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Tá mé ar meisce

Dublin puke

I lived in Dublin from July until September of 2001.

Some smart guy — it was Joyce, really — said a good puzzle would be to cross Dublin without passing* a pub.

A true Dublin challenge, in year 2001, would be to cross town after midnight without passing a whole lot of puke. I've never seen anything like it.

I don't like to think about puke, and I don't like to talk about it. But this is an important feature of Dublin; its prevalence contributes to the long-term, subliminal effect of the city upon one's brain. It never goes away, though one may get used to it.

Vomit really is everywhere, on almost any route across town. Well, I mean, on a weekend night. Maybe I'm exaggerating. I'm not sure.

I don't really want to write about it any more.

* On Dublin radio, I heard another solution to the Joyce riddle. That is, you simply don't pass the pub — you stop in.

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