Adventuring, Part 3: The Happiest Place on Earth.

Irish culture, lore and music is my JAM, especially after a viewing of the first ever Celtic Thunder show on PBS my senior year of high school. Friends, watching classy public television will always pay off.

My fascination with Ireland ran parallel to my European fascination throughout my adolescence and has continued into the roaring twenties. If anything, Ireland held an even higher place in my estimation for exactly one reason: at the age of thirteen, I read a book about Elinor of Aquitaine and the knight she was (fictitiously, I'm sure) crushing on. The knight's name was Clotaire the Strong. He was Irish.

As I giddily prepared for our trip to Ireland, I simultaneously braced myself for disappointment. No way could Ireland be all that I imagined. At the end of the day it's just a city like any other, right?

The moment we stepped on our Aer Lingus flight from Toulouse to Dublin, though, I knew I was wrong. Ireland absolutely could (and would) live up to every expectation and dream I had. My first clue was the incredibly-kind-even-on-this-eleven-pm-flight flight attendant. My second clue was the beautiful man at the bus stop who, with his perfectly lilting accent, helped two very tired and travel-worn Americans find the right bus. Even at midnight, in the pitch black and after having talked to maybe two Irish people, I was in love.

Here is how the Irish give directions: "Well, you walk down that road for about twenty minutes, take a left, and there you are!" Because of this, my sister and I spent many MANY hours walking  the streets of Dublin somewhat aimlessly. Well, we had an aim, we were just never anywhere near it. The upside was, we saw corners of the city we would've bussed right by had we not been too cheap to just take the dang metro.

Buskers on Grafton Street

We walked the same streets over and over again, to the point that Dublin, unlike Paris, began to feel like home. It also REALLY helped that there was no longer a language barrier. On our first afternoon in town, I dragged my legal-because-we-were-in-Ireland sister into a pub and made her share a Guinness with me. I may have been drawn in by the wink of the curly-haired musician strumming Irish folk songs on his guitar, but that is neither here nor there. (He did, however, sing a super excellent rendition of "Wagonwheel", "For the girl from Tennessee." Be still, my heart.)

We walked up and down Grafton Street, one of the main drags in the city, over and over again. Mostly because it was on our way to just about everything, but also because I truly loved being a part of all the bustle of humanity. It felt good in a way that I don't think I could explain, but I'm sure has something to do with all people being products of the same Creator. Right across from Grafton in St. Stephen's Green, a park that, on a good day, is full of joggers, strollers, nappers, and everything in between. Like a shirtless guy drawing in his sketchpad as if it wasn't weird at all.

Three of our five afternoons, we hopped on a bus or train and chugged an hour or so out of the city for little day trips. In Kilkenny, home of the best ice cream cone I have ever consumed, we tramped up winding streets and toured an actual Irish castle (bringing to fruition ALL my childhood hopes and dreams).We spent an afternoon on the pebbly beach of Killarney, and watched two wet-suited Irishmen teach their tiny wet-suited pupils how to surf.

Ireland, in short, felt like home. The most pressing question of the trip became, "So how can I get back here? Who doI have to talk to, who do I have to kill, how do I make myself a part of this place?"

On particularly adventurous days, a little bit of my heart soars over the pond and I want to follow it. Back to Dublin and adventure and whimsy. Hopefully, someday I will.

Someday feels a lot more tangible now that I've already done it once.