Dublin through a Sleepless Fog

The first time I went to Ireland, I was sixteen years old. I remember lots of rolling green countryside, kissing the Blarney Stone, and crossing a scary, cool suspension bridge near the fantastic Devil's Causeway. I also remember the Irish Immigration Officer gleefully mocking the birth state listed in my passport.

Sixteen years later, as I tentatively approach the Dublin Airport Passport Control Booth, I wonder what taunts may be forthcoming. But the guard simply inquires about my travel plans and exhorts me to spend more money in Ireland than in the UK. It is five in the morning.

The bus to downtown is even easier to find than the Internet suggested. The early-morning city seems quiet and shuttered, but it's still fun to look around. I never get over that joyful feeling of being able to emerge from an airplane into a completely different environment. The bus already passes buildings that look older than anything in the States. The cars are driving on the left. According to posters, there's a Tom Stoppard play on, and Stockard Channing is starring in The Importance of Being Earnest. A most suitable play for Dublin, I think. I look forward to finding Oscar Wilde's statue later in the day.

The bus driver seems to be making his route up as he goes along. Halfway down O'Connell Street he tells us that he is no longer planning to go to the main bus station (the destination we had specified when boarding). He drops us off at the closest parallel point. No matter, we weren't interested in the bus terminal, anyway; I had just chosen it as a reasonable starting point from which to walk to our hotel.

So my man and I begin to walk what will be the first of seventeen miles for the day. We have packed lightly, for just this occasion, but it will still be nice to drop the luggage off at the hotel. It is still super-early in the morning, but the hotel staff is obviously used to these insane transatlantic flights and have an efficient luggage storage system. I ask what time check-in begins. "Two o'clock." The desk clerk looks at our jet lagged faces and tells us that if we come back around lunchtime our room should be ready.

Unladen, my main man and I emerge from the hotel in search of coffee and something freshly baked. Living in Laramie has left me with a permanent craving for baked goods, since breads and cakes don't tend to work as well at high altitude. After a two hour drive, a four hour flight to Boston, a mad dash through ancient Logan airport (down administrative hallways, past areas that look like construction sights with no construction, until finally "We're outside!? They make you go outside to get to the International Terminal?", rushing through security again...), and a five and a half hour flight with very little sleep (they barely even dimmed the lights) to Dublin, I was at sea level again. Well, I guess I was at sea level in Boston, but I was too harried to notice. Seriously, when even Philadelphia has a nicer, easier to navigate airport, you know there's a problem.

Anyway, coffee. The hotel is by the Liffey, slightly east of the main part of town. We wander in the general direction of Merrion Square and find a little shop with pastries in the window. Sold. I start my vacation out right with a Napoleon and a cappuccino. Yum.

We amble towards Grafton Street, where things are starting to wake up. Later in the day, the stores and pubs will be mobbed, but for now, people are wearing their early morning, got-to-get-to-work faces. We look, we stroll, we check out Ha'Penny Bridge and Temple Bar and try to decide where we might want to sample the first pint of the holiday later in the afternoon. We visit St. Patrick's Cathedral, which has a pretty park with flowers and fountains on one side. A bench calls our name. The coffee and sugar have worn off.

After a comfortable rest in the park, we amble towards Christ Church Cathedral. T risks his neck jaywalking across a particularly complex intersection. I wait at no fewer than four crosswalks to meet him, wondering if this only seems complicated because of my travel fatigue.

We walk. We circle back to St. Stephen's Green, which is indeed green. The tulips are huge, even taller than those I remember from the Netherlands. Another bench welcomes us until I declare that I either need more caffeine or a nap.

We head to Bewley's on Grafton Street, the oldest coffee place in Dublin. It is a happening joint, with antique touches and dark wood. I settle onto a plush, red velvety bench and enjoy a very fine cappuccino. We watch the locals and the tourists for awhile.

After an enjoyable light lunch at a tiny basement eatery, we check into the hotel for a siesta. At this point, I am so punchy that the vending machine snacks have me doubled over in laughter. The potato chips (crisps) are called "Tay-tos" and have a happy little potato man on the packet. http://www.taytocrisps.ie/ T thinks I am insane.

The room is comfortable and after a quick shower, I set my alarm to go off in a couple of hours and fall right asleep. The alarm rings, and I jump. "Oh no, we've slept all night!" I cry. T laughs. I admit to being disoriented, but I feel so much better.

We take another pleasant walk around the much busier city. We have our first Guinness in a classic pub, toast Fem Chick and her main man for their well-wishes, and discuss all the things we are looking forward to on this vacation.

We have Irish Stew in a pub called the Hairy Lemon. I couldn't resist the name, and it was a very good choice.

We find Oscar Wilde. It is a successful day.

We'll be back again in ten days to catch our flight back to the States. After that, I hope I don't have to wait another sixteen years to return to Ireland again.