I’m not into long stories, I’m more of a small pieces of everyday’s life kind of person. For photography, for that moment you never forget. For those small streets with Christmas lights. Walking home at night. Not coming home from work, because this is not your home. Your home is home. This is just an apartment you sleep in.
The thrill is outside. The stories are outside. Amongst the traffic lights and looking at the wrong side of the street. Between herds of people bumping to one another, trying to cross the road. Amongst smiling faces of tourists. Beggers. Druggies. Happy people. Busy people. White, black, yellow, brown, small, fat, skinny, dark, pale, crazy hairdos, curlers on their hair, sad, happy, tipsy people running on the streets with the blow up doll. Amongst all the nations and races you can imagine. O’Connell Bridge. Ha’penny Bridge. Grafton Street. Henry Street, The Spire. Thousands of souls in search for a better life. For an adventure. For something else. Roaming around streets. Just like me. In Dublin, in Ireland.
This is not my first time being here. But there must be something that made me want to come back. This is the town that never sleeps. Well, it rests a bit around 7 pm when the shops are closing and people are going to their homes, while the busker on the street is playing sad songs.
The town that has a soul. Street players on every corner. Pubs with live music every day.
Bands playing songs like Whiskey in the jar. Older people going out, dining, drinking, clapping and dancing. And the young ones waiting in the queue for one of the many clubs. Ready for the challanges night life has in store for them. Ready for a pint, two, ten. Is it the weekend? The weekend is every day.
At least once a week when I would have a day off, I’d want to go somewhere where I haven’t been. Little day trips. I wouldn’t change them for anything. I would never stay resting in the apartment. Who guarantees you’ll have tomorrow? Go, live, explore. Howth, Bray, Dalkey, Killney,Portmarnock, Malahide, Belfast, Don Laoghaire, Bull Island.
The first breath of sea air in Ireland, after getting off the bus. First glimpse of a beautiful Irish sandy beach. Three pairs of feet happily running on the sand with the beers in their hands. Stalking Bono Vox, playing his music load over the speakers, so that all street can hear it and maybe even him, because it’s in front of his house. Climbing the cliffs with an amazing view. Swimming in an ice cold sea just so you can say you swam there. Chasing the seagulls that stole your cookie bag. Walking until you drop. Drinking with the African Americans in their old hair salon, like the ones from the movies. The Barbershop. Running after the thief who stole the phone out of your hand. Beautiful fields of gold. The cutest little colourful doors. Heavy shopping bags. Life with the Indian girls, now the Russian ones. Old mattress with pointy springs. Burning my hair. Laughter. Beer. Cider. Sadness. Happiness. And many other feelings and many other stories, nice ones and a bit less nice ones. Backpack, snacks, beer and friendship. And that’s it.
Because you make memories somewhere out there.
