Somewhere between Dublin's city center and the outer suburb of Rathfarnham was where I fell in love with Ireland. The unassuming bus route of the 16C served as the main link connecting the two areas. Looking back, it seems strange that this bus route filled with the usual city traffic, pubs, bride row houses, and small business, competed with Ireland's plentiful areas of undisturbed natural beauty to win my affections. And yet the route contained its own beauty, unnoticed by many and treasured by me.

I typically caught the 16C on the eastside of O'Connell Street, one block away from the bridge and across from the famous General Post Office and Bason's Bookshop. On a good day, the bus pulled up within five minutes of my arrival, but there were many more days when wind and rain ripped through the street for a half hour before the glorious 16C arrived to provide shelter. On these bitterly cold and gusty days, I seemed destined to be wearing uncomfortable shoes and a light sweater. Thus the minutes ticket by with particular agony. I generally shared the bus stop with under-clothed teenage girls. When the cold fought through dothing to reach every bone in your body, these girls chaaed in mini-skirts and halter-tops, far from Dublin's freezing streets they had apparently traveled to some tropical paradise in their mind.

On the two-story bus, I sat on the second level in the front seat. This seat held certain charm because it gave the sensation of crashing into sharp corners and small cars. It also provided an exquisite view of the city. It was my sanctuary and my refuge. It took me from the class meeting area in the City Arts Center to the warm and welcoming Harris house. That seat embodied all the sweetness of my semester abroad in Ireland. Throughout the course of the semester, I came to know every inch of the island, north and south. Yet the lsC to Rathfarnham gave me time to reflect, to readJamesJoyce on his former streets, to listen to U2 in their Bulking on Grofton Street in U2's ...beloved hometown".

So vivid and bright lay the grass in front of Trinity College as the bus passed by, so perfect did Dublin seem in those days of carefree youth and simple freedom.

Things I remember from the bus ride: Trinity College, the side streets into Temple Bar, the brilliant purple paint bordering The George dance club, kids playing in the public housing courtyard, the sign for the Quaker meeting house, a soccer field, perfectly planted flowers in Harold's Cross park, a dirty river, inspiring billboards, rich pink sunsets. To this day I cannot give adequate directions to the Harris house in Rathfarnham. I would tell taxi drivers to take me from the city center to the Yellow House Pub. From there, the Grange Road led to an Esso gas station directly across from the Aranleigh Gardens subdivision. 7 Aranleigh Gardens, a simple white row house with a short brick fence, my final destination.

Its owner, Regina Harris, a jovial woman with an infectious laugh, left her husband when the kids were young. As the years passed and the kids grew, Regina welcomed students from throughout the world. She used the money earned from keeping students to make periodic improvements on the house. As a result, each room was decorated with precision and care. Yet the family spent most of their time in the kitchen. Cups of tea and pleasant conversation flowed from the kitchen with constant hospitality. Neighbors, family members, friends, and passing students happily filled the kitchen with their jokes and stories. 7 Aranliegh Gardens, a house bursting with the simple pleasures of everyday life, marked the end of my bus journey.

Flipping through the pages of a magazine several months later, I spotted an advertisement for Ireland that read, "Come to Ireland and restore your faith in humanity." 'My sentiments exactly' I thought...'perhaps I should go into advertising'. The Harris house, acting as my home away from home at the ripe age of twenty-one, did just that. Regina, with her charm and warmth, led the three kids through hectic mornings and late night school projects. Her youngest daughter Alison attended a Catholic girl's high school. At sixteen she was animated with stories of boys, the latest trends, music videos, pop stars, and any other topic which might postpone her schoolwork. She had a glow and energy that would charm even those most deterred by teenage ramblings. Her 19 year-old sister, Erica, gained acceptance into a prestigious art college that spring. I can still remember the afternoon Regina came home from work to hear the news, she was filled with suchjoy and affection for Erica that it nearly brought me to tears. It reminded me of a conversation I had had with Regina several weeks earlier wherein she described how she had forgone many luxuries to support the dreams of her children. What struck me most about this conversation was her lack of resentment. Somewhere within her love for the children, their dreams became hers.

Darren, the handsome twenty something older brother, completed the trio. Busy with culinary school, Darren arrived home weekly just long enough to kiss everyone on the cheek, eat, spoil Allison with money and gifts, tell Erica what to do, listen to his grandmother's lecture about the much disapproved of girlfriend, advise me against dating Irish men who he claimed would literally charm the pants right off me, and leave again. Darren's visits inevitably provided great entertainment because of the family's in house comedian, Granny Ema. While I love everyone in the family, Erna remained my undisputed favorite. At age 86, Ema cursed, smoked, laughed hysterically at a weekly old folks BBC soap opera, told dirty jokes, and held the family together. As a young woman, Era escaped Nazi Germany to marry an Irishman. She kept an immaculate house that she never lived in because she preferred Regina's and complained daily about how ugly, cold, and dreary she thought Ireland to be. She loved country music and the gardening program; despite their inability to plant tulips according to her standards. And although she tended to disr'e Torrne cnllaren, like visitors and students, Erna took a particular liking to me. She repeatedly informed all neighbors and friends that I had "a lovely manner" and was impossible not to like with the grace and kindness I brought into their lives. I remember going upstairs to bed at night and hearing Erna tell Regina, "Ah Jesus but she is such a lovely girl." And yet it was so easy to love the Harris family because they were so accepting, so real, so human, and so Irish.

With them, my bus journey to Rathfarnham ended. Even now, several years later, the Harris family, through letters and visits, remain my Irish family. The smell of their house and the sound of their voices still feel like home. And while I know that my semester in Ireland can never be replaced, no matter how many times I return, it remains such a clear memory of a moment when life seemed just sweet enough to replace any past pain. Time may erase many memories but falling in love with Ireland on the l6C to Rathfarnham is one that I will never forget.