Here, seagulls shriek. Their voices pierce through the murmuring crowds that ebb and flow through Dublin’s ancient streets.
Here, the oldest pub dates back to 1198.
Here, Oscar Wilde’s prized wit is written in gold cursive across bathroom stalls.
“Experience is simply the name we give to our mistakes.”
I smile quietly. Mr. Wilde must have traveled, I muse, and later learn, he most certainly did travel extensively.
My trip abroad brims with experiences.
And there’s a recent experience that has traveled with me from the States to Ireland.
It has to do with extending kindness, with in-the-moment, authentic expression, with saying what I feel in real time. And how difficult and knotted this is for me.
I keep thinking of the woman in yellow.
I think of her as I ponder speaking to my plane seat-mate.
I think of her as I wonder if I’d be interrupting the young woman eating alone beside me at the pub and simply inquire about her Irish trip. (I catch a fellow American accent as she orders the vegetarian friendly lentil pie).
I think of the woman in yellow as I pause and wait for the barista at the organic bread and coffee store to swipe clean this very table for me.
I keep thinking of the woman in yellow. She looked sensational in a buttercup yellow dress that hugged in at the waist and then twirled out to just below the knee. She wore high-heels that winked in glitter and dangling starry earrings. She was meeting a friend, and though her makeup was superbly applied, it was her inner radiance that shined through and illuminated her eyes.
And I wanted to tell her, that I saw her, that I noticed the artistry in her dress, that she looked beautiful. And I almost did, as she was about to leave, but something stopped me. A hesitation. A sudden seize of self-consciousness, which is more common for me now than it used to be. A fear that quickly constructed this thought, “Well, if she turns around, I’ll tell her.”
She didn’t turn around. I didn’t tell her.
And this unexpressed kindness has fallen heavy on my heart.
Enough so that I remember it. I think about her.
I think about the woman in yellow as I travel abroad, as I begin in Dublin, and am given all these opportunities, all these experiences, to practice again, to practice being real.
Because it’s important, at least for me, to be real, to express myself in the moment, to shine goodness when I feel inspired and moved to do so … authentically, consciously, light-heartedly.
It’s become a metaphor for my trip.
So, I do strike up a conversation with my seat mate on the plane. The quiet young woman with the head-phones brightens instantly and tells me that she’s a senior in college off to London to study fashion design. We talk clothes, favorite designers, and she shares she’s been making her own clothes since she was 10 when she asked for a sewing machine. That type of skill truly awes me.
So, I include the young woman eating beside me at the pub (the pub that’s been serving up and hosting good times since 1198), and she’s in Ireland for a wedding, just like me, and she’s going to a tea party in a castle for a pre-wedding party.
So, this morning, as the barista sweeps up the crumbs of a croissant, I clearly enunciate my “Thank you” over the breakfasting crowd and she smiles in response.
Travel is rich in experiences.
And Mr. Wilde’s expression amuses me because he cleverly caught me. In my less charitable moments, when irritated, hungry and jet-lagged, I have grumbled about mistakes, about how many mistakes I’ve made while traveling, but in my lighter moments, when I look up to see those seagulls, or find myself once again in the company of a majestic tree on the grounds of Trinity College (in the nearby holy presence of the Book of Kells), I do intentionally rename those mistakes as experiences.
Perhaps, this is the improviser in me. “There are no mistakes, just opportunities,” is an improvisational theatre phrase that I live by, and one that offers a helping nudge as I “yes” and go about adventures abroad.
Similar to extending the heartfelt compliment to the woman in yellow, the opportunity on repeat is extending the same heartfelt grace towards myself. To speak in the moment, to act on my needs, to validate that it’s normal and natural to have needs, to trust the vibe and go with my spontaneous, gut-read on the situation.
Traveling has revealed where I am on the rugged terrain of that inner journey. Because this a lesson, a soul-lesson, I regularly traverse, and have written about here and will write about again.
And every time I find myself back in the heated discomfort of that particular lesson, in that blink of a second where I have suppressed my real response, I soften into the experience of it. The friction in the back of my throat. The constriction around my heart. The agitated whine of my thoughts. The kicking-up of old narratives … the stories I pack with me wherever I go, and I can also choose to unpack them, pronto.
I often think and sometimes even brave out-loud that travel is like fulfilling the dream of going up the Eiffel Tower and needing to pee the entire time.
Instead of rallying against the very human experience, it’s best, in my opinion and perhaps Mr. Wilde would agree, to embrace it.
Perhaps travel humbles me to include the wisdom of my body, first.
So, after a full-weekend of fabulously fun wedding festivities, instead of going out on a full-day tour that following Monday, we enjoy a leisurely day in Dublin. We venture back to Oscar Wilde’s home, to the exquisite park where his esteemed statue resides and we simply sit upon the manicured lawns and bask in that rare blast of Irish sunshine.
So, the first morning in Galway, I strike out into the medieval streets and find a local organic grocery called Ernie’s and as I load up on fresh greens, lemons and blueberries, and locally made goat cheese, I meet the owner, Ernie and his eyes are crystal blue and on my last visit he gifts me free figs.
So, when the swanky hotel we’re staying in Dublin offers breakfast, I retract my initial no and choose a happy yes, and as I munch on my Irish breakfast, I re-remember that hot foods are the ones that fortify and fuel me.
The body comes first. She gets to be included in my travel plans.
And this means that if and when I’m living a bucket-list moment and I do need to use the loo the entire time, I open my arms wide to embrace the whole human experience of it, and also, take my mother’s advice to heart … and never pass-up a free bathroom.
Living this advice leads me to come across that Oscar Wilde quote. At the Little Museum of Dublin, where the tour-guide introduces himself as a Danielle Radcliffe with a mustache, and sure enough, that’s exactly who and what he looks like, that’s where I stumble across the witty Wilde quote on the back of the bathroom door.
And it travels with me.
As I embark on a ferry to the Aran Islands and settle inside and close my eyes and listen to two British women, both stylishly sporting raincoats; one is a fun fuchsia with tangerine lining and the other is bright yellow! I eavesdrop as they joke, politely gossip and happily call a woman awaiting them on the island named “MOIRA!” (but it sounds like MOOR-RA!). In that moment, I am lulled by the sea to the twilight edge of sleep, and their voices flutter around me. Later, on the island, in the back of horse-drawn carriages, we will smile at each other, the lady in the yellow raincoat and me, and while on the boat, my body gets to be cradled and soothed, a returning back to the sensations that first rocked me into existence in my mother’s womb.
Here, on this island with city flying seagulls, the witty hauntings of Oscar Wilde, and 12th century pubs, there’s this ongoing experience of returning to my inner world as I explore the outer. And as I care for myself, this propels waves that carry me forward.
Make no mistake, I’m packing up my lessons and integrating all these experiences, knowing it’s all part of the greater journey.