|Rainy Grafton Street, Dublin|
I was super jet lagged and honestly couldn't figure out whether it was Monday or Tuesday. It was cold, wet and raining and I was wearing sort of nothing. No rain coat. I had this little incident with the plane schedule- let's just say I broke out all the stops and actually prayed this morning that I would get to Ireland, and I did get to Ireland, which means....well, what does that mean? What happens when I pray and it works? Do I file a report or something? Please advise.
So, seven hours in a rainy city. I talked the radio station into stashing my bags, then went wandering till I found a cafe with a chatty barista who called me "love" and took great care of me. I ordered three Dublin Smogs, which are just like London Fogs only they've changed the name. Earl Grey tea with a shot of vanilla and steamed milk. Lovely. Everything here is "lovely" and "you're very good." If I shuffle back to the counter with an empty tea cup, the barista says: "Lovely. You're very good."
Since I felt terrible, there was only one cure: massage and a hair cut, both of which I found right away, both of which could take me immediately, both of which were full of cheerful blonde women who told me I was "lovely" and "a very good girl" when I tipped.
For the past twelve hours, I'd sprinted through airports, begged security to let me cut in line, thrown people out the way, cartoon-style, cajoled myself onto flights that were closed and self medicated with those expensive little cocktails that used to be free in International Flights before terrorism ruined everything. Now all I wanted to do was throw up or sleep but I had that interview, so yeah, I'm getting that massage. The storytelling festival is graciously paying for my trip and all my amenities, so why not.