Dublin Diary

By Eileen Murphy

When the Irish Tourist Board asked whether we’d be interested in traveling to Ireland to cover the St. Patrick’s Day Festival in Dublin, we had to resist the urge to launch into one of those football-type end zone dances after shouting "Yesyesyesyesyesyes!"

The trip was part of a Bord Failte initiative that sent journalists from around the world to Ireland to cover this year’s festival. The St. Patrick’s Day festival normally takes place the weekend closest to March 17, but it was postponed by the government due to the foot-and-mouth crisis.

Bord Failte wanted journalists to see, firsthand, that the worst is over: Ireland is back in business, the food is safe and everybody’s welcome to come for a visit. Though the government is still keeping an strict eye on FMD, the parks are open, the sports are back on, and Dublin is ready to reclaim its position as party capital of Europe.

So last Thursday, we packed a bag, jumped on an Aer Lingus flight, and away we went. We kept a diary of our trip so that you could all get a taste of what it was like. Not everything we did was on the official schedule, and we’ve resisted the urge to edit out the embarrassing stuff, so go put on a big woolly sweater and make yourself a nice pot of tea, because have we got a story to tell you . . .

Thursday, May 17

2 p.m.

Arragh. Am still at work, with way too much to do before I go on this trip. Must check list to make sure I don’t forget anything important, like business cards, plane ticket or passport. Must make sure to get wristwatch out of desk drawer and actually put on wrist. Have something like six umbrellas at work. Better put one in bag as soon as I finish writing. Must leave by 3. Still to do:

€ write detailed notes for production staff;

€ print out list of important phone numbers (family, colleagues, etc.);

€ Buy new socks. (Lucky vacation ritual).

3:45 p.m.

Am on airport bus, tapping foot impatiently as driver argues with dispatcher over something whose importance pales in comparison to our need to get to Kennedy on time. Good time to review progress "to do" list:

€ Forgot to write notes for staff. Will call, in manner of wise sage dispensing solutions, assuming they can hear me over the din in the pub.

€ Forgot list of phone numbers, but can call mother for same. The "I told you so" will be a small price to pay for convenience.

€ Bought one dozen pairs of new socks, all black.

Very proud of self for remembering to put watch on wrist. Unfortunately, battery conked out and will not have time to replace it before getting on plane. Nothing else will fit in bag, so it stays on my wrist. Hope nobody asks for time.

5 p.m.

One advantage to having stopped watch is that it forces one to make small talk with other passengers on bus, which is practically crawling toward Kennedy Airport. Driver just announced that the traffic is bad, really bad, which I would never have guessed from the thousands of cars lined up in front of us. Should have taken cab.

5:15 p.m.

Bus traveling at speed of turtle with arthritis. Getting worried.

5:30 p.m.

Writing to keep calm. Wish I smoked. Would then be able to bitch about no smoking policy on bus, which would distract me from fact that might miss plane at this rate.

5:35 p.m.

We’re taking a shortcut on Woodhaven Boulevard. Have not achieved speed above 10 mph in a long time. Man behind me on cell phone just said that he doesn’t think he’ll make his 7 p.m. flight to wherever. Can feel self starting to hyperventilate. My flight leaves at 6:50 p.m.

5:40 p.m.

Please, God, don’t let me miss the plane. It would be too embarrassing. Imagine having to tell coworkers that I missed a free trip to Ireland. Would rather walk naked up Fifth Avenue during St. Patrick’s Day Parade holding sparklers in teeth. Please move the bus. Please, please, please move the bus. Please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please.

5:50 p.m.

See sign for Kennedy Airport. One mile to go. Starting to breathe again. Thank you, Lord!

6:10 p.m.

Just sprinted from bus to Aer Lingus check-in desk. Clerk eyed me with suspicion (can’t blame her, since I was panting out random words like "check in" and "Dublin," while fishing madly in handbag for proper documents). She orders me to put my suitcase on the conveyor belt quickly, since I’m that last passenger to check in. Does that mean I qualify for some kind of prize? I asked. She didn’t even smile. Assigns me seat in middle of middle row toward the rear of plane. That’ll teach me.

6:55 p.m.

Am on plane, having greeted each of stewardesses like long-lost relatives (still grateful to have made the flight at all). The lovely, charming and merciful gate agent has changed my seat to one on the aisle next to an empty seat. Happy! Happy! Joy! Joy!

7:30 p.m.

Am cheerful, fearless flyer, mostly because I have no idea how plane gets off ground or how it stays in the air. Once asked my dreamy high school physics teacher, who gave a highly detailed explanation. Unfortunately, he had eyes like Paul Newman, so didn’t hear a thing.

8:30 p.m.

The woman in the seat across the aisle has laughed practically non-stop since she got on the plane. Either she’s flirting shamelessly with the cute man beside her or he’s a standup comedian trying out new material.

8:45 p.m.

She’s still laughing. Dinner service commences. We’ve heard some of his conversation and she must be locked. Ordered chicken. Not terrible.

9:30 p.m.

Two Dramamine and a large glass of Bailey’s later, and I’m wide awake. Will try to watch in-flight movie.

10 p.m.

In-flight movie features Jennifer Lopez as a wedding planner who marries her client’s husband-to-be. Note to self: when our time comes to tie the knot, don’t hire wedding planner.

10:30 p.m.

Movie stupid. Tired. Will try to sleep.

Later

Just woke up from light snooze. Actually, woke up with a big snort, so am positive that I was snoring for past hour. How humiliating. Don’t know time, since woman next to me has stopped laughing (finally!) and seems to be dozing, so can’t ask her. Stewardess says will be landing soon.

Friday, May 18

7 a.m.

Sitting in back of taxi speeding toward Clarion Hotel in the financial district. Pretending to be from Dublin so taxi driver won’t take me to the hotel via Mullingar. Irish accent sounds bad, even to me. Driver probably thinks am patronizing, eccentric American tourist or dangerous psychopath, but can’t stop now. In for a penny, in for a pound, as mother always says.

7:30 a.m.

Just checked into my beautiful room, which features a balcony and lots of tasteful neutral décor. Staff is lovely and everyone looks very cool, like they’re just working here between modeling gigs. The Clarion is brand new and everything is very expensive-looking. Howard Johnson’s this ain’t. Time to take nap.

1:30 p.m.

I meet with Sinead Gorby and Maria Moynihan, who are working on public relations for festival. They are very enthusiastic during the briefing and hand out lots of literature about the events. Am going back to bed.

8 p.m.

Just woke up and realize that I’d better head over to the quays for the kick-off event, "Meet Me At The River." Have just enough time to shower and dress. Starving. The weather’s beautiful.

9 p.m.

Am sitting in café in Temple Bar called Joy of Coffee. No time for proper meal — every place has lines out the door — so have ordered scones and tea. Will have something later. Interesting — none of the wait staff are Irish.

9:45 p.m.

Standing in front of Clarence Hotel (yes, U2’s little B&B), which is where Maria said would be the best place to watch the events. Start chatting with people around me. Niamh, on my left, is from Dublin and says she loves going to America. She’s looking over my shoulder as I write this. Probably thinks I am an oddball tourist pretending to be journalist. Just for fun, start writing "The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dogs, and the moon is made of green cheese." Danish woman on my right has lived in Ireland seven months. Her friend, Rhea, is from Sweden and has lived here for four months. Lots of foreign tourists, but it’s appropriate, since the festival theme this year is fusion.

10:45 p.m.

It’s all over bar the shouting. Four groups of transition year students in costume marched to the quays from the four corners of the city, carrying lighted poles. As they passed the stand from which Mary McAleese was watching the proceedings, they started chanting "Go, Mary! Go, Mary!" When they got to the Liffey, huge floating effigies were set on fire, then saw Phoenix rising from ashes. Very exciting. Very pagan. Fraught with symbolism — Ireland’s reborn, etc. Inner savage screaming, "Burn, baby, burn!"

11:15 p.m.

Walking around in Temple Bar. Realize that I am the most fully-dressed person there. Comely maidens and menfolk are out in force, though if they’re dancing at the crossroads, you can be sure it’s the name of a new nightclub.

(Ugh. Am too hungry to be witty.) Only food choice is Abrakebabra, which is Irish equivalent of White Castle. Fingers crossed that there are nibbles (which is what they call hor d’ouevres here) at Hot Press apres-festival party.

12:30 a.m.

Hot Press party was fun, but knew no one, and only food was Taytos, so came back to hotel. Stopped at convenience store on the way back, so I am dining on cold sausage roll and warm Club Orange. Crumbs all over bed. Just realized that hotel has room service. Oh, well — there’s always tomorrow.

Saturday, May 19

9:15 a.m.

Breakfast in Synergie, the hotel restaurant. Everything is very chi-chi, down to the butter knives, which have wide, flat handles so that the cutting part rests on the table. First proper meal. Yum.

10 a.m.

Back in room to grab a jacket before heading off to the Big Day Out, the St. Patrick’s Day street festival. The brochure says there’s a music stage in front of Trinity College, featuring bands from noon to 6 p.m. Skipp makeup in case want to get face painted with shamrocks or tiger stripes to blend in with natives.

1 p.m.

Total party atmosphere in the city. Guys are lining up on Westmoreland Street, waiting their turn to jump into a giant, inflatable ball and roll down a big hill because, well, they’re guys, and it’s there. Dermot, 19, up for the day from Bantry, Co. Cork, explains that "It just seemed like a mad thing to do. Fun, like." No women in the queue. Am not surprised.

4 p.m.

Have watched band after band on the FM 104 music stage, and am taking a break in Bewleys over a cuppa and a scone. (By the time this is over will puke at the sight of raisins.) Great performance by a group of prepubescent buskers called No Angels. Search for ladies’ toilet meant we missed Bellefire. Caught InFocus, a boy band in the tradition of Westlife and Boyzone. There were very precious in matching white shirts and gray trousers. These boys must get their asses kicked every night by neighborhood toughs who’ve heard them sing lines like, "Every rainbow becomes a cloud when you take your love away" or some such nonsense. Wished we had rotten tomato to throw when they did a cover of Madonna’s "Like a Prayer" which they said was "from way, way back in the ’80s."

7 p.m.

Walked at least 100 miles today. Feet are killing me. Had to get them back to hotel immediately before they start kicking me in the shins of their own volition. Practically threw myself in front of a Joe Maxi (taxi — I love Dublin slang!) but many streets are blocked due to tonight’s fireworks extravaganza, Skyfest.

9 p.m.

Long, luxurious bath. Feet starting to feel normal again. Heading out to watch fireworks and then to party at Guinness Storehouse, which is supposed to be really cool. I hear that the restaurant revolves, but wonder if that’s just the effect of a good pint of Guinness.

10:05 p.m.

Hear fireworks starting and people running past my room. Just going to grab my room key and go out to investigate, in best Lois Lane manner.

11:15 a.m.

Must have missed the memo about the Clarion Hotel being THE place to watch the fireworks display, since the barge was parked just to the left of the front door. Skyfest is brilliant! Watch from balcony on the first floor, then follow the crowd into a fancy party held in the adjacent lounge. Turns out soiree was hosted by TV3, Ireland’s newest television station. (Thank goodness I wear my ’70s-inspired see-through tie-dye effect blouse and some makeup.) Grabbed glass of champagne and stood in corner trying to look mysterious.

11:30 p.m.

Just as I am getting ready to go to the Guinness Storehouse, most amazing coincidence happened: meet up with my brother-in-law Brian, his cousins Carl, Niamh and Rianna, and Niamh’s husband, Paul, who is security chief at The Clarion (which, in Irish terms, means we’re all practically siblings).

Finally — people I know! Have wonderful time, and discover wonderful vodka drink (very healthful, though, since it contained lemon, which means Vitamin C).

3:15 a.m.

Feeling a little tipsy, which is weird because never drink, never, never, rarely never (hic). Just We leave the Clarion and go to a super-exclusive club called Spy, which has doormen the size of small tanks. Escorted to VVIP lounge thanks to presence of Paul. Everybody in lounge does best to look blase because we are all so very hip and fabulous. Unisex bathrooms. More vodka and lemon juce. Typing getting bad. More tomorrrrrrrrrrr . . .

Sunday, May 20

10 a.m.

Did I ring for wake up call? Head hurts. Ouch. Computer keys too loud.

1:35 p.m.

Damn! Go back to sleep and miss champagne reception for press and dignitaries at Dublin Castle. Better shift it because at this rate could miss parade.

5:15 p.m.

Time to step up to the plate, New York! St. Patrick’s Day Parade in Dublin is a joyous celebration that owes more to Mardi Gras than to its Big Apple counterpart. The floats, the costumes, the dancers, the street performers, the fire eaters — it is impossible not to get into the spirit of the day, albeit two months late. The weather is a bit overcast, but it doesn’t rain and it is pretty warm, even to my thin Yankee blood.

5:30 p.m.

Am sitting in the lounge of the Octagon Bar in the Clarence Hotel, waiting for a server to take my order. Am starving. Lovely room. Bono has good taste.

5:40 p.m.

Still waiting.

5:45 p.m.

Busboy looks alarmed when we try to give him drink order as he clears the table. Sends over waiter, who shakes his head sadly when we ask to see a menu. "We are not serving at the moment," he says. We order a Club Lemon and fish in handbag hoping to find anything — even a lint-covered breath mint so teeth would know that we haven’t forgotten them.

5:55 p.m.

Waiter must have been alarmed by hungry look in my eyes, because he brings over a bowl of chips — oh, what do you call them here? — crisps. They are covered in some icky barbecue-type flavoring, but we’d have eaten them even if they’d been dredged in dirt.

6:30 p.m.

Decide to treat myself to a nice dinner, so I make a reservation at the Tea Room in the Clarence for 7:30 p.m. Have just popped back to room to change into single dressy outfit, which would look better had I remembered proper shoes. Hopefully, no one will look at feet.

10 p.m.

Back in The Clarion after a wonderful dinner. Everyone in room, even waiters, was wearing cooler shoes than I was. Oh, well. Got a little confused when it was time to pay the bill, which was listed as £42.60, but underneath, it said "54.80." Assumed this was thoughtfully calculated (and rather generous) service charge, but figured, when in Rome, etc., so left £12.20 tip, so that £42.60 added up to £54.80. Only when in cab on the way back to my hotel did I realize that the 54.80 was the cost in Euros, and just left 28 percent tip. Am possibly new wait staff pin-up girl.

Monday, May 21

8:15 a.m.

Weak up half an hour before wakeup call. Will be sorry to leave The Clarion, since I could get used to this kind of service (and the nice biscuits they leave with the in-room tea service). Great place for spotting celebs, though we missed two big sightings: Spice Girl Mel C, in town for a gig at the Olympia, stopped by to use the hotel’s gym and pool, and Bellefire were in taking publicity pics. Can Bono — in town awaiting the birth of his fourth child — be far behind?

11 a.m.

Check out of hotel and take cab to relative’s house in Rathfarnham. Need the rest of the week to recover from my strenuous festival labors. And as everyone knows, there’s no better place on earth to do that than Dublin’s fair city. Oh, and note to self: pick up wristwatch battery.