Thinking about writing.

I want to be Irish.

Irish ocean. I love Ireland.

What would it be like to live in a place like this? Where you walk to the end of the street and a bay, a color of blue that makes you wonder if you ever understood the color blue, swims up to meet you? Where green hills close around tiny islands dotted with what could be sheep or houses in the distance?

Lush garden outside my window in Galway
Where 71° F (22° C) is a sunny July day when you go to the beach and swim and eat ice cream from the Americano ice cream truck and not a February day in a town that skipped winter? Where seagulls swoop and scream and people walk their dogs on the beach and it is just so damn different from where you’ve ever been that it makes you want to cry or kiss somebody?

Maybe I would grow weary of the humidity and the rain and the obscene amount of lush green. Maybe it would choke me like a trumpet vine and I would miss wide expanses of treeless shimmering heat. Maybe.

Right now, I love it. Right now, I feel like I was born here, belong here. I want to color my hair red and talk with a lilting brogue instead of a drawl. I want to be one of these lovely, lilting, friendly people who smile broadly like Texans and say, “howahya,” when they pass on the street.

Fresh-caught Atlantic salmon and potatoes that I ate with my fork in my left hand like a local.

I want to drink my cider over ice and eat with my fork in my left hand and knife in my right, so efficient. I want to be Irish.If you are fortunate enough to live in a place you love like I love this place, then you are fortunate indeed. If, like me, you would rather live somewhere else, then let us pretend, just for today, we live somewhere else.

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