… where you fly into Dublin Airport over the greenest of green fields (quite a difference from the industrial wasteland surrounding JFK)<\/p>\n
… where Grafton Street is, at the moment, a mania of commerce and white lights and pricey clothes and street performers<\/p>\n
… where the security guard at the door of the Trinity College library is a humorist along the likes of Mark Twain – you could have talked and laughed with that guy for hours<\/p>\n
… where you sit in the toasty warm clatter of Bewley’s, having the best cup of coffee you have ever had … thinking of James Joyce. You always think of James Joyce when you go to Bewley’s<\/p>\n
… where the skies are grey, the air chill and soft<\/p>\n
… where you realize just how much Ugg boots have completely taken over the world<\/p>\n
… where you can bond with other Robbie Williams fans in a way you cannot in the States … where you go to a pub with a live singer (who reminds you of Ewan McGregor in the most alarming way) doing Oasis, and the Beatles … and Robbie Williams. The entire place erupted into song and you were a part of it. You sang at the top of your lungs. “And through it ALL … she offers me proTECtion … a lot of love and affection …”<\/p>\n
… where the Book of Kells lurks … in all its mysterious unearthly beauty … suggestive of a long history, of religious faith hidden under stone … of deep dark blues, swirls of gold … There it is, on display, but there is only so much you can know about it.<\/p>\n
… where every child looks good enough to eat. Freckled, pudgy, bright red cheeks …. encased in snow suits, so fat that they literally cannot move their arms<\/p>\n
… where every corner is filled with chattering smoking teenage schoolgirls in plaid skirts, all of them on their cell phones (probably to each other!)<\/p>\n
… where you stay in a B&B in Ranelagh – in a garret room. Enormous, sprawling, a wardrobe that reminds you of Narnia … a skylight … rain on the skylight …<\/p>\n
… where you go out for a pint, end up making friends with 3 guys from Yorkshire, who you then end up spending 5 hours with … pub-crawling … and then you take a drunken cab ride home at 3 in the morning … wondering: “Who the hell were those guys we just hung out with?”<\/p>\n
… where you have a brief conversation with a guy, and during that conversation, he says to you, “You bastards have brought political correctness to the rest of the world” … and where you reply: “Jesus, man, I know. And I humbly apologize.”<\/p>\n
… where it’s all about having pints and listening to live music<\/p>\n
… where you hear from one of the Yorkshiremen that you, yourself, are a perfect “Lad-ette”. Meaning: “one of the boys … a chick that can hang out with the boys.” Where you are then referred to as “Lad-ette” for the rest of the evening. Where you know that this is the ultimate compliment.<\/p>\n
… where you wake up really early, despite the fact that you cavorted with Yorkshiremen until 3 in the morning, and you curl up in a chair by the window in your garret room, and read Underworld<\/i><\/p>\n
… where the high heels of women clack on the cobblestones of Temple Bar<\/p>\n
… where I see the face of my future husband in the face of every guy I meet<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
… where you fly into Dublin Airport over the greenest of green fields (quite a difference from the industrial wasteland surrounding JFK) … where Grafton Street is, at the moment, a mania of commerce and white lights and pricey clothes … Continue reading