In return for so much, what shall we give back? NYC-DUBLIN-BELFAST


I’ll fast-forward through the logistics of my journey for now. You can probably paint the picture. Subway to NJ transit to Airtrain to overnight flight to bus ride to long delay at a train station to long train ride to bus ride.

I began reading Forever by Pete Hamill on the plane- a Christmas gift! So far, I’ve found it haunting and magical. I’m not very far in. I’ll keep you posted.


I had a bit of time in Dublin before my train to Belfast. Once I located Connolly Station, I explored the area a bit. Forgive the phone pictures. I kept my camera gear wrapped up tight because I was carrying all my luggage and it was raining. Don’t fret- I’ll be stomping around Dublin at the end of this trip.

I did poke my head in every coffee shop I passed to see what the menus had to offer. Espresso seems big here, but iced coffee- not so much. Strong, chilled and decently prepared coffee rates pretty high on my list of  basic survival needs. Don’t be fooled. I can survive (and often thrive) in some pretty rustic conditions, but I have become accustomed to being able to get an awesome cup of iced coffee several times a day, every day. I had a pretty mediocre hot cuppa at Connolly first thing off the bus.  I investigated several shops who proved to have no iced options. The anxious sharks began circling in my stomach as I strolled back down Abbey St. And then…


Bewley’s grabbed my attention from the window of Arnott’s department store. I peeped through the window, and the words ‘iced coffee’ appeared together on the menu. After chatting with a really helpful barista who clarified- ‘iced coffees’ are frozen, blended drinks- I talked her through making her first Iced Americano with Skim. It was glorious.


The journey to Belfast was a bit of a blur. I sat with a young Irish girl who’d come home to surprise her boyfriend for New Year’s and a Grandma coming home from holiday shopping. They were lovely, but I was so travellagged that putting together a cohesive sentence was a struggle. And so, I zoned.


I’ve been in Belfast for less than two hours. After wandering the rapidly-darkening streets of the City Centre without a map I finally stumbled upon the bus stop I needed. When I realized I only had Euros and no sterling, my fare was paid for me on the bus by a stranger named Paulie who told me about her family and her Christmas and her cousin who danced in Riverdance and maybe I knew her? and how lovely that I’d be visiting the south and of course she’d get off at my stop with me instead of her own (it wasn’t that much further and despite her leg braces walking was really no bother at all) so she could see to it herself that I got to my destination and deposited me on the doorstep. We parted ways with a big hug and a Very Happy New Years to Ya and Best of Luck in the Year 2014!

The door opened and I was greeted with an equally warm and enthusiastic smile (two to be exact, as my host Mary’s daughter was home). My bags were whisked up to my room and a tour was given and was I hungry? Did I want tea? Or coffee? Juice? All of the above?

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Cease fast forward. Press play. A moment of static and then… I’m sitting in the loveliest, homiest kitchen I’ve ever seen in a little Victorian near Alexandra Park in Belfast, sipping tea and juice and eating homemade scones with fresh butter for supper. I’m alone and it’s quiet. In this moment I feel filthy from traveling through non-stop rain since Brooklyn, achy from bag-schlepping and drained from 28+ hours sleep free. I also feel, quite possibly, the most exquisitely civilized I’ve ever felt. I’m exhausted, but wrapped in a very welcome embrace, which makes tired feel good. Necessary. Part of a process of unpacking onself and becoming untired.

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And now, to rest and dream of what I want to do with the last day of 2013. How did I get so lucky?


Visiting the Homeland, On My Terms

I’ve been to Ireland before, as an awkward pre-teen in a hoard of likewise awkward pre-teens, shuttled around on a bus chartered by my Irish dance school, in the company of my sisters, my mom and one of my many ‘other-moms’- my dance master, Terri.

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That’s me- sleep dancing far left, with Corey, Margaret, Terri, Gretchen, Violet and 1/2 of Katie.

It was my first foreign country. We had to pack our dance shoes. And costumes. And sponge curlers.


This shot is from our annual dance camp- not in Ireland, but an acurate sampling of the early AM public humiliation we endured after spending 8 restless hours sleeping on HARD PLASTIC SPEARS ATTACHED TO OUR HEADS.

It was snowy, angry February when we left NY and Ireland opened her green, lush arms to us in the most welcoming of ways. It sounds like a bunch of hooey, but I remember feeling a surprising sense of homecoming as I stepped off the plane. My gut (influenced heavily by logic) registered this as some incarnation of home, albeit several generations back. My mom had brought little travel journals for everyone on the trip so we could record our memories. I wrote a lot in that journal. Not necessarily about traveling, but it planted a seed. Obviously.

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This time, I return with my own agenda (or lack thereof). I’ve become a very fluid, transient traveler. I arrive, I absorb and I plan from there. General research is done, ‘best coffee in ______’ is Googled, TripAdvisored, LonelyPlaneted, Twittered and Facebooked and I line up a few accommodations to help gain my bearings. The rest is sweet, sweet improv.


I’m flying into Dublin, hopping up to Belfast for New Year’s, over to Derry/Londonderry for a few winks and then…

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The What and the Why.

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Calling New York home is like finding solace in a little piece of every corner on the earth. Densely-packed, pressure-cooked, fuzzily-delineated-enclaves drip with culture, sweating their customs and traditions onto the sidewalk. This oil-spill coating of histories and beliefs and cuisines and languages makes it impossible to forget that the experience of human-folk on this earth is spectacularly expansive and impressively diverse.

It’s like a sampler platter- tastes of this- whiffs of that- and the further off the well-beaten, neon-lit, Bloomberg-bleached tourist path you get, the deeper, richer and more memorable the flavors become.

Never one to follow directions or flock with a crowd, I’ve dedicated this small space on the web to my adventures in these outside-spots. I’m sharing my city and discovering others. And I’m a bit nervous. Will my captain’s log turn into a bread-crumb-trail for the hungry masses? Will shining a light on the exceptional and authentically unique pillars help them thrive? Will I ever figure out WordPress? Big questions. Stick around to find out.