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.