Dublin had redeeming qualities other than the Guinness brewery. One was Sam, the Aussie who worked at the desk at the Bunkhouse Hostel, who led us bravely to the Temple Bar district each night. Also a plus was Booze2Go across the street, where you could buy off-license by shouting your order through glass at the staff, who would assemble your order and slide it to you in a drawer.
We also managed not to get hit by a bus, which I consider an accomplishment.
Other pluses for Dublin:
+ 24-hour Burger King stationed neatly between Temple Bar and our hostel. Good for both late night snacks and bathroom breaks on the way home.
+ Our introduction to the Lisbon Treaty issue, by banner-waving protestors outside the General Post Office, site of the 1916 uprising.
+ Hen/Stag-do season. This meant packs of women in bars dressed in matching t-shirts or Moulin Rouge getups, and men in the streets with feather boas and dresses.
+ First hearing ‘Galway Girl’, a song that would become a favorite on the ensuing road trip. Unfortunately the man who played it in the pub largely interpreted Traditional Irish Music to include John Mellencamp. And the Irish love Johnny Cash, specifically Folsom Prison.
By the end of the weekend we were aching to get out of the city, and on Monday we got to pick up our rental car. Dustin picked up other-side-of-the-road driving quickly, which may or may not have been helped along by his philosophy that if you don’t know what you’re doing, just do it faster.
The car needed a name, and as we cruised out of Dublin, Dustin declared it “Squidget!”, a word presumably pulled from thin air. It sounded good, until the boys decided it wasn’t manly.
“It needs a middle name, like Crusher.”
“Yeah, or Thunderdome.”
The Thunderdome is a building in Dublin, whose name they liked to randomly say in a Hulk Hogan voice.
“But it’s Irish, so….O’Callahan,” Dustin concluded.
Our silver Ford Focus was thereafter known as Squidget Thunderdome Crusher O’Callahan. And it was good.