(Little) Toilet Shock

The toilets in Ireland are really hard to flush. After relieving myself in the Dublin airport, I met quite a bit of resistance from the little silver handle on the toilet (some don't even have handles, opting instead for two silver buttons that resemble a Venn diagram). I gave it a casual crank and made it almost half way out of the stall before realizing my failure. The toilet sat there menacingly gurgling at me, egging me on saying, "Have another go, you dimwitted American!" (in what I imagined to be a cheeky Irish accent).  I concentrated, putting all my strength into a second, more deliberate crank. Despite my valiant effort, I received the same hateful glare from the antagonistic toilet--and more frightening gurgling sounds.

European toilet

American toilet

                                                                                       

"Welcome to Dublin!" said nobody. "The Home of the Irish!" quoth no street sign or travel brochure. I didn't take this lack of perfunctory greetings as an insult. Rather, it made me feel as if I had arrived to exactly the Dublin James Joyce encapsulated in A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, Ulysses, and Dubliners. Dublin has never been a city with a pension for flashy, superficial niceties. A true Dubliner would deem such outrageous nonsense as a load of "bollocks!"

The beauty of Dublin lies in its subtlety: the quiet grace of my cabby's native Irish accent as she maneuvered her tiny car through busy Dublin traffic, the unassuming camaraderie I met from the cashier of Books Upstairs on College Green as we discussed our common appreciation for the love poems of W.B. Yeats. Dublin doesn't call attention to itself, nor does it make any excuses for its character.

Another pint, anyone?

Upon arrival, I immediately began thinking of James Joyce's Dubliners. I've heard quite a few comments criticizing Joyce's portrayal of Dublin as dark, bleak, and in some cases profoundly depressing. However, as I walked the streets of Dublin for the first time, I couldn't help but appreciate Joyce's point of view more than ever. Joyce, like his fellow Irish countrymen before and after him, did not ignore the ambiguity apparent in everyday life. Dublin is a place unafraid of and oftentimes even celebratory of its darkness. 

The sun shines for almost seventeen hours straight every summertime day in Dublin, though it is frequently hugged by amorous rainclouds. I like to think the sun stays out so long just to spite the people that believe Dublin is an exclusively gloomy place. The sun's continuous light, much like the vibrant green pigment of the grass or the warm smiles of the local Dubliners, represents the ever-present life Dublin exudes. 

Though the toilets might take some getting used to and I still keep looking the wrong way when I cross the street, I chose to live in Dublin this month. I did not sign up for this trip in the pursuit of six extra credits toward my major. Nor did I make the ten hour trip across the ocean to simply occupy a dorm room at Trinity College. I came not to inhabit Dublin, but to live in Dublin. 

Oh, I also came to meet Oscar Wilde. But that's beside the point.