18 Hours in Dublin: Part 2

Three hours off of the bus, and all we had seen of the great Irish metropolis was our hostel, several dozen street urchins, innumerable hair salons, and the inside of this iconic pub where we found ourselves joined in conversation with a gaggle of handsome Dutch men. 

"What brings you lot to Dublin?" I asked. 

"...Beer?" chuckled the silver haired man, picking up his glass and smiling to the other two who lifted their glasses in agreement. "You?" 

"On our way to the Netherlands actually!" This prompted another enthusiastic swig. 

"You'll love it. It's--magic," silver hair said with a whimsical and definitive wave of his hand. 

We danced through small talk with our smiling acquaintances until the food arrived, and both groups awkwardly tried to bring an end to the conversation and go about business as usual. Their presence faded as we ate and drank our Irish fare, and I began to think about what to see with our few hours in Dublin. 

"Excuse me?" the silver haired man was leaning over, "Could we ask a favor?" 

"...uh...sure!" 

"Our friend, he left his nametag," he showed us a badge with the name "B---" printed on it, "so we are taking pictures of strangers wearing it, then sending them to him. Would you mind?" 

"Not at all!" Rachel and I obliged. 

"I'm A--- by the way," the silver haired man introduced himself, handing Rachel the badge. 

They were a group of seven friends in their late 30's. All well-manicured and strongjawed with flawless hair. Every other year they escaped to some city for beer and conversation, "trading off" with their spouses and girlfriends. They called themselves "The Streakers," for obvious reasons. 

"This year is Dublin!" 

After the history of their eclectic group unfolded, banter piddled lamely until Elvis was mentioned. Who uttered it first is impossible to remember, because the parrying of band names and song titles that ensued swept up everyone. Even I, the musically illiterate, found myself engrossed. 

"S-----" A--- hollered, and a tall man sauntered through the din and plopped himself on the stool next to me. "This girl knows Elvis!" 

Rachel nodded, grinning. 

"Really?" S----- drawled, holding his beer like he had seen the world, enjoyed it, and was going for a second lap. 

"He is my brother," said A---. "This summer we are going to Memphis--New Orleans," the thought caused him to look at the ceiling and sigh. Then he whipped to Rachel, "Have you ever been to Graceland?" 

"No." 

"Ohhhhhhhh," A--- and S----- groaned together, "But you know the song 'If I Can Dream,' right?" 

"Mmm?..No...?" 

"AWWW, YOU DON'T KNOW 'IF I CAN DREAM?!'" Their exasperation induced giddy writhing. "I have been to the Elvis' grave, and you have to--" A--- paused, priming the canon he was about to unload, "you put on 'If I Can Dream' in your headphones, iPod--whatever--then walk through the cemetery to Elvis' grave--I have cried at Elvis' grave." The gravity of the experience was likely concentrated by memory and beer, but I had to admit it sounded pretty cool.

When pontification about the Stones vs the Beatles, and Elvis as the unequivocal "King" came to dominate, those of us less musically inclined seceded. The tall red-blond Dutchman, with whom I had been sharing empathetic glances at every obscure Elvis fact, introduced himself as a series of drawls and open vowels ending with an "n." Seeing my brain come to a full stop, he laughed, "My friends call me 'J.J.'"

Hearing this, S----- set down his beer. "His name, is the name...." picking each word from his brain with tweezers, "when the boy comes out...and he looks..like a girl. They call him, his name." He sat, holding our attention in his hands before him like a newborn.

Then we erupted in confused guffaws, and volleys of name-calling lobbed back and forth.

When the laughter had calmed and the insults had been equitably distributed, they noticed Rachel and I had long since finished our beers.

"May we buy you a round?"

The nail in the coffin. The conversations meandered and we philosophized into the evening and through the din, soothing our raw throats with beer. Four hours later we exchanged emails and hugs, and Rachel and I strode back to our hostel triumphant and eager.

On the floor outside our room, a pretty girl sat eating salad.

"There's someone in there," she said, half explaining herself, half warning.

Acknowledging her trepidation, we crept inside. The room seemed hotter and muggier than earlier. The curtains had been drawn, and only a strip of light hummed in from the street. The hulking mass in bed B, beneath Rachel's bunk and across from mine, announced itself with a fart rivaling a tunneling machine in a bog. Rachel and I commiserated with held breath and, shaking our heads, we slunk into our beds.

Drowsy from the heat, I drifted. Then the unmistakable grating of fingernails on coarse hair and skin flipped my eyes open. I looked at bed B. For two to four minutes straight, his hand scratched deep between his hairy, naked buttocks, which shown gray against the white sheets. When he had finished, I blinked and then looked up to meet Rachel's horrified eyes peeking back at me. We pulled up our sheets and tucked deeper into our foxholes.

The scratcher awoke early, and through slitted eyelids I watched him scan if anyone else was. Fooled by my rouse, he rolled his nude body from his now undoubtedly filthy bed and grunted into the bathroom which I now deemed filthy as well. After a series of laborious grunts punctuated by splooshes and farts he emerged, troll-like and inadequately shielding himself with an undersized towel. Cataloguing everything he touched, I watched him gather his things and grunt through the door. It swung closed and latched, and once again Rachel was peering over the edge of her bunk.

"So...Breakfast?"