The VP and I Go To Ireland – Part 1 of ? – (9/13/18)

IRELAND (PART ONE OF MANY):

*Hey friends!  I haven’t written in a little bit because I got crushed by work before going to Ireland for 11 days.  I’m back and it feels great!  I meant to write this as one long piece, but that’s not possible.  I don’t know how many “parts” there will be to this Ireland series, but I don’t want to shortchange any of it, so excuse the next few entries on Jimmyschair.  It will be Ireland heavy for I don’t know how long.  I hope you like it. 

When I was 15, I couldn’t go to sleep on Christmas Eve night because I was so excited about the possibility of being a gifted a car on Christmas.  My parents had told me over and over and over again that I was ABSOLUTELY NOT getting a car, but I had convinced myself that these assurances were all part of their planned rouse.  “He won’t be as excited if he KNOWS he’s getting a car,” they had to be saying to each other as they continued arguing over whether I was more of a Benz or Bentley kid.  Turns out, I was more of a HEAVILY used 1988 White Ford Escort hatchback 6 months later kid.  But I didn’t know that on Christmas Eve; so I lied in my bed with eyes popping out of my face anytime I heard a car passing by our house.  I wouldn’t look out my bedroom window because I love surprises (YOU READING THIS, VP?!?!) and I didn’t want to ruin what my parents must have been planning for months.  This is not a story of a petulant 15 year old  treating Christmas morning like a funeral for hopes and dreams (I mean, that’s what it became, but…) Instead, it’s the last time I can remember being incoherently excited for something.  Drunk without a having had a drink excited.  My life was about to change forever excited.  That was the last time I felt THAT kind of unmitigated excitement.  (Yes, I was excited for my wedding, but that was definitely MITIGATED by the nerves associated with standing in front of a couple hundred people.)  Then, 18 years later, the VP and I flew to Ireland on the night of August 30th with a plan to sleep on the 7 hour flight and wake up refreshed for our first Irish morning.  I should’ve known.  There was no fucking way I was sleeping on that plane.

The VP and I landed in Dublin exhausted, but pretending not to be because what’s lamer than kicking off the trip of a lifetime with yawns?  So we trudged through our baggage claim and customs with glassy eyes while assuring each other that “yeah, no, I am so excited!”  The taxi driver was the first hint that we were somewhere foreign because he…was professional and not mean.  Did you know that taxi drivers who don’t snarl from the front seat while you ask if he can pop the trunk actually exist?  Better yet, there are even taxi drivers who GET OUT AND HELP YOU with your luggage.  Unbelievable, I know, but I was there.  As the older gentleman helped load the VPs Gajillion pound suitcase into the trunk, I kept telling The VP to film what was happening on her phone.  “No one will believe us!  BUT NO ONE WILL BELIEVE US!!!!”

We got to our hotel before our room was ready, which was totally fine because we were SO NOT TIRED.  Matta’ ah Fack, before the front desk lady even checked the status of our room, I was all like “I don’t even care if it’s ready cuz I’m not even tired so like whatever.”  Her face changed as she looked back up at me.  “Whoa, didn’t know Americans could be so chill and masculine at the same time,” is what she wanted to say, but spotting the ring on my finger, opted to avoid a confrontation with The VP and instead said something like “Your room is not ready because you’re here 6 hours before check-in time.”  Her words were meaningless, her face told the story.  These Americans were different.

The VP and I left our baggage and went out to explore a Dublin morning.  When you’re NOT tired and your phones aren’t allowing you to Google “Uh, what do we do now that we’re actually here?” you just end up wandering and saying things like “I’m pretty sure…wait…no, maybe this way.”  It was vacation morning, which meant breakfast, which also meant drinking so…..PUB TIME!  And, living up to our reputation as “not your typical Americans,” we picked one where we didn’t see nerdy tourists.  We aren’t THOSE people!  (It was one kinda’ close to an H+M that The VP told me multiple times that she wanted to just “check out”.  Uh, yeah fuckin’ right VP, and ruin the movie being written about us called “Not Your Average Americans”?  OVER MY DEAD BODY).  Continuing the theme of rebellion, The VP ordered a Bloody Mary at the bar.  I ordered a Guinness, but I ordered it in that nonchalant, chill-like “this is just a beer that I love to normally drink and am not drinking just because everyone else here is drinking it and I want to feel included in the very community that my ancestors originated from.”  Youda’ thought we were born in this bar.

The first meal was fine and it didn’t matter; which is something that I came to realize throughout our stay in Ireland.  Don’t get me wrong, Jimmy EatFace looooooves a good meal, but when you’re in Ireland you’re so anxious to see more, drink more, talk to others more, and go elsewhere…uh, more, that food becomes an afterthought.  It takes time away from seeing other things.  It takes up space meant for Guinness.  It occupies your mouth from–okay, we get how eating food works.  We finished our fist meal, a traditional Irish breakfast that we split because we weren’t that hungry and “no, I do kinda’ like this blood sausage thing. It’s interesting!”  Was it more off-putting than interesting? HEY! Haven’t you heard? WE’RE NOT THOSE AMERICANS.

After a couple more pints of Guinness (we were on vacation!) and some aimless wandering (uh, it’s called “exploring”) where we didn’t look at the map because, let’s all say it together, “we’re not those Americans,” we headed back to our hotel.  Oh, our room was ready a couple hours early?  Cool, whatever, not a big deal, guess we should check it out.  The VP and I then crumpled on the bed like those spiders you spray with whatever aerosol can is closest so you don’t have to almost touch kill them with your hand.  (I sprayed a spider in my car yesterday using a bottle of dog pee cleaner I found in my trunk). We slept for a few hours, dreaming of things I don’t know about because I can’t remember my dreams and never listen when The VP tells me what she was dreaming of. I just hope the hotel workers didn’t come in our room while we were asleep and uncovered my lie about not being tired.  Yeah, we locked the door, but I don’t know how hotel nap time is treated in Ireland.

When we woke up around 6, we made a plan to go to the place Anthony Bourdain loved the most on his show about Dublin, “Kavanagh’s” aka “Gravediggers”.  It’s an old pub next to a cemetery about 14 minutes outside the crush of the Dublin bar scene.  By the time we got there, it was the perfect kind of busy, like they were waiting for us.  And, based on how kind the bartenders were, maybe they were? We ordered pints on pints on pints of Guinness, chatted up the distinguished bartender who made us feel like we had finally gotten to where we always should have been going.  It wasn’t this type of “let’s milk these tourists for all they got with cheap smiles and too much conversation” type of welcoming, but more of an easy conversation with someone who almost instantly went from stranger to relative.

I think the thing I had heard most about Ireland was that the people are what you go for.  And while I like people, there was a part of me that was worried about being bombarded with strangers inserting themselves in every conversation I would try to have.  I’m happy to report back that I was an idiot for thinking that.  The people are the highlight not because they cheers every beer you get, but because, somehow, they already know you and you already know them.  Those increasingly rare nights at home when all of your friends are able to make it out to the same bar and you can talk or not talk to any of them because you’re all comfortable; THAT is an Irish Pub.  I signed the guestbook like an absolute dolt because I saw it and instinctively grabbed it before realizing I didn’t know what to write because I didn’t feel like a guest.  Imagine going home for Thanksgiving and your Uncle Rick putting a “guestbook” in front of you.

We ended up getting pleasantly drunk; nowhere near the “my brain is broken now”-blackout that ends most fun nights at home.  We took a Taxi back to the hotel and walked to a nearby Subway because we weren’t there for the food.

The next day was for walking once we actually got up and out of our room, which became more difficult than anticipated once The VP discovered a British dating show with cooking called “Dinner Date”.  There was no hangover, just reality television.  Remember the show “Next” on MTV?  It’s like that but the person being wooed comes over to 3 people’s houses for a home cooked meal.  I hated that I kinda’ enjoyed the show too because we didn’t come to Ireland to sit in our room and watch daytime dating shows…but…like, it was good.  FUCK!

After a few episodes, and a few “hey, can we go now?”s from yours truly, we finally made it out of our hotel.  The plan was to walk and walk and walk until we saw Temple Bar and Guinness and nice Irish men in cool little hats telling us stories about places that sound magical.  “Excuse me, Ms. Concierge? Where’s do wrinkly faced storytellers hang out?”

Our self-guided walking tour through Dublin worked like the strongest coffee I could ever drink.  If I owned a Go-Pro I would’ve strapped it to my rotund head and never pressed “stop” to capture every single thing I was seeing.  Look, maybe it’s because I had never been out of the country before, but walking in a city an ocean away from home is battery power for humans.  Look, a river! Look, an old building! Look, a guy I don’t know with really tight pants!  No wonder little kids always seem to be so happy, it’s amazing seeing anything for the first time.

We set out to make our way to the Guinness storehouse, making sure to hit Temple Bar along the way.  Little did we know that we’d stop at some pub here, an immaculate church from 900 years ago there, and countless other “this looks like a postcard” places along the way.  We took a tour of Christ Cathedral Church and I got to see a meticulously artistic structure coated with CENTURIES of stories.

I’ll admit, even raised as an Irish Catholic, I always found church impossibly boring.  When my Mom used to tell me how impactful a Priest’s sermon was, I’d almost crack my skull with the effort it took me NOT to roll my eyes.  But this house of history wasn’t that.  I could’ve sat on one of those pews, in silence for hours, and been riveted every second of the way.  Your brain does amazing things when you’re enveloped in stained glass and moldings that could not have been made without modern technology.  I was thankful there my internet wasn’t working; this was all about the wonderment of pre-technology.  A trophy on the human brain’s mantle.

CAN’T WAIT TO TELL YOU MORE NEXT TIME!

K bye.