Fleeting moments. Smells. Nostalgia. Words overheard. Many elements make up our glimpses of a city, and the feel we get from it. For me it’s the sound of jazz pouring from the basement of Shebeen Chic bar on George’s Street. The strangely comforting smell of damp Victorian houses on Parnell Square. Cycling my bike down the tree-lined, canopied Ailesbury Road, looking at the huge houses and wondering about the people inside, and passing the Chinese sitting in protest outside the Chinese Embassy. Walking around Temple Bar in the summer and smiling at the contrast of people looking through books in the book market and the nearby drunken hen parties. (Dublin’s fair city where last night’s hens aren’t so pretty!) Sitting in the sun in Meeting House Square taking in the wonderful aromas of the food market, and looking through my new old books, devouring the gorgeous smell of the pages. Gazing out of my sitting room window at the lights on Howth Head or watching the Dart curve along the coast toward Dún Laoghaire. The smell of the sea hitting my nostrils the moment I walk out my front door, reminding me that I need it close.

Walks through Smithfield and Stoneybatter where the buzz of art, youth and something new in the air mixes with the sense of ingrained community—kept alive by the local people, the butchers, the cobbler shops. Seeing great gigs in small venues. Bumping into friends on South William Street, when the course of your day changes. Stopping in for a toasted sandwich and pint of Guinness in the charming Grogan’s pub where the unlikeness of the various characters is fascinating to watch: the fixture barflies to the suits, poets, artists, and ladies who wine.

Spontaneous music sessions in friends’ houses. Early morning film previews and watching the girls in suits and runners power-walking on their lunch break down Baggot Street, talking hurriedly about the weekend and “how much he has changed.” My Irish class in the city centre where my wonderfully funny classmates call me “Bud” and the “Cailín Ōg” and tell me stories of their Dublin, when the houses were collapsing and the church was all there was. The ladies in the class asking me “are ya married?” and when I say no telling me they’ll pray for me.

Keogh’s on a Sunday in out of the heavy rain, the men at the bar looking up at the match on one side, and the horse racing on the other. Tweed caps and folded arms, talking about coming up from the country to watch the match. The Sunday papers spread out across tables in the back.

“Open minds” yoga and stopping in for a bit of banter with my friends who work in the train station. The Dublin Flea Market in the Liberties where my friend Hilary DJs and we spend the afternoon buying and selling clothes and chatting to friends. The tasty kebabs in the kebab shop beside the Hairy Lemon pub. Sushi in Hop House, then a visit to The Welcome Inn. The Merrion Square soul festival in the summer, sauntering down the Royal Canal and down the backs of Portobello streets.

This is my Dublin—the things that make this city for me.