I loathe a parade

When am I ever going to be in Ireland again on St. Patrick’s Day? Take it from me, once was enough.

You’ll note that there are no photographs accompanying this blog entry. There’s a good reason for that. I’m short. It’s one of the many reasons I’d never make it as a professional photographer and it’s the reason all the photos I took at the parade are obscured beyond significance by masses of other people’s heads and digital cameras. Instead of real pictures, I’ll have to resort to word pictures. Don’t worry… I probably won’t need a thousand words.

Arriving in Dublin presented some difficulty. We planned to depart the DART at Connolly Station, the northernmost station in Dublin and the closest to the parade route. Keep in mind we live south of Dublin and the trains were running on a different schedule than we anticipated, so our train terminated at Pearse Station, the southernmost station in Dublin. Not to worry, we caught another DART to Connolly a few minutes later, or at least Dr. Harbin, Esther, Nathan, Matthew and I did. The rest of the group decided to find their own way to the parade out of Pearse. Best of luck to them.

Anyway, we disembarked at Connolly and were greeted by several venders interspersed throughout the station and streets hawking flags, hats, necklaces and snakes. Snakes? I thought Patrick was famous for ridding the island of snakes. What’s with bringing them back in for his Saint’s Day? (They were not real snakes. They were furry, colorful, stuffed animal snakes. Still, I thought it was rather odd to sell snakes on a street corner).

We reached O’Connell Street and something inside of me died. Swarms of people lined either side of the parade route, packed in like sardines, standing on every available accoutrement. I tried to squeeze in where I could, but eventually decided it wasn’t worth it. Note to self: Next time you’re at the Patrick’s Day Parade in Dublin (which will be never), bring a step ladder like every other spectator there.

In the name of cultural encounter, I stood for well over an hour thigh to knee, shoulder to forearm, nose to armpit with complete strangers, most of whom spoke Italian. All I saw were the tips of flags raised above the heads of the crowd as well as an occasional float (including one involving a sequin-bedecked man sitting inside of a giant toilet waving a scepter/toilet brush). Fortunately, my hearing was not affected by the visual obstructions (although the thousands of children blowing whistles didn’t help), so I could hear the catchy melodies of several marching bands (mostly bands from the United States). The music repertoire included “Amazing Grace,” “The Local Motion” and (of course!?) “Yankee Doodle.”

I soon grew tired of standing in torture, decided I’d fulfilled my civic duty and bolted. I caught a train out of Connolly for Bray. The train to Greystones would take another half hour to arrive, but I had to get out of the city. I decided a half hour wait in Bray was more agreeable to me than a wait in Dublin. For half the ride, I had to stand because the DART was full of parade-goers. As stops were made, sitters disembarked and I got a seat at least by Dun Laoghaire.

Bray was hosting a carnival with roller coasters and various drop-from-great-heights-because-it’s-fun attractions, so I stayed in the station and ate some lunch. Soon my train came and I made it back to Greystones in one piece.

Again, sorry about the photos. They would have been beneficial, especially if I could have gotten one of the toilet king. That was interesting (?). Anyway, if you REALLY want to see Patrick’s Day photos, I’m sure you can Google them and get an eyeful that way. I wouldn’t recommend it, though. Real life was scary enough.