I just finished sorting through and uploading some old pics from our trip to England and Ireland back in 1996. Now it's late and I still haven't written a post, so I may as well tell you about my inexcusable behavior in Dublin.
We took a tiny plane over from England and landed with a couple days worth of luggage, which we carried through the streets until we found the cheapest place possible to stay. Our room was no bigger than a closet, with two twin beds that, when we tried to push them together, blocked the door so that it only opened about 10 inches. Just enough to squeeze through in the middle of the night when a trip to the priv down the hall was needed.
Complimentary breakfast, which was delivered with a bang at about 5:30 a.m. consisted of a hard-boiled egg, a hot dog bun, cold coffee, and possibly something fruit-like.
When I got done ignoring everything on my plate, I went down to the communal bathroom to shower and turned on the water to warm it up. After about five minutes of slipping my hand under the stream to see if it had changed from icy to steamy, I realized it never would and so I hopped in bathed with amazing speed.
I survived, but now I was angry. Angry interchangeably with the egg and the dried out bun. And the beds and the surprise awakening and the arctic cleansing. So I insisted we leave. Dublin. Seriously.
We took a train to Howth, a little fishing village not too far away, and spent the remainder of our brief trip there. It was beautiful. And quiet. And wonderfully antiquated. But we missed seeing Dublin. And that is regrettable.
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