It’s three p.m. on a Thursday in St. Stephen’s Green and it’s sunny – so ridiculously sunny for Dublin that everyone’s out and everyone’s in shirtsleeves and everyone’s on the grass and someone, some bold someone, is smoking pot; it floats on by in a sour whiff and Em and I remark on the absolute cheek. None for us, though – dammit – and there are tulips bursting all over the green – red and purple and yellow – and even if we felt like it, it’s too lovely out to move. No swans out, but loads of seagulls and pigeons. Dunnes shopping bags and a sack half-full of a traditional steak Hanley’s cornish pasty; comfort on my tongue. Em reads over her term paper. The sun shines right on my face – here. In Dublin. I still can’t believe it. I roll over on the grass. I have a little nap.

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You’re a sight for sore eyes.

Five years ago, nearly to the day, I wrote this in my journal:

I need to just give up – I’ll never be a writer. what ever made me think I could be one? HOW CAN YOU BE A WRITER IF YOU’RE NOT CREATIVE?????? HOW CAN YOU BE A WRITER IF YOU NEVER WRITE EXCEPT FOR BULLSHIT PARAGRAPHS THAT MEAN NOTHING??? HOW CAN YOU BE A WRITER IF WHAT YOU DO WRITE IS TOTAL AND COMPLETE SHIT????? HOW CAN YOU BE A WRITER IF YOU’RE AFRAID TO WRITE – SURE THAT WHATEVER YOU SAY WILL BE RIDICULED, REJECTED, HATED, and TERRIBLE?

I believed every word of this paragraph. Every. Freaking. Word.

And today, April 19 2011, I graduated from Trinity College Dublin with an M. Phil in Creative Writing.

Take that, my 26 year-old self.

I may never be as brilliant as my fellow Trinity alums. But damned if I’m not going to try.

Again. Brick. Brown bread. Pasties. Statues. Mussels. Craic.

Graduation Time.

America the beautiful.

On the platform of the Q train, heading out to Queens. A crush of people; all of us staring down the train tracks. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

I think that girl pregnant. I turn to my left and it’s a middle-aged woman; short sandy-colored hair and a soft Eastern European accent. Smiling at me, speaking in a conspiratorial hush. Look. That girl over there in white sweatshirt. But she very little. She maybe thirteen.

I can’t really see the girl with the white sweatshirt – too many people on the platform, but I see flashes of the shirt, flashes of a long brown ponytail; the back of her body. She is little. I can’t see the front of her; her stomach or her face. She hugs an adult woman. They both stare down the train tracks.

It very sad, says the woman next to me. But she pregnant. I think that her mother. 

Our hair lifts and underneath our feet, an ominous rumble.

That’s the Q, I say. My train. Have a nice day.

Goodbye, says the woman. She’s smiling so hard her eyes are slits. God bless you.

I move towards the train; elbow my way into the car. And then I finally see the little girl. She ain’t pregnant.

So when I’m in town, I often watch Tilly – the Pomeranian of Diego and Joy. She’s a lovely little dog; good-tempered, never rapes or bites your leg. Just the right blend of friendliness and independence. Win win all around. And with the miracle of modern technology, it’s simple for pet watcher and pet owners to keep in touch these days. To wit:

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Back in New York now; a lengthy layover between the wedding madness in Guatemala and my graduation from Trinity in Dublin. A layover because both far-flung events took space in a short time frame and the trip to Guatemala is, in essence, my trip to the West for the year so why not make the most of it? It’s New York in the early throes of spring time; pink blossoms sprouting up all over the city in intermittent bursts. Gorgeous day outside, the old familiar smells and sounds. But I find myself pensive between lunch and dinner dates; crankier than perhaps I could be. And that’s because, for as much as I love this city, the longer I stay away, the more I come to hate being back home sometimes. And I love this city. And I love my friends. But sometimes… well….

Why I (sort of) hate being back home in New York:

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A pack of filthy drunks

So my role in this wedding – the boda of Cristina and Adrian – really started over 20 years ago, when our cousin Lucinda got married to Ricardo. Cristina and I were all of eight years old; strapped into ruffled dresses and plunked down with the other little cousins at the kiddy table with a muchacha who, several minutes into the reception, disappeared with a waiter and didn’t return for the rest of the night. Slut, we said. Puta. And cracked open the bottles of Johnny Walker Red that, for some reason, had been placed on the table reserved for us – the under 10 dolts. Soon enough, we were drunk – drunk on freedom, anyway, as I doubt any of us had more than a sip of whiskey. But Cristina said: When I get married, I want white flowers like Lucinda and I want a white dress like hers and I want a white car and a church outside and I want you to be one of my bridesmaids. I agreed. Because that’s what you do when you’re an eight year old and you’re fake drunk on whiskey. And you love your cousin like crazy.

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