It's a long story...it really is. And I don't know where to start but we should probably begin with the picture above. I hope it's uploaded properly because that picture, that title page rather, is from an 8-year-old me all the way back in rural Philmont, New York while I was in 1st grade at the Hawthorne Valley Waldorf School. This picture was the title for a comic I made about my adventures to Ireland. Even back then, 14 years ago, I had an inexplicable fascination with this country: the rolling hills, the green, the warm-heartedness, the adventure, the ACCENT, all of it was magical. I would dream and daydream about going. My mother would encourage me to write about it, and my dad would take me to Irish pubs and to Boston whenever we could spare the time or money. So I did. I pretended. Every time I went to play in the woods I was in Ireland, being a thief at the King's festival or running from the Castle guards or chasing after a red-headed princess through the magically lush forests and fields. I would play with my friends and I would play alone, all the while adventuring through and through.

As I grew older, my mom bought me Rick Steve's and Samantha Brown travel videos for Christmas. 6 of them, all through Ireland. Since we could barely afford school tuition and groceries, it was the next best thing; at least, I could let my imagination free to roam where it wished. She kept me inspired with traveling through the vistas of the internet. Through books and travel guides I made my way through Cork and Kilkenny, Ennis, Galway and Dublin all the while singing "Whiskey in the Jar" and "Black is the Colour". Throughout high school, my dreams of this place stayed alive somehow. James Joyce became one of my favorites, I excelled in an elective class, solely focusing on his work. My parents and I always felt a connection to the charm, simplicity, and charisma of the Irish, and often on our movie nights we would watch "The Commitments" "Brassed Off " "My Left Foot" and my all-time favorite, "Once".

I graduated high school, Ireland evading me all the while. And as my dreams of studying overseas died due to lack of possible funds, I had to do what was right and begin college where I could. But to see the Moors! To feel the energy of a REAL Irish pub, to kiss the Blarney Stone! Ah! my heart still jumps at the thought. And now, at 22, I drink Guinness on the weekends and wear an Irish Tweed coat I've had since I was 14. I write poetry and write stories, I love Boston and corned beef is alright.

We moved earlier this year; forced out of the apartment wherein I drew this picture 14 years previous. I was driving, one warm 2015 December day, to our new, temporary home, when a piece of paper flew out of a poorly sealed box and onto the street. I considered leaving it, I was exhausted from having moved boxes for weeks on end. But I stopped. When I got out of the car and walked to the road, I picked up a piece of paper that said: "Going to Ireland. By Christian Peterson. Age 8. Year 2002. January 14th."

I stood there for a moment in the middle of the street, looking. The day was warm and balmy, an unusually hot day for December. The country road which usually bustled was completely bare, devoid of incidence. I listened and breathed, closed my eyes. The birds chirped softly in the hedge, sun beams warmly caressed my face, fresh air dallied in the aura of this forgotten antecedence. A moment passed before I remembered where I was. "How did this survive?" I asked myself "after all these years, it lingered, and now found its way into my hands again." Surprised I hadn't been run over yet, I made my way back to the car, and, putting the drawing in the passenger's seat, drove off up the hill.

My wish to study in Ireland is something I have always wished; perhaps something that even precedes my time here, on earth. In my heart, I've been there for a long time, and in my dreams, I'll be there many more. The magic of this land will dwell in me as it has since I was a little boy. I will wear my tweed on misty days, sing "Black is the Colour" in the shower and "Drunken Lullabies" with my friends. I'll drink Guinness on weekends and be the only one around who knows how to pronounce Saoirse, but never know how to spell it. In a quiet moment, I'll remember all these memories I've made, just thinking about Ireland. Then, I can smile because I'll know the best is still to come. I'll know I'll be able to make more memories soon, maybe very soon, and maybe this time, I'll get to make them there; in the land where my 8-year-old-pirate-self voyaged to, and the land my heart still sails to today: Ireland.