Happy St Patrick's Day from a cold, grey Dublin City. I've lost track of how many we've spent now in this fair isle, and I almost forget it's the national holiday - a supremely festive combo of 4th of July and American Thanksgiving - until I notice a ginormous surge in tourists, tricolour banners and flags on every corner and, this year, the two-day no-school bank holiday.
In honour of this year's celebrations, and as I continue to write out our life amidst this western European capital, here are a few posts about all things Ireland:
Two women are headed my way as Cocoa and I are on the return trip home. They are Muslim, I assume, wearing the colourful headscarves I’ve grown accustomed to. Muslim immigrants, from North Africa and the Middle East, have come here. Eastern Europeans, Nigerian Christians, Indians and Asians, too. We have all come here, painting a different landscape. Ireland is so different than it once was.
We're not between houses and countries anymore. We are putting down our roots near the river -- the River Liffey, actually. We are parenting and working and friending and barbecueing and, well, living.
We've been to the edges of our little island. Such cold and windy days, we have to be careful from falling straight into the sea. On these daredevil patches of land and rock and sand, I try to open my eyes to it. The gusts, the force, the might. I stand on a field of baby white flowers, they barely notice it. It's all I can do to keep upright.