In Dublin's fair city, the girls are so pretty

I knew I was going to like Dublin when I walked into the hostel and found an old converted mansion with Yeats quotes painted on the walls. These were by far the nicest accommodations of any of my journeys, with crystal chandeliers, down comforters in the spacious yet cozy ten-person room, and the full complimentary Irish breakfast in the morning. After a full day of class, traveling (there's always still a very long way to go after you land at the airport) and Guinness with dinner, I lay in my warm bed listening to the rain patter softly onto the roof and the gentle breathing from the sleepers around me, and I felt more at home than I had in a long time. 

That's the thing that struck me most about Ireland: the sense that I really fit in. Italy was beautiful, Germany was lively, France was sophisticated, but no matter how much I enjoyed these places I still felt like an outsider. In Ireland, though, I could relax completely and not worry about being judged for asking the wrong question or taking the bus in the opposite direction. In Ireland, people are practical and welcoming and so very kind. The waitress at the pub will make sure you get dinner when you're starving after a 4-hour journey. The bus driver at the Cliffs of Moher, seeing you at the cafe on his break, will make sure you know how you're leaving because his bus is the last to leave for several hours. Common-sense kindness is more touching than expensive gifts or dramatic praise.

With the themes of comfort and hospitality illuminating the whole trip, each adventure became even more special. The walking tour of Dublin took us to Trinity College, with the golden Book of Kells; Dublin Castle, where the statue of justice is not blind but accusatory, a remnant from the English imperialism of the past; and the Temple Bar, filed with trendy college pubs and a rising art scene. Dublin is a very walkable city, a welcome relief after the overwhelming expanses of London. And even though it was cold and rainy, some new socks and a bowl of soup warmed me right up.

I could easily have spent more time in Dublin, but the next evening we took a four-hour bus ride to Galway, our launching point for the CLiffs of Moher the next day. I admit, this was probably not the wisest of itineraries, as the tiny taste of Galway only left me wanting more than I could possibly fit. The birthplace of the claddagh is a picturesque seaside village, where seagulls screech and moss covers the grey stone walls. We managed to fit in mass in Gaelic before making a mad dash to the bus with our bags to travel further west to the Cliffs of Moher.

This day trip was one of my favorites of the semester. The cliffs, in the running for the 7 natural wonders of the world, are where the world just ends. The lush green grass grows right up to the very edge, until the stone drops in a clear line to the sea 700 feet below. Despite the signs advising otherwise, the brave visitor can hop the fence and walk or crawl to this fantastical edge, the boundary between land and sky and sea. (Indeed, several people each year are swept to their death by an unexpected gust of wind. Save one lone cowboy-hatted figure, though, no one that I saw dared to dangle their feet off the edge, instead electing to keep a safe distance from the end of all things.)

I can't do the scene justice, but I will try. Imagine a rolling green countryside with low stone walls to divide the pastures. Then, look at the ocean, simultaneously azure and stormy grey, frothy where the waves pound the stone, calm further out where a few ferries slowly cross the horizon. Tilt your head up to the sky, so blue to the east and ominous to the west. In the distance, you can see the rain falling over the water-- probably miles away, but distances lose their meaning from such a height. The tower of an old castle reaches to the clouds drifting across the calmer half of the heavens, which let rays of sunlight miraculously pierce the water in small bursts of glory. There is so much to see, and yet it all fits together seamlessly. It's a floor-to-ceiling painting that belongs on the wall of the Met, but unimaginably more beautiful. 

After absorbing all the surrounding beauty (an impossible task, given the sheer amount of it), we embarked upon another bus ride to Ennis, where we ate dinner at a lovely inn and braced ourselves for a very long journey home. No matter how many interminable late-night and early-morning trips we book, always vowing we'll never do it again, we always seem to end up traveling at the ungodly hours of darkness. Another bus, a plane, a bus, a long walk... and voila, home by 2 AM. Did all of that really happen in 48 hours? Somehow, it did.

I know some people scoff at the way we operate, manically scavenging for major sites, not taking adequate time to admire one before moving onto the next. But that's the nature of travel when you are blessed with so many incredible possibilities. I don't regret any of it. I would love to return to Ireland some day and listen to the music and talk to the people, to walk the village streets before 10 in the morning and read a book on a park bench. Someday I will. For now, I'll develop my pictures on my disposable cameras (the result of the false belief that I had lost the power chord for my digital; it's kind of exciting not knowing if the final products will look like crap or not) and I'll hum the folk tunes in my head. And I'll remember that Ireland will welcome me back.