Edinburgh is a city of easy first impressions.

My first impression of Edinburgh was of darkness. The sun sets early in November in Scotland. My second impression of Edinburgh was one of welcome, and even on some level a strange familiarity with my surroundings. We arrived at our hotel, Ceilidh-Donia, folded cozily into a Midlothian neighborhood of buildings similar in appearance, with their peaked roofs and worn stone facades. Of course, none of this we saw upon our arrival. My cousin Emily and I were exhausted, having spent much of the last 18 hours either in the air or between planes. We united in Dublin for the last leg of our journey, and by the time we landed on Scottish soil I had lost any concept of time, having leapfrogged over several hours into the following day from my departure. By the time we landed at the doorstep of our hotel, I simply knew that it was approaching evening, and we had arrived.

Half-asleep, and as the handsome soft-spoken ginger-haired desk clerk checked us in, I noticed an adorable dog – mostly white with mottled patches of black and brown, and wearing a harness that read “I’m deaf” – seemingly frozen at my feet, her gaze fixed intently on something just beyond my peripheral vision. I followed her line of sight and, to my absolute delight, saw a yellow ball perched between my foot and the counter. The universal dog language: “Please play with me.” I felt a momentary pang of homesickness for my dog Layla, but with one tap of the toe of my boot, we were in the middle of a game that my new friend was determined to continue for as long as possible. Which apparently, was not long enough, as she stubbornly decided to plant herself in the doorway to the stairwell leading up to our room when we received our key.

Hauling our suitcases up two floors via an extraordinarily steep spiral staircase, we reached our room tucked under the eaves and with a view of the back garden (although we did not yet know this). First instinct was to bury ourselves into the soft beds for a nap, but we obstinately avoided this temptation, worried about the creeping effects of our long journey. Instead Em and I stepped out the door into the early evening, searching for something to eat. Down Dalkeith Road a short way, we found the glittering threshold of Salisbury Arms decked with winter greenery and white lights, and inside we found a comfortable restaurant with exactly what we needed in that moment. Good food (steak and ale pie for Em, baked cod and curried risotto for me), and a bottle of Pinot noir.

The next day we emerged from slumber around 11:30am, after a much needed rest that had stolen our morning. Even with our shortened day, I can best recall it as a series of vignettes, because the afternoon was so full.

Edinburgh is an ancient city, and it is brimming with stories. There are stories etched deep into its stones. Stories in the air, mingling with the drift of rain clouds and the cries of gulls overhead. Fortunately it seems to be a city willing to share.

Brunch at Saint Giles Cafe and Bar, a tucked away but bright and sunny little cafe with sunflowers in the windows, rough stone interior walls, high ceilings, and a delicious menu of cafe food and a good selection of teas and coffees. We had a meal there, enjoying the atmosphere, and I would only learn later that the cafe is permanently closing on November 30th of this year (mere days away), after being in operation under the same ownership since 1991. We were a part of the final days of this lovely cafe’s story.

Advocate’s Close, a narrow medieval-aged alley staircase leading you from High Street up on the hill, down through and around high walled equally old buildings, and down a winding path to another section of Old Town. Edinburgh is full of these passages, called closes. How many people before me had taken these centuries-old shortcuts, walked these same stairs worn smooth by thousands upon thousands of shoes, and what were their stories?

Just a few paces away from Saint Giles, we found the News Steps, another avenue through Old Town, with thousands of padlocks lining the fence all the way down. I learned they are love locks, attached to the fence by couples seeking good luck for happy lives together. How many found their happiness? I wonder.

Everything about the Christmas Market, Edinburgh’s famous holiday conglomeration of food vendors, craftsmen-and-women, and Christmas-themed activities. The attractive and slightly nervous vendor who reeled us in to try spirits and provided us with mulled punch with elderberry liqueur, setting the joyful tone of our explorations. The lights creating a gentle and whimsical sparkle as the sun set over the park bridging Old Town and New Town. The view of Edinburgh Castle from the top of the Ferris wheel. But a truly magical part of the market, for me, was crossing paths with a fellow Minnesotan operating one of the artisan stalls. She was an expat, from Eden Prairie of all places, had studied at the University of Edinburgh, met her husband here, and had stayed for the twenty years since. I regret that I did not catch her name, but feel fortunate that I heard her story and the world feels a little bit smaller even though both of us are across an ocean from where we began.

As we climbed back up the hill to the Royal Mile from the Christmas Market, we suddenly heard the first notes of “Scotland the Brave” being played confidently on the bagpipes from High Street. The song echoed through the wynds and side streets as we searched for its source. I wonder if the piper in full regalia we’d passed earlier that afternoon had been the source of the spontaneous song.

We landed in Captain’s Bar, a half block off the main strip, taking a break from our walk back to the hotel for some liquid rejuvenation. Vaguely buccaneer themed, with a bright red facade, subtle nautical interior decor and a prominently featured selection of Captain Morgan bottles, we drank our pints of Guinness while listening to a small collective of folk musicians play live, taking turns on guitar and thumb piano, singing traditional Scottish folk songs with some Bob Dylan thrown in for good measure.

Everywhere in Edinburgh feels like it is embracing you. Keeping you warm and safe and content; this is a comfortable city.

Even the walk back to the hotel was comfortable; a gentle rain landing on my wool sweater-clad shoulders as we wandered back up the avenue toward Midlothian. On the way, we detoured to the Old Bell Inn, a cozy pub decked out in holiday festivity, where we enjoyed a late supper and more beer. As notorious as the food in the UK is rumored to be, so far it has been food that has warmed my soul, and the (vegetarian) haggis, neeps and tatties I devoured was no exception. Em and I enjoyed the quiet but jovial reunion of three older gentlemen seated next to us, old friends catching up with a couple of pints. This city feels like it is made up of old friends perpetually getting together to catch up over a pint.

There are some places where you feel immediately at ease, where you can walk the streets and feel as though some part of you either was there before, or knew you would be.

After one day, I sense that Edinburgh is such a place for me. It grounds you, anchors you to its history and willingly gives up its secrets – one by one – to keep you searching, learning, exploring. It feels like you could live a thousand lives here, but always find what you need no matter which direction you take.

We have another full day in this city; as I write this, I am sipping coffee in the breakfast room of Ceilidh-Donia, feeling the day brighten over my shoulder and marveling at the fact that the words are finally coming easily again. We have plans to climb the hill up to Edinburgh Castle today. Tomorrow, Em and I take the train up the northeast coast to Aberdeen, the rumored clan lands of our ancestors. But I do know that Edinburgh has embedded itself into my soul. It has given me a new story to tell, and remember, and love. I will forever be grateful.