“…you’re on your own now
we won’t save you
your rescue-squad
is too exhausted…”
– Bjork
_________________________
I touch down, the wheels a jaw-jarring thud before screeching against the cool tarmac. The mid-November rain lightly sprays against the windows of the airplane. The flaps go up fully as the plane’s brakes push me toward the front of my seat on the Airbus A330. I breathe a deep sigh of relief, knowing that I’ve finally arrived unscathed and I welcome the lead flight attendant’s voice over the public address system as confirmation like a giddy schoolgirl.
“Ladies and gentlemen, Welcome to Dublin International Airport, Aerfort Bhaile Átha Cliath. This concludes flight service 104 from New York to Dublin…” The flight attendant continues her instructions in both English and Irish as the plane taxis for what feels like forever along the side-streets and alleyways of the runway, and I feel the sheer excitement fully bubble from my belly to my chest as the airplane finally lurches forward into its parking space at the gate once, then twice more before finally coming to a rest with a deep sigh and the flicker of lights.
“…Thank you for flying Aer Lingus.”
I exit the belly of the plane and try to get some sort of bearings, but as I look around me, it hits me all at once that I recognize absolutely nothing. I breathe in the stale air hoping for sensory recognition to kick in and verify that I really am in Ireland as the other passengers all pass by me, certain of their destination and the direction they must go to finally and fully step on actual Irish soil. I shrug to myself and follow the other passengers like a lamb to slaughter and hope that my faceless companions know what the hell they’re doing.
I anxiously adjust the satchel on my shoulder again and again as I wait as the passengers ahead of me are cleared through immigration and the nerves hit me as I inch closer and closer to freedom. What if my paperwork isn’t correct? What if I’m missing something and I get tossed on the next flight back to America? I fled New York like a refugee from war and the thought of going back there with my tail between my legs to beg my sister’s pardon seems like the worst possible fate. So, I wring my hands together again and fidget as the woman ahead of me is grilled by a uniformed and unsmiling man in his early forties. After several minutes of questions, poking and prodding of the passenger’s bag and even more questions, her passport is stamped forcefully and she’s sent on her merry way. I step up, my stomach in my throat.
“Passport.” The customs agent says by way of greeting. I wordlessly hand him my oddly colored US-issued document. The gate agent in New York had commented on it when I checked in for my overnight flight. Green as opposed to the customary blue, the customs agent looks it over carefully, perhaps thinking it a forgery. He waves, palm up in my direction, signaling that I hand him the rest of my paperwork. Visas issued from the government via New York University, heralding my student’s status. Entrance papers issued from the Irish consulate allowing me to study at Trinity College Dublin. My international driving permit, not that I’ll use that here, since, truth be told, I’m barely adept at driving on the side of the road I’m used to, much less having to completely re-learn how to navigate on the opposite side of the road without killing someone. And finally, the visa that allows me to work in the University’s art collections department – part of the work-study scholarship I’d earned during my previous semester at NYU.
The immigration official teases me a bit about being a full-time student my age in his thick Irish accent. And while I try not to blush about the seemingly backward-way I’ve gone about it, I make no excuses for it, either. I’ve worked steadily since leaving university the first time, barely a month into my first semester. Quickly discovering that I wasn’t ready or able to hack it at a big university straight out of high school like my other friends. And while I felt a deep inner shame at the clear downfall for my first go-round at higher education, I’ve worked extremely hard and steadily ever since.
I explain this, all while trying to hide the nerves, which seem to be knocking my knees together and making my belly lurch uncontrollably. I look down to my traitorous body in desperation and toss up a little prayer, hoping he can’t hear the dreadful sounds, while the immigration agent continues to piece my history together methodically. I provide the address and phone number to my current housing situation and the number of my university advisor before the immigration agent nods, finally satisfied that I’m not lying about anything. He explains that my visa will need to be renewed after the spring term to remain valid and that my university advisor will provide more details about this procedure. Finally, he reminds me that I will need to register with the An Garda Síochána as soon as possible to get a required immigration residency card, known as the GNIB. I swallow, trying to tamp down the excitement welling up in my chest, now certain that I’m actually working my way through the last of the dark woods before I’m let loose on Irish lands.
Given the recent resurgence of violence between the IRA and the British Government coupled with the sudden rash of Irish-Americans returning to home soil to join the in-fighting, I guess it shouldn’t really surprise me when the next statement from the immigration officer is to tersely ask to inspect my carry-on bag. He immediately begins to reach for it even before I can even fully pull the satchel off my shoulder. He sets it on a long metal table with a loud clunk before beginning to rummage through it.
There isn’t much for him to look through though, I haven’t brought much. There’s a small bag of toiletries, which he opens to reveal nothing out of the ordinary, a change of clothes, rolled up to hopefully keep them from wrinkling. Next, the agent finds a well-loved copy of Rushdie’s Midnight’s Children, full of dog-eared pages and notes in the margins that earns me a terse smile from the agent as he thumbs through the pages quickly, clearly looking for contraband. The only other thing he finds are headphones and a portable CD player with a rather large stash of CD’s to keep me company on the long flight across the cold ocean.
“Looks like yer a bit of an Omicron fan…” The agent comments with a bit of a side-eye as he piles a half-dozen titles of theirs onto the table along with several other of my must-carry-with-me-at-all-times; Radiohead, Stevie Wonder, Mozart, and a couple of home-made compilation CD’s which had been made a present of by friends before leaving New York. “They’re from here, you know.” The agent points out, jerking me out of my thoughts as he slides the discs to his left. “Had that Max fellah in my line once…funny bloke, that.”
“Oh? That’s cool.” I try to keep my eyes from lighting up too much as I reply. I’m absolutely trying to stay as nonchalant as possible, in spite of the full knowledge of the fact that they are from here and very much a part of the reason I wanted to study in Dublin and not, say, Paris or London. Somehow, I don’t think the immigration agent would appreciate it if I started fan-girling all over him thanks to a rock-and-roll band in the middle of the airport.
But, in the safety of my mind I can definitively verify without any trace of irony that Omicron single-handedly made Dublin the coolest town in Europe.
“Yep,” the Agent continues, undeterred. “Heard they were back in town too, what with having been in America working on something or other.” While I don’t generally keep that close tabs on their daily schedule, I’d heard the same thing through several of the fan-run websites. And so once again feel the need to press down on the excitement welling up in my chest, knowing that I’m just that much closer to this band that has musically pulled me off of more emotional cliffs than I care to mention.
After pawing through a few other things from my carry-on, including a small velvet pouch filled with rocks I’ve collected from all the places I’ve visited and a pocket English-to-Irish dictionary, the agent finally declares me fit to enter his country. The agent startles me then, abruptly slamming his stamp onto an inkpad then smashing it onto a blank page of my passport with a deafening boom. The agent signs his initials quickly next to the fresh ink and hands my passport back to me. I jam it into a zippered inside pocket of my satchel then begin to quickly stuff everything else back inside, paying no mind to the order or manner in which I do then swiftly heft the bag back onto my shoulder. Utterly unsure what to do next, I look back to the immigration official, hoping for some sort of guidance.
“Straight through to the baggage claim then you need to check out through customs, okay, luv?” The agent explains with a gentle smile.
“Thank you.” I return the smile and proceed to the baggage claim to retrieve the two relatively small pieces of luggage I’ve brought with me, considering the length of my stay. I make my way through customs quickly and without incident, as I’ve nothing to declare and I’m finally set free to roam the countryside.
Now, I’ve heard from multiple sources that it’s easier to draw cash from an ATM as it is to go through a bank, so I locate the nearest machine, insert my card and pull out just enough money to get me to the city center, my hostel, plus a little extra for some sustenance over the next few days. I haul my bags outside and take a deep breath, inhaling the cool morning air. I close my eyes, and force myself to push past the harsh scent of jet fuel that permeates the immediate area to find what’s beyond the space I presently occupy. I find a sweeter scent as I take in another breath, that of fresh, dew-covered grass and the salt of the Irish Sea immediately beyond.
Shaking myself back into the present, I step to the edge of the curb and hail a cab to make my way to my temporary home — temporary that is, until I can find some sort of apartment or roommate situation. My bags, stored safely in the “boot” and my body in the backseat, I take in as much of the Dublin outskirts as I can while the cab speeds its way through the suburbs and into the city center.
The weather has deteriorated from a light mist to a full-on rain that has started to come down in cold sheets. While I watch the rivulets of water blur my view of the houses that slowly morph into businesses and government buildings, I’m surprised that it’s not snowing, considering that it is a week before my twenty-fifth birthday, a little over a month before Christmas and a mere six weeks before the beginning of the new term at Trinity College. As the taxi cruises through to my destination, I can see holiday decorations beginning to line the city streets and shop windows and I can’t help the grin that stretches from ear-to-ear as the cab pulls in front of my hostel. I pay the cab fare, tipping the driver more than I should, not fully understanding the exchange rates yet. The nice cabbie helps me drag my bags from the boot of the taxi to the curb next to the front doors of the hostel before leaving me to pull my few belongings inside with me.
I was lucky enough to have reserved a single room with an en-suite bathroom for the next several weeks, so I don’t have to share with a bunch of eighteen-year old college students who haven’t yet learned to clean up after themselves. The nice desk clerk takes my information, runs my credit card and after it clears, hands a key to me, along with the rules of the hostel, including the fact that because this is primarily an establishment for students, there is a curfew in place. The desk clerk stresses more than once that the doors lock promptly at one AM and remain locked until six in the morning, so if I’m locked out, too bad, better luck next time. The clerk then gives some basic directions to my room, finally releasing me to go settle into what will be my home for the foreseeable future.
I drag my suitcases down the hallway to the small elevator and cram myself in with the bags before the metal doors close with a woosh and I punch the button for the first floor. The elevator rises with a lurch, slowly crawling upward, before stopping with a bump followed immediately by a loud “ding!”. The doors woosh back open and I take that as my cue to haul my bags out of the elevator and down the long hallway to the far end, before finally reaching the door that will reveal my small room overlooking Aungier Street.
I try not to let the exhaustion that rattles my bones to their core take over as I twist the key in its lock and push the door open. The urge to drop everything into the middle of the room and simply collapse onto the twin bed that beckons me from the far side of the room is so tempting, but the truth of the matter is that I don’t want to sleep. I desperately want to go out and experience this place I’ve been so many times in my lucid dreams. So I quickly stash things into empty drawers with little regard for any type of law or order in the matter for now. I tell myself that I’ll get myself more organized tonight. I do, however, grab my bathroom stuff and after stashing my things along the back of the toilet and in the small medicine cabinet, strip off my dirty clothes and turn on the shower to quickly wash the “I’ve been traveling for nearly twenty-four hours” funk off my skin.
The water is cool but I don’t mind right now since it also manages to bring me back from zombie to near-human in the span of three minutes. I hop out, dry off and pull some clean clothes from the dresser, relishing the light floral scent of the laundry detergent I’d used before leaving New York. I look about the room before unzipping the second of my suitcases, pulling out the few but precious books I’d managed to tuck in amongst the clothes and shoes, stacking them neatly along the top of the dresser before I’m relatively satisfied that I’ve unpacked enough for the time being.
I grab a smaller, cross-body bag from my luggage and begin to transfer necessary Dublin survival items into it. The small amount of cash I’ve allotted myself, my ATM and credit card, passport and international driver’s ID, not yet trusting my surroundings enough to dare leaving any of these in the room unattended, at least not until I’ve made a better assessment of the security of the place. The last thing I reach for is my ever-present, very well loved portable CD player. I rarely go anywhere without it, for I am a girl who not only loves, but actually needs music to be ever-present in my life, like a daily soundtrack to measure and mark the distance walked, emotions felt, experiences consumed. The needs change daily, some days a killer beat to get my feet moving from one thing to the next, others require poppy, upbeat sounds to forcibly yank me out of whatever melancholy that has consumed my thoughts. Today though, with the rain, it seems only fitting to drop Radiohead’s The Bends into the player. I add Omicron’s biggest-selling album to date, Acclamator to the reserve position in my bag and sling the strap over my shoulder, before zipping the top of it as it lays across the opposite hip.
I bundle up in a heavy black wool coat before pulling on a knitted hat over my headphones and slouchy woolen mittens that I can pull up to mid-forearm should the weather require it. Thanks to today’s rain, I will also have to find somewhere to pick up an umbrella, as I didn’t bother to bring the cheap one I’d purchased off a street vendor in New York during a freak summer downpour four months ago.
I place a “do not disturb” sign on the hallway-side doorknob to my small room as I lock the door and make my way back down the hallway and down the stairs, not needing the assistance of the elevator without my heavy bags. I make my way past the lobby before pushing out the main doors and onto the wet streets of Dublin.
I haven’t bothered to grab a map or any other navigational device, but instead relying on my sixth sense of city planning to get me both lost and back to my hostel before they lock up for the night. Perhaps someday, this policy will change, but in the meantime, I know that I now have a mere thirteen hours to get back into the building before I’m locked out until they reopen in the morning.
I look up to the street signs, memorizing the cross streets of Aungier and York as well as the landmarks on the street corners, a pub called The Swan and the Whitefriar Church before deciding to start today’s adventure by crossing Aungier and head South on York Street. I take in the bright, sunny yellow color of the Swan Bar’s stucco exterior and the dark, near-black bricks of the neighboring building that are probably older than the city of New York. Buildings are not uniform in any way, shape, or form but rather poke out from one another at different intervals along the city sidewalks, leaving the pedestrian pavements jagged and uneven. next to me on the streets, cars plough by at alarming speed, considering the narrowness of the streets. And as I make my way South, the rain drizzles against my cheeks like little shards of glass and my belly flip-flops with a dull ache as I quicken my pace only slightly.
I find a small convenience shop a block up from the hostel where I pick up a bright red umbrella, the lone one of color in the bin amongst the black and grey, I pop it open as soon as my feet hit the sidewalk once again and I set back out on my adventure. Just to explore and perhaps find a little cheap sustenance. I turn the music back on and lose myself to the angelic sounds of Thom Yorke’s vocals as he croons about being left high and dry and I find pieces of the lyrics in the architecture that surrounds me, the beat reflected in the shuffling feet of the few pedestrians out and about at this time of day, and my own thoughts of how I came to finally be here after so many years of dreaming about this place.
It was on invitation from my younger sister, Susanne that I’d come to New York from my hometown of Minneapolis. I had nothing exciting going on, having left my previous place of employment after several years because, quite simply, I was burnt out and needed a change anyway. I was sure that New York was the perfect place to find myself. Overflowing with stimulation of all sorts and certain that it would provide the electric shock I needed to kick-start some sort of real career doing something creative. Not that I expected it to be easy, especially not after my very first job, which was billed as being in “promotions”. That is, if you count accosting poor people on the street with obnoxious flyers before urging them to spend their hard-earned money on some bullshit timeshare – in what was clearly a ponzi scheme – as “promotions”.
I only made it half a day. I didn’t go back after the lunch break. My very vocal inner voice, the one that is generally the voice of reason, urged me to recognize the job for what it was, and more importantly, that it absolutely was not for me.
My sister and I had somehow been able to afford to rent a small two-bedroom apartment (with closets, even!) on the Northwest Corner of Central Park. She and I both felt that this was clearly a very significant coup for two girls from the suburbs of Minneapolis. But, as I returned to my postage-stamp sized bedroom overlooking an air shaft, I cried for allowing myself be so stupid to stand on a street corner, practically in a sandwich board, for money. In my eyes, it was as close to prostitution as I ever wanted to be. And I cried some more for now having to explain to my sister how I could walk out of a job in the first four hours and without demanding to be paid for my time.
Eventually though I settled in some, getting not one but two jobs, not uncommon for Manhattanites who were not lucky enough to be an executive at a fortune 500 company or working as a broker somewhere on Wall Street. Literally running from job-to-job was a common occurrence and when that was finally done then I was off to the bars and clubs for as much liquor as I could afford or have purchased for me. Invariably, there were also men, lots of them, who expected something in return for their kindness, and I was all-too-happy to oblige that too. So I’d left the prostitution of so-called promotions for the prostitution of free Midori Sours and cheap champagne.
Not much of a step up, really.
Looking back on the last year of my life, I can see now that it had clearly taken a bad turn when my after-work time became more important than anything else and I had trouble keeping up with my half of the rent. My sister and I fought constantly about it and while at the time, I felt that I was being unfairly singled out for my ineptitude, here, in the harsh reflection of a new city, rightly so on her part. When I decided to try to get my shit together and announced without preamble that I was going to go back to university, Susanne thought I was insane. And then really lost her mind when I promptly quit one of my two jobs and applied for NYU. How was I going to keep up with the rent? She’d asked. But somehow, I managed to not only be accepted but also to receive enough in student loan money to support a small, third-world country. Regardless of the strides I was trying to make, the relationship with my sister seemed to be completely beyond repair.
To the surprise of most everyone I knew, I managed to do well that first semester, working only part time and partying even less once I’d actually applied myself to the idea of school. But I was also scared beyond belief, walking into the lecture hall that first day, and if I’m very honest with myself, it’s a very similar feeling to packing up and moving here now that I think on it.
I keep walking, taking in the packed-in buildings on both sides of the street, as York Street runs straight into St. Stephen’s Green, the main park within the center of Dublin City. I finally acknowledge that the deep uneasiness unfurling in the pit of my belly is more than just mere nerves or hunger, it’s a very, very real fear of failure and hearing the ‘I told you so’ chorus from my family and friends who all thought I was completely insane for jumping at the opportunity to transfer here after one measly semester at NYU.
I traipse into the wide expanse of park, trying to get a little lost but it’s nowhere near the size or density of Central Park and so, soon I am from one end to the other and working my way back through its’ not-so-winding paths quickly coming upon the park lake. I sit on a lone bench under a large tree – not so much for the isolation of it, but rather for the fact that under here, in spite of the lack of leaves in the late fall, it is relatively dry. I lose myself in the gently rippling water as it laps at the stone lip of the man-made lake edge. Grateful that the park is very nearly deserted on this early Thursday afternoon. It gives me ample time to quietly contemplate this place and the sheer audacity I displayed in daring to come here. I lose myself in the space around me as the realization fully hits me that I’m really here. I am walking on hallowed grounds and breathing the cool, damp air. I can’t help but to remove my mitten, lean down and run my fingers over the grass, which is still remarkably green, considering that it is mid-November and soon the snow should be falling with the coming winter. The blades are cold and damp against my fingertips, but I don’t care, I just relish the feeling and texture against my skin. I close my eyes and memorize the gentle tickling for a lifetime.
All-too-soon, however, my belly cries out again desperate to finally be fed and I reluctantly give up my perch next to the lake under the pretty tree in search of food. I exit the park from the Northeast corner, under Fusiliers’ Arch, which reminds me of a much smaller Arc de Triomphe, across the street and on to Grafton Street.
As Dublin’s most well-known shopping street, all of the major stores have shops here, from Marks & Spencer to TopShop. There are chain restaurants and tourist-centered stores selling all manner of trinkets and shamrock-covered knicknacks. The road, closed to car traffic after the noon hour, is crowded with people, chatting while holding cups of steaming beverages from Insomnia coffee roasters and listening to the buskers lining both sides of the streets as far as the eye can see.
I meander up the street, away from the park, and weave in and out of small dead-ends and side streets to hopefully find something not too touristy. Eventually, I find a small pub that looks good. Small and sparsely occupied, the bartenders are chatting gaily with the few afternoon patrons sitting along the very old bar. I’m delighted that this place seems to only attract old pensioners and the out-of-work who spend their afternoons discussing politics and sport over a pint or three while the bartender plays referee. The atmosphere is as warm as the food and the people in it and as I seat myself at a small table by the fireplace, I just let myself take in the flames dancing in the small coal-fuelled fireplace.
I pull out the CD player and shut off the music before yanking the hat and headphones off my head. As I wrap the headphone cord around the body of the player and stuff it back into my bag, my fingers brush against the small pouch of stones that had been rifled through by a stranger at the airport not even eight hours ago. I delicately extricate each stone and set them onto the table and begin to study my stash for the hundredth time. Each of the pretty stones, collected throughout my travels, represents a specific moment in time. From an agate collected on the north shore of Minnesota to a pretty granite pebble from the summer vacation in Aspen and the black stone flecked with tiny silver stars from the shores of the Colorado River that I found in Austin, Texas. I rub them all gently and close my eyes, taking myself back to each place as the memories flood my system in a near overload. Finally, I pull my most recent discovery out of my coat pocket and add it to the pile. A lovely pink-and-grey swirled stone the size of my thumbnail that I rescued from the side of the lake in The Green.
The lone waitress approaches my table a few minutes later, commenting on the stones just after she takes my order. I give her the short version of how I’d collected them as she wistfully comments on how she’d love to travel. I smile at her sadly, knowing how difficult it is to have a grand adventure on a too-tight budget. Eventually she skitters off to drop off my order with the kitchen and man her other tables as I reach for one stone, picked up off a New York City sidewalk eight months ago, and close my eyes as my lungs fill with the scent of something spicy mixed with a touch of citrus and another scent along with it that I cannot place. I open my eyes to find the origin of the scent, but there is nobody anywhere close to me and I know.
It’s the same scent that always assaults me in my dreams, along with that voice. A deep, warm-as-honey rumble of a voice that I hear in my nightly dreams of warm fires and a warmer body who tells me about his day as I drift off in my lonely bed.
I should make it very clear, here and now, that I am not a religious person. I do not prescribe to the idea of a single, higher power, God, if you will. But I do count myself as extremely spiritual and I do know that there are things out there working in the universe, guiding me along my path – in spite of how often I try to deviate from it – eventually guiding me to whatever destination that has been set out before my journey even began. It’s the same powers that whispered in my ear to leave Minneapolis and go to New York, go back to school and eventually, find my way here to Dublin.
I rub the smooth stone in my fingers and absently stare off into space, until I feel the animated post-work crowd, looking to blow off workday steam, start to shuffle in from the rapidly coming darkness. Feeling guilty for staying for the better part of the afternoon, I finish my half sandwich and pot of tea before quickly relinquishing my small table, so the nice waitress can turn her table and hopefully make her tips tonight.
The next several days are filled with much of the same, long daily walks around the city, trying to get lost in order to unearth the secret gems hoarded by the locals of this town that I am diligently working on calling home. Though somehow I always manage to quickly wind up back wherever I started on any particular day.
My feet and body are a little sore as I push myself further and further over the ancient cobblestoned pavements each day. On day three, I venture across the O’Connell Street Bridge to the North side of the city for the first time. On day four, I brave the city bus for the first time and find it utterly confusing, not fully understanding this whole ‘hailing the bus’ system. And by the end of my day, I’ve resigned to walk back to my rooms instead. Though by day five, I’m riding the DART down the Dublin Bay to Dalkey, stopping for some tea and Shepherd’s Pie at the extremely well established Queen’s Pub before heading back to the City Centre – and feeling quite proud of myself too, for the record.
As I come back to Avalon House in the afternoon, I hear a couple of kids talking about a gig that night at the Project Arts Centre. The Talking Heads – minus David Byrne, which now apparently makes them only “The Heads” – are playing and I feel a very sudden and deep-seeded desire to be at that show. I nonchalantly eavesdrop to hear the kids gaggle on about some sort of VIP party afterward that they are lamenting about not having been invited. And, desperate for a good party too, I do what any self-sufficient girl would do and yank out my calling card to ring my former employer’s studio back in Minneapolis.
“Good morning, this is Donna, how may I direct your call?”
“Donna!” I exclaim into the receiver, happy to hear the familiar voice of my former officemate. “God, I’m so glad you’re there!”
“Katherine? Is that you?” Donna calls through the crackling line. “You sound like you’re in a goddamn tunnel, where the fuck are you?!” I laugh through the receiver in the little wooden phone booth.
“Yeah. I’m in Dublin.” I reply and have to pull the receiver away from my ear as Donna has a level four meltdown about my latest relocation and I have to nearly shout to bring her attention back to the matter at hand. “Listen, I hate to ask, you know, I never like to, but there’s this gig I’d really like to get into tonight. And, well, there’s a party after…” I say sheepishly as she begins to giggle over through the receiver.
“Girl, you never, ever ask for this kind of stuff. This must be some show, so consider it done.” Donna replies. “I’ll call them right now.”
“Thanks, Donna.” I smile.
“Okay so who am I bugging and where are you going?” She laughs and next thing I know, I’m on the guest list and giggling all the way back up to my room, giddy over my coup, as I try to grab a quick nap before getting ready for the night.
I mill about, nursing a glass of free champagne in the upstairs bar of the Project Arts Centre, while I take in all of the people of the groups in which I used to circulate regularly and try not to offer any crummy interjections on conversations to which I am clearly not invited. And from my fly-on-the-wall position, I quickly realize that I miss it more than I thought. The schmoozing and glad-handing perhaps not so much, but I most definitely miss the opportunity to meet and have a genuinely interesting dialogue with incredibly talented and creative people.
As I make my way through the room, watching the evening unfold carefully, I recognize the moment when the party shifts and distinct cliques begin to form within the room. To my left are the guests-of-guests. The people who probably have no real clue whom they have just seen, and probably don’t particularly care, either. They only care about being seen and documented by the local press as being hip and welcome in the scene. This group are most likely bankers, socialites, or businessmen with deep pockets to have paid off whomever is running this party, to have scored entrance to the VIP area.
To my right, are the worker-bees, Personal Assistants, or PA’s, for short. This group consists primarily of employees of the actual, legitimate celebrities in the room. They’re swapping war stories of having to retrieve blow, illicit company and Nobu sushi at four in the morning. Some in the group complain about the perils of having to find copies of not yet printed books and the latest must-have, sold-out action figure on Christmas Eve at six o’clock in the evening for their spoiled kids. As I look a little closer, the cracks in their bravado really begin to show. And while they’re all young in age, they look beyond haggard and would have, at one point, included me, drinking at record speed while trying not to dish the dirt on my old boss – the same one who made it possible for me to be here tonight.
In front of me is the real party though, Deborah Harry and Tina Weymouth chat about the difficulty of landing a hair appointment on less than twenty-four hours notice with Frederic Fekkai and Sally Hershberger while another of the performers chats with Chris Frantz and Johnette Napolitano (of Concrete Blonde fame) about getting the right decorator for their upstate weekend houses and other such things, that while mundane to them, are well beyond the reach of ninety-eight percent of the people in the room. And I am so engrossed in the aforementioned mundane musings of the kings and queens that I barely feel the tap on my shoulder.
“Katherine Jensen, what the ever-loving fuck are you doing in Dublin!?” I panic for a moment, when I realize that the voice is filled with mirth and before I can respond, I am pulled into a warm embrace by my accuser.
Jasmine Jones is a legend among personal assistants and taught me everything I could ever possibly want to know (and then some) about dealing with and handling the demands of a celebrity employer. Now, I’m not one to break a confidentiality agreement, but Jasmine was my mentor and the reason I eventually had to sign one of those aforementioned confidentiality agreements for myself. So I guess it really shouldn’t surprise me that hers would be the first and so far, only friendly face I’d encountered in this town. I return the hug, tightly clinging for a moment grateful to find someone I’ve always considered an ally, but careful not to spill my champagne before I can get a response out.
“Me?! What the heck are you doing here, Jas?” I chuckle after I am released.
“Well honey, mine’s easy,” Jasmine winks as she takes my nearly empty glass, passing it off to a waiter and seamlessly supplying me with another one. She sips nonchalantly, nodding to one of the cute guys from INXS, before leaning in to confess; “I’m working for someone in town at the moment.”
“Sounds exciting,” I reply with mild sarcasm and watch the slice of strawberry sink to the bottom of my champagne flute before taking a sip.
“It is!” She exclaims more loudly than I’d expect from her and laughs merrily before asking me again what I’m doing in Dublin.
“I went back to school.” I smile fully as she shakes her head in disbelief. “I swear! I’m starting my second semester in a few weeks. I needed to get out of New York, so I transferred to Trinity.”
“Shut the front door! You?!”
“Yes, me.” I laugh a little. “Studying art history.”
“To do what, teach or something?” Jasmine asks, sobering at the realization that I’ve gone academic on her in less than two years since the last time we saw each other.
“I’m not sure yet.” I reply honestly. “Maybe try to work as some sort of curator, or teach. I actually hadn’t gotten that far yet!”
“And you needed to get out of New York?” She catches on remarkably fast, considering. “But you loved it there.”
“Yeah,” I reply quietly. “It didn’t work out the way I thought it would.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Jasmine motions us to a table that’s suddenly opened up in the corner by the A-list group. We walk past a couple of my idols, chatting with them for a few minutes as Jasmine makes proper introductions and I don’t feel like quite as much of an outsider as I did a half hour ago. We sit and it feels good after being on my feet for the last several hours in the pretty heels I’d picked up in a sample sale several months ago.
Jasmine beckons for me to give her the full and unedited version of my time in New York and I reluctantly proceed to give her as much of the rundown as I can stand at the moment. I hate to dwell on the negative, and right now, with only a couple weeks’ distance from all the self-imposed drama there, I don’t really trust my rendition of events. Jasmine’s eyes widen as I conclude my story and she shakes her head in disbelief as I shrug my shoulders to her reaction and finish my glass of champagne.
“So now I’m here, making another new start.” I smile weakly. “But this place feels better to me. I feel so at home, even though I’m not even remotely settled yet. And I could swear I’ve been here before, even though I know that I haven’t.” Jasmine nods, knowing my deep pre-arrival emotional connection to this city.
“So, where are you staying? Do you have an apartment?” She grills me thoroughly.
“No. Not yet, I’m at Avalon House.” And as the words tumble out of my mouth, it dawns on me that I’ve completely lost track of the time. “Oh, shit!” I look down at my watch and panic. “Shit, shit, shit…”
“What is it, honey?” Jasmine asks before handing me another glass of champagne and a petit four, liberated from a passing waiter.
“I’m going to be locked out. It’s 12:55. Shit.” I reply and start to have a real-life panic attack.
“What?” She asks over the music that has increased in volume as the partygoers get more and more drunk and begin to dance their fabricated troubles away.
“They lock the doors at one.” I explain. “They won’t re-open until six. There’s no way I can get back there in time, which means I’m locked out for the night. Shit. Where the hell am I supposed to stay now?” I begin to quickly gather my things and start to get up, thinking that maybe if I can catch a cab outside, I may just barely make it under the wire. Jasmine stops me though, as I’m about to run for the coat check.
“Kate, honey. I’ve got a place you can stay tonight. No worries, okay? It’ll be fun, we can stay up until dawn and you can catch me up on everything!”
“Jas, I don’t want to impose on you. You know how I feel about that…” I argue, my rising panic not abated in the least by my friend’s enticing invitation.
“Good lord, sweetheart, it’s not an imposition at all!” She laughs. “It’s been ages since I had a proper gossip and then I can fill you in too – there’s so much to tell you! So, take a deep breath and relax and finish your drink because there’s someone I want you to meet.”
I look at her quizzically then take several of the requested deep breaths before taking a long sip of my champagne. “Your new employer?” I ask.
“Not exactly.” She giggles and digs into the petit fours that I’d yet to touch before leaning in confidence. “Friend of employer. Employer is out of town for the next few days, so I got to come out and play tonight!”
“Ah, I see!” I laugh with her. “Enjoying the spoils a little then, huh?”
“Nah.” She tucks in fully into the dessert. “Actually just here for moral support.”
“That’s very chivalrous of you, Jas.” I reply and take another healthy sip of the champagne. And while it’s starting to make me feel a little drunk, something which I have not felt in several months. I’d forgotten how much I like the empowerment I get from the feeling of being more uncensored and unfiltered thanks to this liquid courage.
“Oh! Speaking of which…” Jasmine begins and smiles fully out and beyond our little table. “It’s about time you found us. Get over here already!” I follow her gaze and lock eyes with none other than Grant Rowen — the original renaissance man of Dublin. Singer, painter and all-around purveyor of the best kind of midnight music designed to send those really good, radiating from the low belly region shivers all through a girl’s body. Oh, and I’m pretty sure that I forgot to mention that he’s bestest of best friends with none other than Max — singer of Omicron, the aforementioned biggest rock band on the planet. A sly smile crosses Grant’s lips as he saunters through the room and over to our table. My eyes enlarge to the size of saucers as it instantly hits me exactly whom she is working for and I lean into Jasmine’s ear to exclaim;
“Oh. My. God. Are you fucking kidding me?! You’re working for him?!” I breathe against her ear. She looks at me with a completely unrepentant smile and raises an eyebrow. And she knows, for as knowledgeable as I am about all the comings and goings about this particular rock band, that I’m not off the mark at all about my assumption regarding her latest employer.
“Don’t panic, sweetie. It’s no big deal…” Jasmine says through a tight smile.
I look at her sideways, incredulous that she’d not have mentioned this particular development in her storied career at any point during the last half-hour, but seeing that time is not on my side to grill her at all about this, very quickly tuck in my emotions and school my features, as Grant finally makes it through the sea of people to reach our table.
“Jasmine, darling! You’ve made a new friend! Good for you!” Grant cackles as Jasmine motions for him to take the available seat next to me. And all I can do is merely nod and try not to start babbling like an idiot as his intense green eyes and distinctive scent floats from him to me and quickly penetrates every single pore of my skin. It is even more intoxicating than the champagne and I find myself getting a little lost in his handsome face. I knew he was good-looking from the CD jacket of the music of his that I own, but dear god, it just doesn’t really compare with the living, breathing thing.
“Grant, actually, you’re about to make a new friend!” Jasmine cackles in return. “I’ve known this one here for an age!”
“Is that so?” Grant leans in for good measure, completely throwing me off-balance. “And are you one of her?”
My mouth goes completely dry and for a moment I am completely lost for words. My brain takes a full three seconds before everything clicks back in place enough for me to reply.
“You mean completely insane?” I toss back. Where I have managed to find my sarcastic gene in the deep puddle of my brain so quickly, I’ll never know. But I worry I’ve gone too far when nobody says a thing for a good five or six beats. I look at Jasmine and wink and she positively erupts in laughter, filling the room, in spite of the music and the other chatter that goes on around us.
“And now you know why I wanted to introduce you!” Jasmine snickers. “So Grant, this is the one and only Katherine Jensen. And yes, she was one of me. But she’s left the dark side and apparently has gone academic!”
“Academic?” Grant asks after giving me a proper greeting, brushing his lips on the backs of my knuckles, ever the charmer.
“I’m starting at Trinity at the next term.” I supply. “I’m going to learn about some art history while I’m here. I hope, anyway.” I smile.
“Ah, so yer one of those smarty-pants people…” He winks, taking a sip of his drink. Some sort of amber concoction that seems to slide down his throat easily.
“Well, I don’t know about that,” I admit. “I just do what I do.” Grant smiles and raises his glass.
“And that’s the way to be, luv. So then, welcome to my town.” He winks and takes another sip.
The three of us chat deeper and deeper into the night and by the time Jasmine and I finally catch a cab, there are only a couple of hours until my hostel will allow me re-admittance. In spite of this, Jasmine still insists that I come back to her place to crash for the rest of the night and for as tired as I am, I am grateful to have her there. As we converge on the curb and say our goodnights, Grant pulls me against his very warm body before I climb into the taxi and slide over to the far side of the backseat. Grant pulls Jasmine against his body next, thanking her for being his last-minute date for the night. I hear the late-night rumble of his voice, though I can’t make out the words he directs toward Jasmine;
“I like her. She can stay. In fact, you should bring her to the thing in a couple of weeks.”
“You think so?” Jasmine replies from against his chest.
“Definitely.” He looks over to me, curled up in the back of the taxi, trying to keep my eyes open. “He’s going to absolutely love her.”
“Which one?” Jasmine asks as she releases him.
“Well, they all will.” Grant clarifies. “But I was thinking specifically of the tall, geeky, brooding one. Perhaps he’ll stop doing that once he gets a hold of her.”
“Oh?” She peers into the cab too and smiles with recognition. “Oh!” Grant squeezes her hand with the smile of Archimedes after discovering the principle of buoyancy and saunters off into the wild Dublin night.
Jasmine pulls the taxi door shut before giving an address to the driver as he pulls the car out into the darkness. And in my inebriated state, it feels like we’re driving for hours and hours, but in reality is probably less than thirty minutes. I press my nose to the cool window and try to get as good a look as I can in the darkness to the water on my left of Dublin Bay and the Irish Sea beyond. The driver eventually turns away from the sea and on to the Coast Road, before pulling up to a set of very familiar-looking gates.
“Jasmine,” I panic only slightly, unable to fully muster my normal level of anxiety, given how late it is and how thoroughly tired I am. “I shouldn’t be here. I mean I really shouldn’t be here.” Jasmine does not answer me, but instructs the driver to pull up several hundred yards down the road to a smaller gate. Only once she pays the driver and pulls me out of the taxi does she finally respond to my second-string panic attack.
“Relax. We’re not going to the main house. I’m just using the guest house while I’m here. Call it a perk of the gig.” She explains as she punches a series of numbers into the security pad to the right of the gate. Jasmine winks at me in the darkness as the door releases and she beckons me through the doorway and along a tree-sheltered path to a small, cottage-style guest house. Jasmine pushes the house key into the deadbolt, pushes the door open then enters a second set of numbers on the security panel just inside the doorway as it beeps angrily at her. Once the security system is disengaged, Jasmine flips a few switches, making the room glow in soft, warm light. She removes her coat and motions for mine, hanging it in a small front hall closet. “I have pajamas that you can borrow and there’s a lovely guest room down the hall with a very comfy bed. We can chat in the morning.” She smiles and leads me to her room, fetching the promised sleepwear. Jasmine shows me the particulars of the guest room and fully-stocked, en-suite bathroom where I can wash my face before climbing into the big comfy bed.
I snuggle into the silky sheets as I pull the down comforter up to my chin and start to drift off almost immediately before the vivid visions return of a large, well-appointed bedroom warmed by a strong fire in a fireplace with an ornate marble edifice. My body, cradled securely by an unseen companion, whispers in this deep, enigmatic rumble of a voice that I’ve come to associate with these deep-in-the-night visions. That voice that never fails to seduce me into the deepest sleep while ethereal fingers gently ghost over my hair as I breathe deeply and relax into the unexpected additional warmth. My body fully sinks into the bed in my borrowed room as I sigh audibly and feel my ghostly companion settle tighter about me. And the last thing I hear my dream-lover say to me is; very soon, Leannán – it’s so much closer than you think – before I fully sink into the blackness of sleep.
The scent of strong coffee wakes me sometime after daylight, the gauze curtains on the windows revealing that there are rare patches of blue in the sky even – a very rare thing for this time of year in Ireland, or so I’m told. As I come to full consciousness, I realize that I’m clutching one of the soft down pillows like a boyfriend and I release it before rolling over to search out a clock, which I eventually find on a bedside table to my right. I register the time, eight-fifteen in the morning, and wonder how I didn’t sleep the entire day away, considering that I’d laid down to sleep less than four hours before. I pull myself out of the bed, the floors surprisingly warm against my bare feet as I quietly make my way out of the bedroom and through the house to find the kitchen, letting the smell of the coffee guide me.
“Oh hey!” Jasmine smiles, looking up from this morning’s copy of the Irish Independent, “I’m sorry if I woke you, sometimes this coffee maker will only brew properly when you shout at it and threaten to beat it senseless with a spatula.”
I giggle quietly and join her at the table, reaching for the entertainment section, because I’m still not fully awake yet and I like to start the morning light. “Nah, you’re all good. Didn’t hear a thing, actually woke of my own accord. I guess I’m still not totally used to getting more than four hours at a shot…you know?”
“Yeah,” She replies, getting up to refill her cup, offering me one as well, which I readily accept. “He really is the best training in the world for anyone who wants to do this for a living. I’ll tell you this, my current employer is so much easier, it’s ridiculous. I can actually have a personal life with this one!”
“Jasmine, can I ask you…how?” I sip my strong coffee, but it tastes good today as it slips down my throat.
“Of course you can ask. It’s really rather simple though, his last assistant got married a few months ago and wants to start a family so decided that she couldn’t do that while traipsing all about the planet with a rockstar. I was sick of working where I was underappreciated and underpaid and so when the call came through to come over here and help out for a bit, I jumped at it, what with having heard that he’s actually nearly human.” She laughs and passes over a bowl of sliced apples that I start to pick at.
“And I’m happy to report that he is, in fact, nearly human. Not completely, of course, because nobody who’s well-adjusted and totally normal would get into this racket for a living!”
I laugh along with her.
“But I’ve a lovely place to crash while I’m here and everyone is very nice, for the most part. Well, there are a couple of people in the organization that I’m not quite so fond of, but there doesn’t seem to be anywhere near the competition for attention like we had in Minneapolis.” Jasmine finishes and takes a long sip of her coffee.
“God, I hope I wasn’t like that, an attention whore…” I reflect back to our time working together. Me, this overly-eager, starry-eyed, naive girl straight out of a suburban high school, hanging on to Jasmine’s coattails for dear life as I tried to pick up the job of personal assistant as quickly as I could with as little drama or overt correction as possible.
“Oh god no, honey,” Jasmine smiles reassuringly. “You were eager, yes, but only to learn the gig, not attach yourself to the man. And you did so, quickly, I might add. Honestly, you were my best student!”
“Well, thank god for that!” I sigh. “I’d hate to know now that I was a total pain in the ass that you had to babysit.”
“Not you…him!” She cackles. “Did he ever get any better?”
“With me?” I ask.
“Yes, and with the rest of the staff in general…” Jasmine leans back in the kitchen chair, getting as relaxed as possible in the metal-framed seat.
“Yeah, he seemed to settle in,” I smile. “Then again I just didn’t let him walk all over me, mainly because I was too young and stupid to know any better. When he dished, I just lobbed it right back, so it worked in its own dysfunctional way.”
“So why leave?” She asks.
“It just got to be too much, you know?” She nods, understanding. “The hours are a killer and I needed a break, desperately. But it was always something, recording then promotion and then a tour again and again with no break in-between. I was just exhausted.”
“So you went to New York?” She snickers.
“I know, right?!” I laugh with her. “Because nothing cures exhaustion quicker than by going to the one city on the planet where over-stimulation is considered a selling point. Like a view of the park or something!”
“And really gorgeous men everywhere!” She winks.
“Oh yes, there is that.” I smile wise beyond my nearly twenty-five years.
“And how much did you partake in that particular party favor?” Jasmine asks with another sip of her coffee. I breathe deeply, not sure how ready I am to be completely honest about that part of my life, suddenly feeling far more ashamed about my nocturnal proclivities in the sober light of day.
“Probably more than I should have…” I admit, but do not explain further. I know that while Jasmine would totally understand and not judge my actions, I’m not really ready to test the theory just yet. Jasmine nods, picking up instantly on my unease and drops the subject immediately. We sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes before her eyes light up and she asks;
“Okay, so I have previous commitments tonight and tomorrow, but what are you doing Thursday?” I don’t have the heart to tell her it’s my twenty-fifth birthday. Not that I have any plans though.
“Well,” I smile. “Since you’re really the only person I know in this town…”
“And Grant!” Jasmine merrily interjects.
“Um, okay. I guess if you say so. I mean, I’d call him an extremely casual acquaintance, but whatever!”
“Perhaps,” she winks. “So what about Thursday?”
“I have nothing planned Thursday evening.” I admit. “I still have to register at the police station in the next couple of days so I can get that card thingy.”
“Oh yeah! Definitely don’t forget that. That GNIB thing is super-important from what I’ve heard.” Jasmine confirms.
“Yes.” I nod in agreement. “And I’ve got a meeting with Professor Stephens Thursday morning about my class schedule and assisting him this term in the college art collection. From what it sounds, they use a section of the library as a gallery, but I’ll get a chance to check it out then. He also said something about them possibly putting me at the modern art museum instead, but I don’t know for certain.”
“Perfect then!” Jasmine winks. “There’s this fabulous place I want to take you for dinner. My treat and no arguments!” I look at her as if to protest, but snap my mouth shut, as I know it will do me absolutely no good whatsoever. Not that I get a chance to protest even a little as the phone rings shrilly from the living room and Jasmine excuses herself to answer it. I hear her basic responses, yes, no and the like before she tells the caller with a heavy sigh that she has to make a stop first then will be wherever she’s been beckoned directly after. I hear her hang up the receiver and return to the bright kitchen. “I’m so sorry…” she apologizes.
“Oh!” I look at her in surprise. “It’s okay! I should be getting back anyway. Where’s the nearest DART or something?”
“Oh hell no!” She cackles. “I’m driving you in, it’s the least I can do for dragging you this far south!”
“It’s not necessary, you know. I’ve got to learn how to get around this place on my own one way or another.” I try on independence this time, but it’s a no-go in Jasmine’s eyes.
“Yes, but honestly, it’s really not out of my way. I’ve just been called into a staff meeting that yesterday I was told I didn’t need to be at, is all…kind of sucks, really. Don’t tell me I get the day off then call me less than an hour before you want me there!”
“Yeah, I understand how that would be more than a little frustrating.”
“So, I’m going to go hop in the shower. Please feel free to use the guest bath shower and then I’ll drop you off on my way into the office.” I nod, unwilling to fight her on that one. The showers at the hostel are generally lukewarm, at best and the lure of a real, hot shower is just too enticing to resist. Jasmine squeezes my hand with a wink before I saunter back to the guest room.
As I let the hot water cascade over my sore muscles my belly lurches strongly and I have to stop mid-lather to brace myself against the cool tiled wall. I make a mental note to try to find some sort of doctor once I’m fully registered and have my medical stuff straightened out to find out what seems to be wrong with me. My belly is tender and protruding slightly more than usual today – but I play it off as stress of being in a new city coupled with last night’s champagne binge. I finish washing my hair and body and quickly step out of the shower, in spite of relishing the steaming water, not wanting to keep Jasmine waiting.
I dress quickly and make the bed, refusing to be a poor houseguest. I pull my wet hair into a makeshift chignon at the nape of my neck and strap last night’s heels back onto my feet. I neatly fold and lay the borrowed pajamas on the edge of the bed and shut off the light before walking out and into the surprisingly large sitting room with the East wall full of tall windows. They span along the entire length of the room and overlook a short stretch of garden and out to the Irish Sea beyond. The furnishings are expensive, but comfortable and meant to be sat in, not looked at. The walls are light, but not white, more of a pretty putty-grey that can look more on the brown end in the right light and compliment the furniture, flooring and charcoal and deep orange throw pillows that quietly rest on the small sofa and plush side chair. As the sun fades in and out of the room with the passing clouds the tones shift back and forth from cool to warm tones.
Finally Jasmine joins me, ready to head out for the day. She leads me out a back door, setting the alarm on her way out, then down a winding path to the driveway area, while the imposing white house lies in wait just beyond as we make our way to the garage and the leftmost door, which she opens via another keypad. A midnight blue metallic Mercedes sedan sits inconspicuously as Jasmine signals for me to get into the passenger seat. Instinctually though, I’m on the wrong side and go about quickly remedying that situation as I run to the opposite side of the car and slide into the butter-like leather seat. Jasmine turns over the engine and we’re off back to the city center, quickly making our way along the same roads as last night.
Jasmine pulls the car up to the curb in front of the hostel and wraps her arms around me in a strong embrace.
“I can leave a message here for you, right?” She asks. “To let you know what time I’m picking you up Thursday?”
“Yeah, absolutely. The front desk’s been pretty good so far about getting me messages.” I reply
“Perfect.” She smiles. “I’ll call you Thursday morning to let you know then.” She smiles as I slide out of the car. “In the meantime, be good, okay!” She hands me a small card. “My numbers, in case you need anything, all right?” I nod and palm the card in my hand tightly. “And don’t worry about pulling me away from something. If you need anything, promise me you’ll call me – even if it’s just a shoulder for a few minutes.”
“Okay – I promise.” I reply. “But I think I can make it a couple of days.” I smile and wave as I enter the hostel to get a change of clothes and run a brush over my teeth before hitting the national art gallery for the rest of the day.