Standing in front of Dublin Castle for the first time felt surreal. This massive complex had witnessed over 800 years of Irish history — from Viking times to British rule. The grand architecture, the towers, and the sheer weight of the place were overwhelming.

It was a symbol of power, history, and endurance.

A typical street scene in Dublin on a September afternoon. In the distance stood the towers of Dublin Castle, originally built in 1204 on the orders of King John of England. For over seven centuries it served as the seat of English and later British power in Ireland — housing the Viceroy, storing royal treasure, and acting as the administrative heart of colonial rule.

Even from a distance, its presence loomed large over the city streets.

A quiet moment captured from below — an older gentleman leaning out his window, enjoying the afternoon air. The simple, peaceful scene felt timeless. In the middle of my own whirlwind adventure, seeing someone calmly taking in the day from their window was a gentle reminder to slow down and appreciate the small, ordinary moments.

As I walked along the sidewalk, with no particular route to follow, I came across Christ Church and felt compelled to step inside.

The church was quiet and vast, and felt inviting with only the soft glow from the windows and prayer candles lighting the sanctuary. Above the candles stood a statue of Jesus, arms open in blessing.

I was raised Catholic — my Mom played piano every Sunday. So as I thought of her back in Nebraska, most likely worried sick about me and my whereabouts, I took a moment to kneel down and prayed to Jesus for protection and guidance, and I prayed to Him for forgiveness.

As I knelt there, the words from “California Dreamin’” by The Mamas & The Papas played softly in my mind: “I stopped into a church I passed along the way… I got down on my knees and I began to pray…”

In that profound stillness, something stirred deep inside my chest — a quiet warmth I had never felt before. Was it the Holy Spirit? I didn’t know… but I knew something was shifting within me.

I stood up and lit my own prayer candle. Before leaving, I took this picture — a long hand-held exposure.

It remains one of the most important moments — and photos — of my entire journey.

Founded around 1030 by the Viking King Sitric Silkenbeard, this is one of Dublin’s oldest buildings. Rebuilt in stone in the late 12th century under the Normans and later restored in Victorian times, its soaring stone columns and high arched ceiling have stood as a place of worship for nearly a thousand years.

In the quiet vastness, a single person sat on a pew on the right side, praying alone.

Standing there, I felt the immense weight of its history pressing gently around me — along with a deep sense of peace.

I pressed the shutter one last time inside this beautiful cathedral to capture this moment before silently slipping out the door and back into the afternoon sunlight.

A simple, joyful moment in a Dublin park — a woman playing with her dog on a sunny autumn afternoon. Their carefree energy, the dog’s wagging tail, and her easy laughter captured something pure and light about life.

After the weight and grandeur of Christ Church Cathedral, this scene felt like a beautiful reminder that life was happening all around me — full of small, happy moments waiting to be noticed.

There was something deeply joyful about this quintessential scene — a woman buying fresh flowers from a street vendor on a sunny autumn afternoon.

The vibrant colors, the simple exchange, and the everyday act of bringing beauty home filled me with a quiet happiness.

As I took the picture, through the viewfinder I noticed a man walking away with his own bouquet, heading home with a smile.

A municipal street sweeper pauses amongst the traffic. These workers have been a familiar sight on the city’s streets for centuries, using traditional brooms and wheelbarrows to keep the pavements clean long before mechanical sweepers became common.

The imposing Daniel O’Connell Monument on O’Connell Street. Standing 40 feet tall, this bronze statue honors Daniel O’Connell (1775–1847), the great Irish statesman and orator known as “The Liberator.” He led the non-violent campaign for Catholic Emancipation in 1829, which allowed Catholics to sit in the British Parliament for the first time in over 150 years. Erected in 1882, the monument remains one of Dublin’s most powerful symbols of independence, political courage, and peaceful resistance.

The winged figures at the base represent allegorical figures (often interpreted as representing Ireland or the virtues O’Connell championed).

Beneath the towering figure of O’Connell, two young people sat quietly on the steps, sharing a simple moment together. In that contrast — the weight of history above and the quiet intimacy of everyday life below — I felt the beautiful continuity of Dublin. The city’s past and present living side by side.

The iconic Charles Stewart Parnell Monument on O’Connell Street, one of Dublin’s widest and most famous thoroughfares.

Erected in 1911, the monument honors Charles Stewart Parnell (1846–1891), the great Irish nationalist leader who led the fight for Home Rule and land reform in the late 19th century. Parnell stands atop a tall column, with allegorical figures at the base representing Ireland and the causes he championed.

In the foreground, a classic Citroën 2CV drives past, while double-decker buses and the grand Victorian architecture of O’Connell Street create a timeless snapshot of Dublin life in 1994.

I stumbled upon the Gallery of Photography on Meeting House Square in Dublin’s Temple Bar district completely by chance. It was a small, intimate space dedicated entirely to photography — something I had never experienced before.

Standing there quietly, looking at the work of professional photographers displayed with such care and respect, something shifted inside me. I had no idea this place existed until that moment. Seeing serious photography honored in its own dedicated space felt like a powerful affirmation — a quiet confirmation that what I was doing with my camera on this journey actually mattered.

Standing alone in the corner of the Gallery of Photography, arms folded, she studied the images on the wall with quiet intensity. The space felt hushed and reverent, like a small chapel dedicated to light and shadow.

Only a few hours earlier at Dublin Castle, I had been deeply moved by a beautiful illuminated Book of Ireland. It contained the final poem Samuel Beckett ever wrote — a haunting, sparse masterpiece. Now here I was, surrounded by photographs that felt like living pages from that same story.

In that stillness, Beckett’s words came to mind:

“Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.”

This tiny gallery had become my own quiet cathedral of images. And I had learned a new phrase to inspire me.

After walking the streets of Temple Bar, I finally found it — the Garage Bar, tucked behind The Clarence Hotel, which was owned by Bono and The Edge. My heart raced. I had been told I might actually meet U2 there, and I was getting closer with every step.

But it was closed. The metal shutters were down. Then I saw it — someone had spray-painted “BONO” in big letters on the door. In that moment, I knew the information I had been given was true. My heart began racing even faster.

Two large movie posters for Wyatt Earp (starring Kevin Costner) were plastered on the front.

I decided to walk around and come back later — the pull toward this place was too strong to ignore.

Just steps from the Garage Bar, this wall was covered in concert posters for the month ahead. In one glance I could see David Byrne, Davy Spillane, The Frames, The Specials, Something Happens, Crash Test Dummies, and even Chippendales. The energy was electric. Dublin’s music scene in 1994 was alive and thriving — and I had just stepped right into the middle of it.

Standing there reading every poster, I felt the pulse of the city. This was the real Dublin — raw, creative, and bursting with live music every single night.

I wandered into Trinity College Dublin and found myself in one of its beautiful historic courtyards. The cobblestone paths, the grand brick buildings, and the quiet atmosphere felt like stepping back in time. This is one of Ireland’s oldest and most prestigious universities, founded in 1592.

As I watched this woman walking ahead of me, hands clasped behind her back, I felt a deep sense of peace.

After the intensity of the morning — Christ Church, the Gallery of Photography, and the Garage Bar — this quiet moment at Trinity felt like a gentle exhale. The city was showing me its softer, more contemplative side.

As I walked, it began to rain. Although I didn’t have an umbrella, I didn’t care — I was absolutely loving this day!

I was experiencing a typical rainy afternoon on the streets of Dublin — umbrellas up, shoes splashing through puddles, the city moving forward despite the weather. People hurried past shop windows while others lingered under cover, creating that beautiful, slightly chaotic rhythm of urban life so different from home.

As I walked through it all, a bright yellow “1 HOUR” photo lab sign caught my eye. It instantly took me back to working at Bob’s Camera Department with Skratch. For a moment I wondered what he was doing right then, and I wished he was there with me.

The ordinary, everyday pulse of the city felt just as meaningful as the cathedrals and castles. This was the real Dublin, and I was walking right through it.

I took this picture before pushing on through the crowd alone.

Even on a cold, wet day, the flower stands of Dublin refused to be ignored. Bright bouquets of white and colorful flowers spilled out onto the wet cobblestones, creating little islands of beauty right in the middle of the rain.

I watched as a couple stood under the umbrellas, carefully choosing their bouquet. In that moment, I felt the simple, quiet joy of everyday life continuing despite the weather. People still bought flowers. People still smiled.

There was an important message in this moment: The city kept moving — and so did I.

This was one of those moments that gave me goosebumps.

On a busy Dublin street, three musicians poured their hearts out — saxophone, congas, and guitar — filling the air with beautiful, soulful music right there on the sidewalk. People walked by carrying shopping bags, some stopping to listen, others hurrying past in the rain.

This wasn’t a scene out of a movie. This was real life. Real musicians. Real music. Real Dublin.

Standing there listening, I felt completely alive. This was exactly the kind of raw, beautiful moment I had dreamed about when I wanted to escape Nebraska.

The three musicians played their hearts out on this wet Dublin street while life moved around them. A young woman walked right past without stopping, lost in her own world.

I stood there watching it all unfold, and I felt something powerful in the contrast: the musicians giving everything they had, while people continued to rush past them. They didn’t care. They were giving their gift to the world.

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As the rain continued to fall, I watched more people carefully choosing flowers from the stand.

I felt the pulse of life continuing here despite the weather. People still bought flowers on rainy days. People still carried beauty home.

The Garage Bar had just opened for the evening, and I was the first — and only — customer inside.

The space was dark, gritty, and full of character. The neon sign glowed above the bar, two massive stone lions stood guard on the shelf, and right there in the middle of it all was Bob’s Michigan license plate — “316 TJU” — proudly displayed like a trophy.

There was even a movie clapperboard and a photo of someone racing a motorcycle taped to the wall. I was told the rider was Larry Mullen Jr.

In that moment, I felt like I was in my own movie.

I had chased this place all day, and now I was standing right in the middle of it. This was as close as I had ever been to U2’s world. And it felt incredible.

Right there on the shelf, between two stone lions and a couple of Budweiser bottles, sat this Michigan license plate — 316 TJU.

It belonged to my friend Bob, who I met through Kyle Gilson at our home, the Dome.

Seeing it hanging in the Garage Bar in Dublin felt surreal. In the middle of chasing U2 and exploring a city so far from home, this small piece of metal grounded me. It was a quiet reminder that even while I was thousands of miles away, pieces of my old life were still with me.

I stood there staring at it for a long time, smiling and shaking my head.

Hanging dramatically from the ceiling was this car completely covered in long, sharp metal spikes — one of the most iconic props from U2’s Zoo TV tour (1992–1993).

The spikes were part of the tour’s wild, satirical aesthetic. U2 used the car to symbolize the sharp, dangerous, and overwhelming nature of media and modern life — a visual metaphor for the information overload and chaos they were commenting on during the tour.

Standing underneath it, I felt like I had stepped into the middle of the band’s world.

After Zoo TV ended, many of the large props found new homes. This spiked Trabant ended up permanently displayed inside the Garage Bar. It became a permanent piece of U2 history right here in Dublin — a wild, unforgettable reminder of one of the most ambitious tours in rock history.

On the wall above it, a memorial sign for Freddie Mercury (1946–1991) still hung — a touching tribute to the Queen frontman who had passed away just a few years earlier.

As I stood here taking pictures, I felt like I had stepped into the middle of rock history.

After walking in, I quickly struck up a conversation with the two bartenders, John and Michael. Within minutes we were talking like old friends. I told them the story of how my friend Bob Bodziak had sent his Michigan license plate all the way from Kearney, Nebraska to Harry McQuade (who used to work here), and how I had promised Bob I would come check on it.

They knew exactly where it was — proudly and prominently displayed right behind the bar. I was fired up to see it there.

We talked for over an hour and a half. The energy was crazy fun. Before long, they started goofing around behind the bar, and they let me take pictures of them doing it. It felt like I had been welcomed into their world.

Above them hung the very same motorcycle Larry Mullen Jr. had ridden, and on the wall was a memorial for Jimi Hendrix. This wasn’t just a bar — it was a living piece of rock history, and I was right in the middle of it.

At some point, I asked John and Michael if I could take their portrait. They happily agreed. We grabbed small American and and Irish flags and I posed right in front of Bob’s Michigan license plate.

In that moment, I felt an incredible sense of acceptance doing what I did best. I had only just met these two, yet it already felt like we had known each other for years as I created this portrait of them. The flags in their hands said everything — an American kid from Nebraska and two Dubliners, connected by music, stories, and a shared love for this wild little bar.

I could hardly believe my eyes.

Right there — front and center, in the middle of U2’s Garage Bar — was my photograph. My picture. The one I had taken of myself standing on the American flag, titled Freedom.

This wasn’t just some fantasy I had been carrying since Nebraska. This was real. My work was actually hanging on the wall here.

It was one of the most surreal and emotional moments of my entire life — a dream of dreams coming true.

I know my image can be shocking at first. It was meant to be. But it was never meant as disrespect. I have always loved America deeply, and I still do. My grandfather was a paratrooper in the 101st Airborne who fought in the Battle of the Bulge, lost his arm, and was awarded the Purple Heart. I have the utmost respect for him and for every American Veteran.

This photograph was an artistic and intellectual exercise by a young man — inspired in part by watching Jimi Hendrix dramatically light his guitar on fire at the Monterey Pop Festival.

When people saw this image, after the initial shock wore off, I would explain that I loved living in a country where I had the freedom to create this image. In many places around the world, I knew I could have been arrested — or worse — for doing something like this to their flag. The First Amendment doesn’t just protect the speech Americans agree with. More importantly, it protects the speech we disagree with.

I signed the front of the photo, added a personal message to the back, taped my business card to it, and gave it to John and Michael. They seemed genuinely impressed.

I hoped U2 would one day notice it hanging there — because so many of their songs and their art carried powerful political messages, and they had deeply influenced me as a young artist.

After two hours in the Garage Bar, The Kitchen — U2’s own nightclub right next door — finally opened. It was an exclusive, invitation-only night, but I talked to the bouncers and charmed my way inside.

Once I was in, the energy was electric. The music was loud, the lights were flashing, and I found myself surrounded by beautiful, fun-loving Irish girls who welcomed me like I belonged there. We laughed, danced, and talked for hours in that wild, unforgettable space.

This was the second night in a row I had been given something for free — first the cigarettes, then entry into one of the coolest nightclubs in Dublin. I was exhausted, but I couldn’t stop smiling. I had somehow talked my way into U2’s world again.

This photo captures the pure joy and magic of that night. These four girls — along with the music, the laughter, and the feeling of being exactly where I was meant to be — made it one of the best nights of my entire life.

After two hours of dancing and partying in The Kitchen, I was completely drained. I walked back to the hostel around 1:00 AM through the quiet, dark streets of Dublin.

Along the way, I saw this young couple lost in a deep, passionate kiss.

In that moment, the entire day came rushing back — the rain, the flowers, the music, the new friends, the laughter, feeling the wild energy of the city that U2 captured in their music, and the pure magic of being alive and in love.

It truly was a lovely night for lovers.

I smiled to myself, took this one picture, and kept on walking back to the hostel.