There is a theory that all of our cells have memory. The idea is that memory isn’t just stored in certain parts in the brain but in all of our cells throughout our body. People turn to transplant receivers as proof—after receiving hearts and lungs from others, the receivers develop personality traits of the donors: a vegan craves chicken nuggets, a rap artist picks up classical violin. I’ve never been one for alternative medical theories, but a month after stepping off a plane in Dublin, Ireland, I’m suddenly beginning to wonder if maybe there’s a grain of truth in this somewhere.

In every other foreign country I’ve always visited, there’s always been an intangible feeling of, ‘Wow, this is a foreign country. This is different. This is exotic.’ Whether it’s the streets of Paris or the rainforests of Costa Rica, there has always been something that has made me feel as if I were in a completely new surrounding. Even Canada has always held a vague sense of romanticism, even just waiting on line to drive through customs checkpoints. It’s human nature, (isn’t it?), to embrace that which is different as automatically exciting.

The day I arrived in Ireland, however, that feeling of ‘wow’ just never came. As I traversed the city of Dublin, I found myself thinking, ‘this is a lovely city,’ but still no ‘wow.’ My night at Katy Daly’s in Belfast, unwinding after a long two days of travel, I thought, ‘what a great little pub,’ but still no ‘wow.’ Even now, each day that I come into work at Inishowen Community Radio, I think either, ‘what a great place to work’ or ‘I wish I were back in bed,’ depending on my schedule for the day. But neither of these thoughts contains a trace of ‘wow.’

My whole life I’ve identified myself as Irish-American. I have ginger hair and green eyes, freckles across my nose and an inclination to sunburn. In my household growing up, dinner conversation was just as likely to focus on Irish Republicans as American; what was occurring in the Dáil was on the agenda alongside the happenings at Congress. The music I was raised on was classic rock complimented with trad legends the Wolfetones and the Chieftains. Maybe it’s only because the culture seems so familiar to my home—maybe that’s why I never felt out of place.

In a very short time, my new surroundings here in Donegal have felt like home. I watch soccer matches at the pub and scream at the TV after defensive mishandlings. I inhale curry chips after a night on the beer. I drink tea four times a day and am quite accustomed to instant coffee. I forget that my accent marks me immediately as an outsider. And still, I wait for that ‘wow’ feeling. And still it doesn’t come.

And that’s what I wonder. Is it possible that cell memory retains something across generations? Is it possible that ingrained in the DNA that gives me that ginger hair, the freckles and green eyes and fair skin, is a small memory of what is was like when this place *was* home? I don’t quite look Irish, I have an Irish-American look about me, and so maybe that memory has been watered down in much the same way.

So I have to ask, what if the alternative theories are right? What if each and every cell in our body carries a memory, an idea of what was before. Maybe for me, that ‘cell memory’ of Ireland has become just a faint recollection, a vague notion of familiarity leftover from generations ago. But still, maybe that’s enough to make this place seem not quite ‘wow.’ Maybe that’s enough to make this place seem closer to home.