Yes, it's a long distance romance, she lives in Mexico

October 13, 2019 22:44

Meli and I are watching a movie.  She’s playing it on her phone and we are using ZOOM.  There is a slight delay with the picture, but the audio is clear.  It’s the concept. We are watching something…together.  We are always finding new things to do.  Finding joy and gratitude for the technology we can use to see and hear each other.  With technolgy, like WhatsApp, we have the ability to see each other every day while we are apart from one another.  Earlier, I went food shopping and was able to point out some savings and what I had in my cart.  Sounds lame to those who can share the experience in-person, maybe it would be different if we were together.  Honey, I need some eggs.  Here's the keys.  Meli could be walking through neighborhood park, and I could be walking down the wrong aisle looking for chamomile tea.  One of the struggles we had earlier was a slight language barrier.  There is the lack of physical proximity, but we can make things happen in our own way. The distance is shortened with FaceTime and by maintaining the communication. Keeping each other up to date about the small events, tasks, thoughts. For some, it can be annoying and some of it is inconsequential, but the communication is there. Meli and I share little details, making dinner, heading into the shower, driving to work. We are always keeping each other informed so we can feel we are sharing our day and night as close as possible.  Communication is important for any healthy relationship, but it is vital in a long distance relationship.  So, a word to those who are considering a long distance romance - maintain the communication.  Of course, I wish she was here.  We are making plans for our future, we are working on the visa and following this country's immigration policies.  I’m grateful to have Meli in my life.  I never felt so comfortable.  We are committed to our future.  I love her as my Anam Cara, my soul friend, my future wife.  I thought I'd share more picture of our recent trip to Ireland.

Thank you for reading this.

Dancing in Dublin again

9/21/19 15:43 39,000 feet above the Atlantic

On my way back from Ireland.  I met Meli in Dublin.  Earlier last Thursday I arrived in Dublin and thought of getting down on my hands and knees and kissing the pavement, but that would have been too dramatic for the exhausted tourists and weary workers.  Get off there!  I was exhausted by the lack of sleep.  We flew in the night, under stars and turbulence, influenced by tail winds.  I peeked out from my window like a weak boxer in the final rounds, are we there yet?  Seeing Ireland under the grey clouds was a dream.  I have not been in Ireland since 1985.   Before heading back to the airport for the return flight back then, grandma wished me a safe trip. When my car keys fell in front of her, she said, out loud, Jaysus I hope that’s not a bad sign.  She died a couple of years after that.  

There is a five-hour time zone difference between Bethlehem, PA and Dublin.  Like a drunk fool, I decided that driving a stick shift, which I normally don’t drive was somehow feasible.   Getting into the opposite side of the car, the steering wheel, was opposite, different side of the road.  Trying to get the car into gear with my left hand, first and reverse were right next to each other, yet, somehow it would all work out?  After a couple of glasses of wine on the flight over, a lack of sleep, feeling a bit buzzed, somehow it would not be a death wish?  I made it to the Airbnb in Inchicore and only after calling the homeowner and going round his block three times, and meeting his neighbor who guided me to the house with a wave.  Over here you eydget.  I pulled into the driveway and we both noticed the smell emanating from the car.  Sure I farted a few times in the metallic beast.  She said, I was burning the gears.  After that she let me into house. The home alarm went off, cracking my ear drums with a deafening pulse.  She called one of the owners and we were in.  I made it.  I was in Ireland and looked at the small backyard.  A light rain came. I fell asleep for an hour or so.  Woke up and called Enterprise.  I wanted an automatic.  Driving down narrow roads which slide into one-way death traps was not my idea of spending a vacation in Ireland.  I made loose plans that day to have lunch with a colleague, but that was quickly erased since I had to drive back to the airport.  I drove back and was told how much more the costs would be.  I didn’t care, Meli and I had plans to drive around Ireland.  Let’s be clear at this point, I drove.  She pointed out lovely scenery, but even with an automatic, I hung onto the staring wheel with increased anxiety, especially after seeing a huge bus looming down the road or a tractor or an old woman standing too close to the road.  Yeah, I hit bushes on the side of the road, no old ladies, rammed the curbs a few times.  Each time getting into the car was an ordeal, first reminding myself I was getting into the right side of the car, sliding my knee under the steering wheel.  There was a sigh of relieve that I made it back to Enterprise in one piece, earlier today both the car and myself, and I am grateful I saw so many beautiful areas in Ireland.  I know both Meli and I will be back.  Let me look outside the window while I listen to Bob Dylan.      

We are crossing the tip of North America, some islands off the remote coast of Nova Scotia.  Meli is in Munich and may be getting into the Lufthansa airliner to take her back to Mexico City.  The last couple of days in Ireland have been sad since I knew she was going back to Mexico and I was heading back to the US.  Anyway, I’ll share more details as this progresses. 

Meli was in Sweden for work.  We had subtle plans to see each other in Sweden, but she thought it would be better to take a vacation in Europe. We looked at Spain and Portugal, but she suggested Ireland since it was one of the places she wanted to visit.  In comparison, Ireland is an expensive vacation, but we were conscientious, each night was a Airbnb which for most nights worked out for us.  One of the reservations could not host us, but a friend had room in her B&B.  That was a beautiful house and we were served a splendid breakfast with lots of coffee.  Waking up and seeing The Atlantic and the islands off the coast, the clouds slowly drifting over the slopes was a dream.  We could spend a few days in Dingle which is touristy and yet retains its character.  It is where I ordered our wedding rings which are beautiful.  I wanted to have a link between Ireland and Costa Rica. 

The light in Ireland as well as the air seemed clearer.  We sat across from one another at Trinity College and at the yard in Dublin Castle and were amazed at the light.   And we had the good grace since it did not rain on any of the days when we were together. 

We ate well.  I am still a vegetarian, but did eat some fish while there.  Actually the first day, I had fish and chips, but it was not very good.  I would have eaten card board and been satisfied.  Like I said, I picked up Meli at the airport.  Her flight was delayed and I fell asleep sitting at a small table for a few minutes.  When she came out of the terminal, I let her walk by and watched as she looked for me.  I walked up behind her and welcomed her to Ireland with a kiss just before midnight.

More to come…

Thank you for you reading this!

For the blaggards and bastards on St. Patrick's Day

My ma comes from Dublin. For years I was raised as an Irish Catholic with minimal historical references or interferences from my father’s side. When I’m told, you don’t sound like you’re from New York, I explain, my ma’s from Dublin and she corrected my native pronouncements - if I sounded like my father who’s from Brooklyn – I was corrected.
When I’d bring my friends over and they met ma they’d ask her about Ireland. When I was young, the questions revolved around dancing leprechauns, thick pots of gold and the elusive four leaf clover. For the record, these are the general interests that still lead some tourists to the emerald isle.
My childhood was different, I took Irish step dancing and to this day know to hold the sides of my pants, and to synch my steps in silence, kick out and in and one two three four…I was taught by Gerry Mulgahill, one of the country’ s best Irish step dancing teachers in a church basement in Kings Park. I wanted to play hurtling and Irish football. We were raised to be proud of our heritage, even getting into flights with the O’Brien’s who swore they were more Irish then we were cause their Dad was Irish. Yeah, good luck getting an Irish passport your ignorant twits, both of your parents were born here. I still have some hostility!
Looking back at pictures my cousin Colleen posted on Facebook, we appeared like thin rashers in rags, but that’s the way it was in our neighborhood, the kids cared little about the name tags and stayed out till dark playing sports on the street, fighting and building forts. If my uncles came over, they always wanted to know – not what grades I got or sports I played, but the fights I got into. “Tell us about your last fight Mick.” I’d go into detail with the last fight and share the blood and gore and hear the encouraging words, “Way to go Mick.”
I’ve been to Ireland four times in my life. One of the first was when we made an emergency landing in Cork, it was scary, seeing my Ma and my Aunt Betty whispering prayers, grabbing my hand and the stewardess’ making an announcement to keep our heads as down low as much as possible. For the record, the reason why they’d tell you to keep your heads low so they don’t fly off your spine when you make impact at couple of hundred miles an hour. Your hips are being held down, that loose head of yours can make a nice projectile.
On one trip my granda took me to the zoo, it started raining and he wrapped me under his coat, his warm body and the scent that I slept next to each night was soothing. That’s right, I slept next to my granda who’d have to get up each night and pee in a plastic bucket that he kept under the bed. A steady stream would sound like a drum roll. The last trip was when I visited my grandmother, just after high school. When I arrived at the airport, I was given a lift into the city by some airport workers who got off their shift, just because the Irish are known for being out going and pleasant, no other reason and of course they asked if I wanted to hit the pub.
“Let him see his grand,” one said and I was left at the bus depot and found the number 8.
When stepping into the house in Kimmage, I remembered the scent of burning black bricks of peat in the small fireplace in the living room, the tight quarters and to imagine this house held 8 children at one time. Grand made me a tea and toast and we caught up on the family and how happy she was that her Mick was there. Although I was happy to be there I missed my granda, and I wished he came back from the kitchen and sat down with us. We’d run off to church to say a prayer…
Lighting the candles in a darkened church, the scent of sulfur, a flame licked the glowing glass orange inside and retained my blessings…
On one of those early trips, in the small back yard, there was chicken coup, and it was there I fell off the roof and landed on a pile of boards, I remember pulling a thin board off and feeling the nail tug out of my flesh. It was there in the backyard, at night, under the Irish stars my granda taught me how to box - left from the shoulders, quick and right, that’s grand Michael. Swing your weight with your hips. His smile and the resplendent stars at night, the thin moon and cats, or were they banshees that howled? Tucked in the corner of the backyard, was where the outhouse was. Sitting on the seat early in the morning was painful. Ma told me when she was growing up they’d have to use ripped newspaper, so I was happy to have the thin wax paper like toilet paper, newspaper would be too harsh, but I guess it’s better than some leaves… even back in the seventies and eighties, an outdoor toilet was uncommon.
There wasn’t a shower, but a big tub in the kitchen that grand ma would fill with hot water so to take a bath.
I’m writing this for St. Patrick’s Day and there is so much to read about the Irish civilization. Do me a favor and read the last page of James Joyce, Abbey and learn how to describe raw emotions, watch The Quiet Man with John Wayne and Maureen O’Hara who was the Irish celebrity till U2 and before them Thin Lizzy. Try some Irish soda bread. Read about the horrors of the Irish famine which killed millions. Imagine hearing the screams of the starving children. Learn more about the conflict with Northern Ireland and thank God peace has settled on the place. Ireland has transformed itself, for awhile the Celtic tiger was growling in the world’s economy, but it lasted briefly. Unemployment is high again and on All Souls Day they’d build bonfires like they’ve done for centuries…
All of these memories are whooshing back as I’m typing this on the train. Thinking of Mick Doran who is the main character in my novel Killer Commute on Champagne Books. Mick was born in Ireland and is a former professional boxer, like my granda, those who recognized him would call him champ. Doran is my mother’s maiden name and you know where Mick comes from. Still, I’m not like Mick Doran, he is a homicide detective and almost twenty years older, besides he a hypochondriac. My granda was a saint and a health machine, walked for miles each day and kept his mind on positive thinking, he was hit by a car in Dublin, but got up and brushed himself off and waved off any assistance, he said he wanted to finish his walk and didn’t want the interruptions like an ambulance or a hospital.
God bless William Doran in heaven.