Dublin: Home

I love Dublin for many reasons, but one that gets a lot of screen time is the climate. I love the rain and the dark, and the gleeful efforts Dublin puts forth to test that love lead me to appreciate the rare sunny days we get. The day before I left Dublin was one of those glorious ones. The morning I left it poured rain, as if the city was pulling out all the stops, tempting me with all my favourite things to keep me from leaving. Undaunted, I managed to check my waterlogged 24kg suitcase, have a fantastic goodbye breakfast (one of Dublin airport’s greatest charms), and jet off for a month on another continent. 

Coming back was emotional to the point of tears. 

To be fair, I had spent a month having one torrid affair after another with foreign cities, the geographic equivalent of a series of no-strings-attached one-night stands, everyone bringing their A-game and showing off the best they had to offer. No responsibilities, no consequences, no drama, just a night at a time of heady delight before skipping off to the next adventure. 

It’s fun, but it’s exhausting. 

As I queued for the IAD-DUB flight late on a Sunday night I felt the manic energy that had propped me up start to ebb, and by the time I made it back to Dublin I was ready to collapse. I think I caught the flu somewhere along the way on that trip, and from the time I boarded the plane I slept 25 hours with only two breaks of two hours each: the first to get off the plane and back to my house, the second to stagger around my house and ensure I had everything in order for work the next day. Dublin welcomed me home with a wordless embrace, just quietly holding me until I had collected myself and could function again. 

For the first time in a month I could stop completely. I didn’t need to check in for a flight. I didn’t need to look up where the best coffee was, or where I could find the best burrito, or figure out where the wool shops were. I knew what the weather would be like and what I should wear. I was home. And it was good.