...The story of a girl in London, England


5.22.2010

DAy 22: A Day in Dublin

Well, we made it! (Barely). We hopped onto a taxi at 5:00am, headed to Baker Street, and found our bus stop right on time. Trouble was, the bus didn't show up until 20 minutes after it was scheduled to arrive. Let's just say I did a lot of praying today. Please, let us wake up. Please, let us find the bus stop. Please, let the bus come. Please, let us get there in time. Please! But of course, it all worked out. I'd have to say that's one thing I've learned over and over again the last few weeks... no matter what problem you get yourself into, it will ALWAYS work out in the end.

The airport didn't kill me, (which sounds ridiculous), but every time I have to go through them I think it might. I hate airport anxiety. But I think it's lessening, with all this travel. At any rate, we all got on the plane.

Everything seemed funny today. Waking up after three hours of sleep was funny. Searching for a bus stop was funny. Taking my shoes off in the airport was funny. Eating pringles was funny. You get my point. EVERYTHING was funny. I would just laugh and laugh, like I was delirious. There just comes a point in tired-ness when all you can do is laugh. And I was there.

It's so pretty in Dublin. There are all these doors... red ones, and yellow ones, and blue and green, mostly, though I did find a single pink one. All these colored doors! Down every street, all in a row. It was possibly the most adorable thing I've ever seen in a city.

And the ivy. There was ivy everywhere, growing up the sides of buildings, covering whole walls... green and lush and old fashioned.

We visited Trinity college, which was made up of several old buildings and some pretty landscaping. But, of course, my camera lens was more attracted to the bikes leaning on the fences. It had seen old collumned buildings before. ;) We visited a castle, right in the middle of town. It was smaller than imagined, but the gardens had a brick path in the shape of a giant celtic knot. Which was rather impressive.

We visited Christ's Church Cathedral, and then we went off to Saint Patrick's... only we got lost along the way, and I'm so very glad we did!

We stumbled upon a small entrance in the stone wall, which led us to Marsh's Library, rather than the cathedral we intended to see. We nearly left, but the elderly Irish gentleman manning the door said, "Wait now, where ye from? Stay just a bit, I won't charge ye"... Well, I'm never one to pass up free admittance. So, we thought we'd poke our heads in, just for a bit.

Marsh's Library is the oldest Public Library in Ireland. All the books are 300 to 400 years old. And it was beautiful. Those gigantic, cracking spines all in a row... shelf after shelf. It smelled like old paper and leather, and all the woodwork was intricate and worn. The rooms were so still, so quiet. You could hear the birds twittering outside the window in a green little courtyard, and the sun streamed in the old windows and warmed you up. I was moved almost to tears, sitting in this perfect, quiet, ancient place. You could feel the passion and knowledge and love that went into those books, filling the space around you.

The older gentlemen working there were so proud of the Library. So proud of Ireland. They could find a way to make you Irish, even me! My surname wasn't Irish, but they knew an important judge in Ireland whose name was Judge Budd, so I must be related. ... ;) I got lost, reading exerpts in the old books that had been layed out under glass, staring at the latin, and the old english... and then I simply sat on a bench, and sucked in the stillness. We stayed for over an hour. And I could have stayed for the better part of the afternoon. Somehow this FELT like Ireland. This place, steeped in history and patriotism, was Ireland. And I couldn't believe I'd nearly missed it!

On the way out, I handed the man 2 Euros. The price of admission. He looked confused, and I just said "It was worth it." ... and it was.

We got lunch at a cafe, and ate it in front of a gate to some private gardens we THOUGHT was a park. Boy, did we look homeless. But we were too tired to relocate.

We tried to pronounce all the Gaelic on the street signs, and failed miserably. Although I guess I can't actually claim failure, since I haven't the foggiest what succes may have sounded like.

A gray haired old woman on a bike stopped us to see where we were trying to get to... and gave us sound directions. Later in the day a cab driver stopped mid-street, rolled down his window, and asked the same thing. I suppose we may have a little weary. And lost. but I'm convinced that the people of Ireland are the NICEST people in the whole world. They go completely out of your way to be helpful... they did it again and again. It was sort of shocking, after living in London for the past three weeks... But I liked it.

Anyway, the last thing we did was to go to an Irish pub, just down the street from our Hostel. (Oh! The Hostel! It was called Isaac's, and it was really very nice. A little intimidating, to be sure, what with all the languages floating around, and the drunk men singing outside our window. But we enjoyed our stay). Anyway, going to a pub was my only request of the trip. And it did not dissapoint.

You know I really felt like I was in Ireland twice today. First at the library, and then at the pub. The Celtic. We walked in and looked a little foolish... completely out of place and entirely too innocent. But, I was determined. We figured it out, despite the blatant staring, ordered some food at the bar, and picked ourselves a corner table.

It was dim and cozy, with pictures tacked all over the walls, and a couple haphazardly on a ceiling panel. there was an ecclectic, thrown-together-over-years sort of feeling... men laughing over a pint near the window, a couple of women chatting comfortably, the bar tender making small talk. There were red topped, miss-matched stools and chairs, and the walls, tables, countertops, and rafters were all made of dark, knotted wood. Irish accents floated through the air, alog with some typical Irish pub music, sort of up beat and laid back, all at once.

We sat in an area that looked like what might have been the remains of an old cellar. The red brick curved upwards over our heads, and there were old black bottles stacked in the niche.

The soup was creamy and filling and delicious- a side of home made brown bread that was thick and moist to top it off.

A green flag with something in Gaelic was hung above the kitchen entrance, and our glasses left little brown rings on the wooden table.

And THIS, my friends, was Ireland. Pure and simple.

This was the end of my day in Dublin.

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