When Irish Eyes Are Smiling…

The flight to Dublin finally left JFK around 11:30pm…a full hour late.

We rode in a 767-300 wide-body, an ultra slick aircraft with TVs in the seat backs and all the cutting-edge mod-cons you only find on international flights. I had cashed in some frequent flyer miles to cover the cost of the one-way trip, so I popped the extra $75 (or thereabouts) for Delta’s “Comfort Plus” seat. Unfortunately, while the legroom was actually quite generous, the seat width was spartan at best. And my seat mate was a significantly bigger guy than I who unapologetically infiltrated my space most of the night. He dominating the arm rest between us and spend most of the flight throwing his left elbow into my ribs while he wrestled whatever demons were tormenting him as he slept.

Botton line: It was not a comfortable flight for which Delta had no culpability. I had made the strategic error of booking a window seat (instead of my usually aisle position) under the misguided notion that there’d be something to see out the window as we approached my first European destination.

It was a red-eye.

Not sure what I expected to see at 3 am. And besides, the window shades were ordered shut for the duration of the flight by El Capitan.

My other strategic error was spending the extra hour while we waited at the gate to enjoy a few fermented beverages at the bar across the way believing it might help me sleep. We weren’t past Montauk on the easternmost tip of Long Island before my bladder began screaming. And Big Man with Sharp Elbows was out like a light before we had even left the tarmac. Being the considerate guy I am, I squirmed in my seat until about three hours into the flight and finally begged him to get up and let me out of the row…before it was too late.

Came back to the seat and proceeded to suffer what Kramer from Seinfeld described as “Jimmy Legs.” They didn’t hurt per se, but I could never get comfortable. Jimmy legs…restless leg syndrome.

As a result, I never slept a wink..even after watching a gripping movie called San Andreas starring former WWE wrestler and master thespian, “The Rock.”

Landed in Dublin at 10:45am, made my way through Customs, found my suitcase on the carousel and climbed aboard the double-decker AirLink bus from the airport to the hotel.

Almost.

My hotel — The Gibson — was the first stop in the city. I was sitting on the top deck, my luggage was on a rack down below. And I made the incorrect assumption that of the 50 or so people on board I wouldn’t be the only person getting off at Stop #1. I assumed someone would have asked the driver to stop, and I could make my way down the stairs and grab my bags.

By the time I realized the bus had blown past Stop #1 and was approaching Stop #2 (The Convention Center, near the Samuel Beckett Bridge), someone else had finally pushed the button and rang the bell to get the driver to pull over. My first visit to Dublin began with a mile hike along the River Liffey dragging two suitcases.

Once I had checked in, I changed out of my now sweaty red-eye flight attire, headed back out and did what I do when I explore a new city. I got lost. A good kind of lost. Not a “holy shit…where the hell am I” lost. I knew roughly how far I’d walked. I knew Trinity College was in the neighborhood. Which meant I wasn’t far from Grafton Street. And toward the river, I’d hit Temple Bar. I just didn’t know what street I was on because, well, to be honest, my hosts here in Dublin seem somewhat reluctant to advertise that kind of information. I’m sure there are “street signs” posted somewhere. I just didn’t see them. And while there are a lot of signs with arrows pointing to specific destinations, they are relatively useless.

Fortunately, I came across the Long Stone Pub and was able to re-gain my bearings.

The Long Stone is promoted as Dublin’s oldest viking pub. Not sure there is actually a second-oldest viking pub in Dublin. Not sure that matters. But the Long Stone, which is on Townsend Street by-the-way, is right where I thought I was. A block north of Trinity College, a few blocks from Grafton and about 300 yards south of the river.

I was welcomed warmly by the general manager, a chap around my age, who poured me a proper Guinness and showed me the legendary kindness, patience and hospitality that Dubliners are rightfully known for. We moved out of the bar area and sat outside in the adjacent beer garden for the better part of an hour and chatted about the economy, immigration/migration, relationships, careers, travel and, of course, pubs I’d enjoy and others I should avoid at all costs.

By the time I had finished my second Guinness, I was beginning to feel that clammy, crappy jet-lagged/been-awake-for-almost-30-hours fatigue setting in. And in spite of being three miles away from the hotel, I decided to hoof it back (via Temple Bar – certainly not a short-cut) and not take a cab. When I got back to the Gibson and into my room, I crawled into bed for a few hours and napped until 8:30.

I cleaned up a bit, went downstairs and had dinner at the bar…which, as a solo traveler, is a less-pathetic dining strategy than sitting alone at a table.

Before I knew it, I’d made friends with a perfectly lovely English couple, also about my age, who I assumed were on holiday. We had some laughs, discussed some of the common issues facing the EU and the United States, and they generously offered some wonderful suggestions on how to spend my 48+ hours in London, my eight hours in Rome, and a few other cities with which they were intimately familiar.

As I rode up the elevator back to my room, I felt some regret that my lack of sleep during the flight had limited how much I had hoped to accomplish during my first day. But I was still able to do some important reconnaissance that should pay dividends when I hit the streets with my camera tomorrow. And I met some pretty terrific people from whom I learned a lot.

I’m pretty sure this is what this whole trip is all about.

It’s the journey. Not the destination. It’s the people I meet along the way that give it meaning, not how many touristy landmarks I see.

If every day of this trip is this “disappointing,” I’m doing pretty damn well.