Ireland was the start of a three-week European trip, and for a few days, everything was perfect. I reunited with my best friends from high school, and it was like no time had passed. We explored charming streets, lingered in cozy pubs, and found comfort in familiar laughter. Ireland, with its warmth and quiet beauty, felt made for those moments.

Then Paris happened. On our first day there, I got a call—my dog, Hilo, had escaped from the boarding facility. Cue frantic phone calls and flight changes. Avery, meanwhile, was panicking for a different reason: he’d planned to propose in Paris. Just as we were about to board the flight home, we got the news—Hilo had been found.

We ended up back in Ireland, in a rainy little town called Dún Laoghaire, where I caught Covid and spent days watching pigeons from the window. It wasn’t the trip I planned, but slow travel has always suited me. It’s the small moments—the sound of rain, the view of a quiet street, the presence of old friends—that stay with me. In the end, that was exactly what I needed.

Ireland