Dublin Down

And away we go. This was really Elizabeth's trip — she'd wanted to come to Ireland since she was about fifteen, did all the planning and made all the lists, and a work bonus of mine finally turned two weeks of her scheming into two plane tickets. Somewhere over the Atlantic, too keyed up to sleep, I watched the little plane on the map inch its way toward it.

We touched down at Dublin Airport just after 8:30 in the morning and promptly lost most of four hours to the car hire desk. By the time we had keys in hand, the day was well underway.

Our first walk into the city was all dark stone and iron railings, the kind of place where you stop to read a plaque and realize the wall it's bolted to is older than your whole country.

Christ Church loomed behind us, gray and enormous. I also began to notice that Ireland had not been built for a man my size, a theme that would develop.

We did the only correct thing to do on a first night in Dublin, which is find the oldest pub available. The Brazen Head has been pouring since 1198, a number that stops meaning anything the longer you look at it. We had a pint on principle, and then a second on a different principle.

On the walk home we passed Christ Church lit up for the night and the Olympia Theatre glowing over the street, and then we slept the deep, boneless sleep of two people whose bodies believe it is the middle of the afternoon.

Tomorrow, we see Dublin properly.