Monday, September 15, 2003
Dublin looks fantastic from the balcony of a room in the Fitzwilliam Hotel.
The in-laws-to-be have arrived, and they must think that the whole city is full of sunshine, trendy restaurants and beautiful greenery. Much like the Queen of England thinks the whole world smells of fresh paint.
Almost ten years to the day since I moved to this most frustrating of cities, I’ve got the chance to see it through some new eyes.
I used to wonder what tourists did when they came here; lacking the killer attractions of capitals like Rome or Paris, or the mad diversity of London and New York, I imagined them huddled on tour buses staring balefully out over slightly decrepit Georgian terraces, still hungry from their meagre ham and cheese toasty at lunch.
Much better, I thought, to live here. The city’s strengths were the people, the craic, the miles of stories, ideas and jokes, the sneaky afternoon pints, the community.
Now I’m not so sure. Ten years on, and Dublin works even less well than it did back then. Those with (new) money have become obnoxious, and those without have become more bitter and sour. When nobody had much, we were all in the same boat.
But staring out over the Green from the elegantly understated rooms at the Fitzwilliam, you don’t see any of that. You see a ridiculously young city permanently on the tear, barrelling down handsome streets lined with cool restuarants and bars.
And with the sun shining as it did over the weekend, the Phoenix Park is gorgeous and even the murky Liffey looks OK. When you’re a tourist, you’re not worrying about a nightmare commute from out near Athlone, and if the prices seem high, well, you’re on vacation, what the hell?
Sad to say, I now think Dublin’s best experienced from the top of a sightseeing bus.
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