For many young Irish graduates an opportunity to head abroad on a year’s work visa sets pulses racing. But even a dream job in a perfect sunny setting is not always enough, especially when all your support systems and social networks are removed overnight – or, rather, by a 12-hour overnight flight.
I snapped at the opportunity to go straight from college to work in a management job on a megastructure construction site in Miami Beach. The idea of moving alone to the US was daunting. I had never spent much more than a day in a place where I didn’t know anybody. But the more I considered the proposition the more compelled I felt to go. In 2011 Ireland was still firmly in the grasp of recession. Unpaid internships were becoming the norm for graduates like me. I had to accept the challenge.
The team welcomed me with open arms. They eased me into my role and eventually gave me more responsibility. The learning curve was steep but comfortable. I started work the day after I arrived, and the first month passed in a hot whirlwind. There weren’t enough hours in the day to sort out accommodation and a car, get the lay of the land and keep up with work.
After that joyous and exciting first month, however, the new-life feeling faded and a dreary reality set in.
My work team was significantly older. All were married, and all but one had children. Everyone worked more than their set hours – and, as soon as they finished for the day, they rushed home.
Far removed from my parish GAA club, with its training two nights a week and game every Sunday, I joined a gym and tried to get involved in some casual soccer tournaments. But my motivation soon wore thin after long days working hard in Florida’s tropical heat.
I turned to the classic cure for the lonely Paddy abroad: the boozer. I quit pursuing any genuine hobbies and took to stopping into my local bar most days to catch happy hour. Weekends were usually spent drinking. I’d start alone but would usually get chatting to people on the next bar stool. Sometimes I’d be invited to join a group. But this lifestyle makes you acquaintances rather than friends. You know the barman’s name, you know he likes fishing and has a kid, but you wouldn’t ’t call him if you were to find yourself with a flat tyre and no spare in the boot.
Time flew in this spiralling work-to-bar and bar-to-bed lifestyle. Nine months passed, and I had little to show for my long hours sweating on site beyond a pay cheque.
Beneath all the “Have a nice day, sir” and other plastic positivities, a loneliness had begun to fester. I felt at a loose end during my spare time. Hangovers had become tiresome. All the excitement of living in a holiday destination had worn off. Although work was satisfying, and I had learned an immense amount in my short time there, my interest began to wane.
Nine months into my contract I quit my job and headed to New York, where I stayed with friends who were on their J-1s. The senseless drinking ceased, and I went back to playing sport. I could spend a Friday night at a cinema instead of on a pub crawl with dive-bar company.
I picked up work and went back to enjoying my old, normal “Irish” lifestyle. Nights out became twice as enjoyable, because half the craic was reliving the night with friends the following day.
Moving away can be a positive experience, but it can also take away your sense of self and slip you into a life you never wanted. Generation Emigration usually shines the light on the happy success stories of Irish people abroad. But for many who move away the only solace is the pub.
I’m back working in Ireland now, and it feels good to be home. Home and dry.
