A pub crawl begins sober; it is not the objective at the end of the night. On Sunday, we started in the afternoon. This fine, renovated spot served us a bottle of Irish lager recommended by a chatty young gent named Darius, after the Persian king. We quit after just one and Rod was pleased to be rid of him. The Irish are fond of puns. Check out this one. The afternoon pub was several blocks east of Trinity College, which in turn was a few more blocks from our destination, Temple Bar, which is neither, but a street named after Sir William Temple, an Irish philosopher, fittingly associated with public intoxication.  The pub was covered in tiny white lights, looks like snow, and is probably permanent. Yes, that’s a horse-drawn carriage, but no one seems to be surprised by its appearance, nor concerned about where the horse might leave droppings for inattentive pub crawlers. [No, it’s not. But there are horses here and there.]   

An early start to a pub crawl requires sustenance. If you thought that high cuisine at the bar would be fish and chips, the days of limited, cheap choice disappeared with with the introduction of euro-touting tourists. On the left, an Irish stew with a Guinness sauce; on the right, baked trout over veggies and mashed potatoes. Live music is common in at least half of the bars. The singers and bands we heard were excellent. It is a mixture of traditional Irish songs and vintage Rock. The Irish celebrate the Fourth of July just as we celebrate St. Patrick’s Day, by drinking. Before anyone assumes that this means they want to be American, half the bars hang rainbow flags to celebrate the same sex marriage; the straight guys are not looking to cross over—darn! In fairness, I have not see an intoxicated Dubliner. They like to hang out together and talk rather than watch TV each night, but the current generation is neither neither rowdy nor belligerent. What is great about Ireland is that about half of the patrons stand around outdoors, probably a habit started when Ireland outlawed smoking in public places. Few smoke today.

After our morning breakfast, Rod insisted that we walk to the Guinness brewery. No, I’m telling the truth, it was his idea. And a fine idea it was, truth be told. Turns out, they make beer in Ireland with clean water, rejecting the prolonged and painful experiment of using horse urine, unsuccessfully championed by Budweiser. Rejecting the tired passé tradition of tonguing the Blarney Stone, Rod demonstrates the more hip gesture of pulling the ostrich testicles for good luck. No need to look for a smile, if he keeps his head in the sand, you’re doing it right. [And so long as Rod does not read this blog, I can keep my wedding band.] How time flies. They drive on the wrong side and they put “tock” before “tick.” I was nearly ticked off.We met a couple from Boston and I bet you have no idea how I found them.   They were delightful and we shared a pint of good stuff from the top floor of the old Guinness brewery. The taller one on the right (I cannot think of any other way to distinguish them…oh yeah, he’s male, duh) worked for Elizabeth Warren, knocking on doors and telling people that if they didn’t vote for Warren, he’d bust a knee. Pugilism really works—she won. And he can still walk without a limp. (I bet he still has no idea how I figured out where they were from.) 

After this we hit a museum and visited the redundantly named Christ Church Cathedral, but who needs another picture of the pregnant virgin—now that’s a moron pulling an unbelievably big oxy.

Tonight we are eating at the Bull & Castle, so I should have some disgusting pictures of Rod further carving up a slaughtered animal. Yum.

If there is a cooler city in the world, I’ve not heard about it. Dubliners party.Somehow, these pretty people have changed from the bigoted, fighting Irish of my youth to the friendly, smiling, inclusive kids who grace the festive streets of Dublin. I suspect it is because they are exceptionally well-educated. It should also be noted that they have no student debt to show for it.  They are the first  generation of Irish in over 100 years who have known peace all their lives. Thank you George Mitchell. Please come home and do the same for us.

The Irish like flowers nearly as much as they like Guinness, a good joke, and red hair. I’m with them on the Guinness thing…and the red hair…oh, what the heck, I must be Irish.   The poor Irish cops have neither guns nor Tasers. Must make for a dull day, except for Guinness, redheads and  a good laugh. Sometimes all three at once, which is my personal preference.Despite what you may have heard, there are black people in Ireland.  This is not sculpture. They sit and stand motionless until some overly generous dude, like the one on the right, drops a euro or two into their bucket. Then they bow and wave, gently. “Rod, how do they keep the dog still?“

The building housing the National Museum of Ireland (spoiler alert: there are no paintings) is a work of its own. I learned all about the formation of peat, but I did not get bogged down by the subject. [Forgive the geology pun, but Tony might be reading this, though I cannot imagine why.] This pub-fested alley is always busy and on Friday it is packed.Hmmm, hadn’t noticed this cute guy looking at me. Damn!

We finished the day eating tapas at a noisy, spirited place.Great food.