The hub of the city's nightlife is Temple Bar, an area of Dublin on the south bank of the River Liffey. What makes Temple so intriguing for tourists (aside from the fact that it has been completely developed to attract them), is that the area has preserved its medieval street pattern. Narrow cobbled streets lined with endless numbers of restaurants, pubs, clubs, shops, hotels , hotels and even street performers make Temple a veritable amusement park of life, especially at night. Ireland has enjoyed a considerable economic boom over the past ten years, consequently much of the city has been modernized; but Temple retains a feeling of old Irish charm, which makes wandering its streets worthwhile.
My pictures haven't been developed, but this is Temple Bar. The picture isn't an accurate representation of the area at night: the streets and sidewalks are thick with people and all the buildings are adorned with lights--so bright it seems to be dusk instead of the middle of the night. The picture does, however, do justice to the size of the area, as well as the cobbled streets.
The area really is charming, but the catch being: you will be hardpressed to meet any Irish people at Temple Bar. The streets are literally crawling with tourists. We were asked for directions more often than we asked for them ourselves. And this is how the goal of our Dublin weekend was set in stone: meet the Irish.
Fortunately with a little Canadian charm, I doubt our goal was really that far out of reach.
Robyn and I ran into three of what I think were the only Irish people at Temple, and on the outskirts of it at that. They were Simon, Will and ...I will say Fetz because it was something peculiar that escapes me now. They promised to show us where the "real Irish" people go, a spiffy-looking joint by the name of Howl at the Moon. I say spiffy looking because we never did get inside. Yours truly was turned away by the doorman for being under twenty-three.
Twenty-three!?
Yes, I had that very same reaction. The drinking age in Ireland is eighteen. However, a couple theories have developed as to why I never did make it past Howl at the Moon's velvet ropes:
1. the bouncer was a jerk (the immediate assumption)
2. I wasn't convincingly "authentic Irish" (in fact, I am unmistakingly Canadian at times)
3. (my favourite theory): fake IDs are prevelant in Ireland and it is more difficult for a 16-year old to appear twenty-three than it is for her to appear to be twenty-one
This theory was thanks to another Irish lad we met the next night--it is a great theory (bonus points for creativity), but I do not believe it for a second--it is a good example of Irish charm.
And my personal theory:
4. I was dressed like a tourist who could only bring one ten-pound carry-on bag on the flight and had been walking the streets of Dublin for twelve hours
Whatever the reason, I was shamefully denied entry. Adding insult to injury, I discovered all of my companions were over the age of twenty-five. So there I was, on the wrong side of the rope looking in, hatching plans to return to Dublin wearing my A-game and getting revenge on shallow, judgemental Irish Bouncer. Because I wil be honest--we all know the truth likes in theory number four.
Fortunately though, neither Robyn nor my newfound Irish mates decided to leave me in my poor, rejected juvenile state to the streets. We regrouped, hailed a cab and found a much less posh (but equally as Irish) part of the city to spend the night: the Palace (take my word for it, the name was ironic).
To be continued...
Irish Lads, Irish Jigs and Irish Women.
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