i honor my mother by talking to strangers

a love letter to dublin, butterfly wings, and new friends

Hello friend,

Thanks for coming! I’m thrilled to welcome several new subscribers to our ritual. Some found me through last week’s review of “The Crew” by Michael Mohr of Sincere American Writing, and others through Warkitchen’s latest issue. I wrote an in-depth article about the ancient health benefits of saunaing, titled “Sauna: The Gift of Health, Wrapped in Heat”. Check out Issue 23 and Warkitchen if you haven’t already!

For the newbies: Coffee w/ Constanze is a weekly brew of personal narrative essays, including pieces on travel, culture, and (on occasion!) coffee. As a former barista and constant coffee-shop loiterer, I resonate with the concept of meeting friends (you) for a latte in a cozy setting, and exploring new and familiar topics together.

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Winter Days by Trinity College in Dublin’s Fair City, Emily McCormack

I graduate with my master’s degree one week from today. I’m flying back to Dublin on Sunday for the ceremony—the city that taught me how to speak to strangers. 

My first ever visit was exactly six months after my mother died, arriving on what would’ve been her fifty-fifth birthday. Staying by myself in a tiny Airbnb in Smithfield, I wasn't necessarily alone. I brought my mother's ashes with me. 

This life-changing Irish vacation served two purposes: to celebrate my undergraduate graduation a few months before, and to honor my mom's lifelong dream of visiting Ireland. 

She passed six weeks before my final exams. Despite my impossible grief, I couldn’t bear to defer my courses and graduate a quarter late. I'd paid my way through college without taking out loans, working part-time jobs for years to afford tuition, and for the first time in my academic life, I was actually proud of my GPA. Despite the foggy, narrow world of grief I’d been marooned in, I couldn’t stop until I reached my destination.

Thankfully, I was able to stay on track. I graduated with magna cum laude honors.

I’m not sure how I managed this in retrospect, apart from the unwavering belief that my mom would've wanted me to. I could visualize her confident expression, batting away my concerns as she’d groan, “Come on. Don't stop because of me."

Though I don’t regret the hard work, I finished the year completely drained of energy and, naturally, heartbroken by the fact that the person who would've cheered loudest at my ceremony wouldn’t be in attendance.

I wanted to celebrate us both with a kind of grand gesture: to honor her memory while giving myself a graduation gift. She'd always wanted to visit Ireland, proud of her Irish Catholic background and in awe of the Cliffs of Moher. Had she gone with me to Dublin, I knew she’d spend all her time mingling with pubgoers. (If she ever overheard an Irish accent in public, we'd risk losing her for an hour as she'd pick the unsuspecting speaker's brain.)

Of course, I'd always wanted to see Ireland. I’d promised her I'd wait, so that we could go together. It dawned on me that the time had finally come.

My mother’s favorite activity in life was talking to strangers. She’d launch into half-hour-long conversations with whatever soul was near and willing, with no regard for time or place.

On what would've been quick errands, I’d find myself waiting around anxiously as she spoke, minutes limping forward with her words. Only once these talks finally ended would I learn that, nine times out of ten, she didn’t know the person she was talking to at all.

“How?" I'd ask, always blown away.

The seed of each encounter was minuscule: she'd drop a complaint about egg prices over someone’s shoulder, or compliment someone’s sneakers. These words would grow into deeper talks, and magically, I’d watch them blossom into lasting connections. Not all of her interactions were fruitful; sometimes she wouldn’t get a response—but that wasn’t why she spoke to people in the first place.

“I could never do that,” I’d always confess. My whole life I've been shy to a fault, even around people I'm comfortable with.

Mom would laugh, always giving me the same advice:

“Just try, Connie. People would love to talk to you.”

I wasn't sure. The problem wasn’t me per se, but the fact I’d be a stranger.

Maybe it’s my generation, but when someone starts an unexpected conversation, even if it’s enjoyable, I catch myself wondering, why is this person talking to me? Safe within a silent outer shell in public, I’d always be shocked when it burst.

I assumed this of others too, and abhorred the idea that I should damage someone's cocoon of normalcy with random questions or observations. 

“What happened to the whole 'don't talk to strangers' thing, mom?" I'd tease.

I can still imagine her smiling at me. “Hon, you’re not a kid anymore.”

Deep down, I suspected that my mother’s social butterfly wings were simply dormant inside me. Twenty years passed with no sign of them, but I never gave up hope. Hearing that Irish people were famously friendly, Dublin seemed like the perfect place to try and coax them out.

On my first day of four, I started a ritual: I'd sight-see in the morning and afternoon, then start conversations with people in pubs at night. It was a daunting concept, but I hoped that a drink or two could fill in the gaps in my shrinking determination. 

This extroverted romp was yet another way of fulfilling what I imagined were my mother’s hopes for me. At least, that’s how she would spend Dublin nights, awash in life stories as free-flowing as Guinness.

In the newfound ease of making small-talk with strangers, it occurred to me that she was (of course) right all along: I didn’t lack some born-in knack for shooting the shit; I just shied away from practicing. Fellow tourists and locals alike were eager to chat with me. I practiced my mediocre German skills, picked up Irish slang, and learned about the lives of Formula 1 fanatics, lovesick dentists, and aimless musicians. Connecting with others was almost annoyingly simple.

On one of my favorite nights there, I enjoyed hours of enthusiastic story-sharing with a Spanish girl, her Scottish boyfriend, and an Irish baker, all of whom later escorted me home in a minivan imported from Japan. Its navigation system spoke loudly in robotic Japanese, indicating on a tiny blue screen that we must've been driving through the middle of the ocean.

As I watched them drive back into the night, I realized that my use of alcohol might be technically cheating. If I was trying to talk to anyone and everyone, I couldn’t stick to pubs—conversation came with the territory.

I swore to myself that the following day, I’d engage in more daylight stranger talks to know for certain I’d conquered my fears. Looking back now, if I didn’t make that promise, I would’ve deeply regretted it.

I went to see the National Museum of Ireland to see the famous Bog People around noon that day. By the time I walked out, a demonstration began in front of the neighboring Parliament House.

Briefly I watched the scene unfold with a growing crowd of spectators, trying to comprehend what they were advocating for. I asked a woman standing near me on the sidewalk if she knew what was going on. She wondered the same thing. 

“I got off work and just had to figure out where all that racket was coming from,” she laughed.

The stranger was redheaded and green-eyed, somewhere in her mid-30’s. I relayed a nutshell explanation of my visit, and from there, we shared more pleasantries over screams and chants.

“Do you have a favorite pub around here?" I asked, telling her about my new ritual. 

“I only know one place around here. I can walk you to it, if you like."

Leona and I hung out for the rest of the day. We were shocked to get along like old friends, and I felt safe enough to dive into the struggles of the past six months. She gave me hilarious insights about growing up in rural Ireland, online dating an American, and watching reflections of womanhood dance in the eyes of her two young nieces.

Switching pubs, we shared stew with pints of Guinness (always) while listening to live music. We parted ways at the DART station after promising each other profusely that we'd keep in touch. Miraculously, we maintained communication across nearly two years of distance. 

It was so wonderful to have a built-in friend to visit after I moved to Ireland for my program. We got together for smoothies on the beach; discussing grief, roosters, and romance. On a rare sunny day a few months later, we strolled around the gorgeous Malahide Castle grounds after a long lunch.

That was the last time I saw her. I learned this week that I’ll see her next at my graduation ceremony.

I invited her to come and see me walk across the stage, noting that we could definitely catch up instead post-ceremony. Scheduled for an early Tuesday afternoon, I was ready for this possibility.

To my surprise, Leona quickly agreed. She’ll be the only person in the audience watching on my behalf.

I’ve always liked to believe my mother led me to Trinity, reflecting on the chain of events that followed her death. Though she wasn’t there for my first graduation, it’s comforting to think she made sure I had an audience for the next one—someone who would’ve been a stranger under any other circumstance.

I aim to rekindle my mom’s extroverted energy for this next graduation trip, and see what kind of friends I can make while bouncing around Europe. I'll let you know how it goes.

W/ love, until next week,

Constanze