The majority of my nine days in Dublin were split between my hotel and a nearby bar, with the rest of my time spent wandering the streets and window shopping for nothing in particular.
The hotel was the Camden-Deluxe; deluxe, in this context, means roughly the same as when it’s used to describe discounted boxes of macaroni and cheese. It used to be a cinema and whenever I met some locals and told them where I was staying, they would tell me--with a knowing nod or pondering chin stroke-- that it used to be a cinema.
I don't know when it was renovated, nor do I know why, but I do know they try, with very little effort, to keep the cinematic theme alive. Each room is named after an Irish actor, most of them I had never heard of; though, on the way to my room, I did pass Liam Neeson. The room I stayed in was named after Dan O'Herlihy who, according to his filmography framed on the wall, starred in over 30 films, including John Huston's The Dead and Verhoeven's RoboCop.
It wasn't a very attractive hotel and its narrow entrance--two green doors, decorated with white lace curtains--was deceivingly cozy. And though the maids didn't clean, so much as move the mess to a different corner of the room, and though the phone didn't work and the outlets hogged power and the TV set didn't have a dial for volume, the Hotel was conveniently located away from the crowded spots while still in walking distance of everything one wanted to see. You could, as I did, walk ten minutes into the heart of Dublin, be carried away by the crowds, in and out of pubs, singing, dancing, drinking and laughing then, as the day quieted into evening and evening into late night, retreat to your shamelessly modest hotel.
And if I took one thing from Dublin, one truth, it would be that there is nothing better than walking home from a pub, warm with alcohol, with nothing but the sound of the city and the rain falling upon it to accompany you. On those nights, of which there were a few, I felt as if I was living in a Leonard Cohen song.
For those reasons, the Camden-Deluxe Hotel and I got along just fine.
Feile Bar Bistro was the other main attraction. Relatively new, it has been open for a little over nine months and is owned by the same man who runs Kate's Cottage on Amien Street. I went there every night, religiously; to the point where on the sixth day, when I caught one of the last trains out of Howth back to Dublin's City Centre, I hurried on foot to Feile, afraid that if I didn't get there and have one drink before last call the sun would not rise the following morning.
And once, after giving up on finding the elusive historic prison, Kilmainham Gaol, I sulked back to the bar and spent the rest of the day, from 3pm to close, comfortably seated on one of their wooden bar stools. I picked the one nearest to the entrance so I could hear it when it rained. I had a record of four good conversations at that bar--that's more than I get out of a year of cafes and diners back home.
I got to know its three bartenders, one better than the others. There was Charles, who I talked with the most, then Todd, then Jeremy who, on the account of his children, worked the least amount of hours. Charles was something of a career bartender, though I could see him uncomfortable with the title. He had poured drinks in France, Australia and New York. Now, back in Dublin, he was finishing up where he left off in his studies. He read often and so we talked about books. He was working his way through Kesey's One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest. It sat on his nightstand, next to his alarm clock and on top of a pile of World War Two literature. But he found it dull. He faced the same problem most people did: he saw the film version first and couldn't get interested in Chief Bromden's narrative. He found himself skipping ahead to the parts with McMurphy; Jack Nicholson's character, a character which almost every man, at one point in his life, can relate too.
The cabbie who drove me from the Airport to my hotel told me that Camden Street was popular, like Temple Bar and Grafton Street, but in a different way. Temple Bar seemed to be established, at the first, second and third glance, for the average tourist who leaves Ireland in a green rugby shirt with the Guinness logo stitched on the sleeve; and Grafton Street for the spender who tries to buy modern day Ireland and stuff it in a suitcase. The cabbie said Camden Street was popular to those who visited from other European countries. At least, he clarified, that’s how it seemed to him. It made sense. If I went left out of my hotel, towards Grafton Street and Temple Bar, I saw pub after pub but if I went right, there was a wide variety of cuisine, from Indian to Korean. There were college kids on vacation from England who stopped at Whelans or the Palace, a hip night club adjacent to my hotel; as Todd put it, they liked to come down to Dublin and allow themselves a bit of fun. There was even a mock Johnnie Rockets on Lower Camden Street, authentically equipped with an overpriced hot dog and coin eating jukebox.
Howth Head
I went to Howth on my sixth day in Dublin. The bus which took me to O'Connoll Street was right outside the hotel; from there I walked a mile to Connolly Station. Howth was the last stop, but I got off two stops earlier at Malahide to see the Castle. It would have been a waste if it weren't for the somewhat endearing site of a stone castle, completely intact, creeping out from the greenery.
By the time I got to Howth it had started to rain and before heading out to the beach, I stopped for lunch at the Bloody Stream. It was located directly beneath the train station and inside it felt like a sailor's pub; dim and narrow with a fire roaring in the dining hall. Lobsters sat uneasily at the bottom of an aquarium and a bartender with strong arms and thick hair served the drinks. Each table was decorated with a wine bottle candle holder with wax dripped over the sides like spilled alcohol and everything, from the chair I sat in, to the roof over my head, creaked of history.
After I finished lunch it was past mid-day and the clouds darkened as the rain continued. I walked out to a lighthouse and took pictures of the Irish Sea and the last shining rays of sun before they were completely hidden by the coming storm. Then I walked around, past the famous Martello tower where James Joyce once lived and down the coast where he often walked. It was quiet. I was alone. Then, on the horizon, came a white and black dog; spotted but not quite a Dalmatian. It was fat at the sides but had bone thin legs. It came up to me and let me pet its head. I looked around for the owner but there was no one.
"You lost?" I asked the dog, in a voice generally reserved for talking to toddlers.
He simply looked at me, cocked his head, and then carried on. I followed my new friend down the coast.
We stopped for a moment and got close to the ocean. I peered in vain through the forming mist in an attempt to see England. The dog, named Ronald, for the time being, by me, was less impressed with the view and hurried on further down South. I imagine he had seen it all many times before and had probably even swam these waters. Maybe he had even been to England. I was about to ask him but I could tell by his strut that he was in the mood for a quiet companion. So was I; ever tired of the 'Where are you from's?' and the 'How long are you here's?" or the 'Where are you staying's?’.
It was hard to gauge time in Dublin. The sky was always clouded and from 9am to 10pm it looked the same, a city bathed in the half-light. I know the last train ran very late and it would be unlikely for me to miss it, so I took my time, stopping quite often to play with Ronald and look at the view.
I asked him if he wanted to race and he didn’t seem very interested, till I took my runner’s stance then, as if he heard the firing of a starter pistol, he took off. I followed after him, quickly as I could, yelling out "Cheat!" along the way.
He won by a long shot. He stopped to wait for me and by the time I caught up I was breathing heavily. My knees buckled beneath me and I tumbled over on the grass. My hair was wet and rain streamed down my face like tears. The bottoms of my shoes were clipped with mud and my hands paled with the chilled wind. Ronald came up to me and rubbed his side against my back. Then he laid down next to me--my hand on the top of his head--like an Egyptian sphinx.
"I could get a house here," I said, offering my deepest thoughts to my new friend "or I could find a roommate or rent a room. Maybe some Irish family has a vacant bed that was once used by their eldest who has gone off to college or is spending time at sea. What about where you live?" I asked Ronald, his face passive and pleasant. "Yeah, you're right. Not the best idea. I could get a job on a boat. Live for months at a time under the deck with a crew of men and we would share stories and come back with the catch. I would find a woman. She wouldn't have to be the most attractive woman in the world. She would just have to feel like home, so that hugging her would be like climbing into a warm bed on a rainy day." Ronald, skeptical of the idea, gave me a queer look. "She would wait for me at the pier and would run up to embrace me when we sailed in. And slowly I would save money until we could get a house of our own. I would work my way up and maybe, just maybe, years from now I could be the captain of my own boat, my own crew. Soon I would lose my accent and gain yours. Each day I would begin to sound and look more Irish, but there would still be traces of an American in me. That would never go away. Tourists would eye me with curiosity, not quite sure if I was one of them or one of the locals. I would take the train into the City Centre, see the bartenders at Feile and walk up and down Camden Street. That's where it all started. Then--"
Ronald barked and stopped me from rambling. At some point I had stopped talking directly to him and started talking aloud, with my eyes entranced by the lapping waves of the sea. Then, for the first time, I noticed a tag dangling from his collar. It didn't have a name or an address, just a phone number elegantly engraved on the silver bone. I wrote it down, just in case by the time I got back into town I still hadn't run into his owners.
"I bet your owners are looking for you," I said and he answered me by looking in both directions then running further south. I tried to keep up and call him back, but he didn't answer, at least not to the name I gave him, and soon he was out of my sight.
I turned back around and headed towards town. It was getting dark. It must've been past nine when I got to the train station. The car was completely empty except for two teenage girls who sat together at the very back. They wore bright green leggings, had on purple eye shadow, big looped earrings and a dozen other things American women had left back in the 80s and 90s.
There was a blonde and a brunette and the blonde looked at me intermittently throughout the entire train ride. I was soaked and smelt like the sea and wet dog but I was, at that moment, the most confident I have ever been. She smiled at me, a strand of her blonde bangs pulled over her right eye. I don't remember if I smiled back. The train came to a stop and they went left while I went right.
It wasn't raining at the city centre but I still hurried back towards Camden Street. Feile's was still open, thank God, and Charles was tending bar. I told him about Howth and how it reminded me of Christmas and he nodded in agreement. Next time, he said, take the train to Wicklow, to Glendalough. It means two lakes, he explained, it is gorgeous. Well worth the trip. I took note of that and ordered another drink.
By the time I got to the hotel and into my bed, I counted the hours until I would have to leave Dublin. And I made a drunken oath that I would return someday and retrace my steps.
I still have Ronald’s phone number, too. It is written in sloppy script on the upper left side of my Free Dublin Visitor Map. So when I do go back one of the first things I plan to do is call that number and speak to his owners. I will tell them that one day in July I became good friends with their dog and, if he is free, I would like him to meet me at our spot: on the coast of Howth.
