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Irish-French-American Sasha Piton has travelled widely outside the US but has recently settled in Dublin. In her new series for The Journal, she shares the insights of a new arrival on a country she’s trying to call home.
DEAREST GENTLE READER, how long does one have to be somewhere to claim it as home? In the United States, it’s common to move states and find yourself in a brand-new culture with a new accent, a new community that you work hard to break into and find friends. And, of course, constant reminders that you are an outsider.
Moving states is the equivalent of one packing up and moving to Germany from here. Some families never leave their cities or states that they settled in years before and some have members branch off and go to different climates, new scenery. They’re followed by outbursts of shock from family and friends that they live out in the middle of nowhere or that they would trade the wide-open spaces for skyscrapers and Hollywood signs.
I had so many people ask why on EARTH would I move to Dublin? Even Dubliners themselves.
You might find it interesting, gentle reader, that Idaho and Ireland have many similarities.
Potato harvest for starters, local dairies, friendly people who will stop to help whenever you need it, small-town folk who still make deals on a handshake, and scenery that can take your breath away.
Dublin intrigued me because it gives me city life as someone that’s never lived in one and the comforts of a small town that I’m well acquainted with. There aren’t many places where I could get milk from a local dairy and see Olivia Dean in concert only a train ride away.
Dublin gives me the familiarity that calms my soul while also pushing me out of my comfort zone.
And this move, I have something I didn’t used to have: a connection to myself. I am still an outsider, but almost a decade wiser and far more self-aware and self-assured at what I’m seeking in the quality of my life than the last major move to a new place.
With this “heatwave,” I purchased a sun chair, sat outside drinking iced coffee and listened to the birds chirp, while new friends wondered how I’m managing without AC and their shocked looks when I say, “Quite well!”
The Irish, gentle reader, have perfected the art of assuming your good mood simply means you haven’t suffered enough yet.
But I assure you my suffering existed before I came here. I’ve spent weeks performing in a musical in Nauvoo, Illinois, wearing bloomers as part of my period-accurate costume, on an outdoor stage in 38-degree heat with 100% humidity.
My heart jumps for joy that while there is no respite when you walk into a building in the ton, I am not wearing bloomers or avoiding swallowing moths attracted to stage lights. I have continued to remind myself that this is why I sold everything and moved overseas– so I could relax without guilt.
And much to the confusion of locals, I was aware of the weather here before I moved and I chose to enjoy the surprising heat and will happily join in and complain when it rains for 90 straight days. But let me be clear about something dearest, gentle reader, I have lived most of my life without healthcare and gone into debt to have surgery. I assure you, there are worse things than no air con.
One of the things I admire most about the ton, is the refusal to live for work. Even for those who commute to the city, I’ve been told, laptops close at 5pm, not because one is leaving early but because staying late was never the plan. Work to live, not live to work. It’s a phrase that Americans say often and rarely mean.
I knew long before I sold my house and packed up my two dogs that my nervous system would need time to learn this rhythm. So, I built in an adjustment period before I would need to consider applying for a “real” job. Freelance work as training wheels for a slower life, not just a flexible schedule.
There are moments where I feel the American in me wanting to speed up this process of discomfort that everything is new. The honeymoon phase of this relocation has ended and now I’m navigating life; figuring out the brand of mustard I like best, dealing with nosey neighbors, and finding the preferred walking paths for my dogs (that I of course brought over with me and would never imagine leaving them behind).
The work ethic I come from to fight for a better life is through the American lens that work equals more money and with more money comes more freedom. My instinct is to forget I planned for the adjustment period, to forget that I do freelance work and find a job or two that I can grind away at. But that is not freedom, as you know.
And this feeling of the honeymoon phase ending… there’s a name for this, gentle reader; researchers call it the U-curve, and apparently, I’m right on schedule. With knowledge of such research, I often calm myself down from the panic of “DO MORE” and instead enjoy walks by the sea.
I also enjoy finding moments in this uncomfy time where I am fluent in the world around me. Looking for MY nail place, I keep going to different ones to see how they compare. And my recommendation this week came from the girl behind the counter at my favourite coffee shop. Dearest reader, the area near the salon is one I’ve absolutely avoided after dark. But in the daylight, I can see these are tired souls asking for money. I notice the darting eyes, the missing teeth, and jittery hands that remind me of the addiction that runs in my family tree.
The salon was bustling, hair dryers blasting but without product in the hair there’s no bounce to the final blow out, but the hair is blow fried, I mean dried. Girls with the marks of fresh lip filler and a just-slightly-orange tan, screaming at their kids to get off the floor or they’re going to call the gardai, and the quietest salon owner offering drinks and stickers to help.
Gossip echoing in two languages, and I sat back to listen and observe body language. Someone’s cousin is marrying a girl the family doesn’t like. Someone’s man drank himself silly instead of coming home on time. I’m pretty sure the nail artist hated the design she was painting on her client’s nails, based on the eyes of the girl she was talking to. It gave, “Yikes!” followed by, “You want chrome? You sure?”
Another person walks in wanting a blowout. “€20. If you want product in your hair, it’s extra.” I knew it. She wants a wash and a dry only. It’s my turn to sit and get my nails done. It was technically 20 minutes after my appointment time, but I think they thrive on the walk-in culture. I get it.
The speed at which my nails are being filed means I can feel the heat. She turns the drill down, I say thank you.
Then it happens. Screaming from outside, “SAY IT AGAIN, I’LL HIT YOU.”
The blow dryers stop, even the kids sat in their chairs next to their mum, my head went back as far as I could go to see behind the load-bearing pillar.
A fight outside. The 14-year-old running the register and I make eye contact and smile. No fists were thrown but bodies were shoved. The dryers turned back on, but we all kept one eye outside, and ears peeled for the why, but I couldn’t quite make out the details over the cash register that was somehow still working from the ’90s.
The woman getting a pedicure helps the mom with the kids by threatening (read: offering) to steal them and take them away when her toes are done if they don’t start behaving for their mum. The mum saying, “Do you want that lady to take you away? THEN GET OFF THE GROUND!”
Within five minutes, mum’s nails were done, kids left still talking about the lady who was going to take them away, someone’s hair was fried, I mean dried, and that lady’s pedicure was paid for using the 1990s cash register.
It was just me, my nail lady, and the 14-year-old cashier. Somehow when my nails were done, I thought I would be late to my next appointment. But after I paid (via Revolut because I haven’t carried cash since I was in high school), I walked out realising it had only been 40 minutes. Including my wait time.
The ton was quiet, the two people who were fighting earlier, each sat in the shade with water, and I was an hour early to my next appointment.
Dearest gentle reader, you may be wondering if I will go back to that salon. There was something comforting in how well I understood that room. But comfort and peace aren’t the same thing, and these days I’m choosing peace. I think I shall reserve that salon adventure for special occasions. Otherwise, I will be continuing the search for MY nail place.
Sasha will be back with more insights into her adopted home next week.
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