Dublin

Dublin produced four Nobel laureates in literature and treats the fact casually, the way other cities treat good weather. Georgian doors in defiant colors line the squares, the Liffey divides the city into gently feuding halves, and the pub — the actual institution, not the export — remains the front room of the nation: conversation first, music when it happens, and a pint of stout poured in two acts with a pause both parties respect.

The sensible traveller sees the Book of Kells early at Trinity and stays for the Long Room, a library that makes readers of atheists; walks Grafton Street to St. Stephen's Green; and learns the difference between Temple Bar — the postcard — and a local snug in Portobello or Stoneybatter, where the second pint arrives with your name on the conversation. Phoenix Park, twice the size of Central Park, keeps actual wild deer.

The Guide's honesty: the pint takes as long as it takes — interrupting the settle brands you deeper than any accent —; Temple Bar's prices are theater tickets: enjoy the show once, drink elsewhere after; and the weather forecast is a mood board: carry the layer, expect the rainbow.