Kiss Me, You Irish!

Start: Somewhere over the Atlantic

End: A wonderful little room in Avalon House, Dublin

As we descend into Ireland, I find myself embarrassingly disappointed that it’s so… urban looking.  I mean, of course it is; we are flying into the friggin’ capital, but for some reason my brain had decided that all of Ireland (even the cities!) looks like rural Ireland.  Thank you, Hollywood.

We get off the plane and have begun to stump towards Customs (because at this point, Gentle Readers, I do need my cane) when we have our first run-in with the legendary Irish hospitality.  A man in a beepy cart spots us, ushers us onto said cart, and speeds us Mario-Kart style along the long corridor, making cheerful conversation the entire time; he then walks us around the ridiculously long queue and escorts us directly to an agent, who checks our passports and even laughs at my jokes.  All in all it takes us approximately three minutes to get from the gate through customs, and I am pretty much blown away (and suddenly grateful for my stupid ankle).

Once we make our way out to the bus area we have our second run-in with Irish benevolence.  We tried to get tickets from a kiosk, but it wasn’t working, so we went looking for a functioning one.  As we looked, we were caught by another Irish fellow, who directed us towards the Bus Fellow, who took us to another part of the terminal entirely and walked us right up to the front of the queue to get our tickets, then escorted us to another bus, assuring us it would be much faster than the one we’d originally planned to take.

Wow.

We arrive in Dublin proper and the very first thing we do is stop into a book store, so I can buy the Dublin-specific guidebook I’d intended to buy a long time ago (there is a whole ‘nother story involving an expedited-shipping-fail, but we’ll just skip that, shall we?).  As souvenirs go, it’s not the least appropriate.

Our goal is, of course, to stay awake until at least 2000 or 2100, so we set about keeping ourselves Busy.  The downside, of course, is that after about seventeen hours of travel we are somewhat zombie-riffic, so we don’t want to do the things we are most looking forward to (Trinity College, Guinness Storehouse) in case we end up incapable of remembering any of today.  And so we settle for wandering around Dublin, which is one of our favorite things to do in a new city, anyway.

True Story.

It’s too early for any of the traditional Irish places (::coughpubscough::) to be open, but eventually we find a funky little tapas place called Havana, and I know we’ve chosen well when, across the top of the menu it says, “All items gluten free unless indicated*”.  Welcome to Dublin, indeed.  Nathan has the mixed paella and I go for a Spanish omelet with chorizo.  It’s tasty as hell and very filling, which is exactly what we need after going for so long without food.

From there we wander over to Dublin Castle which is, to be frank, not exactly what I was expecting from the word “castle”.  So we head over to Christchurch Cathedral for a while, then down to St. Patrick’s Cathedral, except we don’t actually make it to St. Patrick’s, being lured in by the soft green grass of the park around it.  We sit for a moment, until it turns into lying down, head-to-head, watching the clouds go by, until suddenly I am jerking awake- three different times.  Fortunately it is now almost 1400, which means that by the time we get back to the hostel we should be able to get into our room.

Our room is wonderful- top floor with a tiny patio and large windows that let in the breeze.  Even a tiny pair of burners next to a little sink!  It’s way better than anything I could have expected, and it’s with definite satisfaction that we lay down for a one-or-two hour nap.

Um, I mean, three hour nap.

It’s a little after six when we hit the streets again, guidebook in hand, determined to find food.  The first two places we go to are pubs- and both stopped serving food at six (would have been nice to know, LonelyPlanet).  So, an hour later, desperately hungry and pretty damn cranky, we give up on traditional food and go into a place called L’Gueuleton, which is also in the guidebook but more importantly is right in front of us.

The food is overpriced, unimaginative, and bland, and the service is slow and spotty.  It is the first time Lonely Planet has let me down three times in a row, and I am distressed by what this implies about the long-coveted guide book.  But what the hell- at least we’re in Ireland.