Home of the Brogue

June 22-23

The trip back home included a bonus day in Dublin. I was eager for that.

I’ve read “Ulysses” a few times. I’ve even plowed through “Finnegans Wake.” I’ve seen Hollywood movies about the Irish Republican Army. 

But for no reason I can fathom, I’d never been to Dublin, or to Ireland at all, before. 

Changing planes on the way to Amsterdam two weeks ago doesn’t count. I spent most of that time standing in lines.

The trip was fun, except for Aer Lingus. It started with a bizarre check-in at Schiphol.

The check-in counter was closed, with a small line waiting, when I got there, about two hours before flight time. 

Aer Lingus people started showing up a few minutes later. One came running in a little while after that. She was late and looked rattled. 

She was probably brand new to the job, so that’s why they let her be the only one checking customers in. Two other employees were there for bag drop only.

When this sort of thing happens, I always suspect the company is trying to punish customers for refusing to be steered to an automated process.

This young woman was clearly having trouble. She spent 15 or 20 minutes with one family. She was looking into a notebook. She was on the phone, more than once. Neither of the other two women offered to help. And there was nobody else around from the airline.

She never did resolve the problem, whatever it was, while I was there, but instead asked the group to wait at one side. 

When she was working on my arrangement, she had to figure out how to get the computer to book my bag to Dublin and not route it all the way through to Newark. 

That’s because I’d be staying over night at Dublin, and I didn’t want my bag getting to Newark ahead of me and possibly disappearing. 

That meant more looking into the notebook. And that wouldn’t have been so bad if she could stay at it. She kept looking up and commenting on a conversation at the next deck. 

I can hear them making plans for the day: Okay. Who’s got ADHD? All right, you check the customers in.

I got past that, finally, and the plane left only a half-hour late.

The Google instructions for using public transportation looked easy enough to follow. So I bought a ticket for the 747 bus outside the airport. 

As it happened, this was an easier jaunt than I’d expected. Shortly before my stop, we passed the hotel, “North Star” clearly printed on its red awnings.

I walked back to the corner of Talbot and Amiens Streets and waited for the light. It never came. When people crossing the other way got the light a second time, I decided to jaywalk.

I saw a car marked “Garda” waiting at the light. That’s a police cruiser. He probably won’t mind.

I was maybe three steps from the curb when the siren went off. I thought he was swinging left into my lane. Another, civilian car actually did turn my way at the time. 

I moved quicker than I have in a while, swinging self and luggage back out of the way. The Garda car, with siren and lights in fine working order, was off in another direction.

The hotel put me up in the historic part of the North Star. Because it’s a landmark, preservation rules won’t let them put in an elevator. It would require too much demolition.

The desk clerk helped me get the bags upstairs. I would have had a hell of a job getting up two flights with both bags in tow.

I didn’t have much time in Dublin, so I couldn’t see much. Given the hour and the day, the best place to go was Davy Byrne’s Pub.

The No. 27 bus stops almost directly across Amiens Street from the hotel. It’s four stops to College Green.

You walk a few steps and get onto Suffolk Street. You can’t miss Suffolk. It’s where the Molly Malone statue is.

A left by Molly Malone takes you to Grafton Street, which has been blocked off as a pedestrian mall. Davy Byrne’s is on Duke Street, the first side street off Grafton.

The Cyclops episode of “Ulysses” takes place there. 

Leopold Bloom, who sells ad space for a city paper, stops in for a glass of wine and a Gorgonzola sandwich. He gets into an argument with a man wearing an eyepatch. I think at one point Bloom gestures for emphasis with a lit cigar in his hand.

The place has classic pub architecture, with a dark wood-paneled front (https://davybyrnes.com/). The bar extends through two rooms, and the most prominent pumps are Guinness.

I didn’t have a cigar. What’s more, I wasn’t about to go to a bar in Dublin and ask for wine. And lamb stew sounded a lot better right then than Gorgonzola.

The stew, served with brown bread, was a delight. So was the Guinness, the original home-town brew. 

I also sampled Sullivan’s red ale and Smithwicks, which is brewed by Guinness. They were weaker than I expected. 

I hadn’t tasted Smithwicks in a while. There was a time it was one of my go-to taps.

Now the best red ales I know are made not in Ireland but in the States. They have a mouthful of malt flavor balanced by sharp, dry hops. These were too thin for me.

It was a busy time on Saturday night, so I didn’t get to talk to anybody. I didn’t see any one-eyed men. There could have been some ad reps, but I’m pretty sure none was Leopold Bloom. 

One thing I forgot to do was ask Google how to get back to the North Star. I couldn’t find a stop for the 27 in the opposite direction. Maybe it doesn’t return by way of College Green.

So I took a cab instead.

I stopped at the hotel to phone Joanna so she’d know I was all right and having fun. Then I went out to J.J. Grainger’s Cafe & Bar at 52 Amiens St.

It was even more fun than having Irish stew at Davy Byrne’s.

I asked the bartender about the ales. I had noticed a tap for Sunburnt Red and asked for a half pint of that. It too did not have what I’d call a strong flavor, but it was the best of the three reds.

Next I tried Elevation Irish pale ale. It had a good, though not powerful, flavor and was dry enough. It was better than any of the red ales.

When he brought the Elevation, he also came with a small glass of another, Hop Hash summer seasonal made by a brewery called Hope. He said the Hop Hash had just come in that day.

Hop Hash was full of flavor. When I first tasted the sample, it seemed almost burnt, but in a good way. When the half pint came and I started getting into it, I realized that was wrong. This was almost sour with a hint of sweet—grapefruit. 

It was like an over-the-top Lagunitas IPA, probably loaded with those citrus-tasting citra hops.

It was still early, so I took home a couple of bottles, including an unfiltered Carlsberg. It is a lager, not generally my favorite, but the haze gave it a little extra interest.

Sunday morning I managed to get almost lost in the hotel. 

The breakfast room is under the new wing. 

After my Irish breakfast, I tried the elevator to see where it went. Even if it meant dragging my bags, across the second floor, it would avoid those stairs. 

But when I reached the second floor, it wasn’t very encouraging. No signs about the original wing. Maybe there was no getting to my room from here.

I went back down and after a little concentration remembered that I had come down a long hall and opened a door. (Sort of like what you do in a bad dream, but this wasn’t as sinister.) 

Yes, there was a door. And on the other side of it, the long hall.

I asked the desk to call for a cab, and when I checked out a little after 10 a driver was waiting for me.The cab ride cost more than the bus, but it was far quicker. I also didn’t have to stand and wait for it.

The wait came at the airport. Aer Lingus was back in rare form.

You’re supposed to go somewhere and scan your passport at a kiosk to get a boarding pass. Then you go to another kiosk, scan your boarding pass to get a luggage tag. 

The kiosks were packed and most of them were surrounded by confused people, just like me. I hate automated check-in even more than automated check-out.

I tried the luggage tag machine first by mistake. It immediately asked for my booking reference number. I had no clue what that was.

An attendant came to my rescue. She took my passport to another kiosk somewhere. She came back a few minutes later. The machine couldn’t scan my passport. 

I’ve had that happen before, with Joanna already on the other side of the barrier waiting while I stood in line to show my passport to a real person.

Anyhow, this morning I got to stand in line along with dozens, maybe thousands, of other travelers. It looked like passport control at Newark Liberty. The line did move faster than Newark ever could, but it still took a while.

I was damned glad I was more than two hours early.

Security check was more efficient. So that only took a few minutes.

My boarding pass didn’t have a gate number, just an abbreviation, “USP.”

I checked the departures board, which was equally helpful. It directed me and anyone like me to “U.S. CBP.” A dozen of us were standing under the board asking each other to guess what that meant.

I think now that “CBP” stands for Customs and Border Protection. “USP” is United States Preclearance.

All the gates for U.S. flights are in one area of the airport. To get there you have to take your shoes off again, empty your pockets, put all your stuff in bins. But there is no body search, just the X-ray machines. 

What’s this? The U.S. doesn’t trust the Irish to X-ray carry-ons?

Even after all that, there was no rush because this plane too was late.

We left the gate 20 minutes or more behind time. Then we sat in the plane.

The word from the cockpit was that “two passengers had been removed from the aircraft.” Wow, I wonder what they did wrong. We had to wait while the luggage was taken off the plane.

I had eaten a big Irish breakfast—eggs, beans, ham, etc.—but that was about 7 in the morning. By the time they served food on the plane, I took it.

It wasn’t the worst airplane food I’ve had, but it certainly wasn’t anything I’d really call rigatoni Bolognese. But I was so hungry that it was delicious.

The flight was bumpy in spots, but otherwise uneventful.

Although we had left almost an hour late, we still arrived at Newark around 3:30 local time. The pilot may have taken a shortcut.

But once we were out of the plane, things seemed a little unusual. We weren’t all plowing down that claustrophobic hallway to the entry hall. 

We were in the actual airport and heading straight to baggage check.

That final hurdle at Dublin was indeed preclearance. 

That’s why the guy had asked my if I was carrying any alcohol. Only what’s in my system.

Aer Lingus had to have its final joke, though. I avoided the backup at immigration only to wait almost an hour for my bag to show up on the carousel. 

And I was one of the lucky ones. Most of the crowd was still waiting and watching while I was on my way to find a cab.

May all our troubles be as small as these.

Love to all. Stay well, everyone.

And remember: The more time we spend in airports, the less time we’ll spend in hell when we die.

Harry