3 Sisters 3 Weeks 3 Countries (Still Talking) (eBook)

6

Dublin’s Welcoming Committee: A Pub and a Pane

Great news for Les. We’ve landed safely in Dublin. I am hoping this will be a confidence booster for her when we fly from Ireland to England. I smile at her and say, “See. Now, that wasn’t too hard, was it?

“Oh, you mean aside from you and Rie sleeping through the medical emergency when an elderly man fell on the other side of me? No, it wasn’t hard at all. I can’t wait to see what happens on our flight home. I am so ready to get off this plane!”

Rie and I calm Les down while grabbing our carry-on. Inside the terminal, we follow the arrows to Baggage Claim/Eileamh Bagaiste. The signs throughout the airport are in English and Gaelic, and though the letters present a lyrical combination, we’ve no clue how to properly pronounce them, but we’re hoping to learn.

Luggage in hand, we head outside to where rows of cabbies are in line (a queue over here). Upon sight of the three of us and our luggage, the man who assigns cabs sends a van in our direction. Good call. All loaded up and ready to start on our adventures, we begin chatting away with our driver; ah, the lovely Irish brogue.

“What’s the address, ladies?” My voice responds in one-fourth excitement and three-fourths nervousness as I give the address for our vacation rental.

Ireland is my assigned country, and with it being our first stop, I am hoping there are no snags with our reservations made online. Scrolling through countless websites for vacation rentals, I found this gem; well, at least according to the pictures, it’s a gem. I shared more than a few emails with the owner, who came across as quite friendly, so I trust my instincts that he’s trustworthy: it’s a leap of faith. Even still, this is what trusting the Internet 5,000 miles away feels like for me—intimidating. And nauseating.

With each mile closer to our home for the next seven days, I grew even more nauseated. No. A better description is a churning vortex in my gut—even while I am smiling and chatting away with the driver and my sisters. With my deepest fears refusing to let up, I begin to silently whisper an urgent prayer. And then I petition several more prayers in rapid succession, which I am sure works even more in my favor:

“Oh please, please, please, dear God, let this not be a hole-in-the – wall.” I am busy in prayer mode when our driver says something about our address: “Your place is in the Phibsborough neighborhood, a short walk to Dublin’s city center. Being out here should be a lot quieter if that’s what you are looking for.”

At this stage of our lives, this is fine by us. We’d rather all our nights not be subjected to various levels of drunken reveries of locals and tourists alike. And with that, the driver pulls up to the curb. From my vantage point inside the taxi, our rental appears to be a good choice, and with that, I release a quiet sigh of relief. Oh, I also give thanks to the god who oversees online vacation rentals.

After our driver unloads our suitcases, we each tip him. Wanting to get this right, I’ve read up on the guidelines for tipping in Ireland. It’s not at all mandatory, especially for cab drivers, yet if the customer appreciates the driver / ride, then round off the fare to the nearest five or ten euros. For example, if the ride costs eight euros give the driver ten. Our driver expresses gratitude for our tip, and he gives us one in return: “See McGowans Pub across the street?” Yes, we do. It’s kind of hard to miss. He continues, “Whenever you take a taxi, just tell the driver you need to go to McGowans and they will know exactly where to take you. I promise every driver in Dublin knows how to get to McGowans.” Now that’s a good tip.

With luggage in tow, we make our way in through the freshly painted decorative, black wrought-iron gate. Just inside the yard is the iconic red POST mailbox. It’s only now, upon closer inspection, that the lack of curb appeal becomes apparent. There is no front yard, meaning no grass, plants, or flowers, but for our viewing pleasure, there is a cement patch, about 10’ x 10’. The outside of the house is built of mostly brown brick, with the trim and windows painted white. The front door is black, and on either side sit black gallon pots, each containing a small, decorative tree of about two feet, much like the kind in front of fancy hotels, although these two differ in one distinct way—both are dead. To be fair, one tree does have a teensy bit of green at its very tip; the poor thing is hanging on for dear life. As it appears right now, from this side of the sidewalk, I’m not too impressed with the outside and it has me bracing for what the inside might be like.

“It’s going to be alright. This is going to be just fine.” This is me doing my best to reassure my two sisters, as well as myself.

We drag our suitcases and ourselves up the seven cement steps to the front door. (I have a long-running habit of counting steps.) We are weary from the flight, the nerves, the anticipation, and with all that our exhaustion is now taking full advantage and slamming hard into each of us. Even so, we work at remaining upright as Rie punches in the door code. The door opens, and we spill into the narrow entryway. Large squares of black and white tiles greet us. I am encouraged. “See, the inside looks much better than the outside. I’ll be honest here. I was a little nervous.” Les agrees. We leave our luggage behind as we begin to explore the property.

The tiles give way to light blonde wood floors throughout. In the living room, we find two small white tufted leather couches, a bookcase filled with knick-knacks, and a television and lamp in one of the corners. There is also a square glass coffee table with a rug underneath and on top a three-ring binder of rental information. I quickly thumb my way through, making a mental note of things we might want to know about later. Each page is in a plastic sleeve, and while it keeps the pages clean renter-to-renter, they go between being slippery and sticking together, thanks to static. Oh well, the information is handy should we need it.

I open the curtains, and the large window reveals our view. It begins with our cement yard, then the four-lane road (very quiet; not much traffic at all), with McGowans Pub directly across from us on the other side of the road.

Established in 1860, the pub is a two-story, colorful establishment, and it’s not at all what we expect a pub to look like. In other words, it’s not like what we see in California. Made mostly of light red bricks with wood on either side painted dark red, it also has copious amounts of hanging pots, everywhere, even all about the fire escape. The flowerpots spill over the brim in an explosion of colors made up of petunias, geraniums, lobelia, and more.

Rie is already making her way to the kitchen, only to find a narrow hallway on the left that reveals a tiny utility room. At the end of this short hall is an even tinier half bath, or as it is called here, a water closet. I can already see that my long legs will prove a challenge for me should I have to use this space. I make a slow turn and find one of the tiniest sinks ever. My guess is the holding capacity for this sink might be two cups of liquid, though I could be exaggerating, but not by much. So be it, but again, it’s apparent space is at a premium in this converted closet, which is also a bathroom/ mop and broom space.

We enter the kitchen, focusing on the appliances and noting how everything is updated. But it’s the elephant in the room, well, in this case, an oversized dining room set, that can’t be ignored. It gobbles up almost all the free space necessary for maneuvering. I speak the obvious.

“Oh boy! It looks like we will be taking turns in here. One can be prepping, one can use the stovetop, and the other… hum… I guess just sit and wait your turn.”

Too tired to see any alternatives, our self-guided tour continues. To the right of the kitchen, we see another door that opens to steps leading down to a back door, which opens to a very small patch of very green grass and a clothesline. “All good here. It’s especially clean. Let’s head up to the second floor.”

I count ten steps made of the same wood as the lower floor. We were not expecting an elevator. Pausing at the landing before completing the next set of steps, I say, “You know, having to haul our luggage up all of these stairs will only make us appreciate the elevator in England.” To which Rie adds, “And my place has an elevator too!”

“Then we are double-appreciative of these stairs,” I respond. Although we are ready to unwind, our spirits are high as we carry our bags up the remaining nine steps.

We are happy to find the upstairs space is carpeted. This makes it a much friendlier greeting for when our feet hit the floor first thing each morning. Because Ireland is my country, I pick my room first while leaving Les and Rie to decide which of the two rooms suits each other best. I chose the bedroom on the right; it has a queen bed, as do the other rooms. With no en suite bathroom, we will all be sharing this one bathroom; it will be fine. With both a tub (short) and a shower (narrow), it rivals the utility closet downstairs.

As soon as I plop my luggage and purse on my bed, I immediately turn to pull...