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Published: January 22nd 2014
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If you feel that your bucket list is lacking something, add "Dublin on St. Patrick's Day," and I promise you won't regret it. Warning: Do NOT call it St. Patty's day, especially around the Irish. It's St. Patrick's, or Paddy's Day. The second option is based off of the Gaelic version of St. Patrick's name, Padraig. I know it's a hard habit to break, especially for Americans, but you'll save yourself a lot of pub brawls that way.
In order to properly blend in with the locals, the first thing you have to do is procure a ridiculous hat. The more preposterous, the better. I could literally fill an entire photo album with just pictures of the silly hats that we saw. Michael chose an obnoxiously large leprechaun hat and I found a jaunty little version that was similar but more delicate and ladylike. We saw wigs in the colors of the Irish flags, Viking hats, dragons, mugs of beer, mohawks, even a cowgirl hat and a feathered Native American headdress. They ranged from classy to over-the-top, and you rarely saw the same one twice.
I'm sure a good chunk of the people we saw that day were tourists,
but Dubliners seemed just as enthusiastic about the festivities. A huge stretch of the main road was cordoned off for the parade, which took several hours to make it to where we had camped out. Since we had plenty of time on our hands, Michael and I found a Tesco and had an improvised picnic lunch on some courthouse steps. Afterwards we wandered around the park outside St. Patrick's cathedral and had our first ginger sighting. The cherry blossoms were blooming and they made for some wonderful pictures against the grey of the cathedral, which is striking enough on the outside and absolutely breathtaking inside. The priest was handing out bunches of shamrocks to visitors, and I still have mine pressed between the pages of my diary. The stained glass in St. Patrick's is among some of the finest I've seen, and the chapel is full of artifacts from Ireland's rich history. The tapestries that hang above remind me of the inside of Sleeping Beauty's castle, and they had a truly gorgeous spiral staircase covered in carvings. I might have a thing for staircases.
About the same time that we finished in St. Patrick's Cathedral, the parade came around
the corner. We watched the entire thing, and I noticed several floats that seemed to include a black dog and a phoenix. One of the other spectators said that it was based on some children's story that had been chosen for the theme that year. We saw St. Patrick, Dracula, a bunch of Pringle ladies, acrobats, dancers, musicians, and a gorgeous Irish Wolfhound among many others, though no one got quite as many cheers as the gentleman following at the very end with a garbage can. People climbed trees and fences for a better view, and more than one apartment had an Irish flag flying from its balcony. When the crowd dispersed a bit, Michael and I finally got to see Christchurch Cathedral. The facade is a lot more interesting than the outside, and I honestly preferred St. Patrick's Cathedral, but the outside is so visually stunning that it's worth a visit.
We wandered a bit until dark, visiting Grafton Street and the statue of Molly Malone, the fictional subject of a famous drinking song. We ate dinner at an intimate little cafe lit by candles and containing only tables for two, though the experience was a bit wasted
on us. Just across the street was Pete's Pub, the first stop of the night. Michael introduced me to whiskey and Coke, and the bartender let me try my first taste of Jameson's. It was love at first sip. We chatted with the other patrons for a while before moving on to Break for the Border, a hotel/bar that had a great dance floor. We met a few early drinkers, but they were plenty of fun to watch. Next was my favorite, a crowded little pub in the Temple Bar district called Fitzsimmons. They had signs in the windows saying "No Snakes Allowed" and a live band playing Mumford & Sons while the whole pub sang along. We popped back over to Doyle's for some low-key drinks, and on the way back a band of leprechauns came stumbling down the street and tried to dance with us. I sacrificed Michael so that I could escape, and he was forced to link arms with the most inebriated leprechaun and dance in a circle. I nearly peed myself from laughing.
Speaking of peeing, this was the night that I had my second mild case of culture shock. Michael and I were
walking along the quay, admiring the bridges and nursing a pleasant buzz from our drinks, and all of a sudden I heard laughter right in front of us. There was a group of guys standing in the street, and one of them had his back to us and an unmistakeable stream of liquid was puddling at his feet.
"He's peeing," I said to Michael, completely dumbfounded.
Michael shrugged. He was a little further gone than I was. "I guess so."
"But---but he's peeing in the middle of the street! Not even in an alley or anything, he's peeing on the quay!"
Michael tried to shrug again, but the motion threw him off balance and he nearly ran into an ornately decorated light post. "Eh. He's a guy. He's fine."
Somehow I got over the shock of public urination, and we continued down the Liffey River. Our next stop was the Gypsy Rose, a rock and blues pub with a gorgeous motorcycle covered in Celtic knot work mounted inside. We went down into the basement bar for one drink and then made our way back to the Temple Bar area. For those who haven't experienced it
for themselves, this is the beating heart of Dublin. Even on a normal night it is a riot of lights and sound: cheerful people step out of gorgeous old buildings and walk the cobblestone streets, laughing and talking in the glow of the neon signs and old-fashioned lanterns. We went out every night, but none of them compared to the glorious madness of Paddy's day. During our three nights there was one fancy pub that we could never get in. I can't remember the name now, but every time we stopped by the bouncer would shake his head and say that it was still full. By some unfathomable Irish miracle, Michael and I did manage to get into the actual Temple Bar just after midnight. An entire section of Dublin was named after this pub, and it was packed tighter than sardines. There are several wood-paneled rooms with photographs of celebrities, an outdoor patio area covered in hanging blue lights, and a statue where groups gathered to toast each other.
As is proper, this is where we ended the best St. Patrick's Day I have ever experienced and one of the greatest nights of my life. I have rarely laughed so hard or been so completely happy with my surroundings. Such is the magic of Ireland, and of Dublin in particular.
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