Have you ever done something completely foolish? Personally, I do it all the time!
More often than not, my absentmindedness lands me in the most ridiculous situations: I’ll miss the flashing green light and cross on red; or I’ll eat yogurt that expired a week ago. And right now, on the advice of my therapist, Mr. Scott, I’m stepping out of my comfort zone. Big time, because I don’t know how to do things halfway. And I’m terrified that this particular act of foolishness might be fatal! It could cost me money, nerves, and… my already shattered heart.
I’m Jessica Taylor, born and raised in Los Angeles, and I’m flying to Dingle, Ireland, for three months. Yes, across the ocean, to a different country with its own customs and traditions, a completely different climate, people, and way of life. To a coastal town with a population of about two thousand, after the hustle and bustle of LA!
To be honest, I only learned about the existence of this “town”—as Wikipedia calls it—yesterday.
How did this happen, you ask? It’s simple! I’m a writer who’s lost her muse.
I gained popularity with my debut novel, *Passion in Threes*. I wrote the first two parts in a year, but the third? I’ve been struggling with it for two years now and can’t seem to finish. That’s when this stupid depression kicked in.
For the past six months, Jeremy Scott—the best therapist in Beverly Hills, recommended by my friend and popular singer Gia—has been trying to get me back to my old self.
— …Stepping out of your comfort zone means doing something new, something unfamiliar. And through the effort, you reach a new level of growth or achieve the result you desire… — Mr. Scott drones on, sitting across from me, making a note in his favorite notebook.
— Hmm… like what, for example? — I lie on the couch, tapping my fingers on the leather upholstery.
— For example, — he throws a quick glance my way, — do something that’s not typical for you.
— Does trashing my ex-boyfriend’s kitchen after finding out he’s sleeping with the neighbor count as ‘not typical’? — I interrupt Mr. Scott, because this topic feels way more pressing than some vague “comfort zone” nonsense.
I’m a writer—a creative soul! What even are these zones? Boundaries or something? You can’t box me in like that.
— No, Jess. We’ve already discussed that situation. That’s called impulsiveness and a lack of emotional control. Being in your comfort zone is a psychological state tied to feelings of stability and certainty. Try to be less emotional. Try to rein in your bursts of anger. Better yet, take a trip to a quiet, cozy place. Somewhere you can be alone with yourself, with your thoughts. Meet new people, hear new stories.
— And my muse will come back… — I muse, biting the edge of my palm thoughtfully.
Not a bad idea…
— For constant growth, you need to give yourself small, controlled doses of stress. Maybe a trip to another country is the right move.
There it is! That’s the moment that pushed me into this absurd, impulsive, and slightly crazy decision.
At first, the idea seemed brilliant. Where else can you draw inspiration if not from travel? So, I spent the entire next evening searching for a place to spend my getaway.
My mind immediately buzzed with a list of countries I’d love to visit. But one thing I knew for sure—I was definitely heading to Europe.
Initially, I was drawn to romantic Paris and vibrant Italy, but then common sense kicked in. Language barriers could be an issue. Then, Ireland popped into my mind.
Why not?
Visa-free entry for ninety days? Perfect. That’s more than enough time to step out of my comfort zone.
I didn’t want to stay in Dublin—too predictable. So, I spent a few more hours researching smaller towns. That’s when I learned the distinctions between “city” for a big place, “borough” for a medium one, and “town” for a small one.
Everything seemed to be falling into place. I’d brushed up on my geography, settled on a country, but those darn pop-up ads kept annoying me.
Clicking the little “X” to close yet another intrusive window, I was redirected to a hotel website in the charming town of Dingle.
A peninsula on the edge of the Atlantic Ocean, with breathtaking nature and tiny streets lined with colorful houses, instantly stole my heart.
Taking it as a sign, I didn’t bother looking for other hotels and decided to book a room for three months right there.
The hotel—or rather, as the website described it, the Doherty family estate—kindly offered single, double, and triple rooms that looked very comfortable and, at first glance, stylish. Breakfast was included in the price. Plus, there was an on-site restaurant that took orders until evening, so I could grab a bite there if needed.
Angrily dismissing yet another pop-up and filling out a somewhat unusual booking form, I was a bit surprised they didn’t ask for a deposit. Oh well, it’s Europe. Who knows what kind of quirks they have?
In a good mood, I closed my laptop, tucked a pillow under me, and decided I’d book my flight tickets tomorrow.
The day of departure was a disaster. Everything literally slipped through my fingers. Every sign pointed to this being a terrible idea. In the morning, my toast burned. Due to construction, the water was shut off—and this in an upscale Beverly Hills neighborhood…
Unbelievable!
My taxi got stuck in traffic, and my lovely friend Gia tweeted that I was heading off on vacation. So, when I got to the airport, the press was waiting for me at the entrance.
They couldn’t be bothered to drop everything and show up here in the evening, could they?
I had to give an unplanned interview and sign autographs for the crowd that gathered around me. I love signing autographs, and I’m all for selfies. But interviews? I struggle with those. Usually, my manager strictly controls them because I always end up saying something I shouldn’t.
After wrapping up the whole public ordeal, I pull my cap down over my eyes, hide in a corner of the waiting area, and only then realize that my Aer Lingus flight, which I’d booked in advance, is going to take about eleven hours.
Ohhh! Eleven hours sitting on my backside was the last thing I wanted, but back then, I had no idea that would be the best part of this trip. Because from Dublin to Dingle, I’d have to take a train for nearly four hours. Then, I’d transfer at Tralee station.
I’d get lost three times trying to find the bus station to catch my ride to the final destination, a journey that would take another hour and a half.
And if that wasn’t enough, I’d be lucky enough to find a travel companion who, with a peculiar accent and without pausing for breath, would grill me with questions worse than the tabloid vultures…
When I finally reach Dingle, I collapse onto a bench. With two suitcases and a large designer bag as my carry-on beside me, I start quietly whimpering, pulling my knees up to my chin. It’s already dusk. In just a couple of hours, I’ll have been traveling for a full day. Exhausted, hungry, and completely clueless about where I’ve ended up. All because I let someone else’s opinion convince me that I urgently needed to step out of my comfort zone.
My enthusiasm fades fast, and I haven’t even made it to the estate yet… Speaking of which, how am I even going to get there?