We hatched the plan at St. Patrick’s Day clan gathering. With stomachs heavy from Mom’s Irish Soda bread and Guinness, my brother, twin cousins and I planned a barnstorming tour of Ireland.
#
A crowded municipal bus took us into Dublin around 8am, Ireland time. We jumped off with our heavy bags and heavier jet-lagged legs. This was before roller bags were common, and a solid decade before smart phones.
We walked down a crowded, cobblestone street. I wanted to soak in the atmosphere. Thick Irish accents, shops, bars and the energy of a young, vibrant city. Dublin looked ancient and foreign, yet everyone spoke English and it seemed inviting.
My directions said to follow this cobblestone road, then turn right onto Murphy St. The four cousins walked down the street, half sight seeing, half fighting our tired bodies. I squinted at the cross streets. My cousin Matt noticed a shop that sold the Doc Martens he wanted to buy. Assumedly my brother was sleeping as we walked. He spent most of the trip napping in the car.
We passed a few streets. I thought our not-yet-merry band should have found the cross-street already. Two Garda, Irish police, stood on the street. I waved to them.
“Excuse me, can you please tell me how to get to Murphy street?”
The two men smiled, most likely at my thick New York-American accent. One of them said, “Ah, of course, you head down to the next satellite, turn right. Grand.” I thanked them and went back to report to the cousins.
“He said go to the next satellite and turn right.”
“The next satellite?” Becky asked.
“Yea, I assume he means a satellite phone store. That’s what they call it in Europe. Or, maybe it’s a statue of a satellite. No worries, we’ll find it.”
We headed down the street, eagerly searching for satellites. We passed two more cross streets and didn’t see any statues of space machinery or satellite phone shops.
Two more Garda appeared. I told the cousins I’d ask again for directions, left my with them and approached the pair.
“Ah, excuse me, can you tell me how to get to Murphy street?”
“Where are ya tryin’ to get to?”
I pulled out the name and address of the hotel and showed the two Garda.
“Ah, t’is easy. Go down to the next satellite and turn right. The hotel will be a few meters on the right.”
I thanked them, took a step, then stopped.
“Excuse me, I’m sorry. I’m an American and I just got off of a flight and haven’t slept all night. What is a satellite?”
The two Garda looked at me. One asked, “Satellite? Whatchamean?”
“You said go to the next satellite and turn right?”
“Set-of-lights. SET-OF-LIGHTS.”
We dropped our bags off at the hotel a few minutes later. I’m sure the Garda had stopped laughing by then.
The Satellites of Dublin
