DAY THIRTY-FIVE: GETTING TO DUBLIN

Beautiful Inistoige is like "stepping back into
the 1700s," per our cab driver.

Today was a travel day, our last with Peter O’Toole and Princes Grace, that began from our air conditioned perch in Stag City, carried us through the highly-touted Inistoige and deposited us in the middle of Temple Bar at the Temple Bar Inn. More specifically, directly across the street from what has to be the world’s sole extant Hard Rock Cafe, stumbling distance to a half-dozen Disneyfied Irish pubs and a block from TGI Friday’s, just in case any of us want to wrap up tonight or tomorrow with a nice plate of potato skins.  Don’t say we weren’t warned. 

The shock to our collective small village systems actually began about 12 miles from our hotel, and hour or so into the drive when Princess Grace, who was operating her own independent nav system alongside my sad lair of backseat shame where power windows are a luxury afforded only those who’ve earned a front seat spot (I ceded all driving responsibilities to Peter O’Toole before we even left Kilkenny, saying, lamely, “It seems like everyone is more relaxed when I’m not behind the wheel.” Not sure they bought it, because Sandra Bullock quickly corrected me, saying, “You’re more relaxed, at least.”), blurted, “It’s going to take 47 minutes to go the last 12 miles?”

The back seat is a primitive place indeed.

It seemed absurd. Dublin is a city of 550,000, barely larger than the imminently manageable Edinburgh. 47 minutes to go 12 miles? Siri had clearly lost her mind.

Siri was an optimist. Around and around we went, veering this way and that, stopping and starting, until finally, after a missed left turn that added 15 minutes to our ETA, provoking a chorus of moans from all of us — including one front the normally unflappably O’Toole, though it must be said that his moan, truthfully, did have an slight undertone of breeziness — Sandra Bullock overwrote the front seat nav system. “Just turn here!” she said, her failed attempts to control her voice betraying the depths of her panic.

We turned.

And found ourselves in the middle of Temple Bar, surrounded by tourists but not yet frat boys (they’ll be coming later, we’re told).  “I see a sign for the hotel,” O’Toole said jauntily.  He pulled forward, into a very narrow alleyway that seemed to dead-end in a brick wall.

“Where’s this hotel?” I asked warily.

“The sign.  It’s written on the side of this building.”

I saw nothing.  

“Lets just parallel park here and carry our stuff up,” offered my wife.  I hopped out of the car and waited for everyone to follow, which almost happened.  

Instead, apparently while I was standing there on the sidewalk looking at the wall for the name of our hotel, everyone else decided to stay in the car and park in the garage at the end of the alleyway.  I’d missed that part.  I kept standing on the sidewalk, pretty happy to be out of the car finally.  Sandra Bullock shouted at me, “Get in!” but it didn’t register.  I just nodded.  Being out of the car was okay, even if it meant standing in Temple Bar and dodging tourists.  “Just go,” I said absently, as if in a daze, completely forgetting my responsibility for one of the humongous bags wedged into the rear of the Micra, resting on

Take your pick: tourists, or the car?

top of, I will continue to insist even as the rest of my traveling party takes my certainty as further evidence of my descent into insanity, the 24 ounces of water that mysteriously disappeared this morning from my water bottle.  

No, seriously.  There was water, and then it was gone.  This morning I carefully filled my bottle from the sink because I wanted to make sure I drank water today.  I’ve been lagging on my water consumption.  I filled the bottle, shoved it in the side pocket thing of my backpack, carried the backpack to where the Micra was parked, tossed it in the trunk, got in the car and drove back to the hotel.  Then I went upstairs to get the rest of the luggage.  When I came back down and pulled my backpack out of the trunk, the bottle was empty.

Where does 24 ounces of water go?  My backpack was dry.  Was the Pembroke Hotel in Kilkenny plagued by thirsty gremlins?  Did a hungover hen party participant seize the water during an arid morning after walk of shame? 

My wife spoke in code.  “Are you sure you filled it?” she said benignly, meaning, “You forgot to fill your water bottle, you idiot,” but I’m telling you, I’m not budging from this story.  24 ounces of water disappeared.  

Or did it?

Many hours later, having seen a few drops of water on the outside of my continent-sized Patagonia bag, I pounced.  “Aha!” I said, “The water spilled into the trunk!”  Or bonnet, if you’ve assimilated better than me.

Sandra Bullock mentally rolled her eyes.  “No way.  You’d already taken the empty bottle out of the trunk before you put that bag in.”

“But what if…” I protested.  Nothing.

By then, the issues surrounding my economy-sized Patagonia bag weren’t about whether it had absorbed 24 ounces of water while leaving everything inside dry (it did) so much as how the bag, by necessity, had gotten from the parking garage to the street while I stood on the sidewalk with no phone connectivity, blissfully waiting for my party to appear.  “Our hotel is down there!” I said strongly, deflecting, pointing with authority down the street toward where our hotel lurked, hidden behind a crowd a people carrying shopping bags.  

That seemed to satisfy everyone, so we walked to the hotel, whose lobby was a stellar example of the Rainforest Cafe school of interior design.  It was sultry and subterranean.  Upstairs, the rooms were small.  So small that “we’re going to have to take turns getting dressed while one of us waits in the hall,” per Peter O’Toole.  I piled my shame atop the humiliation I earned earlier when I refused to drive.  You see, I made these reservations.  I pored over hotels.com for hours, finding the perfect spot.  I checked Trip Advisor.  I even glanced at Rick Freaking Steves.  And I ended up putting us here, in the Rainforest Cafe, across the street from the Hard Rock Cafe.  

Can't get enough of those ruins.

Not my best day.  I had consciously avoided driving the narrow streets of Inistoige, leaving Peter O’Toole at the wheel while we navigated past its beautifully maintained cottages and had not even enough humility to smile pleasantly like the rest of my group during lunch, when the young twins at the next table serenaded us with an hour of Teddy-worthy, paint-peeling whining.  “They’re piercing my brain!” I muttered as Sandra Bullock continued her comprehensive survey of Ireland’s brown bread, recalling the exhaustive key lime pie research she underwent during the legendary trip to Key West for O’Toole’s 50th birthday.  

Inistoige was inarguably beautiful, with its trees, its vintage homes and the gardens and ruined mansion of Woodstock, and its Cadbury caramello bar, available at the local convenience store and and effective tool for soothing nerves worn thin by stereo whining lunchtime twins.  

From Inistoige the drive to Dublin was all M roads, clear sailing at 120 k/mh — and then we entered the city center.   It only got worse during the 1.7 miles drive from Temple Bar to the Enterprise car rental return center, where they protested weakly that I”d promised to return the car at 10 and only shrugged when I told them I’d called and said I’d be late. 

It was during the walk back to the hotel that we realized our small town Irish idyll was finally and completely over.  (The walk took 20 minutes — same as driving)  So many people.  So many donut shops.  So much graffiti.  Sandra Bullock narrowly avoiding getting hit by someone turning right onto a side street.  100,000 Dubliners and an equal number of tourists crowding onto the ancient O’Connell Bridge.  “It’s sensory overload!” said my wife.  

It was true. After two weeks in the relative wilderness we were unprepared for the pace of a (at first glance, somewhat gritty) big city. We sought refuge in a pub, searching for peace, a beer and our daily allotment of fries (in that order). Even that became so perilous that at one point, both O’Toole and Grace suggested separately and half-jokingly that we just “give up and go to the Hard Rock.” 

Finally we ducked into some place a block away. Inside, some guy was playing U2 covers on an acoustic guitar to an attentive gathering of people visiting from Texas. We walked through the bar to an empty back room and sat. “This’ll work,” said Sandra Bullock. They drank beer and talked about tomorrow’s plans. I wrote this. 

Here are today’s numbers:

4 — Subways passed during the walk back from Enterprise.  Not once were we tempted.

.

7.35 — price, in Euros, of a pint of beer in Temple Bar.  Michael the cab driver was right.

9 — time, in minutes, I spent behind the wheel today before giving way to Peter O’Toole, who said later, “I like driving,”

312 — distance, in feet, from the Temple Bay Inn. to the nearest Starbucks.

1 — number of Cokes I’ve been drinking each and every day.  Add that to the list of bad habits I’ll be challenged to break once we get home.  

18 — more minutes until our cab comes so I’ve got to wrap this up.

Tomorrow, per S. Bullock, we’re just going to “get up and start walking,” which should be cool.  Dublin’s a big place and we’ve got to see more of it than the somewhat overwhelming Fisherman’s Wharf outside the front doors of our hotel.