Maggie Ximenes - Cork City

Fitzgerald Park

 A cold, damp weather lays on my skin as I walk the now familiar path into town. I draw my light sweater closer to my body and step on the path that I walk nearly every day to and from class.

The hills here remind me of home, walking to my morning classes. However, these hilly streets and winding roads don’t leave me drenched with sweat from the Texas heat. They encourage me up to them with the crisp breeze from the Atlantic Ocean, pushing me up and over them.

Culinary delights are around every corner. Today I am greeted with a corner bistro named Gallaghers. The bright blue paint, crisp white letters, and big windows draw me in. I sit outside and order myself a warm vegetable soup that seems to hug my belly with each sip.

Afterwards I find an empty red bench in Fitzgerald Park and quietly munch from my bag of Hobnobs. I hear a group of older ladies speaking a gurgling English with a thick Irish tone as cigarette smoke escapes from their lips on their last word. I feel the pulse of the children's smiles as they jump on the playscape while lovers lie on their blankets near the fountains with the stagnant green moss coating the top.

I inhale the fresh air and sit, feeling content with wandering, pleased with my placement, and overcome with a sense that I can make this place on my own.

Most of my life I have not fully trusted my surroundings. When I’m home, my throne is my bed, and my kitty is my muse. In Cork City, I have decided not to slump back into my lazy ways of Texas living, but to jolt forward with my life and bring a living vibration to my still placement.

Day by day, my dark and moony inhibitions are slanted by Cork’s surprising sunny and warm weather. This place that I thought would be so wet, and dark, with some shades of green, instead greets me with the morning golden rays and the smell of freshness near the River Lee. I am left with a feeling of lightness. A light I haven’t felt in quite some time.

Now I am familiar with landmarks such as the little pink shoe that I see every time I pass a certain phone booth, or the quaint Bagel Box that smells deliciously of freshly made bagels, mocha brownies and deep dark roasts. I can tell someone how to get to the local post office or where to find a delicious Shepherd’s Pie. 

On my final Sunday walk, I take in smiling faces, cobblestone roads, a yearning for tradition, a pint of Murphey’s, the music of the river, vibrant green grass, and an appreciation for past, present and future. When I make my way back to Fitzgerald Park, I think back to my first moment’s rest on the empty red bench. I recall the laughter of the children, the flapping of a wagtails wings, and a soft mist for the fountain engulfs me as if it were a kind hug. I’m no longer insecure in my placement; I’m no longer fearful or anxious of what’s next to come. Instead, my points in the park reflect my ease into knowing who I am. The city has taught me that I can never get too full. I will always keep my appetite for the journey.

Eventually I will go west to Inishmore, and I will go East to Dublin, but right now in my travels, I am content in this lovely city.