This weekend I went home. Not like, all the way home, but to my native home; the home of my blood. This weekend I went to Ireland.

Madeline and I landed in Dublin nearly six hours apart. I got there first and was immediatly at the will of the city. I had no idea where to go, where to wander, who to talk to. It was so much fun. I had nearly an entire day to myself to explore Dublin, unchecked. Normally, this is never a good idea. When I am left to my own devices, bad choices are made and I end up on charter buses going forty extra miles down the Italian coast. But in Dublin, it felt okay. I must have walked ten miles around the city, cluthcing my duffle in one hand and a coffee in another, happily sipping my way through the capital.

After Maddie landed and we settled in our Airbnb, we took to Dublin together. But in the couple of hours we were out of orbit, it had become a different place. Dublin at night was a riot. We were staying in the Temple Bar area so naturally, we stopped in to the Place itself and I had my very first pint of Guiness. We crammed in with two hundred other happy temporary-Dubliners and watched a duo burn through Irish pub songs that set the bar alight. When we slipped out onto the street to say hi to my mother via live stream, we were bombarded with other, louder, Irish transplants (#dublinmyloveforthisguy).

Dublin, in short, was made by the people. It was beautiful, yes, and full of the history of my ancestors, yes, but what made it an exceptional trip was the unfailingly fun people. Also. Irish stew is all I want to eat for the rest of my life and the Old Library of Trinity College is what my heaven looks like.

Also, I don't know who he is but bless this guy. He lured away the ferocious birds and for that I will be forvever thankful.