This time four years ago, I was all too familiar with waking up at unreasonable hours.
My usual shift began between 7:15 and 7:30am, with the route for Coronado starting at 6:18. My alarm was always set for 5, though weeks of being physically drained had taken its toll and I now woke up at 4am after falling asleep around 7 or 8pm.
For the first part of last year, I’d often be awake at 6 to catch the bus to catch the train to make my shift at 8:30am. There was one day where I worked a 13.5 hour shift, standing.
Still, none of my shifts ever started before 7am - until yesterday, when I worked the earliest and longest shift of my life. (Thankfully, I sat for this one.)
October 18, 2017.
Somehow, a year has come and gone since the day I watched the Emerald Isle disappear into the clouds.
It was difficult to say goodbye. I’d made friends there. I’d created a family. I attended a church I loved. I’d worked three jobs, one of which finally put me in my field, however temporarily. My life was there, in that county known as Cork.
Bonjour! Ça va?
Over the past three years, I have become quite accustomed to hostels. I enjoy the way they are set up, allowing travellers to easily interact with other travellers.
This time, however, I decided to try something new. Rather than pay for a hostel, I looked at both Couchsurfing and Airbnb. The former didn’t pan out, so I chose the latter.
I am happy to say that I made the right decision.
I suppose in my family, leaving is just something you do.
Three years ago today, I boarded British Airways for my first international flight. Thanks a mill, Facebook; reading that wasn’t depressing, at all.
I don’t even remember the first time I stepped foot in an airport.
When I was a child, I hated history.
Melanie Martin was so cool, 10-year-old me thought as I dove into another Martin adventure. Carol Weston’s adventurous Mel and her brother, Matt the Bratt, had already been to Italy, Spain, the Netherlands and of course New York by the time she was 11. I could only dream of such things.
Originally published March 17, 2017.
In Ireland, the coldest and wettest day of the year is St. Patrick's.
At least, according to the locals.
As a young girl, one of my most prized possessions was a little novel entitled Grain of Sand, by the virtually unknown Marie DeVenezia, my great-grandmother. She wrote the memoir primarily for her family, detailing her journey from an orphaned teenager in Avellino, Italy to a married woman of 10 kids in the tenements of New Jersey.
Some people grow up and decide that Disney is only for children. Others have annual season passes and visit the parks anytime they get the chance. Me, I buy all the Disney paraphernalia I can get from Hot Topic and Penneys/Primark, enroll in a class about Walt Disney, visit his childhood home in Marceline, receive the title from my campus Editor-in-Chief as "the one who knows all the Disney references that have been made, ever" and get a job in the parks.
A p r i l D a w n
Aspiring journalist who also longs to write novels whilst hopping aboard the T.A.R.D.I.S. You may have seen my writing in the Cork Independent.
T o p i c s