The usual summer jet-lag of May. The clocks going forward a good omen to months of long sunny days and exciting life events. Jet-lag extended to the limit of body functions with a quick trip to Sydney which, despite blocking my lungs and giving me headaches for days, is always a treat.
It is in Sydney where I prepare to take the big leap, caressed by the mild wintry sunshine of every dawn at Darling Point, my heart beating almost in synch with the early joggers swerving around the bay.
I become a shoulder to a friend, with every time we meet, feeling like gaining momentum to take off for my big moment. We share cups of coffee under the shade of the Victoria Building and we breathe the Pacific breeze on the Bondi to Coogee walk.

A trip down under seems to always bring some missing links. Missing links of things we took for granted growing up, like the heat of an orange sunshine at dusk by the Opera House, or things that we always wanted to do like playing with baby kangaroos at Blacktown.

My body roams around the bay from Narrabeen to Mascot, yet in my mind only one thing echoes: coffee.

I stop over in Dubai for the weekend on the return leg. Ten years since my last visit looking like a more eclectic version of the same ‘sandpit’, extending its colourful arms across the blue sky, the shine of half-empty buildings still concealing tales of slavery under the desert heat.
I indulge in copious ‘iftars’ by the Creek and my friend Courtney and I take a taxi back to Abu Dhabi after a bit less than forty eight hours submerged in cabin crew nostalgia, perfumed under layers of grape-flavoured shisha in the mild Arabian evenings.

The red-eye brings me back to Dublin, to reality. To the happiness of quitting my office job and start my notice period. To being offered a position while the cafe takes off and later decline it. To a team outing including some kayaking on the Liffey and to weeks of ‘not giving a fuck’ about it. And on days I didn’t care about my job, my mind switched to that one thing: coffee.

I fight my own battle setting up in Revenue. I indulge in painting the cafe location on a bank holiday weekend, a task as pleasant as paying a visit to IKEA, my inner child wanting to purchase everything necessary for ‘the best cafe in town’.
The numbers match, the footfall is calculated and the friends are notified of the opening date. The runway is on sight and we are on final approach. Everything outside seems to get closer and closer. And then, I hit crosswind. And then the wing smashes the asphalt, and the rest is a blur.

I receive a call: my coffee is already on the plane crossing the Atlantic.
I receive a second call: the contractors want an extra seven grand.

My landlord does not respond to my calls. A negotiation is met by a cryptic “we’ll talk when I return” text. My stomach turns as I hold onto my mobile tightly, trying to find a solution to something that is almost unrecoverable. I grab the car keys and drive into town. I pick up supplies and leave a note, at this stage now reading in the bitter ink of frustration: “This is over, I am pulling out of this deal”.

I pile up the supplies in my apartment and the numbness begins.

I sit unemployed at midday for the first time in a decade. My legs later feeling heavy across the ‘dole office’. In my forehead, a mental tattoo reads failure and my focus is finally lost.
My coffee arrives on the opening day and my best friend and I drive to the airport. I don’t want it, yet keeping it in storage will cost me money.
The colourful boxes are piled up in my car, impregnating the upholstering with its chocolate tones. I try not to cry and instead smirk with the irony of it all, for the best coffee in the world has arrived to no cafe.

The summer arrives in full swing and the days extend to midnight. Camping is on the cards. A chance to see Ireland again, to camp on the shores of Lough Derg while toasting marshmallows, or just look at the moon reflecting on the North Atlantic in Waterford’s Copper Trail.
In Kilkenny, a professional lifeline seems to be thrown at me, and with it, the idea of moving to the countryside tags along.
In Cork, George Ezra makes me tear at my own concealed misery and the next morning, I head to Paris to escape from it, though it is already late. I find no joy at the Air Show and instead I focus on how hot the tarmac is. I gasp for air at midnight in Saint Michel and find myself walking with no apparent direction through piles of rubbish and drunk Parisians.

Upon return, I decide to bid farewell to Ireland, but my best friend bids farewell to me. I sink into nights of no sleep and days of no structure. I turn to bottles of wine that drain my energy. I meet people yet I show no interest, with every failed job interview sinking even lower.

Rock bottom is next and I hit days of laying in bed crying, lonely in Sandycove. Dissipating the clouds of contempt and facing the reality of my own crash the one and only way to finally move forward.

The sun shines across the streets of my seaside village and I devise a plan to sell my coffee. I buy bags and sell them with quirky on-demand designs, inspired by some Colombian brand selling art on collectible bags of coffee I once saw at El Dorado Airport.

I set up a webpage and sell three bags on my first week. The number of bags sold grow day after day and with it, my confidence also improves. I re-join the swimming facilities at my alma mater and my days unfold around a structure of morning coffee deliveries, afternoons of job hunting and evenings of swimming. The long days of summer seem to hastily jump across the calendar. Dole is collected every Wednesday and swimming is every day in the evening.

I reconnect with old friends and sell them coffee. I find comfort in shoulders I never thought I would, and good days are as equally intense as bad ones.

I witness transformations. A failed business growing in a completely different direction, the summer slowly fading in between the falling leaves, and a man standing in front of the mirror that learned a big lesson on humility by hitting the pavement at full speed.
I witness reconnections. Brutal commutes to early job interviews across the country giving way to escapades to long-favourite places in Ireland. Cycles across the Gap of Dunloe, beach days in the Dingle Peninsula.

I plan a budget weekend in France with ex-colleagues. We rent bicycles in Ile-de-Rê during the hot days and dine on seafood during the chilly nights.
The Atlantic breeze blows onshore across the sandy beaches of Western France, clearing up both sky and mind, finally putting an end to the dreadful summer chapter closing behind us.

And so, four months later, I see the light. I get a job offer. Because in the end, we win as much as we lose.
Fourteen job interviews and a couple of thousand of kilometres on the roads. A few grand less on my bank account. A best friend lost in grief, a few new friends made on the way to recovery. Four failed attempts of leaving Dublin, one big city wanting me to stay.

The clocks finally go back in preparation for winter, turning the air cold and crisp. My fingers finally come out of a summer of lethargy, strongly pulled by thoughts navigating over turbulent ripples of memories and fuelled by the self-promise that I would write about it when the bad times are over, when it is time to plan for next steps. To leave this behind and move forward.

To all involved in the cafe that wasn’t, thank you.