothy saying to Toto, “we’re not in Kansas anymore.”

After 40 minutes, I nipped into a driveway and checked my phone. Surely, I was almost there. Peering in disbelief at my phone, Google was telling me I had another 11 minutes to go... I was only two-thirds of the way. I feared that I could not make the last 11 minutes, which undoubtedly would be longer given how long I’d already been pedalling. At that moment, I realize that if I got to surf class, I’d surely drown because my legs would be too fatigued to trudge out against the waves or even pop up on my board... let alone carry me back home afterwards. So I nonchalantly texted Eddie (the surf instructor), Something has come up. I’m not going to make it in time today. Is there class tomorrow as well? and then turned my bike around and headed home.

​As I sped downhill, I couldn’t help but laugh to myself that of all the trials and tribulations of living abroad, the thing that has pushed me closest to the edge is a bike ride!

Gentlemanly regulars are nested in the snug, reading papers or betting on horses. Gaelic football is playing on the TV but the volume is low, so the conversationalists won’t be disturbed. Irish pubs know that you can't be in a place where it's too noisy to talk, because the talk and the drink go together. The requisite Guinness taps are on overdrive. Locals buying rounds for the entire table; everyone waiting patiently for their Guinness as bartender attends to the almost-sacred two-step pouring process that requires time for the beer to settle. The hum of Sláinte (pronounced: SLAWN-chuh), accompanied by the clink of glasses, rises up over the trad musicians playing in the corner. It is a balanced ecosystem until late when the crowd gets rowdier and periodically you can hear the uniting celebratory roar when a pint glass slips and breaks.
 
People visit Ireland to experience the pubs. People visit Irish Pub to experience Ireland. 

After a month of settling into Sligo and establishing new routines, it dawned on me just how fast four months was going to fly by. With that, I booked a weekend trip to Dublin to making a dent in my Irish must-see list.
 
At the risk of sounding completely strange, I’m going to go ahead and say it: trains make me a better person. No, seriously. Long train rides remind me to be patient and watching the landscapes roll past my window allows time for reflection as the train chugs rhythmically along to its destination.
 
Unlike planes, boats, and buses, on trains I actually enjoy the “getting there” portion of the journey.  Trains are simple and cut out all of the rigmarole of air travel: you don’t have to show up early, you get lots of space and you won’t be screamed at for forgetting a bottle of moisturizer in your purse.
 
Three hours of gazing longingly at the emerald green landscape speckled with sheep, I pulled into Connelly Station. Strong literary and political history has coloured this city, so that it shines with the passion of the past, from the physical evidence of the 1916 uprising at the General Post Office to the banter of Oscar Wilde, quoted many times over on Dublin’s streets and stages. From Guinness and gruel, whiskey and Wilde, there’s plenty to experience in Dublin – but sometimes it isn’t all good ‘craic.’ 

I've had a few nights sleep in my new home of Sligo. I miss my bed at home already. The mattress in my furnished studio apartment is a bit like a hammock and my back is a bit too familiar with the shape of the springs. I unpacked my bags and then re-arranged all the furniture to make it more livable for a four-months instead of a four-day Airbnb stay. The kitchen is functional although it lacks some basic utensils so I'm recruiting from my colleagues to fill in the gaps (plus they learned pretty quickly that I make cakes so they've all offered baking supplies!). I'm grateful for the three big windows that allow the infrequent rays of sunshine to wake me up in the morning as well as a view of Sligo cathedral (although I'm not totally sure a spotlighted statue of praying Mary needs to be in my line of line every minute of every day). 

Sligo is a town of 20,000 people according to Wikipedia and while the town is quaint and unassuming, the surrounding scenery will take your breath away - the dramatic backdrop of Benbulben (a massive table top mountain), glimmering beaches, rolling green hills, and magical woodlands. The don't call it the Wild Atlantic Way for nothing!

After wrestling with my luggage, trying to find the mysterious way it all fit the first time, I readied myself for the strenuous trek back to Newark. A couple long flights sandwiched my 4am stop in Keflavik airport, where I reminisced about my trip to Iceland by indulging in a skyr, salted licorice and an Einstok white ale. And then finally the clouds parted to reveal a green patchwork quilt of fields signalling my imminent arrival in Ireland.

Things I still don’t understand about New York:
​What’s the deal with ShakeShack?

​I would be remiss to talk about my month in New York and not mention a wee bit about the arrival of the Trump era. Stealing shamelessly from Dickens, the most apt characterization of the political climate seems to be: “it was the best of times, it was the worst of times.”