Ireland was meant to be the peaceful start of a three-week trip through Europe. I’d gone to meet up with my best friends from high school, and for a while, it was exactly what I needed. We wandered through streets filled with beautiful old architecture, spent long evenings catching up in warm, lively pubs, and laughed like we were teenagers again. Ireland was perfect for that—calm, inviting, and full of genuinely kind people.
Then we went to Paris, where everything promptly fell apart.
The first day in a lovely Parisian flat, I got the call: my dog, Hilo, had escaped from the boarding facility back home. Chaos ensued. We spent hours frantically making calls, rearranging flights, and preparing to leave. Meanwhile, Avery was quietly panicking because—of course—he’d been planning to propose in Paris. But with a missing dog on the loose, romance was clearly not on the agenda.
Just as we were about to board the plane, the call came: Hilo had been found. Crisis averted, but the trip was already a mess. We ended up flying back to Ireland and staying in a small coastal town called Dún Laoghaire (which, in classic Irish fashion, is pronounced nothing like it looks). That’s when I caught Covid. I spent days stuck in the hotel, watching pigeons from the window while rain lashed against the glass. It wasn’t quite the grand European adventure I’d imagined.
Yet, despite everything, Ireland left a lasting impression. I’ve never been a grand traveler—it’s not the famous landmarks or big, sweeping moments that stick with me. It’s the small things, the ones most people might overlook: the rhythm of rain on a stone street, the quiet companionship of pigeons outside a window, or the comfort of familiar laughter with old friends. So, while the trip fell apart in many ways, those slow, reflective days in Dún Laoghaire were exactly what I needed. One day, I’ll get my Paris proposal, but honestly, this story feels far more like me.
Ireland