Lights Out on a Night Out in Dublin
April 9th
I'm not interesting in partying in Dublin. Money is tight, and prices here would make a Londoner cringe. So little do I wish to party in Dublin, that on a Saturday night I went to bed at 11:30.
Unfortunately, this decision resulted in someone trying to beat me up.
My staying in is not due to a crap nightlife. On the contrary, Temple Bar and the city centre's manifold other pubs and clubs have something for everyone - as long as they're willing to pay for it, which I am not. A lack of interest that stems from a combination of low funds and a high desire to relax and unwind, instead of to drink up and get down.
If not for these factors, then I would be all too glad to have a night-out in Dublin, to (hopefully) have an entire night full of cool and strange and X-rated experiences to relate in these articles (though if I wrote about the X-rated experiences I'd charge a quarter a paragraph, like a peep show with words). But when weighing my present bank balance against the IR£5-12 door charge at clubs, and the London-ludicrous IR£2.60-and-upwards a pint (and don't even ask about the wine, but suffice it to say that you can't even get a bottle of Gallo at the offie for under IR£6), I felt no shame in going to bed early.
However, 30 minutes after hitting the sack in an otherwise empty room, I couldn't sleep. So I got up, put my clothes back on, grabbed my boots and my black trenchcoat, and left Litton Lane to take a midnight walk.
The night was clear and lovely, in total contrast to the cloudy gloom of that Saturday afternoon. I walked to the Millennium Bridge, went to the center and stared down the Liffey, to the east towards the Ha'penny and O'Connell bridges, where groups of people crossed the river, north and south, on their way to wherever.
Groups of girls, groups of guys, groups of couples, single couples; I watched them stagger and walk, listened to them mumble and converse. Many smiled as they walked, though for some both smiling and walking was too much to ask. All told, it was a good night to be out in Dublin, whether drinking at the pub, or dancing at the club or, like me, just walking at midnight, which could be done for free and without the bother of dressing up.
I spent many minutes looking out from the Millennium Bridge, looking down the Liffey, taking in the air of a city having a damn good time, and finding myself not only standing up - and walking - straight, but smiling. Then I decided to go to the southside, towards Temple Bar, to wander the streets and watch the people.
It was a few minutes later that, for the first and hopefully only time in my life, an Irishman head-butted me.
Somewhere in Temple Bar - around College Green, perhaps, but due to an Irish phobia that prevents them from cluttering up buildings with street signs I'm not sure exactly where I was - I saw yet another person sitting in a doorway, cup out, a reminder that despite the fun, Dublin also still has all the problems of any city.
Normally I don't give money to panhandlers, especially in places like Dublin, where there are so many. But as I got closer and closer to this girl, and to a guy sitting with her in the doorway, she dropped a coin, which rolled towards me and which I bent over to pick up for her, but as I reached she caught it first - and then we made eye contact, and, well, just walking away now would be a bit cruel, so I dug a coin out of my pocket. She smiled - she was very pretty, with lovely blue eyes - but her companion (or, rather, the guy sitting next to her), suddenly jumped up and started shouting at me.
This is where, as a writer who is recounting his experiences, I should reproduce the relevant dialogue. Unfortunately, due to a mixture of his drunkenness and his accent, I couldn't understand anything he said. Nevertheless, I'll give the retelling a go:
"...my!...money!...can...!" he said.
"What?" I replied.
"...my...money...can...!" he repeated, adding, "Would!...money!"
"Huh?"
"Would!...money!" he repeated, but then the girl said, "Shush! He's giving me money."
My donation given to her cause, I stood back up but jumped back at the guy's reply: a fist whizzing just past my face.
Maybe I shouldn't have said anything. But I did: "You need to work on your right." Then I turned and walked away.
Half a block later, he ran from behind and jumped in front of me, trying to speak, and very emphatically so, with his fists.
"...my!...money!...can...!"
"Sorry mate, but I'm going this way," I said, pointing beyond the area his body was trying to block.
His response was simple enough, and this punch hit me in the face. He really did need to work on that right.
"Look mate," I replied, "I'm sorry, but I'm going on my way. Have a good night."
And then he head-butted me.
It's hard to write about it without smiling; as far as head-butts go, it was very unimpressive. But perhaps things weren't as I thought they were. Maybe this was all an unofficial, black-bag operation of Ireland's tourism trade. Maybe the tourist board has regulations for that sort of thing: the head-butt should be just hard enough to be felt, but not so hard that a tourist can't tell everyone at home that he was head-butted by an Irishman and could still stand up straight afterwards.
Still, I can proudly say that I was head-butted, and that I was still standing, and instead of hitting back I took a step forward - but the guy put his hand on my chest.
Part of the tourist trade? Of course not.
At this point, I started to worry that I might actually have to get a little violent, in order to continue my evening walk.
"Good night," I said one more time. "I'm going this way," and pointed behind his body. He put his hand on my chest again. My eyes narrowed, and the adrenaline flow going into my veins turned into a flood, but thoughts of Dublin jails on a Saturday night worried the part of my mind not concerned with getting away from this guy.
Then voices - "Hey mate! What's wrong?" A glance over my shoulder, then a group of four or five guys behind me, around me, between me and the head-butting Irishman. The guy started talking to them - I presume about cans and money - and they talked back, calming him down. I nodded at the guys - which I hoped they recognized as the gratitude it was - and then I went on my way.
I was out for a midnight walk, after all.
Crossing the street, I looked over my shoulder and saw the guy still talking to the guys. I hope they had better luck understanding him. And received fewer head-butts.
I walked on, but I didn't look back over my shoulder anymore, and I didn't see him again.
Making my way towards the O'Connell Bridge, I stopped for a few minutes to look, this time to the west, shaking my head, thinking about the fight I had been lucky enough to have escaped - Irish jails didn't appeal to this newly arrived American, after all - and I stood at the bridge, letting the adrenaline run its course through my fight-or-flight keyed-up body.
A couple of hours later, after a beer with one of the guys in the hostel, I was in bed, the 30 minutes of my Saturday night-out in Dublin at an end.
Thinking about it, though, coupled with the high prices, the lack of accommodation and the, well, sheer blah-ness of Dublin, I think I've had enough of this city. Dublin's not a bad place, but it's just kind of here, and nothing really compels me to stick around. I can say I've been to Dublin, but it's time to move on.
I hear Galway is nice, and cheaper, and with plenty of work and flats, so I'm going to head there. Once I have work and a positive bank balance again, I can write about a proper, drinking-and-dancing night on the town, albeit from Galway and not from Dublin, but I'm sure it will be an interesting piece.
If I don't get head-butted by another Irishman, that is.
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