...but since I was sitting upside down on a barstool drinking Guinness yesterday, I thought I'd better start from the beginning....
After trawling Notting Hill Sunday morning (I found the blue door. With the help of my Brit aunt. The owners of Hugh Grant and Spike’s house have since painted it black, so tourists don’t even know about it. Except us, of course.) And the famous bookshop, of which I could ogle from my giant plate of bangers and mash from the pub across the road.
Was a day of catching buses, tubes and planes and taxis. And the BMI flight to Dublin was ridiculous. We sat on the runway for two fucking hours. Anyway.
I’m here! I’m Dublin! In the city where there’s a pub on every corner, where everyone is called Paddy and people drink tankards of Guinness for breakfast.
It IS green. Just FYI. On landing, all I saw as we dropped from the sky was fields and fields of greenness. And how friendly everyone is, God – haven’t a clue what they’re saying (‘Terminal Tree, miss.) Oh thhhhhreee. But they’re completely animated and smiley. Even the woman at customs chatted to me like I was her mate.
The taxi driver to my hotel (which is wonderfully a 200 metre stroll to my office and 10 minutes by foot to the town centre) told me a wee bit of history on the way:
‘Vikings. Dooblin actually is Danish. Descendant all, fuck. The British cocked it up and shit. But Trinity College O’ConnorGuinness and shamrock, the river Liffey and fuck.’
So I understood about an eighth of his history lesson as we drove past pubs after pubs with beautiful looking men outside drinking the black stuff (this nation is clearly a bunch of friendly alcoholics. What’s not to love?)
But from the sounds of things, the history is rich here. And involves a lot of gung ho Vikings and a little distaste of the British (‘that fecking empoire cocked it all oop’)
Took a stroll about and counted about 7 pubs in 2 kilometres. Everyone super jovial and friendly – after a week of no eye contact with strangers in the UK – this makes a difference. They’re wonderful, these Irish people. And Dublin is rather contained compared to crazy, bustling London. It seems fairly chilled.
Bank holiday tomorrow. I’ll call up my colleague from the Irish office (that awesome girl I met a few weeks back in Joburg), as she’s taking me out for some festive drinking. And some Trinity College, Book of Kells and sundry tourist viewing.
It’s always exciting to be in a place you’ve never been before. Unchartered territory. And not known for their logic, I was aware of two things on arrival (Apparently Irish idiosyncracies make the world of sense to them, notsomuch the rest of the world):
1) They have two train lines. Both run north to south. On either side of the city. But neither connect. So if you live in the centre of town, you’re fucked – because it just doesn’t go there.
2) My hotel towels. I got three hand towels, all the size of, well my hands. No normal sized bath towels. They figure 3 is better than 1 big one obviously.
It’s great to finally be here. I've already had a close altercation with a hot Irish man. Sort of. Now for intensive work training - back to it!