Lisbon, Portugal in the Winter

Hanukkah and Christmas in Portugal

Predictably, when I married my husband I decided to spend four days visiting his grandmother in Israel, where we slept on separate trundle beds (don't know what a trundle bed is? I don't recommend finding out) where my luggage got lost, where everything shuts down on Saturdays, where I have to cover myself head to toe, and where I got food poisoning... prior to travelling to Lisbon. On Christmas, during the off season. Why is this predictable? Because it fits in with every other travel decision I've ever made: it ended somewhere that was cheap and that has great seafood.

Getting from Israel to Lisbon is a fantastic way to break up a flight home to the US. It took less than six hours and cost under $400 USD one-way for two. For an extra 25 euros apiece, we languished in the Tapp Air airport lounge, replete with an all-you-can-eat breakfast buffet and bar. In fact, the only difficult part of the journey was taking the new train from Jerusalem to the Tel Aviv airport. That train station is an astonishing and hellish twelve million feet underground, and you will age a full twenty years riding the escalator to the top. And fun fact about the Ben Gurion airport in Israel. There are creepy costumed mascots wandering around. I've never seen that at any other airport. I have all sorts of conspiracy theories now about it being additional security.

May God grant me a lengthy break from Israel, and may my husband's grandmother live a long time to accommodate that break so I can once again experience her incredible latkes a long time from now in a galaxy far, far away. Amen.

As always, I booked an apartment through AirBnB. You never know what you're getting until you get there. In this case, what we got was an incredibly tiny studio apartment with an exactly bed-sized nook that hosted the world's least comfortable double bed. I would recommend it anyway. It was beautifully located so we were rarely more than a twenty minute walk from anywhere we wanted to go, it was a safe location, and it was bedbug-free. Which is the only thing that actually matters. Not only that, but our host met us at the airport hours before Christmas Eve to drive us, AND did so even though our flight was over an hour late, AND he did that despite not knowing our flight info at all. He just waited, forever, on faith. The AirBnB was also steps away from a flea market that pops up every Tuesday and Saturday, providing tons of opportunities for cheap and interesting souvenirs. Especially if you want a cork leather bag.

I'll also give a shoutout to portugalinternet.com which, for 2 to 6 euros a day, will rent you a hotspot for your phone and other devices. We picked it up from the easy to find airport post office when we landed, and it came with a pre-stamped envelope for easy return. I loved never worrying about wifi. The only con to note is you should plan to have an external charging pack as the hotspot's battery life is slim to none. That worked fine for me as I always travel with a charging pack anyway. Mine can recharge an iphone fully like five times and it's rose gold like everything I have ever owned.

Terrified that nothing would be open on December 24 and 25, I made the misguided decision of pre-booking not one, not two, but THREE tasting menu restaurants. I thought to myself, "My husband likes set menus! Therefore he must like three set menus in a row."

I found all three restaurants using thefork.com. The first was for dinner on December 24. As we walked towards O Ato, which turned out to be located in a touristy area, I had only two thoughts. The first was "It's creepy as fuck to walk around in an unfamiliar city at night when nobody else is out," and "I messed up. Everything is open." Learn from my mistakes if you're in Lisbon on Christmas. Due to vibrant ethnic and religious diversity in the city, there are tons of food options for any budget.

O Ato, however, was a special experience. Not a good one, though. Although some dishes were noteworthy and even incredible, for the most part it was mediocre food delivered by untrained (or deeply depressed) staff. And there was way too much of it. I wouldn't usually complain about too much food, but I felt wasteful as I became surrounded by five glasses of alcohol and as my unenthused waiter asked me for the umpteenth time why I wasn't eating the seventh full plate I was served. The theme of the night was apparently everything but the kitchen sink, as each dish attempted to include the entirety of all ingredients available in the country.

Overwhelmed, we were relieved the next day when our lunch reservation at Biboca Bistrô was impossible to find. Well, we found it. We even knocked on the door and peered into the dark, apparently closed restaurant. Later, The Fork emailed me to chastise me for not honouring the reservation.

Our Fado at El Corrido, only four minutes away from our AirBnB, was by far the best out of our set menu experiences. The food was exceptional, with satisfying but not overwhelming portion sizes. What I didn't realize during booking was that Fado is musical performance. We were treated to Fado by three different singers, including the owner's wife whose singing was as dramatic and exceptional as her chocolate cake. Seriously, it was the best chocolate cake I've had in my life. I'd never heard of Fado before visiting Portugal. It was smooth and sad, like less ostentatious... solo... opera.

Things you must eat in Lisbon: octopus, shrimp, piri piri chicken, and pasteis de nata (a small eggy, custardy baked good, which Jonathan and I made sure to eat at a new location every day with our breakfast espressos).

Heads up that meals in Portugal are events in and of themselves. I think it was around eleven thirty pm when I begged the owner to let us pay so we could slip out easily after dessert. We lasted longer at least than a jetlagged couple from Hong Kong.

On the walk back, nearing midnight, we were stopped by an Irish couple. The man, older by far than the woman, ranted at us about his phd in "armed resistance" and berated us at length for not rising up against Trump.

A third of the way through our trip already, we had a well deserved sleep that night, with a full itinerary to look forward to. For the first time, I took advantage of a portion of AirBnB that I never knew existed: Experiences. The goal was to find fun activities hosted by individuals and small businesses. I'll highlight some of my favorites.

I knew I wanted some photos to remember Lisbon, but also did not want to spend the entire vacation taking selfies or asking strangers to snap a pic. So for 35 euros each, I signed my husband and myself up for professional photos with stunning views. Alisson, who was from Brazil like every single tour guide we encountered in Portugal, did an incredible job. Usually neither of us are photogenic but he was a great coach. We also got to see parts of Lisbon we may have missed otherwise. Lisbon is teeming with incredible street art, murals, mosaics, and of course the ceramic tiles for which they are famous.

My husband

I'll highlight one other exceptional experience, which was a cooking class. Taught by drag queens. Where you also get a drag makeover. While getting plastered. And then you eat dinner while watching the drag queens perform. The "studio" was located in The LX Factory, which is a must-see if you're in Lisbon. Once a cork factory, it now houses flea markets, art studios, boutiques, and apparently a drag scene. Pedro was a hilarious host as she taught us expert cooking techniques.

If you've never seen a room filled with middle aged men, families, and concerned teenagers convert entirely into drag queens then you've never lived. By my third glass of sangria, nearly everyone was a drag queen. Jonathan was the first to get made over, thanks to me surreptitiously "volunteering" him. He was tall and stately with a decidedly British look. After a few steps in heels, he asked me "how does anyone do this???" and kicked them under one of the kitchen islands as he fried what were essentially Portugese latkes made out of potatoes and codfish.

Honestly, it was the best meal I ate in Portugal. We had soup, shrimp, and probably other things too but I was too busy watching the drag show to take any real notice. If you go to Lisbon, you have to check out DragTaste. They have a number of different experiences and shows, and currently Pedro also hosts a non-drag cooking class as well.

Honeymoon behind us, it was hard to return back to real life, which is decidedly less luxurious though fun all the same.



Thanks for reading. For more content & also my art, check me out on IG @theLoloCollective

Not My Facebook Timeline Highlights

Jerusalem buses in religious areas are filled with baby carriages.

Two months into being abroad, it was beginning to unnerve me that I hadn't yet written about life here. I guess Israel always felt like an unattainable land to me with its guttural yet melodic language, sweeping hills of buildings in Jerusalem stone, and ancient artifacts clustered with Hassidic Jews - seemingly frozen in time, plucked straight out of freezing Eastern Europe and deposited into the desert giant fur hats and all. At least it seemed that way when I was just a tourist. I didn't know how to write about the disconnect between those expectations versus the reality living here - of the aggressive pre-Shabbat grocery store rush, waiting in the rain for buses that never show, or the constant struggle with language barriers. I still don't.

It's not particularly warm here in the winter. I feel like I'm right back in Ireland again. Huddled in my bed, blankets piled high, sipping chai from my favorite mug. When I Skype my parents, my dog back at home barks and runs behind the TV monitor, trying to find me. After all these years of me traveling he still doesn't understand where I am. I can relate to that.

When I first moved here I decided to wear red lipstick every day. I bought myself roses and hung them on the walls. I was going to go on a hundred Israeli dates. None of that lasted, of course.

Through my Fellowship I teach English to elementary school children during the week. It's an endless litany of "?מה זה" or "ma zeh?" or "what's this?" as I point to an object or photograph expecting an English reply. At least once a week a kid will ask if I'm really Jewish because they can't conceptualize the idea of Jews living in the United States. When I taught Halloween and Thanksgiving I even had to explain to the teachers that those are nonreligious holidays generally celebrated by all Americans. My sketchbook is filled with hand turkeys and potato prints.

Outside of school where I am a teacher, I become a student. We have programming every Sunday. Everything from religious classes to Hebrew classes to field trips to seminars. I have been writing poems sourced only from what comes out of the lecturers' mouths.

Poem 1

shopping, fishnchips and wonderful things
all stacked together on the train
Who is on the train, Thursdays, 4 pm?
Soldiers.
I ordered a latte and I'm on my way to Hogwarts
I drink my coffee with two sugar spoons 

someone thought it would be okay
to catch me and give me a history
lesson about the Zionist movement
It's not that we don't care about the individual
But what are we rebuilding?
or is it just a narrative we found

Poem 2 

once everything was covered with sea
remember yesterday we saw the layers
where there is a crater now there once was a mountain filled with sand
and when you peel it like an orange you get the highways of today
sand collapsing, burnt sand, like a volcano shooting only sand
in every color, minerals washing over tour buses
we hold the world record for not doing it

I should mention that I don't go by Julie or Julianne here. I use my Hebrew name, assigned to me by my parents, which is יפה חיה or Beautiful Life. I shorten it to יפה, which is pronounced Yaffa. I don't have a lot to say about that. It suits me. Maybe not quite as well as if I were named Critical of Life or Constantly Sick Life. But every so often when I step outside, I walk along the boardwalk by my apartment. I take clippings from plants and vines. I notice that the crows here are glossier, more inquisitive. Life has a slower pace here. There are more books. Yesterday I saw a Hassidic man, gowned head to toe in black and tzitziyot (fringe from a religious garment), riding an electric bike down the street right behind a couple clutching a motorcycle. I watched for as long as they were in sight.

An Artist is His Own Fault

IN THIS PIECE:

1. Prologue
2. Graphic Novel - short story, loose format
3. Addendum

Prologue

I took a seminar class where we had a different speaker come in and talk each week. From the start, I suspect my heart was not in it. I came into my writing program with the same mentality I've had for the last five years, which was that my parents would be unhappy if I were an artist, so this was just 'temporary'. It was just for myself. I've always hid behind that.

My graduate advisor warned us about that at the beginning of the year, actually. He said that the students who went into this saying they didn't care about publishing, that they were just doing this for themselves, tended to do poorly in the context of a cohort of writers. And he was right. My attitude kept me from reaping the full benefit of the writing program. It was hard for me to sit there and listen to established writers tell me to write every day, to ignore the naysayers, to persevere even if nothing works out for my entire life. I've always been very focused on tangible, objective success. I get anxious thinking that I will never be 'good enough' even as I am ironically both sure and worried that nobody cares.

Through my scholarship program and internship work I had the pleasure of meeting several artists outside of the classroom. They pummeled those same lessons of perseverance into me. I could see that the only thing stopping me from being an artist, whatever that means, is that I was too afraid to draw every day. The artists, like the writers, created every day. It didn't matter if it was a sketch that nobody saw or a poem for submission. I am terrified of the risk involved in drawing daily. What if I draw something bad?

During this year countless people have told me that I am a talented artist and that I seem like I am having a great time. I cringe at those words. I have always felt that people are being too nice and just enabling me when they tell me I am good at art. I never know how to respond. I also feel terrible when my depressed friends tell me how much fun I must be having. Likewise when people are in awe at how busy I am. Facebook collects the highlights reel and ignores that I spent the majority of this year in bed.

I wrote the following piece in response to "An Artist is His Own Fault", a quote by John O'Hara. After puzzling over those words for quite some time, I kept returning to the same gut feeling of 'an artist is not his own fault'. It too strongly reminded me of when people have told me to just stop being depressed. And yet, it's more complex than that. I sought to create a piece that reflects the crossroads between lessons learned and the perpetuity of feeling sad.

An Artist is His Own Fault

Quote by John O'Hara

Piece by Julianne Eleanor

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Note: there are two very influential artists not mentioned in this piece due to time constraints, but whom I would like to thank anyway since this piece is public. Fei Fei, who was the first person to make me realize I should just draw more. And Richard Hearnes, a wonderful artist who opened his house to the Mitchell Scholars and who made me believe for a moment that I could be an artist myself. It's been two weeks since then and I am still believing it.

Life on the Lough

I don’t like to ride my bike against the wind. So I often double back alongside Lough Atalia, letting the air guide me past the expansive lake. An eternal klutz, I never appreciated cycling until I experienced the warmth of fleeting October sun against the back of my neck, fingers snug inside woolen gloves as they grip leather handlebars. I learned early on to leave for class two hours early. Then I can allow myself to stop, to get lost, and to appreciate the chattering streets of Galway in the autumn.

In particular, I always dismount my bike halfway down the road so I could stop and look at St. Augustine’s Well. Sometimes the entire embankment is flooded over with water and swans, but occasionally I can walk right up to the well and its cross. There are so many swans in Galway. They put me in mind of funny water cats with the way they approach for food, only to glide away, shielding disappointment with elegance.

The noises of cars rushing by mix with the calls of the birds, and of children and dogs in the park nearby. On days when fog rolls over the entirety of the lake, I sit on a bench and imagine that there is no boundary between lough and sky.

A rare clear day on the lough.

With no synagogues in Galway, I sometimes wring my hands beside that hidden well, mixing Jewish guilt into borrowed Catholic spirituality. I never considered myself particularly religious, but come Friday nights I inevitably take the long bus ride to Dublin where I can attend services.

After Shabbat services, the Rabbi collects all the foreign stragglers into his home for a dinner. At a recent dinner he told a story, both distinctly Jewish and Irish:

A man tries to visit his Rabbi. The Rabbi turns him away at the door, shouting and screaming, forcing him away. The man is distraught by rejection, and sits on the curbside crying. A group of passerby see his distress and bring him with them to the pub. Together, they toast, “L’Chaim!”  - A Hebrew phrase meaning, “to life”.

When the man next sees the his Rabbi, the Rabbi explains, “When you came to my door, I saw the Angel of Death behind you. I tried to scare you away so you could spend your last remaining moments with your family. But now I see you are well, and the Angel of Death has departed!”

The man, confused, explains that he never made it home, and instead drank with strangers. The Rabbi understood and said, “Every L’Chaim shared amongst friends encourages a small bit of life.”

“L’Chaim,” we toasted one another.

Time moves slowly in Ireland and yet the air thrums with vibrancy, of life lived consciously. Shabbat dinners last until midnight, as strangers become friends. The walk to school takes hours, paths ever changing, guided by a kind of lackadaisical curiosity, and saturated with questions of permanence. Likewise, my hand now moves slower as I paint, influenced by the humor and tranquility of swans that inquire after food from one who is watching the fog.

Less melodramatic people just get up and feed the damn swans.

I'm 22 and I Built A Desk

Spoiler alert: I built a desk

The other day, one of my favorite undergraduate art professors linked to the article Misled Into Leadership by Paul Dunion, ed.D., LPC. Although my professor posted the article to 
Facebook in reference to the administration at the University of Connecticut, saying, "Upper administration may or may not be leaders, yet this is the perception that has been created and bought", I couldn't help but think about the article in terms of my own development as a leader as facilitated by years of public education and an unintentionally male-centered family unit.

The article breaks down the definition of a leader and speculates what causes a person to go with a leader regardless of what that person might actually want. So I too will follow the outline of the article to tell you the story of how I built an IKEA-style desk for my room.


Leading from the Interior: A person who understands herself is a person worth following, particularly if that person is able to recognize their fear and seek necessary support, rather than making fear-based decisions.

As you know, I recently moved to Ireland. I have new housemates in a new apartment, and for the first time I am independent of any facilitating program (or family) that would care about the particulars of my living situation. One of my first concerns was obtaining a desk so I could paint and draw. With my budget, that meant a deconstructed desk that came in a long, skinny box. The instructions had no words, only images. And no parts were labelled.

Ehhh...

Internal Balancing: Recognition, acceptance, and employment of the emotions guiding our actions.

Is it crazy to have a lot of emotions about cheap wood and screws scattered across my bedroom? Because I had a lot of emotions about this deconstructed desk. Growing up, my dad always had my older brother and I trailing behind as he made repairs to our two hundred and fifty year old house. Scott, though developmentally delayed, was taught to cut wood, finish decks, and patch up walls. Yet my hand never touched a hammer. Perhaps I'd be allowed to help by carrying materials or painting a little, but I was never taught how to complete a "manly" task from start to finish. As I grew older, my chores moved completely indoors, where I could then watch my little brother learn chores not meant for me.

Over time, I started to think: I'm bad at woodworking. I can't build a bench. This lesson was reinforced at school, where a boy who slacked off in Woodworking class was reprimanded, while I was rewarded with good grades when I giggled instead of worked. I figured everyone was letting me off the hook because they understood I was incompetent. I was in awe of men, who could do everything I could do and more. I understood my place.

Now, as an adult, I know I can do any simple task. Even those "meant for men". But I feel a lot of worry. I am scared that if I mess up a "manly" task, I will prove to the world that I am incompetent after all.

One down, two to go.

Internal Centering: An awareness of who you give up power to simply because you perceive them as being better educated or otherwise better off in society.

I might have achieved some modicum of independence at my university, away from home for the first time, but I tend to be a serial monogamist. There was always a boyfriend around to complete undesirable tasks, from running errands in the snow to building shelves for my art studio. BEB (beautiful elf boyfriend) was perhaps the worst offender. Brimming with love and hyperaware of the uselessness I projected and reinforced every day, he'd do anything for me. It's really quite odd how I do reinforce the label I grew up with. I'll complain to no end about carrying anything heavy. And if I need to build anything in front of another person, I freeze up and joke about my own lack of skills.

Even beyond that, I convinced myself that BEB was hyperskilled. There was no point in me even trying to build a shelf for my art studio because he was SO GOOD AT IT. It's true that BEB is talented at many things, but I used my perception of his experience to justify why it would be impossible to match his skillset.


Internal Discretion Identifies When to Listen and When to Have a Voice: Speaking and taking action is only as important as listening excessively.

Naturally, the first thing I did with my unfinished desk was sit and panic. I wondered if I could pay someone to build it for me. I even thought about how much easier it would be to do enough commission work to buy BEB a ticket. That's right, I believed in my ability to raise a thousand dollars more than I believed that I could put together a simple desk.

Then, of course, I started to try to join pieces together. I must have spent a solid hour fumbling around randomly until finally I opened the manual.

Not pictured here: the back part of the desk, where I accidentally broke the wood, rendering three screws useless. Then I tried to make up for it with an extra nail but gave up halfway through because it wouldn't go in.

Internal Commitment to Bring Compassion and Forgiveness to Themselves When Making a Mistake

I got glue all over the floor. Two of the weird twisty screws won't hold the desk together the way they should. It took me half an hour to figure out which slab of wood was supposed to be "part E". My housemates watched an entire movie in the time it took me to build half a desk.

Yet I decided not to get frustrated.

Over the years, I've worked with a number of animals. I especially learned a lot of patience in the last few weeks, training my mom's new puppy. I opted for positive reinforcement, never punishment, and I offered affection at every turn.

Finally I wondered: What if I were to teach myself with kindness, too?

Why do I lead animals with love, while showing only impatience and ambition to human beings, both myself and others?

I'm 22 and I built a desk. Perhaps it's odd to relate a solitary activity to the qualities of leadership, but after spending so much time in undergrad focusing on my strengths, I'm past overdue to work on my weaknesses. I can't lead others until I learn to take action with confidence, empathy and reflection.

Things that make me feel whole

A blog post about the positive and negative stressors associated with moving, and why I feel worried even though I am insanely lucky and privileged.

The question

My face when people ask me "the question"

"So what are you doing next year?"
The standard question. It very neatly avoids asking if I found a job now that I've finished my undergraduate education.

"Well, I'm going to Ireland for my postgrad. Galway," I specify.

"Oh how great! What are you studying?" asks my dentist, my grandparents, my gynecologist, and my parents' family friends who come over once every five years.

"Writing..." I trail off, expecting the inevitable "Oh how nice reply", their enthusiasm gone and mine wilting. I want to defend myself and explain that I'm going on a national scholarship, but I'm more scared of sounding conceited than I am of sounding lame. And then I kick myself, wondering, why am I buying into this culture of writing and visual arts as "lame"? I see my artist and writer friends as elevated humans achieving the ultimate in higher thought. Yet in myself, I see a self-indulgent slacker who will never live up to her parents' expectations. Worse, those expectations have become my own.

I lapse into the anxiety that keeps me awake night after night. People tell me I must be so excited for the move to Ireland, and part of me is definitely over the moon. Besides, outwardly my parents couldn't be more supportive as they help me pack, sort out finances, and prepare academically. I can't help but wonder why I feel like I'm balancing between chasms - familiar chasms, but ones from which I have previously escaped and thought myself free. Fixed. Moving on.

Ten things that make me feel whole, in no particular order

Sadie, a sugar glider with no passport.

1. My beautiful elf boyfriend (BEB). I don't even know what to say about that. I feel like I am in the process of breaking something delicate, fragile, and unspeakably beautiful. And yet there's some excitement, too. I'm looking forward to getting to know him all over again when I come home.
2. Sugar gliders. I adopted my two sugar gliders, Icarus and Sadie, a few years back. I've been obsessed with animals my entire life. After years of threatening to get sugar gliders, I finally rescued a pair off of some guy I found through Craigslist who was looking to trade them for a camera. I was entranced. I could carry them around all day without anybody knowing while they clicked contentedly away. When I was having an off day and was reluctant to get out of bed in the morning, I had to anyway to clean their cage and give them attention. They had to be fed every night. And the more I took care of them, the more I took care of myself. Gliders are difficult exotic animals and I adored researching every aspect of their care. Their metronome-like clicking soothed my anxiety and the way they gradually grew to trust me made me feel worthwhile. I spent the better part of a year trying to work out how to take them to Ireland with me, from getting them registered as emotional support animals to looking into cargo transport to acquiring importation documents. But in the end, it all fell apart. However, they'll be living with BEB while I'm in Ireland, so at least I can smile imagining them snuggling together.
3. Family. I'll miss my siblings and parents. And after a lifetime of begging for a puppy, my mom finally adopted a little King Charles Cavalier Spaniel to cope with her last child (my little sister) moving out to start college. I always knew I wanted a dog but I didn't expect to bond so quickly or thoroughly. I'll miss the family cat as well, but at least he understands I always come home in the end.
4. Stuff. What can I say? I love my things. I have animal skulls and dried roses, a million thrift store shoes, shirts I never wear with nostalgic value, childhood stuffed animals, fragile gifts from BEB. But I'm only bringing a suitcase and four boxes to Ireland, and two of those boxes are filled with linens and art supplies. Part of me is relieved to lighten the materialistic hold, but part of me is already looking around for more stuff.
5. Schedule. I settle so easily into the day-to-day routine. I do relish the opportunity to break out of my comfort zone and recognize habits for what they are, so this might actually be positive change.
6. Mentors. There were so many professors at the University of Connecticut I relied on for advice and support. I am always searching for people who can influence me, and I am afraid every time I have to start fresh, especially considering that I will only have a year in Ireland.
7. Taking care of Scott. My older brother, Scott, has Asperger's Syndrome. I remember when I was around seven years old my dad took the four of us siblings to New York City. I don't remember what we saw, but I do recall the moment Scott got distracted by a poster and was left behind. Though he was only lost for a few minutes, my dad yelled at me for not doing a good enough job taking care of Scott. Even at that young age I was convinced that the situation was ridiculous and that I wasn't a parent. And yet I was steeped in guilt. I'd always naturally taken care of Scott, but from that point onward I made a concentrated effort. When he gets in trouble, I make sure it's my neck on the line. But pretty soon, my neck will be in Ireland.
8. Planning. I want to know everything far in advance. I consider 9 minutes early to be 1 minute late. But Ireland does not run in my time zone. People don't reply to emails. The director of my MA program told me I would pick classes after school began. And Mitchell alumni explained that it was better to arrive in Galway first, and then find housing while staying in a hostel in the meantime. But just like the separation from my schedule, this could have positive impact. My killer planning instincts nearly always rub people the wrong way. I would like to learn to feel less controlling.
9. Art.
10. Resilience.

Art and resilience

One of my paintings. 

There are only two items on my list of things that make me whole coming with me to Ireland.

Art: When it comes down to it, all I need to express myself is an instrument that leaves a mark and a surface. Luckily, my favorite mode of expression fits into a travel watercolor kit and a bag full of micron pens.

Resilience: I used to think that my sadness made me weak, but I realized that I could find strength in the stability of my character. I've always been myself, no matter who my friends are, or where I pitch my tent. This consideration influenced the title of my blog, No More Forts. I don't need to build myself a permanent enclave where I only associate with certain people, where I tie myself down to a building because it's "home", or where I put up defenses to keep out new ideas. I want to let go of my fears and trust that I will come through intact.

Of course, the title is a bit humorous as well, with its reference to pillow forts. Yet even this has meaning as I move into adulthood and try to ignore nostalgia in favor of less comfortable experiences.

Friends

Owi and me.

It might seem odd that I haven't talked at all about the friends I'll leave behind. This is an incredible function of the age in which we live. I have friends I've never met and have only ever interacted with online. And those friends I have from university will remain my friends no matter where I travel. I'll see their updates through Facebook and I can video chat whenever I desire. Some of my closest friends are in China, California, Chicago, Iowa City, and more... so it won't feel too odd to add Connecticut to that list.

And, in a startling twist of coincidence, one of my close friends is also studying in Ireland on a scholarship. Because she might come up from time to time in this blog, I'll protect her anonymity by nicknaming her OWI (Obsessed With Italy... more on that later). Obviously anyone who knows me in real life knows who Owi is and that's fine, but I've been getting hits on this blog from random corners of the globe so I just want to be careful.

In conclusion

I'm going to Ireland to study Writing at NUI Galway. I'm scared, but I'm excited, too.  I can't wait to get started!