It was November of 1993 as I stepped off the plane in Shannon, Ireland with a railway pass in hand and a pack on my back eager to explore the west coast of the country that two of my great grandparents had once called home. I had been hearing stories of this land my whole life while growing up under a proud Irish matriarch who loved reminding the rest of us that we could never claim to be 100% Irish like she could. Considering she had married a man that was not 100% Irish like herself our 'unfortunate' circumstances were technically a direct result of her choices but I didn't dare mention that teensy little fact. None of us did. Nah, it was fine to just concede to the reality that we would never be as Irish as our Nanny was.
Ironically though, for as partially Irish as my DNA says I am, I had never been anywhere that felt as close to home as Ireland did. From the moment I arrived, I had a level of comfort comparable only to the way one feels within their own familiar surroundings. It was something rather unexplainable.
As I made my way south from Galway (and the Aran Islands) to Kerry (with a few day stop in County Clare), I became enthralled with the culture and the quiet pace of life apart from the hustle and bustle I knew living less than an hour away from NYC. I fell in love with the countryside in a way I never could have imagined. I have so many small memories of moments that caused pause for thought over the few weeks I was there and yet, funny enough, one of the most monumental events; one I have never forgotten, is perhaps the most surprising.
Weary of the youth hostels I had been staying in, I booked a room at a bed and breakfast in the town of Dingle in County Kerry. The breakfast was actually brought to the room instead of being served in communal dining space and after all the community of youth hostels I was grateful for the privacy and solitude. The breakfast tray included a variety of things; toast, an egg and even an individual size portion of cereal complete with individual size pitchers containing milk and juice. Everything tasted so fresh...so delicious...I was quite literally blown away. The quality of the ingredients combined with the intentional setting of an individual service and the peaceful solitude of dining alone was an experience that has never left me. In fact, when I arrived home to the US, I went to a kitchen supply store in search of individual size everything so I could recreate the experience in my little apartment.
Over the years I have found myself gravitating back to that small moment when I have the chance. Setting a table for one with intention. Taking the time to portion out a serving for one with all the trimmings. In a sense, spoiling myself with the luxury of a modest meal all to myself. There is beauty in anything done with intention and true luxury is often revealed in the simplest of things. If I could encourage anyone to gift themself something, it would be to do one thing with intention because you want to. Not because you have to. I think it makes all the difference.
