The Curious Incident of the Frog in the Night-Time
[photo: Plaque in Dublin General Post office]
I'm crashed out in a top bunk in the hostel's 16-bed bunkhouse room when I'm awakened by someone shouting rather excitedly and drunkenly in French. This was a fairly common occurrence when we lived on the busy Rue de la Republique, and I reflexively holler back "Ta guele!" (roughly, "shut your quiche-hole"), but he doesn't. Wait, where am I? Oh yeah, Ireland. I open one eye and locate my watch...quarter to four.
The guy's not shutting up or going away.
He switches, tragically, to sorta-English.
"It is a schtoll! There is a schtoll!"
Then he snaps on the light switch, and the whole room is lit with blinding fluorescence. Son of a...
I open the other eye and look around. Fourteen other backpackers and wayfarers grumble and curse, and what appears to be a balled-up dirty sock sails through the air and tags the guy on the shoulder. I realize that the sooner somebody talks this guy down and figures out what the problem is, the sooner we can all get back to sleep. And I'm the only other one in the room qui parle francais. Damn.
I slither down off the rack and go talk to him. He's just gotten back from a nightclub (fair enough, I came in around 2AM myself), he's had a bit to drink (fair enough, this is Dublin), and he's got the munchies (fair enough, it happens). But when he got back to the dorm, someone had ransacked his backpack and stolen his calamar.
Wait, what? I thought I'd misunderstood.
So, let me get this straight: You think that someone entered this locked room, to which only the people here right now have the key, rummaged through your gear, and took nothing except your plastic tub of marinated squid? And for this you wake up everybody in the place at 4AM?
A civic-minded Aussie (every hostel in the world has at least one Aussie or Kiwi staying in it) joins in the investigation, and with me translating, we bring the situation to a temporary solution. This dastardly theft will be reported to the hostel authorities. We will assume innocence on the part of our fellow dorm inhabitants. The lights will be turned back off. Here is a packet of crisps. You may want to have a glass of water and take some aspirin. Perhaps tomorrow your squid will be returned unmolested.
[photo: "No Bomb Please" on trash can, Temple Bar]
Apart from this unpleasant incident, my weekend trip to Dublin went without a hitch--well, the weather was terrible, but it is Dublin after all.
I realized after I got home that I had taken very few photos (about 20, versus the 150 or so I took in Austria/Switzerland). Dublin doesn't really have a scenic focal point: There are no mountains or ocean views, the Liffey river and Ha'penny bridge [photo] are pretty ho-hum, the Georgian architecture is stately but a little dull... in fact, what most people go to Dublin to see is the inside of a pub and the creamy head on a pint of Guinness.
As for myself, I did much the same, prioritizing pubs with a literary connection: this one mentioned in Ulysses, this one in At Swim-Two-Birds, this one where Joyce used to drink, this one where Brendan Behan got arrested (there were a few of those).
By the time I was on the plane home, I started to realize that my entire Dublin trip had been experienced through an early-20th-century filter: Nearly everything I'd seen related to Joyce or Beckett or O'Brien or the 1916 Easter Rising or Michael Collins. I'm certain that this caused me to miss something of the true character of the city and its people in the 21st century. Is that necessarily wrong? Well, probably. [photo: Ulysses signed first edition]
Sunday morning, as I'm packing up my gear to head to the airport, the Aussie guy stops by:
"Did your friend ever find his squid?"
I laugh. "I don't know. But I think he left. His stuff's gone"
"He left? I thought you two were traveling together."
"Huh? No. Oh God no."
Being so self-important as to wake up a dormful of guys at 4AM over a missing container of squid (that I'm pretty sure no one else would touch)--I'm willing to put that down to basic drunkenness rather than basic Frenchness. But more than one French person to whom I've told this story has said "That's very French."
And though I do in fact like marinated squid (if it's fresh, and hasn't been stewing in some guy's backpack for a week) I swear it wasn't me.
[photo: James Joyce statue squinting at the morning sun]