Yesterday I went on a free walking tour of the city and met a few people my age, travelers from all over the world. The tour was interesting, informative and all that. As we’re crossing the rod-iron bridge that spans the Liffey, we hear an explosion of electric guitar. We all race to the edge of the bridge, as does everyone on all the bridges and all the river walls, and there they are—Guns ‘N Roses on a boat. “Welcome to the Jungle” is blaring across downtown Dublin from a big yacht cruising down the river. People are dancing and singing in the streets and all the traffic is stopped. It’s Axl Rose, wearing his trademark (terrible) headband and, for some inexplicable reason, red spandex short. He’s accompanied by a bunch of much younger guys he’s paid to dress up like his former bandmates. After a few songs, the guitarist from YES paddles out in a little rowboat and hops onboard for a solo. I’ve never seen anything quite so hilarious. About ten of us completely lost the tour in our eagerness to photograph every glorious moment of it. Realizing that these were clearly good people, I made plans with a few of them to hit the bars later.
I have some time to kill before meeting them so I grab my notebook and head to a little pub near my hostel. I’m the only woman and the only person under 50. I sit at the bar and order a Guinness, which the bartender carefully pours for three of four minutes. A man a few stools down asks me what I’m writing. He’s in his sixties, gray and balding with a round, red face and crooked teeth, which he exposes in an enormous grin when I reveal my nationality. The man sitting next to him is wearing huge, thick glasses that obscure most of his face. He occasionally echoes a few key words of his friend’s monologues, but he’s otherwise silent. I’m telling them both about my travel plans when we hear a crash in the back room.
A man comes flying through the saloon doors, thrown to the floor by two burly grandfathers. He’s shouting threats and curses as he pulls himself to his feet.
“Yeh fuckin cunt, I’ll fuckin kill yeh, I hate yeh, yeh queer basterd, go ahead and get yer queer little bat, I’ll tie a hand behind me back and I’ll still have yer guts on the floor! Get over here yeh coward!” He’s swaying where he stands as he raises his fists in a way that reminds me irresistibly of the Notre Dame leprechaun. Realizing that this rage is directed at him, the bartender emerges from the bar, baseball bat indeed in hand.
“Get da fuck out, yeh drunk basterd!” They exchange some shoves before the unfortunate patron stumbles over his feet, trips into a barstool, and falls through the front door, screaming profanities the whole way down.
My friend down the bar shakes his head sadly, takes a long sip off his pint, and says, “It’s a bleedin shame, just tryin to enjoy a pint here. Yeh come in for a drink, just trying to have a nice pint and write in yer book. He’s been drinkin all day, that one has (‘All day,’ echoes his friend). Bleedin shame. That sorta thing doesn’t happen here often. Good people, generally speaking (‘Generally speaking,’ Glasses says with a nod). Shame fer a nice young girl like you to see something like that.” I insist that it’s fine, that I’ve seen worse in Indiana, but he’s truly upset. When he reaches the bottom of his pint, he’s apologizing on behalf of all of Ireland for the man’s behavior.
We order another round.
Another man in his sixties walks in, greets my friends and the bartender, and takes the seat beside me. “She’s American, Jack,” the red-faced man tells He looks at me in surprise. “What the hell are yeh doin all the way over here?” he asks. I tell him about my travel plans and my job in Spain. “Amazin,” he sighs, shaking his head. “What I wouldn’t give to be in yer shoes.”
“Yeh must be no more than 22,” says Red from down the bar. “22,” echoes his friend. I tell him he’s dead on and he’s so pleased that he raises his glass to me and downs half of it.
“My daughter’s studying in Spain,” Jack tells me. The only word to describe him is grizzly. He’s got long, raggedy gray curls stuffed under a tattered hat, a few missing teeth, and a scar that intersects with his lower lip and makes his mouth go a bit crooked on certain vowels. His voice is a low, gravely smoker’s growl. But he has kind eyes and a reassuring albeit strange smile. “She’s in Alicante,” he continues, “And lemme tell yeh, she’s puttin me feckin broke.” He shakes his head. “Bleedin expensive it is over there. Seems to me we all have to use this damn Euro, so every place should cost the same. Four euro for a bottle of lager here, and she’s payin €8. Can yeh believe it? Eight euro fer a feckin drink? Once she paid €40 to get into a disco. She won’t do that again. Puttin me feckin broke, she is. Still though, great experience, lovely to do that while yer young.”
“It’s a different world then it used to be,” Red says. (“Different world,” says the echo.) “In our day women never traveled on their own. Brave thing yer doin—real courageous. Cheers to yeh.” He raises his glass and downs what’s left of it.
“Another Guinness for the lady, on me,” says Jack to the old barman. “That’s just grand, yeh trying new things, drinkin Irish stout. What I wouldn’t give to be 22 and travel the world. Just lovely. Can’t even get meself a passport, I’ve gotten into so much trouble.” I imagine that trouble is related to that terrible scar, but I don’t dare ask. “Stuck right here in Dublin. Six kids and a husky to take care of. Fair play to yeh, love, gettin out to see the world, gettin paid to live in Spain. Lovely that someone’s playin the game right, working the system. Fair play to yeh, just grand.”
Red grabs his attention and starts regaling him with the story of the drunk man from earlier on. The bartender asks if I like soccer, and is visibly excited when I tell him I followed the last World Cup. He reaches under the bar and pulls out a ticket stub from the last Dublin game and a light and dark blue-checkered flag. “It’s the Dublin team flag. You keep that, to remind you of Dublin.”
Red rises to leave, stumbling a bit. “Well, yer a lovely girl, just grand talkin to yeh,” he slurs, hugging me. “Hope to see yeh here again.”
“Get the girl a Beamish, barman,” Jack shouts, waving goodbye to Red.
At this point I’m nearly an hour late to meet my friends from the tour, but it just seems wrong and un-Irish to refuse free drinks. When I finally leave, promising to return, I’m stumbling a bit myself and long overdue for my plans. Outside the bar a man approaches me. He’s about my age, wearing an expensive suit and sporting an almost frighteningly white smile. He tells me he’s from South Africa, here studying English, and would like to take me out. When I politely decline, he just shrugs and insists that I at least let him pay my cab fare. He writes down his number, despite my protests, and presses it into my hand with a €20 bill. “The cab should only cost you €5, but buy yourself a drink.” He hails a cab and shakes my hand before disappearing into a bar across the street.
I overtip the cabbie to repay the universe for its strange generosity this evening and find my German tour buddy at a pub in the trendy, touristy district of Temple Bar. He’s met some other travelers, an Italian couple and another German man, and after buying me a pint he invites me to join them. We’re exchanging travel stories when I hear from behind me, in a lazy southern drawl, “What, that’s an American accent, isn’t it?” I turn around and find myself face to face with a massive woman with huge, hairsprayed, bottle-blond hair and hot pink lipstick. She’s wearing a shirt that reads “I Love Texas.” “Where ya from, darlin?” She’s clearly disappointed with my response (too far north, I assume), but nonetheless insists that I let her buy me a shot. She’s celebrating her 50th birthday and wants to do it “Irish style,” so she orders some hideous Bailey’s concoction and I suck it down against my better judgement.
I’ve had enough
I say goodnight to my friends and head toward the hostel, stopping for some fries at a greasy little place along the way. I’m planning on grabbing a cab once my path becomes deserted, but it never does. The city is alive. Every block in packed with young people, chattering and laughing as they move in herds from bar to bar. To the very door of my hostel, it feels as though I’ve never left the party. I settle into a couch in the lobby to enjoy my fries and call Levi, who is taking in the first pint of the evening in Denver. It’s been a great night.
