ON a visit to Dublin in 2008, just before Ireland’s economic collapse, I took a walk down to the Docklands at the edge of the River Liffey and was astonished to find that what had long been a sooty, rundown port of 19th-century warehouses had become one of the most modern and desirable neighborhoods in Europe — all luxury apartments and upscale hotels bathed in theatrical lighting, a glossy prairie of glass and steel.

As I neared the docks, I met two red-haired girls dragging planks of wood out of a Dumpster. They were fitting the boards over the top of a makeshift little shack, creating the beginnings of a roof. Though the day was gloomy, with a brisk wind skirling in off the sea, one of the girls was in a sleeveless pink cotton dress and the other was shoeless and wore only a pair of red Capri pants. The two couldn’t have been more than 7. I asked them what they were building. This was six years ago, but the girls were so vibrant I made note of our encounter.

“Tis a bedroom, o’ course,” the smaller one said with mild impatience.

I looked inside the half-finished structure and saw a mattress on the ground with a naked Barbie doll lying facedown in the middle of it, like a porn star down on her luck.

“Oh,” I said. “Not bad.”

The girls grinned, and the small one said proudly, “Yap, we’re working on it.” She dealt Barbie a contemptuous kick. “When it’s done to its full completion, it’ll be posh, like.”