Travel bits from a tramp abroad: Arrival



Connolly Station, Dublin is the smallest capital city rail station I’ve seen. Also, open air which means you freeze your arse off no matter where you sit. I don’t think Dublin wants you staying long in Connolly Station.

I had hours to pass waiting for my daughter to arrive via ferry, then train from Rosslare. About five hours. Culture fear kept me from buying coffee in coffee shops. From buying coffee in coffee shops?

I have lots of fears.

I sat on one set of cold and dark grey stone steps. I moved to another set of cold and dark grey stone steps. My suitcase kept falling over. I  kept picking it up, red-faced and irritated. I hoped the pigeons wouldn’t poop on me.

Dublin’s a safe city, relatively quiet and low-key. No homeless to speak of until the day before I left I saw no beggars, mostly gypsies rattling McDonald’s cups. I felt no threat occupying space in the train station for nearly five hours.

I saw travelers normal and not so normal. I’m speculating the groups of females wearing crowns and slutty clothes were there on bachelorette trips, which they refer to as hen parties. Pretty positive the young woman carrying a plastic, blow-up penis was a fiancee. Then I saw a woman, middle aged, come through the turnstile carrying a blow-up doll. Dressed as if she were on her way to work, carrying a sex toy big as she was. No heads turned.

Gives you a feel of capital city Dublin.

Frozen, shivering madly, wrapping myself in clothing like a mummy I succumbed to my rumbling stomach. The barrista’s accent was a bit strong but I struggled through, enough for coffee and a pastry. My own accent blared AMERICAN.

Now arriving on Platform 5, an AMERICAN, bundled and shivering.

I would later come to unintentionally mirror a mild Irish accent. Five times I was asked directions because I “looked” and sounded vaguely Irish. Almost went along with it. Should have. Would have made for a much more interesting story.

At hour two my itch to see Dublin overcame the irritation of dragging a suitcase and wearing a backpack. I grabbed a tourist map to see what was fairly close. The Famine Memorial, along the Liffey. It was on the map, plus I have the Google maps app. Maps app. Apps map.

At the elevator a station official called me “love.” “Are you lost, love?” Perpetually but now I’m in love.

I would eventually find the memorial the evening before the day before I left but I headed in the exact opposite direction that morning, the magnetic North Pole unattractive to me. Instead I walked randomly, dragging my wheelie suitcase that kept flipping over and over. I kicked it to right it and kept rumbling. I gave up when it started raining. Juggling a backpack, camera and suitcase, I don’t have a third hand for an umbrella.

Connolly Station again, for hours.

By the time my daughter arrived I was hoarse. I was for nearly the whole trip. Because Connolly Station is open air and I was afraid to buy coffee.

Themes are: waiting, irritation, cold and sex toys.







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