The search for meaning — at least, for me — is endless. I don't mean this in a "what is my life's purpose" sense, but more that I am constantly confused in *why* I am taking a gap year. Once every few days, I feel like what I'm doing — a purgatory of travel, meeting people, hopping from place to place that exists between years of school — is completely juvenile. Usually, I pass these feelings over with some justification around learning French or getting new experiences. Yet after passing a string of somewhat repetitive days in the English-speaking London, these typical justifications failed me. Going to Dublin was perhaps born out of this inaction-related angst. Like all good trips, this one lacked any sort of meticulous planning. One could even say it lacked all forms of planning in general. Sunday night, I pulled out my laptop and asked Eddie if he wanted to go to Ireland. Ryanair's website revealed a pair of flights on Tuesday morning, 16 pounds each. Booked. Monday afternoon, we asked our only chance of housing if it would be alright if we came the day after. Thankfully, he said yes. We packed at 5am, left at 6am, missed our flight at 7am, and after soaking a change cost that put a slight damper on otherwise joyful — if fatigued — spirits, we found ourselves in Dublin. The friendly conversations with taxi drivers and airport peanut M&Ms lifted my spirits; for my travel companion, the bountiful Guinness logos that heartily promised for the days ahead had a similar effect. Perhaps it was this encouragement that led to me agreeing to stopping in Switzerland before I head to the South of France. I was once chatting with a therapist who referenced some recent scientific research showing something along the lines of "the more experiences you live, the longer your life seems". Those words, for now, have paused the search for meaning — for they seem as good a reason as any to keep going.