“Why would you ever want to live in Dublin?” As a New York transplant, this question follows me like a stalker around this city. Only last week, I was beseeched in a similar manner by two taxi drivers and a vintage stall holder at the Ranelagh Farmer’s Market. Luckily, my ‘how I got here’ speech is hermetically-sealed Bord Failte fare- family, Irish roots, yada yada.
If the whole fashion gig comes a cropper, at least I could be a speech writer for the Rose of Tralee. Nevertheless, even my best pitch for the old sod is invariably followed by the clanger, “But why don’t you move back?” This is where I start to come unstuck. The honest answer is that ‘Dublin is my home.’ What more can you say to that?
A lot, as I’ve come to discover. The thought that I wouldn’t jack in a great love for the bright lights of a bigger city – namely one of the capitals of fashion – seems to beggar belief. Most people, incensed by the fact that I own two passports (the blue one stashed somewhere in the vast domain of my underwear drawer), invariably end the conversation with a quick uppercut “But you don’t even need a visa!” followed by the playful sucker punch - “you cow”.
There you have it. I’m a geographically-misplaced heifer. Ah, waddayagonnado? I may not be taking Anna Wintour’s second assistant’s call to do lunch at Balthazar but there are smaller pleasures in life; the following of which shall make the roll call in my future retorts to the city’s querents. Why there’s the Bald Barista’s Tazer gun approach to coffee, the barmy vintage finds from Lucy’s Lounge (and a strange smell of calzone....hmm), those sangria-soaked car boot sales at the Bernard Shaw, the Viking Splash Tour (proud to say I’ve sailed it three times) and boutiques that indulge a gal’s quirky predilection for Belgian and Japanese avant-garde.
Sure, the Luas may not connect, the weather is ‘changeable’ and the jet set seem to have missed us on their GPS but I do like a nice walk, haven’t grown spores and crowds just mess with my Reiki buzz. If that doesn’t please the hoi polloi, I’m going to tell them that I’m stalking Daithi O’Se. That ought to please them. If they don’t believe that, I may as well move.
