I was waiting for the bus last night on Dame Street, which it a street right in the heart of the city centre, when it hit me. I live in Dublin.
Those of you who know me the longest will know of how significant that is to me. For those of you who don't know me that well or for very long, let me explain a little.
I lived here a few years ago for about a year and a half. It was meant to be my escape from my family home, but it did nothing but rope me into more pressure and seclusion. I wasn't myself. Yet I loved the city. Ireland's capital. A city that most people I talk to have always wanted to visit. Unless they love here already in which case it's not all that glamorous.
When I moved to England I just wanted to come back here, and finally I have. Actually, I did it nine weeks ago, and I'm surprised it's taken me this long to realise it.
I'm back. Back in the small, weirdo city I've always been drawn to, for some unspoken reason.
I was waiting for the bus to take me home, standing by a granite pillar, watching tourists and students walk past, waiting for the ones that always stumble on the broken paving in the middle of the footpath. I took a breath of the mild city air and lifted my eyes off the pavement. I could see Trinity College, where walking left would carry you to O'Connell Street and right would be Grafton Street. Even the non-locals have heard of those two places. On a map I could draw a very short line from where I was standing - from that broken paving - to Dublin Castle, Dublin City Hall, the Chester Beatty Library, Temple Bar...
As I stood there, Dublin changed for me. It was no longer my escape from home. Dublin is home. Complete with all the warmth, comfort and friends that give you a fuzzy feeling inside. And, perhaps, that one special someone.
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