I rush to Dublin Airport in a city that I still have no full familiarity with. Ryanair’s flight from Frankurt Hahn arrival is announced  and my friends send a hug through the overcrowded hall.
Once in town and with no particular agenda, we watch the heavy clouds hide behind the rugby grounds of North Dublin, we visit Trinity College when the skies draw a blue palette over the main courtyard and, when our quest for decent fish and chips begin, we stumble upon the pristine empty streets of the Georgian Quarter, both my friends and I equally impressed by the strange beauty of a sad evening in the middle of the economic recession.

A car is rented. Our budgets allowing us to gloriously walk out of the car rental desk with the keys to a Nissan Micra which revs at the full weight of the gas pedal in the dark motorway.
We reach Galway city almost at midnight and, being a Friday night, availability for beds is practically non-existent.
Flirting with the limited options, we drive to the small airport, being kicked out almost immediately as the terminal will close for the night and finally give up by parking on a side road sloping down what it seems to be the coast.

We try to keep warm by playing games and chatting until the tiredness beat us, the morning bringing curious visitors which stare at the red Micra in herds of wondering.
Morning breath in mouth and sleep partially covering the eyes, we drive down coastal roads surrounded by soft green hills that collapse against the rough sea in a constant fight of the elements.
The human imprint in the form of small scattered houses and a maze of stone walls demarcating the space around them. In Doolin relief (and a shower) are finally encountered, before driving up a windy road to the majestic Cliffs of Moher.

Rising over two-hundred meters above the foamy water level, the Cliffs stand like a stubborn soldier interrupting the course of the turbulent North Atlantic currents, the splashes of water breaking at the base of the rocks and traveling high up to the top of the cliff in some sort of inverted rain.
From the top, the North Atlantic grows intimidatingly infinite, evoking sighs of both humility and grandeur at the same time.

Our quest for fish and chips continues and fails after miles and miles of driving through road signs talking of Lisdoonvarna, Lahinch or The Burren, finally clearing the distance between both extremes of the island in over two hours, just before my friends say their good-byes at the airport and I, once again, return to my bittersweet waiting game.

The days in Dublin go by. Surprisingly, little rain is falling, by many locals suggested that we are getting the best spring in decades. Medical exams are submitted. Ishihara test here, audition exam there. Blood is taken showing low defenses (perhaps due to the weather) forcing another two to be taken until the situation improves.
E-mails between Dublin and Doha are torpedoed back and forth, the medical exam results becoming more and more cumbersome. The new employers aiming to establish perfect health before releasing a final offer.

Three weeks go by since I landed in Ireland, the weather turning slightly warmer during the day and bitterly cold during the clear nights.
I move my belongings and share a small pre-fabricated house in the heart of Cabra. The Spanish guy boils pasta with chorizo every evening and spends hours playing Xbox with his equally young friends, the Polish man obsesses with body-building and is absent most of the time, and the French girl arrives tired from working at eBay. A joint between she and her Portuguese neighbour is religiously smoked every day as a debriefing from life in the city.
During this period, my limitations within the confines of the kitchen slowly fall and I learn to cook from basic dishes (I would even call myself ‘The Rice Guru’ at some stage) to some Portuguese stew that I instantly forget how to recreate.

I wait for news. The next morning I receive an email asking for more details and more medicals. I send them at the end of the same day and I am told that all requirements are completed and that the ‘real’ waiting game begins.
As my health is remotely assessed by some doctor stuck in a Doha office, I lay in bed with an air of uncertainty, knowing that only little over a hundred Euros are left in my bank account.

Cheers from Dublin.