On the road again

of potholes and false starts

the culprit

Monday morning, I was supposed to embark on the next leg of the 35 Houses journey, traveling by ferry from Dublin to Holyhead, Wales and then on to Brussels (#31), Geneva (#30) and eventually landing in Parma (#34) for a 6-week writing retreat. Unfortunately, a pothole on Greenville Street—invisible in the 6 am dark—had other ideas, and I was forced to abort on Mount Joy Square. After a valiant but ultimately futile attempt to use the fancy new foam tire repair kit, I moved my booking to the later ferry and put out a call to a mobile tire unit. Brix and I walked back to the scene of the crime to marvel at the hole’s cavernous breadth and depth, which was ironically about the size of a tire, while we waited for help to arrive. What was it that bothered me the most about the delay? The speed with which my early-morning optimism melted into despair? The perceived finger-wag from the universe, as if to say, “You thought this would be easy? Think again!”? The budget hit for a new tire and a nonrefundable hotel I would never get to—all in my supposed new era of fiscal discipline?

My savior in a TYREMASTER fleece finally arrived with a charming Eastern European twang, a wide, comforting smile and a toddler car seat in the front of the van. I took the latter as a clear sign he could be trusted, especially after the wheel was pronounced dead and a new one queued up. The drone of the impact driver (that, Google tells me, is the name of the power tool used to remove lug nuts), the hiss of the hydraulic lift and the whirr of the wheel balancer had my pup Brix trembling, so we cuddled against the wrought iron fence around Mount Joy Park until it was over, though it was unclear who was comforting whom. 265 euros and a 10-euro tip later, I was on my way back home instead of off on my adventure.

There must be a reason for the delay, my friend said when I decided to stop in. Maybe I missed a terrible traffic jam or an accident on the highway in Wales. Or maybe I just really, really needed the unexpected pleasure of an hour-long walk and a chinwag with a good friend before I left. (Reader, I really, really did need it). So, after a brisk walk, a hot cup of tea and a few tears, I set off once again, this time making it to the boat without incident. The sight of the Poolbeg Chimneys, as they drifted slowly past the salt-pocked glass, had my heart aching. Ireland is my Wahlheimat, my chosen homeland, and feck if I don’t love those dirty industrial dinosaurs. “Don’t worry,” I whispered out the rusty window as they turned their stripes away, “It’s just a fling, this thing with Italy. I’ll be back. I’ll always be back. I could never quit you…”