Google lies. After another fitful night’s semi-sleep and checking out of our dorm room, we followed Google’s directions to get on the wrong bus. It took us about 30 minutes in the opposite direction of where we wanted to go, and Jeff told me to get up, we were getting off to find a new bus. We did so and rode forever in the right direction, and barely made the second bus we needed to get to the airport. We discovered this was a private bus company, not public transport, so Jeff paid our fare instead of using the Leap card anyway, even though that’s why we left so early to avoid having to do. But by this time, I was past caring.

When we got to the airport, we had to pass through two security checks, one Irish, and the second just before passing through U.S. customs. That was an absolute mess, but they kept us moving pretty fast. After we got to the U.S. side of things, we noticed the temperature was 10 degrees cooler. They had hired industrial fans to blow on the crowd. We spoiled Americans need our air conditioning! We arrived at our gate about two hours early and sat in relief that the hardest part of this leg was done. We ate lunch on the plane, some sort of curried chicken and rice dish that stayed with me far into the night. But I will say the plane from Dublin was air conditioned, so it was a much more comfortable journey. I dozed some but was still nearly done for when we landed at Dulles. I had been worried that we’d have to run to catch our connecting flight, but it was only about five gates down from where we deplaned, so all worked out well. By the time we got to Nashville to be picked up by Jeff’s dad, I was a little zombiefied. We stopped for some honest to goodness American pizza at Jet’s, and when we got home, I downed not one but two cans of Mello Yello, ice cold from the refrigerator where I’d put them two weeks ago in anticipation of our arrival from a parched and thirsty Europe. We went straight to bed after supper.

As I sit here now, still sleepy, but a little more coherent, I think about my impressions of my first international trip, and of Ireland. I see the clouds blanketing the Connemara mountains in an otherworldly mist, the waves breaking against the base of the Cliffs of Moher, the gulls weightlessly riding the wind. I hear the noise of the city, Irish accents of every variety — from those that sound almost French, to slow and genteel, to rapid fire and curse filled — Jeff singing the chorus of “Window in the Skies” as we wait for a Dublin bus. I smell the age in the wood, in the books, in the stone, in the air itself. Again I walk through the ubiquitous open doors of the businesses, likely meant to allow a breeze inside to ease a rare Irish heat wave, but, to me, more a symbol of Irish hospitality. I feel that sun burning me in a way I never would have dreamed, and that “wet rain” almost soaking into my skin. Most of all, I feel my hand in Jeff’s.

I listened to The Quiet Man soundtrack as we took off and watched Ireland grow smaller beneath me. I cried as we left even as I was happy to be going home. Ireland was a wonderful experience to have with my husband, and I know that, as long as we’re together, the places we go in the future will hold wonders of their own.