I always feel funny about going/coming home. And I've done it a few times at this point. Even when I'm looking forward to it beforehand, everything changes once my journey is underway. I suppose its the love-hate relationship I have with Ireland. When I'm here, there are a multitude of things I loathe, everything frustrates and depresses me. I hate that I am associated with such shambles, and I long for escape.
When I'm away, it takes on a rosier glow. I notice all the things that I love and miss, I think wistfully about the things that just aren't the same anywhere else, I wear my Irish idiosyncrasies with pride, and look forward to coming home, if not eagerly, then not with dread.
I know I like my country better when I'm not in it. In know I like being a foreigner. I like that people can't put me in a box because they can't place my accent, or my way of doing things. I like being that little bit different. I like being able to distance myself from things by saying, "this isn't my country, thus it does not apply to me". I like the anonymity, the freedom of not being constrained by what your countrymen expect you to be because they know your parents, your class, what religion your family might be, where you went to school etc. etc. I like being able to forget the bad things about Ireland. I like to remember the good. I like to have national pride, something I'm not usually unduly keen on.
What do I hate about coming home? The reality of it all. How no matter how much you want it to be different it never is. You can never get out of the rut you have created for yourself; no one will ever let you. I hate the feeling of unreality, of distance, of "I shouldn't be here, I don't belong". I hate waking up in the mornings and wishing I was somewhere else.
Eventually of course it wears off, you resume your mechanations, and you forget how it feels to be somewhere else.
I was looking forward to coming home for Christmas. I think a 50:50 mix of reluctance and excitement. And its not so bad. But its always a let down isn't it? No matter how much you try to be realistic about your expectations, you always imagine it better. Just one other way your brain tries to screw you I suppose.
So I made it on to the plane, and it is a mercifully short hop across the water. I do love flying (not the lack of legroom, non-reclining seats, the other passengers, or the tedium of airports). I love the freedom, the beauty, the purity and endless possibility of being literally above it all. Is there anything more amazing than looking out across a rippling cloud, with the sun shooting golden and red sparks from a wing tip? Don't you love how its always sunny above the clouds? I like the way you feel as if you are nowhere. You are in limbo. You can't do anything, nobody expects you to, you have no place, you have nothing; such an immense freedom.
And then, the plane drops a little, grey fuzz obscures your view, and the sun is lost. Below you, out of the gloom, the malevolent little island appears, its darkness pulling you, beckoning you to its despair. It lies waiting, bleak and hopeless as your little craft which moments ago had been so full of light and possibility is sucked ever downwards.
The sky is grey, as usual, and a light drizzle is falling. The captain announces the temperature, always something grim. You trudge across the sodden tarmac and into the bright and hideous building. You are taken aback by the sheer overwhelming ugliness of it all. Eventually the airport disgorges you, and you wait......wait....to go home.
And home feels odd...it doesn't fit. You feel awkward, clunky with the people; square peg round hole.
But after a while your corners soften, you suck it up and get on with it. And really, its not so bad. Its just the agony of "coming home". And you know you will do it again. And you know you will forget until you are reminded.
But I want this one for posterity.
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