On a clear winter day in Dublin, a cold wind blows down the Liffey and flutters the Palestinian flags at the souvenir stall on O’Connell Bridge. Flocks of European tourists take selfies at the Gothic gate of Trinity College, oblivious to the statue of stately, plump Edmund Burke, then mill in and out of souvenir shops selling tweed caps and cartoons of leprechauns. The bars are full, the buskers are better than in London, and the Guinness is more perfectly aerated than anywhere else in the world. The tourists come for a taste of the old Ireland. But the Irish live in a new country.