"So,” I asked, taking a sip of my breakfast Guinness, “What are your thoughts on fecal transfer?”
J2 explained that research into microbiome population
dynamics is still in early stages, though there is a large-scale trial
happening now that might produce some interesting results. J1 agreed, saying it
was was exciting to think science might soon be able to accurately identify the
markers that might help us understand the impact of changes to microbial
communities.
“Huh,” I said, then asked if we might move to the other side
of the room, as the 7th floor of the Guinness Storehouse is entirely
glassed in and the sun was directly in my eyes. We shifted around so we had a
view of Phoenix Park, then all too quickly I was draining the last of my pint,
J2 was stuffing a 6-pack of P-p-p-p-penguins into my bag, I was discretely
transferring a pint of Jameson’s into hers, and then it was goodbyes and hugs
and I was headed to the busaras and the airport and wow you can do a lot worse
than a weekend in Dublin with a couple of PhDs with lots of insights about cellular
aging and gut bacteria.
Friday morning post sleeping for 8 days I went in search of coffee in vain—what the
HECK—and after yet another flat white, with bonus confusion because I asked for
scrambled eggs instead of an omelet, I struck out for the yarn store,
determined to be first in line when the doors opened. A lovely lady there
showed me lots of local yarns and after extensive
debate and touching everything at
least twice I made up my mind and came away with some excellent chunky-sock
yarn, regular sock yarn (the dyer works at the store!), and a gorgeous skein of
a lace-weight silk/wool blend in a colorway called “Menace.” I was in heaven.
I did some shopping and wandering and then I stopped for my
first Guinness of the trip. Really I was just excited to cast on for a chunky
sock, and so as I waited for my pint, I got my needles out. A man came along
and said, “What are you doing with the sticks?” By way of answer I pulled out a
ball of yarn and he said “Oh!” and walked away quickly.
J2 was coming in all the way from Brisbane and god bless her she was
taking a bus directly to Dublin from the Shannon airport. The bus was,
naturally, delayed a bit, and while I wanted to give her time to get settled, as I know just how freaking long that trip can be even without
adding a 4+ hour bus ride onto the end of it, I was eager to see her and so I
posted up at the bar at the hotel and texted her where to find me when she was
ready. I ordered a Guinness and knit away; I could see out of the corner of my
eye two couples down the bar from me were clearly discussing whatever it was I
was doing and sure enough as they were leaving one of the gentlemen was brave enough
to ask me what I was making, saying they each had a guess as to what it was.
His, he informed me, was that it was a sleeve.
Perhaps you are wearing a sock right now, or, if not, you
can perhaps conjure the image of one in your head. Picture if you will a line
draw across the base of your toes and then regard the rough flat-topped triangle that your
toes go into. This is what I had knit so far and while I want very much to
encourage interest in knitting there is, I must submit, no freaking way the toe
of a sock should be mistaken for a sleeve.
Refraining from sharing these thoughts I simply held up the sock-toe and said “It’s a sock!” The gentleman regarded me and my toe-sock doubtfully then said, “Aye, then: good luck with it!” and left.
(Well, shit. Now that I look at it, I guess I could actually kind of see the sleeve thing, especially if you didn't know the bottom part was closed. Retrospective sorry, gentleman!)
J2 and I had a nice dinner and chat and then I begged off to
go back to my room and crash so I could wake up at 4am as per. That’s how I
managed to get a lot more sock knit, during the early morning hours while
listening to Season 3 of Crimetown, and then throughout the day as the Js and I
bopped around town. We had a lovely long lunch at a place called The Church
which is—spoiler?—a former church that has been converted into a bar/restaurant,
with a club of some sort in the basement and it was a TRIP. I had a hot whiskey
as commandments 6-10 stared down at me, written 8 feet high in a truly
inscrutable font on the wall just behind our table. (We have a picture to commemorate
this but it is so unspeakably bad (composition, lighting, the face I am making)
that I cannot share it here.)
There was a table full of young men to our left, all
drinking a LOT of beer and looking very dressed up—collared shirts, nice
sweaters, a couple of ties, even one suit—and I was simply dying to know what they were pregaming for. I was thinking it had to be a wedding, but J1 gently
reminded me that weddings in Ireland most likely happen on Sundays so all I can say is that around 1pm on Saturday 8-10
decently dressed young fellows full of Guinness spilled out of The Church into
the world and I STILL wish I know where they went.
I know where everyone else
in Dublin went that afternoon, which was to some kind of street fair where—traumatically—I
managed to take my eyes off the Js for a hot second and got myself lost. It was
entirely my fault and we all had problems with cell service and it was a fraught
6 minutes before J2 got through on the phone and another 15 before they fought
their way back to me—I’ll be under the Spire, I shouted desperately, the SPIIIIIRRRRRE—and
after that I was DONE with the crowds.
However, before I could lose my bottle entirely, right after
I was reunited with Js, somewhat unbelievably I saw the sleeve-guessing guy
from the hotel bar walk by. I’d cast off the sock at lunch so, because I am a
lunatic, I chased him down and brandished the finished sock at him: “See,” I
shouted, a bit overcome, “See, it’s a SOCK!” He did a triple-take and then had
to admit yes, it was. “Good on you,” he said, and I admit I felt a lot better
after closing that loop.
The Js talked me the rest of the way off the crowd-related ledge
and we bulled down O’Connell Street to the Whiskey Museum where the
poor lady selling tickets didn’t even get to finish asking whether we wanted
the standard or the premium tour before we shouted PREMIUM and threw credit
cards at her. We learned a lot and tasted four different whiskies. Highly recommend.
There is a terrific restaurant in Dublin called Mr. Fox and
I convinced the Js to walk up there to see if we could wheedle our way into a
table even though we didn’t have a reservation. It didn’t look good at first,
as the place was quite busy and perhaps a bit full of itself (“Did we come all
the way to Dublin to go to dinner in Brooklyn?” I asked J1, but couldn’t argue
when she pointed out that while all three of us either do or had until very
recently lived in NYC none of us had been to Brooklyn in a while so to Dublin-Brooklyn
it was), and a lady did try to turn us away, but we could see some open tables
and after we asked again, very nicely, they conceded that if we could clear out
by 7 (it was 5:40) we could stay. We promised we would and dinner was SUPER and almost made me want to venture back to
Brooklyn at some point. (No. Brooklyn is TOO MUCH Brooklyn.)
This morning, Sunday, the Js and I powered through the
requisite flat whites then went walking. It was as nice as it has been, sunny
and, if not warm, then not bitingly cold. I needed to be on a bus to the
airport about 12:30 which gave us enough time to mosey to the Guinness Storehouse
for one last pint together. It was early but there were still a fair number of people
there and we joked about using the wifi to order tickets online as the
online-ticket pick up line was zero while the in-person ticket line we were in
was inexplicably crawling. A long boring story ensues* which ends with the lessons
that you shouldn’t assume what people tell you is true and sometimes you just
need to keep pressing buttons [on the online kiosk] until you get what you
want.
As we took the elevator up to the 7th floor for our
breakfast Guinness and discussion of microbiomes, I opened the bag I was
carrying to show the Js why I was very glad we’d managed to eel around the
bag-check people at the entrance. J2 looked in and said, delightedly, “Whiskey
and sharp objects!” and if that is my legacy as a smuggler I will be proud.
(The sharp objects were knitting needles and I admit I was VERY proud of
Ireland when my bag was (briefly) pulled off the conveyor belt at security and
the nice man said just “You have knitting needles in here?” I said “Yes!” and
he gave me the bag and I was on my way.)
I took the subway and then the AirTrain to JFK for the first
leg of this trip, and when I got off the AirTrain I looked to my left and saw an
arrow for Terminal 4. Reflexively, I looked to my right and there was an
arrow for Terminal 4 in that direction as well. Because I am in the habit of
keeping a conversation going, I whispered to myself All roads lead to Rome and then I stopped short because omg holy
smokes it is TRUE: all roads DO lead to Rome and so holy smokes here I am in
ROME. !!!
I went out in search of a quick bite tonight and it wasn’t
until I sat down that I realized the joint was called Alice Pizza. This would
be especially sweet if the g-d NYS DMV hadn’t recently summarily changed my middle
name from “Alice” to “A.” (this is not a joke), but even still I was happy to
bask in the reflected Alice glow and in the fact that this is the first country
in which I have not needed to provide any clarifying information or spelling
when I say my last name.
Tomorrow? ROME! I will miss the Js, the nonstop laughter,
and of course the fat-necked swans, but I am very excited for this next phase
of adventure.**
Pictures!
Look what a fat neck this swan has.
I absolutely accosted a salesperson and asked him to explain the discrepancy in spellings and his rather insouciant answer was: "It can be either way." NOT, I submit to you good sir, ON THE SAME GARMENT.
Get it at Guiney's?! Don't mind if I do! :) :) :)
*I needed to throw myself on the mercy of the live check-in
lady because I thought I had messed up the online ticket purchase; as we waited,
I asked the Js what accent would make me seem plausibly unclear on how very
simple things work so the lady would just roll her eyes and fix my mistake. J1
didn’t blink: “American!”
**I need to see the Coliseum and the place where they
stabbed Julius Caesar to death (WHICH IS ALSO THE SITE OF A FERAL CAT COLONY); everything else is gravy. Or rather, wine and
fresh pasta. !!!!
Finally, I think J1, though she has been reading along, was
still surprised by how many birds I wanted to talk to as we strolled around St.
Stephen’s Green. This magpie must have gotten a memo from Australia because s/he
gave me one look and then turned his/her little bird butt around and walked
away. WHAT BIRDS YOU GOT ROME HERE I COME.
"What?"
"Oh, you."
"No."
[Struts away] "Goodbye."
Roman birds and feral cats!!!
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