day 2 - march 17, 2009

Yes.
You have that right.
St. Patrick's day in Dublin.

We spent the first part of the day doing this:

We sort of meant to go see the parade, but instead loafed around and watched about 7 minutes of the parade on TV. It was enough.

We walked down into the centre of the city to meet up with some of B's friends. No matter where she lives in the world, B always seems to find other Swedes to be-friend. And they are always really, really lovely too. Dublin is no exception to this rule. Lena (Swedish, lovely) and Joyce (Irish, lovely despite not being Swedish) were immediately good companions for whatever trouble St. Patrick mixed up for us.

Walking through the city, we saw the aftermath of the parade. Smeared face paint, cranky kids, drunks spilling out onto the sidewalks. It was 3pm.

My favourite moment happened at a corner near a fairly full pub while B consulted with her pals on where to start our celebrations. I watched as a fairly attractive young lady stumbled out of said pub to join her friends for a mid-pint cigarette. After lighting up, she strode over to a group of young men, likely to chat them up. I assume this because she was tossing her blonde curls that were, unfortunately, not as nice as she thought they were. Here's the best part: she was wearing a pink thong on the OUTSIDE of her jeans. And by that I don't mean that her thong was sticking out of the top of her jeans. No. She had dressed herself in this order:

1. jeans.
   
2. thong.

It was 3pm.

This girl gave me a standard by which to judge my evening: if I can keep my panties on the INSIDE of my pants, that means I have at least retained my dignity.

The bar we went to didn't seem to have a name, but it did have a sign shaped like a snail above the door. If you're ever in Dublin and you see the snail, go in. It's a good little spot.

We drank:

And our senses of humour became less... refined:

B's bf Ciaran was born on St. Paddy's, so once he arrived we embarrassed him by singing the traditional song for a birthday boy or girl very, very loudly. Happy Birthday: we got you drunk Canadians.

Now that we are older and more mature, we are not without some sensibility, so we decide to pause the drinking and get some food. The place we landed at is called Shebeen Chic.

Ciaran (who is a wealth of Irish knowledge) told us that a "shebeen" was sort of like a speakeasy, but usually in someone's home. An illicit pub that sold alcohol without a license when the English government outlawed drinking in Ireland. The decor certainly tried to give the impression that you were in someone's house. And if kp had been Irish during their prohibition of alcohol, this would have been her home.

The last place we went to was the Foggy Dew. Sounds like a quiet meadow, doesn't it? What we found inside was a very classic low-ceilinged pub with dark wood throughout, full of drunken revelers. I have never in my life been surrounded by people so determinedly hell-bent on getting just absolutely shit-faced. It started off being fun, but quickly became not as fun when the air of contained violence started asserting itself and the lid of the container didn't seem as trustworthy, like tupperware that's been put through the dishwasher.

kp! who's your new pal?

We didn't want to get beaten up, so we didn't stay long. We retreated to B&C's apartment, underwear still closest to the skin, and had tea and birthday cupcakes. On the way home, we got a cab driver with an overwhelming mental library of bad jokes, one of which I will happily give to you, dear reader.

What's the definition of embarrassment?

Walking into a wall with a hard-on and breaking your nose.

And that was St. Paddy's day.