7/31/07 Day 2 Dublin City

7/31/07 Day 2 Dublin City
We slept for several hours, waking up around 3p.m. local time. Our hotel is located in the northern part of the city, across from the Croke Park soccer stadium. It was a short walk south from the hotel to O’Connell St., where the Post Office that was the center of the 1916 Easter Uprising is located. On the way, we passed this cool statue of James Joyce. I took a picture of it for Dr. Murk.We stopped at a pub called Madigan’s, not far from the Millennium Spire, for our first meal and our first pint of Guinness in Ireland. It was my first meal, anyway; Dad and Seth ate the ridiculously overpriced breakfast a few hours earlier and were still full.

Madigan’s is as traditional as Irish pubs get, which is to say as traditional as any we would wander into over the next week and a half. All wood paneling and dark corners filled with sturdy wooden furniture in a mixture of styles and shapes. The atmosphere was friendly and there was no television to be seen. No live music, either; we'd have to wait until tomorrow night for that.

The waitress arrived with our pints, and there ensued the longest five minutes of our lives while we waited patiently for the stout to settle. (For all the non-stout drinkers out there, waiting for a pint to settle is essential to enjoying it. As a bartender in Glin—much later in our trip— would say, “You wouldn’t ask Michelangelo to hurry up and paint the Sistine Chapel, would you?” In other words, it’s worth the wait.) At last the moment arrived. “I’m just letting you know, I’m drinking you losers under the table,” Dad said, for the first (but definitely not the last) time of the trip. We raised and clinked glasses and took our first long bite of the pint. It was pure heaven.

For Seth and I, anyway. Not so much for Dad. “Jesus Christ, guys—this shit’s disgusting. It tastes burnt.” Seth and I shook our heads in bewilderment. “Are you serious?” Seth asked. “You realize we’re in heaven, right?”

Dad tried several more sips, after each making a face like someone had seized his scrotum and tugged violently downwards. “This stuff is disgusting,” he said. “How the hell can you drink it?” That’s my Dad—insulting the national beverage of Ireland in an Irish pub in the center of Dublin on his first day in the country. Way to blend in, Pops. My brother and I practically raced each other to finish our pints so we could drink his.

The waitress brought me my meal next. I started with an appetizer of oak-smoked salmon served with lemon and greens. It was really good (Ireland is renowned for its salmon), but nothing prepared me for my main course—Irish stew.

Let me be clear: I had some really good food in Ireland. This stew was not only the best meal I had on the entire trip, it was the best bowl of stew I’ve had in my life. The beef (not lamb) fell apart with every bite. The thick Guinness-based broth was very salty and seasoned with an abundance of thyme and other herbs. It was served with three generous scoops of mashed potatoes, loaded with butter, plopped right in the middle of the stew.

It was not health food.

After my first orgasmic reaction to the stew, Dad and Seth each tried a bite. “Christ, that’s good,” said Dad, “but if I ate that much salt and butter I’d drop dead of a heart attack.”

After Madigan’s (which we were in no hurry to leave) we walked south and crossed the River Liffey via O”Connell bridge. We didn’t tarry long though, as we found to our dismay that most of the shops along the quays had closed. We took some pictures and wandered around for a while before once again heading north, taking the time to get our bearings and absorb some Dublin street life.

Dubliners, for the most part, live in large buildings partitioned into individual houses, much like many housing projects here in America. These do not have the often shabby appearance of projects, however; Dubliners for the most part take pride in their homes and are careful to maintain and individualize each one. Thus one building may contain several doors, each painted a different color as each tenant’s way of personalizing their home. Many units have small gardens or fenced-in patios in front, and at dusk we saw many of Dublin’s residents outside their homes, sweeping and tidying up.

In August, it doesn’t get dark in Ireland until well after 10 pm. The shops close around 6 p. m., though, so there’s really nothing for us to do but return to the hotel and watch television or go hit the pubs. We opted for the second choice.

While Dad and Seth ate their dinner at a chip shop, I bought some bottled water and ran back to the hotel to drop it off. I passed two women on a park bench deep in conversation, speaking Gaelic. When I returned, I found Dad and Seth with full glasses, sitting at the bar in a working-man’s pub.

The place was a dive. We were in what we would discover later was the “outskirts” of the city. Very soon after sitting down I wanted to leave and find a better place. We had one drink each and left, going across the street to another, more inviting pub.

Dad, ever intent upon drinking his sons under the table, ordered his second gin & tonic in four hours and nursed the hell out of it. Seth ordered Guinness, of course, and I ordered a Bulmer’s cider—known as Magner’s here in the States for some reason known only to advertising executives. We sat down in a comfortable alcove and chatted for while, talking about what we wanted to do tomorrow.

My brother sipped his pint. “Oh yeah,” he said. “Better than the last place.”

“It tastes different from place to place?” Dad asked.

“Sometimes,” Seth said. I nodded.

“Gimme that,” Dad said. “I’m drinking you losers under the table.”

Dad took a sip of Seth’s Guinness and made a noise like a cat expelling a hairball. “Jesus, you guys are disgusting.”

Now it's not just the Guinness that was disgusting. We were disgusting for liking it. I took the pint from Dad and took a sip. “Hmm,” I said, giving Seth my best uncertain look, “can’t be sure. All I got was foam.”

I tried to take another sip, but Dad ruined it by laughing. Seth grabbed the glass away. “Fuck you,” he said. I was kind of hoping I would be able to use that trick more often on the trip, but my brother is wiser than he appears.

After a few more drinks, we left the pub. We were all pretty tired; we had only arrived in Ireland that morning, after all. We resolved to do some shopping and hit the Guinness Storehouse the next day. We went back to our hotel and soon after, to bed.