State of Mind

New York. The Big Apple. Concrete jungle where dreams are made of and one’s life savings are efficiently squandered. The city that never sleeps, and still has me sleepless long since my departure.

Months before my London bound disappearing act, I had planned a ten day holiday with my closest friend, Jan. It was his birthday and Fashion Week; the two most important events of the year for him, and therefore now me. We began our departure at Gatwick airport where, upon waiting to board the cheapest and therefore worst airline flight, I decided to throw my travelling partner’s passport in a Starbucks garbage bin, thus nearly putting our entire trip to an abrupt end. Fifteen minutes of unadulterated panic, one quick dumpster dive, two mind numbing, in-flight entertainment free flights, one eventless layover in Iceland, two wasted hours inquiring about lost baggage in Newark Airport, and an added hour of misguided train rides later, we had finally arrived. Manhattan. We exited Penn Station and gazed above at the notorious Madison Square Garden bearing down on us like some overbearing and rather intimidating welcome banner. Snow was everywhere, and as the icy winds nearly rendered my nostrils dysfunctional, I quickly realized just how long it had been since this seasoned British Canadian had properly felt the brittle hands of winter. Knee deep, we waded our way through frantic, snowy white streets hoping to God a cab would eventually stop instead of rushing past, shooting streams of grey slush in its pitiless wake. By the time one finally showed mercy, we were completely soaked, and worried for the wellbeing of all extremities. But we drove, nonetheless, through borough after borough-- correction, neighbourhood after neighbourhood; easy, Toto. You aren’t in England anymore-- Midtown, Chelsea, West Village, Greenwich Village. And there we were. Our suto home for the next ten very posh and glamorous American days. Jan had found a very generous mate whom he had met back in London who now once again lived in New York and resided in the most fabulous one bedroom apartment in the centre of Greenwich Village. He was from Philly. He said things like, “Tuesdee” and “Weuter” and had a name Tony Saprano would have envied. He played the Saxophone and had two Charles Bradley records in his possession next to several John Coltrane and one Raphael Saadiq. I was in love. He was gay. I was still in love, though unrequited.

Thirty-something hours had passed since we set sail on our cross continental excursion, but one would be a fool to think this would come between any invitation to extend the evening a few more hours with more than a couple well deserved welcome cocktails. We began at Wogies; a classic american bar, dark and dingy, that specialised in Philly Cheesesteaks. Naturally. And even more naturally, Jan and I opted to substitute said phillies for pony neck bottles of beer and notorious pickle backs. Now nicely buzzed and only mildly conscious of our sleep deprivation, the bill arrived, and with it the most accurate introduction as to what the entirety of our trip would inevitably end in: One hundred dollars. It became abundantly clear that New York was more accurately the city that rapes your pockets and bleeds you dry than any other sentimentality heard throughout the ages. There i was, day one, crunching numbers, weighing the importance of eating for the next 10 days over the view from the top of the Empire State Building-- which, itself, we would learn cost fifty bloody bucks. Please, take me home. Alas, we were anything but quitters. Especially when it came to international alcohol consumption. The night was still young and Philly had wanted to take us to a local cocktail favourite of his. It was called Happiest Hour and as we would discover, the weirdest hour. Flamingo shirt clad bartenders, a bizarrely tropical theme without any, in fact the very opposite of, tropical decor--minus a row of palm tree wallpaper shellacked across a single wall. It was like stepping into a pretentious wine bar whose employees were desperately poached from a tacky tiki version of a Red Robin. Our fellow patrons were as sadly ostentatious as their boastful old fashioned which tasted more like cheap cinnamon hearts from three Valentines prior than even the worst of whiskeys. Desperate to escape the tragic island, we cut towards the back door and pleasantly discovered a small set of stairs leading to a basement bar that didn’t require a personal floatation device or heavy SPF. Slowly Shirley, it was called, and spectacular it surely was. Quaint, and intimately lined with dark oak, warm leather upholstered booths and dimly lit wall shades, this retro bar was everything old hollywood and everything Chelsea (Beamish, not Borough). But not so much Jan. He sat in silence while I sipped, glamorously on my just dirty enough gin martini, draped in a sleek black dress that flawlessly hid the ridiculously unclassy black boots the godforsaken snow had forced me to stomp around in. Our barboy was from Boston, and he had the chops to prove it. He was cute, in an odd and very American way, but he had an accent I could gladly fall asleep to every night, thus planting my new found obsession with what would continue to pull at my ever so susceptible infatuation strings for the remainder of our stay; the beautifully beguiling Boston Accent. But the night was due to end, and with the final drop of my third martini, I felt my international eyelids begin their descent into what would be the the one and only full night sleep I would incur over the next nine days...

Day two began with a strict itinerary of fashion show after fashion show after Chelsea getting aggressively hostile over lack of food-- I’m not one of the models, I can’t live off air-- which then lead to a hasty intermission of pizza by the slice after pizza by the slice after more fashion shows, and then copious amounts of recovery alcohol…

And so we begin...

Herein lies a guide to the fashion world, described in detailed by the wise words of a mere commoner who’d sooner shoot herself in the mediocrely clad torso than endure another moment of the hierarchy that is NEW YORK FASHION WEEK:

1. Wear fur. No one will acknowledge your presence if you are not draped in the hide of the most endangered of species... unless they are seeking the whereabouts of the nearest bathroom.
2. Entrance is everything. Begin to adjust your strut ten yards prior to entry and be sure to clearly state your dissociation from those who dress inferior to you by passive aggressively cutting them off; nose tilted in an upward direction.
3. Having your photo taken amongst the fashion welfare is fashion week suicide. But regardless, you are nobody unless your photo is being taken. If your photo is not being taken, revert to Rule 1.
4. Outerwear is innerwear. Do not remove your sunglass. Or your hat. Or your fur. Even though there will be no central air and you will literally boil your insides and die. Air conditioning is so last season.
5. Wear black. Colour is dead. Unless it is shiny.
6. Drink the activated charcoal juice provided to you in mass quantities even though it comes with a warning and is revoltingly inedible. It’s black and goes with your outfit.
7. While waiting in line, feel free to compliment others, but only if you’re certain you look better than them.
8. If you are forced into conversation, keep it brief and only discuss yourself. Preface each introduction with “What’s your Insta?” (don’t say gram, gram is also dead) and immediately devote all your attention to creeping the newly acquainted to gauge whether or not they are worthy of words exchanged.
9. Name drop everyone and everything. Regardless of relevance. If your husband just returned from competing in the Semi Pro Japanese Heavyweight Wrestling Championships with a medal of honour slide that into the conversation. Even if the conversation was about pastels. (If you’re having a conversation about pastels you have not been listening to Rule 4).
10. You can never overuse the word “like”. Like, not even ever.
11. You will not be fed. If you feel pangs of hunger, you’re fat. Stop it.
12. Once inside a show, don’t look excited to be there. Mimicking boredom is encouraged. Smiling is prohibited. Pouting is preferable. Pout like you’re mourning the memory of what food tastes like or the ear drums you lost to the obnoxiously remixed house music blaring three inches from your face.
13. No one will know you’re a bigger deal than them if you don’t take a selfie to prove it. Always take selfies. Don’t bother wasting a good lighting opportunity by taking photos of the immaculately constructed garments before you. You are more important.
14. Contrary to Rule 10, if you’re important enough, you might get a box of cookies. Don’t eat the cookies. But don’t give away your cookies to the less cookie fortunate. It shows weakness.
15. Silence is a must during the shows, but be sure to cheer extra super loud for the plus size models to help them feel just like the real models (even though we know they’re not).
16. Always look for cellulite.
17. Yawn often and ignore D list celebrities. Unless they’re Nikki Hilton. If you see what’s left of Nikki Hilton, ask her where her sister is before offering to buy her a cheeseburger. (This will be the only time it is acceptable to break Rule 10)
18. If you feel you are incapable of successfully abiding by each and every one of these vital and pertinent rules, simply do as I did: Stand at the back, speak to no one unless you happen to be standing next to a stage hand in which case offer to buy him a beer if he’ll help you escape, and if you find yourself trapped and forced into intolerable conversation, ask if they got their outfit at TK Maxx and offer them your myspace page. They will run like hares from a hound.

Needless to say, after one day of fashion shows, I kindly handed Jan my verbal resignation as his plus one to any further fashion excursions while vowing to delete my instaGRAM account as soon as I no longer felt the incessant urge to throw my phone at every beaver pelted, Moschino wearing Kate Moss wannabe that slinked past me. Thankfully, Jan knew just how to cheer me up, and that was allowing me to randomly navigate us toward The Fat Black Pussy Cat; a very dark, very dude-like pub, its walls adorned with dart boards, its speakers humming The Eagles, and its happy hour pleasantly reassuring my pocket book while sufficiently warming my insides. We followed a bottle or two of coronas with a trip to the most New York-esque restaurant that could possibly exist. Minetta Tavern. As I sat at our tiny red gingham dressed table chewing on the most impeccably cooked steak and frites, Jan sat across from me in a red leather upholstered booth, a lifetime of old Italian American film scenes flashed before my eyes; mob bosses closing deals over spaghetti dinners and grappa digestifs. Old men labeled ‘Fat Tony’ and their questionably aged wives in hoop earrings, teased bleached hair, and some kind of skin tight leopard who call themselves Trixie but are actually named Maria Theresa. It was wonderful.

But nothing would compare to our first evening in Brooklyn. I present to you, The Nighthawk. A charming wee cinema planted amid the quaint streets of Williamsburg, hosting midnight viewings of spectacularly bad films from one’s childhood all while supplying round the clock in theatre table service. Our choice of poison? I Know What You Did Last Summer, buffalo wings, and two entirely thirst quenching bottles of prosecco. Well pissed and incomparably giddy post fisherman terror, we found ourselves in what would go down in vacation history as the Country American bar that put every other bar to shame, also known as Chelsea’s favourite bar and Jan’s least favourite bar. Skinny Dennis-- the name of the bar, not the gentleman I stole peanuts from, though equally fitting for both. Warm, red neon lights flooded through windows adorned with two words that are bound to take you back in time, that is so long as you remember your stetson and blue wash bootcuts: Honky Tonk. On the window adjacent, a horseshoe is bordered with the promise of Cold Beer and Hot Peanuts and as the door swings open, the heat from inside, mixed with the sweet twang of roots tunes leaves you wide eyed and dreaming of Hank WIlliams and Dwight Yoakam as you crunch your way through discarded peanut shelled floors, narrowly averting hords of countrymen and the likes of those pretending. A bottle of Bud in hand--when in Rome--I watched as a sufficiently lubricated patron purchased a signature Skinny Dennis trucker hat while Jan suppressed the urge to vomit. If there was ever a more fitting revenge for my fashion show turmoil, I wouldn’t believe it. As I shared a cardboard bowl of salty nuts, perfectly warmed as promised, with a potential male suitor who prefaced his offering of nuts with hocking a rather large, and overtly masculine loogie onto the floor, both Jan and I could not help but laugh at the ridiculous cliche in which we were immersed. I never wanted to leave. But Jan was beginning to show signs of going postal and dawn was looming, so we made our descent back towards the swanky streets of wanky Greenwich, my honky brothers left in the dust of shattered nutshells and my wayfaring heart.

The next morning, both our pockets feeling concerningly light, we agreed that in order to survive this thief of a city, we must make sacrifices and thus, make breakfast. And so, I ventured the length of West 6th St, the sun now bearing down on melting sidewalks (thank Jesus), in search of a grocer and the largest cup of coffee my Honky Tonk hangover could handle. Instead, I found Strand Bookstore. The largest second hand bookshop I had ever laid eyes upon, stemming eighteen heart pounding miles of new, used, and rare books. I was lost. Three hours later, I returned home with twelve books, seven less dollars in my pocket, and the biggest grin on my face. I suddenly never wanted to leave New York. And Jan was suddenly very hangry.

To make up for my literary distraction, I agreed-- though still strongly against my will-- to an evening of gay, with the one exception that we enter at least one lesbo bar. I had never been. I was curious. The feeling was fleeting. Much like my sexual curiosity towards women…

A cramped room  full of khaki clad butch lesbians later, I was rendered still very much hetrosexual, and thoroughly disappointed in what was wittily entitled The Cubbyhole. We then strutted our way through gay bar after gay bar, through tight shirts and dilated pupils, vodka sodas and hair spiked hard enough that pigeons would fear to land. The city became a blur of bronzed skin and perfectly tailored outfits until, at my long awaited relief, we found ourselves balls deep in Hell’s Kitchen at The Flaming Saddle; basically Coyote Ugly if Violet Sanford were a twenty-four year old hard bodied homosexual in ass hugging jeggings and a black wife beater tight enough to cut off all circulation to one’s pectorals, or simpler put, Jan’s kind of Honky Tonk. I wiped the drool from his face as I scanned the room in search of something that would make my panties tingle as much as his and there before me, high above the bar (or more predominantly the stage in which the Coyotes perform their laughably well rehearsed sexy two step) was a large screen, and playing on that screen just so happen to be my lifelong favourite film of all time. Seven Brides For Seven Brothers. I instantly forgot all about Skinny Dennis and his warm nuts. The Flaming Saddle had become the best place on Earth. Jan and I sat side by side, our elbows propped at the bar, our chins nestled in hands that kept our jaws from hitting the floor, our eyes gazing longingly at God’s most precious creations as they danced and sang their way into our once cold and bitter New York hearts.

The remainder of our days presented themselves in a rather routine fashion; Jan would go to fashion shows while I would suss out any and every jazz club in all of Manhattan, making friends with the owners, the pianists, the saxophonists-- not a single one asking me for my insta, but every one of them inviting me to more jazz-- and free jazz. We would meet in between over cocktails and oysters, soul food in Harlem, a horse drawn carriage ride through Central Park, a stroll or three through Time Square. Then more shows and more jazz, his birthday celebrated at the infamous Stardust Diner where broadway singers on the verge of making it big were making your milkshakes and serving you fries while belting out a ballad from their audition repertoire-- if I had to listen to one more Wicked song… I would because it was Jan’s birthday and it was all about him and not about me. Ugh. The worst. We vintage shopped, and wandered the ever posh Chelsea Market and the rather underwhelming Chinatown. We ate cannolis in Little Italy (OK I ate cannolis. I ate both our cannolis), tested just how open minded we believed ourselves to be with a visit to the Sex Museum-- turns out not that open minded, all the while saving on expenditures by limiting our food consumption to street meet; I’ve never devoured so many hot dogs in my life, and no that is not a euphemism for anything encountered at the Sex Museum. But the best and only way we could possibly dream of ending our time was on Broadway. Sunset Boulevard. Glenn Close. Magic in the making.  

By the time our trip stood on its final legs, I was certainly ready to come home. Part of me felt like it had flown by in a New York Minute, another felt like we’d been there for ages; the latter being mostly due to my dwindling finances.

Manhattan is a world all its own, rammed to the very highest skyscraper with an energy unmatched by anywhere I’d ever been. It can’t be compared, and I struggle to find words to describe our brief affair. It was wonderous at times, it was exhausting at times. It felt utterly romantic and at the same time oddly unattainable. But we’ve shaken hands, we’ve become acquainted, and I have a funny feeling this old town plays her cards close to her chest and there ain’t no way she’s gonna give it all up in one go. And so, New York, until next time..

Dweller On the Threshold/ Glad Tidings

The winter’s midday air was mild as it gently moved the trees from outside the window of a third story flat in quiet Clapham. Christmas had cleared the streets and emptied the houses as it does each year in London; all its residents dispersed to nestle in homes they had come from, save for one little Canadian who was already tucked tightly away at home. Finally.

I awoke this morning, spooning my favourite sheep, with a cat snuggled around my head, purring contently. London sat outside my window, waiting to greet me, as I rubbed my eyes and breathed a sigh of genuine merriment.

-----

Three weeks ago, I stood beside the Irish Sea, all of my belongings at tow, wiping tears that kept falling down my frozen face, trying desperately to see what possible silver lining the universe seemed so insistent to show me as it left me homeless. Yet again.

After returning from my London getaway, I left my bipolar flatmate and what I thought were all my troubles behind and accepted an invitation from my vegan boss to crash at hers while I figured out my next step. But my troubles most certainly weren’t behind me. In fact, they had made their way ahead of me, waiting impatiently to once again tug tirelessly at my resilience. My second escape to London only made things worse. Being back merely clarified how insufferably miserable I was. The day I was meant to leave, I woke in my mother’s hotel room still crying from the night before. My chest was pounding, though I struggled for breath. I paced the floor shaking my head. I can’t go back. I can’t do it.

My mom took me for a walk. We sat in a cafe in Kensington, her trying to console me as she watched me cry into my tea. I can’t go back.

But I had to go back. I couldn’t keep running away. Nothing was going to accumulate in Dublin. I was going to have to make a decision on my own. I returned, this time feeling defeated. I was exhausted and had no fight left in me. I gave my notice and watched those who once helped me turn into the most inexplicable monsters. I felt pieces of myself disintegrate as I rolled over at each hit. I lost wages, a roof over my head, and a lot of dignity. I had become completely deflated and felt unrecognizable.

So there I stood, for the very last time, alone in Dublin. I wiped my tears, found a pub, lugged my suitcases into a corner, and sat over a pint of Beamish, vowing never to let anyone take so much as a single piece of the person I built nor an ounce of the strength I’d accumulated ever again.

And then entered my saving graces. A man I had only known for a week a year ago in London and his girlfriend I had known a day. They swept me up, brought me to their homes, and for the next week made me feel whole again. My mother arrived days later and together we journeyed back to London where, finally, I would put the last three months behind me for good and begin to look forward.

------

Christmas is a time to be with the ones you love. Every day is a time to be with the ones you love. Christmas is just another day. And so I choose to spend Christmas with the one I will always love; just me and my city. Alone at last. On the eve of Christmas Eve, we kept each other company as I strolled the bustling streets of Soho, wandered the festive markets in Leicester Square, and took in the mouth watering smells of Chinatown. I walked along the shores of Southbank, the London Eye and Big Ben grazing the skyline above. I listened to the wind break the calm waters of the Thames, as the city whispered softly, Welcome home, Chelsea.

After an afternoon filled with close friends, mulled wine, mince pies, and vintage Christmas Films at The Prince Charles cinema, Christmas Eve found me in the first flat I called home when I moved here some three years ago. I spent the evening in the company of Gonzo the Great and Michael Caine, Hugh Grant and Alan Rickman, and England’s most cherished snowman before I drifted into the deepest and most serene sleep I’d had in months.

Now I sit, cozied up to my laptop--my lifelong companion, tea and Baileys warming my belly, and a roast for one in the oven, with the sweet sounds of the New York Jazz Lounge wishing me a Merry Christmas.

With Ireland behind me, and everything ahead, I relish wholeheartedly in the fact that the only thing remotely stress worthy is whether or not I burn this festive bird to a crisp. I finally feel free and happy, and ain’t it wonderful knowing that this time neither of those feelings are fleeting. Now that’s what I call a true Christmas present.

Merry Christmas Everyone. Wherever you are xx

And it Stoned Me

October 19th. I awoke to my phone alit with Facebook notifying me of a memory from exactly one year ago. It was a post from a friend that went something like this:

Uh oh, Chelsea is lost in Dublin. Where are you?!

A year passes, and an entire world of change has passed with it, and yet it seems I haven’t moved an inch. I’m still lost in Dublin. And the question remains: Where am I? Groggy eyed, I stared at my phone and drew a blank. I really haven’t a clue. A year ago, I was driving in circles around the greater Dublin area, reading a map that may as well have been upside down, but at least I had a destination. Now I just seem to be driving in proverbial circles, aimlessly. I know I’m a creature in need of instant gratification, and I’m told to hang on, ride it out, that I expect too much too fast. But I’m starting to think this city and I just don’t have what it takes. And I’m losing the will to keep trying.

Days later, following my existential facebook crisis, I had to register as a temporary Irish resident at the Irish Naturalization and Immigration Service. Having not paid attention at customs, I discovered that I was 18 days over the deadline to register; the consequence of which was potential dismissal from the country. As I sat, carelessly awaiting my fate, I scanned the room, in awe of the amount of people trying to reside in this place; even more in awe that I was one of them. After an hour, my name was finally called, prefaced by my nationality: Canadian national Chelsea Beamish, Desk 4. As the kind gentleman carefully eyed my passport and visa, I half hoped he’d refuse me and tell me I had to leave immediately. But he didn’t. Instead, he stated that I had 24 allowable months to remain in Ireland, and added excitedly that Canada is the only country that Ireland allows this long of stay.

“Lucky me.”

“Isn’t that great? Now Chelsea, are you married or single?”

“Single”

“Oh, that’s alright. You’ve got plenty of time to fall in love over here.”

I wanted to punch him in the face.

“Welcome to Ireland, Chelsea. We’re happy to have you. Now if you could just give us your card, that’ll be 300 euro.”

I just paid 300 euro to remain in a country that doesn’t agree with me. Using the phrase, kicking a man while he’s down, would be the understatement of the century. As I waited another hour to have my passport returned to me, stamped a prisoner of the Isle, I observed those around me. All in pairs. So that’s where I’ve gone wrong. Friends, brothers, housemates, lovers, husbands and wives with mixed race babies. Everyone in the room seemed to be coming here in couples. And then there was me. Facing this cold city solo. I consider myself a fairly independent person, but perhaps I never gave the weight of companionship enough thought. I guess I could openly say that I’m lonely here. Very much so. Lonely and lost. So, like any responsible adult faced with such a harsh reality would, I ran away. To London.

When I arrived in Londontown, dawn looming, eyes dreary, I instantly felt this incredible sense of relief; like I had been holding my breath for ages and was finally able to let it free. But with this long awaited exhale, came an even bigger urge to cry incessantly; a feeling I’d grown quite accustomed to these days, but this time on a much greater scale. It was this bizarre mixture of complete elation hung on the heartbreaking reality that it was merely temporary. With the airport behind me, I stood on the Northern Line platform, eyes welling with tears of both joy that I was home, and utter sadness knowing I’d only have to leave again.

I immediately wrapped myself completely in my city, taking in each falling, autumn leaf brushing the definitively hazy skyline, every english accent, and all the time I could with close friends and their words of encouragement. I soaked up every part of London that I missed and felt it rejuvenate the strength inside of me that had briefly been lost.  

Five days later, I would stand on the same platform, eyes still filled with tears but not with defeat. Nothing had changed. I still didn’t want to return to Dublin. My mind wasn’t cleared and renewed with a sense of determination to find hope and life in the city I ran from. What I was bringing back with me was a sense of satisfaction. A decisiveness and acceptance that this isn’t it. I had become ok with the fact that Dublin isn’t where I’m meant to be, and what followed was an overwhelming excitement that wherever it is that I am meant to be is still unknown. I no longer felt scared, nor did I resent this city for not giving me what I had expected. Instead, I was thankful that it had made its purpose in my life so painfully evident that it lit a nuclear explosion-- let alone a fire-- under my ass to explore whatever is next.

While hiding from Dublin in cosy Clapham, I kept hearing ads on the radio promoting tourism in Dublin, which at the time sent unnerving ripples through my skin and left me cringing. When I landed and made my way through customs with a flash of my Irish visa, the airport gates opened to a poster version of the same ad: words strewn across a landscape of calm waves skimming the edges of rolling hills against a grey sky that read,

Dublin is what happens in between

And there it was. In clear, bold print. Exactly what I needed to see, yet already knew. Dublin is my in between. The leap I must take to get from A to Me. To release me from my past and prepare me for the future of my next great something.

The moment I returned to my flat, I packed my things and moved out the next day.

I know less now about my future than I ever have. A week ago, this realization had me crying to the point of hysteria in the queue at the SuperValu check out, and on the 25a busline, and in front of a homeless man waiting to cross O'connell Street, and sat alone in the grass in Parnell Square holding a tear stained donut. Now it stirs something inside of me that is far more powerful than fear. When you get stripped to the bare bones of yourself and your situation, you discover you haven't a single thing to lose. And that, I believe, is when you begin to gain everything.

Not everything in life has to be substantial, or monumental; heartbreaking or life making. Some things are just merely stepping stones. And now that I have accepted Dublin for what it is, I can take a breath, and learn to enjoy it for however long it takes for the next stone to roll my way.

Full Force Gale

James Joyce is my neighbour. Well, actually, James Joyce died seventy-five years ago. But had he not, we’d basically be besties. He’d be all, “Hiya, Chels. Come chill in my super dope tower. We’ll write short stories together, then when the mood strikes, you can fart on me.” (He was into some weird things, sexually.) And I’d be all, “Thanks a mill, Jimmy. I’d be delighted. But for the sake of our art, I think it best we keep things strictly platonic. Plus, I’m currently reading your infamous novel, Ulysses, and I am aware that you tend to divulge rather racy details about your personal life within your prose. I would hate to be just another muse.”

You see, James Joyce and I have a good lot in common. I know this, not because the tower he once lived in (for all of six days) is located a mere 10 minutes away from my quaint, seaside flat, but because my writing professor basically said I was this generation’s up and coming Joyce. I may be paraphrasing. He said nothing of the sort. But almost.

On the first day of my first writing course, entitled “Write Now”: An introduction to writing fictional novels, we were asked to introduce ourselves one by one, along with a book we’re currently reading, and something about our writing history. After bragging over the fact that I had just completed A Suitable Boy, I delved into the world of my blogging and how, as much as I enjoy the consistent self indulgent theme of Me, I struggle to write about anything but, shying away from the concept of true fiction. Something I intend to remedy, thus landing me in this course. My professor (whom I’m madly in love with, for no reason other than the fact that he is my professor and for whatever daddy laced issue that stems from, I am fated with eternal love and adoration) smirked at my revelation. (Also, while I'm well aware of the fact that the term "professor" is not entirely an accurate depiction of his role in this circumstance, it's simply sexier. So whatever.) Nodding his head he said, “Why the need to remedy? Haven’t you heard of a little known writer named James Joyce?” The classroom chuckled. “The man was made famous for writing about nothing but his immediate surroundings and self. He’s notoriously known as the Copy and Paste Guy-- not to mention the most talented writer of his time.”

So between that and the fact that we both enjoy walking the fine line of what’s deemed appropriate literary jargon, and of course the close proximity of our “writing stations”, I’m clearly the next James Joyce. It’s written in the scarce Irish stars.

For the entirety of the first day’s two hour lecture, I blushed. My adrenaline was pumping; when asked to speak, my voice shook with nerves and utter excitement. It felt like my brain was on fire, shouting, Finally! A reason to live! I am of use in all my entirety! Freed to be fed the knowledge of pen to paper!

I revelled in every word as if it were spoken solely to me, and no one else. This was my element. After weeks of feeling out of place and disconnected, I had found home. Every thursday from 6:30 to 8:30 I would belong, and I would be happy.

I practically skipped down O’Connell Street, heading for the dart to take me homeward, while my brain was busy conjuring up ideas for our first homework assignment. As the train approached, I felt a tap on my shoulder from behind. I turned to see none other than my studly, Irish professor, mouthing a hello, muffled by Joni Mitchell blaring through my headphones. Turns out Joyce isn’t the only literary genius to fall within my post code. The professor and I trained home side by side, sharing thoughts on the evening’s highlights; me, tugging at any bit of extra knowledge I could squeeze from him. We discussed books and films; our favourites and our least favourites. In length, we rehashed the exercise he had given us on opening paragraphs of anonymous books and whether we would continue to read them based on their beginning sentences; an exercise I adored, being one who lives to drown people in her rather specific and passionate opinions.

“Yes,” he began. “You seemed to feel rather strongly against one opening in particular. I believe I recall you using the word, juvenile, was it?”

“Oh, yeah. That one. Absolutely. I hate being told how to feel or what to think. As the reader, I will decide what the story will offer me, thank you very much. I mean, it’s my right to see a novel unfold for myself, through my own individual reaction to the writing, right? Not to be told up front, in the first three sentences what to expect.”

Silence. His lips seemed to pinch at the sides as if trying to contain a suggestive grin, as he reached into his bag.

Oh no.  

Oh sweet jesus, no.

Yup. There in his hands, lay the first published novel of my beloved writing professor, opened to the first three familiar sentences. And there in my mouth, should have been my foot.

Well done, Chelsea. Another bang up job. Nothing like blatantly insulting your instructor’s material on the first day. Six more stops until your station? Great. Lots of time to attempt to rectify your embarrassing behaviour, while in fact making the situation worse. No, no, keep talking, that almost never gets you further into trouble. Did you need to borrow a shovel? That grave still doesn’t look deep enough….

“In fairness, the narrator is a fifteen year old boy, so you weren’t too far off with the “juvenile” allegation.” Like throwing a life float to a drowning man; a calming bone to a rabid dog. He saw me hanging and cut the rope. I smiled sheepishly, a subtle thank you for his attempt to redeem my shattered soul.

As I stood on the platform, watching the train move on, the professor waving pleasantly from within, I felt reassured that my big mouth had not completely destroyed his impression of me. That is, until I realized that in our earlier discussion about films, in a fit of shock that he hadn’t seen my favourite, I demanded he immediately watch Wonder Boys; a film where a cowboy boot clad Katy Holmes plays the student of a creative writing professor, Michael Douglas, whom she is mad for and tries to seduce on numerous occasions.
I looked down at my western footwear.

Well, I’ve had a good life anyway. Knew it would have to come to an end sooner than later. No better time than the present, as I jumped down onto the tracks and waited for the next train to splatter my insufferable guts across the grounds of the Dun Laoghaire station.

You Don't Pull No Punches, But You Don't Push the River

I’ve always had a strange obsession with doors. There’s something so comforting about a well constructed door. I’ve leased a good number of apartments in my past solely based on the allure of their front door. It can’t be helped. I love them. Or at least I did until I moved to Dublin where, among various other setbacks, doors are the devil. They have become my nemesis; actively working against me wherever possible. Side stepping the fact that I got stuck inside my flatmate’s Mini Cooper only an hour after setting foot on Irish soil because I couldn’t figure out how to open a standard car door, I have become a walking embarrassment on a daily basis due to the entrances and exits of everyday buildings.

Cut to my first official day in Dublin. I awoke feeling renewed, refreshed, and ready to embark on a day of exploration. I have arrived, my dear city! It is time to open your gates, and allow me to flood your streets with all the eagerness and blind hope of a fair maiden voyager, setting sail on the waves of her newly discovered territory! Except that I couldn’t open the front door. Or the back door. For fifteen minutes I ran back and forth from each, adamant that it could not be humanly possible to lock yourself inside your own house, while the doors continued to stand unopened, mocking me with windows gleaming light from the outside world. On the verge of kicking the smug and merciless doors down, defeat took hold and lead me storming back into my room where I would spend the next forty-five minutes pouting and looking longingly out my sealed window, at a world I truly believed I would never again be a part of; air that I would never breathe, and rain that would never fall down cheeks that would never be kissed by the wind. Except now I was hungry and the empty bag of prawn cocktail crisps staring at me from my desk was enough to make me dig a tunnel with a spoon, if that’s what it was going to take to get me to freedom. I figured it out, anyway. Who turns a handle upways!?! Down. A handle is always pressed down, for God sake.

And then there was the next day, when I tried to obtain a library card from the incredibly large and very modern lexicon down the road. This building was advanced, and had sliding doors. I happened to stand on the wrong end of said sliding door, thus preventing the censor from allowing me entry. After an embarrassing four minutes of standing in front glass doors that refused to move, I assumed, despite the opening times on the unopenable doors, that the library was, for some reason or another, closed (ignoring the fact that I could clearly see people inside, and they could clearly see me awkwardly standing there, staring at them and not entering the building). Once again accepting defeat, I walked away. After ten minutes, I realized I had walked away in the wrong direction and had to turn back. As the library came into view, I watched two people enter, and one exit from the very same doors that denied me entry.

Fuck sake, Chelsea.

I have a library card now. It’s super pretty. I found another entrance that has a revolving door. I avoid it at all costs for fear that once in it, I will revolve myself to death.

In a way, my attempt to settle in this city is somewhat mirrored by my recent door predicament; though it seems like it’s where I’m meant to be, it hasn’t been easy to get inside. If I had any inkling that fitting in over here after living in England would be a breeze, I had it bitch slapped right outa me the minute I hit the streets. And the theory that having previously dated one of their own kind for an entire year, I would have some kind of shoe in, was bullshit. I’m a foreigner. A loud, invasive, job stealing, over enunciating foreigner who no one understands, and certainly doesn’t find remotely funny.

It had been just over a week since I had moved, and the ever growing feeling of being the odd man out was starting to get to me. Every time I opened my giant trap I felt an instant disconnect from whomever was around. Even my bowels couldn’t seem to cope with my new environment. My pooping cycle became horrendous and digesting anything without feeling like I had swallowed half of the island’s air supply along with it proved an impossible feat. I missed home, I missed my London friends, I missed my mom. I kept quiet (apart from my incessant flatulence), avoided people, and mostly just sat alone by the sea, contemplating life while listening to Damien Rice-- the only Irishman I can always count on to love me unconditionally. But as most things go with yours truly, I quickly became bored with my self pity and decided to suck it up, brave the tough, Irish “charm”, and get a goddamn job. I had my eyes set on a tiny little cafe inside an old church that had been transformed into a Maritime Museum, but straying from my usual “all eggs in one basket” approach, I decided to distribute my CV to the masses. Each place I waltzed into, my endearingly oversized smile beaming from ear to ear, was more curt, and abrasive than the last, until finally something in me snapped.

The place was called Harry’s Cafe. His name was Derek. Derek is a dick. Upon handing over my CV from across the bar, Derek tried to make me feel small, and stupid, and spoke to me in a manner that not even a child who shoves pennies up their nose with the opened end of a felt tip marker should be spoken to. I was so taken aback by his reaction to me that I was rendered speechless, a very rare and dumbfounding experience. I left feeling overwhelmed with emotions; angry, offended, but most of all completely and utterly discouraged. I walked back to the seaside and let my tear ducts add a few more gallons of salty water to the ocean, then returned to the safety of my single bed where I remained for the rest of the day, clutching my stuffed sheep, and only friend, Clamato, and googling the potential repercussions of being discovered and charged as an illegal immigrant in the UK. I fell asleep thinking about all the people in the world that would love to have me as their employee and woke up even more pissed off and raring to rectify my mistreatment. It was a Tuesday, and Derek, sitting window side knee deep in important, and probably cooked paperwork, didn’t have a clue what was about to burst into his subpar cafe, verbal guns blazing. I dropped firmly in the seat beside him, looked directly at the balding spot on his head (his eyes were glued to his laptop screen) and spoke, my voice shaking with pent up anger and adrenaline.

“Derek.” Our eyes met. If mine could have, they would have burned his retinas clean from the googly balls inside his oddly shaped skull. He removed his glasses, as if encouraging me to try.

“I have come to take back my CV.” At this I narrowed my eyes, and cocked my head slightly to the right, for effect.

“Alright.” His response was indifferent, but I knew I had him sweating. He walked to the back of the bar, pulled it down from a board covered in what I assumed were the employment histories of countless other poor, jobless and unsuspecting victims such as myself, and returned to the table, placing it carelessly in my sweaty and vibrating palm.

“You know, despite what you may think, it wouldn’t kill you to be a nicer person.” This time he was the one to cock his head. It was on.

“It isn’t easy putting yourself out there, trying to find employment, especially in a new city, and treating someone as poorly as you did, who is only trying to make a life for themselves, is incredibly unnecessary, and really shows a lack of character on your part. And while I would hope that you don’t treat your customers or fellow staff in the manner by which you treated me, I certainly do not wish to risk finding out. So I will be taking my CV, and my potential business-- which could have been a lot! I am a writer! I sit in cafes for hours at a time!-- and will not be returning!”

It seemed I had stunned him into a blank expression, almost as if he wasn’t phased by what I had to say. But he was. I could tell I’d shaken him to his very core when he finally replied,

“Alright then. It’s a really cool place here but suit yourself.”

“Ya, well, I’m a really cool girl! But you’ll never get the chance to find that out now, will you?! No you won’t. Good luck, Derek.”

And off I strutted, slamming full force into the door that clearly read pull and not push.

After that, I realized that only I am responsible for what it is I take from this city, and I’m never one to take things lying down. If I was to make it in this bizarre and ruthless town, I’d have to grow a thicker skin and laugh in the face of that which might otherwise dehydrate me through an excessive amount of fallen tears. Once I decided to accept and not expect, Dublin began to shed its rough, outer shell, and all its doors suddenly swung wide open. The next day I was given teaching work at a dance studio. and two days after that, the Maritime Cafe that held a select few, though the most precious, of my divided eggs, offered me a job. Even my intestines untied the knots that they had so callously inflicted upon me and I began to poop in a respectable fashion once again. I spent the remainder of my last week of unemployment exploring the city in a whole new light. And I’ll be damned, did it look good. Don’t get me wrong, Dublin’s still a hard-edged bitch. I think I’m just slowly starting to discover how to manage her frequent mood swings, and stubborn unpredictability. Or maybe she, like most I've encountered in my lifetime, has just resigned herself to the fact that Chelsea will get her way, regardless of what fight one might put up, and has given in to the idea of us sharing our lives together for the forseeable future...