It's a strange life I'm living, I know. Six months ago I was part of the 9-5 nation, complete with morning meetings and happy hours. Now, with the exception of the occasional round of dishes, I haven't worked in 2 1/2 months and every hour could be happy if I want it to be. I've stayed at 10 different hostels, with 14 different hosts and spent my nights on almost 40 different beds, couches, floors, bus seats, whatever. With as much fun as it all has been, I've hit a point where I'd LOVE to keep my bag in one spot and my head on the same pillow for more than a few days at a time.
So I arrived in Dublin
with this exact intention. To find a temporary job, home and friends to call my own, even if only for a short time.
the american 4-some (dawn, matt, joshua and me)
Three days of working on my resume, handing it out to every pub and hostel I passed, and hearing "I don't think we need anyone but I'll pass this on to my manager" later, I wasn't feeling extremely hopeful. The economy is shifting, the town is full of foreigners looking for work and little old American me doesn't possess the handy-dandy EU visa that they do, making the reality of finding this hypothetical job about as realistic as Santa Claus flying in to tell me I just won the lottery. In other words, I've become a little cynical about the whole situation.
It's the first time I had to stop playing tourist and rejoin the world of responsibility. And frankly, that world drove me towards the desperate need of a pint. After losing his camera and roaming the streets alone all day, Joshua--a fellow american and hostelmate--needed one too.
he'd been eyeing me all night
So out we went.
On the brighter side of things, as we walked to the pub, we saw a man get hit by a car! No joke. It was actually quite crazy and I stood staring with my hands over my mouth saying "Holy shit!" for a good 10 minutes. The man had jay-walked as a cab turned the corner. I believe the cab honked, giving us all time to turn and get a perfect view of the entire incident. But despite his five-minute horn warning, the cabbie apparently couldn't be bothered to hit the brakes, because he just plunked right into the man. Yes, "plunked." I do believe that's the exact sound it made. Right before the "crinkle" of rolling up onto the hood and the "thud" of hitting the pavement. Before you form your opinion that I'm completely evil for using this poor man's suffering for the benefit of a little added entertainment to my blog, you should know he's okay.
And the comedian Dane Cook is truly the evil one, because at the moment of impact all thoughts were immediately replaced with his "Struck by a Vehicle" bit (http://artists.letssingit.com/dane-cook-lyrics-struck-by-a-vehicle-c8ldrnp) and it's possible I may have let out a little chuckle when it entered my brain. True to the joke, one of the man's shoes actually flew off upon impact. Now, I can't begin to understand or explain the physics of this phenomenon, but apparently sometimes it happens. We were not, however, fortunate enough to see the pants portion in this strike.
After that random delay, we made it to the pub and unintentionally formed a little American alliance with a honeymooning couple that agreed to share a table. This was after I thoroughly offended our bartender by casually asking if they serve the Guinness and Baileys drink, known in the states as a "carbomb.
they even care about dumb tourists!
" Now, I hate to admit any sort of ignorance or sign of stupidity, but I can honestly say I've never once stopped to think about the hows or whys of that name. I mean, who's thinking politics when you're ordering a drink? More importantly, who's the politically incorrect bastard that came up with the name in the first place, causing me to look and feel like an arse in the present? I've decided to start the campaign once I'm home to rid the bars of all offensive drink names and save potential world-travelers from their own run-ins with foreign bartenders and horrific moments of humility. In the meantime, I spent the next solid 30-minutes, not enjoying my first Irish Guinness as I should have, but rather planning my second bar approach and apology. Once I got the courage, I realized Darryl--our friendly Irish bartender--was just showing me some of that famous Irish humor.
getting a good picture was basically out of the question
Afterall, as he put it, he hadn't personally died in a carbomb, but perhaps there are some that might be offended. Either way, I learned my lesson and our new friend even let us stay and drink after bar close. Considering Darryl happened to be one of the bartenders I handed my resume to earlier in the day, I was especially grateful for the reconciliation.