Nothing is what it seems. You may think that two fingers in the air means: peace. You may think that it is the only interpreted meaning of the gesture. I would like to warn you that it is not. In Ireland the two-fingers, the peace sign, palm forward means two, as in the number 2. Palm backwards to you, not so much. This sign could be as offensive as the middle finger in America – it means fuck you! While walking around, while ordering drinks, while being conscious of norms of another society remember: It may mean peace to you but it could mean fuck off too.
Running Dublin in the morning with the buses, the Dole line, the seagulls cawing and swooping, the people walking past, and slow, and us running on the wrong side of the sidewalk (left), this is the kind of thing I think of. The River Liffey on both sides of me at one point. Running to through the dark to the dawn, speaking of the day to come and the day before which passed. Is it real to think we will not have a relaxing day today? The topic was: Had we both become homesick of a place we had lived in for less than a full week? I mean, five days, no less.
Dublin captures. Not to be cliché, but to be realistic. Dublin as a city is large enough to get stuck in for years and not see everything, yet be satisfied with what you’ve seen today. Riding the bus back in from the west, from Galway, I thought of how wonderful it would be to get back to the flat and take a shower, to relax and to read, to watch a movie we would be assigned to watch later. I thought of home, I kept referring to Dublin as “home”. It did not feel wrong, it felt sort of right. One misses loved ones and those closest, though a city of intrigue is just outside of the door, as it is in any town anywhere, even at home. What this trip has brought me so far is a sense to keep going- to keep exploring; no day is really finished. My head keeps spinning while I sleep in my bed. When the alarm goes off I know I have another one. It does feel good.
Black birds with big beaks and spotted seagulls swoop at the window in open sun. Ancient buildings and towers stand tall with the spire in a far off cityscape. Above the sidewalks, coffee pots, and finished breakfast plates remain stacked. Shoes hit the streets bringing their occupants ready for the day to come. A morning surprise; the bricks and mortar given life, hidden through the night, out now in open sight, and we digress on the River Liffey below. Honest tangents from different advantage, and we point out those in a line, those waiting for theirs. Each star was meant to shine until its time, then die. And then that vacant hole will spin, and consume, and be full again. And the black birds with big beaks and spotted seagulls will swoop at the window in the open sun.