On the Art of Travel

One of the many advantages, apart from the marvellous city itself, a provincial Norwegian like myself will find living in Dublin, is the easy and cheap communication with the world around you. If you in Norway do not have an address in the immediate vicinity to the hotchpotch capital and its surrounding airports, flying anywhere in Europe that cheap airline Norwegian do not cater for with direct flights can be a bit of a hassle and a rather large strain on your student wallet. Not so in Dublin. With newfound love for much despised Ryanair, I have in the last month strolled through the magnificent streets of Rome on a very spur-of-the-moment getaway, as well as meeting friends in London for a flight that cost me less than ordering Chinese food to the Shire.

Now, carbon footprints be damned for a little while - I never use motorised transport in Dublin anyway, so I figure I have a bit to go on in the balance of things (oh, and it should really be the carbon dioxide footprint that worries most in any case!) - for now I am marvelled by the possibility to go see the best of Europe in a heartbeat. Last weekend I spent some wonderfully relaxed days in lovely London, entertained by buzzing electrocuting of my friends and chilling out with house beer en masse. Good fun, or great craic, as I'd proudly exclaim, embracing my adopted motherland and her fondly ridiculed expressions and euphemisms.

And it struck my that I have adopted much of the Irishness abounding over the last few months. With pride I received several comments on the Irish accent that adorned some of my words, and while some of my (Norwegian!) friends wouldn't let on that I speak English in any degree of a native Dubliner (which I admit to in the whole, while I do believe the Irish affinity can be traced here and there), I realised I had picked up quite a few Irish quirks. And it got me thinking about the notion of belonging. Coming to Dublin in August last, it didn't take long to feel at home here, in spite of the many oddities, which I will return to in comments later in this blog. When people at work or back home in Norway ask me when I will move back, I can say, in all honesty, that I don't plan any such thing. Ireland may not be my place of birth, but the Isles here make me feel just as home and just as belonging here as any place I've lived before has.

My travel companion on the flight over to the English had some wise input on this. Quoting another favourite of mine, Alain de Botton says in 'The Art of Travel' (highly recommended!) that Gustave Flaubert "proposed a new way of ascribing nationality: not according to the country one was born in or to which one's family belonged, but according to the places to which one was attracted". For me, this makes a lot of sense. The powerful feeling of coming home when I sat on the Aircoach from Dublin Airport upon return from Rome, as well as the naturalness of walking around the streets of the city, claiming that this really is my city (undisputed as of yet, although I am sure many would disagree - well, goan, will ya?!), and my insistent usurpation of Irish literature, language, culture and music all comes together to say that Ireland might as well be my nation of choice, and I may be Irish as much as I am Norwegian, although it may, and will, take me ages to get a satisfactory degree of understanding of it all. But who says you need to? I don't understand all of Norway, our history or the many things that define Norwegianism either, but still I am Norwegian by power of having been born there. So, in accordance with my good friend Flaubert, I choose to be Irish as well.

"My native country is for me the country that I love, that is, the one that makes me dream, that makes me feel well" says Flaubert. Is Éireannach mé, agus is as an Ioruaidh dom...