72 Hours in Dublin: Drink, Cry, Repeat
Here’s what happens when a Maxim editor with a drinking problem (solution?) spends St Patrick’s weekend in Dublin.
Here’s what happens when a Maxim editor with a drinking problem (solution?) spends St Patrick’s weekend in Dublin.
It’s Friday, March 15th at 9am, and I’ve just arrived at the Brooks Hotel in Dublin after a long flight from New York. It’s time to meet the other journalists I’ll be traveling with, along with our hosts from Guinness, and head to our first stop: the Guinness Storehouse. After that, we’ll be doing a meet and greet with the President of Ireland. I fear that I am woefully unprepared for at least one of these activities…
That’s me. Luckily, I’ve come to the one place on earth where being the size of a leprechaun is completely normal, so I feel right at home.
The festivities kick off at the Gravity Bar atop the Storehouse, where there are several toasts and many pints of Guinness. I’ve never seen anything so beautiful. Oh, and the view of the city is pretty spectacular too.
Photo: Guinness Storehouse
Photo: Guinness Storehouse
Photo: Guinness Storehouse
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This is Guinness Brew Master Fergal Murray. He has both the best job and best name in the world.
Photo: Guinness Storehouse
I haven’t eaten since I left New York, and after a few pints of Guinness, we head downstairs for lunch with Fergal. He recommends the burger. I put the whole thing back in under 5 minutes. People are judging and staring at me. This is an ongoing theme of both the trip and my life in general.
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Now that everyone’s decently tipsy, we head to Áras an Uachtaráin—the Irish equivalent of the White House.
Ever wondered what the toilet looks like inside a president’s house? Well, wonder no more. Just to recap, someone has made a critical error and invited me to meet the president of Ireland, and now I’m in his house, photographing the commode. This is all completely normal.
Ladies and gentlemen, Irish President Michael D. Higgins. (Presumably the “D” stands for “Don’t call me short.” Or possibly, “Don’t ever come back to my house.” Either way…)
Here I am with President Higgins. Don’t be preoccupied with questions like “Are you drunk?” or “Is he drunk?” or “Why is everyone so shiny?” The important part is that a Maxim editor went to Ireland and met the president of a goddamn country. I wonder if knowing this might encourage the people at Starbucks back in New York to put a little more effort into getting my order right. Probably not.
Things will decline rapidly from here.
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I swear to god, do not touch my Jameson. Or my Guinness. Or my Smithwicks. Or my Carlsberg. Or my Irish coffee. Or my other Irish coffee. And DEFINITELY do not touch my wings.
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Day two begins with a trip to Malahide Castle, a 13th century castle that is now a tourist attraction and park. Our guide tells us that there is a 500-year-old tree on the property. I want to smoke it.
While at Malahide Castle, I notice a baby carriage wedged behind a dumpster in the parking lot. The Irish: They’re just like us!
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Next, it’s time for a bus ride around the Irish coast. I am really drunkhungover jetlagged, so I spend most of the ride sleeping, and then take just enough pictures to prove to my friends and family that my interests extend beyond beer…
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…I’m also interested in whiskey!
Finally, I’ve found a place that appreciates Jameson enough to frame it. It will be a pity when I break that glass with my bare hands later.
The bar closest to my hotel is called The Hairy Lemon. It’s not a lesbian bar, but someone should get on that, because The Hairy Lemon would be the best name for a lesbian bar, ever.
I make friends with these guys at the bar:
The Irish guy drinking Corona is the best person I know.
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St. Patrick’s Day has arrived, and it’s time for the parade. I’ll be IN the parade, atop a double-decker bus with the rest of the international press. Standing outside in the freezing rain and snow, waiting for the parade to begin, I wonder what fresh Irish hell this is. But the weather clears, and I turn out to be very adept at smiling and waving at the throngs of parade-goers, who are cheering and waving back at us, probably because they have confused us with people who matter.
I’m channeling the Fresh Prince, and I feel pretty good about it.
It’s President Higgins again! I feel like he’s probably waving at me, because we definitely had a moment back at his place yesterday. But who can say for sure.
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Later on, I make more friends at—you guessed it—an Irish bar.
I tell the girls I work at Maxim, and they suggest flashing the camera. Good idea! But they settle on this pose instead:
Works for me.
It’s getting late, and I have a flight to miss in the morning, so it’s time to say farewell to Dublin. But not before this happens:
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