I ran into Dracula on my way to the Writers’ Museum.
I was hot on the trail of a story lead which found me charging up Parnell Square, past the Gate Theatre where the night before, I’d taken in a rousing rendition of Death of a Salesman. Queuing right in front of the Writers’ museum were a couple dozen uniformed men so naturally, I had to stop. Behind Dracula stood a group of Garda officers, the Irish police squad, wielding all manner of portable musical instruments – saxophones, drums, trumpets, other Celtic instruments.
Making eye contact with a burly, rugby-player looking officer who was guarding the other officers, I moved towards him. He straightened himself and uniform as I approached. I didn’t want to know what was going on. I wanted to know when it was going to start. The decision had been made. My museum visit would have to wait 45 more minutes.
Successfully lured off track, I stuck with the parade as it got ready to march through the streets of Dublin.
After just one day in Dublin, I was already falling….and fast. Dublin feels like a down-to-earth friend, one that sees past your bullshit and tells you like it is. Types of friends that are hard to find these days.
The next day, Francis, a native son, confirmed my train of thought as he drove us to the historic Trinity College, known worldwide for churning out memorable writer after writer.
“No one gets a big head around here. Not even Bono,” he said. “We won’t allow it.”.
Haaaaa… My kind of town.
Photo Gallery – Dublin (42 Photos)
Check out more in the Ireland series: