Ireland

We boarded the plane at around six o'clock that evening. The rest of the passengers must have wondered what was going on; after all, the entire marching band was on this one flight, and we had that group-look about us. It would be a little over seven hours until we reached our destination, Dublin, Ireland. Some of us tried to get some sleep on the plane, but the excitement got the better of us; after months of planning and fundraising, the Brewster High School marching band was going to Ireland for St. Patrick’s Day.

They say that time flies when you're having fun — but those three or four days felt like months. Maybe it was the lack of sleep, or the packed schedule, or the fresh surroundings, but I have never experienced so much in such a short amount of time. Thinking back on that trip, I almost can't fathom how we managed to see and do as much as we did.

Our flight landed at six in the morning, Dublin time, and we were off. The band split in two and filed onto buses. We yawned as we toured the streets of Dublin, our bodies feeling the weight of 1 AM, New York time. I struggled with all my might against my falling eyelids, trying to take in every sight we passed and every bit of trivia our bus driver listed.

That first day of touring was a whirlwind of adventure, topped off by a festival that evening. We exited the buses into a thick crowd of people standing in the streets, facing a stage set up across the full width of the road. From the stage, cheerful Irish music swelled. We danced and laughed, running on the very last bursts of energy we had left. I think the exhaustion and adrenaline together had a special effect on all of us; everyone was fully in the moment, and even the kids who were usually “too cool” to dance were having fun.

Our first day officially ended when we parted ways in the hotel lobby to go to our rooms. Once my roommate and I got there, we promptly collapsed into the soft, white beds. Perhaps it was the exhaustion, but those beds felt exquisite. We slept deeply until the next morning; six o'clock sharp was breakfast.

On the third day of the trip, we marched in our first parade, braving the Irish early-spring weather — hail, rain, snow, and a few moments of sun as we played our songs proudly. My fingers and lips numbed against the freezing cold of my flute, but I played on, as did the trumpets and saxophones, and the clarinets and trombones. The color guard, too, kept their spirits up, and kept spinning their flags.

In between the big events, there were plenty of small moments that have stuck with me. I remember buying hot chocolate at every little café or restaurant we went to; I remember learning several verses of “Molly Malone” from the bus driver, and how happy he was when we would all sing together; I remember my friend taking selfies to stay awake as we walked; I remember the soup and sandwiches we had for lunch, and the European candy from the vending machine in the hotel lobby.

Most of all, I remember how rich every detail seemed. Even when I was jet-lagged and half asleep, I was fully invested in every moment, and took nothing for granted. When I say that the three or four days I spent in Ireland felt like months, I don’t mean they dragged on. Rather, I had what felt like months’ worth of experiences in only a few days. I've realized since then that I don't want to let time fly when I'm having fun. I want to feel and remember every small moment, and I want to prove the cliché wrong.