JUNE 9, 2000. 4:00 AM. DUBLIN. MESPIL HOTEL.
Would you believe that our departure with Trafalgar from the airport was delayed? Forty minutes. That's one thing Ireland has in common with America. Would you also believe that getting our rooms at the Mespil Hotel took us almost an hour? Worst of all, would you believe the pain was still plaguing me? No matter how glorious that sunrise was, it nearly killed my head.
So far, this trip has been one long delay, and a hell of a long day. With no sleep in us, Trafalgar decided to give us a tour of Dublin.
Don't get me wrong. Dublin's a beautiful place, even the parts that are falling apart, but I was so tired and in pain that I could hardly enjoy it. The canal was gorgeous, and the Georgian Mile, while being ultra-conformist (blocks and blocks of homes that look exactly the same), was like looking into the past. St. Patrick's Cathedral was amazing, and while I didn't actually get a good look at it, I kind of liked the idea that I was near Jonathan Swift's corpse. I also saw Oscar Wilde's house, which was small and not nearly as cool as the statue of him lying on a huge boulder.
Dublin is crowded as hell. It is impossible to find parking, so just about everyone rides bikes. The streets are so narrow that I thought the bus would get stuck between buildings a couple of times. Not only that, but when people park on the street, they pull their cars up onto the sidewalk so as to allow traffic to continue moving.
The bus, by the way, was like the planes; it was not made for big people. It did not help my pain-wracked frame one bit. It was so uncomfortable that I dread the thought of going to Belfast on it.
As soon as we got back to the hotel, I skipped dinner and slept from four in the afternoon to four in the morning.
A few observations:
Everyone here does things bassackwards. I was prepared for them driving on the other side of the road, but they even walk down the other side of the sidewalk. I almost ran some guy over with a luggage cart at the airport because of this cultural discrepancy. Also, the signs in Ireland are all bilingual. The bold letters are English, and the smaller, italicized letters are Gaelic. I understand that in Northern Ireland, the signs are only in English, but along the southern coast, the signs are only in Gaelic.
The toilet is screwed up. Not just ours, but all the toilets. One flush does not do it. You have to prime the flusher to get it to work, and it doesn't always work even then. I fear to have a bowel movement.
It does not stay dark around here very long. Already at four in the morning, the sky is getting light (or, at least as light as it gets around here). The sky really is a dirty gray most of the time.
Another drawback to Ireland: there aren't enough McDonald's around; there wasn't one mentioned at all in the Dublin phonebook.
As to television, they get some American shows like BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER, THE X-FILES, THE SIMPSONS, and SESAME STREET. They even get MTV around here, but all they play are the worst techno beats I've ever heard, hosted by a couple of big-headed guys saying over and over again, "Put your hands in the air!"
Prominent news stories: a British brigadier named Saunders (I think) got shot by motorbike assassins in Athens. If I hear about it again, I'll go nuts. Ireland has a hunting problem: it might be banned soon. Soccer is unbelievably important around here. Soccer players are the celebrities of Europe. Who sells their souls to do commercials for just about all the businesses around here? Soccer players. Also, cricket is amazingly weak. It should be noted that the BBC does not give the weather for southern Ireland. They go by military time around here, and they give the temperature in Celsius.
November 17, a terrorist group who has been terrorizing Europe for years without getting so much as one member arrested, might have killed Saunders.
I think I might have seen Gerry Adams, the president of Sinn Fein, heading toward the government building. If I'm wrong, it's his twin brother.
JUNE 9. 9:15 AM. BELFAST. EUROPA HOTEL.
I must say, after the Mespil hellhole, the Europa is a palace. The toilets actually work with one pump, and it really is as glamorous a hotel as you can get. Everyone wears suits, and the place is made of crystal and marble, complete with vast red rugs and just about everything expensive you can think of. This is where celebrities and politicians stay when they're in Belfast. It's also the most bombed hotel in Ireland, but it hardly looks it.
Speaking of glorious things, despite the pain, I was able to enjoy the miles and miles of rolling pastures filled with horses, cows, sheep, and dilapidated farm houses. Some places were so old that I can't believe people still live in them. The hedgerows are intriguing; they give the impression that nature is very ordered in Ireland. They couldn't have been more perfect.
I saw one of the burial mounds at Bru na Boinee: Knowth. According to the brochure, Knowth is dated at c.3000 BC, which predates the pyramids of Egypt, as the tour guide said. Not only was it a burial mound, but there used to be a village at the top of the biggest mound. While the mound at Newgrange had tunnels through it accessible to tourists, the passages at Knowtheldritch claw and snag the nearest tourist.
There was one passage open to us, but it was way too small for me.
We also went to the Down Cathedral, where St. Patrick is buried. While the religious types might not be good at coming up with civilized philosophies, they certainly have a knack for architecture. They even have a huuuuge organ on the balcony. The grave itself is simple; it's just a big weathered rock with St. Patrick's name and a Celtic cross on it. However, it is said that if you touched the stone and made a wish, it would come true.
I held my hand to that stone a long time and begged St. Patrick to let the pain end. Oddly enough, I felt a bit better after that. Only my head ached.
I finally found my way to a pub and was extremely disappointed with the cheeseburger. It was fit for a dying dog . . . maybe. I thought Denny's was bad, but Denny's looks like the Country House compared to that terrible Belfast cheeseburger. The food at the Europa was okay, but despite the fact that it was actually gourmet rich-people food, I'd rather have had McDonald's. I must find a fast food restaurant, or I'll go mad! I must also find Coca-Cola. My addiction must be fed.
While I'm on the subject of food, breakfast is wrong. The eggs feel like cardboard in my mouth, and the scrambled eggs have corn mixed in with them. The juices (orange and apple) tasted like acid. I'm beginning to think the Irish can't cook worth a damn.
Later--
I think I've been reading too many Irish ghost stories. I left dinner early tonight (because they were serving a really, really ugly fish), and while I was going up to my room in the elevator, it stopped at a lower level, and the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, dressed in a rather skimpy dress, got on, and we both rode to the top of the building. We glanced at each other, but we didn't say anything. She was waaaaay out of my league, and even if she weren't, what was I going to do? Bang her in the hotel room I share with my grandmother? Right.
But for some reason, I got it into my head that she was a banshee in disguise. I actually had The Fear, and I really hadn't had much to drink. I stayed on my side of the elevator the whole way up, and when we got to her floor, she gave me another glance as she got off. She had a weird look on her face. I don't know what that was about, but she seemed confused about something.
I rode up to the next floor and went to my room, where I am writing this now. I'm going to read more Irish ghost stories, and then I'm going to go to sleep. I think I'm finally syncing up with Irish time. By the way, the view from my window is interesting. Just across the street from me is the Crown Bar, which is the most famous bar in all of Ireland. Looking out late at night, it is crowded as hell, and I've noticed a weird trend: there are young women down there dressed in nun's wimples and super-short skirts. It seems to be the style around here. Weird.
TO BE CONTINUED!
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