What happens when you’re sick over wanting to be back in a place where you don’t belong? An ache. That’s what Ireland was to me. It wasn’t leprechauns, luck, pots of gold, or Guinness Beer. I avoided those things like the plague.  I didn’t even kiss the Blarney Stone. Upon arriving in Dublin, after a bustling lively night on the low side of town amongst lively working class families in a kebab joint, we stayed a night in a tiny converted appartment. I wondered how many generations sqeezed between those wallpapered walls. We drove south. I didn’t know it at the time, but every morning would be like this one.…