If you're Norwegian heritage gets hidden by the Great Generation, and they've been known to have had a very long, perfect relationship, and each of your grandparents gives you some kind of lifelong gift, it's hard to get back from Ireland after your grandmother gives you the only clue to what the truest form of the family means. A 12 year old's eyes aren't exactly used to the old world ways of European fjords in effigy, burning your future out of everyone's eyes. It's a hard sight to see, and when it's a drunken night in Irish pubs after 14 years of existential drift, dead memories are hard to down. I don't know. People are often confused when you have your blinders on, flying across a 7,000 mile maelstrom of what needs to be dealt to the San Francisco animal house of a west coast. Kind of sorta gotta run for the hills when Freddy Corbin can't even explain, but I found some kind of solace in that ladies night in Cole Hardware sights, while some old Gaelic songman tried to hit on a blonde. Every time, hits home most of the time.
Now, I gotta learn to realize what that F***ing French snuff film that my host family showed me was about. Something about Baphomet's tits getting cut off. Gotta run!