Lessons learned from an Irish town.

Skipping back a few days, I'll admit that I did see Dublin for forty minutes. Upon coming home from St Vincent's, Chris couldn't hold me back from the doctor's orders to stay put. I was so doped up on morphine and such, that I was feeling no pain. "Why not check things out", I thought. He rolled his eyes and I ventured off. I was limited to the tourist area of  Dublin around Temple Bar. The Harp brigade was a good starting point and slowly, I walked along the Liffey. I wasn't a half mile before I realized that this wasn't the best of ideas, but my pigheadedness kept me moving along.  Even though Dublin has some similar "Name Brand" stores to the US, they tend to make them blend in well. Now, after driving through many towns through Ireland, I have come to understand what Americans are starving for. While the family sat at the bustling hilltop town of Westport yesterday, we couldn't help but think about how America has gotten it all wrong. Every store in town was a "mom and pop". Each storefront was unique, reflecting the personality of each merchant. There was something for everyone…a butcher, a candy store, a angler's store, a bread store, a bookseller, pubs galore. No predictable aisle where you knew exactly where the marshmallows or laundry detergent would be. Each threshold promised an short adventure in shopping, one where you had no idea what lay ahead. Their products reflect the proprietor's choices and ultimately, their personalities. These personalities create a town picture that is distinct and memorable. It's this adventure that makes one feel like they are part of a community. We have been forced into the uniformity by our own cheapness, something that Americans never wish to admit to. If there is something I have learned from this trip, I would rather pay a few extra cents for ultimate sense of community, rather than getting," always the lowest price...always" . As Dublin struggles for is own distinction among stores like Claire's and Burger King, the cobbled streets beg to differ and smaller stores are strewn about. Molly Malone's statue stands as a reminder of Ireland's market roots. The men come up to shine her brass bosoms and pose for a photo as kids climb onto her trolly. I find something far more interesting out of the corner of my eye in a street artist. Truly feeling my condition, I sit while he works and we strike up a conversation. He is an Irishman out of work making the best of his poetry. He is friendly and scores of people snap photos around his work. He thanks me for asking permission, something that rarely happens to him apparently. It feels like being in the Village in New York City talking to someone you would rarely have the opportunity to converse with. Meeting people like this satisfy my need to step out of my daily comfort zone, yet for some reason, I feel very much at ease.   As the kidney throbs, it's clear that it is time to get back; surgery was only hours ago. It was a brief walk, but with it came some nice insight for someone far from home. I do hope the youth of Ireland see the treasure in their traditions and look warily upon achieving the American way. Sometimes things are best kept the way they are.