You could be in London. You could be in New York. Actually, take both of those observations back; the accent here is just too distinctive for either to be true. The point I guess that I am trying to make is that here in this city center Starbucks, you feel as comfortably globalized in Belfast as you would anywhere else. It blends.

I hate reaching back to the same goddamn clichés about this place, but I feel compelled to continue waving the banner that Northern Ireland is, for all of its endemic Troubles, not a dangerous place. Of course, vestiges remain as word of active security checks persist on this Christmas Eve eve, but as I sit here in a bastion of bad American coffee amongst a crush of Christmas shopping procrastinators, I can tell you that none of us have anything more on our minds than, “What type of sugary beverage will I order this afternoon?”

There’s a great buzz around this city. It was resident in the construction taking place around city hall as it prepared for yuletide festivities. Signs that say “No Leafletting” go ignored by a Christian fundamentalist who stands just below the placard as he is ignored in kind by pedestrians as they brush past his calls about how much they are loved by Jesus. He died for your sins, you know.

I think they do know. Many people, after all, have died for this for this very place.

I was dropped down into the heart of Northern Ireland by bus. Deposited right next to the Grand Opera House, I moved past the its beautiful brick façade and turning rather blindly onto the main thoroughfare. On my right I spy the Europa Hotel- a place, I note with passing register, that was once notorious for being the most bombed hotel in Europe. I wonder how many of the folks passing by reflect on this fact anymore.

I’ve been to Belfast enough times now to be a little dangerous. I navigate the cardinal directions with relative confidence as I make my way over towards the river Lagan, my rollaboard suitcase in my right hand as I hold an umbrella in my left. It’s hard to blend in with my airline baggage tag still flapping in the wind, but I figure that if I can keep my mouth shut and walk with a semblance of fluency for the opposite traffic patterns, Belfasters will assume that I’m just another emigrant who’s come back home for the December holiday.

Of course I’m nothing of the sort, and I know this quite well.

While I would love to expound upon the greatness of the Northern Irish and everything that takes up their daily thought patterns, really I am nothing more than a repeat tourist with a keen eye for people watching. I can report that the locals who cycle through these Starbucks doors are no longer limited to the pale-skinned forebears whose identities were determined by a name of Irish or anglicized persuasion. No, this place has become as diverse as a discarded Rubik’s Cube, and the promise of economic opportunity now qualifies this land as a patchwork of ethnic diversity that more or less accommodates everyone. More or less.

I love it up here. In fact, when people ask me to name my favorite part of Ireland, my thoughts invariably return to the North (I’m counting seven counties here).  Of course, this response then prompts people to broach the topic that kicked off this little treatise: “Is it safe?”

Truthfully, I never really know how to answer this question without suppressing the urge to throw a modern newspaper at the inquisitor. To be even more truthful, I myself am not following the political situation as closely as I once did—and furthermore, I’m a Yank who didn’t grow up with bomb scares in my backyard. Who am I to say? Still, I recognize that the most dramatic headlines are the hardest ones to shake, and all of us are constantly working to break free from epithets and personal histories that may no longer be accurate.

Belfast is like a flower that in its early years was an economic powerhouse, boasting as much lyric beauty as could be seen anywhere else on the island.  And then for a time it was smashed into the ground and regarded as a stifled heartbeat with an uncertain prognosis. Today, as I sit here still jet-lagged from a trans-Atlantic Christmas travel adventure, I can only smile with my American optimism and believe that although conflict does persist, things are just fine in Belfast.

And thanks for having me over.