Today the Irish laughed at me, and but I didn’t mind.
It was my first full day in Dublin, and I spent it romping around and wandering in and out of various cafes. Coffee is so cheap here I got a cappuccino at each one, and haven’t blinked since eleven o’clock this morning. Needless to say, I haven’t missed a thing all day.
I’m very glad my first stop on this trip is a place where English is the main language. Even so, apparently there’s still enough to be ignorant about.
Yesterday, I bought a bus ticket to get from the airport to downtown Dublin and asked how to get to the Aston Quay station. I pronounced Quay “KUH-WAY” just like my good friend’s last name back home.
The ticket guy sighed.
“Aston ‘KEY’ is how you say it,” he said, handing over my ticket. “Welcome to Ireland.”
From my seat on the bus I texted some friends updates of my arrival. I was confused when a friend I live down the street from immediately responded and asked for me to bring her hash browns.
Upon reading my texts back, I realized my phone was autocorrecting “Dublin” to “Dunkin’”. (“I’ve arrived in Dunkin’!!!)
I started to type out an explanation that I wasn’t currently in the same country as her, and then changed my mind.
“Yes, chef,” I responded, not bothering to mention it would take about 5 weeks to transport said hashbrowns.
There’s no Dunkin’ in Dublin, but there is a breakfast place down the street from my hostel called The Beanhive. My vegetarian breakfast did indeed come with hashbrowns, as well as baked beans. To baked beans at brekkie, what can I say but “woof.”
I’m staying at the Dawson Hostel on Dawson Street, which is easy to remember while sober. My friends Carla and Tristan aren’t arriving until tomorrow, so I’ve had the day to navigate around the city on my own.
The idea of me wandering around a foreign city by myself has caused concern for my mom and more than a few of my friends. I tend to habitate in a space cadet-esque head space my friend Loren describes as a lapse in the executive functioning part of my brain. I must say, when I heard her say that I laughed and glowed with pride.
I will spend one day in Philadelphia and leave my headphones on one side of the city and my sunglasses on the other. It will take me weeks to remember where I left them and get them back. My phone’s battery chronically hovers around 18%, and my wallet, insulin pump, and keys all need to be strapped to my balls so the unpleasant incessant sensation reminds me to keep checking they’re all still there.
But I don’t got no balls. It’s not fair. Women’s pants have tiny pockets sewn into them, and we have no balls. No wonder I lose everything all the time.
Regardless, this space cadet has one saving grace that keeps me from perishing on the daily. I seem to have been born with a great sense of direction.
If I walk somewhere once, the path there and back gets imprinted in my mind. After one day in Dublin, I could lead you from my hostel to the Quay, the Flyefit gym on George Street, La Carussi Cafe, and The Bar with No Name.
I went to the No Name Bar to watch a comedy show. I wanted to observe Irish comedians in action to see if there was any cultural difference in their sense of humor, as I’d like to perform at an open mic when I’m back in Dublin at the end of my trip in a few weeks.
I enjoy going places and spending time alone, but I usually go to cafes, AMC theaters, and nature trails. I’d never gone to a bar alone before.
So I did what I’d do if my friends were there; I pregamed.
I headed to the nearest building to my hostel that appeared to be a bar. I walked in.
“Are you here to play darts?” the hostess asked me.
“Uhh, no.” I said, peering behind her at all the dart boards.
“This is a dart club,” she smiled at me, almost pityingly.
“Okay, I’ll try it out, but can I think about my strategy, while I get a drink?” I asked with no intention of playing darts.
She guided me back to the bar where I sat down in front of the bartender.
“Here to play darts?” he asked.
“I would, but I’m blind,” I explained.
He looked me in the eyes.
“You’re American,” he said.
“Yes, same thing,” I responded.
I sucked down a whiskey sour, and headed to No Name Bar already little tight.
I thought the show started at 7:30, but apparently it started at eight. I was the first one to arrive, and the ginger bearded guy behind the bar, Colin, gave me a free beer for getting there first.
I hate beer, but anything free at a bar is going to be drank. I grabbed a seat in the back corner to sip and wince at my beer as I watched the rest of the audience slowly trickle in until all the seats in the room were taken.
The show featured 3 comedians, and Colin turned out to be the host of the show. In between performers Colin worked the crowd. He was quick witted and sharp tongued; he did a number on four frat boys fresh on “University summer holiday” who’d made a pile of empty Guinness glasses on the table in front of them before the show was halfway over.
After the second performer, Colin zeroed in on me.
“You back there, in the biker jacket. Where are you from?”
“New Jersey, uhhh near Philadelphia in America,” I said awkwardly, as I’d never had to specify the country I was from before.
“Ah, an American,” Colin smirked and I heard a few chuckles sprinkled throughout the crowd. “Are you of Irish descent?”
“Yes!” I smiled and expected a rouse of approval, but was met with a roar of jeering laughter.
Later that night, a gal named Aima I befriended explained to me that it’s a joke among Irish natives that Americans will say they’re from Ireland even if their background is something as low as 4% Irish.
Colin grinned at the tittering audience. “What’s your last name?”
“McFadden,” I said, and the room went silent.
“Oh, shit,” one of the frat boys up front mumbled into his nearly empty glass.
I’d bent up Colin’s comedic arc, so he scrambled up a new angle.
“Well, is your father the great guitarist, Brian McFadden?”
“Maybe. My Dad’s 100% Irish, and he says he’s an accountant, so you know what that means,” I said, referring to the joke that when people say they’re an accountant it’s a front to bore you away from asking questions that reveal they’re actually a prostitute.
Apparently this isn’t a well known joke in Ireland.
“O-oh-kayyy then,” Colin said as my fellow audience members embodied a crowd of crickets.
“Well, welcome to Ireland, Claire McFadden.”
The audience laughed a bit once more at this, and I sat back to sip my beer and be a wallflower once more.
After the show I slowly made my way back to Dawson street without a glance at Google Maps, and the dimly lit streets felt a bit like home.
So today the Irish laughed at me, but I didn’t mind.
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