Irish I Made Better Puns

How about that title, guys, huh? 

This weekend, our trio parted ways: Mal’s parents and sister came to Europe and they spent some much-needed family time in Mad-City and London while Laura and I headed to Ireland, where we used the phrase “luck of the Irish” at least once every five minutes. Since I unfortunately did not become an honorary Price this weekend, I can only speak for my weekend and will therefore let you stay tuned for Mal’s upcoming post.

Laura’s and my romantic getaway was off to a great start with a lot of unnecessary mentions of Irish luck, as we kept sprinting on to the Metro, massive backpacks jostling around, despite the fact that we allowed like, three hours of travel time to the airport. However, you might say that Laura’s heritage was in play at least a little bit, as we arrived at the airport and waited in a ridiculous line for forty-five minutes to get our boarding passes stamped by the infamous RyanAir, only to discover, upon finally reaching the counter, that savvy college students who refuse to check bags like ourselves need only go to a much, much shorter line off to the side. Irish luck (I’m already annoyed at how many times I’ve typed those two words) also played a huge role in the life of the guy who I sat next to on the flight, as he is extremely fortunate I didn’t punch him square in the nose for leaning over me for the duration of the three hour flight to hit on the girl across the aisle from me. For the record, I’m not sure how much progress he made, as he was speaking in rapid Spanish and also I was too busy pointedly glaring at both of them to even attempt to follow their (stupid, asinine, moronic) conversation.

Miraculously, once on Irish soil, Laura and I managed to make it from the airport to our hostel via bus with no issues. At our hostel, we were greeted by a real-life Irishman (can you tell that we had like, tons of expectations for this trip?) who kept throwing the F-bomb around and told me my passport picture was sexy, which, if your eyes haven’t been graced by this photo, is an entirely accurate statement (if you happen to find mugshot-esque pictures attractive). Anyway, surprise, Mom! We stayed in an 18-person co-ed dorm and naturally the only bunk bed in the entire room that did not have a safety locker below it was—you guessed it—ours. Because we’re quick on our feet, we quickly stole a nearby empty locker, shoved our backpacks in, and headed out into Dublin in search of an authentic Irish meal. Long story short, we were not nearly lucky as we kept bragging that we were, as we went into like five different restaurants that had 30-euro entrees or was accidentally a tapas restaurant. We did eventually find a delicious place with reasonable prices (thank St. Patrick—jk, just thank God) and spent the entire meal talking about how good the food was. Post-delicious dinner (seriously you guys, it was so good that my stomach just audibly growled at the thought of it), we had our first pint of Guinness while enjoying some authentic Irish music at a nearby pub. I will note that Laura sadly did not show off her Irish-dancing skills, as we let a veeeery intoxicated bride-to-be and some fellow Spaniards steal the show (and by steal the show, I mean make fools of themselves, much to our delight).

This picture sucks, but if you look at it while listening to some Irish music that might help

The following day, after unlocking our backpacks mere inches from a snoring, excessively hairy, maybe Jordanian? stranger, we scarfed down the hostel’s free breakfast (which included yogurt and hard-boiled eggs and the way that Laura raved about it you would think she hadn’t eaten at least a week) and once again flawlessly managed to find our tour bus that would take us to the famous Cliffs of Moher and also some other stuff. Shortly into our ride, Laura and I discovered that despite all the advertisements, our tour guide was not actually the “most fun tour guide in all of Ireland” and instead kept shushing everyone over the loudspeaker on the bus. We totally would have thrown our hard-boiled eggs at the back of his chair if we had been certain we would get lunch on this tour, which we were not because I guess research is not a strong point of mine. Regardless, the tour still took us to some pretty neat sites, like Dungaire Castle and a super old abbey (I’m so cultural!) even if they were muddy and thorny and a little chilly.

Moments after I shoved my hand in the face of the guy behind me and made him hold it

The good news is that we did stop for lunch at a phenomenal little restaurant (all of Laura’s and my meal conversations consisted of us talking about how good the food was, so we’re super fun to hang out with) and then finally headed to the Cliffs of Moher. If you’re unfamiliar with what those are, you should immediately stop what you’re doing and watch Princess Bride four times in a row so you can quote it as obnoxiously as I do (aaasss yoouuuu wiiiishhh!!!). Anyway, the Cliffs were gorgeous and Laura even did a little jig and then made me do a whole slew of dumb poses, so let’s just say we were easily the most popular tourists there that day. After that major highlight, the ride home seemed to really drag on, especially since shockingly we were hungry.

Noobs and some awesome cliffs

Back in Dublin, Laura and I discovered that the Irish must eat dinner at like, 4 in the afternoon because pretty much every kitchen in the whole city was closed, or maybe they just didn’t want to serve us with our tangled, wind-blown hair, I don’t really know. We did eventually manage to find a restaurant and I’ll just let you guess what the dinner conversation was that night. After our meal, we hung out for a little while in the hostel lobby and met some neat Danish guys who were in their twenties but also in high school (red flag!). Notably, one of the guys kept mentioning that he was Arab although we caught onto that the first of the twelve times he told us. For example, we would be like, comparing the American and Danish governments (don’t say we’re not cultural) and suddenly he would chime in, “So my mom was born in Palestine and…” Hostels are super fun.

On our last full day in the homeland (I’m not even a little bit Irish), we planned to take a free walking tour that we thought the hostel offered. We embarked on a self-guided tour of Trinity College to kill some time before we had to meet and also to ogle at Irish college guys. Despite making it back to the hostel with plenty of time to spare, we somehow managed to miss the group and had to meet them in front of City Hall… which we tried to do, but seemed to have been eluded by the group. A lot of complaining and whining occurred between the two of us, but we resolved to find some lunch before meeting the next group in a couple hours. The lunch we had was phenomenal (par for the course), so all that whining paid off, no worries. In the interest of time, I’ll skip the details of how moronic it turns out that Laura and I were about the fact that the previous tour had been right in front of our eyes… what’s really important is that we finally got to take the stupid free walking tour. The tour itself was very interesting and we loved learning about Irish history and hearing some humorous stories as we walked with our group for three hours. The major downfall of the tour was the guide, who was pretentious and condescending and that’s putting it nicely. Basically the guy was a real tool. Also he made us do some ice-breaking games at the beginning and I would have felt bad for the fifty-year-old couple from England if I didn’t feel so bad for myself for being back at college freshman orientation. Laura and I don’t let these little things get us down, though, so we easily survived the tour by making fun of the tour guide a lot and marveling at the beauty that Dublin is. Some highlights included the Dublin Castle, the site of Bono’s first concert and the hotel he owns (famous by association!), and the River Liffey. A non-highlight was shoving a ten Euro bill in the guide’s hand at the end and running away out of shame for underpaying, but we are poor college students and he just sucked.

Laura strutting her stuff on the streets of Dublin

Our final night in Dublin was spent hanging out some more with our Danish boyfriends at the hostel and then checking out a few live music joints, including the Brazen Head pub, which is the oldest pub in Dublin, as it was built in the twelfth century.

After a snore-ridden night courtesy of our roommates, we gorged ourselves some more on free breakfast and walked around the city a bit, holding hard-boiled eggs in our pockets, before heading back to the airport. We were sad to say goodbye to such a lovely city and everyone’s cute accents and also everyone’s remarkable ability to speak English and also Laura’s ancestors’ homeland (haven’t made it to Poland yet, sorry Dad), but as always it is so good to be back in Madrid. Mari seems pumped to have us back, as she slapped Laura on the butt before dinner. It was a nice moment.

Stay tuned for Mal’s post—we don’t feel quite as complete without her and that was such a cheesy thing to say that I’m considering just saying something dumb about the luck of the Irish again.