Bewleys Hotel, Dublin, Day 71. Walking Dublin
This day could also be known as ‘Recovery Day’—a night of strong enchantment has consequences. But nothing beats arriving back in the city centre of Dublin and having an incredible traditional Guinness beef stew—yeah, I know, just like me, you’ll soon realize that this city lives on this stuff; Guinness, the water of Ireland.
In walking around, our group met up with Alex and Lauren on Temple Bar street (Caitlin, Emma, and Bella relaxed and did their own thing today). Craving gelato, I bought it with Joseph and we shared a spoon. I’m kidding. But the mint chip was so amazing. Before this, we had all gone in a Disney-themed candy shoppe—I was craving Reese’s Cups and the others got sugary vines and dotted sweets.
After a passive debate on whether we should do the bus tour of Dublin, we decided to wait another day. Instead, we all followed Briar and Anna as they led us to Saint Patrick’s Cathedral. Most of the group stayed in the gardens outside, but Briar, Anna, Kat, and I all paid the €6 mandatory donation and entered inside.
I viewed the inside, and the city of Dublin, cameraless—in a sense, liberating me from the obligation, as much as I craved for pictures. I told myself last night at Temple Bar the following: ‘A picture is worth a thousand words, but…which words?’ Somehow that justified a cameraless experience for me. In fact, I picked up a habit of another type of recording later on.
The Cathedral was more a museum, a preservation of people’s memories on the walls, famous Biblical scenes in the series of stained glass, stone tombs and high arches, the dust of ages past and present. I touched the table that Jonathan Swift gave out the Eucharist on—after a short-lived political career, he became the Dean of St. Patrick’s (a prestigious position carried on even today) and wrote his political satires then. There was a small wall memoir of Swift’s servant—an ambitious move to honor a ‘lowly’ figure next to the greats, but that is the politically ambitious, light-of-liberty Swift for you. The grounds where the Cathedral was built is said to be where Saint Patrick baptized thousands.
Once reunited with the whole group, I noticed a flowerbed that Vinnie was quoting. I went up to it and read ‘Here lie the seeds of peace to spread throughout the world’. Yellows, violets, reds, and indigos dotted the grass in an arrangement akin to a summer day pointillist painting.
On our way back, Mo and I parted from the group to use the bathroom at Porterhouse Brewery Company pub. The name wouldn’t be mentioned if it wasn’t for what happened the second we stepped inside: a sound greeted our ears—a mix of flute, guitar, drums, and vocals far above us in an elevated alcove. After the restroom trip, we walked upstairs and heard the Irish group Sitar play live music to a lively pub crowd in the middle of the Sunday afternoon. It was so perfect, an ambience so intimate and alive I didn’t want to leave. A great Irish cultural vein pulsed all around me, the beat of the drum, of the bartender pulling down the Guinness tap, of the hum of conversation, the hum of dim lights, hummed, beat. The flute’s golden music—a siren keeping me there. But finally, this treasure of a moment had to fold back up and be absorbed in the rest of the day’s archive of events.
Back on the Millennium Spire side of the city centre, passing over a bridge, I called Katya, as promised. The experience was stressful—not only was it international but my provider is British, so it’s doubly international to call and the first few attempts failed. During this time, I bought Irish souvenirs at a quality tourist shop. Then we got it to work and the call lasted six minutes—at that point both the taxi came to take us back to the hotel and the phone just ended the call. No text or call from my phone could be made for the rest of the trip. Not only cameraless, I was now phoneless.
After Mo and Vinnie turned the lights off in the room and bolted off to the airport, I joined the girls in their room to watch the end of Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. Then a series of MTV-esque music videos of boy bands came on—they’re…still around? Apparently. But the modern ones have these three-letter initials and that’s their name. So abstract, like the cubist video of one of them.
Group Awesome (which really includes everyone on the trip, but in this case, the main 7 of us) made a return to the Temple Bar of Temptation—the taxi there was a hit. Party lights shined from the ceiling and it felt like a party limo. After that temple, in which again we forgot about Baby Dublin, we taxied off to Copper Faces club. I call this my least favourite night—dancing was congested, the rooms were underground, I got lost from the group a few times (there was a bit of panic when this happened, since I was phoneless).
We returned to Bewleys Hotel at 3. I fell asleep first. Apparently Vinnie jumped over my sleeping body at some point. Oh well, it was a good sleep.
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