525,600 minutes – how do you measure a year in the life?

welcomeI moved to Ireland a year ago.
I left Amsterdam twelve months ago.
Three hundred and sixty six days ago I emigrated/immigrated.

I’m not going to write some post bemoaning my difficulties settling back in to the motherland.

Nor am I going to whine about how I miss my old life and friends back in the land of the Clog.

I am merely acknowledging (thanks to the valiant efforts of Mark Zuckerberg and his company’s memories) that it has been one year since I came back to Ireland after spending most of the twenty first century in the land below the sea.

I said when I left,  that I would give Ireland a year of my life, to experience what it was like. And only after that time would I decide how I wanted to live and where I wanted to be.

I remember the trip to Schiphol airport with some friends, having more than the baggage allowance, while at the same time enjoying a diabetic hypo. I remember scarfing down a stroopwafel for the sugar hit and paying the vinegar lipped lady at the excess baggage counter for those extra six kilos.

I remember going through those departure gates and not turning around.

And I have come to a decision.

*Cue dramatic violin*

I have decided to do nothing. For the moment.

It may have been a year in Ireland. But it’s only been nine months in Dublin. And it’s only been seven months that I have not been house-sharing with a certifiably lunatic, mattress sniffer.

I remember flying into Cork airport where my sister was waiting for me. I remember being stuck in a traffic jam in Buttevant (the armpit of Ireland) due to the roadworks, wondering if it was too early to sneak into the Welcome Inn for a cheeky pint.

My contract with work lasts another three months. The lease on my flat lasts another five months. Both have the possibility / probability (I don’t want to be second guessing potential outcomes) to be extended beyond these times.

So I will wait until January before I commit to a place.

And so the see-saw keeps moving. Back and forth. Up and down.Each year in Amsterdam I would make a plan to give it another year to see, was it going to stick. And each year I did.

Until I didn’t.

It’s not a bad way to live.

I know I can go back. But I’ll stay where I am just for the moment. Decisions are for wusses. Vacillation is the name of the game.

 

 

 

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