When you first feel the worn out cobblestones of Trinity Square in Dublin, you'll have about 47 seconds of anonymity. Breathe in every last millisecond. Smell the beer stained gutters and let the scent of warm bread fill your nose and inflate your lungs. Somewhere near by, a flutist stands outside the wrought iron gates of a castle built of stone and war.

There are no girls with corkscrew curls, or boys with fluffy red hair. There is Alcohol, and you can smell it on your tour guide’s breath when she barks out a laugh in front of you, she smells like Guinness and toffee. She leads you away from your father and into a group of other college hopefuls.

You're wearing your blue plaid dress, the one your mom said made you look Irish, but it really just makes you stick out. Dublin in August is still a little cold for short sleeves.

A girl named Molly is bubbling over with excitement about the difference between Limerick and Dublin. A boy named Ben is looking your ID tag up and down, raking it over like the man at customs. “Molly and I are gonna head out during the parents meeting. Want to come with?”

Soon enough your back is against the wall in a bright red building called “Temple Bar” and you got in legally. It seems unnatural, a group of 16 year olds walking in and ordering. Your hands pick at the frayed button hole in your dress, because you don't know how to restitch a button (or make a doctor's appointment, or pay taxes, or speak Gaelic). You don't know why you're here, in this bar, in this country. You don't know anything you're supposed to.

Molly comes back with your cup of tea and seats herself across from you and Ben. Drips of warm brown tea form imperfect circles on the saucer, fading into the grain of the wood. You can hear them talking about you, asking about America, but you're not really listening, and only half hearing. Molly taps your shoulder, and your tea sloshes over the lip of the cup like the tears threatening to spill over from your eyes. The small blotches of woody brown tea slowly turn into a south mess. 500 international students in a school of 18,000.

With your arm linked around Molly's, Ben leads you through the medieval sloping streets of his hometown. You feel your phone, heavy in your pocket, almost burning to find directions back. Ben finally reaches the gates of campus and turns on his heels to face the two of you, “Ready to live here for four years?” He asks, running his hands through his hair. The light post above my head sighed into existence, painting me in a warm yellow light, and I sat there shaking.