Journey To Dublin - Part Seven

We got up early on the last day of our journey through Ireland. I don’t know what time it was, but I know that it was early. I know that because when the alarm went off, I was so disoriented when I heard it, I looked around the dark and empty room and accused everyone there of deliberately trying to disturb my slumber. After a couple of seconds, I realized that it was just Lara and I in the room, and she was looking at me with this puzzled expression on her face. She asked me who I was talking to. I told her that I didn’t know. They must have left. This did not eliminate any of her puzzlement. But luckily for the both of us, she did not pursue any more answers from me. She rolled out of bed and hopped in the shower. While I made sure everyone else in the room stayed quiet so I could sleep a bit longer.

We ate breakfast at our hotel. It was very similar to a continental breakfast that you find at most second rate hotels in America. The main difference between our hotel’s breakfast and the breakfast at most second-rate American hotels was that we had to pay 25 Euros for our smorgasbord of stale bread, tasteless fruit, and six kinds of juice. I walked out of the hotel that morning feeling a bit on the violated side. But at least I had a full stomach to dull that violated feeling.

The quick breakfast at the hotel was necessary because we had to hustle to the Central Bus Station. We had decided to take a luxury tour bus to the Monastery of St. Kevin in Glendalough, and a large castle/estate called Powerscourt in the Wicklow Mountains just south of Dublin.

We purchased our tickets for the bus at a ticket window at the bus station and made our way to the spot where the bus was parked. The tickets cost 26 Euro a piece. We must have been a bit early because the door to the bus was shut, and there was no one sitting in the captain’s chair to let us on.

Before we could think to question whether or not we were in the right place, a short middle-aged man wearing a dark suit and a driving cap approached us and asked us where we were headed. I said, “We’re taking the tour of Glendalough.” I pronounced it “Glen-da-low”. The man looked at me quizzically for just a moment, and then he responded, “I don’t think so, sonny. I think you’d prefer to take the tour of Glen-da-lock instead. It’s a much nicer tour. Why don’t you follow me. I’ll take you there.

He turned to Lara and smiled while simultaneously tilting his cap. He then opened the door of the bus to Glendalough (apparently pronounced “Glen-da-lock”) and sat down in the captain’s chair. I turned and smiled stupidly at Lara and said, “I guess we’re going to Glen-da-lock”. She smiled sympathetically back at me and said, “Aye, Laddy”.

Lara and I followed the man onto the bus. We found a couple of cushy seats midway back on the bus and sat down. Lara was smiling. I asked her why. She said our driver was funny. I concurred.

When the bus was about three-quarters full, we set off on our tour of Glen-da-lock. As we drove out of downtown Dublin, our driver pointed out various points of interest that were interesting. I was amazed to see a road system that looked remarkably similar to something you’d see in America, and it was filled with just as many cars. This totally perplexed me. I was not expecting to see so many cars on the road. And I was not expecting to see such a robust road network. Especially since I could see signs at gas stations that said the cost of gas was around 4 Euro per liter. I have no idea what that translates to in dollars per gallon, but I know it is a lot more than we pay on this side of the Atlantic.

We drove south out of the city along the Dublin Bay, and through Dun Laoghaire (which used to be called Kingstown). There were lots of people running and walking dogs along the banks of the bay. Our driver told us of all the old kings and queens and celebrities that had lodged in the various neighborhoods that we passed through on our way out of town.

As we drove further out of town, we began to climb steadily into the foothills of the Wicklow Mountains of Wicklow County. The driver told us that Wicklow County is commonly referred to as “the garden of Ireland”. We turned off the four-lane highway onto a two-lane country road. We meandered around the foothills for about an hour. As we approached the Powerscourt Estate, we had to drive through a little village called Enniskerry.

The driver told us that this little village is arguably the most beautiful in all of Ireland. As he is telling us this, he has to come to nearly a complete stop as he negotiates an extremely tight turn on the main street. I look out my window and take note that our bus is less than a foot away from colliding with a quaint little shop on the left side of the road, while simultaneously colliding with a quaint little shop on the right side of the road.

I turn to Lara to ask her if she thinks this village is the most beautiful in all of Ireland, and if, perhaps, our bus driver might just be about to topple the whole village to the ground with one turn of the wheel. But Lara was fast asleep.

I had momentarily forgotten that it is physically impossible for Lara to stay awake in any moving vehicle that she is not driving. I had been so transfixed with the views outside of the bus, and our drivers corresponding stories, that I hadn’t noticed how long she had been asleep. I could only assume that she fell asleep approximately 30 seconds after the driver pulled out of the parking spot in downtown Dublin.

Since this was a tour, and I thought she might want to see a little piece of the tour, I tapped her shoulder and told her she should wake up and check out this little village. She opened her eyes for a brief moment and looked at me like she didn’t know who I was. Then she promptly fell back asleep. I decided I would tell her about the village at a later time.

We arrived at the Powerscourt Estate briefly after the driver successfully maneuvered his way through Enniskerry. As we drove through the gate, the driver pointed out the golf course that cost 150 Euro to play, and then he also noted that a one night stay at the estate would cost around 3,000 Euro. The driver parked at the entrance to the castle and told us that we’d have about two hours to meander around.

We walked into the castle and found that most tourists were being funneled into the gardens on the backside of the estate. We found a map of the gardens and it appeared to be an extensive series of paths through lush gardens. It was a sunny morning with only a slight chill in the air, so we decided to walk through the gardens.

The gardens and pathways were as lush and well-maintained as any I had ever seen. Everywhere you turned, there were stunning views of the mountain peaks in the background. The tour of the gardens began with an old battlement surrounded by cannons and flowers. Next to the battlement area was a Japanese style garden with bridges over streams and elaborately trimmed hedges. Next to the Japanese garden was a pet cemetery. We stopped in the pet cemetery for a long time. It was quite interesting to read all the names of the pets, the types of pets, and the time period that they lived. There were your typical cats and dogs, but also ponies, ferrets, and cows. Next to the pet cemetery, there was an Italian style garden with a large pond that was surrounded by marble statues.

When we completed our tour of the courtyard we headed back inside the castle. There was a sort of self-guided tour of the interior. It was basically one room with a television that provided a history of the estate. We watched the historical recounting of the castle, but that just left me with wanting to see more of the interior.

The original castle had been built around 1300 for a family by the name of le Poer (Power). The castle was later held by the the Fitzgeralds and then the O'Tooles. In the 1600's, an English officer by the name of Richard Wingfield was granted ownership of the estate (back in the days when the English were stealing the land from the Irish because they had the nerve to attempt to secede from the United Kingdom.) Wingfield built a Palladian style mansion around the shell of the old castle.

The Wingfield family held the estate until 1961, when it was passed to the Slazinger family. The Slazinger family tried to refurbish the estate in 1974. But sadly for them, on the very night that they held a party to celebrate the completion of the project, they accidentally burned down most of the building. It was only recently rebuilt and reopened to the public.

After the history lesson, I found myself wanting to see more of this estate. I found myself walking through side rooms and up stairways that did not appear to be part of the tour. There wasn’t much to see though. It mostly just looked like a mansion with no furniture. But Lara and I amused ourselves none the less by simply snooping around.

As our time at the estate came to a close, we stopped in the gift shop to purchase some snacks and drinks. I purchased some trail mix and a Vitamin Water, and I have no recollection of what Lara purchased. Whatever it was, I don’t think it did much to quell her hunger for very long. For very shortly after we arrived at the monastery, she would unleash her wrath on me for a blunder that I would typically consider quite trivial.

It was only a short journey to the Monastery of St. Kevin. We drove through a small village called Roundwood. Our driver told us that it was the home of Daniel Day Lewis, as well as the highest village in Ireland. We then drove through another village by the name of Lara. I turned to smile at Lara when I heard this, but found that she was fast asleep.

When we arrived at the monastery, our bus driver negotiated our entrance fee and secured a tour guide for us. (Our entrance fee was built into our 26 Euro fare that we paid at the Dublin bus station.) While we waited for our tour guide, we were given the opportunity to peruse a museum in the main building. There were several interactive displays that helped tell the story of the monastery.

St. Kevin had originally built a church to spread the teachings of Jesus in the 6th Century. When he first arrived at Glendalough, he lived as a hermit inside of a tree. After a couple of years, people began hearing about miracles we was performing up there, and he developed a following. A church was built near his tree, and eventually, a small monastery/village was built up around the church. Complete with gated entry and a hundred-foot tall, round watch tower that doubled as a grain silo; called the Round Tower.

As I was meandering around the exhibits, many of our tour companions were filtering in and out of the restroom. Lara went to the restroom as well, and asked me upon her return if I was in need of using the facilities. I said yes, but I was thoroughly entranced by the exhibits. A short time later, our bus driver entered the museum and told us that the tour guide was ready to take us around the village.

As our companions all matriculated out the door, I ran into the restroom and relieved myself. When I was finished I walked out of the restroom and found myself alone in the museum. Everyone was gone, including my girlfriend.

I had no idea which way to go, so I walked out the back door. I saw no one there, so I walked back inside and found a side door. Again, I saw no one when I walked out the side door. I walked back inside a third time. At this point, I was slightly panicked. Where in the world did everyone go? I realized that the only door I hadn’t tried was the front door. I thought this only led back to the parking lot, so I assumed there would be no reason for anyone to go back that way. But it was the only remaining choice. I walked out the front door, and Lara was standing there fuming. She gave me one of those looks that only an exasperated...and hungry...girlfriend can give her boyfriend. I swear I saw smoke pouring out from the side of her eye lids.

She asked me what took me so long. I told her that I went the wrong way. She asked me how that was possible. I told her that if there is a way to find the wrong way, I usually find it. I smiled. She did not smile back.

She pointed towards the road and said the group went that direction, but she had no idea where they were now. I told her I was sorry. She agreed that I was sorry, and turned to walk in the direction that the group had walked. I paused a second to digest the situation. Apparently I had screwed up because I did not choose to use the restroom in a timely manner. The tour was ruined, and I ruined it.

I hesitantly set off behind Lara. I kept my distance though because I thought it would be a good idea to let her cool down. After we turned the corner to the road, we saw a group not too far ahead of us that could have been our tour companions. We quickly caught up with them, and I was relieved to find that they were indeed our group.

They were standing at the main entrance gate to the monastery, and the tour guide was telling them how long it had been there, and some of the reasons a gate was necessary at a small monastery in Ireland a thousand years ago. Apparently, there were a lot of Vikings roaming the hills of Ireland back then trying to sack any town/village they could find.

Inside the gate, we were shown the Round Tower. The hundred-foot tall structure was one of the tallest in Ireland in its day. We were then led to the small cathedral, or what remained of the cathedral. Only the floor and approximately two and a half walls remained of it. It was still quite striking though; perhaps even more so than if it was still intact. There is something unnerving about standing in the middle of a building that has no roof. Like seeing a dead body, I am reminded that no matter how strong we are, we inevitably end up the victim of nature’s will to knock us down and bury us in the ground.

Surrounding the cathedral was a cemetery that contained some fantastically old gravestones. Most of which were gigantic Celtic Crosses made of stone that stood as tall as me, and some taller. The inscriptions were all worn down, and the crosses themselves were slanted every which way.

The last building that we were directed to was the original church and living quarters of St. Kevin (after he moved out of the tree). The building was fully intact, but it had undergone several renovations to maintain its erectitude. At the time we were there, no one was allowed inside the building because it was being held up by scaffolding.

It was a quaint little pitched roof building with a small tower protruding from one end. At some point, an additional room had been added along side the original. It had its own smaller pitched roof. Our tour guide told us that this additional room was used to conduct church services before the larger cathedral had been built. It amazed me that such a small building could be used as a living quarters and place of worship. It was maybe a thousand square feet in total. But my dad tells me that people were smaller back then, so maybe it wasn’t quite as crowded as I imagined it to be.

The tour guide led us back to the main gate and told us that we had seen everything in the monastery except for some other ruins that was about a half mile away. Our bus driver told us that we still had about an hour left, so there was time if anyone wanted to walk to the other ruins. I was quite excited to see these other ruins, and I asked Lara if she wanted to see them, too. She said, “No. I need to eat something”.

I was a bit put off by this. I didn’t want to miss any ruins; although it probably wasn’t such a bad idea to get something substantial to eat. We still had one stop to make on the bus, and it might be another 3-4 hours before we would be back in Dublin. I thought to myself, perhaps we can get something quick to eat, and still have time to walk to the other ruins.

I happened to see a food cart just outside the main gate, but they were only selling candy bars and chips. I asked Lara if that would suffice and she said, “No, it won’t”. She had her mind made up. She was going to find a real meal to eat, and nothing else would do. My level of frustration increased.

Luckily, there was a restaurant attached to the main building. We walked in a side door to find the place in total chaos. Apparently, every tourist that visited the monastery that day had decided to stop in this restaurant afterward. Waiters and waitresses were flying around in every direction. They were moving too fast for us to ask them where we could sit. So we sat ourselves. We found two empty barstools at the corner of the bar, and tried to wait patiently. However, we quickly ran out of patience when we didn’t see a bartender appear behind the bar for at least fifteen minutes. My frustration increased to another level.

Eventually, we flagged down a waiter and made him take our order. I ordered a turkey wrap and a Guinness, and I cannot recall what Lara ordered. We waited twenty minutes for our food to arrive, and by the time my food arrived I had given up any notion that we would be able to see the bridge. I resigned myself to eating my turkey wrap, and said very little to Lara as I ate. She seemed to be fine with the lack of conversation. She still seemed to be irritated with me for losing the group earlier with my ill-timed restroom break.

We ate in relative silence, and mild contempt for each other, as the bustling restaurant kept us from having to acknowledge each other. When we were finished, it was time to meet the group back at the bus. We climbed aboard and set off further into the Wicklow Mountains. I was quietly fuming, but it quickly melted away as I sank into my chair and looked out at the breathtaking hills, and I listened to the soothing voice of our driver.

As we pulled onto the country road, our driver pointed out a sign that read, “Braveheart Drive”. He told us that Braveheart had actually been filmed in these very hills of Ireland (even though the story is set in Scotland). I turned to Lara to quote one of my favorite lines of Braveheart, and she was fast asleep. Obviously, her frustration towards me was not keeping her awake.

We continued in an upward fashion along the country road until we came to the Wicklow Gap, the highest point of the road. The driver pulled over and allowed us to snap a few pictures of the lush valleys and lakes in the distance. Lara woke up long enough to take part in the scenic viewing and picture taking. It was quite chilly up there, so we didn’t spend too much time with the scenic viewing.

We piled back onto the bus and started our descent back to Dublin. The trip was a loop, so we did not have to go back the way we came. And as we continued forward on our way back to Dublin, we made one last stop at Blessington Lakes. These lakes feed the River Liffey, which flows through the center of Dublin, and out to the Dublin Bay.

Our driver made note of the scattered little farms around the lakes. These were mostly sheep farms. The driver then pointed out a couple of sheep that were lying in the grass nearby. He said they looked cute, and also quite…succulent. This made just about everyone on the bus laugh out loud. Even Lara, who to my dismay, had actually been awake to hear the joke. She must have woken up when she heard that there were sheep outside. She loved the sheep.

We pulled into the Dublin bus station just as the sun was setting. Just in time for supper. We were too tired to try to find a place to eat in the city, so we decided to just eat at the restaurant in our hotel. We walked back to hotel using what was now a very familiar street. Lara snapped off a bunch of pictures of the infamous Georgian doorways along the way.

Back when the British ruled the city, it was forbidden for the Irish to paint their Georgian style homes as they pleased, so they chose to paint their front doors in bright reds, greens, and yellows. The tradition has lasted to today, and the stark contrast of the dull brick walls and the brightly painted doors makes for great photos.

Lara and I ate a quiet supper in the hotel and we fell asleep watching Gaelic Rules Football on our television. We woke up at dawn the next morning to catch a bus to the airport. We waited in the customs line at the Dublin Airport for nearly three hours. Every international flight out of Dublin was delayed by several hours that day because all of their passengers were stuck in that customs line.

We eventually made it through the line and hopped on our plane back to America. When we arrived at the Orlando Airport, the first thing I did was order a chicken sandwich from Chic-fil-A. I do greatly enjoy sampling the local cuisine whenever I am traveling abroad. But I also enjoy ordering the most overly-processed American fast-food cuisine as soon as I return home. It is a most satisfying feeling.

It’s quite odd. Any other day of the year, if I was to order a chicken sandwich from a Chic-fil-A, prepared by the poverty-stricken and slightly hostile staff at the Orlando Airport, I would be totally disgusted with myself. And I would no doubt be slightly physically ill afterward.

But these few times in my life when I get to travel abroad, there is no more euphoric feeling than those two to five minutes after gorging on that processed American fast food. And then that euphoria quickly turns to queasiness as my system begins digesting that chicken sandwich. That’s when I know I’m home. And that’s when I start thinking about my next trip abroad.

Journey to Dublin - Part Six

Lara and I slept in the third day of our journey to Dublin. The only plan for the morning and afternoon was to witness the pandemonium surrounding the rugby match between the Irish National Team and the Welsh National Team. This was a simple plan since our hotel was at ground zero of the festivities. When we rolled out of the hotel room in the late morning, we found all the streets surrounding our hotel, and the football stadium, were blocked off. There were thousands of people milling around the stadium. Every single person seemed to be wearing something that was electric green. Most of those people were visibly drunk as well.

Lara and I began walking away from the stadium. I kept my eyes open for any scalpers, but I didn’t see a single one. Of course, the scalping procedures may be much different in Ireland than I am accustomed to. In America, the scalpers raise their tickets high in the air and scream “TICKETS!!!” into the face of every person that passes. In Ireland, scalpers might keep their tickets hidden underneath their bowler caps until someone punches them in the face to get their attention. Or perhaps you have to say some magic word in Gaelic to make it known that you are looking for a ticket.

Since no scalpers presented themselves to me, I quickly gave up hope of watching the game in the stadium, and resigned myself to watching the game at a pub. Lara and I figured witnessing the game in a pub would be pretty exciting anyway. We continued walking away from the stadium and towards downtown.

We hadn’t yet seen the Grafton Street Pedestrian Mall, so we decided to head there for some shopping and lunch. We found a quaint little pizzeria on Grafton Street called Pacino’s. The atmosphere was similar to a boutique coffee shop. There was local artwork displayed on the walls, ambient techno beats playing on the stereo, and young waitresses chatting at the bar instead of minding their customers. Lara and I each ordered a personal pizza. We waited for an hour for our order to arrive, but the pizzas were delicious.

After we ate, we did some window shopping along Grafton Street. Neither one of us were particularly inspired to enter any of the shops. Lara was looking for some souvenirs and I was just looking for anything that appeared odd. Most of the shops were fairly mundane though. When we came to the end of the pedestrian mall, a beautiful building of glass and white wrought iron terraces stood before us. This was the St. Stephen’s Green Shopping Mall, and since Lara hadn’t found any good souvenirs yet, we decided to go inside.

Almost instantly, Lara found what could have been the hokiest souvenir shop of all time. It was an explosion of green trinkets, t-shirts, postcards, shot glasses, pint glasses, key chains, posters, and hats. Lara quickly veered into the store. She didn’t want to go in, but the gravitational pull of the souvenir shop is too much to withstand for the average tourist. I tried to walk past the opening, but I got sucked in as well.

We must have been in that souvenir shop for an hour. Lara got out with a bag full of gifts for her family. I ended up purchasing a couple of postcards that had those old Guinness cartoon advertisements that you always see at American pubs. I was going to mail them to my family from the famous Dublin Post Office, but right after I purchased the postcards I remembered that I didn’t have any of their addresses memorized…or written down. That clever idea turned into a stupid idea fairly quickly. But my ideas that turn out to be terrible always tend to amuse me the most, so I was not totally displeased with myself.

After we escaped the souvenir shop, we still had time before the rugby match to wander a little further south of Grafton Street to see St. Stephen’s Catholic Church. The church has been around for a thousand years, just like its protestant counterpart, Christ Church.

It was equally as impressive as Christ Church with its slender, pointed-arch windows, intricate stonework, and massive spires that rose up into the heavens. The difference between Christ Church and St. Stephens was in the surroundings. Christ Church was surrounded on all sides by busy thoroughfares. St. Stephen’s was surrounded by quiet streets and mostly large homes and office buildings. St. Stephen’s was also situated in the middle of a lush courtyard with immaculate landscaping, gravel paths to meander along, and inviting benches to sit and gaze up at the elegant architecture.

Lara looked at the church for a bit. I looked at the church for a bit. I took a picture of Lara looking at the church. Lara took a picture of me looking at the church. After about 30 seconds of looking at the church, we had seen enough.

I asked Lara if she wanted to sit down for a bit on a bench and take in the surroundings. She said matter-of-factly that she would not like to sit on a bench for awhile. I asked her if she would like to meander through the courtyard. She said no. It was cold out there and she was ready to find a warm bar, order a pint, and watch some rugby. That’s why we get along so famously.

We walked back to Grafton Street and started peaking in at the pubs that we passed along the way. Each pub we looked in was more crowded than the last. It was something that had not occurred to us earlier in the day, but all of a sudden we realized that we may not be able to get into a pub to watch the game. Every single pub seemed to be overflowing with patrons. Not only was there no where to sit in any of these pubs, there wasn’t even room to stand. A couple of places had some openings in a nook or a cranny, but those places had no view of a television.

We walked up Grafton Street pedestrian mall looking for an open spot in a pub. We walked back down the Grafton Street pedestrian mall. We attempted to walk to Temple Bar, which was just a few blocks away. It was more crowded at the pubs in Temple Bar than on Grafton Street. We walked back towards Grafton Street and took a wrong turn somewhere and ended up walking thru a few empty side streets and back alleys.

We eventually found a bar near Grafton Street that had some room to stand and also had a view of a television. Lara and I were elated. But it wasn’t a sustained elation. We quickly found out that there was a reason that we found an open place to see the game. The reason was that the game was nearly over. The Irish National Team had secured the victory and most people were just waiting for the clock to run out. We missed the match.

Lara and I looked at one another, shrugged our shoulders in near unison, and went to the bar to order a Guinness. We watched the closing minutes of the rugby match and cheered with the other patrons when the clock ran out and the victory was official for Team Ireland.

Lara and I hung around for awhile after the Ireland v. Wales match. We entertained ourselves by watching another rugby game that came on, as well as an English Premiere League soccer match. We also had to discuss our plans for the evening.

We decided that we should take a Literary Pub Crawl of Dublin that we had seen on the internet. Just about every renowned writer that lived in Dublin seemed to spend large chunks of time in various pubs around the city, and it had become a popular pastime for tourists to be led around to those pubs by a couple of locals that could regale the tourists with tales of drunk Irish writers and poets turning inglorious moments of debauchery into transcendent narratives.

Lara and I arrived at a pub called The Duke about half an hour before the Literary Pub Crawl was scheduled to begin. We had hoped to eat a quick dinner before the tour started, but when we arrived at the pub, we found it overflowing with patrons. The Duke must have been a popular spot to watch English Premiere League Football, because there were about a dozen TVs tuned into the current match, and just about every person in the bar was watching intently.

We walked around the bar and found no place to sit. We found a set of stairs and walked up to the second story bar and found no place to sit. We walked back downstairs and did another lap around the bar and found no place to sit. We walked back upstairs and did another lap around the second story bar and found no place to sit. We did, however, locate the room that we needed to go into for the beginning of the Literary Pub Crawl. We decided to just sit down there and wait for the crawl to begin.

I was excited for the tour because I have always wanted to be a writer. One of my literary heroes is James Joyce; a native of Dublin who wrote a 265,000 word stream-of-consciousness style novel that takes place over the span of one single day in the city of Dublin. I’ve tried several times to read the novel, but it is nearly impossible for me to decipher. I had high hopes that I would hear bits and pieces of his novel on this tour and it might help me to understand how to read his work. I also hoped I could pick up some tips and tricks on how James Joyce, and other Irish writers, crafted their narratives.

The room had typical restaurant seating at booths and tables, but there was also a small stage in the corner of the room. Two middle-aged men walked onto the stage and began a dialogue from a Samuel Beckett story. Beckett was a student of James Joyce and was one of the first postmodern writers in the early 1900’s. Many of his stories deal with the absurdity of life and of characters struggling to find meaning in a meaningless world.

About two lines into the dialogue I turned to Lara and quietly asked her if she could understand what the guys were saying. She kind of shook her head, and we both leaned in closer to the speakers. Didn’t help much. They both had thick Irish accents and were speaking lines that were heavily littered with Irish lingo. I don’t know if it was ironic, or just absurdly appropriate, that we couldn’t understand a story written by a man that loved to write about the meaninglessness of life.

After the Samuel Beckett dialogue, we were lead outside on a short hike to Trinity College. On the steps of one of the main buildings, we were told a story about Oscar Wilde. This story was a little bit easier to understand since our tour guides weren’t speaking in old Irish lingo. They told us that Oscar Wilde was one of the more famous writers that attended Trinity. He often boasted of his drinking abilities. One time while on a tour of United States, he was invited to Leadville, Colorado to view the mining operation there. He ended up drinking all day with the local miners. Apparently, they didn’t like him much because he was a bit of a dandy. So they took him down to the mine and planned on getting him so drunk that he would pass out in the mine and they would leave him down there. But he was such a prolific drinker that all the miners passed out before him, and he walked out of the mine by himself.

Our next stop was at M.J. O’Neill’s pub. O’Neill’s pub is over 300 years old and might be the most well-known pub in the city of Dublin. We stopped out front of the pub and our tour guides told us a story while they stood on the steps of a neighboring church. I’m not sure what they were saying about O’Neill’s, if anything at all. I think I heard something about Jim Plunkett, but I have no idea why they would be talking about Jim Plunkett.

I did hear the tour guides tell us that O’Neill’s was usually too crowded to do any public speaking activities, so the tour would pause for twenty minutes so that we could all go inside independently and have a pint. So we did. And the tour guides were right. The place was absolutely packed. Lara found a place to sit, and I wrestled my way up to the bar between a couple of giant Irishmen that were big enough to be on the Irish National Rugby team, and I ordered two pints. We slugged down our pints while Lara chatted with a couple she met from Chicago. I had nothing to say to these people, so I said nothing to them. When I can find nothing to say, this is usually a good indication that I’m approaching a point of over-intoxication.

The next pub on the Literary Pub Crawl was called The Old Stand. Once again, the tour guides stopped outside of the pub to perform their little dialogue that I could not understand. Then they told us that we could go into the pub independently and have a pint. I was getting bored of this little routine. And I was getting a little tired of standing outside and listening to dialogues that I couldn’t understand. Not to mention the fact that I was very drunk and I hadn’t eaten any dinner. I was ready to be done with this little pub crawl.

We went inside The Old Stand and once again I had to fight my way up to the bar. We found a corner to stand and watch the patrons. There were quite a few older folks, but they were pounding down beers like they were college students. They erupted into various songs that may have been Rugby fight songs, or they may have just been regular old pub drinking songs. This was fairly amusing and gave me a little boost of positive energy to help me endure.

The last pub on the Literary Pub Crawl was called The Davey Byrnes. The tour guides stopped outside the pub to tell us that Samuel Beckett used to live in the apartment above the bar, and there was something else about James Joyce. I don’t really know for sure what they were talking about and I really didn’t care. I was drunk and I was ready to find some food.

We went into The Davey Byrnes and Lara and I shared a pint of Guinness just so that we could say we had a pint in every pub on the Literary Pub Crawl. We slammed down the Guinness and started walking towards our hotel. We knew we had to walk thru Temple Bar to get back and we hoped we’d find a restaurant that was still serving. We were both a little nervous about that because it was fast approaching midnight.

Lara spotted an Indian restaurant on a crowded street in Temple Bar that had patrons at just about every table. We asked if we could get seated and they welcomed us right in. It may have been one of the happiest moments of my life. I was totally famished and I did not have the energy to walk all the way back to the hotel after such a long day of walking, shopping, sightseeing, and literary pub crawling.

We sat down and the waiter put a strange metal contraption on the table. I was very drunk and not thinking quite clearly, so I decided to try to take the metal contraption apart. Lara told me to stop it. I told Lara to stop trying to control me. Lara told me I was going to break the metal contraption. I told Lara that I would not break it. Then I broke it.

It turned out that the metal contraption was a little hot plate for our dishes. When the waiter brought out our dishes and set them on the metal hot plate, the dishes looked lopsided. The waiter looked at me strangely and I smiled back at him. He looked at Lara and she stared back at him with wide eyes. He looked again at the lopsided dish, shook his head, and walked away.

I had reassembled the hot plate, but I couldn’t get the top to sit flat. The waiter knew something happened to the hot plate, but he couldn’t prove it. I happily dug into my Chicken Tikka Masala. I can’t remember what Lara ordered, but she ate it while trying to pretend like she didn’t think I was an idiot. Which must have been quite difficult. When we finished our late supper, we trudged back to the hotel.

We didn’t do much in terms of tourist activities for the day. But we spent the day in the city doing things that most locals might do. I felt like we got to experience the everyday culture of the city. I felt like a Dubliner. I felt drunk.