Slainte!

One of our favorite sites so far has been the village of Blarney and its famous castle, just north of the City of Cork, in Co. Cork. Blarney is a four-pub town, which I suppose is the equivalent of a one-horse town anywhere else in the world. Its population is roughly 1,500 according to one local I polled. We happened to stay at the inn above Blarney’s finest pub, the Muskerry Arms. We loved this place!

We pulled into Blarney hungry and road-weary and were immediately welcomed by half the town spilling out onto the street in the most quaint rugby bar I’ve ever seen. The guesthouse here was clean, newly renovated, spacious, and incredibly hospitable. The food was equally incredible, both dinner and breakfast.

Thanks to the location of our BnB three steps from the Castle gate, we were also some of the first visitors to Blarney Castle and got to enjoy the grounds in quiet isolation. I kissed the Blarney Stone and Chelsea kissed me after, which is more than I might have done had the roles been reversed.

I also had the joy of running into an very dear friend’s mom while at the top of Blarney Castle. Seeing Andi Loew reminded me of many fond memories I had of my good friend, Jake Loew. Andi and I had a good cry and then a good laugh about some of the things Jake and I used to get into in high school. I felt his and Billy’s presence that day, which warmed my heart.

We had a great time in Ireland experiencing these Gaelic takes on classic american brands:

Dunkin Donuts:

Johnny Rockets:

McCafe

TJ Maxx:

Last but not least, I never miss an opportunity to snap a shot of this American staple in every destination worth its rim salt:

We landed in Dublin, Ireland on July 4, the United States’ Independence Day. On this date I typically find myself filled with unbridled pride and patriotism (with a hint of nationalism). This year was no exception, and Ireland felt like an appropriate place to experience these feelings.

The Irish will tell you that they are most proud of their independence from Britain, officially earned by treaty in 1922 but for the sake of analogy, gained through guerrilla tactics in July 1921. The Irish are right to celebrate their hard earned independence–every one of our tours in this country emphasize that the Irish lost nearly every war and battle, particularly the defensive ones, that took place in their homeland. The norse, the gauls, the normans, and the saxons each took their turn conquering Ireland, and their influences can be see in the architecture and even the culture.

Besides and inclusive of the politics, Ireland is a charmingly poetic place. In the local vernacular (Irish Gaelic, or Irish Caeltic, depending who you ask), you can’t just use descriptive language, you must use metered poetic descriptive language. The turns of phrase we have heard from the locals inspired us to engage nearly everyone in deep conversations, both to hear their fine accents and to hear their elongated, elaborate way of saying 9:30 (“haugh-nayne”) or something as simple as coffee creamer (“pouring cream”). Everything’s a craic here (craic means “fun” or “atmosphere”)–where’s the craic? how’s the craic? is it craic? great craic! We asked around to find the local craic and were not disappointed in the free spirit and happiness of the local Irish in the big cities and the tiny villages.

Speaking of tiny villages, this is the real joy of visiting Ireland. We loved Dublin, and learned more than we expected about Irish history and Independence, but the true emerald of this isle is every hobbit hole between Dublin and Cork. Rent a car and explore. Every hillside is lush and laden with cows and sheep, speckled here and there with a modest cottage and not so modest medieval ruin. The local villagers are warm and inviting and tell fascinating stories. We were charmed the minute we left Dublin.

We left Ireland longing to return in the future with a focus on countryside sightseeing on the west coast. Let us know if you’d like to join for round two.

The word “transit” has a number of meanings, depending on its usage. As a noun, “transit” means “the carrying of people, goods, or materials from one place to another.” Colloquially, we understand it to mean “the conveyance of passengers on public transportation.”

I found the following definition most convincing: “an act of passing through or across a place.” We associate transit with transportation and movement.

Today, Chelsea and I are set to embark on a four month journey of transit–passing through or across the globe. We’re sitting in a New York City airport waiting for our flight across the Atlantic Ocean. From there, we’ll use planes, trains, automobiles, and our own legs to move across and back four continents. It’s pretty surreal that we have the ability to do this, and that the world is small enough, and connected enough, to make such a journey seamless.

I think this journey is more than a physical trip. I am looking forward to a spiritual and metaphysical transit–passing through time and space to connect with another soul. I am looking forward to the challenges of spending twenty four hours a day over the next one hundred and twenty days — collectively, two thousand two hundred and eighty hours (more, if they’re billable)– in an array of challenging environments. Foreign cultures, language barriers, human exhaustion, an infinite number of things that will not go according to our plans. All of these, an opportunity to connect, and transcend, the physical and connect on the spiritual plane.

Let’s board.

I once heard a profound Rabbi explain to me his story of immigrating to the US from Brazil, alone, as a teenage boy. When he arrived, without food, shelter, friendship, or even a basic understanding of the English language, he thought about calling his parents and begging to come home (conveniently for him, he did not even know how to make that call). In a moment that came to define his life, he took a look at one of his few possessions, a book by Chaim Potok, “In the Beginning.” The inscription in that book gave him perspective to persevere with the simple sentence, “All beginnings are hard.”

I can boldly, and perhaps arrogantly, state that Chaim Potok is incorrect. Our beginning (Chelsea and mine) could not have been smoother or easier. Of course, a philosophical look at exactly how we met, found each other, and began planning a life together would point out that there was a beginning to our beginning, and that was indeed hard. I suppose now the reader has an enormous number of questions, namely “Who is Chelsea? What ‘beginning’? What is this blog about?” In fairness to the reader, I will start at the beginning.

Beresheet Barah Elohim et Chelsea. In the beginning, G-d created Chelsea–and he created her just for me. I met Chelsea a little over six months ago, and so began the genesis of my new life. I had previously spent the greater part of 31 years learning, working, hobbying (oh, boy, I have had a lot of expensive hobbies), and trying to figure out who I am and who I want to be. This beginning was hard. It was fun, and it was worth it, but I faced a lot of challenges trying to find my place in the world. And suddenly, I met Chelsea, and everything seemed to fit perfectly together and make sense.

Chelsea grew up in LA, and bounced around between Northern California, then Dominica, then Michigan, and finally Voorhees, NJ. When asked how she found “sof haolam smola” (the left turn at the end of the world), she would tell you for medical residency. I think she was really looking for me.

Chelsea and I met online and quickly discovered we shared identical values, parallel “coming to America” stories, inverse relationships with judaism, and opposite tastes in music. But we found and we felt love at first sight, truly.

Some would call our relationship a “whirlwind romance,” but I find it funny to think of myself as any sort of romantic. I would say we “gelled”, or maybe electromagnetically attracted is more accurate. Chelsea is the first, and only, person who I’ve successfully put first in my life, above myself. So I knew from the minute I met her I would need to convince her to choose me for the rest of her life.

How to do it? Well, G-d had an answer for this too. In the back of my mind, I was starting to feel professional burnout and began conceiving of taking a hiatus from work to travel the world. And suddenly, Chelsea came into my life with an opportunity to take a sabbatical between a medical residency and an attending physician position. Cogs started to turn, and a plan started to form.

“Chelsea, will you put everything you’ve ever worked towards on hold, to travel the world with a stranger you barely know, to foreign countries you’ve never heard heard of, staying in backwater towns to experience the unique cultures of far-away places tourists never go?”

“Of course not,” she replied. “But, I’ll travel mostly off the beaten path as long as we go to Europe first, and as long as I’m with you.”

(Historians will debate whether the above exchange actually took place, but I am taking artistic liberties).

And so, in a great example of compromise in relationships, we agreed to plan a trip. Four months of planning later, we are mere weeks away from a 16 week, 18 country journey of discovery. In the process of experiencing people and places, I hope to discover more about the woman who changed my life, who inspires me daily, and who has given meaning to my life.

I view this trip as the prologue to the book of our shared life together, in which dedication I will inscribe, “Not all beginnings are hard.”

–Matan