Happy Rob Day to Me

Late Friday afternoon Joe sent me an email that read simply: What pub did you say we’re going to? Oh dear… My reply: all of them . Plans were then drawn to go visit the new Ely wine bar in the IFSC. But first, a quick pint in the Palace Bar to see the barman I quite fancy. That’s how it works here, you fancy things. A cup of tea, a walk on the beach, 6’-4” barmen with curly blonde hair and cloudy blue eyes. So we went to the Palace because I fancy barmen in baby blue gingham shirts. Joe sent world that Rob would be joining us and I sent word back that I was only just out of the shower and would be late. As usual. I‘m always late, usually by 15 minutes. Never 5 minutes, never 20; 15 minutes late almost every time. I screeched into the bar to find Joe, a solitary figure in a crowded bar, making a hatchet job of his Suduko puzzle. New Year’s Resolution #754: I must do better by my friend. Rob arrived breathless and straight from the office, mere minutes after I arrived so I can pretend it was ok.

Party assembled, barman no where to be seen, we finished our drinks and trooped across the Liffey to Ely. As we walked, we discussed the party Rob had just invited us to attend with him. It’s a 30th birthday for his girlfriend Max, costume with this theme: wear something you’ve always wanted to wear or something you never get to wear and want to don again (We’ve heard that some woman is coming in her wedding dress.) The theme to latch onto here is want. It is not enough to show up in costume. The costume has to be the stuff of your fantasies, whatever they may entail. Makes your mind race, doesn’t it? (god willing in a PG-13 way) A lot of our conversation was focused on what we wanted to be a children. Joe wanted to be a pilot or a cowboy. I wanted to be Miss America, a cheerleader, or a Vegas show girl. I’ve definitely have picked the show girl had I been forced to choose, but I was trying to keep my options open at that point. Oh, to be a show girl. Those costumes are the stuff of little girl dress up dreams: heavy makeup, feathers, beads, sparkly stones, heels, fishnets… it’s all shiny colourful glamour until you realize most of them are topless. And all the same height, which happens to be 4” shorter than you happen to be at the age of 12. But I digress…

We decided on Cowboy for Joe and Black Tie for me, since I was really born to be in formal wear. Unless I can get my hands on an appropriate show girl costume, that is. And by appropriate, I mean it must have a top. Although I am looking for a boyfriend and that would garner a storm of attention… Hm. Nope. Must have a top. Never do anything that would subject my family to abject humiliation; that’s my motto. Occasional embarrassment, bewilderment, and consternation are fair game though. Rob has decided to go with the ‘dying to wear it again’ theme and is resurrecting an outfit he wore to see Madonna in London a few years back. It’s all metallic gold, black leather and feather Disco Diva. When he stepped out of the limo, it got him rushed and photographed like a celebrity. Hard to wear that sort of get up to the local rugby pub, so it’s been in the back of the closet ever since. He cannot wait to wear it and I cannot wait to see it.

We three had a great dinner in the vaults of Ely. The restaurant is built near the custom house quay and the vaults that run under this part of the city used to house goods being both imported and exported. It’s a great space of exposed bricks, vaulted arches and one catwalk/landing strip down the centre of the dining room. The wine was amazing, the waiter let me speak bad Italian to him (he was Italian) and then it was time to leave. Not because we were in any particular hurry but because we kept getting whiffs of sewer. I thought I was hallucinating the first time I caught a waft, so I didn’t say anything. The girl seated beside me didn’t seem the type to emit such things, so I let it go. A few minutes later Rob’s face screwed up just milliseconds before another lovely cloud hit my nostrils. Perhaps if we had chosen a seat on the river side of the vaults instead of the city side… We paid our bill, wished the waiter ‘buona notte’ and headed out into the night in search of, what else? More drinks.

Joe and I are infamous for deciding we need a change of venue, gathering ourselves together and then heading out the door only to realize we have absolutely no idea where we would like to go. Which might explain why we hit the same places frequently, even though we don’t care for them. Lack of imagination is killing us and Rob didn’t help us avoid that pitfall. We ended up at the Harbourmaster, if only because it is next door to Ely. That’s when we realized we’re too old for the Harbourmaster. The music was too loud, we didn’t recognize it or anyone in the place for that matter, all of whom looked like they’d just finished taking their SATs and were blowing off some steam. We beat a hasty retreat and headed to our old standards.

The following morning, Rob volunteered to come collect me in the car and take me to Swords, a town just north of Dublin, for a site visit. We have a client with land and I needed to go have a look at the empty field. It’s a relatively easy trip involving one train ride, a bus transfer and a short 2.5 minute walk to the site, all of which Rob found disgraceful and far too much effort. So he volunteered to fetch me and then take me to Malahide for ice cream on the pier afterward. Turns out, being fetched and driven to the site was a lot more painful than anyone would have predicted. We got lost, naturally, but we hadn’t counted on 1- the aerial photo being so far out of date and 2- Rob almost being beaten up in traffic.

Some guy trying to impress his girlfriend followed us after a turn at a traffic light. We were in the wrong lane, admittedly, but the guy wouldn’t let us in at all. When we slowed down to let him pass, he slowed down, when we sped up, so did he. I thought he was going to ram the car for more than a few moments. He followed us and at the next light got out of his car and proceeded to yell at Rob for almost causing an accident, how stupid was he for behaviour like that, doesn’t he know how to drive, etc… All while standing in on-coming traffic. I’m sure his girlfriend was impressed. I was; who wouldn’t be? I bet he squeals his tires first thing in the morning, as a courtesy wake up call for the neighbours.

After Road Rage Boy, we finally located the empty field, in the middle of a huge housing subdivision, down the street from a shopping centre. Nothing empty field and deserted farm land about it any more. Site photographed, walked around, and studied, we hopped back in the car and drove (recklessly) to Malahide, the northern version of Dun Laogharie. It’s a quaint seaside town noted for being still very much a typical Irish village. The main street is a bee hive of activity and packed with restaurants, coffee shops, stores, art galleries, and many, many people who drive either Mercedes or Mini Coopers. Apparently you need to drive one of those to live in Malahide. Jaguar owners need not apply. In spite of this snub, I enjoyed every minute of exploring the village.

We started with lunch, as all good adventures should, in Café Greco. It’s been so long since I’ve had Greek food and I virtually dragged Rob by the arm into what can only be described as an explosion of blue. Just as the car requirement, evidently all Greek restaurants are compelled by some invisible threat, such as revocation of Greek-ness, if said restaurant is not painted to resemble the Aegean Sea and decorated with photos of Santorini. Not that I minded in the least. Especially since we could see the marina and I had a menu in my hand that I was positively drooling over. The starters list nearly did me in. Haloumi, stuffed zucchini, dolmades… I could happily have tucked into 6 or 7 of them and never once looked at the list of main courses. But I did look and what I saw made me extremely happy: Pork Afelia. It is roasted pork in a red wine and coriander sauce and it was very, very good. I will absolutely be back to this place, violent blue or not.

After lunch we wandered down to the marina and looked at the boats, picked out which apartment over looking the marina Joe must buy, so we can come to visit on the weekends and wake up to sea gulls, marine bells and lapping water. Of course he’d also have to buy a car, preferably a Mercedes. He’s too tall for a mini and Rob would beat him senseless if Joe got one before he did On the drive back home, Rob took me down the coast road, directly into the sunset. It was the first time since I’ve been here where the sun was enormous in the sky and copper pink lemonade-y coloured. It turned the sky fiery pink and the water deepest blue. I was enjoying it so much I forgot to put my sunglasses on. It’s a beautiful drive, especially on a bright blue day, as Saturday was. We drove thru parts which looked like the northern California coast, thru towns I’ve only heard of, by sites our clients own and then finally into Dublin itself where I’d almost forgotten I lived. It was like a holiday.

He dropped me at the house and we both rushed to get ready for dinner. We were celebrating his birthday (29 again?) and had dinner reservations at Yamamori, a Japanese noodle house in town. Again, because I am doing all I can to channel my inner teenage girl, I was late due to hair and makeup taking much longer than anticipated. Plus I changed clothes 45 times. When I finally arrived at the bar to meet the group, I was greeted with the entire table saying hair and make up running late was worth every effort, I looked amazing. These are indeed good friends to have. Then again, these are the people that assured me that an hour spent curling ones hair isn’t wasteful if it looks good. One quick drink, some furtive signing of the birthday card and were seated at two very long tables on wooden benches, laughing, eating, drinking, and laughing some more for the next three hours. I had a wonderful beef teriakyi, Joe across from me, a waitress who actually gave us great service and Henry next to me, describing how my choice of wine was mediocre at best. Henry had the chopsticks removed from his spleen late Saturday night. Shame. It's hard to get good chopsticks in this town.

And then we were in Rob’s favourite club, having drinks and all I can really recall is laughter; lots and lots of laughter. We had a great time and closed the place down at 330am. As I was standing in the middle of the street, trying in vain to flag down just one of the hundreds of cabs parading by without stopping, I worried Bunny and I would have to walk home again. The last time we did this, it was cold, very cold outside and it took us forever because I was wearing heels. It was a great trip, we got to talk quite a bit which is always fun, but my feet hurt for two days. I looked down as another cab passed to see my feet clad in Rob’s favourite boots, 4” wedges with a pointy toe, worn in his honour. Large sigh… and then magically, in the middle of 40 people with their hands up, begging for a cab, one stopped right in front of me. We hopped in before anyone could tackle me and left Joe and Rob in the street to fend for themselves. I’m not heartless; Joe lives 10 minutes from the club and Rob wouldn’t decide if he was going with us or not. So we went home and I fell into bed and dreamed of the sea. It was pink.