Sarah Rafael Garcia - Cork City

Retracing My Steps In Cork City

(Excerpt from a Travel Memoir)

 
Day 2:

Upon opening my "Ireland" journal for the first time, I write, "It’s my second day in Cork, why am I not writing yet?" With a deep sigh, I close it and hope the day will bring more ideas.

A scavenger hunt with the entire study abroad group was scheduled today to counter the jetlag acquired in the eleven or so hours over the Atlantic. A half-hour into it, memories of my father and self-doubt push forward and crowd me on the sidewalk.

The first thing I notice is the novelty of the crisp air and the lilac heather that surrounds the stream neighboring the dormitory buildings at Victoria Cross. Before Ireland, I had no idea “heather” was a flower. I only knew it to be a white girl’s name. Now I know it’s similar to the name Xóchitl that I once contemplated for a daughter when I thought I was obligated to marry and have children. I force myself to think of the lilac bouquets as purple sunrays rather than a reminder of what I'm not. 

"Ok Sarah, there's the vitamin D that your body seems to be missing in this new city."

To make up for the drabby weather, Cork City is filled with vibrant colors along Western Road and the River Lee. The buildings reflect similar hues to that of the surrounding natural environment: sky blue, chartreuse, lime, red, salmon, and lavender. They remind me of little beach houses painted on small canvases often sold at tourist beach shops. The doors often contrast in color—black, forest green, red and chocolate brown. Windows often have drapes pulled to the side, as if welcoming a peek into the daily Cork life. Nothing inside looks too different from a living room in Texas, but on the street the cars seem to be driving on the wrong side of the road and the passengers appear to be the drivers. On the path, I spot street poetry on a telephone pole, walk over dog poop a multitude of times and envy the cyclists who whip by with baskets filled with groceries.

It was Papi who taught me how to ride a bike. Little did I know back then that cycling would be the skill to save me from feeling old and broke. I rode a bike on the Xian wall the day after viewing the Terra Cotta soldiers at the age of 31, I rode a bike throughout LA and the Central Coast of California for two years when I couldn't afford a car upon my return from China, and then again in Austin for a similar reason at 37. It wasn't until my first year in the MFA program that I was forced to buy a car due to unknown symptoms causing me to have vertigo. When I had to stop riding my bike I felt paralyzed. When I had to receive an incomplete in a class, I felt incompetent. When I sought guidance from professors and was referred to psychological services, I felt crazy to think I could actually succeed in grad school. It has been twenty months since I have ridden a bike in a city and I'm in my last year in the MFA program.  

"I'll get a bike tomorrow and ride throughout Cork! Once I learn the path to campus…"

I really don’t have a sense of direction or time, especially since I don’t have access to a cell phone or GPS. In prior travels, I either borrowed a back-up phone from a local host or bought a prepaid cell phone to have at my disposal as a security blanket. On this trip, I decided against a cell phone just to remain frugal. For reassurance, I repeatedly state to myself, “It’s an English speaking country Sarah, you’ll be fine. Hell, you lived in China!” 

If all else fails, I’ll ask someone off the street for guidance—forcing me to meet people and refrain from focusing on the past. At least that was my positive outlook before the dark clouds shadowed my thoughts.

The first task on the “Cork City Scavenger Hunt” checklist is to find the “Shaky Bridge." Here at a distance from the white iron walkway, the lichen captivates my attention, it’s rising up and down on the sidewalls of the River Lee. 

Instantly, after snapping a picture, I’m reminded of the original reason that led me to be at this particular place in time.

Ireland was one of Papi’s travel tales. Although my father himself never traveled beyond Mexico and the United States, he embedded my mind with limitless inspiration to cross over different borders. 

“Mira mija, you’re American, tu vas tener la oportunidad de conocer ese país. Imagínate, one day you’ll go there!” 

His ink-stained fingertips tapped on the newspaper page that told of some green countryside in Ireland. Papi worked in the print room of the Orange County Register in Southern California for ten years. Along the stories printed, he also shared the lives of other immigrants who worked along his side—they pushed the paper through the machines while they told stories to one another. Needless to say, I never knew my father was a labor worker until he died and now Vietnam, Samoa and Colombia are also countries on my travel list.

Finally, at the age of forty, here I am, entranced by Ireland’s shimmering moss and the dancing River Lee.

“Si Papi, I know, I know, you were right. It’s more than I could’ve imagined back then.” 

It has been over twenty-six years since my father passed away and I still speak to him as if he's my loyal traveling companion. At first, it started as a way to keep him in my memories while I grieved his absence as a teen—that turned into a childhood memoir. Eventually, his death became my reason for living, traveling and writing.

It was the end of the second year of the MFA program when I concluded that my memories were repressing my daily experiences. After a draining two years in academia and writing workshops, I got tired of sharing the past—and I’m sure my peers got tired of reading it. So I set a new focus, I will write for myself.

Yet, it’s only the second day in Ireland and I'm having difficulty keeping those stifling thoughts out of my mind­—I have been impacted by my father’s death and I'm a first generation Mexican-American woman who struggles with her place in society. 

After a couple pictures, I dismiss those affirmations and run up to the bridge to join my group. We all follow our professor who has no problem blending in with the locals and has done this trip for fifteen years with her husband. I snap shots of the large bust of Michael Collins located in Fitzgerald Park near the Cork City Museum, and then walk steadily as others point at the swans floating on the Lee. We were on our way to capture the pub sign of the Franciscan Well Brewery—#3 on the list and strategically closed upon our arrival. 

In silence and with a fake smile, I watch my young peers take a photo of the wood sign displaying a monk drinking a beer. As we venture towards the Shandon neighborhood, I wish I could stop myself from reminiscing...or at least have a drink. 

“C’mon Sarah, just keep walking forward, don't start retracing those steps you know all too well.”

But these reflections were just the beginning, my thoughts would soon begin to speed up and dip into depths of my past as the trip progressed.