Good night, Dublin. Thank you for your wondrous gifts.
This is my second piece about Dublin (third overall) written for the creative writing contest by American Center in Moscow. What can I say, I love this city. ♡
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“St Stephen's Green. Alight here for the Grafton Street shopping district." I decide to alight here and walk across the O’Connell bridge. I'm walking to "Chapters," the best bookstore in the city.
The best bookstore in the city is located in arguably the worst place - amid modern, shiny, cookie-cutter shopping centers. Not on the ground floor of a quintessentially Irish house, not next to the Temple Bar pub, not across the road from Trinity College. I've checked them all. I can testify to their inferiority.
I swiftly navigate the busy streets full of shoppers with branded paper bags, diving in and out of small pockets of free space.
Agonizing over countless book choices, debating back and forth, I buy two, well aware I would have to carry them around all day. None of these books are Oscar Wilde, but an Oscar Wilde tour is my next goal nonetheless. It's not the writer I pursue. It’s gaping at the quintessentially Irish streets and buildings while listening to a rosy-cheeked volunteer guide unfolding the writer’s world in a melodious Irish lilt.
I'm back on the beaten track. I swiftly navigate the busy streets full of tourists with cameras, diving in and out of small pockets of free space.
To no avail. The tour is cancelled. I join the slow-flowing streams of tourists and wander where my eyes will take me. Wide open, my eyes take me to the National Library of Ireland, a chalkboard in front announcing a WB Yeats exhibition. Yeats sounds like someone I should know, I reckon and dive in to find myself immediately immersed in the poet’s world.
With one shoulder burdened by the long-debated purchase at Chapters, I pick up all the brochures my eyes spot by the exit. Who is next? Seamus Heaney? Sounds like someone I should know too, I reckon and make a beeline for the Bank of Ireland, an unlikely place for an exhibition. It's a stone's throw away, past the gray walls of the Trinity College, which is luring me in. Much as I love you, not today.
Blue and yellow double deckers are dashing by. I am dashing to discover Seamus Heaney, 20 minutes before closing time.
Twenty minutes later, I find myself with two hours on my hands before the concert, so I pay a visit to Trinity College after all. (Don't forget to look right first when you cross the road.)
A double decker whisks me to St Patrick's cathedral. I'm curious and cautious. I've never listened to an organ concert before. It has the potential to be mind-numbingly dull, so I take a seat by the exit. But the wondrous machine produces wondrous music.
Dusk has descended, begging me to take another stroll in the dark city. I make an excuse and walk to the furthest possible tram stop, still dazzled by the music. “Leopardstown Valley.” Good night Dublin, thank you for the wondrous gifts.
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Click to read my first story, a fairy tale rather, "Good night, Dublin."
Image credit: photo by Petr Filippov at https://www.instagram.com/panzverski/
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