DOUBLE DOGGING IN DUBLIN
I leftLondon two days after my whirlwind night with Cal. We spent those days together seeing the sights like a proper tourist. Seeing Buckingham Palace, Big Ben, and Westminster Abbey with a bonafide Brit just hit different. He drove me to the airport and told me to look him up if I was ever in London again. That was that. I landed in Dublin late last night and there was a long list of things to see and do. I spent the day at St. Patrick’s Cathedral and the Dublin Castle. The long day of walking only complete with more walking through the evening. My black curls effectively hidden under a curly bleach blonde wig with dark roots. I looked like a proper version of what I envisioned a California girl to be in a white sundress, and pale jean jacket with blood-red wedged sandals. Most likely the main culprit for my aching feet. Before I knew it, I walked onto the historic O’Connell Street. An odd sense of belonging and home overcame me knowing so much of my father’s history remained here.
O’Connell Street was a broad street with a large island which intersected every major road in Dublin. Off a side street is the statue of famed Irish writer James Joyce, as well as the statue of O’Connell. Simple amazement in its entirety seeing them for the first time. O’Connell Street in itself is full of vibrant bars, restaurants, and shops for tourists and locals alike. I stopped on the sidewalk and looked up at all the amazing buildings surrounding the street. The smell of onions, freshly baked bread fills my nose, and in one moment cigarettes and beer overtake for a slight second. It’s at this moment I see people sitting against the walls of these very buildings, bundled in thin jackets with signs reading, “please help,” or “cabhair,” written on old pieces of cardboard. An old man lay on his side on a flattened box on the sidewalk. My heart ached for these people. As I walked to them, I gave each of them a dew Euros I had on me. They grabbed my hand and squeezed in simple thanks. Homelessness a plague not only in this city, but everywhere.
My walk past O’Connell Street took me over the Hapenny Bridge. It’s always busy. Tourists and locals passing by at a frenzied pace, taking photos and talking on their cellphones at all times. The bridge is lit in excess making the water below glow a subtle green. I sit at a small bench at the end of the bridge. A chill wind flies through the air and I wrap my denim jacket tighter around me. For weeks I have avoided diving into my Nonna’s journal. Subconsciously afraid of what secrets these antique yellow pages hold. No better time than the present to start diving into my family’s sordid history. I open the fragile leather journal and turn to the last page I remember reading. In small and faded handwriting reads:
September 1953
I met him again today. Armando walked me home through his family’s orange grove. At sixteen years old, he was so romantic. He picked an orange for me and handed it to me. He brushed his hand through my hair. As much love I have for him swells inside my heart, the fear over our families discovering us overpowers it. Their competing businesses and rivalry could spell the end of me, and Armando’s fated love. Being a Marcelli is neither good nor bad. It’s a curse bestowed on me much like a Montague or a Capulet.
Marcelli? Is this my Nonna’s real last name?
My ringing phone in my purse stops my reading in its tracks. As I see my father’s photo showing on my screen a smile graces my lips. I answer his video call with a girlish giggle.
“Da!” I exclaim.
“Did you go to Dublin Castle?” He asks.
“I did, and St. Patrick’s Cathedral. The books don’t do it justice, Da.”
“You know what’s next that you have to do?” My father asks.
“What’s that?”
“An authentic pub. Have a pint of Guinness for me,” he says, a hinge of emotion lingering on his last words.
“Of course, Da, but it won’t be a Guinness.”
“Spoiled sport, Amee.”
“I love you, Da. I’ll call you tomorrow,” I say softly.
“I love you too, my girl.”
I blow a kiss to him and hang up the phone before putting it back into my purse hanging on my shoulder.
Find a pub.
An authentic pub.
This shouldn’t be hard.
The nearest pub I found was so packed with tourists that my attention was drawn across the street. The pub was a small hole in the wall with no eccentric neon lights. As I walk inside the ambience is pure nostalgia. Empty seats aligned the bar leaving only locals inside. The waitress with bright red hair and black long sleeve dress greeted me with a large beaming smile.
“Heya, sit anywhere ya want,” she welcomes me, her accent thick and coarse.
I nod and walk further inside, admiring the authentic ambience around me. The telltale signs of beer fill the air. A group of loud cheers from across the pub at the bar. Two bartenders are spinning glass bottles of whiskey and throwing them at one another and catching them with one hand. My Da would love this. Their demeanor was very Cocktail reminiscent. The men were both tall, but one was dirty blonde with hair swept in his face and thin beard while the other was a little thinner built with jet black slicked back hair. The band in the corner began playing “Drunken Sailor” and instantly my Irish ass wanted to Riverdance while my legs had a mind of their own. My four years of Irish dance class as a kid creeped back into memory like a bad song. Locals began dancing around me to the catchy tune being played on fiddles and guitar. As I dance with the waitress who greeted me and spin around with a few locals, my eyes meet across the room with the most mesmerizing ice blue eyes I have ever seen. The music comes to a stop, and everyone cheers, breaking our gaze from one another.
“Sloncha!” We all exclaimed in unison.
I walk up to the bar and sit down at the red leather stool, silently waiting for my turn for these dueling bartenders who are serving other drinks. The man who I met eyes with glides in front of me, cracking a sly smile showing his prominent dimples.
Those are some fuck me right now dimples.
I can’t contain my smirk as my teeth grazes the left corner of my lip. Oh, this man was like an Irish version of a Greek God. The other bartender with steel gray eyes keeps stealing sideways glances over at me, and instantly I feel like I’m no longer in a pub, but a beefcake buffet.
“Hello, beautiful,” the blue-eyed bartender said, a wink escaping his left eye.
His subtle Irish accent in full effect and the charm laid on thick. His rakes his fingers through his thick dirty blonde hair and pushes it out of his face.
Well shit, I think I just came. Fuck.
“Hey,” I croak.
“Awe, American,” he says.
An amused smile crosses his face, and I purse my lips together to stifle an amused giggle at our banter.
“You could tell so quickly?” I ask.
“A good guess, perhaps. What can I get you?”
“Pint of Magners Hard Cider, please.”
“Pint of Magners. Sure, we’re not wanting a Guinness?” He pressed.
“Did I order a Guinness?” I replied, a sarcastic teasing smile gracing my lips.
“I admire ya jig skills. Didn’t figure an American could do that.”