Day 4
What other stereotypical Irish things we could do? Go to the Blarney Castle, of course! There, we kissed the Blarney Stone, which – according to legend – endows the kisser with the gift of gab. Not that Brandon and I really needed that, as my ‘excessive talking in class’ elementary school report cards would indicate. Basically, the moral of the story is that we kissed some big rock and managed not to contract an exotic strain of herpes, so props to us, I guess.
First base with the Blarney Stone: check
But let’s fast forward to the REAL story of the night. The Shakespearean tale went a little like this…
9:36 P.M.
Back at the Airbnb, I fetched my trusty teal laptop. Our flight rolled in at 9 the following morning, which meant we had to arrive at the airport at 7, and leave our place bright and early around 6:30.
I plopped down on the couch by Brandon, smiling a bit at the nostalgia. “Remember those abroad days when we used to book early morning flights and party all night until then?”
“Yeah, and still be drunk on our flights.”
We both laughed. Then we paused.
“You don’t think…”
“I mean, it couldn’t be…”
We looked at each other again.
I closed my laptop case. “Let’s do it. Let’s go out until 6:30 in the morning.”
Brandon looked slightly terrified but mostly invigorated. “We got this.”
“If we’re going to rage for 8 hours straight, we should probably strategize some sort of game plan,” I mused as I pulled up Facebook. I shot a message to Courtney, the USD friend we reunited with in Paris who was stationed in Dublin.
If we want to get ratchet – I’m talking REALLY ratchet – which bars should we go to? Feel free to join us in our poor life decision-making, I eloquently transcribed.
Unfortunately, Courtney had work early the next morning, but she did give us a recommendation as a parting gift: Coppers. However, she forewarned, it was against our best judgment to go there. You know, a prominent Douchebag Mecca and all that. But if we wanted the true, genuine Irish 20-something messy experience, that was the stop.
Excellent, I thought, conjuring up another tab for Yelp on my computer.
This pretty much sums up the reviews:
… So, it was an Irish Beachcomber, basically.
Brandon asked if that was the official plan.
“Well, we should probably hit up another bar first, but that’s the plan.”
He nodded, seemingly content with the possibility that we may die due to liver failure tonight. Whatever, at least my Snapchat story would surely be lit. All abroad the trainwreck!
10:32 P.M.
We were both dressed head to toe in black. Naturally. When Brandon and I strolled up to Dicey’s Garden I like to imagine that Azealia Bank’s “212” was playing in the background, because that seems like a solid theme song and it’s about time we got entrance music. (Feel free to listen to it on repeat while you binge read these entries.)
Anyway, Dicey’s Garden was no garden, but it was very dicey indeed.
I regret to say that the crowd could best be described as “carnal.” Read: not a good thing. Some kids looked barely out of high school (vom), some men could be my dad’s age (double vom), a lot of people dressed in their Sunday’s best, a lot seemed like they had just stepped out of 24 Hour Fitness. Most could be the poster children for birth control. One nerdy-looking dude did the robot and other dance moves that should’ve died in the 20th century right next to the ‘Caution! Wet floor!’ sign by the bathroom. I pulled out my phone to take a Snapchat video and sighed at the travesty before me.
10:58 P.M.
“I’m going to run to the bathroom real quick,” Brandon informed me. “Do you need to come?”
“No, I’m good, I’ll be fine here.”
Well, that was a lie. Two seconds after Brandon sauntered off, this pudgy dude leaped like a lemur (I imagine they’re solid leapers) over to talk to me. Note to self: never allow yourself to be left unsupervised, EVER.
“You’re so exotic. What are you?” he asked in a thick accent. Homeboy obviously never read my blog entry about how that pickup line is the quickest way to ensure I will date Wayne Rooney’s hair plugs before ever getting with you.
“I’m Ethiopian.”
“Really?”
“No.”
“Well, whatever you are, let your parents know they did a good job!”
I used every ounce of my will power not to throw up in my mouth right then and there. This would have probably been a good time to respond with something melodramatic like “I never knew my parents” – just to make things sufficiently awkward – but this conversation was already giving me a migraine.
“Brandon, come back,” I cried softly into the distance. Things were off to a rocky start.
11:06 P.M.
Five minutes after Brandon and I were reunited and discussing our plan to become the next Frank and Claire Underwood, someone else intruded in on our little tête-à-tête.
“Oh my god! Kendall Jenner!” this Irish guy shrieked out. “Kendall!”
I raised my eyebrows. Was that kid referring to me?
He was still screaming. “Kendall! Kendall, I love you!”
Yeah, he was definitely talking about me. Kendall is the hot one, right? I wondered. Wait, which was the one who looked like a real-life Bratz Doll and had lips like hot air balloons? Anyway, it was safe to assume the guy was borderline blacked out and a few fries short of a Happy Meal.
A girl, apparently his friend, lightly punched him on the arm. “Come on, obviously that’s not Kendall. What would Kendall be doing at a bar in Dublin?”
This concept seemed to have escaped him. His face crumpled with defeat.
“Sorry to disappoint,” I told him. “But I’m not Kendall. Just a less famous but much wittier and more fun version.”
And so we became fast friends, cemented by the fact he bought me and Brandon a round of vodka Red Bulls. He wouldn’t stop giggling as I sipped my drink, much like a 12-year-old Japanese schoolgirl.
“You’re honestly, like, the prettiest girl I have ever seen.”
“Really? Ever?”
“Ever!”
“You must have been homeschooled.”
He seemed to think this was a joke – rather than an astute observation on my part – so he giggled some more and scampered off to the bar for another drink he obviously didn’t need.
I turned to his friend, “He’s delusional enough to think I’m the prettiest girl in the world. He must still believe I’m Kendall.”
“Probably,” the girl said back. “Either way, he’s basically in love with you.”
“But isn’t he, you know… ” I tried to think of the most delicate way to phrase it. I got nothing. “… gay?”
“That’s what I always thought!”
“That’s what I thought, too,” Brandon piped in.
“He has to be,” I said, throwing a glance his way. He kept turning to me and waving with enough enthusiasm to make me mildly uncomfortable and wish I had an Invisibility Cloak. “Well, this must be a profoundly confusing time for him.”
11:22 P.M.
A third guy interrupted our conversation to approach Brandon. “You probably hear this all the time,” he slurred, whiskey sour splashing about. “But you look JUST like Common! You could be twins.”
“Hm, I’ve never gotten that before, actually,” Brandon replied, because he’s polite.
“Seriously? They don’t look ANYTHING alike,” I said, because I’m not.
“Really? I can’t tell you two apart. And that’s a good thing!”
“Well, thanks for the compliment,” Brandon added graciously, his lessons at Etiquette School obviously paying off.
Then he left.
Brandon: I don’t look anything like Common.
Me: Seriously. White people, am I right?
11:31 P.M.
I could swim in a vat of Watermelon Four Loko and still not be as plastered as the girl standing next to me. She was passionately dancing in a corner all by herself, a cigarette in one hand and a champagne glass in the other. Bonus points for multitasking; minus points for spilling 90% of the drink on your own dress. People circled her, pointing and snickering, which was a shame – the girl can’t help it if she’s feeling herself. Justin Timberlake has that effect on people.
Emma Watson’s feminist book club had been inspiring me lately, so I went up to check on her since her eyes were closed and she was drooling profusely at this point. All she did was hand me a half-used cigarette.
“Thanks for the… souvenir. Are you feeling alright?” I asked.
“Ahujfkedsuwhesjr” was more or less her response. I’m way too sober to be a good Samaritan, I thought.
12:35 A.M.
Brandon attempted to act as a buffer between me and Kendall’s #1 Fan so I could cozy up to other guys – after all, there were only so many hours left to lock down an Irish husband. (Personally, marriage is synonymous with torture for me, but for green card purposes…) There was another layer of stress added because I had to constantly work “So, how old are you?” into every conversation. Much like the club in Paris, Dicey’s Garden was also 18+ and I was a girl who LEARNED from her mistakes, damnit. See entry #33.
(Alas, this all ends up coming back to haunt me later on when I returned to LA… but that’s an entry for another, more shameful time.)
An unconscionable amount of free drinks later – all due to the fact that everyone was impressed Brandon and I were from California/we shared thrilling tales of eating In-N-Out – we met an entertaining group of Irish folks who also had plans to check out the salacious wasteland that was Coppers.
“We’re heading over now if you’d like to join,” one of them offered.
“I have to bid farewell to a few of my suitors, but we can meet you over there,” was my modest reply.
In all actuality, there was only one suitor… and he sure didn’t make things easy.
“Arianna, wait! Don’t go!” Kendall’s #1 Fan cried, still as not straight as ever. “Will I ever see you again?”
I paused. “Uh… probably not, no.”
“You mean you don’t plan on coming back to Dublin?”
“Not really. Sorry, man.” (Hey, points for honesty, right?)
“Maybe I should make a trip to visit you in LA. Sometime next summer?”
“That seems aggressive… But sure, whatever you say. Take care now. Stay tuned for the next episode of Keeping Up With The Kardashians, Wednesday nights on E!.”
Approximately forty-two minutes later, he texted me about his vacation schedule. Well, at least I had that green card in the bag.
12:41 A.M.
Among the chaos, Brandon and I finally flagged down our Uber outside.
“TO COPPERS!” I declared as we both slid clumsily into the back. The driver turned around, a pained expression resting on his face.
“You realize that’s next door, right?”
Brandon and I gazed stupidly at each other.
“Oh, so you mean…”
“Yeah, you should get out now,” he answered, obviously exasperated.
“Thanks for the ride! Miss you already!” I shouted back as we hopped out his crummy little Volkswagen, not the slightest bit discouraged or embarrassed.
“Stupid Americans,” he probably muttered under his breath. Only 6 more hours to go!
The Art of Being Basic 