"Ahm on tha fhuckin' bus, commin into Dublin nohw. So stop bein' a fhuckin #@%..."
From my cramped seat in the back of the bus, it took me several well-mannered seconds to decide my feelings on the fellow several rows ahead. With only his phone conversation and the sickle shaved into his short yet greasy hair to go on, I resolved to give him the benefit of the doubt. My conclusion: he was either an asshole, really Irish, or from Dublin.
Like we were trying to find our sea legs, Rachel and I crept timidly from the bus station into the streets of Dublin. We saw more people in 3 minutes than we had in the whole 3 weeks spent in Fintown, and all of them were dubious at best. The streets smelled like the people looked. Bad cologne, cigarettes, beer, and hair gel. Every block, it seemed, we passed a barbershop, a pub or two and a couple people crumpled on stoops in a drug induced haze.
I was coming to believe my acquaintance on the bus was mostly from Dublin.
"Let's head towards those hostels we passed, maybe Kinlay House is that way."
Our hostel was, according to Google, only a block or so from where the bus was to let us off.
"Did you write down the cross streets?" I said over my shoulder at Rachel, half checking she wasn't being accosted by the scab faced man we had just passed.
"No. We just have the address in the guide book."
"Hmm..."
"Should we get it out?"
"Let's just look for a map."
A bike rental kiosk told us we were a fair march from Kinlay House. Just down a few lanes, left on Capels Street, and then across the river. Every block, and every drooping and ill fated face we passed took a little bit of our hope for Dublin with it.
Rachel chuckled, "Well, bus stations are usually in pretty dodgy parts of cities, right?"
I smiled. Her rationale was just about the only thing keeping Dublin's reputation alive.
Across the river was a different city. Cobbled streets replaced the drug addicts. Church steeples and ramparts peeked between every dip in the rooftops. Every nook was filled with a warmly lit pub. Dublin was making a comeback.
Our hostel was easy enough to find. After getting settled, I checked the map to find the Stag's Head (a pub recommended to us by our host family the night before).
"Okay. Food then wander? or wander then food?" Food being my usual priority, I like to defer these decisions to Rachel.
"I could go either way...Let's walk and see how we feel."
"Perfect."
Twenty minutes later I was leaning on the mahogany bar in the Stag's Head asking a tall bow-tied bartender how to order food.
"Food. Ah." he poked his head through a couple doors, shuffled down the bar, and then hollered above the hubbub, "I've got a table for ya down here!"
We sidled our way through the room and sat while the bartender was hurriedly removing glasses from the table and wiping it down.
"Drinks before food?" He smiled through his red beard, handing us menus.
"Yes, but we might look first," Rachel smiled in return.
"Right! I'll check back," he smiled again and disappeared behind the bar and a wall of people.
Rachel leaned over the table, "I'm going to go check what beers they have."
I nodded, and took the opportunity to look around from my velvet cushioned stool (I had more or less decided to order the salmon sandwich, a Guinness, and a Jameson--when in Dublin.). Every surface and wall was either a manicured mahogany colored wood, a mirror, or stained glass. The sun coming through the banks of dimpled glass cast an amber wash on eople clustered around stools and tables clutching pristine glasses of every variety. Empty casks of liquors tucked themselves pleasingly along the back wall beneath, inevitably, the stags head of the Stags Head.
Rachel slid back into the booth, "There's a porter, a pilsner...and Coors Light?" The last was mentioned with a grimace, "I don't know."
I laughed, "I'll be right back, I want to check the whiskeys as well."
I had hardly stood from my stool when a bartender, different than our bow-tied friend, asked, "You alright there?"
"Uh, yeah," clearing my throat, "I'll take a Guin--"
As if he sensed me, our friend sailed in, still smiling through his beard and waiving me to sit down.
Charmed and disoriented, I pulled an about-face, and joined Rachel mid-conversation with three fine gentlemen at the table next to ours.
"What beer are you guys drinking though?"
Suddenly, I was flanked by the bartender, "Our special is onion soup, I'm not allowed to say 'French Onion' so...Drinks?"
"I guess I'll have one of those," said Rachel pointing to one of the three golden brews on the next table. The three gents tipped their glasses in approval and Rachel smiled back.
I nearly mumbled my order for a Guinness and a Jameson, ashamed at my confirmed status as a tourist in the presence of Rachel's new polished and distinguished European friends.
"Right! We'll have that out in a jiff," and he again dissolved behind the counter.
"Where are you folks from?"
"Seattle, Washington. You know, Fraiser, Space Needle....um"
"Starbucks?" I piped in. In the course of our adventure, Rachel and I have effectively run out of cultural landmarks to guide people's minds to Seattle. They all seem stale after constantly watching the glaze in a European's eyes evaporate at the mention of Starbucks.
The casually well-dressed man sitting next to Rachel nodded his head of quicksilver hair and leaned forward a bit and said with a knowing smirk and Dutch accent, "Ah, see I think Kurt Cobain."
That was the moment our conversation shifted from awkward into surreal and unforgettable. We weren't going to see much of Dublin.
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