I am finally, tentatively, leaving Ireland. It’s been over a year since I landed here, and I’m grateful I was able to stay here through what I truly and sincerely hope will have been the worst of the pandemic for everyone in the world. There were a few times I thought I might be forced to leave; the government in Ireland had a habit of waiting sometimes until it was a matter of weeks before announcing another extension of everyone’s permission to stay.¹

I eventually got an appointment for the vaccine.² Back in March, before I knew I’d be able to stay through the summer and get vaccinated here, I had considered returning to the United States to at least get the shot. The reasons I decided not to are varied and complicated: expense, the safety of travel, the fear of getting stuck in the United States. But there was a philosophical concern, too. The big winners in the rush to vaccinate their populations have been Israel, the United Kingdom, and the United States.³ That’s left the EU struggling to source enough of the vaccine, and much of the rest of the world grasping at straws.

I could, trivially, have booked a flight to New York and gotten the vaccine months ago. I probably would have done it if I had been forced to leave Ireland. I’m not sure if that exactly counts as line-cutting or not, and I’m certainly not suggesting the world would be better if you refused your jab until India finally got an equitable supply of the vaccine. But I cast my lot back in with the Irish a year ago, and it felt at least like some small act of solidarity to suffer through the restrictions and the lockdowns with them and wait my turn in line here.

So I did. Six months of what turns out to have been one of the most severe lockdowns in the EU. They only opened the museums (with reduced capacity) a month ago, and have bumped the deadline to reopen indoor dining yet another two weeks, to mid-July. I’ve spent the vast majority of my time inside, indoors, alone. I’ve left my apartment maybe once a week, mostly to resupply on soda or refill medication.

So if it feels like I’m leaving a little too early, before the vaccine passports are all in place, maybe four or eight weeks before the majority of the population of Europe has received both doses, while things are still in the process of hesitantly opening back up — I thought about staying into July and maybe August. I really did. But I can’t imagine even staying another week. I lasted as long as I could, without friends or family, trying to be prudent and safe and responsible. And this is as far as I could go.

When I was last traveling around Ireland I ran smack into the first of the autumn lockdowns, and went straight from Derry to Dublin. Honestly, it was kind of nice; I wasn’t going out much because of the pandemic anyway, and I appreciated having a significantly better range of delivery food available. It seemed a lot of restaurants reconfigured since the last time I had been in town several months ago; I spent a couple weeks ordering Thai food and Beyond Burgers and paella and other things which were difficult to find while I was moving from place to place.⁴

After a couple weeks my friend called me to let me know they still had space back in Galway, so I ended up heading back there for for about six weeks. And it was a godsend, honestly. I arrived just before the US election month⁵ and I don’t know that I would have survived without someone to constantly talk to about it.⁶ And it was great to spend Thanksgiving with someone; I couldn’t cook the way I had been since my friend was packing the apartment to leave, but I did at least get the chance to cook a modest Thanksgiving dinner.⁷

But eventually my friend had to move on, and that meant I had to move on as well. The apartment was packed up and vacated mid-December, so shortly before that I relocated to a hotel in Galway for a week, before hopping a bus and arriving in Dublin. And I’ve been there ever since.

I’ve spent most of the subsequent time locked in a hotel room. Technically locked in a series of different hotel rooms — whatever’s cheapest in Dublin⁸ at any given time — but they’re all basically the same when you never set foot outside. Given how strict the lockdown has been for the last six months so everything I’d wanted to do was closed anyway. With deaths spiking through January I hadn’t been in the mood anyway. Depressingly, it’s how I spent both Christmas and New Year’s.

I’ve also been dieting, because I figured it wouldn’t be possible to feel much worse anyway. Being vastly more sedentary than usual, ordering in delivery food all the time, and having one of the few bright spots of every day revolve around deciding what I was going to eat for dinner had taken a serious toll. I was having trouble fitting into some of my clothing.

Theoretically it’s very easy to lose weight; you just need to eat fewer calories than you burn. Unfortunately, either of the ways you might do that — exercise more or eat less — turn out to be incredibly difficult for most people. Evolution did not anticipate office work nor the industrial food chain. Most of us aren’t psychologically designed or equipped to limit what we eat, so it’s hard to lose weight and harder still to keep it off.

But being locked alone in a room by yourself all day makes it trivial to avoid temptation. For nearly six months I got by on a mix of fruit and granola bars, supplemented with the occasional delivery meal, having the majority of my calories coming from bulk meal replacement powders. They’re easy to travel with, easy to mix up in a hotel room,⁹ at least ostensibly nutritionally balanced, and simple to count calories with. What they aren’t is particularly palatable. I’d describe the basic flavor as “slightly vanilla cardboard."¹⁰ It’s okay for a day or two, but it takes a real force of will to stick to it beyond that. It’s survivable, but I wouldn’t recommend it.¹¹

I did eventually switch to their instant meals¹² for a month, and later tried a meal delivery service by a different company for another month.¹³ But I was back to delivery food eventually, this time with a little bit more of an eye towards eating better.

All in all I’ve dropped enough weight to no longer be able to wear my jeans without a belt. My blood pressure and cholesterol are both high and every doctor I see tells me my weight isn’t great for my knee; slimming down has done positive things for both of those. Not needing to replace all my clothing is a relief. And given how stressful to world has been, it’s been useful not having to think about food or go outside all that often. I may have spent most days doomscrolling and hiding under the covers, but at least I didn’t skip meals while doing it.

I try not to obsess about my weight. I still haven’t even stepped on a scale, so all I know is I used to weigh more and now I weigh less. And I’m under no illusions that it’ll stay off for very long. But maybe this time, if I’m slightly more thoughtful and get slightly more exercise, I can avoid that for at least a little while.

While I was killing time in lockdown, I decided to read Ulysses. It’s not like my schedule was exactly packed. And I was in Dublin, so it kind of felt fated.

The two main things I knew about Ulysses going in was that it is reputed to be one of the greatest novels of all time, and it is also reputed to be nigh incomprehensible. Those traits aren’t exactly mutually exclusive, but they’re kind of linked in the popular imagination. I’m happy to report the former assertion is certainly true — at a minimum it’s a solid contender — and the latter is totally wrong. It’s not an easy read, by any means; I had to avail myself of several online reading guides to fully grasp what was happening, and unless you’re a far more careful reader than I am you’ll miss crucial plot points without even realizing. And it’s certainly long as well. It’s the sort of book that’s difficult enough to work through that you’re likely to put it down and never pick it back up unless you’ve built up a rhythm.

But you can get into it, even if you don’t catch what’s happening from moment to moment. It’s far more renowned for its language and spirit than its plot anyway, and it’s generally easy to fall into the rhythm of the thing, the poetry and lyricism of what is, ultimately, a rather mundane day wandering around Dublin. And it’s not boring.¹⁴ It relentlessly punctures any attempts at grandiosity or solemnity; there are fart jokes and execrable puns and lots of slapstick and low comedy. Since I’m ADD, reading lengthy books is a challenge since it’s hard to focus that long for the duration.¹⁵ And I managed to keep up with it, start to finish.¹⁶

The third main thing everyone knows about Ulysses is that it’s famously filthy. And you know, it is and it isn’t. Time has blunted a lot of the parts that seemed outright obscene a century ago.¹⁷ I think the thing that really got people’s knickers in a twist was the tone Joyce uses. There’s some weird shit going on in that novel, but Joyce never condescends or judges his characters for it.¹⁸ The Hays Code famously allowed depictions of “immoral” activities provided they were wrapped up with neat little morality tales about how evil and wrong they were. Joyce never does.

It’s a novel about a lot of things, maybe too many things, but the heart of it is this deep, mournful, passionate love of life, of language and sensation and emotion and humanity, of the glories that can be found woven into the very quotidian substance of a single random day. It’s as humane and charitable as anything I’ve ever read, broad-minded and open-hearted, without being sentimental or saccharine.

I loved it. I really did. I even reread it.¹⁹

I’d like to say I’m better for the time I’ve spent by myself over the past year, but as much as I’d like to believe that it’s not the case. I’m a worse person across the board for having gone through it: less patient, more short-tempered, less relaxed, more anxious, less attuned to the world, more bitter. Even my attempts to put a positive spin on any changes are double-edged at best. Being more self-reliant comes from a deep alienation. Being more determined comes from a well of sadness and anger that I suspect will never fully dissipate.

We tell ourselves that adversity builds character, that we emerge from our trials scarred but stronger for the testing. And we can. Sometimes we do. But as often as not we don’t. I pulled my shoulder thirty years ago and it still aches when I reach above my head. Broken bones frequently don’t knit quite right. Chronic illness leaves us weak and debilitated long after we’ve been officially cured. Moving on involves learning how to accommodate new limitations as much as rebuilding to where we were before.

For me, I’m worried I’ve forgotten everything I knew about traveling. It was always a bit of a chore planning out routes and hotels and scheduling trains and buses and flights, but I had gotten pretty good at it. And I spent a couple years really forcing myself out into the world, to see things and do things on a pace I’ve learned most people find exhausting — a slow day traveling, for me, is a city walk punctuated by a single museum and a fancy dinner out. I typically opt for a second museum, and a bustling street market where I can find lunch, and an hour exploring a sculpture garden, and maybe even a ride on a funicular if there’s one nearby.

These days managing to get outside at all is a kind of victory. I’ve spent much of June catching up, newly vaccinated, on a number of things I had indefinitely postponed: haircut, dentist, eye exam, a movie in a theater with popcorn,²⁰ a massage at a fancy spa. And I’m lucky if I manage to get one thing done per day. I’m sure I’ll get more comfortable eventually, but I don’t know how long it’ll take — weeks? months? — and I don’t know that’ll I’ll ever feel fully back up to speed.

It’s part of why I’m pushing to leave, right at the cusp of when things are starting to open back up. I’ve been alone for six months. It’s killing a vital part of me, in a very real sense. And I’ve tried very hard to be exceedingly careful, to follow all the advice and all the recommendations, to just be safe and give the doctors and the scientists a chance to get on top of everything.

But it’s clear now we’re not going to be able to say we’ve put it all behind us for months if not years. We’re going to be rolling out the current vaccines in the EU through at least the end of the year. Much of the Third World is likely to be struggling to do the same through 2022. And there’s going to be surges and variants continually cropping up and threatening to get out of control. There’s always the chance that we end up slamming right back into more lockdowns.

I’m trying to be at the cutting edge of what seems prudent, while still erring firmly on the safe side of that line. So I’m starting small, just heading to the UK for a couple weeks. There’s something a little poetic about that; I’m crashing with the same person I crashed with when I first left the United States way back in 2018. It’s a modest way to start.

I have a vague idea of where to next, but I haven’t booked anything on the immediate horizon, and everything can be canceled. I’m going to play it by ear, trying to be cautious. But I’ve been trapped in my room for too long. I have to get moving.

I’ve been here before. It’s scary all over again. And what I learned from the last time — nearly three years ago — is sometimes you’re going to have to take a deep breath, close your eyes, and jump.

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Footnotes

¹ I’ve only got speculation as to why, whether the decisions really were being made last minute or if was just Irish bureaucracy. I think I’m leaning towards bureaucracy.

Irish bureaucracy is quite different from, say, American or German bureaucracy. To broadly stereotype, German bureaucracy tends to be pretty regimented, so there are the rules and the procedures and the forms and if you do all of it, no matter how annoying or fiddly or useless, you’re golden. Americans hate bureaucracy, so when you encounter it there are two possibilities. Either the person presenting it will be very apologetic, or they’re straight up trying to get you to fuck off.

Irish bureaucracy is … I don’t want to say “invented on the spot” but it has that feel to it. There’s often a very specific process to getting what you want which is annoying and slightly onerous but not exactly hard or unreasonable. Unfortunately, every single person you talk to will have a different idea of what that is. So you’ll ring up some office, get instructions, spend an hour following them, and call back. And the new person you talk to will tell you that’s completely wrong and unnecessary. And will often accuse you of lying about calling earlier because nobody in their office would ever give you those instructions in the first place.

² After navigating more bureaucracy, natch. I called the clinic I was using here in Ireland and was told I needed a Personal Public Service number to get on the list for an appointment. So I got the documentation — a letter from my landlord, a letter from my doctor, and a copy of my passport — and submitted it. I got a response asking for proof my landlord owned the building, so I had get a copy of their utility bill and submit it.

Then having done all that, the person I was corresponding with told me I wouldn’t qualify for a PPS number because I didn’t have a valid medical reason. And that was because you didn’t need a PPS number for the vaccine. So I called the clinic back and explained all that and they finally put me down on the list. And then I had to follow up with them three weeks later because they couldn’t call my American phone number. But I got scheduled.

³ Not coincidentally, all three exceedingly rich countries with extremely polarized politics and divisive leaders. Thus, willing to throw massive amounts of money at corporations in the hope of shoring up their favorablity ratings.

⁴ I found a Chinese place making meaty pan-fried Jiaozi with Beyond Burgers and I am so excited for what vegan food is going to look like in a decade.

⁵ We could have avoided most of the drama if we had just invested in decent election systems, but broken electoral systems are a political tool of the right-wing, so here we are. I mean, we could have avoided most of the drama if we hadn’t elected an autocratic kindergartener, too, and I know which of the two options I’d have chosen, if I had to pick just one.

⁶ And another American expat, too, which mattered. I mean, I clearly got through the next few months on my own, with all that constant political drama, but there’s no question it helped my mental state.

⁷ Vegetables Wellington, which I guess doesn’t really count as modest per se, but I only made some creamed corn and mashed potatoes and gravy to go with it.

My ideal of a Thanksgiving meal involves at least a half-dozen separate dishes, with fresh-baked rolls and stuffing and cranberry sauce and that typically inedible green-beans-and-cream-of-mushroom-soup casserole. Seemed a bit overkill for two people.

⁸ I looked for rental accommodations, but everything that’s single-person and furnished costs virtually the same amount as a cheap hotel room. Not that I’d categorize any of these places as cheap, but I’ve got to live some place and I’m not booking a bunk in a hostel.

⁹ Well, I nabbed a blender from my friend that would have otherwise gone to goodwill. And you might need to wash your blender in the bathtub.

¹⁰ There’s also a chocolate option which is better, meaning reminiscent in texture and flavor of brownie batter, albeit batter where you accidentally halved the sugar and chocolate.

¹¹ I have been buying the flavor packets they offer, which are … I don’t know if they’re much of an improvement, but at least they’re different. The Apple Cinnamon is pretty good, as is the Mocha. Peanut Butter is disappointing. The Salted Caramel is just weird. And the Banana is outright terrible unless you mix it in the chocolate.

¹² Mix a scoop of powder with boiling water, stir, let sit for three minutes, and you’ve got a healthy balanced meal of curry/stew/noodles. In theory, anyway. The sweet and sour noodles were nearly inedible, but the madras and the chili were both pleasantly spicy and something I wouldn’t have been all that bent out of shape to be served in a fast food joint. I wouldn’t have been overjoyed, mind you, but they weren’t too bad.

¹³ This one dropped off a set of food in prepackaged individual servings at the start of the week, ready to be nuked or eaten cold. As usual, it was convenient without being particularly enticing.

¹⁴ Or, rather, the parts that seem interminable and long-winded are parodies of writing that’s interminable and long-winded. How funny that strikes you depends on how familiar you are with what’s being parodied, but Joyce sure does a mean Dickens.

¹⁵ Even now I tend to read a few pages, then check my email, then watch a short video online, then send an email to a friend, then come back to it for a few more pages. More than ten sustained minutes of reading is difficult.

¹⁶ The recommended approach, which I endorse, is to find a good guide — it’s impossible to catch all of Joyce’s references — and keep a strict schedule of one chapter a day. The earlier chapters are more conventional and easier to understand (I said easier not easy). Read a chapter without worrying too much about catching everything, and then read the guide to be embarrassed by how much you missed. By the time you get into the difficult parts — Oxen of the Sun is particularly heavy sledding — you’ll hopefully have some momentum built up.

¹⁷ Any discussion of a sexual fetish on Sex and the City is likely to be as prurient as anything that turns up in Joyce’s book.

¹⁸ Compare to Sex and the City, where there may be some hand-waving about accepting everyone’s weirdness but there’s usually an incredibly judgy tone about anything that’s not vanilla. And you can be sure it’ll get mercilessly mocked throughout the episode.

¹⁹ I had a lot of time to myself in lockdown.

²⁰ The cinema here redid all their booking kiosks so it automatically blocks off all the seats surrounding the ones you bought, so no one can reserve a spot next to you. Pretty smart.