I’m notorious for hating change. It’s inevitable, but when it happens, I hate it. A change in life, location, routine—it doesn’t matter. And when my plane took off from Dulles airport to Dublin, I felt the exact same way. But the 16 days that followed unexpectedly changed the way I view life.
The summer after my freshman year of college, I signed up for a study abroad trip with people I had never met in a country I had never seen. The plan was to travel around Ireland, studying its culture, literature, and history. We went to several different sites, spoke to various people, and immersed ourselves in Irish culture. I’m no stranger to studying literature and history as an English minor, but this was something much different.
As I was walking through the streets of Dublin, or letting the cold air in County Clare hit my face, even hiking up Giant’s Causeway, a sense of peace surrounded me. There is something surreal about studying the cobblestone streets you’re walking on, or the tombs you’re standing by, something you don’t get in Temple Terrace. There was a specific part in the trip, in Derry, in which I realized that there was nothing historical about what we were learning. This was all extremely current for them. The 1998 Good Friday Agreement ended “The Troubles” between Ireland and Northern Ireland; however, the tension was still quite prevalent. And while learning and observing all of this was nothing less than a fascinating privilege, there was one night in Derry that will stick with me forever.
The friends I made on the trip decided to go to a bar that night, just like they did every night. I could tell the bar was built hundreds of years ago and it smelled of whiskey and dusk. There weren’t many people in this bar—just the seven of us, and a couple other Irish locals. I asked my friends if they wanted to do Yeager shots. Gross. There is nothing “herbal” about that liquor—it’s absolutely disgusting. We all made disgusted faces and laughed as we shot it back. And in my infinite wisdom, I ordered 1 more round… and took everyone else’s shot.
As the night went on, and our voices grew louder, the Irish locals knew us by name. The music bounced off the walls of the upstairs section while my friends exchanged laughs and took embarrassing videos on their digital cameras. Despite everyone talking at an obnoxious volume, the loudest voice was the Yeager, telling me to dance battle one of the Irish men. I’ve done this multiple times, and each time is more embarrassing than the last. This man and I switched off dancing, each of us looking crazy. I am getting in his face, he switches his hat around, I’m on the floor, he’s making worms with his arms. I look around at my friends recording and decide to whip out my 10 years of gymnastics and throw a back flip. He took a brief pause before shaking my hand in defeat, and my friends started jumping up and down screaming. I’ve never seen people so excited to see me embarrass myself. And that’s when I realized that the people I was with, the same ones I had just met seven days ago, didn’t think I was embarrassing.
Making friends in college wasn’t easy for me, and I felt like I had always fallen short with friendships in my younger years. I had to act a certain way or try to combat their competitiveness. And in less than three weeks, I met the most selfless, kind, funny, authentic strangers who would become my best friends. The same best friends that I sat next to while writing this, the same people I see every day, the same ones that have been there for me through everything, the same ones who I will know for a lifetime. We studied W. B. Yeats’s and James Joyce’s poetry for 16 days in Ireland, but I think our 16 days were poetic in their own nature. For someone who has always hated change, those 16 days taught me that sometimes the best parts of life are the things you never planned for.
