I Belong in Dublin

(Photos here and here.)

Sure, I love London. But it took five weeks to move from enjoying the newness of its quirks, to those quirks becoming flaws and getting old & annoying, to loving it like home. Not so with Dublin. I loved the place so much, it felt like home in three days.

There was a huge chance that I wouldn’t enjoy my time there, because I saw a lot of green. Yes, there were green lights on the River Liffey at night, and painted shamrocks abounded, and half of the items in the gift shop were made of green (as if “green” were a substance!), but the green I’m talking about was all in my nose. And in tissues, eventually.

I was sick, both on the flight there and all day Friday. I went through a travel-size packet of tissues, I stole toilet paper to keep in my pocket, I reused wads because I didn’t have anything fresh on me. It was generally a sorry state of affairs for my nasal cavity. (That, combined with the ibuprofen, Sudafed, and pint of Guinness, made Friday a dense fog.)

Fortunately, I didn’t feel the slightest bit sick during three critical parts of the trip: Thursday night, Kilmainham Jail, and O’Donoghue’s on Saturday night. Those experiences, especially the last one, made my weekend and solidified Dublin as a city I need to visit again. Or live in. Haven’t decided yet.

Thursday night was significant largely because it threw me into the Dublin culture. Right after we registered at Isaacs Hostel, four of us went to Farrington’s pub where Caitlin and I met three Dubliners. I can’t remember what all of them did for a living, but one of them was a fireman. We went with them to Fitzsimon's, which had a dance floor, and we stayed there until about 2 a.m.

They had the thickest Irish accents I had ever heard! At Farrington’s I had to ask Paddy’s name three times and Barry’s name twice, so I was a bit tuckered out and didn’t bother to ask the fireman’s name (largely because we were starting to leave Farrington’s, anyway). Once dance music entered the mix, normal conversation without repeats was hopeless, but on the way to Fitzsimon's (the walk was quieter than anything inside, of course) we established that my name was Alex (“Like the soccer coach!” the fireman said) and that I was from Indianapolis. (“Ah, smoke on the barbie, eh?” We all laughed at him for that. Honestly, Indy is as far as you can get from Australia.) I capped off the night by finding a €5 note on the dance floor, which Caitlin and I used to buy a €5 footlong.

...Okay, so it wasn’t a COMPLETE throw into the Dublin culture, but the pub and people and accents sufficed.

Like I said, I didn’t feel stuffy or sick when I went out Thursday night, but everything came back to me upon waking up. I pretty much felt like crap, but I still soldiered on through the tourist destinations of the day. It was all a blur, and I allowed myself to follow everyone else while I blew my nose on old tissues and spit some crud. (You feeling gross? Well, how do you think I felt?)

Saturday went much better, largely because the Sudafed had started to work. This allowed me to enjoy the two great things about the tour of Kilmainham Gaol (pronounced "jail"): the history and the tour guide. The two worked hand-in-hand, really. The tour guide wouldn't have been as engaging without the fascinating history, and the history wouldn't have been as enthralling as it was without the tour guide's enthusiasm.

...I take that back a little bit. I stand by the latter part (there is a way, however difficult, to make Ireland's fight for independence boring), but I'm wrong about the former. I would have enjoyed our tour guide even if he were describing the history of cheese! His name was Rauiri (pronounced "Rory" but with a killer Gaelic spelling), and I wish I had his accent. And his knowledge of Irish history, which he was more than willing to share. (Outright delighted, even.) Our tour took longer than it should have, but I didn't complain.

After lunch, the rest of the group headed up to Howth (pronounced "oath" with an "h" in front) while I stayed in Dublin city. From the photos I've seen and the stories I've heard I missed a great place, but I had to catch up on the sensations of Dublin that I missed the previous day, or at least walk where we had walked earlier. I added to the experiences, too: I walked toward the east end of the river, checked out St. Patrick's Cathedral, and ate dinner at a favorite place of James Joyce's, Davy Byrne's pub. (I wrote a postcard in there, too. I felt so writerly!) These travels provided a different side of the city that I couldn't have seen with a group, partly for the simple fact that I was making my own plans.

Then came the best part: O'Donoghue's pub. Seriously, this is the reason why I want to go back to Dublin. The music, the people playing it, the people listening to it, the mass of humanity fitting into a small space, everything about it was perfect. I couldn't have asked for anything more. I almost didn't want to ruin it by trying to fit it into words. I'll just say that in between talking to the band members and talking to two women that Caitlin (her photo, by the way) wants to be like when she's 50 'cuz they're THAT cool, I almost cried.

Happy tears, of course. I also almost yelled on a bridge over the river, "I love this city!" Seriously, I want to go back someday.

Without all the green in my nose. The rest I'll keep.