DEAR, DIRTY DUBLIN

So . . . within minutes of getting settled into “the Burlo”—the Burlington Hotel on Dublin’s southside—I received an email from my old friend Fionán: “Welcome Home!” he exclaimed. And I have to say that Dublin does feel an awful lot like home. . . . As I was passing through the city on the bus from the airport, I was reminded of our family visit to Dublin in 1998: our three daughters were young and not really “into” urban life—“dear, dirty Dublin,” indeed—and we actually ended up cutting short by a day our planned time for wandering the city; but my wife told me afterwards that the girls whispered to her: “Dad just loves Dublin, doesn’t he? He seems so happy . . .” And I guess it’s the happiness of unselfconscious familiarity with a place—of still feeling comfortably and naturally at home in a place that once was “home,” even with the inherent temporariness of a student’s lifestyle.

I have to admit that I didn’t choose to stay at the Burlington with any great designs: my wife actually booked it for me after getting the unbelievable rate of $54 (that’s dollars, not Euros) a night. Hey, that’s cheaper than I can live at home! But its location is perfect for getting into and out of “the Heart of the Hibernian Metropolis” . . . and today it was perfect for allowing me to walk about 10 minutes to the neighborhood of Ranelagh, where I lived in a tiny “bedsitter” at 103 Beechwood Avenue Lower for about 3 months in 1978. That building is still standing—and looks like it’s being renovated, maybe as a condo. But the rest of the neighborhood has certainly evolved—or been gentrified. Conspicuously absent is Beechwood Stores, the little grocery that used to sit directly across the street. But I was especially struck by the number of small coffee shops and other casual eateries lining the main drag of Ranelagh Village. . . though I was surprised that the Kylemore Cake Shop is gone. (I remember coming around the corner one morning in 1978 and seeing Johnny Fingers, the pajama-clad pianist of The Boomtown Rats, coming out of that Kylemore’s. That now seems so long ago—and in a sense so far away, though perhaps less so for me than for Johnny Fingers, who I’ve heard has settled in Japan, where he works as a “greeter” for visiting rock bands.)

So . . . “the Burlo” will be my base for the next 8 or 9 days. When I checked in today, the desk clerk asked me: “Are you here for business or for pleasure?” I replied: “Well, my boss thinks I’m here for business, but my friends think I’m here for pleasure.” Then—did I have in the back of my mind the fact that the Burlington claims to have the largest ballroom in Ireland?—I added: “I’m not sure what my wife thinks.” Without missing a beat, the desk clerk smiled and said: “Well, we’ll not let on to her . . .”