Remember how I said we made a jolly night of it on the evening of the 14th? The Cumberland Arms? Every beer and cider on tap?
Well, we sure did a number on ourselves. For A & E it wasn't such a big deal, but for Jeff and I, well...we had to get up early, heft some luggage into a cab, endure the swift, swerving ride to Newcastle Airport, and board a plane for a flight across the sea.
As previously mentioned, we were hung over.
I've traveled hung over before—by land, sea, and air—and it ain't pretty.
The morning of June 15th was calm, cool, moist, and blessedly sunny. As harmful as sunlight is to bloodshot eyes, I welcome the sun on the morning after a bender. The last thing I need after staying out all night, lapsing into a chemically-induced coma, and waking up feeling like hammered shit is gray skies and drizzle outside my window. Then I'll never snap out of it. I'll spend the whole day stumbling about the house like a reanimated corpse, head pounding, mouth cottony, body resisting the bacon, eggs, beans, toast, ibuprofen, and six gallons of cold water I've poured into myself.
The sun didn't help much that morning, though. We groggily paid the cabbie and stumped across the parking lot. Not much was said between us. Our appearance was undoubtedly ghastly. George Romero would've run screaming. Somehow Jeff had the presence of mind to remember to get our boarding passes stamped by Ryanair authorities, 'cause we were foreign nationals. I love being a foreigner. Everyone's suspicious of you, and for good reason. To justify the transportation officials' worst fears I should take to wearing an eyepatch and a wooden leg and growling at fellow passengers, "Arrr! Have ye seen a hand grenade lyin' around anywhere? I have the pin in me pocket."
Then we had to sit around the terminal for about 30 minutes to find out what gate we'd board at. Apparently the cheapo airlines like Ryanair and EasyJet are so low down on the totem pole that they don't even have appointed gates for their arrivals and departures; they have to sneak in like thieves in the night. Gates aren't announced until moments before boarding begins. And if you miss the last boarding call, you're SOL. We were assiduous in listening to the PA system, rest assured.
We boarded and the plane took off on schedule. Jeff promptly passed out. I had the window seat, and felt somehow obligated to look out the window, even in spite of my condition. When would I get a chance to see England, Ireland and the Irish Sea again? And it was quite a good view, even despite that monstrous engine.
We touched down and got off the plane, feeling, if possible, even worse than when we left. Air travel does little to improve physical maladies. Solid ground and fresh air helped a great deal, however. The first thing we noticed were the signs, and the unpronounceable words (festooned with accent marks) which covered them.
It was a long, long, long walk to Irish customs. The bloody concourse seemed to go on forever. When we finally did pass (and got our passports stamped—in green) it was already afternoon. We boarded the bus to Dublin proper and were soon debarking at Westmoreland Street, just south of the River Liffey.
Now, don't laugh, but it took Jeff and me a little while to find our hostel...400 feet from the bus stop. All we had to do was go south down Westmoreland, hang a left on College Street, and walk a few paces down the curving sidewalks ('scuse me, pavement), stopping just before Doyle's Pub.
What we wound up doing was going south down Westmoreland, passing College Street, and wandering aimlessly around down Grafton and Nassau Streets south of Trinity College.
I shouldn't attempt to cast blame on anyone but ourselves. We were, after all, attempting to navigate our way through a city we'd never been to with some piece-of-shit souvenir map we couldn't read—while zombified and squinting in the bright sunlight. And I certainly don't wish to express displeasure with anything Irish, either. There can't be much wrong with a country that came up with Jameson whiskey, Maureen O'Hara, Irish whistles, Connemara ponies, and (in an indirect sort of way) Bill O'Reilly. Not to mention an airline that sounds like some kind of perverted-but-awesome sexual practice.
But all that aside, the roadsigns in Dublin (and in most cities in England and Scotland, too) are DANGED hard to find, let alone see.
After a half hour or so, Jeff and I finally located the College Street sign at the corner of College and Westmoreland (how were we to tell, coming from the Liffey like that, standing outside the Bank of Ireland, which street was which? We could only see the sign approaching from the south, on the Trinity College side) and found our hostel without further delay.
We were rather hot and bothered by our long stroll through crowded streets. The weather was quite clement: high 70s, with a brilliant sun and slightly muggy air. I wasn't complaining at all. Dublin was chock full of pretty girls. Everywhere you looked there were stunners, jaw-droppers, lookers, eye-candy, babes, hotties, goddesses, all of the most delightedly Celtic persuasion. I mean, like, everywhere. Herds of them, all decked out in their summer clothes: short skirts, charming shoes and even a long, slinky dress or two.
I began to be somewhat enthused about the 48 hours we'd be in town.
Any notions that I had about learning Irish culture (as in "meeting Irish chicks") in Dublin began to dissolve as soon as I stepped over the threshold of our hostel, however.
The concierge was an Australian girl.
So was our roommate. Well, he wasn't a girl, but he was Australian, I mean. We met him upon getting our room keys and heading up to the fourth floor. Harry, he called himself. Our rooms, by the way, were immaculate:
So was Harry. Well, he wasn't a room, but he was immaculate. Pressed shirt, waistcoat, dress pants, black socks, the works. If he'd put his leather shoes back on and grabbed a bowtie and some rimless spectacles, he could've passed for a college don on his day off. He had a bit of black stubble on his cheeks, a tanned complexion, and a sort of refined Australian accent. He said he was a backpacker.
For a moment Jeff and I attempted to picture Harry hacking his way through the Brazilian jungle with a machete, sweat pouring down his face and neck, his pressed shirt and waistcoat slowly turning to sodden rags, and then gave up. We couldn't do it. We let ourselves toy with the idea that he was so dandily dressed just because he was back in civilization. That seemed to work better. Our rough-and-ready North American minds would not coutenance the notion of an "urban backpacker." This dapper lad didn't fit into our backpacking paradigm, so to speak. And so we assumed he must merely be taking a few days' furlough before hitting the trail again. Neither of us even considered that he might just be traveling through Europe with stuff in a backpack, and calling it "backpacking." That was impossible.
Whatever his occupation or his motives, Harry was an apt roommate. He was quiet, mostly working on his computer (yes, he called it "work"). That left Jeff and I to our own devices. We threw down our heavy loads gratefully (why had I bothered to bring my computer? Why? The hostel didn't even have wi-fi), showered, and changed clothes. Then it was time to head out and see what we could see of Dublin before we lost the light—which, at this latitude, wasn't going to be an issue for a good few hours yet.
I'll tell you about that later, though.
Don't miss the next installment, where've all the Irish gone? a.k.a. "THE FIRST EVENING IN DUBLIN," coming up soon on the Sententious Vaunter!
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