In the weeks leading up to our family vacation, my mother had prepared me for a cultural shock, but nothing she said could have readied me for this; I was about to experience a cultural aneurism.

Adidas dominated every clothing store and Chipmunk was the most popular musician in the country. In place of Axe and Tag the only body sprays on the shelves were “Lynx” and “Chase.”

After I’d gotten somewhat settled, my cousin became my tour guide, but it didn’t take too long for me to pick up on the social life of the average Irish teenager. Wake up, brush teeth, spend the day at the beach and then party all night. When I asked my cousin what the curfew was she actually laughed at me and replied, “A curfew?” she asked. “Are ya mad?” Translation: “There’s not one, stupid.”

The parties took place anywhere: in the fields, on the farms, even in cemeteries. It wasn’t a rare sight to see 15 to 20 teens walking the streets at 5 a.m. returning home from the night’s recently ending celebrations.
The personalities of people in Ireland were also something to get used to. Everyone was so friendly it was ridiculous; it seemed they all shared the same nonchalant, laid back attitude. The social life was amazing and the scenery was breathtaking, but in the end home is where the heart is. Being in Texarkana had never felt so good.