I woke up in my flat this morning and looked through the dormer above my head to see two seagulls circling around in Dublin’s glowing, gray-orange morning light.

There are two strange things about that sentence to me. The first is that seagulls are a bit of a novelty to me, because I’ve lived in landlocked states my whole life. The second is that I’m living in a flat.

As in living.

After four weeks on the road, of living out of my gray Kipling duffel, of evading Ryanair baggage weight checks, of sharing a room with two to 11 others, of making new friends with every new city I visited, I’m in a flat where I’m living on an everyday basis.

I have a closet instead of a suitcase. Clothes are hung up on IKEA hangers instead of rolled into space-saving Ziplocs.

I have a shelf in the tiny refrigerator I share with flatmates, instead of a labeled, plastic bag in the hostel’s. I have full-size bottles of shampoo and conditioner.

It’s quite the change.

I miss the freedom of being on the road. I miss being able to move when I want. I miss living out of my suitcase and the ability it gives you to pick up and go.

But, if I have to trade in this freedom, at least I’m doing so in Dublin, where I’ve settled to study abroad at Dublin Institute of Technology’s journalism school.

It’s an amazing city. It’s a place to live in, the opposite of Rome, where the city is a place to visit and sightsee only — not somewhere to live and put down roots.

The city is like a small town that goes on for miles — the storefronts are low and brick, except for the navy blue or burgundy or forest green façade where the store’s name is displayed in gold or black.

The river Liffey cuts through the middle of the city, a block or two away from the main shopping area. It’s wide and spanned by bridges of all sorts – one sponsored in proud black and gold by Guinness, which might be the only thing keeping the Irish economy going right now.

The people are wonderful here, too. They’re not Parisian-distant or New-York-busy or Polishly glum. They’re lively and welcoming, and always willing to lend a hand – a clerk at a chemist (pharmacy, in America) walked me halfway down the block to point me in the direction of my university.

And, of course, there are the pubs. My friend I stayed with in Edinburgh over Hogmanay (the crazy, Scottish, four-day-long New Year’s celebration) came for the weekend, and we went to three of them on Friday night. Like most of what I’ve seen in Europe so far, they’re everything you’ve ever read about. A pint is expensive – my cider was about $6 — but the atmosphere is incredible.

Each wood-floored, dimly-lit pub was filled with locals. In one, we followed our ears to the top floor, where an Irish band, complete with fiddles, was playing. Everyone – mostly young people — was singing along and clapping, and we sipped our pints in the corner and watched. It was one of those things you read about, but never actually believe happens until you see it for yourself.

I think I’m going to like it here.