Ireland and Drier Land, or Lost in Dublin
Sunday, 3/4
The first thing I noticed about Ireland, as our plane descended through the cloud layer, is that it is, indeed, as riotously green as advertised, if not more so. As we were landing, I noticed that it was windy as well. Shortly thereafter, I discovered why it’s so green. It rains. A lot.
Now, I’m going to digress a moment to mention that getting through customs couldn’t have been easier, the luggage arrived on the same flight that we did, and the lady at the tourism board’s kiosk couldn’t have been nicer or more helpful. However, the Dublin airport is slightly grotty, and the state of the ladies’ room was both more typical and less hygienic than I’d prefer.
It was raining with great enthusiasm as we made our way out to the bus that took us into town, and I’d already regretted not bring boots with me. On the other hand, not only wasn’t it snowing, there were already daffodils, lilacs and crocuses in bloom.
I’d managed to nap a bit on the plane, but not nearly enough, and combined with an inexplicable urge to get up at 4:30 the previous morning, I was ready for the short walk to the hotel by the time the bus pulled away from the airport.
We did manage to get off the bus at the right stop. Unfortunately, my navigational skills were not up to the task, and Housemate and I spent about 45 minutes wheeling our suitcases through some impressive puddles as we wandered in a big circle, asking directions from passersby (one of whom suggested that our best option was to take a cab) before we managed to get ourselves turned around in the right direction.
By the time we got to the hotel, we were thoroughly soaked, punchy, and had acquired a soul-deep understanding of the singular appeal of a pint of…well, anything really.
Fortunately, the hotel staff was up to the task, bringing us towels, sending us in to breakfast, and getting our room ready not only in record time, but two hours before check-in at that, AND sending the luggage up.
Hot food, tea (for which I also developed a deep appreciation), a nap, and a shower went a long way towards setting us to rights, and we ventured out, refreshed in body and spirit.
And got lost again.
Not immediately; we did make it over to St. Stephen’s Green without difficulty. Across the street was the hotel that we later discovered had been patronized by Charles Dickens, Oliver Hardy & Stan Laurel, and Princess Grace of Monaco (not simultaneously, though; I’d pay good money to see THAT).
The thing about Dublin is that while the River Liffey is a definite north-south divider, the city planners have, over the centuries, entirely ignored that convenient fact not only in the layout of streets, but in naming them as well. For example, St. Stephen’s North, which borders the park of the same name, is actually at a diagonal to the north-south axis.
This didn’t have anything to do with us getting lost, mind you, but it is a convenient excuse. We managed to exit the park at the southeast corner and found ourselves at Harcourt Street with no idea whatsoever how we’ gotten there. We ducked into a convenient Starbucks (they ARE everywhere) and managed to work out how to get someplace that served food.
Or, as it turned out, would have served food had it not been after 5:00 PM on Sunday. Fortunately, the waitress at Duke’s took pity on us, and brought us delicious open-faced smoked-salmon sandwiches on lightly buttered brown bread, and two glasses of Harp.
So, at the age of 35, I had my first beer ever. I had to go to Portland (Oregon) in order to learn to like coffee, so I suppose I shouldn’t be too surprised.
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