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The Return Of The Lost Czech–Irish girl
I could never quite settle back into life in the Czech Republic. From the very first day after my return, I felt the gnawing pull of homesickness for Ireland. I was, of course, glad to be home with my family, yet the reality I had to adapt to felt strangely alien. More than once I caught myself speaking English to shop assistants, or feeling the impulse to greet strangers on my walk home — a habit carried over from Bagenalstown, where everyone knew you and wished you a good day. Here, no one even lifted their gaze from the pavement; people drifted past each other like shadows.
The worst waves of melancholy always came to me in the Prague metro. The people there seemed like a grey tide, an amorphous mass dragging itself from nowhere to nowhere. The whole city moved in a frenzy — queues for escalators, queues for tickets, queues for trains, queues for buses. The press of bodies, the relentless pace, left me feeling adrift. I knew I had to find work; it was time to fend for myself. My childhood friends had long since scattered, so my social life revolved entirely around the people I met through my jobs.
That’s how I became friends with people like Barbora. We worked together in a café on Wenceslas Square, and our shared experience of Ireland formed an instant bond. Later, I found work as an assistant for a pharmaceutical company, and eventually I ended up at the reception desk of The Prague Post, an American newspaper. Every position I took was deliberately short-term; I was determined not to tie myself down, always keeping the door open for my eventual return to Ireland. That year I lived with my mother in a cramped studio apartment, sleeping on a hard floor with barely room to stretch.
From time to time I met up with a group from an online dating site. My colleague had first dragged me along, and though I couldn’t have said why I went, I knew deep down it was curiosity… and loneliness. That’s how I met Tomas, a young man about my age. He was easy to talk to, and I felt comfortable around him.
We began seeing each other while I was working at The Prague Post. Tomas would stop by my workplace, and we’d usually head somewhere together afterwards. At first, I enjoyed the attention; it was comforting to be cared for. But soon his interest began to press down on me. Wherever I went, he followed. His devotion bordered on self-sacrifice — as if he’d give the very last piece of himself if I only asked. He planned trips out of the city and always arrived precisely on time. For a while I told myself it was a welcome distraction, an abundance of affection I had long been starved of. But the novelty wore thin. My colleagues would chuckle when his face appeared on the CCTV screen at the building’s entrance. His constant care began to feel suffocating. After so long fighting for scraps of love, I didn’t know how to manage this flood of it.
Then came the day I argued with my mother, and she bluntly told me to pack my things and find my own place. I stayed for a short while with a friend, then with a colleague, feeling like a wanderer without a home. Yet from that hardship a saving thought emerged: nothing held me here anymore. Why not leave — and leave at once?
When I told Tomas my plan, he seized on it with enthusiasm, declaring that he would come with me.
“I don’t want you going just because of me,” I told him cautiously. “I have friends there… a life there. When I’m there, I’m a different person.” I wanted to warn him, to keep some distance. In truth, I knew I didn’t want to be with him; my feelings simply weren’t there. But he was undeterred.
“I wouldn’t be going just for you,” he said brightly. “I want to learn English — it’s a challenge for me.”
“As for the two of us,” I replied, “I promise you nothing. I don’t want you to regret it.”
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m not a child. I’ll manage.”
So we each bought our own ticket and prepared to leave. At the time, work permits were still technically required, but there was a way around it — you could enter as a tourist for three months, completely legally. In the end, I was even a little relieved he was coming along; the journey was difficult and risky for someone who had no idea what awaited. The only arrangement I had made in advance was a place to stay in Carlow — the cheapest hostel I could find.
The moment I set foot in Dublin Airport, that familiar, soul-deep sense of belonging washed over me. I was home among my own people. I wanted to fling my arms around every Irishman I saw. I spoke with the ease of someone who had lived here for years, moving through the space with the certainty of a homing bird. I didn’t know what invisible thread pulled me back, but I could feel it — unbreakable, seen only by me.
For the first few days we lodged on the outskirts of Carlow in a dingy, stale-smelling dive. The only bright spot in that place was Martin, a short, round man whose smile seemed glued to his face. Our room was no better than a burnt-out caravan, and we could bear it for no more than two nights. At night we were kept awake by a gang of elderly Polish labourers from a nearby factory, who not only made a dreadful racket but also stole our food from the communal fridge. Enough was enough.
Tomas and I decided to move on — destination unknown. I suggested Thomastown, near Kilkenny, where there was a grand luxury hotel, Mount Juliet, set on sprawling grounds with manicured golf courses. I had once applied there for a job as a housekeeper. Just walking from the gates to the hotel itself took half an hour. It was a place for the wealthy.
There was no work to be had, so we trudged back into Thomastown, pondering where we might lay our heads that night. It was a gamble, but we had nothing to lose. I had always been a fatalist, believing that fate would carry me where I was meant to go, no matter what steps I took.
We were walking along a country road lined with grazing cows when a young couple approached us from the opposite direction. Even from a distance, I thought they might be Czech — I had a sixth sense for such things. As they passed, I caught their voices. Czech. I nudged Tomas, who was lost somewhere in his own thoughts.
“Czechs,” I whispered, smiling at the absurdity of the coincidence.
They must have overheard us, because they stopped and stared in surprise. That very day, we had a roof over our heads — and for the next month as well. It turned out Vera and Tony were renting out a house on the hill in town and were looking for respectable tenants. Fate had delivered us exactly where we were meant to be.
Their home was a pleasant single-storey house with a glassed-in veranda and a small front garden, containing four rooms in total. When we arrived, Vera was cooking lunch for Tony, and the rich aroma of beef in cream sauce filled the air. We agreed that Tomas and I would share a room and split the rent. All that remained was to find work — a greater challenge in such a small town. Without delay, I began visiting every shop and hotel, but most saw only complications in arranging permits. Time and again, nothing came of it.
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