Day 1
After dropping our child (Hayden) off at the Charles de Gaulle airport, Brandon and I hopped on a quick flight over to Ireland’s capital city, Dublin.
As fate would have it, we didn’t die*.
Like our previous Airbnb, this one was also worthy of 5 stars, and the cute little couple who owned the place were kind enough to give us an extensive list of all the best pubs and tourist activities in the area. The fridge and cupboards were also packed with food and several different versions of Nutella and chocolate spread.
“You looking to adopt?” I asked them, and they laughed, as though I were kidding.
We subsequently got an aggressive fish and chips/seafood/onion ring/fried everything platter for dinner and passed out shortly after. See below.
Day 2
It was Sunday morning (insert Maroon 5 song here) and time for us to go full tourist in Dublin and hopefully find a leprechaun. This began by snagging breakfast at Temple Bar, a pub recommended to us for its live folksy music. It was 10 am, and every person in the bar was pounding beers. A 5-year-old blonde child sat next to me. Dublin was already turning out to be a wild ride.
After breakfast, we went shopping around Temple Bar – no, not the pub, the town area was also called Temple Bar, probably to confuse ignorant Americans such as ourselves. The first priority was to hunt down a new jacket for Brandon since he had left his back in Paris. (In the meantime, he was borrowing one of mine, but my ego couldn’t handle the fact that he somehow looked better in a Nordstrom women’s XS than I did.) After tracking down a black peacoat that we deemed timeless and fashionable enough, it was time for the hop on/hop off bus tour!
Some sites included:
- Trinity College
- The Writers Museum
- Dublin Castle
- St. Patrick’s Cathedral
- The National Gallery
- Other historical sites that were probably fairly important but we didn’t really care about
Then there was The Guinness Factory. We learned how to properly drink beer (and it doesn’t involve chugging, either! Who knew?), test tasted some brews, and got an education in intoxication, as Brandon would say, at the Guinness Academy. Again, young children wandered around the factory among inebriated adults. WHERE WAS CHILD SERVICES?
Conversation with the cashier at their souvenir shop:
Her: So, where are you two from?
Me: He’s from San Diego, I’m from LA.
Her: Neat. Do you know any celebrities?
Me: I have some acquaintances who are lowkey famous, but nothing actually exciting.
Her: Oh, cool, I have to be careful with that. The last people I met from LA told me they knew Kristen Stewart, to which I said, “Ugh, she seems like such an entitled brat.” … They were her parents.
Me: Yikes, that’s rough. What were they like?
Her: Not very nice. Which was fine, I understand why they were rude to me, but what really bothered me was how badly they dressed. They looked legitimately HOMELESS. It’s like, your daughter’s a millionaire, can’t you try a little?
Me: I mean… have you seen Kristen Stewart?
After a full day of immersing ourselves in the culture/taking enough photos to make my parents happy, it was time to mosey on over to another bus and ride to our next destination: Cork. I put on my favorite Nirvana playlist – because nothing rocks me into a sweet slumber like bae (Kurt Cobain) screaming out the words to “Heart-Shaped Box” – and by the time I awoke we were already deep in the south of Ireland. Night was edging closer at this point, and we walked along the rain-splattered, cobble-stone streets of Cork feeling like we were in a fairy tale. (But not in the gross Taylor Swift way.)
FYI, the reason we organized this trip in the first place was because a business associate for Marti and Tim’s company lived in Ireland. And since running the family business is the game plan if my dream of being the next Tina Fey or first female president doesn’t pan out, it would probably earn me some brownie points to meet this dude.
Anyway, I can confirm that the stereotypes about Ireland – emerald green hills, tiny pubs dotting every street corner, good-natured, friendly inhabitants – are all pretty much accurate. So is the drinking. The business associate, who I’ll call Cillian – since that name is about as Irish as it gets and I’ve been daydreaming about Cillian Murphy lately – recommended that Brandon and I make a stop at Reardens Bar for our first meal in Cork. (We later discovered that Cillian had previously been a bouncer there. Classic.) You notice pretty quickly that from dawn until dusk, bar dwellers are always – and I mean always – gulping their meals down with a hefty helping of beer, pints of Jameson never beyond an arm’s reach.
But Irish fashion is the comedic jackpot. American media always drills in this image that Irish lasses go au naturel, opting for rain jackets and sneakers rather than skirts and heels. This is 100% false. In reality, the Irish – particularly the young women – resemble the cast of Jersey Shore more than anything else. Even on that stormy Sunday night, the women in these dingy dive bars were decked out in alarmingly tight dresses that no doubt cut off all circulation, stilettos so tall they put supermodels to shame, and glittery Urban Decay-esque eye shadow. And don’t get me started on the Cheeto orange fake tans. It was like a Donald Trump Drumpf convention up in here.
So, moral of the story, with what I thought was my weather-appropriate ensemble – ripped jeans and a knit sweater – I was majorly underdressed for the first time in my young fashionista life. WHAT IS HAPPENING, I thought to myself in a panic, wondering if I was in some sort of alternate Oompa Loompa universe.
As Brandon and I leisurely sipped our ciders (and not-so-leisurely scarfed down our shepherd’s pies), the natives around us engaged in drinking games and enthusiastically threw back shots of whiskey like freshmen at a college tailgate. The table across from us – about six guys and girls – clinked their glasses together and chugged beer after beer after beer. The turn up was oh so real.
“I’m horrified yet impressed. We need to get on their level,” I told Brandon.
“How about we drink every time the girls take a selfie?” he suggested back.
“I mean… I don’t want to die, though. That’s some ER level sort of shit.”
(The girls then took their 437897128739th selfie.)
I thought about it for a minute. “What about every time the ginger – you know, the one who looks like the Lucky Charms guy – ignores the thirsty chick next to him and takes a shot of Fireball?”
(The girls took another selfie.)
“That could work.”
But Lucky Charms was going so HAM on the alcoholic beverages that we had no choice but to chug the rest of our ciders and order another round. Meanwhile, the girls celebrated their millionth beer with – you guessed it – another selfie, and an Irish band shuffled onstage. Like every other live performance thus far, the Mumford & Sons wannabes immediately started jamming to some tradition Irish folk music. A small crowd congregated round, a few of them bobbing their heads along to the music. But no one made any attempts to dance. Maybe Irish people were uncomfortable doing literally anything else besides drinking?
Because I’ve given up my fucks long ago, I gestured to the open dance floor and said to Brandon, “What are your thoughts on showing the locals what’s up?”
“You mean dance to… this?”
He was right. This was no EDC lineup; these tunes were comparable to getting down to the ‘PS I Love You’ soundtrack.
What was essentially playing:
“Yeah, I know. But we’re basically representing our country out here. This is like the Turnt Olympics. We’ve got to make America proud.”
And so we strutted up to the middle of the crowd and pulled out the most savage dance moves from our repertoire. I’m only well-versed in ballet, so for me there’s not a ton, but I tried to make my arabesques and grande jetés as ratchet as possible. There was a 98% chance we were straight-up humiliating ourselves out there, but as DJ Khalid says, confidence is key, so before long herds of Irish folks began joining us and there was a dance party going. Alas, as Catholic School Royalty™, we remained trendsetters, even on a different continent.
As we made our exit at approximately 11 PM – we were meeting Cillian bright and early the next morning – the bouncer met us with a puzzled expression. “Leaving already?” he asked.
I nodded. “Yeah, it’s getting pretty late.”
To this, he let out a hearty laugh, and said, “Dear, this is when everyone starts arriving.”
Lo and behold, just as he made that statement several cabs rolled up to the entrance, packs of Irish 20-somethings spilling out like fake tanned, sequin-wearing sardines.
“If this is a Sunday, how are their Fridays?” Brandon murmured to me, making an all-too-valid point.
“Maybe Sundays are just big here. Certain places have different days everyone goes out, you know?” I said back. Spoiler alert: this is false, little did we know EVERY DAY was cray in these parts.
More Irish people, who had clearly pregamed a little – and when I say ‘a little’ I mean WAY – too hard, shoved clumsily past us. I raised my eyebrows at the bouncer. “Don’t these people have jobs?”
He laughed at me again. “Well, unemployment is rather high!”
So that’s Cork for you.
*Though it was too early to say if my hangover would be the death of me. Those Parisian gay bars do not mess around.
The Art of Being Basic 
Love, love, love!
>