My world is quite small here in Yellow Springs.
A morning commute to the News office is a four-minute walk, and I see the same Midwest faces most days. I drive once maybe every two weeks, and I’m grateful that my groceries are still cold after I walk them home to my chicken-coop-of-a-house on Union Street. Mercifully, our local watering holes are within an easy stumbling distance.
The thought of flying across the Atlantic has always made me shudder — just slightly more than my annual trip to Kroger — but my wife and I wanted to do something nice for our honeymoon.
Ireland seemed to fit the bill. We’d always dreamed of going, and owing to some negligible ancestry, I’ve felt a kind of mythic pull for most my life.
Eire it was, then.
After a miserable red-eye, my wife and I landed in Dublin in late April. We checked into a ritzy castle and immediately pounded pavement. On…
