I wake up in the morning and am astounded by the beauty that is right in front of me, the cold air whisking it’s way from outside into my room by ways of my slightly opened window. I sit up, just barely, and begin to awake the rest of me. The sun emits the most comforting warm feeling that fools me into thinking that the weather resembles something of a Florida day. (I’m glad it doesn’t.) Walking outside surprises the hairs on my forearm every single time. The trees are golden. As if we were in some kind of fairytale and at some point or another the flowers on the ground were able to find the strength to grow despite the chilly temperature. They are stronger than me.
Runs to the castle seem more like an adventure to a folk tale than anything resembling a workout, and again, I am astonished. Out of breath and nearly hyperventilating I have the desire to go faster, to see more, and to continue down this long path outlined by trees and other pieces of nature that are so rarely preserved in places that I am accustomed to. Creation is magnificent and you wouldn’t even have the slightest idea of it with all of those cement buildings and long roads that lead to nowhere.
I’ve never necessarily loved the city feel, I’ve always found it to feel more like an uncomfortable hug than a night out on the town. Dublin is not any different. And yet, even still, The Irish music playing on the side of the streets and the folk dancing within the bars seems to bring the most grandiose smile to my face. I believe that they are kinder here. More welcoming and so eager to teach you about who they are. Why is it that as Americans we are so quick to label every person within European borders as the same? As if Irish people are not so abundantly different than English people. It lessens who they are and by doing so we miss out on so much that they have to show and teach us.
