where've all the Irish gone?

TIME: late afternoon, June 15, 2010

PLACE: Dublin, Ireland (O'Connell Street and the River Liffey)

MAJOR PLAYERS: my Canuck friend Jeff and I

OCCASION: our side-trip from northeast England into Ireland

PROBLEM: where the hell are all the feckin' Irish?

I forgot to mention a few things in that last post. First of all, right after we got to our hostel, I leaped out the door and ran down the road to an Internet café, where I stumped up a ridiculously large amount of euros to use a computer for two hours. I sent off my latest article to The Expeditioner, and then I went back, rendezvoused with Jeff, and met Harry, our Australian roomie.

We all clear now? My apologies. This is what happens when I blog without having my notes in front of me. I tend to complain a lot and not say anything edgy or worthwhile. All the poetry of the moment has been scribbled in the notebook.

Jeff hadn't been idle while I was out writing an article. He had explored the western regions of College Street, and ventured a little way east, into Temple Bar, the gleaming party district of southern Dublin. It's touted as the "cultural quarter," preserving the medieval street layout and cobbled streets. But it's also the drunken touristy bit as well. No matter. It was scenic, had a sort of charm about it rarely found in an urban area, and was awash with pretty girls, as I'd mentioned previously. And don't forget the red-haired street performers and amphibious trucks filled with screaming children in Viking hats.

And there was another thing I'd noticed about Dublin while I was out walking around by myself, and even more so when I hooked up with Jeff again and went exploring up O'Connell Street, north of the Liffey.

There were hardly any Irish people anywhere.

There very well may have been, but if they were, they were few, and quite silent. I saw almost nothing but foreigners. I certainly heard nothing else. As we walked up the broad avenue towards the enormous spire in the distance, Jeff and I were barraged with American accents, English accents, Australian accents...but hardly a whiff of Irish in the whole bunch.

We couldn't accept it. This was Dublin, for Pete's sake. The same city Joyce wrote about in a book called, unsurprisingly, Dubliners. It's the capital of the country. The largest city in Ireland. It should have been a friggin' nexus of Irish folk. (I wanted to see some Irish lasses, dammit.)

 

So I decided to try an experiment. Neither Jeff nor I understood what the hell the Spire of Dublin was supposed to be. It was just this shiny steel rod, standing up straight in the middle of O'Connell Street, north of the Liffey. Looked impressive, sure, but it was hardly the most imaginative monument we'd ever seen. (And before you say anything disparaging about the Washington Monument, at least that is an obelisk, and a damned tall one, too, countering anything the Egyptians ever put up.)


So we decided to ask somebody about it. A local, preferably. This would be a great way to assay the extent of the un-Irishness of Dublin. If the random person we picked turned out to be Irish, my faith would be restored. If not, I'd give up all pretense and guess that there were probably fewer Irish people in Dublin than there were foreigners...however good or bad that may be.

I picked the prettiest and most bored-looking girl I could find in a 50-foot radius from the base of the spire.

"Excuse me," I said, pointing up at it, and putting just a hint of Texas into my inflection, "my friend and I are both new around here. What the heck is that?"
"I don't know," she said, in an American accent.
"You don't know either?" I asked. "What's it called?"
"The Millennium Spire," she said. She wasn't offended by our questions. She had an amused sort of smile on her face, in fact. She was a curly blond wearing a flowery skirt, flip-flops, and Paris Hilton sunglasses. She wouldn't have looked out of place in Orange County.
"Where are you from?" I asked.
"Minnesota," she replied. "My family's here on vacation, I'm just waiting for them now."


Well, that was that. I guess there's some kind of reverse diaspora going on in Dublin. All the Irish left and all the foreigners moved in and took up the slack.

I had more pressing matters to attend to than demographics. Jeff indulgently followed me as we ducked down Henry Street and into a supermarket where I grabbed some postcards for the folks back home. Then we went back across the river and into Carroll's Irish Gifts. I was a man on a mission. One of my dear friends, the lovely Miss B (whom I was rather close to in college), had given me a special request. She had stated categorically that I was to buy her a souvenir whilst abroad in the British Isles, on pain of death.


Never one to incur Miss B's wrath, and wanting to surprise her with something beautiful and lovely and marvelous and reminiscent of our time together, I stepped into the shop and cast a discerning eye over the goods. After much deliberation, I selected a necklace, a teardrop-shaped bit of amethyst with spiral silver trim. (Purple is Miss B's favorite color.)

Then it was time for more selfish ends. I dithered a while over a T-shirt for myself. The selection ranged from the basic—IRISH REPUBLIC, EST. 1916—to the jocular—IRISH I WERE DRUNK—to the ribald—I SURVIVED A NIGHT IN DUBLIN, with images of a glass of beer, a couple humping in bed, and an aspirin pill.

I decided to sleep on the decision.

Jeff and I returned to the hostel (stopping off by the Ha'penny bridge on the way, which struck a chord with Jeff, because his ancestral name is something quite close to Ha'penny; so we had to get pictures) and had a lovely nap. We partook of some delicious pasta salad in the kitchen on the second floor, courtesy of the staff, and then went out to explore Temple Bar.

We passed the Christ Church Cathedral and the Four Courts...

...and located the Brazen Head, supposedly the "oldest pub in Ireland", established 1198. Here we sipped Guinness (and I learned how to pour it; the stuff's so foamy that you have to fill the glass three-quarters of the way and then let it sit for a bit before finishing) and watched Brazil beat hell out of North Korea.

And we laid plans for the morrow. We figured we'd take the walking tour just to familiarize ourselves with Dublin's layout and historical significance. Couldn't hurt, and it was free, too. We were on a budget, after all. We'd definitely want to hit either the Guinness brewery or the old Jameson distillery. Those were two Dublin tours we couldn't miss, and they both offered the chance of a free taste.

And suddenly Jeff and I realized the inherent stupidity of coming to Ireland to detoxify.

We slowly worked our way back east to the hostel, stopping in at any likely pub that caught our eyes. First there was Thomas Read for some Paulaner Hefeweizen (apparently it's a faux pas to order Kilkenny in Dublin; the barman stiffly informed me that he was fresh out); and then Doyle's, right next door to our resting-place. We had another pint of Guinness. We had become addicted to it. Guinness, surprisingly, actually tastes good in Ireland. Everywhere else it's been bitter, flat, and thoroughly unimpressive stuff. But in Ireland it was rich, foamy, dark, aromatic, full-bodied and smooth, far and away the best stout we'd ever had. We were astounded, flabbergasted, gobsmacked. We couldn't get enough of the stuff. One drink was like the most delicious meal and the most satisfying draft all wrapped up in one.

While we were sitting there in Doyle's (which was the most pub-like of all the pubs we'd visited...almost pitch-black, loaded to the brim with dark wood, and filled with all manner of working-class folks, their faces half-hidden in shadow) a sharply-dressed gentleman with a name tag that read "Martyn" walked up to our table and asked us if we wanted to read his poetry. I had a few beers in me (and, subsequently, a pervading sense of general equanimity), so I said I would. With names like "The Black Rose" his poems were charged with feeling and besotted with visual and sensual imagery, manifested in florid verse. I was a bit buzzed to tell Martyn that, though. Nonetheless, I read a few of his poems, nodded appreciatively, handed his book back, and told him thanks, but I was saving all my money for beer.

Don't miss the next chapter of our stalwart heroes' fearless journey through Dublin, dancing with the Australians, coming soon to a blog near you!