After scouring the streets of Dublin for three hours, I finally found the renowned “Wi-Fi” park. That is, the park near a bunch of office blocks where you can pick up wireless networks for free. I’m a happy man. The irony of this is that I later discovered my hostel has free Wi-Fi anyway. So I convinced myself that the fresh air in the park did me good.
Until the rain came. Then I convinced myself that the water would be soothing down my neck.
Until the lightning came. Then I convinced myself that the electrocution would benefit the scoliosis in the lower left of my spine and that the subsequent years spent in a wheelchair would provide me with time to reflect on the state of world poverty.
Until the tidal monsoon came. Then I convinced myself that my ensuing death would present me with the opportunity to meet Michael Hutchence in heaven and ask him whether or not he was charged for the hotel room while the suicide investigators did their work in the days following his passing.
Until the solar system’s galactic belt collapsed… Too far?
With what I thought was Dublin Castle.
2 days later, I accidentally stumbled upon the real Dublin Castle. Ooops.
Cafe Irie in Temple Bar. My fave place to eat. Actually, the only place I could find a feed under 5 euros.
What was my favourite thing about my week in Ireland? It’d have to be the people and their innate ability to talk absolute shite for hours on end at any given time. I guess this is what they call ‘the craic’. I think the height of this occurred when I found myself talking to a 40-year-old local in some pub about why the Northern Ireland government decided to change the fonts on national highway road signs a couple years ago from sans serif to serif to improve legibility. But perhaps the best part of all this banter is that, no matter what the topic of discussion, every sentence is peppered with every swear word known to man. And if they’re from Cork, the word ‘like’ will also be thrown in there half a dozen times for good measure. But somehow, when the Oirish swear, they somehow manage to make it sound so charming and natural.
Temple Bar by day:
And night...
But there was one night out where conversation didn’t quite flow as one would’ve hoped. An unbearably abhorrent American dude, Brian, from my dorm and I were at a pub in the Temble Bar area of Dublin when he suddenly got an attack of the horn and decided he wanted to, in his words, “sample some local Irish seafood”. Tactful. So as his eyes fervently surveyed the bar, I realised I had now been appointed his wingman by default. Shit. Failing to find a suitable escape route from this endeavour, I followed him over to a group of 3 mediocre and relatively disinterested looking girls. After discovering within three seconds that they were in fact Italian and capable of speaking the level of English of Craig Nicholls, Brian started to panic. I watched as five minutes of charades ensued until I remembered I had my Western Europe phrasebook in my bag, which I generously offered to him. Unfortunately for my dormie from Michigan, the phrasebook only really extended as far as phrases such as “Excuse me, do you know where the hospital is?”, “Do you accept credit card?” and, “I’d like a return ticket to Sorrento please”.
Traditional Irish musak.
With Hugh and David Lydons. My former bath buddies.
So, I learnt two key lessons that night: You really shouldn’t rely on a phrasebook to assist you to pick-up – especially when you’re a tool of an American who is more closed-minded than me that time I was sent on an Apollo mission with Steve Leibman.
Cut to scene of me with Steve Leibman in outer space: “Hey Adrian, look back down on Earth. Don’t you think it’s amazing that on that tiny little globe, there can be so many individual lives, each with their own problems, yet when we view it from up here, none of that is visible and the world continues to spin?” / “Nope, I can’t be bothered thinking about it. I’d rather ponder how Patricia Cornwell ever got popular.”
Cut back to reality.
What was the second lesson? Oh yeah… don’t ever hum the riff to White Stripes’ “Seven Nation Army” when in the presence of Italians. It somehow incites them to erupt into peculiar fits of extraordinarily stiff, upright jumping.
But I didn’t just spend my entire time talking rubbish to people in pubs. I actually did do some touristy stuff. Here is some proof:
Of course...
View over Dublin from the Guinness storehouse.
View over one of the 4 billion lakes in Wicklow.
Laces wearing thin...
Glendalough Monastery.
Before I go – make sure you see the new Joe strummer documentary, “The Future is Unwritten”. Brilliant – even if you’re not a fan of The Clash.
Next, I’m off to Wales and Gloucestershire on a roadtrip with Frosty, Alice, Ange, Shannon, Tori and Di for cheese rolling and a long-weekend of endless flatulence.
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