<$BlogRSDURL$>

Monday, August 23, 2004

Okay, here's another assignment from my writing class. It's kind of nice to get out of the momma-mindset for awhile!


To Dublin

I will always remember the first time we met. I was a little worried because you seemed pretty cliched, with the misty rain and the sheep grazing next to the runway. During the careening cab ride from the airport, I braced my arm against the glove box and winced into oncoming traffic, convinced that I wasn't going to survive this trip on the wrong side of the road.

Those first few days were magical. I was smitten -- what other city could be clever enough to produce U2, my favorite band, and so many cute boys in battered leather jackets with accents soft as moss? But of course the infatuation didn't last. I soon discovered that grocery stores close at eight, and aren't open at all on Sundays. Likewise, banks shut down for two hours in the middle of the day. And how you love to trick non-natives, with your streets that change names four times in six blocks.

Our relationship deepened as we got to know each other better. I bought green Doc Martens and put away my Nikes, the better to fit in with the other students. It worked, and tourists stranded on street corners began to ask me directions.

I realized we would be together a long time when I found myself gravitating toward Bewley's Teahouse for my cuppa and a scone every afternoon. I needed the comfort on those short winter days when the sun was setting as I left my 3:00 class. But I still believed in you, and loved that I could walk home well after midnight, wrapped in a scratchy fisherman's sweater and a long wool scarf, sure of my safety on your quiet streets.

You taught me the value of wearing lots of layers, since my miserly landlord only turned the heat on for a couple hours a day. It was through you that I learned to cross against the lights, to travel on a whim, to always carry an umbrella.

I still miss you. You've moved on without me. I wouldn't recognize you anymore, it's been so many years. I know you've joined the E.U. and become trendy and expensive. Rumor has it that you've gone and gotten yourself a Starbucks and a Gap. I admit, I feel a little betrayed, but I'm sure I'd get over it. If only we could see each other again.

You will always be my first foreign love. I felt as if we were born to be together -- you were my city; I was your girl. But whenever I start to flirt with the idea of visiting, something happens: New Zealand. Australia. Iceland. I have other suitors beckoning, with their lush scenery, vibrant cities and cultural icons. I'm torn. For the moment, I've decided to let you go. I'm afraid that if we got together, you wouldn't live up to my expectations. But thanks for the memories.

This page is powered by Blogger. Isn't yours?