I Don't Speak Irish
It's obvious from my Dublin journal entries that I didn't really connect with Dublin in 2003, and that I felt disappointed by my first experience there. I can read my frustration and remember trying so hard to feel connected to the city.
I am also reminded reading back through my journals that I tended to write about a city while travelling to another city. Often in airports, and I still love writing in airports over twenty years later.
No one really tells you, and certainly not pre social media world, how many tough, sad days you will have when you travel alone. I truly believed my trip was going to be nothing but perfect, picture postcard moments (Instagram!) with no rain, illness, getting lost, or feeling lonely.
27 February 2003 - Dublin International Airport en route to Paris
My extended weekend in Dublin turned out to be too long and much more expensive than I hope. It was my own fault. I made a poor decision when I arrived and took a disastrous detour to the scenic, seaside city of Malahide which involved an incident with a rental car.
The romantic idea of driving along the Irish coast was suggested to me at that posh London dinner party with the kitchen in the basement. After lots of wine, over strong black coffee and after dinner mints, someone told me that the only way to properly see Ireland was driving and staying at village bed and breakfasts that aren't written about in guidebooks. It was authentic. It was an experience not to be missed.
Here's what I learned... It should not be missed UNLESS you are a twenty-six year Canadian who has never driven in a foreign country, much less on the 'wrong' side of the road in the dark, while trying to negotiate a sticky manual shift and read the Irish language road signs. I drove the red Nissan Micra into a shallow ditch somewhere between the SPAR where I stopped to ask for directions to the charming bed and breakfast.
It wasn't going well before the ditch. I had nearly collided with several oncoming cars and lorries, so stopping in the ditch was almost a relief. Unfortunately, the Micra was still driveable and I did a couple of hard reverses and wheel spins to leverage the car back onto the road. Thirty minutes or three hundred years later, I pulled up to the bed and breakfast and was shown to my room. No ocean view, but a horrifying mumber of crosses and paintings of Jesus looking distressed. Two bibles placed on the bedside table and no lock on the bedroom door. I found evangelical Christians in a country full of Catholics.
I couldn't get out of there fast enough the next morning and abandoned the breakfast part of the bed to return the Micra back to the Dublin airport. I needed to pretend this experience had never happened.
Dublin was just ok. There were moments of beauty, happiness, and discovery. In some ways, I feel like I didn't connect with the city because it seemed to be trying too hard. Parts of Dublin reminded me of Victoria with advertisements for yoga, vegetarian restaurants, vintage clothing shops, and expensive coffees. I didn't come all this way to do a downward dog and eat vegan sausages.
Once I returned the car, I took the Dublin Express bus to the Trinity College stop. I sat on the upper deck hugging my enormous backpack blaring U2 through my headphones on my indestructible, bright yellow Sony Sports DiscMan. A cliché travel moment if there ever was one. But exactly the moment I wanted.
I found the recommended Lonely Planet hostel, which is not in a recommended area of the city. I think it’s meant to be a trade-off, but I don’t love staying on poorly lit, narrow streets that never feel alive or safe at any time of the day. Hostels always smell musty and damp. I pre-paid for my single room on the top floor (penthouse!). Overall, it’s grotty and I definitely kept my shoes on in the shower stall. The bathroom lights never quite came on which meant I couldn't see the actual degree of filth. Never look closely at the mattress either. I did a load of laundry in my room's tiny sink. This is a strict violation of hostel rules everywhere that everyone breaks. Every backpacker, including me, travels with a portable, elasticized laundry line. I strung my underwear, jeans, and socks all over my room and hoped I wouldn't get reported.
I woke up the following morning sick. A flu-like thing that is making me feel achy and miserable. Not helped by the February damp and chill that feels inescapable in Ireland.
I spent my first day in Dublin just outside the city in Kildare. I had come across a write-up about the Irish National Stud. The bus journey was beautiful. It chugged through villages where I spotted farmers wearing worn Aran jumpers herding sheep that were mysteriously sprayed with neon paint. I would later learn the paint helps farmers identify their flocks and prevent theft. Black and white sheep dogs intently herded them across fields and down country lanes. We drove through villages where teenage schoolgirls slouched near their local corner shop, kilts rolled high above their knees, socks crumpled, chewing gum, and looking bored and angry. I felt a bit like I was driving through the pages of a Maeve Binchy novel.
The Irish Stud was a horse lover's dream, even though I am not a fan or advocate of racing. It was an intriguing blend of nature and science with their innovative breeding machinery in one part of the stable while several box stalls down a tiny, hairy and slightly comical looking teaser pony awaits potential mares to test their breeding readiness. I got lucky and saw a newborn chestnut foal standing wobbly and long-legged with their mom in what looked like the softest and deepest straw. With it being February, I had the place nearly to myself and spent hours with an engaging Irish horse farmer who seemed to know the bloodlines of every Irish Sire.
I had to walk from the Stud Farm to the nearest village for the return bus to Dublin. I was desperate for a tea, but I only found a general store that sold everything from postage stamps to currant tea cakes to bundles of Shetland wool. But no actual tea. The shop owner, a lovely woman who looked like an extra in the 1990's CBC series 'Road to Avonlea', took pity on me after seeing my dripping nose and chattering teeth. She bustled upstairs to her flat about the shop and made me a steaming mug of sweet, milky tea to drink while I waited for my bus. A perfect Irish moment!
Dublin felt blurry. Maybe the constant rain or the fact that I was unwell. I couldn't muster any enthusiasm for the city, and I feel like I spent most of my time looking for warm, dry places to hide.
I met my first travelling Americans at my Dublin hostel. A Goth teenager, around seventeen years old, stomping through the streets in heavy black eyeliner and thick-soled combat boots. His travelling companion was a rumpled, middle-aged, musical theatre loving man named Don. It took me ages to understand their connection and why they were travelling together. Turns out they met in Temple Bar at an American-themed restaurant waiting for their well-done cheeseburgers and fries. I tried to like them more. At least, they were some conversation and company. We went to cheap Irish pubs in the evenings where they talked incessantly and loudly while I forced myself to drink the darkest, warmest beer on tap knowing they would never try anything but a lager.
Comments