As I sit in the bus station preparing to leave Dublin, I ask myself, “Where was I?”

There’s no barbed wire, no murals, and the CCTV cameras are much less obvious.  People are everywhere, swarming the streets and sidewalks so there’s almost no room to walk.  Visitors have less to fear from prejudice-fueled crimes and more to fear from pickpockets.

It’s hard to believe I’m on the same island.

And yet I can’t really believe I’m in Ireland, either.  Stores are filled to bursting with green sweatshirts, Guinness glasses, and tacky key chains.  Street performers from every nation and every skill set line the cobblestone and brick roads.  Brightly-colored buses streak past Trinity College, the only school with an attraction that creates longer lines than Walt Disney World.  Probably most jarring of all is the man in the plush leprechaun costume sitting by the statue of Molly Malone.

Dublin isn’t broken; not in the same way as Belfast, anyway.  But I can’t help but feel that what I’m seeing isn’t real.  It’s like a mask pulled over the real Dublin, one that will please the tourists.  Yes, I’m a tourist; yes, I’ll buy your plastic key chains; but don’t pander to me.  Don’t show me what you think I want to see.  Show me your soul, Dublin.

And I think it did.  The night we went to the Cobblestone pub, a traditional music session was starting up.  Men and women ranging from middle-aged to patriarchal gathered at the bar and around tables and shared whatever music they felt like singing or playing at the time.  There was no structure, no facade, no “Look at me, I’m Irish!” atmosphere.  It was just a handful of old friends coming together in a familiar, friendly hangout to share the music and stories they loved.

A community based on respect, shared skills, and a strong Irish heritage?  I could get used to this.  Give me the Antrim coast and the Cobblestone, and I’ll show you what the island of Ireland is all about.  It’s not the big fluffy leprechauns; it’s the love of nature, love of music, and love for each other.