To the real Carla Black
I have found out that there ain’t no surer way to find out whether you like people or hate them than to travel with them.
—MARK TWAIN
Chapter 1
My dad always says that the people waiting for you at the airport should never be strangers. They should be family members, overjoyed to reunite after being separated—even if it’s only been a few days. Or lovers, so impatient to see you that they sweep you into their arms and kiss you passionately in public. Or maybe even close friends, excited to create new memories and reminisce about the old.
Dad doesn’t believe in searching for cardboard signs with your name printed in black Sharpie letters or awkwardly scanning faces, wondering if that brown-haired man—the one standing beside the ugly modern art sculpture that all airports seem to have—is the person you’re seeking. And according to Biggie Black, if meeting a stranger at the airport is unavoidable, there is nowhere less inspiring than the Air Margaritaville.
So, when my plane touches down at Dublin Airport, and I switch on my phone for the first time since my layover in Philly, I’m pleased to find a text from Eamon Sullivan, asking me to meet him in a pub near the city center. Bars don’t necessarily make identifying strangers any easier, but it’s a much more interesting origin story if you eventually become friends. And if you happen to ID the wrong guy in the bar, you can always blame it on the booze.
The name of the pub is The Confession Box, which calls to mind scandalous secrets, clandestine affairs, and alcohol flowing freely enough to loosen tongues. It sounds like it might be a seedy little dive in the wrong part of town. It sounds like my kind of place. I smile to myself, wondering what this choice says about Eamon Sullivan.
I respond: PERFECT. JUST LANDED.
My fellow passengers begin to rouse like zombies as our plane taxis toward the terminal. Biggie taught me to wait in my seat until the plane has formally arrived, out of respect for the flight crew, but also because there’s no point in launching yourself into the aisle when there’s nowhere to go. All around me, electronics are stowed. Neck pillows removed. Personal belongings moved from beneath the seat in front of them to their laps, their legs bouncing, waiting to spring up. The wheels have barely stopped moving before the overhead bins are thrown open and the aisle is clogged with people waiting to get off the plane.
Another nugget of wisdom from my dad: Why hurry up and wait when you can simply wait?
For a man who holds no specific religious beliefs, Biggie’s attitude is remarkably Zen. But after visits to thirteen countries and the lower forty-eight states, I have never known his advice to fail me. I stretch out my legs in the emergency exit row with Social Distortion pulsing through my headphones as the horde shambles past. Once the other passengers are through the jet bridge, I sling my backpack over my shoulder and disembark, thanking the crew as I go. By the time I reach the immigration queue, most of the people from my flight are now behind me in line, having rushed off the plane for a reviving cup of coffee, to use the bathroom, or to claim their luggage.
* * *
My passport stamped and nothing of value to declare, I pause to pull a bit of cash from a nearby ATM before exiting the airport. I follow the signs down the escalator to the taxi stand, where I hail a cab and direct the driver to take me to The Confession Box.
Dublin rolls past my window—low-rise buildings in shades of brown and gray—and I think about how often people ask me if I’m afraid to travel by myself. They wonder if it’s lonely to eat in restaurants or drink in bars alone. They fear I might be robbed or kidnapped or worse. But eight years ago, Biggie Black—traveling partner, best friend, father—was diagnosed with early onset dementia. In the days following his diagnosis, he decided he didn’t want me to see him deteriorate. He forbade me from waiting around for him to forget me.
“You only get so many trips around the sun,” he said, tapping his first two fingers against his temple. “And some of us don’t even get to keep the memories until our lights go out.”
He dug his hand into the front pocket of his old baggy jeans and pulled out a set of keys. They were looped on a key chain that was a bottle opener from a craft brewery in Nashville, and I recognized them at once—the keys to his chili-pepper-red Jeep Wrangler.
Biggie had bought the Jeep brand new when I was a little girl, not long after my mom left. Eventually, he’d removed the back seat and built a wooden platform in the cargo area to create additional space for camping equipment. That summer, and every summer after, he’d taken me off-roading and overlanding across the United States, teaching me geography, history, and engine repair along the way. I loved that Jeep almost as much as I loved him. But as he folded the keys into my palm, tears welled up in my eyes and I shook my head. “Biggie, no. I can’t—”
“Listen, I’ve still got some time before the holes in my memory start getting bigger,” he said, cutting me off. “But Valentina was always gonna be yours one day. Today might as well be the day.”
I tried to imagine what it would be like to travel without him, but it was like looking into a lake so deep you couldn’t see the bottom. Unfathomable. “What are you going to do?”
“Oh, I think it’s time for me and Stella to get hitched,” he said, referring to his longtime girlfriend, whom he’d never once mentioned asking to be his wife.
I fell against him, sobbing into his shoulder. “I don’t want to lose you, Biggie.”
“You aren’t losing me,” he said, his big, thick arms wrapping around me, holding me tight. “I taught you everything you know, so I will always be with you.”
He pulled back a little and tilted my chin. I may have inherited the height gene, but I still had to look up at him. He swam in my vision. “What’s the family motto?”
Biggie had invented the family motto when I was going through my thirteen-year-old asshole phase, questioning why we had to spend yet another summer climbing over boulders and sleeping on the ground. It had been the one year in my life I wanted to do ordinary teenage things, like sleeping in on the weekend, hanging out on the beach with friends, and maybe kissing boys. But Dad had long ago decided that our lives should be extraordinary.
My laugh was thick with snot and tears, and I wiped my eyes with the heels of my hands. “Here for a good time, not for a long time.”
Biggie shrugged and did that thing with his mouth that he imagined made him look like De Niro, but since he looked nothing like De Niro, it only made him look slightly constipated. “Exactly. It’s going to be okay. I’ve got no regrets, and I don’t want you to have any either. Look forward, Carla, not back.”
Now, when people ask me if I’m afraid to travel alone, I always tell them no. After all, what could possibly happen to me that’s worse than having my dad disappear, piece by tiny piece?
* * *
The Confession Box turns out to be a traditional Irish pub, but not the touristy red one with the riotous flower boxes that shows up in a lot of travel photos of Dublin. Not that there’s anything wrong with tourist attractions. They have their place. No, the exterior of The Confession Box is painted glossy black and trimmed with gold leaf paint that shines in the sun. Guinness signs hang in the front window, and a black sandwich board on the pavement claims the pub was once the favorite of Irish revolutionary Michael Collins.