The Rain Over Eyre

Dublin was a welcome sight after a less-than-thrilling plane ride, wherein I learned Aer Lingus has exorbitant baggage fees (travelers take heed!). 7Kg overweight and 56 Euro lighter, I managed to stuff myself and my things onto a city bus that stuttered its way through rush hour traffic with all the speed of a rock rolling uphill. As my fellow passengers fell in love, settled down and rasied families, I struggled to understand the way the streetnames changed every two or three blocks, the bus turning left or right every time I thought I might figure it out. An older woman (I'm sure she was just a child when the journey began) must have noticed my confusion, and offered my first taste of the exquisite Irish hospitality.

In dire need of a haircut, I finally made it to the hostel, shook off the rain, checked in to my room and set off into the rain to see what I could see of the city described to me at length by James Joyce. I ducked into a pub called The Hairy Lemon and dove right into a lamb stew, marvelling at the accompanying "brown bread" and "brown sauce," each of which lived up to their names, to a point. I'm bringing some packets of brown sauce back as souvenirs and for study at the lab. Don't tell customs.

Now, I enjoy a drink, and each country I've visited can pretty much be summed up in a single beverage. In Spain I drank wine. Prague, absinthe. Germany, Jaegermeister. Amsterdam... well, let's say for the sake of this passage, Heineken. Coming to Ireland, I looked forward to two distinct drinking possibilities: Whisky and Guinness. Well, the Guinness is delicious, I won't deny. The whisky costs more here than it does in California. However, what I did not expect to find was cider. But one of my American roommates suggested I try some Bulmer's at a pub on my first night, and I've quite taken a liking. Light, crisp, not too sweet. It maybe doesn't go down as smoothly as Jamesons or Bushmills, but it's economical.

Of course, it's mostly been that delightfully thick black brew, Guinness, that's fueled my conversations, and the Irish wit has not disappointed. That first night culminated in a "grand" sing-along that was just "good craic" (great fun). So, that's the culmination of irish lingo I've picked up, but you'll all be irritated to hear upon my return that I have taken to the accent quite ardently. Anyway, I eventually met the calls of, "Yer tey-urn ta sing one, Calleefurnya!" by leading a rendition of "Sittin on the Dock on the Bay that raised hairs and provoked the bartender to shout "Last call!"

Night number two found me in the middle of a "literary" pub crawl, where I was essentially shown, along with a large group, the favorite drinking haunts of writers like Joyce, George Bernard Shaw, Oscar Wilde and a few others I forgot by the fourth round. I wound up with a group of people at a pub called The Old Stand, making bets on the nature of musical instruments with an Irish fellow around my age named Brendan. A Scottish lass whirred around us, stopping long enough to introduce herself as Brendan's girl, then whirred away again. "Ah, Suzanne's the bollocks!" he said proudly. We got on well enough that they dragged me on to a club when the pub closed, and when the weight of the night hit me I begged off to go home to sleep (though the sun didn't set til nearly eleven, the pub crawl started at 7:30, and I apparently refuse to acknowledge drunkenness before dark). Sorry to see me go, Brendan said, "Already? But I didn't get to interrogate ya about American politics!"

"I don't know how useful you'd find me," I said, "I'm not your typical American. I'm really more of a Socialist."

At this, he grabbed me, looked deeply into my eyes, and said, "No Shit! An American Socialist! I never thought I'd see it! I could kiss ya! ...Ah, feck it, I'm doin it!" and planted one on my cheek. I left with an invitation to meet up with he and Suzanne during their springtime visits to Havana and Caracas.

It was all good craic, but every Irish person I met in Dublin begged me to get out of the city to some other berg. "Cork is grand!" "Yeah, but Kerry is beautiful." "Aye, but everyone should go see Galway." "How about Donegal?" "Oh, Donegal!" "Yes, you can't forget Donegal!"

Not to disappoint everyone, but I did not make it to Donegal. Nor did I attened the "True Irish Sporting Events" of irish Rules Football, which was described to me as 15 goalies on each side, and hurling, which seems to involve a bunch of guys knocking around a hard, baseball sized ball with a short, flat club, and more than occasionally knocking each other around as well. I should also point out that not a single Irish man discussed these sports around me, but a slew of women spoke of them with bloodhthirsty devotion.

Outdrunk, and outmanned, i once again retired for the night, and contemplated my next move: Galway.