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!

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.