When you live abroad and meet someone new, Ireland takes the liberty of introducing you. It regularly makes presumptions – and often tells outright lies – about your fondness for alcohol, your musical talent, your religious devotion.
For some people Ireland takes a moment to speak up; for others it comes crashing out of their mouths, bleeding through their skin pigmentation, their hair colour, even their choice of clothes. It ascribes personality traits before you’ve had a chance to say your (strangely spelt, unpronounceable) name.
Living for the past four years in Freiburg, in southern Germany, I've found myself trying to understand what I'm being identified as when I'm introduced as Irish – trying to define Irishness, to see if Irishness defines me.
Germans expect certain behavioural traits from the Irish (as we do of them), and we often comply. We assert our distinctness by drinking Guinness, by bemoaning the standard of tea and by listening to Irish bands.
My relationship with Ireland as an expat is complicated; I am passionate in defence yet quick to criticise. I swing between disappointment and pride. I still feel a rising anger when I think of Ireland’s failings, but I also feel a great tenderness. Many other Irish I’ve met abroad say the same. Perhaps this is the best representation of Irishness: to be locked in a complex relationship with Ireland itself.
When I first moved to Germany, from Dublin, I was happy to go abroad. My peers and I had entered university brimming with possibilities and come out to find ourselves lost. In Dublin I did a series of communications internships that held the prospect of employment but led nowhere. No business, it seemed, wanted to hire someone without experience. I was unemployable thanks to my lack of employment.
Shortly before Christmas 2010 a college lecturer emailed an advertisement for a communications position at a German nonprofit focused on environmental sustainability. The salary was modest but enough to live on. I weighed up the decision to apply, knowing if I was successful I would have to relocate.
There was an attraction to leaving Dublin behind, of having the chance to present myself without the context of my upbringing. In Germany the area I lived in, the school I went to, even the sport I played had no implicit meaning.
My application was accepted, and in 2011 I moved to a country with a booming, almost obscenely stable economy. In Freiburg the restaurants were packed every day; in Dublin many in my area were closing for good. But now, when I visit home, this bitter economic narrative seems to be changing. Dublin is reimagining itself; there is a raw creativity I haven’t felt before.
These visits also remind me how sharply Ireland contrasts with my adopted country. Germany is a remarkable place: the services are excellent, the people have a strong sense of civic duty, and the buses arrive on time.
Ireland is always looking to other places for guidance and inspiration: to London, to Berlin, to New York. But in aping others we should remember that everything has a price. The best parts of Ireland – the irreverence, the love of the absurd, the belief that life is not to be taken so seriously – may not fully survive if we adopt a more rigid, Germanic mentality. What is the trade-off for 9pm no longer really meaning 9.15pm?
So perhaps Ireland will never be Germany, but that’s fine by me. Ireland doesn’t need to be. It is a fascinating, infuriating, enthralling island, which I will always be drawn to – even if I don’t live there any more.
