Many years ago, during a summer holiday in Italy, I found myself on a tour of the most famous volcanic eruption in the world, Pompei. Like everyone else that day, I found the remains of the town a mix of fascinating, beautiful, horrific and, in eerie ways that I couldn’t understand, poetic. Our tour guide took us down streets, and into fragments of lives, that all ended the day that Vesuvius erupted.
One woman, an American walking closely behind me, wanted to know if there were any survivors of the tragedy, who might be still alive. Maybe they lived in a small village nearby, and maybe we could talk to them?
It’s easy to tease American tourists, when they ask questions like these and of course, it’s mean spirited and unkind.
When American tourists come to Ireland, they do so often times, because they have Irish ancestors or want to see Connemara or they have a romantic view of Dublin. They are incredibly pleasant, chatty, open and they tip well. They are super polite, when asking for directions or wondering about recommendations.
But some say harsh things about Dublin, such as, “Dublin is nothing to write home about!”
Dubliners see our city as a beloved family member, or dear, old friend. We can criticise the housing crisis, rise in crime, rain, traffic, food, prices and the rain again until the Kerry cows come home, but woe betide anyone else should do so!
When American tourists talk poorly about our capital, or indeed, when anyone from outside the pale speaks badly of it, we skulk, and frown and look away and say under our breaths…“aithníonn ciaróg ciaróg eile”.
Dublin is the best city in the world.
This is not for the Instagram competition but for the more intangible reasons such as the craic, live music, poetry, and soul of the place, that makes you feel alive when you’re here.
Some aspects of the city are unforgivable, such as housing policies and the rise in xenophobia that affects me, and all the other migrants. But I love the eruptions of significance that happens every time one Dubliner makes another Dubliner laugh.
Better than that, when one Dubliner makes another one smirk!
Before the English came to Dublin, or the Normans or Saints or Vikings passed through, and even before the Celts, the dragons lived here. When they breathed, the lava erupted and everyone knew it was true, and everyone sang songs to make them sleep.
But even then, it seemed like a difference of sorts, and I can’t understand what happened next.
I’m waiting for the dragon to wake.
Shorter than me 