Do excuse me for today. It's St. Patrick's day in Ireland. The traditional massive parade with its chosen routes turned out to be a 3-minute bus ride from where I live. Yes, just down the block.
Like so many, I stood happily in the cold for at least 2 good hours but we all had clear views because the fantastic thing about Dublin is that there are so many nooks, corners, windows and staircases that celebrate its historic buildings that we were spoilt for choice. Of course, little boys still preferred to climb the neighbouring trees while hundreds of children in fancy dress - mostly leprechauns - sat perched up high upon their dads' shoulders.
Brazilian carnival costumes, flamenco and the boisterous bhangra dancers made me feel that I had taken a shortcut route to paradise. Fairies and clowns on stilts, harlequin costumed party-dresers, rock-n-rollers swinging their guitars and floats in the shape of dinasaurs that swung as high as the skies convinced me that I may have lapped up a taste of heaven for sure. The sounds of drums and guitars, whistles, trombones and trumpets made a merry party. Yet, I'm not being half as eloquent. But what fun!
I felt drawn to an overwhelming emotion of bliss. The Irish own a rare beautiful gift in the shape of its powerful community spirit. They know when to command reverence and are often appreciative of beauty in an awed silent way that's humbling and never showy.
Somwhere in between the hot-dogs and ice-creams, I wept for the sheer exhilaration, the drama and flamboyance of it all.