As my departure from Ireland looms, I question the depth of sorrow I can appropriately exhibit. Not forgetting the mass exodus of Irish individuals to Australia annually, none of whom can expect a familial greeting at the airport, nor to field their mother’s grumblings about excessive luggage and car parking fees. ‘Do you need all these things?’ she’ll exclaim, upon seeing your two suitcases packed with half a decade’s worth of foreign experiences, as only a woman who fills her living room with collectible tiny tea sets can.
The bountiful sorrow I feel towards departing from my homeland will be thoroughly utilised. If there were a measure to it, analogous to the strict carry-on specifications of Ryanair, I would be swathed in multiple layers of regret and desolation beneath my jacket. My residence here has reshaped me; the austere, practical Australian outlook I possessed upon arrival has succumbed to the pervasive, potent Irish sentimentalism.
My recent promenades around Dublin leave me profoundly appreciative of the vogue resurgence of oversized footballer’s spouse-style sunglasses. The aroma of fresh fish from Moore Street market plunges me into nostalgia, provoking silent farewells to my ancestors’ former work station. I bid adieu to the Liberties, home to six generations of my lineage, despite the disapproval they may bear for my techie boyfriend and I, unwitting contributors to the city’s rent hike.
A singular luxury shared amongst my fellow proletarians is the freedom from having to feign knowledge of or affection for James Joyce’s works. I’ve enjoyed this perk to the fullest. From the stately Georgian abodes, central libraries, lively pubs and leisurely parks, to the theatres and urine-scented alleyways, I shall lament every detail of this metropolis. The sight of a seagull pillaging a street bin, littering the paved streets with discarded napkins and crisp wrappers, incites uncontrollable sobs. I bid you farewell, raucous pests. Your ferocity will be missed as it commands respect from workers partaking in their midday meals.
In essence, Dublin exudes an exclusive charm, comparable to New York, that rejects all pretentiousness and retains its authenticity, despite all attempts to modernise it.
While having the pleasure of never needing to feign appreciation or comprehension of James Joyce, one of the few boons we of the labouring class possess, the man’s quote regarding Dublin etched in his heart at his death, is something I am aware of, thanks to merchandised canvas tote bags we peddle to our visiting US tourists. He was constantly uttering about the city, notwithstanding his self-imposed absence from it in his concluding years. It wasn’t something I extensively acknowledged until now. Dublin seemed to captivate him, as did, according to some intimate correspondences, flatulence. I’m not in the business of shaming fetishes, so I didn’t object to his enduring fondness for a locale often greeted by gray skies and scarce prospects.
This metropolis, this nation, it makes a mark so deep, it changes you. The streets or verdant expanses or stone barriers mean less. Ireland is about the people. The uttered “fair plays” and “mind yourself nows”. It refers to departing for a funeral from work without a formal request, the silent knowing approval from a supervisor suffices. It’s a community organised around the ever-present, though unseen, law of good character. It’s the “ah here” prudent discretion exercised by those in power to aid us in a sticky situation.
Ireland coaxed out a sense of light-heartedness and compassion within me that I hadn’t experienced before. Growing up in an environment where the harsh elements prevailed, there was no scope for frivolity or exploration. Yet this nation, it broke through my walls. I found myself part of the stream of locals, amused and engaged, as a group of unfamiliar faces outside a tavern discovered an elongated wire and initiated a collective session of skipping rope. This wouldn’t have taken place back in sunny Sydney, avocado brunches notwithstanding.
So why the decision to leave? Simply because exhaustion has set in. Residing in Ireland has turned into a struggle that I can no longer summon the energy to face. Work has never been sparse, but the financial remuneration I’ve been offered resembles nothing more than a mediocre sandwich made with spoiled bread. Journalism here is increasingly seen as a costly pastime rather than an occupation that can sustain one’s livelihood. The trigger came in the form of an appealing opportunity back home, hence my impending departure.
The notion that individuals relocate to Australia solely for the advantageous climate and stunning beaches is a fallacy. The actual allure lies in the country’s robust healthcare system, the enticing 14 per cent pension bonus on top of regular wages, and the expectation of lower taxation rates. The ambition of being able to purchase a house and the possibility of raising a family in the future continues to stir the dreams of many.
Beyond these economic reasons, there also exist personal factors. For instance, the opportunity to care for my grieving family, who are mourning the loss of my nephew, is paramount. Spending cherished moments with my grandfather who, with an accent as fresh as the day he first rang the Liberty Bell, has been coaxing me to return home while there’s still time – a sentiment he’s been repeating for the past half decade. Every St. Patrick’s day, we indulge in reminiscing about the beloved country and its people we had to bid farewell, as we sit in his lounge, savour the whiskey and listen to tunes by the Dubliners.