If you’ve never been to Dublin, it’s a lot like London … only drunker. There’s a frenetic, kinetic energy to the city.  In the 72 hours I was there, the weather was consistent. Rain for ten minutes … followed by sun for ten minutes … then wind for ten minutes … and repeat.  Meteorologists in this country must have it easy.

Once we got to the hotel, located in the party-hearty area of Temple Hall, we immediately wanted to play Joe Tourist to the nth degree.  First stop was The Guinness Storehouse … natch. It’s Dublin’s #1 tourist destination. (Given the throngs of people there, it’s likely Ireland’s #1 tourist destination.)

I’ve been on countless brew tours in the States. This one had a sense of reverence.  Love it or hate it, Guinness is a stout that demands respect. The self-guided tour leaves little chance you’ll miss anything as you follow the shuffling herd of lemmings in front of you. It’s five floors of wheat, barley, hops and friendly faces. Toward the end of the tour, you get a chance to learn the fine art of pouring the perfect Guinness. It’s more labor intensive than you think. The beverage is also a lot thicker than you’d anticipate. I put a spoon in my pint glass and it stood up by itself.

My British cousin Angela was not impressed with the tour.  She got spoiled with a visit to the Anheuser-Busch Factory in St. Louis. “This one seems inferior … where are the giant Clydesdales?” she asked. She lightened up though after I gave her my pint of Guinness at the end of the tour. She probably deserved it, you know, being in Clydesdale-withdrawal and all.

Since Dublin is so user-friendly, the need for cabs is nearly non-existent. Buses magically appear like little leprechauns every 30 seconds. Or you could just do what we did, walk around and get completely and utterly lost.  If you get bored or thirsty, you can just stop at one of the 345,962 pubs located in the city. Our hotel was located just next door to the Hard Rock Café, so we used that as a beacon to get from Point A to Point Lost and back again.

My hotel had all the amenities … a proper English buffet breakfast and wireless internet service.  It also featured the world’s smallest shower. I had to step out of the shower to wash my lower extremities since turning around was not an option. Pro, the water was blazingly hot. Con, by the end of the shower half of it was on the floor because I couldn’t bear to use the shower curtain.  It nearly suffocated me twice.

The people in Dublin? Friendly. And in various stages of perpetual drunkenness. The shopping? An endless array of posh shops with nary one customer inside. The mood? Loud and lively … kind of like being in a never-ending Irish wake.  People would chant and cheer, yell and scream for little to no reason. Maybe there was an imaginary soccer match going on inside everyone’s head.  All the guys there have an edge to them … even the ones in suits. They look tough … like they might thump you in the back of the head for being a stupid American. However, when you strike up a conversation, they fold like a cheap card table. Offer to buy them a pint and they’ll carry you around the bar on their shoulders.

Would I go back to Dublin? It’s not likely. It’s kind of one of those things you want to check off your to-do list before you die. Speaking of — had we stayed one more day, I probably would have died from hedonism. It’s sort of like Vegas in that respect, just with a lot more redheads.