For my first 10 years in Ireland, not a day went by that somebody didn't ask: "How are you enjoying your holiday?" I used to get the incorrect change quite a lot in shops, people assuming that I wasn't familiar with the currency.
For the second 10 years in Ireland, not a week goes by that somebody doesn't ask me: "Where are you from and how did you come to Ireland?" I have often considered having the answer printed on cards, which I could hand out on request. On a few occasions I have got so bored telling my story once again, that I have made it up. But recently - a sure sign of my assimilation - I am playfully evasive. Why tell the truth when you can flirt with it? Very Irish.
Being asked the question, I am constantly reminded of being an "outsider". This is strange, since I've lived in Dublin half my life and have been settled here longer than any other place I've ever lived. My children are Irish through and through. Yet I've got an accent which Americans recognise as Irish and Irish hear as American. Unable to speak on behalf of either country, I find myself floating somewhere in the midAtlantic. But ask me where home is, and I'll tell you Dublin. The best friends I have ever had in my life are Irish. And I've been lucky enough to work for a newspaper - staff and readers alike - who have been like a warm and supportive extended family that lets me speak my mind - which is probably the best you could ever hope for.
On one of my first assignments for The Irish Times 16 years ago, I was asked to talk to US women who had settled in Ireland. One of them, who had been here 15 years at the time, said: "No matter how long you stay here, you will never belong." That warning has always stuck with me and occasionally I ask myself: "Do I belong yet?"
But to be honest, I don't think I'm the sort of person for whom "belonging" - in the sense of being part of a cohesive social group - is important. I've always been an outsider from the day I was born, which is ideal considering my profession. I remember Irish Times editor emeritus Douglas Gageby saying that a journalist must always be an outsider. Once you become a member of the club, you can never see it clearly. Some people say that Ireland is a club. I've spoken to many returned Irish emigrants who feel that because they left and returned, they can never belong again. They feel bitter that they haven't been accepted into what they see as a cosy, homogenous, self-satisfied clique.
I don't see it that way. Ireland is in a state of flux (as usual) and belonging is taking on different meanings. Many new people from varied backgrounds have recently joined us (am I allowed to say "us"? I still ask myself). Being "Irish" no longer means being born and bred in Clare, or Cavan or wherever. The question is, how willing are those who were brought up here to accept those of us who, by will or circumstance, have chosen this island as our home?
Well, it might help if we understand them a little better - the newcomers, I mean. Susan Knight's new book, Where the Grass is Greener: Voices of Immigrant Women in Ireland, goes some way to doing this. This book of interviews with "blow-ins" includes women who have been here for as long as 20 years and as little as two months. Knight herself, a novelist who grew up in the UK and married Irish journalist Des Crowley, feels that the Irish are very warm on the surface, but too private to get to know intimately. "You meet somebody and have a great conversation, and the next day they give you the cold shoulder. It might have something to do with the fact that you met them in the pub," she says. Two kinds of "foreign" women seem to have gravitated to Ireland. There are the outsiders and risk-takers - like Knight herself - who never felt they belonged anywhere. They are here because they fell in love with Irish men, usually, although a few just fell in love with the romance of the country (not something the Irish, ironically, have a lot of respect for).
The more recent arrivals are here for reasons of survival. They have had a much harder time, often because they are not Irish or Anglo-Saxon in appearance. "Anyone coming from countries where there was a stronger sense of community will be struck by its absence here, the obsession with privacy, at least in a big city like Dublin," says Selma Harrington, who is Bosnian. "It's not easy to come close to people. Perhaps, even though Irish people might not like to hear this, it's a kind of relic of Anglo mentality - to keep yourself to yourself. One can be socialising for years with people, even visiting them in their homes, but still wouldn't call them friends." Valeria Martinez, who is Algerian, says: "It's difficult to integrate. People are quite friendly, but it's different from my country. If foreigners come to Argentina, everyone invites them to their home, to dinner. In two years I have never been invited to an Irish person's house."
Nkem (who is Nigerian) says: "I don't want to be rude, but when you move into an area most people avoid you like you have a disease. It makes you feel terrible . . . I was punched when I was pregnant. And there are two people in particular where we live, an elderly man and a middle-aged man, who try to make life difficult for us: one cycles up and down the road all the time and whenever he sees us he curses." Nenu Navarro (Spanish) tells us: "I know Irish people, but I think it is really difficult to make good friends with them . . . The racism in Ireland is incredible. One day I was in the GPO with some friends and this old man came up and said: `You f**king Romanians! Why don't you f**k off!' If I had really been a Romanian I would have killed him. It was very shocking. And if you are very Catholic, you shouldn't be like that. The Government should be educating people."
At the same time, Nenu has been helped by an Irish woman, whom she calls Auntie Jo, who has gone out of her way to make Nenu feel welcome. "It seems to me that in this country there are big contrasts. Super-open people and bigots," says Matxalen R., who is Basque.