I couldn't wait until Thursday morning when I could have breakfast with my parents. They were taking the same flight as me, the epic overnighter, and they would land at 7am. I was practically skipping with excitement on my way to greet them at their hotel. However, several things soured the moment slightly and my skipping stopped abruptly.
As I rounded the corner to Merrion Square, I noticed a huge crowd of protesters standing outside of the hotel. I blinked twice, disbelieving my eyes. Maybe they were just passing through on their way to another boycott? Maybe they were lost and didn't know their way to the parliament building? Alas, no. The picketers were circling outside the front door, carrying signs which decried the owner of the hotel chain.
I saw two people maneuvering through the crowd, dragging their luggage behind them. Mom and Dad had just arrived and I was only a few footsteps behind them.
"That's a bad hotel. You need to change hotels," a voice said as we opened the door. Someone else handed us pamphlets which explained that the owner was trying to undercut the employee wages.
Welcome to Ireland Mom and Dad!
Apparently, my parents had already dealt with some madness before their plane even took off too. Their flight was delayed because the flight attendants were debating whether or not to kick a passenger off the plane. Two of the attendants thought that the passenger was too drunk to fly while the other attendant thought he was fine (We guess that this attendant was probably Irish. I can just picture the conversation---American flight attendant: "That guy had three drinks in the past hour. I think he needs to sober up." Irish flight attendant: "The wine at church is stronger than that guy's drinks! He hasn't fallen off his stool yet, so he's good enough for me.)
A drunk and a protest all in one morning. My parents were in for quite a trip.
We had breakfast and then Mom and Dad slept for most of the day while I was at work. When we regrouped that night, I quickly realized that it was going to take a little while for us to reacquaint ourselves. The relationship between parent and child can be a funny thing sometimes ....and it was going to take me a little while to readjust.
During my time in Dublin, I've helped set up functions for international ambassadors, I've designed activities for ESL students, I've worked with ancient artifacts....and yet, I still feel like I am twelve years old when I'm with my parents sometimes. I introduced my folks to my colleagues and it somehow seemed more like a parent-teacher conference than a meet-and-greet. I thought that I have been handling everything just fine, but apparently, I wasn't because I needed to be told how to do things.
Brush your hair. Straighten your shirt. Button your jacket.
I think, "Oh, Is that why I've been so cold this past month? I forgot that I needed to button my jacket on my own! Now it makes sense. Thanks for telling me." ....Sometimes my sarcasm doesn't go over to well when I say these things out loud though so it led to some rough patches.
However, once we were able to get past these issues, we had an amazing trip. The weather was perfect (or as perfect as you can get in Ireland), and we were able to traipse all over town.
We walked leisurely through St Stephen's Green.
We had some fun with a lephrechaun standing next to the Molly Mallone statue. The lephrechaun knew about New Jersey because of two things: the Sopranos and Jersey Shore. I'm so glad that we have such a wonderful international reputation.
We laughed at the antics of the street performers on Grafton Street.
And, I took my parents to Temple Bar on a Friday night. In retrospect, maybe I should have chosen a Monday or a Tuesday night to take them. Just like every weekend, the area was hoppin. I think that the cobblestone streets are laid out in grids to help people walk in a straight line. Everyone was already well into their cups.
Mom said, "This area seems a little unsavoury. Is there another route we can take on the way to Temple Bar?"
"Actually, this is Temple Bar, Mom."
We stopped in a small pizza shop and a guy was standing at the counter...or I should say slanted at the counter. He leaned heavily on it as though he was gripping a bouy amidst the waves. As soon as we entered the shop, he greeted us with a wave.
"This place is crazy, eh? Have you tried this pizza?" he slurred happily.
"Where are you all from? America? America?!? I fookin love America! You guys get a bad rap around the world, but I still fookin love ya! I fookin LOVE America! Facebook me!"
If you played a drinking game where you take a swig every time Pete used the F-word, then you would be drunk within five minutes. I'm not sure what else he was talking about, but I do know that he "fookin loved America" since he repeated it about 10 times.
Later, I also took my parents to the Stag's Head so that Dad could try his first Irish Guinness. As you can see from the picture, he definitely agrees that Guinness tastes much better in Ireland than it does at home :-).
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