Dublin Calling

It seemed night was always coming on, the sky turning overcast by four, near dark by five, promising the approach of winter.

The weather swung between dampness, downpour, chill wind, and mildness (“I can’t believe how warm it is,” exclaimed one of the runners early in the marathon—before the atmosphere shifted again). Rapid contrasts mirrored a city of contrasts: brooding clouds low over the gray stone of Trinity College and the sad columns of the Bank of Ireland; blue lights strung through trees standing soft and dark just off a main road; students, tourists, revelers coursing through the neighborhoods, spilling in and out of the erratic streets of Temple Bar; Georgian mansions with bright yellow or red doors; cathedral spires rising above Spar convenience stores and Burger Kings; green fireworks for Halloween; green lights under a bridge across the River Liffey, just because.

Bright and dark, graceful and pushy, cheerful and tragic, hedonistic and soulful. Familiar and still disorienting, Dublin is the only foreign city I’ve ever visited twice (outside the confines of a school group).





Beautiful Dublin, I was sad to leave, and anxious still to come home.