Another day, another night. Starts off at The Barge where I make new friends. Frank is a Czech and he has long hair at the back of his head while the sides are shaved. A bit strange looking, but a nice guy, nonetheless. Charlie is a chef at the Merrion. Both of them like Indian food and we start talking about how to make curries. I realize that I have to learn to cook more. It's such a great conversation starter. I make one observation though : Only men want to talk about Indian food and how to cook it. The women couldn't care less. Thankfully, I wear a ring on my finger that makes this irrelevant. If not, I would have had to get a new skill. One drink
leads to more. It's strange how one drink is sufficient but three is always too less. We get a call for last drinks - I can't believe that pubs close this early in Dublin and mention it to Frank. He disagrees and takes me to the Copperface Jacks.
Copperface Jacks is something else. It's just Frank and I now - his girlfriend has decided that she has had enough and heads home. We are stopped at the door by two gentlemen - I use the word loosely - who are as wide as they are tall. They tower over me and ask if Frank and I are together. "Do I look like I like Ugly?" I ask him. Two girls walk up to the door and the doormen now ask me if we are all together. I glance at the girls and reply "Same answer". They don't like me but let us in anyways. It's five bucks to enter and the music assaults your ears as you step in. We get ourselves drinks and Frank takes me upstairs. The music is a bit softer here but the dance floor is still packed. I look around and realize that this is not a night club but a meat market. I find a dark corner by an ATM to stand and watch people make utter fools of themselves. Frank has disappeared into the mass of bodies and I occasionally catch a glimpse of him dancing. He does come back regularly though to get me a drink. All of a sudden I realize that there is something moving
behind the ATM machine. At first, I think that someone is trying to break into it but on closer investigation, it turns out to be a slightly overweight girl who has fallen down and is floundering like a beached whale, unable to get up again. She is holding her stilletoes in one hand and this doesn't help any. I offer her a hand and pull her up. She is heavy but staggers up. I find that she is hardly able to stand so I prop her against the ATM machine. She survives about 3 minutes before collapsing on her back again. I give her a hand again and she manages to stay up a bit longer before going down. I am despairing by now and look around but everyone else is oblivious to my plight in their drunken stupor. I pull her up again and decide to take her to a couch that I spot nearby. As I help her into the couch, her friends descend on me. You're wasting your time, one of them tells me, she's a lesbian and is here with her girlfriend. Some friend, I retort! But I'm glad to hand the whale back to it's owners. I need more weight training if I want to be doing this.
I retreat back to my corner where another group assails me. They have been to India and want to know details. I make up answers to their questions but it keeps them happy. It's time to go and I find Frank. We step outside to a bunch of people squatting on the sidewalk, some in their own vomit. Frank wants a cigarette and asks someone for a light. They accuse him of being gay. He says no, he has a girlfriend. They say something nasty that I cannot put down in print. Frank turns to walk away when one of them throws a punch at him. It grazes the back of his head. I wonder about what I am about to get into as there are five of them and they look tough. All of a sudden a giant of a man appears at our side. He shoulders me aside and steps up to the group. This should even up the odds a bit, he says. The thugs back down. Cowarards, I shout- I can be very brave with ten drinks in me and a giant by my side.
I am beginning to notice a lot of subtle cultural differences. The Irish always hold their fork in their left hand. The Americans usually eat one handed with the fork in their right hand. I mention this to Terry who shares his own cross cultural experiences with me. A long time ago before the internet had taken us over and the fascimile was still the means of transmitting documents, Terry was in Spain and asked a secretary for a fax. Everybody laughed and he later found out that it Spain it means to ask for sex.
I have become friends with my cabbie, Noel. He tells that when Englis lads get into his cab and ask him to take them to a good pub, he usually takes them to George, which is a gay pub on the keys. He leaves them there with the advice to stay a while as things hot up as the night progresses. Poor lads, I wonder how long it takes them to figure it out. He tells me another story. One day he was taking two guys to the George and mentioned to one of them that he had taken him there the previous week too. The other chap immediately asks him to stop the car, jumps out and runs away. It turned out that they were a couple and that the second chap had been away on business the previous week. And he was upset that the first guy had been going out with someone else in his absence.
We decide to hit the George ourselves. It's a first for me as I have never been to a gay bar before. Ray challenges me to get someone's number while I am in there. All the men in there are so well dressed that I start to feel self concious. Their hair is slicked down, the belt and shoes are matched and they have creased dress shirts. No one pays the slightest attention to us - they can tell that we are different. I lose my bet to Ray. I steel myself and against all advise, make my way into the bathroom. I am totally ignored and this hurts my feeling. This is not at all what I excpected in a gay bar. We leave, with my self esteem having taken a huge hit. John decides that I need to see the Temple Bar area before I leave. This is the tourist section, with garish bars, loud music and even louder music. We meet a Little Indian and her friend, who is a tall and leggy girl, a welcome change from the dowdy dressers at George. the last stop is the Baggot's Inn and John and Trasy have to leave. They have a family to go back to. Ray and I do not, and so we continue. The bar closes but Ray is very influential and continues to get us drinks until they clean up.
John picks me up from my hotel around noon the next day and we head to the Guiness brewary. It's quite a distance and so we stop at the Brazen Head for a pint or two. This is Dublin's oldest pub and is more than two hundred years old. The brewary itself is massive, consisting of seven floors of displays and culminating in the Gravity bar on the seventh floor. The whole floor is lined in glass all around giving us panoramic views of Dublin city. We have out glass of Guiness and saunter across the street to the Jameison's brewary. A pretty guide takes us through the paces of how to make a good whiskey emphasizing on why Jameison is better than all else. John lies to her that it is my birthday and she picks me to be one of eight official whiskey tasters. We get shot glasses of Johnny Walker Black, Jameison and Jack Daniels. The Jameison does taste better though this may be due to the copious amounts that I have consumed in the last two weeks. After this, we get our customary glass of Jameison. We then head out to dinner with the family. Ray is also there
but is exceptionally quiet - maybe it's the company he keeps; it's hard to find words when you are staring into such beautiful eyes.
After dinner to the Harry Byrne where M&M are still making their movies. I get back to the hotel at 2 AM and ask for a 3AM wake up call. I am up by 3:30 and am taking it easy as I think I have a lot of time. I look at the clock on my computer and suddenly realize that it is an hour later - Ireland springs forward on that day and I forgot to set my cell phone forward. I hurry through a shower then find that the safe is locked shut - with my passport inside. Hulk from the front desk arrives with a key but is unable to open it. He leaves to call for help and I take over. By a combination of good luck and brute force I manage to get the safe open. I grab my passport and run out and into the waiting cab. I make the flight with ten minutes to spare. Whew - it's been a hell of a trip.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Monday, March 22, 2010
The Sheep Are Pretty In New Zealand
I go home early on Thursday night to rest up but there is a big crisis at work and it keeps me awake until the wee hours of the morning. The team in Bangalore pulls through and saves my skin. But I end up at work on Friday with my sweater inside out. Just as I am about to leave someone points this out to me. They all want to know how much I had to drink last night. They will never believe that it is due to lack of sleep - in reality, I skipped dinner to save time and did not have a single drop to drink. But what the heck, I just take the ribbing good naturedly.
Friday evening is lamb shank at the Stil. It come highly recommended by my new French bartender friend. My five euro tip of the other night has made his movements slower. The bottle now stays up a hell of a lot longer when he pours my drinks. I am to meet John at the Stephens Green Shopping Center. I arrive there to find him standing discreetly to one side. He tells me that people usually meet their dates at that point and that's why he's standing so far away. I am glad that I don't know many people in this country - I wouldn't want them to think that John is my date.
We walk over to the International Comedy Club. We are early and that gives us time for a couple of drinks at the bar downstairs. The only standing room we find is just outside the door to the ladies bathroom. Seems a bit perverted but it has it's advantages. The cold has dried out my lips and I discreetly pull out my chapstick for some relief. I feel a painful elbow in the ribs - 'Put your lipstick away', John growls at me. We troop upstairs as soon as the doors open and find a nice spot. I go to the bar for a refill and find that the bar has run out of Jameison. When I was in Corvallis, the bar there ran out of Johnny Black. Is it me, I wonder, or can this be the beginning of a serious shortage of booze. I make a mental note to stock up as soon as I get home. The room upstairs is dingy and the walls are lined with framed pictures. The opening act tells us that they are pictures of people who have died there in a fire. I can believe that - I see no exits that anyone can use. The comedians are funny though I don't get some of the local Irish humor. One of them asks for audience participation and asks the most exotic place that anyone is from. 'India', yells John. But apprantly, the comic does not have any jokes about India because he picks on New Zealand instead and proceeds to tell us about what they do to their sheep. I can't think of why that is funny - the sheep are pretty in New Zealand.
Saturday is rugby night. Ireland is playing Scotland. I see a lot of men in skirts - apparantly, the women wear the pants and the men wear the skirts in Scotland. We watch the game at the Harry Byrne. The bar is packed but John's climbing buddies have saved some room for us. Rugby is played in two 40 minute halfs and the whole game lasts just that - no commercials, no breaks, no nothing. And if you thought that American football was rough, then think again. This is ten times as rough. Ireland lose narrowly to a last minute goal by Scotland. There are crest fallen faces for the next five minutes and then life goes on as usual. The bar fills up even more as people who watched at home come in for a pint. We go back home for some more Indian cooking. I make up a recipe and Trasy calls it Ambrose's Rugby chicken. I am becoming famous. The chicken turns out to be pretty good and is well matched by Trasy's Madras curry and John's spicy chick peas.
After dinner, we head over to Matt and Marsha's for an after rugby party. It's a mixed crowd - there are people from England, Russia, Latvia, Sierra Leone and of course India. I joke that the Irish are outnumbered and that we can take them on tonight. This is a comment that I will rue later as the Irishmen are the only ones left standing in the end.
I learn a new Irish sport. It's called slagging and it consists of insulting your friends in the worst possible way. They do it only to people they like, they say. Apparantly I am well liked, because people begin slagging me right away. I like them too so I slag back - it seems to come naturally to me. That's two Irish past-times that I am good at - maybe I do have some Irish blood in me. Ray is quite the charmer and he has a new pick up line where he asks someone to check the material that his shirt is made of. He then tells them in a slow drawl "Boyfriend material". I watch him. The line seems very popular but falls flat on the Latvian blondie. She leans towards him and asks "Vaaat? I thought this vas cotton. Is it some new kind of material?". He tries it again. It doesn't help. She just doesn't get it. I notice another worrying fact - Ray tries this trick on men and women alike. Note to myself : Don't stand too close to Ray. At about 2 AM the hosts go to bed and I get ready to leave. People are surprised. 'Why would you want to do that?', they ask. The party continues without the hosts. The music gets louder and someone lights up in the kitchen. 'Isn't this a non smoking apartment?', I ask. 'Not after the hosts go to bed, it isn't'. Another mental note to myself : If I ever have any Irish over at home, make sure that I am the last man to go to bed. Finally, we have two Irishmen down - Peter staggers out and Amen curls up on the couch. Ray gets a taste of his own medicine as we all gang up on him in a slag fest. He has just met a girl in Galway. He tell us that she has a nice bust but her best feature are her eyes. Well, we ask him, if she has such a nice bust, when was the last time you actually looked up at her eyes. He changes directions and says that just yesterday he met a girl from India and thinks he's going to get lucky. Well, good luck Ray, but remember that Indian girls are spicy. Use fire proof protection so you don't catch on fire and hurt yourself. And when you go down on her, be sure to have a glass of water handy. We roll on the floor, laughing till our eyes water and this adds to the
insult. I realize what a great sense of humor the Irish have - having a good sense of humor is not about being funny at other people's cost; it's about being able to see the funny side of it even when you are the butt of the jokes.
I remember to hang the do not disturb sign on my door. A few hours later I get a call. It's housekeeping calling to ask if I'd like my room cleaned. 'Oh, honey, I thought I'd hung the do not disturb sign on my door', I say. 'That's why I called, Sir. I didnt want to knock on your door and disturb you.' I thank her for being so considerate. Opening the door would have been stressful for me, but as for answering the phone - why, I can do that in my sleep!
Sunday starts lazy and we walk the greens at St. Stevens, through Trinity college and stop to watch a bunch of girls playing rugby. Then we hop on the DART train back for roast beef with three kinds of potatoes. A delicious meal as the English would say! Thank you John and Trasy, for another smashing weekend!
Friday evening is lamb shank at the Stil. It come highly recommended by my new French bartender friend. My five euro tip of the other night has made his movements slower. The bottle now stays up a hell of a lot longer when he pours my drinks. I am to meet John at the Stephens Green Shopping Center. I arrive there to find him standing discreetly to one side. He tells me that people usually meet their dates at that point and that's why he's standing so far away. I am glad that I don't know many people in this country - I wouldn't want them to think that John is my date.
We walk over to the International Comedy Club. We are early and that gives us time for a couple of drinks at the bar downstairs. The only standing room we find is just outside the door to the ladies bathroom. Seems a bit perverted but it has it's advantages. The cold has dried out my lips and I discreetly pull out my chapstick for some relief. I feel a painful elbow in the ribs - 'Put your lipstick away', John growls at me. We troop upstairs as soon as the doors open and find a nice spot. I go to the bar for a refill and find that the bar has run out of Jameison. When I was in Corvallis, the bar there ran out of Johnny Black. Is it me, I wonder, or can this be the beginning of a serious shortage of booze. I make a mental note to stock up as soon as I get home. The room upstairs is dingy and the walls are lined with framed pictures. The opening act tells us that they are pictures of people who have died there in a fire. I can believe that - I see no exits that anyone can use. The comedians are funny though I don't get some of the local Irish humor. One of them asks for audience participation and asks the most exotic place that anyone is from. 'India', yells John. But apprantly, the comic does not have any jokes about India because he picks on New Zealand instead and proceeds to tell us about what they do to their sheep. I can't think of why that is funny - the sheep are pretty in New Zealand.
Saturday is rugby night. Ireland is playing Scotland. I see a lot of men in skirts - apparantly, the women wear the pants and the men wear the skirts in Scotland. We watch the game at the Harry Byrne. The bar is packed but John's climbing buddies have saved some room for us. Rugby is played in two 40 minute halfs and the whole game lasts just that - no commercials, no breaks, no nothing. And if you thought that American football was rough, then think again. This is ten times as rough. Ireland lose narrowly to a last minute goal by Scotland. There are crest fallen faces for the next five minutes and then life goes on as usual. The bar fills up even more as people who watched at home come in for a pint. We go back home for some more Indian cooking. I make up a recipe and Trasy calls it Ambrose's Rugby chicken. I am becoming famous. The chicken turns out to be pretty good and is well matched by Trasy's Madras curry and John's spicy chick peas.
After dinner, we head over to Matt and Marsha's for an after rugby party. It's a mixed crowd - there are people from England, Russia, Latvia, Sierra Leone and of course India. I joke that the Irish are outnumbered and that we can take them on tonight. This is a comment that I will rue later as the Irishmen are the only ones left standing in the end.
I learn a new Irish sport. It's called slagging and it consists of insulting your friends in the worst possible way. They do it only to people they like, they say. Apparantly I am well liked, because people begin slagging me right away. I like them too so I slag back - it seems to come naturally to me. That's two Irish past-times that I am good at - maybe I do have some Irish blood in me. Ray is quite the charmer and he has a new pick up line where he asks someone to check the material that his shirt is made of. He then tells them in a slow drawl "Boyfriend material". I watch him. The line seems very popular but falls flat on the Latvian blondie. She leans towards him and asks "Vaaat? I thought this vas cotton. Is it some new kind of material?". He tries it again. It doesn't help. She just doesn't get it. I notice another worrying fact - Ray tries this trick on men and women alike. Note to myself : Don't stand too close to Ray. At about 2 AM the hosts go to bed and I get ready to leave. People are surprised. 'Why would you want to do that?', they ask. The party continues without the hosts. The music gets louder and someone lights up in the kitchen. 'Isn't this a non smoking apartment?', I ask. 'Not after the hosts go to bed, it isn't'. Another mental note to myself : If I ever have any Irish over at home, make sure that I am the last man to go to bed. Finally, we have two Irishmen down - Peter staggers out and Amen curls up on the couch. Ray gets a taste of his own medicine as we all gang up on him in a slag fest. He has just met a girl in Galway. He tell us that she has a nice bust but her best feature are her eyes. Well, we ask him, if she has such a nice bust, when was the last time you actually looked up at her eyes. He changes directions and says that just yesterday he met a girl from India and thinks he's going to get lucky. Well, good luck Ray, but remember that Indian girls are spicy. Use fire proof protection so you don't catch on fire and hurt yourself. And when you go down on her, be sure to have a glass of water handy. We roll on the floor, laughing till our eyes water and this adds to the
insult. I realize what a great sense of humor the Irish have - having a good sense of humor is not about being funny at other people's cost; it's about being able to see the funny side of it even when you are the butt of the jokes.
I remember to hang the do not disturb sign on my door. A few hours later I get a call. It's housekeeping calling to ask if I'd like my room cleaned. 'Oh, honey, I thought I'd hung the do not disturb sign on my door', I say. 'That's why I called, Sir. I didnt want to knock on your door and disturb you.' I thank her for being so considerate. Opening the door would have been stressful for me, but as for answering the phone - why, I can do that in my sleep!
Sunday starts lazy and we walk the greens at St. Stevens, through Trinity college and stop to watch a bunch of girls playing rugby. Then we hop on the DART train back for roast beef with three kinds of potatoes. A delicious meal as the English would say! Thank you John and Trasy, for another smashing weekend!
Thursday, March 18, 2010
On Hot Irish Babes
Day two turns out to be fairly benign. We go to the beach and it looks like everybody and their mother is there. I'm not being sarcastic - it is Mothers day here and apparantly Irish mothers enjoy being driven to the beach. I decline John's offer to dine at The Oar House. We have the kids with us and I didn't feel that it was appropriate to take children into what was probably a house of disrepute. In the end, lunch is filafel rolls from a street vendor, bought while illegally double parked and eaten in the car on the way home.
Dinner is a family affair and John's sister and her family is expected too. We cook two chickens - one a traditional Irish roast and another in an Indian curry. The Irish are easy to fool and think I cook well. I wonder what they will do to me when they finally arrive in India and taste real Indian food. Trasy sells me short and serves only two kinds of potatoes. I am told that any Irish meal must have at least three kinds of potatoes in order to be complete. John's bottle of Jameison has taken quite a beating and I sleep in the back of the car on the way back - of course its not because of the whiskey, its the jet lag.
Tuesday is St. Patrick's eve and John and I start on a tour of the bars. The bars are packed six deep here. Standing room only and you have to push your way in. I see not one other person with the color of my eyes but no one seems to notice. The people are extremely friendly and as the night progresses, we become friendly too. At our fifth of sixth stop, we find a sweet spot at the bar to sit. People have to come and stand by us to get their drinks and we talk to each and every one of them. John asks me what I say to them that makes them talk to me so much. I let him in on my secret to making friends in strange places : I tell everyone that my Irish friend (pointing at him) tells me not to talk to strangers as they might find it offensive and punch me in the face. Every single one of them wants to prove this wrong and stay for a while chatting even after they get their drinks. And of course, John gets the dirty looks. All in all, not a bad night - The Odeon, Kehoes, McDaids, O'Neils, Thomas Reids, The Stags head, The International, Cafe en Sein - all good old fashioned Irish pubs.
I look up and see an obviously Indian looking guy making his way towards me. Where are you from, I ask him very politely. From Texas, comes the snotty answer. And we moved there six generations ago, he adds, to emphasize how much better he is than the rest of us. Well, I want to ask him, how come your color has not yet diluted in six generations? Shouldn't you be a bit beige by now at least? Has everyone in your family been marrying their sister for six generations? Hellooo?
St. Patricks day dawns bright and clear. We meet at the Book of Kells. It is an amazing place matched only by the adjacent Trinity College library. Books line the walls from floor to ceiling and on looking up, I see that there is an upper floor too. Most of the books are hand written and bound in leather. The book of Kells is illustrated in color and took more than ten years to complete. They didn't have much to do in those days, John explains - the priests were celibate. I understand. If they were married they would have been busy with chores around the house and the book of Kells would never have been written.
We wander around a bit more and then have an Asian fusion lunch. There is long line waiting to get in but the food is great and worth the wait. I order the spicy lamb and the waiter comes back to warn me that this is the spiciest thing on the menu. For some reason, Evie is tickled by that She also finds it funny that they have "Chilli men" on the menu. Where do they get their men from, we wonder and look for man-traps around the restaurant. I don't think she is old enough for me to tell her that most of the men traps are wearing skirts. I learn a new skill as Evie lets me paint her nails. It's not as easy as it looks and I now have a new respect for manicurists. After lunch, we go to the local pub for a couple of beers. Well, in Irish speak, a couple of beers means visiting at least 6 different bars with about two drinks in each. We meet more friendly Irish. One guy in particular - Johnny - stands out for his quick wit. He takes one look at me and tells me I need to go to Gallway and get myself a tan. He turns around as a girl walks up to the bar and says in a loud voice "I told you it's over. Why can't you understand that. Why do you still keep stalking me." Her jaw drops but she recovers quickly and tells him that he never was any good anyway. He counters with "I never loved you. I only married you out of pity". He is hilarious and we all become good friends quickly as you only can in a bar. It turns out that she has visited India many times and loves the place. We take our drinks outside where Johnny continues to regale us with his antics. He pokes every passing woman in the chest and says "Julie, have you forgotten me already?". He strikes out every time as not even one of them is called Julie.
We then meet John's friend Greg who pulls out his paint jars and paints an elephant on my face. Color it white, the two Johns tell him; you won't be able to see it otherwise. This shocks the other people around and I make some more sympathy friends. One of them has flown in from London for his brothers fiftieth birthday so we all troop in to sing for him. The whole bar joins in and the brother is all smiles. On our way back out, Johnny tries his lines with Karen. Karen is having none of it and she slaps him across the face. It looks like Johnny is used to this because he takes it in his stride. But a few minutes later we see Karen hurl a glass on to the middle of the street where it shatters, leaving pieces of glass all over the tarmac. We decide it is time to leave.
A cab takes us to John's usual watering hole where we meet a few of his climbing buddies. John also has his driver to take him back. We close with a couple more drinks and head home. I realize that we have been pub hopping for more than 6 hours and have not eaten anything since lunch. It's going to be a bad day tomorrow!
And ah, did I say I was going to write about the lovely Irish babes. I am not one to kiss and tell. As the Irish would say it, Pog ma thon.
Dinner is a family affair and John's sister and her family is expected too. We cook two chickens - one a traditional Irish roast and another in an Indian curry. The Irish are easy to fool and think I cook well. I wonder what they will do to me when they finally arrive in India and taste real Indian food. Trasy sells me short and serves only two kinds of potatoes. I am told that any Irish meal must have at least three kinds of potatoes in order to be complete. John's bottle of Jameison has taken quite a beating and I sleep in the back of the car on the way back - of course its not because of the whiskey, its the jet lag.
Tuesday is St. Patrick's eve and John and I start on a tour of the bars. The bars are packed six deep here. Standing room only and you have to push your way in. I see not one other person with the color of my eyes but no one seems to notice. The people are extremely friendly and as the night progresses, we become friendly too. At our fifth of sixth stop, we find a sweet spot at the bar to sit. People have to come and stand by us to get their drinks and we talk to each and every one of them. John asks me what I say to them that makes them talk to me so much. I let him in on my secret to making friends in strange places : I tell everyone that my Irish friend (pointing at him) tells me not to talk to strangers as they might find it offensive and punch me in the face. Every single one of them wants to prove this wrong and stay for a while chatting even after they get their drinks. And of course, John gets the dirty looks. All in all, not a bad night - The Odeon, Kehoes, McDaids, O'Neils, Thomas Reids, The Stags head, The International, Cafe en Sein - all good old fashioned Irish pubs.
I look up and see an obviously Indian looking guy making his way towards me. Where are you from, I ask him very politely. From Texas, comes the snotty answer. And we moved there six generations ago, he adds, to emphasize how much better he is than the rest of us. Well, I want to ask him, how come your color has not yet diluted in six generations? Shouldn't you be a bit beige by now at least? Has everyone in your family been marrying their sister for six generations? Hellooo?
St. Patricks day dawns bright and clear. We meet at the Book of Kells. It is an amazing place matched only by the adjacent Trinity College library. Books line the walls from floor to ceiling and on looking up, I see that there is an upper floor too. Most of the books are hand written and bound in leather. The book of Kells is illustrated in color and took more than ten years to complete. They didn't have much to do in those days, John explains - the priests were celibate. I understand. If they were married they would have been busy with chores around the house and the book of Kells would never have been written.
We wander around a bit more and then have an Asian fusion lunch. There is long line waiting to get in but the food is great and worth the wait. I order the spicy lamb and the waiter comes back to warn me that this is the spiciest thing on the menu. For some reason, Evie is tickled by that She also finds it funny that they have "Chilli men" on the menu. Where do they get their men from, we wonder and look for man-traps around the restaurant. I don't think she is old enough for me to tell her that most of the men traps are wearing skirts. I learn a new skill as Evie lets me paint her nails. It's not as easy as it looks and I now have a new respect for manicurists. After lunch, we go to the local pub for a couple of beers. Well, in Irish speak, a couple of beers means visiting at least 6 different bars with about two drinks in each. We meet more friendly Irish. One guy in particular - Johnny - stands out for his quick wit. He takes one look at me and tells me I need to go to Gallway and get myself a tan. He turns around as a girl walks up to the bar and says in a loud voice "I told you it's over. Why can't you understand that. Why do you still keep stalking me." Her jaw drops but she recovers quickly and tells him that he never was any good anyway. He counters with "I never loved you. I only married you out of pity". He is hilarious and we all become good friends quickly as you only can in a bar. It turns out that she has visited India many times and loves the place. We take our drinks outside where Johnny continues to regale us with his antics. He pokes every passing woman in the chest and says "Julie, have you forgotten me already?". He strikes out every time as not even one of them is called Julie.
We then meet John's friend Greg who pulls out his paint jars and paints an elephant on my face. Color it white, the two Johns tell him; you won't be able to see it otherwise. This shocks the other people around and I make some more sympathy friends. One of them has flown in from London for his brothers fiftieth birthday so we all troop in to sing for him. The whole bar joins in and the brother is all smiles. On our way back out, Johnny tries his lines with Karen. Karen is having none of it and she slaps him across the face. It looks like Johnny is used to this because he takes it in his stride. But a few minutes later we see Karen hurl a glass on to the middle of the street where it shatters, leaving pieces of glass all over the tarmac. We decide it is time to leave.
A cab takes us to John's usual watering hole where we meet a few of his climbing buddies. John also has his driver to take him back. We close with a couple more drinks and head home. I realize that we have been pub hopping for more than 6 hours and have not eaten anything since lunch. It's going to be a bad day tomorrow!
And ah, did I say I was going to write about the lovely Irish babes. I am not one to kiss and tell. As the Irish would say it, Pog ma thon.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
The Nearly Naked Man
I have arrived in Dublin. After an uneventful flight, I land in Dublin. There is a small commotion at immigration. A guy has just landed from Nigeria and when the immigration officer asked him how he planned to pay for his insurance, he starts screaming at him about how many countries he was paying taxes in. This led to some unexpected side benefits - no one even looked at me as I walked through customs. I saw a bunch of them huddled over to one side and it looked like they were taking the
Nigerian's luggage apart. So much for screaming at immigration officers.
I walk out and I see John. He is hard to miss. Even in this country of giants, he stands a full head taller. Trasy and Evie are there too - off to the side getting a bagel for lunch. We load my luggage in their Toyata and Trasy takes the wheel. She is a strong woman who forges her own destiny - she has no respect for any white lines that may lie on the road but goes where she wills. She will do well driving in India. John is not driving today as apparantly he reached home at 8 AM after a night with the boys; a fact that he denies vehemently. He thinks that he was home by at least half past seven.
After some weaving, a long underground tunnel and a lovely bridge that John's brother had a hand in building, we arrive at my hotel. I get 3 minutes to brush my teeth and we walk across to the Barge. It's not a bar - I counted at least four bars in there. And of course, we have the Guiness, poured right and left to settle. It tastes a hell of a lot better in Dublin than anywhere in the world.
A nap and I walk around town. I get lost and am found again. Dublin is a beautiful town with a lot of history and culture. It is full of tourists though I don't see many who share the color of my eyes. The few Irish that you see are almost as old as the buildings. As darkness falls, I am drawn to the Barge again. I try the Smithwick this time. It's a lager kind of beer and tastes pretty good. A couple settles down next to me. Aww get a room, I think to myself as I watch them out of the corner of my eye. Well, it turns out that they do have a room and that its in my Hotel across the street. Victor and Carrie are from America. I find it ironical that I come to Dublin and meet Americans. They are friendly and nice and I buy them both a beer. Victor buys the next round and calls for shots. At that point, I realize that my morning is doomed. Carrie starts dancing and Victor reluctantly follows. The whole bar watches them. There is something mesmerizing about two drunks dancing.
I forget the number of shots but I do remember waking up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom. I open the room door instead of the bathroom door and the next thing I know is that I am standing in the corridoor in my underwear - my door is locked and my key is inside. I stare stupidly at the door as I try to use my physic powers to somehow unlock it. But the door is immune to all my mental shenanigans and does not give in. I try to think of how Santiago, the shephard in Paulo Coelho's Alchemist managed to talk to the wind and the sun. He must have been smoking something different because nothing seems to work for me - the door is stays solidly closed and is unmoved by my plight. I am dead sober all of a sudden. I think of the stories that the girl at the counter will have and the peals of laughter as she tells her friends about the nearly naked man who walked into the lobby asking for spare keys. But Paulo Coelho is not all wrong - the universe does conspire to help you. And my help arrives in the form of a hotel staff coming around to distribute the morning papers. I keep my cool as I wish him Good Morning and could he please open my door for me. He is either used to strange requests or he has exceptional savoir faire. He does not bat an eyelid; in fact, his eyes dor not stray down even once. He calls down to the front desk to confirm my name and uses his magic key to let me back in. Whew! That was close.
As I head down for breakfast in the morning I have a sudden impulse to check for wet spots on the carpet. Sure enough, there is one. I hope to God no one saw me peeing in the corridor or the Hilton will ban me for life.
Nigerian's luggage apart. So much for screaming at immigration officers.
I walk out and I see John. He is hard to miss. Even in this country of giants, he stands a full head taller. Trasy and Evie are there too - off to the side getting a bagel for lunch. We load my luggage in their Toyata and Trasy takes the wheel. She is a strong woman who forges her own destiny - she has no respect for any white lines that may lie on the road but goes where she wills. She will do well driving in India. John is not driving today as apparantly he reached home at 8 AM after a night with the boys; a fact that he denies vehemently. He thinks that he was home by at least half past seven.
After some weaving, a long underground tunnel and a lovely bridge that John's brother had a hand in building, we arrive at my hotel. I get 3 minutes to brush my teeth and we walk across to the Barge. It's not a bar - I counted at least four bars in there. And of course, we have the Guiness, poured right and left to settle. It tastes a hell of a lot better in Dublin than anywhere in the world.
A nap and I walk around town. I get lost and am found again. Dublin is a beautiful town with a lot of history and culture. It is full of tourists though I don't see many who share the color of my eyes. The few Irish that you see are almost as old as the buildings. As darkness falls, I am drawn to the Barge again. I try the Smithwick this time. It's a lager kind of beer and tastes pretty good. A couple settles down next to me. Aww get a room, I think to myself as I watch them out of the corner of my eye. Well, it turns out that they do have a room and that its in my Hotel across the street. Victor and Carrie are from America. I find it ironical that I come to Dublin and meet Americans. They are friendly and nice and I buy them both a beer. Victor buys the next round and calls for shots. At that point, I realize that my morning is doomed. Carrie starts dancing and Victor reluctantly follows. The whole bar watches them. There is something mesmerizing about two drunks dancing.
I forget the number of shots but I do remember waking up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom. I open the room door instead of the bathroom door and the next thing I know is that I am standing in the corridoor in my underwear - my door is locked and my key is inside. I stare stupidly at the door as I try to use my physic powers to somehow unlock it. But the door is immune to all my mental shenanigans and does not give in. I try to think of how Santiago, the shephard in Paulo Coelho's Alchemist managed to talk to the wind and the sun. He must have been smoking something different because nothing seems to work for me - the door is stays solidly closed and is unmoved by my plight. I am dead sober all of a sudden. I think of the stories that the girl at the counter will have and the peals of laughter as she tells her friends about the nearly naked man who walked into the lobby asking for spare keys. But Paulo Coelho is not all wrong - the universe does conspire to help you. And my help arrives in the form of a hotel staff coming around to distribute the morning papers. I keep my cool as I wish him Good Morning and could he please open my door for me. He is either used to strange requests or he has exceptional savoir faire. He does not bat an eyelid; in fact, his eyes dor not stray down even once. He calls down to the front desk to confirm my name and uses his magic key to let me back in. Whew! That was close.
As I head down for breakfast in the morning I have a sudden impulse to check for wet spots on the carpet. Sure enough, there is one. I hope to God no one saw me peeing in the corridor or the Hilton will ban me for life.
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