Before my time in Cork, I’ll confess I used to roll my eyes at the people who’d gush incessantly over their time studying abroad. I’d shake my head and laugh at those who were “convinced” those three weeks in Chile or Japan or wherever were revolutionary, transformative, metamorphic. When you’ve studied abroad, the conversations you’ll have once you’re back home become a running joke of sorts. You’ll force friends, family, perhaps baristas to endure countless stories about your nights clubbing in Ibiza or Barcelona.

But I’m becoming one of them. Perhaps self-awareness will make it more digestible. Or perhaps I’m destined to be that one friend who sprinkles some variation of “While I was in Europe…” into almost every conversation.

Although I’ll admit the four months I spent in Cork –– the true capital of Ireland –– were dreamy indeed. I met wonderful people and saw incredible places, but this is not that tale.

Rose-colored glasses be damned, mine are tinted emerald (isle). 

Dating in Ireland may seem like the perfect opportunity to discover the untapped excess of Paul Mescals and Cillian Murphys wandering around (Pierce Brosnan if you’re someone’s mother), waiting to sweep you off your feet. And while I wasn’t exactly looking for romance, I have to admit … I was curious. 

I told myself my time in Ireland would be about discovering culture and connecting with my heritage (ie. spending every night at a pub), but isn’t there some sort of unspoken rule that studying abroad includes at least one whirlwind European love affair? (Moped optional.) 

In the end, curiosity won. I (re)downloaded Hinge.

In a phenomenon I’m not sure anyone can explain, about eighty percent of these eligible Irish bachelors had the same exact haircut: some variation of the Tommy from “Peaky Blinders” style with a fade. It was as if every single barber on the island had only been taught one style.

Despite the Irish Haircut exhaustion, I started texting with one guy I’ll call Paul. (No, not the Mescal. I wish.)

We met up for the first time at a crowded pub down the street, and mid-conversation, a woman materialized out of nowhere, grabbed Paul by the shoulders, and shouted, “Liam Payne is dead!” When she heard my accent, she turned to Paul, serious as ever, and demanded he propose to me immediately, to whisk me away from the hellscapes of America. 

He just smiled and nodded. 

I don’t know why I was surprised when he ghosted me the next day. 

Hinge was now off the list, but hey! Meet-cutes could still be on the table, right?

It didn’t take much other than the allure of an accent for men to approach our group of friends at the bars. “Are you American?” they’d ask, then most likely inquire about politics or school illiteracy. Quite romantic. 

And for reasons beyond me, if things went well with these Irish men and inquiries of international relations blossomed into flirty banter, naturally, we’d exchange numbers with these guys. We’d barely stepped out of the bar when the texts rolled in. Any and all charm would dissolve the moment they asked to crash at ours.

And not even in a suave way; it was as if they’d been grounded by their mothers and needed a place to find refuge. If you’re gonna beg for housing, at least make it glib. We hadn’t even made it home yet when the 2 a.m. “Accommodations?” texts began to flood in. “Your place?” they’d ask. 

Now it’s 3 a.m. “No more taxis! Please?” 

Once it became clear that my Irish dating life was a lost cause, I made peace with the fact that my European love story — and my shot at a spouse visa — was never going to happen. Singledom it was.

Then four months came and went. 

On our last night, my friends and I hopped our way from pub to pub, reminiscing about the nights we’d spent sardined between sweaty bodies dancing to Fatboy Slim. Our final stop was Cork’s “college bar” equivalent, An Bróg. It was crowded, as always, so we shimmied outside. No more than five feet away from me was Paul. 

He had his arm oh-so-nonchalantly poised against the bar’s brick wall, pint in hand, blabbering wildly (and drunkenly) to a girl who looked like she did not want to be there. He crackled himself up over his own joke, and as his friends (lads) cheered him on, she and I locked eyes. Her polite smile but alarmingly wide eyes told me everything I needed to know: “Help me.”

By the time we left that night, I saw her skipping down the street with her friends, giggling madly. Paul, it seemed, was still in the infancy of international relations.

He texted me out of the blue the other week:

“Space for one more?”

Maybe I’m glad to be back after all.

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