As I walked home tonight, and was about to turn into my hostel, which is right on the river and very close to Temple Bar, I discovered a woman's bum, peeing in hostel doorway, with a little creek running all the way down the sidewalk. Exasperated, I threw up my hands, and then her friend yelled at me, so I decided it would be prudent to keep on walking.
There were crowds of Spain supporters dancing in the square and singing the Beatle's Yellow Submarine, as the police "Garda" looked on amusedly. One woman with fancy silver shoes had a skirt so short, I wondered seriously for a length of paces if she was even wearing one beneath her coat. She didn't adjust it once--how do they stay in place? The bar downstairs was playing a U2 cover. That's quite common here. As is wearing green. Too many tourists!! (And what a hippocrite I must be since I am one, too.)
Now I am sitting in the hostel lounge, surrounded by young drunk Americans fixatedly talking about their mutual home in Michigan, somewhere on "the thumb". The conversation changes to skiing, camping and hunting in Montana vs. Canada, as you do. I wonder cynically how many Irish they have actually met? They are thrilled to be going to Amsterdam tomorrow. I find many Americans fixated on this city because of so much tight-laced restriction and stiff-necked prohibition at home, though haven't actually been there myself (or had a particularly determined desire to go). One staggering stoned lady determindedly fluffs up the plastic plant, propping up the wires to be more perky, leaf, by leaf.
Such is Ireland?