The other day, a black swan was spotted hanging out among its white ruffian brethren in the Claddagh. That’s 97.8 miles away from where I sit, in a public library. Beside me, an old man in a pinstripe suit reads the Irish Independent, his nose grazing the print. A longing swells, and then it’s released. I reason: it’s not that far. To return, it takes 2 hours and 30 minutes on the bus. But Galway feels like another world: here, there are calves to worry about, meals to scrape together from shoddy memory, a chapter to write between walks and reading time. I feel raw, flayed alive by the newness of this place. You don’t need this. Or this. Or this. This is not a new sensation: I’m accustomed to it, as the perpetual foreigner, an immigrant, an unruly body with an uncertain future.





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