Illustration by Keegan Andrulis
It is a perfectly apt time to be writing an ode to a city. During the last six months we have watched as the world’s cities changed almost beyond recognition. Even as they gradually open up again, they are a far cry from the excited, bustling metropolises that they once were. The first few months of my lockdown were spent bitterly missing Dublin and as each new newspaper was splashed with images of an eerily empty Grafton street I found myself angrily chastising myself for ever taking the life I had there for granted.
There is something unparalleled about living in a city during your early twenties, having the least amount of responsibilities you will ever have in your adult life and being irrevocably shaped by the presence of taller buildings, busier streets and vastly overpriced coffee. The lack of a structured existence coupled with boundless social opportunities epitomised my first year feeling of newfound independence in this urban world. For me, Dublin is the intensely formative backdrop to my prolonged entrance into adult life. It is Dawson street in the rain and darting into Hodges Figgis as procrastination before your next lecture. It is sprinting from the Harcourt Luas stop, aged roughly nineteen, to stand in a wedged queue for Dtwo only to be told to come back after you’ve had a coffee. It is judging people’s moral character based on their favourite burrito place. It is the Iveagh Gardens on a sunny day and Dame street on a Monday morning. It is angry taxi drivers, over talented buskers and Georgian houses you’d sell your soul for. It is walking into Front Square at night and consistently feeling overwhelmed by the expansive, glittering windows. It is the Christmas lights going up three seconds after Halloween. You can drive thirty minutes south and suddenly be in the mountains. The hectic urban existence can briefly be escaped by long runs along the Dodder. Your weekends can be spent making excessive amounts of road trips to Dun Laoghaire or Howth without ever feeling the need to explore anywhere else. You will unfailingly bump into someone you know as you sprint down the quays with a suitcase on a Friday afternoon to catch the last bus homeward. The city is full of chance encounters and momentary glimpses of ordinary beauty. One of these is the stretch between Charlemont and Ranelagh Luas stop when the setting sun catches the reflections of back windows as they slide past and casts a shade so mesmerising you could be in Manhattan or Marrakesh. But you’re not. You’re in Dublin, and that’ll do.
