Mrs. O'Bleary

Day One

Propelled by the excitement of our arrival in Ireland we bought a three day bus pass and headed toward our hotel.  Knowing it was too early to check in we left our baggage there and started to walk around downtown Dublin.  We encountered the Dublin Castle site shortly, and in the kismet that I fear we have come to expect, it was free Wednesday and the first tour of the day was to be ours.  This was the perfect introduction to Dublin and Ireland in general. Built on the site of a large Viking village at the confluence of the smaller Poddle and the Liffey rivers in a place they called Black Pool (Dubh Linn) the palatial Georgian-looking Castle square was first an English fortification, then a castle, chapel complex for English Viceroys, and the site of the handover of rule to the Republic of Ireland — where Michael Collins raised the Irish flag at long last—and now a site for inaugurations of the prime ministers (The Taoiseach—"chief" in the Irish language) and state visits. In the 1960s renovations led to the excavation of an old fort gun powder tower and part of the medieval walls of the ancient larger city. We descended the stairs to see this dank-smelling underlayment to the bustling town above.  In about two exhausting hours we were brought up to date on much of the history of Ireland.  We particularly enjoyed our guides brogue and attitude toward this by-and-large oppressed homeland's history.  In regard to a decision to close the Police Museum at the site he said "Many Irish are rather sniffy about the police, that is until they need them for anything and then they call right away.  Personally I think they do very well for an unarmed force."

Dublin Castle courtyard and one of the large reception rooms of the State apartments.  The Irish have lovingly maintained the oil paintings of their overly bedecked and beplumed former English Viceroys.  No destruction of historical truth in service to Revolution

It was minutes after leaving this great introduction tour that I realized I was in desperate need of sleep. We waddled (Steve wishes to point out here that he does not waddle) to yet another historic site and all I could do was sit on the bench and blink in the sun— occasionally lifting my head to look at the impressive facade of Christ Church.  We had choices.  Go on another tour, sit through Peace Prayers at Noon (and fall asleep) or just catch a bus, any old bus and ride it for a full circuit.  We got on the bus.

We startled the driver who at the end of the line came up the stairs of the double decker to find two sleepy Americans still ensconced.  We had ridden for over an hour to the outskirts of Dublin south, dull tracts of suburbia lulled me into a deep sleep which I couldn't break until Steve roused me at the end of the line back by our hotel.  We finally got to check-in and slept for three hours.  Revived, we had an Indian dinner with beloved onion bhadji appetizer.  Here we struck up a conversation with an Irish woman and her German boyfriend about the boom times in Ireland, immigrant beggars making 200 quid a day, labor union differences between the U.S and Ireland, books and general morning grumpiness.  I was struck by the pluck of her, the storytelling, the enthusiasm she had about so much interesting stuff.  I told stories myself, funny ones that elicited real laughter.  I thought to myself perhaps I am Irish.

The view from our doubledecker bus while I was still conscious