tasty turnips

turnips. i like turnips. i had never consciously eaten turnips before this afternoon, for late lunch. i tasted them and thought: ooh! Ireland! turns out we had turnip all the time in Ireland, i just didn’t know it. and now eating it makes me all reminiscent, the way only tastes and smells can. i think of the view from the windows of the house where i stayed — ocean inlet. different every day, and every day beautiful. the big gray rock in the boggy field across the little road; we climbed up on it and sang and played whistle and harp. the first day of class, when i went out back of the building and looked across the grassy yard, and stone fences and hills of rocky piles, everything cool and green, the moisture hanging in the air, suspended like tiny diamonds of light, making the world float all around. the smell of peat fires. the sun setting over a sea-side graveyard. the odd sound of irish-gaelic to my foreign ears.

naturally, not all was sweetness and light. there was the frustration of learning the language, that ridiculous crush on my teacher, my scary scary roommate and the terrible, stuffy smell of our room, spending too much and worrying about it. but all in all, things were good. it was a good time, something i may never do again, and i’m glad (and grateful) that i got to.

Advertisements

Comments are closed.