Trinity College
Museum of Modern Art
Pub that used to be a bank
My Australian friend.
My leprechaun friend
It has recently been brought to my attention that perhaps my tales of adventure in foreign parts and my explicit recounts of alcohol might lead some of you to believe that I am spending my study abroad experience in some sort of drunken stupor traveling from place to place. That is simply not the case. I enjoy a beer and or a glass of wine as much as the next italian, I've grown quite fond of the tradition of apertivo, but I'm not quite a drunken irishman yet.
Upon the heels of this statement perhaps a recount of my time in Dublin might lead to finger pointing of my being disingenuous. But being six thousand miles away from home has the effect of masking the consequences of full disclosure… So let me begin by saying moving to Ireland would probably be hazardous to my health.
Dublin is, like Florence, a big city that often feels like a small town, and like Florence the town is divided into different zones. I stayed at a hostel two doors from the famous Temple Bar. Temple bar is a part of the old city and the architecture of that area and its centrality to the city made my stay very comfortable and walking from place to place a breeze.
The strangest thing for me about Dublin was how well I seemed to fit in. In Italy, when I’m among Italians I stick out as a foreigner immediately, but in Dublin I look Irish enough to pass as a local. I was mistaken as Irish on two occasions, a mistake that as soon as they heard me speak must have been remedied. No doubt you have heard Irish accents through a mixture of personal experience and the media, however, in Ireland it can not be stressed enough that these accents come in varying degrees of intensity from what we might call a slight twang to something which may as well not be considered English.
In Dublin I was on less of a rampage than I was in London to see all there was to see and was more keen on relaxing and walking around in a city that is such an interesting mix of the old and the new, as well as being the former home of: Bram Stocker, James Joyce, and Colin Farrell among many famous others.
The first day I arrive at the hostel I met a girl who was on the top bunk throughout my stay and with whom I shared three evenings for dinner and pints afterward. She was from Australia but living in London and working as a PR consultant. She was in Dublin because her firm had put her on a week of forced vacation because of the bad economy. She had a great accent. I don’t remember her name.
On my first full day in London I set out to go see Trinity College, but not before an episode which will remain etched in my memory for a longtime. As I’m walking to Trinity I come across an Irish guy my age who had obviously had a really, REALLY, rough night. His face was covered with dry, crusty blood and his shirt was the same. He came strutting toward me and we came crashing together shoulder to shoulder after which he said, “Hey what the fuck’s your problem?” in a thick but understandable Irish accent. Nothing like a direct run in with a blood soaked Irishman to start your day! We both continued walking in different directions, there was no fight or anything, I bet he had clearly learned his lesson from the last fight.
Trinity was cool. A couple of cool late 18th century buildings that look a lot older while the brick buildings, those that look newer, are actually about six-hundred years old. Trinity houses the oldest illustrated book, The Book of Kells the four gospels written in Latin with a distinctive Celtic illustrated twist----A thing which I care absolutely nothing about and so instead of visiting a picture book, I went for a cappuccino. Then I just walked around Dublin exploring. That night I went out for dinner with my Australian friend, I bought a steak, and then we went to the pubs where we went through seven rounds, her ordering Heineken and me Guinness.
I did some shopping. I bought pants. I ate at a pub that was formerly a bank and had some of the best fish chowder I have ever had. I went there for lunch two days in a row.
My last day I went to the Guinness factory, took the tour, and chased it down with a free pint of Guinness on the top floor. Guinness has a quasi religious following in Dublin. Many of the pubs are full of Guinness stuff and it is quite clear that the Irish are very proud of it.
My way back to Italy was nerve wracking. I had tried to take the city bus to the airport but took the 6B outbound instead of the inbound and went to the opposite end of the city. I waited here while the bus driver graciously allowed me to remain on the bus for the next circuit while he talked on his cell phone in incomprehensible English. Meanwhile I was twiddling my fingers watching the minutes tick by. It was an international flight at a huge airport and I was stranded on the other side of the city with only an hour and 15 minutes to my flight—Oh yea and I had to check in forty-five minutes in advance before they canceled my booking. I checked in with literally two minutes to spare. At check in they weighed my carryon bag and it was two kilos over the limit… I was going to have to check it in at the cost of fifty euro! So instead of checking in my bag I open it and put on all my jackets and stuff toiletries into my pockets and with a now lighter bag rush down the corridor through security and to my departure gate with an ungodly amount of clothing on. I get to the gate and gladly remove the excess layers while trying to catch my breath.
I land in a city outside of Rome and have to take the shuttle to the Rome central train station to get back to Florence. At the train station I must have looked lost because an Italian man came up to me and asked me if I needed any help. I said I was just looking to buy a ticket to Florence. He told me that he worked there, that he had tickets and that I better hurry up because there was a strike tomorrow and the trains were going to be shutting down early. So I rushed with him to the departure board and found which one was going to Florence, we hopped on the train together and then he showed me the ticket. He explained to me that this ticket was valid six hours from the moment of validation and that it could take me to any city in Italy. But something wasn’t right. He was in too much of a hurry. When he saw someone coming he grabbed the ticket out of my hand and I got off the train. He followed me. He said that I could take the next train and that the one I had just got off of was probably not a good train anyway because it was full and I would likely have to stand. I declined his ticket and went to a machine to buy one for myself in spite of his protest that it would be more expensive. But by now I was pretty sure that he really didn’t work there and that he was just a charlatan trying to rob me. I got my ticket and was finally after a very, very, long day on my way home.
