I blink, my contacts dry from all the travel and, apparently, a nap. I look outside and see that it’s dark and foggy. But through the thick, blue-gray haze, I see it.

Surrey House. I can even see the little sign that says the name by the porch light.

I tumble out, shutting the door behind me, and then lean against the warm metal to take it all in.

There’s a welcoming halo around the front door from the house’s porch light, and the flowers that wind around the facade are all in full bloom.

It’s even more adorable in person.

There are other sleepy houses down the lane and I can see the glow of life coming through some of the old windows.

It smells different in Ireland. Like dewy green grass and fresh, unfamiliar flowers, burning peat, and salty air that’s traveled a long and verdant way.

When I look up, I can see stars. The last time I saw this many, this clearly, was on a glamping trip to Joshua Tree. But that experience was somewhat sullied by the fact that it was underscored by a Polish DJ on a comedown from DMT trying to explain why we needed to get to something called Giant Rock in order to commune with aliens.

I actually did it. I got here. My gleeful inner child can’t believe it.

I feel so far away from my life, from my problems, and from the people who know me. I could be recognized here, but I doubt it. I’m not that kind of famous. At very least, I assume not everyone will know me like they seem to in LA.

Last night, after impulsively booking Surrey House, I bought my flights to and from Ireland, making one trillion percent sure they were for the right dates and without stops—and still, somehow getting it wrong and needing to cancel and rebook. I then spent an hour looking for my passport while the party raged on downstairs, then another hour packing, at which point Grayson came in and fell asleep on top of the duvet, wasted and reeking of rare Sotol. He didn’t even ask what I was packing for.

I hugged Dido and kissed her a hundred times. To be honest, I did look into bringing her with me. But I would have needed a note from her vet saying she was up to date on shots, and I didn’t have time to make that happen.

I can go a week without seeing her. I’ll survive. Probably. And she’ll be in good hands, I remind myself. Grayson has so much staff running around that she’s always taken care of—probably given too many treats, if anything.

But I’m paranoid, so I shot a text to Lisa Michele and to Grayson’s assistant, asking them to make sure Dido is cared for.