Dublin dispatch
Long distance friendship, a full Irish breakfast, & general mushiness about people I love
Hi, friends —
My Italian colleagues thought I was crazy for traveling to Dublin over the weekend, and I understand why. To them, it’s far away, but to me it’s next to nothing. Less than 3 hours on a plane and I’m in Ireland? No problem. My parents will drive 3.5 hours to Vermont for a single night just to breathe the mountain air and walk through the unruly woods and let the owls sing them to sleep. In college, I was comforted by the fact that I could get home from New York City by train in only 4-5 hours. The U.S. is expansive, and could be (should be?) many countries instead of one, and yet somehow all of it is ours to inhabit. It’s overwhelming, but also a great privilege, to be a citizen of 50 states. For better or for worse, my American life has altered my perception of distance, and so it’s a no-brainer to embrace my proximity to major international cities from Rome. And thanks to RyanAir and Airbnb (unsponsored, ha), my travels don’t have to deplete my bank account.
At the end of my 12-week program at Ballymaloe Cookery School in County Cork, Ireland, I promised myself that I’d return to the Emerald Isle every year. I’ve already failed, having not managed a visit in 2022, but as John Steinbeck wrote and I repeat to myself often, “And now that you don’t have to be perfect, you can be good.” I’m listening to him! The main intent behind my commitment to Ireland is to maintain the friendships I made there. My Pink Cottage darlings all call either Ireland or England home, and they bring my life far too much warmth and peace to leave them behind. And so my new commitment is to see them, either in Ireland or England or (fingers crossed) the United States, whenever I can.
Besides wanting to stay connected to my Irish pals (only one ended up being in town!), I visited Dublin because my high school friend Elyssa and I found cheap flights from our respective homes to meet there for a weekend and catch up. She’s one of the few people I keep in touch with from high school, and even so, there was so much I didn’t know about her present life prior to this weekend. She is, for example, getting a masters in history at St. Andrew’s in Scotland, where she has a posse of fellow history nuts and a grandpa figure named Bill who runs a bookstore with old, rare literature. She has mastered a smudged eyeliner look that makes her wide eyes smolder (she will cackle at that description, but Elyssa — it’s true!). She specializes in Early Modern and Reformation history, and can retell its events to sound like a true crime podcast, vivid and haunting. She’s obsessed with halloumi (yes, the cheese), and somehow weaves it into nearly every conversation. I didn’t know these things about her before this weekend! I just knew, and know, that I love her.
Elyssa and I spent the weekend walking, talking, sitting, eating, and that’s about it. My cousin Anna and her fiancé Jack happened to be in town from London for a friend’s wedding, so we met up with them for brunch at the Fumbally, a Dublin favorite of mine. I ate a very nice focaccia sandwich with aioli, sausage, arugula, and pickled onions, and drank a velvety flat white (a rare commodity in Rome).
That night, we had dinner with my friend Izzy, of Pink Cottage fame, who’d just finished exams for her second to final year of architecture school. One of the things I love most about Izzy is her love of Ireland, which she insists she’ll never leave, not for anything. Oh, to feel that way about your country! She has the best Irish accent, and loves potatoes and flower-arranging and butter and art and tiramisù and combat boots and Ethan, her delight of a boyfriend.
I suppose I should mention that we did some cultural things, too, like visiting the National Gallery and the National Cathedral, but the highlight of the weekend for me was nurturing two of my long distance friendships…oh, and the full Irish breakfast that Elyssa and I devoured yesterday morning. Diving into a plate of buttery toast and eggs and black pudding in a dark, moody pub on a rainy day is deeply satisfying to me, and might be worth a trip to Dublin (or anywhere in the U.K. or Ireland, really) in and of itself.
Less than 48 hours after arriving in Dublin, I was back at the airport en route to Rome — sleepy, smiley, and full. On my flight I ate my favorite Irish potato chips and flipped through a People magazine (a pleasure I should probably feel guilty about but do not). Sometimes a magazine stuffed with gossip that has nothing to do with you is just what the doctor ordered.
Before I leave you, I want to wish a happy 18th birthday to my baby brother. I remember his birth, and now he is 18! What! How! I’ll save the brotherly mush for my personal birthday text to him, as I think I’ve hit the mush limit for this Dish. But also! I have to say belated happy mother’s day to all those who mother — especially my own mama. She’s my mama, yes, but she’s also a really good friend of mine. I love her a lot, and I like her a lot, and I know that I’m very lucky in that way.
Thanks for reading, everyone.
Your proudly mushy friend/girlfriend/daughter/sister/granddaughter/cousin/niece/inbox-dweller,
Phoebe
Love your adventures and you, and your incredible mama!