48 hours of travel with a one hour nap

Dublin, Ireland

After a ten hour flight (split into two five-hour halves by a blipped stop in New York), we arrived in Dublin at 5am.

Don't ask me how we found the hostel because ... I still don't ... know.

It involved a telephone booth, a mysterious turquoise door, and about five miles of walking, in sandals, with suitcases in tow (as they bounced across the uneven cobblestone streets of the city). I still insist we were not lost; we just didn't know where we were. So while I pranced about in denial and recognized the Molly Malone statue (all three times we ran into it), Colleen growled at her confused GPS system (which was refusing to cooperate).

The Avalon House is a large yellow hostel tacked onto the back of a classy-looking cafe. The man at the front of the desk changes every hour and every corridor is monitored by a video feed. The room is about a hundred degrees but it's clean, secure, and smells like mint.

After discovering we could not check into our hostel until 2 in the afternoon, we locked our luggage in a locker, stowed the keys, and set off in all our sleepy splendor across the city to find Kilmainhom Gaol (a jail for political prisoners) and the Guinness Factory (tourist trap).

During the tour, Bre locked herself in a cell, I pretended to be a warden, and Colleen fell asleep standing up (hehe). In an outdoor arena, the tour guide indicated a space where they used to execute prisoners in a firing squad. When Colleen realized that the very wall she was sagging against used to have brains splattered across it, she got a little creeped out.

At 11:30 we went around in search of a place to get food. At the door to a nearby pub, a man dragged on a cigarette and smiled sparkly green eyes when we asked if the place was open.

"Sure," he says, "O'course we're open. But do you want food or drinks?"
We responded that we were searching for lunch.
He chuckled.
"Nope, no food here today. It's a holiday!"

And of course it would be absurd to entirely close a pub just because of some obscure holiday. We still don't know what they're celebrating for this "holiday"--and I got the impression that they don't, either.

And on top of that, he assumed we'd want a drink before noon.


At a pub called Murrys down the street, we met a man not-named Murry who fed us burgers and chips and bangers and mash.

And in the Guinness Factory Gravity Bar, a Dolly Parton served us clovered Guinness.

For dinner we met up with Nicola, a friend who treated us to dinner at a classy burger joint. We sat outside in the sun and snacked on chips and blue cheese sauce while Dublin filtered around us and deep, lovely conversation brimmed in new friendship.

It may only be 4pm your time but its midnight here!

Tìoraidh,
Kellie