Every Fecking Irish Pub

Foolishly I followed you to Dublin

Like a ghost I walked the streets of Temple Bar

And all the bright young things were throwing up their Guinness in the gutter

And once I thought I saw you from afar

- Every Fucking City, Paul Kelly

There's a huge window in the lobby of the hostel, and it overlooks Parnell St. I'm sitting in front of it now, and there's not a lot happening. It's one of those gloomy, prematurely darkened Sunday afternoons, the kind that makes you long for a warm bed and a good book. I'm not entirely sure I want to step out this evening, but I'll probably have to. 

I'm only in Dublin for another evening, and I should make it count. 

It took me about half a day to realise that cars here drives on the left side of the road. It took me a whole day to realise that I didn't have to look down at the pavement every couple of seconds to check for dog poo. But it only took me twenty minutes of walking down O'Connell St to realise that every fecking pub in Dublin is going to be an Irish bar. 

There's something disconcerting about Irish bars on the continent. There's the appropriation of British culture, for one, which means that they're the ones you automatically turn to for a screening of the Arsenal. There's the kitchiness for another. And then, there's the irritating thing that they're almost never run by, owned or patronised by, Irish people. 

Temple Bar is the spiritual home of all those far-flung Irish bars. And I took a stroll through it on Saturday night out of curiosity. It's a depressing place when you're sober. The pubs are packed and the bright young things are lining up in front of clubs. There's puke on the pavements and drunken kids stagger from one bar to another. There's a huge queue in front of the ATM (it is very expensive in Dublin). 

Everything's dressed up to be sold now, ain't it? 

But on the other hand, they do have these plaques on the pavement for places mentioned in Ulysess. Which is kind of nice, I felt. Always wanted to read Ulysess, but never got past the first chapter, and the last monologue by Mary Bloom. Some people say that if you read the first and last pages of a book, it counts as reading the whole thing, but I've always had my doubts about that idea. You miss out on a lot if you just go from A to Z, and you never find out why the Zebra did it. 

 

Dublin's been alright. Guinness is expensive (I spent more for a pint than I did for lunch, today) but surprisingly good. The weather's cold and miserable at times. But people are willing to stop for a chat, there's always something interesting in the streets, and most of the museums and galleries are free, which helps on the cold afternoons. 

Most days, everything's grand.