One Last Night In Dublin

I travelled all this way, there was one thing I was not going to miss for all the beer in Ireland: a visit to the Guinness Storehouse.  I could ramble on all about the tour, the factory, the brewing process, etc., but I have a feeling you'd much rather hear about a valuable lesson I learned and how I nearly shit my pants.

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Do You Have A Ticket?

It was about noon when I finally succumbed to the pesky daylight streaming into our room.  Amazed that on a Sunday morning I hadn't yet heard from my parents, I picked up the phone and dialed their room.  I woke them up.  No mass today, this would be a Godless heathen Sunday.

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I Think I'm A Pumpkin

For those of you that have spent any amount of time in downtown San Luis Obispo, the Porterhouse, formerly known as the Judge Roy Bean pub, is a little like Mother's--but about four times larger.  It has a very nice, very large mirrored bar just inside the entrance and it seems to go on forever.  The drinking age in Ireland is only eighteen and, with a university across the street, our clan easily raised the average age of clientele by at least ten years.  By the time Harry arrived around 9:45, the place was packed and the music--an eclectic mix of American and English technopop--was loud.  I didn't think this outting would last too much longer and sure enough, shortly after Harry arrived, Gary headed back to the hotel.  My sister figured the rest of us old fuddy duddies were not far behind so she and Josh took off to go find the next party.  My mother, who two hours and a bottle of wine earlier was adamantly opposed to going anywhere except bed, asked for a change of venue.  I guess she wasn't worried anymore about turning into a pumpkin.

Harry took us down a few more blocks to Dawson's Pub, quite probably the smallest pub in the world.  This is where the theme for the rest of the trip would be set because the Porterhouse was the first and only pub we would leave voluntarily from here on out.  Dawson's was, well, small, and it was packed.  Harry bought the first round.  As my glass emptied I thought for sure we were in the home stretch.  By now even I was beginning to hear the Sandman calling.  As if reading my thoughts, Harry ordered another round.  Alright fine, one more.  But the eleventh pint of the day--twelfth if you count the beer the day before in Chicago--was going down a lot slower. This would be it, no way I could drink anymore tonight.  It's not that I was drunk (although I obviously had to be by now) I was getting full!  The bar started to clear out a bit.  I was halfway through my Carlsberg when I noticed another one sitting on the bar in front of me.  That rat bastard Harry had ordered another round.  Not only was he getting us shitfaced, he was paying for all the damn drinks. This guy was tricky.  

In Ireland when they serve wine by the glass, they actually give you a 187mL mini bottle.  At this point in the evening my mom had them lined up along the bar.  She started putting them in her purse because she couldn't drink them fast enough.  It seems we had met our match, Harry was hard core.  It was about 2AM when we finally got thrown out of Dawson's Pub.  We walked back to the hotel with Harry and when we got to the door of the lobby he asked "do they have a bar in there?"  Hell yeah they do, come on in!  The five of us bellied up one more time.  

This time we were ready.  My dad and I had our money out before we even walked into the hotel. We picked up this round.  Shortly after, he and my mom disappeared, six hours after they insisted we couldn't wait until 9:30 to meet up with Harry.  Surely the night was finally coming to an end for all of us.  Last call.  I still had half a pint and was happy to sit this one out.  I think Harry must belong to some Irish religous sect that does not believe in allowing last call to go unanswered, no matter what. The bartender served us one last round, but asked us to leave the bar area so they could lock up. Amen.  We shut down our second bar of the night and stumbled into the lounge. 

We were down to just me, Harry, and Patrick, and two other occupied talbes in the lounge area where we sat down.  One was a French couple on the other side of the room.  They were minding their own business and I wouldn't have noticed them except  for the two guys sitting at a table between us.  The guys were from Sweden and had started poking fun at the French couple by shouting "voulez-vous coucher avec moi" at them.  The couple did not appreciate this and exchanged some words--in English--with the Swede before getting up and storming off. My brother, ever the drunken International diplomat, applauded, a move that earned him favor and a seat next to the Swede.  

For about an hour we argued with this guy about--of all things--whether the Irish were friendly or not. Apparently he doesn't have a cousin named Harry. We'd probably still be sitting there if it weren't for the guy's pregnant girlfriend who came to collect him.  At that point even Harry admitted the night was over. We walked him out to the lobby, pledged to see him later in the day, and greeted our sister who was stumbling into the hotel at the same time and whom I'm pretty sure was astonished to find that her "old" brothers were still up and about.  With Harry off, our sister accounted for, and no bars open within walking distance, it was time to call it a day/night/next day/next night.  

To recap: I woke up Friday morning about 8AM in San Antonio and I went to bed around 4AM Dublin time...on Sunday morning.  In those 38 hours of consciousness, I flew across an ocean, drank over two gallons of beer, discovered the worst copilot ever, met the worst guard ever, patronized three Irish pubs, got thrown out of two, and set a new personal record for most hours awake without going to bed.

And that was day one.

The Worst Guard Ever

Back in January, my brother accompanied my uncle to Ireland to begin making arrangments for what would turn out to be a second funeral for my grandmother.  Patrick couldn't say enough about how great the trip was and how much he was looking forward to his return trip in August. In addition to drinking lots of beer, he was able to meet the scores of family members scattered throughout the country and experience their good natured hospitality. One of those relatives was Harry, a kindred spirit for Patrick, although perhaps in title only.

Harry is a "garda", an Irish policeman.  They call them guards. As in England, Irish police officers do not carry guns.  Harry has a badge, and uses it occassionaly, but not in the way you might think. He's never made an arrest.  He's never issued a citation.  For a cop he pays almost no attention to detail. While showing my brother around Dublin in January, he often got lost, prompting my brother to call him "the worst guard ever".  Harry just laughed it off with his deep from-the-gut guffaw. That's Harry.

Harry works on communications equipment. In the states we have "sworn police officers" that carry badges, guns, drive around in police cars and enforce laws.  We also have non sworn support personnel that keep the computers running, the cars washed, and the paperwork flowing.  In Ireland everyone who works for the guard is "sworn".  So even though Harry's job has little to do with fighting crime, he's still considered a police officer in Ireland.

Although Patrick was the only one who had ever met Harry, we all met his brother and sister-in-law, John and Phil, in November when they flew out for the original funeral in Oakland, California. John and Phil live in Cork, the next destination on our itinerary. We'd be seeing them in a few days but, in the meantime, John insisted that we look Harry up while in Dublin as Harry was anxious to show us around.  Punctuating that anxiety was the fact that Harry hadn't stopped calling us since we checked into the hotel.  

Once everyone got settled at the hotel, the seven of us went out to a pub called Q Bar for dinner a few blocks away.  Patrick rang Harry up to see where we could meet him. They made arrangements to meet at the Judge Roy Bean pub at half nine. That announcement nearly caused a riot.  My parents flatly refused to go. It was coming up on 8PM and they did not want to wait around for over an hour.  "I need to go to bed" my mom said.  A few minutes later they reluctantly agreed.  After all, it was only a little more than an hour, we'd have one drink and then everyone could go to bed.  We left the Q Bar in search of Judge Roy Bean.

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Daniel was not aware of any pubs by that name and Harry had given my brother the general area the pub was in but no address.  To give you an idea of where we were, our hotel was situated literally across the street from the north wall of Trinity College. Temple Bar, a district in Dublin just west of Trinity College, is where all the nightlife takes place.  The area reminded me of Las Ramblas in Barcelona.  We knew the Judge Roy Bean was next to Trinity College right at the beginning of Temple Bar so we walked the six blocks from the Q Bar and started looking.  We asked a bunch of students who were lingering at the entrance to Trinity College and none of them had ever heard of Judge Roy Bean.  We walked to the south side of Trinity College...plenty of pubs, but none bearing the name Roy Bean.  

My brother and I walked across the street.  There were a couple of bouncers standing in front of a trendy looking club called the Porterhouse.  I sent Patrick to ask them if they knew where Judge Roy Bean was while I consulted Danny Boy one more time.  Patrick came back a moment later and declared "that's it."  

What?  That clearly was not the place, the sign said Porterhouse.  

"I asked them if they knew where the Judge Roy Bean pub was and they said that's what this place used to be called".  We looked at each other, shook our heads, agreed that Harry is the worst guard ever and motioned for our party to join us.

The Worst Copilot EVER

A good copilot is an essential part of any road trip.  The duties of the copilot are simple but important: remove obstacles for the driver.  Whether it be reading a map and providing navigational assistance, helping out with vehicle functions, checking for traffic in a blind spot, or providing conversation to keep the driver alert and engaged along a dreary road, a good copilot is not a necessity, but it sure makes things a heck of a lot smoother.

I remember during the Y2KRTE, somewhere around Day 21, we were trying desperately to get out of Texas.  This was before units like Vicki were available to most consumers, so we had Microsoft Streets loaded onto our laptop with an external GPS receiver plugged into a serial port. The GPS receiver simply showed a little car on the map that represented our current position.  If you went off route, it showed your little car on the map no longer along your intended route.  It was the copilot's job to provide navigational support to the driver to make sure the little car stayed on the route.

On day 21 we were on a two lane highway in the middle of nowhere.  I was driving and my copilot had been doing a good job of providing engaging conversation to keep his driver alert and engaged.  After about half an hour, Chris asks me what highway we’re on.  I paused for a moment to think about it, and then I looked at him and asked, “Don’t you know?  You’ve got the damn computer!”  “Well here’s where we’re supposed to be” Chris told me, pointing to the highlighted green highway on the screen, “and here’s the car”, pointing to our actual location on a diverging highway a few miles away.  I remember thinking "you're the worst copilot EVER".  I may have even told him as much.  I was wrong.

On day two of Ireland 2008, my family and I loaded our luggage into our rental car and got on the road to the Trinity Capital Hotel in downtown Dublin.  Thanks to Danny Boy, navigational support is not something my copilots have to deal with too much anymore.  That leaves helping out with vehicle functions, checking for traffic in a blind spot, and providing conversation to keep the driver alert and engaged along dreary roads.  Nowhere in the list of copilot duties does it include pestering, heckling, tormenting, or aggravating.  So let's go over the seating arrangement in the car. 

I am in the driver's seat on the right hand side of the car. Behind me in the back seat is my mom, an appropriate place for her considering her nickname, Miss Daisy. Next to Miss Daisy, in the middle seat, is my sister and next to her rounding out the back seat is my brother. In the front passenger seat, in the esteemed copilot position, my dad, my Number One, my left hand man. 

Our vehicle was a Ford Edge and, like most of the cars in Ireland, it had a manual transmission.  The last time I drove a car with a manual transmission was five years ago in Lugano Switzerland. Most of the time I was navigating the narrow, hilly roads of Lugano in a ten passenger van filled with children aged six to ten.  That was easier than the short trip I was about to take to our hotel.

I'm not here to make excuses, but I did have a few things on my mind, like keeping to the proper side of the road, yielding appropriately at roundabouts, following Danny's instructions, and maintaining a good balance of gas and clutch.  I was not always successful at the latter and on several occassions we stalled.  No problem.  Stay calm, depress the clutch, start the car, back in gear, here we go.  It's just like riding a bike...at the top of the Empire State Building...on the ledge...with someone pointing a gun at your head telling you not to fall!  Here's where my copilot comes in.

The first time I stalled, my copilot's helfpul conversation consisted of: "SWEET JESUS!"

The next time I stalled, as I tried to take the car out of gear start the car depress the clutch put the car back in gear and start driving before the cars behind me starting getting upset and honking, my copilot could have rolled down his window and given that International wave that says "we're not spacing out trying to get you to miss this light, we're just morons and stalled".  What he actually did was shake his head in disgust and shout: "SACRED HEART!"  That was much more helpful.

I must have stalled at least three more times because I remember going through "JESUS MARY AND ST. JOSEPH!", "MOTHER OF GOD!", and my personal favorite “LORD HAVE MERCY ON THE POOR SOULS!”.  It was no different than if I'd put Miss Daisy in the copilot's chair, gripping the oh shit handles with white knuckles and trying to put her foot through the floor in a vain attempt to get her brake pedal to work.  

As tumultuos as our ride was, we made the eight mile drive to the hotel in less than half an hour.  It took us another half hour and about five trips around the block to find the car park for the hotel, which was three blocks away and hidden behind a nondescript rollup door.  Of course, even after all that our room wasn't ready, we were about two hours too early.  We propped ourselves up at the bar, ordered some lunch, and of course, a round of pints.  

Meanwhile, Gary and Josh, who left the airport before us, still had not made it to the hotel.  In their case, driving was not the issue; anyone who's ever ridden in a car with Uncle Gary knows that braking, not acceleration is his challenge.  Without a GPS or a good map, navigation was their undoing and tensions were running high in their vehicle now too.  Finally, in a fit of exasperation, Gary pulled over, got out of the car, hailed a cab, and waved for a bewildered Josh to follow in their rental car.  So much for easing into UK driving.  It turns out they were only a few blocks away.  Lucky for them I was now an expert on the car park, saving them at least a little bit of added aggravation.  

We finished our pints and finally got into our rooms to freshen up from 18 hours of travelling.  By this time most of us had been up for 24 hours.  The day was barely half over.