Europe is so similar and yet so different from America. Residential districts are clad with low-rise, standalone houses spanned across spacious land masses, with more to go around than ever seemingly needed. You can feel the age of the place — old buildings tell you much of a city’s history, but yet it’s not quite the same kind of oldish feel as in America.
I’d always thought of Ireland as a country that is rustic and flavorful, covered with grassy landscapes and populated with people carrying deep, rich culture. And beer of course.
Dublin seems to fit that picture. Love how perpetually every house follows this template of bricky, low-rise terrace rows with arc doorways and brightly-coloured doors. Bold colours seem pretty much in favour; dull streets in monotone sometimes have a couple of striking structures installed — shophouses with tinted colour glasses or residential blocks with bright yellow doors.
People speak in deep, rich languages that I don’t understand, but their intonations and exuberance somehow creates a sense of grandeur and pride. Like how I enjoyed listening to people articulate French in Montreal like it’s some kind of tune, the myriad of languages I’m hearing everyday along the streets is music to my ears.