Christmas Eve. Coney Island. 34 degrees. Perfect.

It was long overdue, but I finally made the trip to Ireland to visit Erin. We’ve known each other since middle school. Over 17 years. I feel like I’ve lived so many lives since then — new cities, new scenes, new sets of friends. There’s something very comforting about being around your oldest friends, even in a foreign country.

After finding a team of horses on a hill, we grabbed Aoife, a folk musician and Erin’s roommate. We drove a rented Ford Fiesta through the night and across the country, singing The Cranberries and Sinead O’Connor (Ireland’s finest), finally arriving at Martin’s house in County Clare. Martin is Aoife’s dad and traditional Irish flutemaker. I fell asleep that night to their fiddling and fluting in the kitchen. The next day we hopped the fence so the back entrance of the Cliffs of Moher. The sea hid behind the fog. The grass was lush and green and exactly what I pictured of Ireland in my cliched imagination. The day was another one of those dreamlike experiences that I hope for on every trip.