The Dubliner Bar

There is a reason I don’t go to Irish bars much in Barcelona. It seems to defy the purpose of running away. But every so often you feel the need, and when football is involved, it is a safe bet that the Irish bars will be showing the match.

So with this in mind, I dragged my visiting cousin Donog, and my friend Julie, down to the Dubliner, a home-made bar in Gracia run by the lovely Steve, that may not be particularly fancy, but it is comfortable and full of real atmosphere, and he has decent beer. Julie loved the place straight away; its newspaper covered walls and dodgy auld sofa reminding her of our old haunt the Chileno bar, which is sadly closed. My cousin being starving, went out to track down some food. Barcelona were playing a terrible match and I was distracted by a tall lad stepping in front of me, advising me that he was the tall guy we were looking for. Poor fool, we had been looking for my cousin, who I’d forgotten was out hunting down something edible. In order to try and see the rest of the match I gave Mister Tall-guy my seat so he wouldn’t be in anyone’s way. The match continued to be dreadful, Real Madrid beating Barcelona deservedly, and Ronaldinho diving like a seagull at every chance. Shocking. A player like that shouldn’t have to resort to diving.

By the time my cousin returned, we had accumulated quite the crowd of English speakers. We left them all and headed off to a bar on Placa del Sol, and guess what! There they were again! So we managed to meet Terry, Andy, and Steve from Ireland, Lawson, David and Fraser from Scotland, Rocco (I kid you not), Ian, Joel and Amy from England. Luckily by the time we all decided to head back to Andy’s for a wee party and some tunes, we had lost some of them. Unfortunately we didn’t lose Joel, an earnest sorry soul from London who I had met before I realized. And this time he clung to me again like a leech, despite having heard the equally awkward Rocco ask me out for dinner. Part of me felt sorry for him when he immediately fell asleep with a sad frown on his face, forcing us to sit on the floor. Part of me was delighted cos he was boring us to tears and so drunk that even if it had been an interesting tale, he would have forgotten the words. Some people should not talk politics, especially drunken young Englishmen who obviously are a bit lost in a group of Celts. Everyone is entitled to an opinion, but I honestly think Joel was trying to impress me by talking about something I was obviously interested in but he just didn’t have a clue and couldn’t finish his sentences. Stuff like:
“I used to play in a Republican Flute band.” Oh really, I say politely, how come?
“ I dunno really. Cos, thingy, I think that it is all, you know…” All?
“What is? Well, they were a band. But I really care you know….” About what?
“Thingy. Um. I like, want to you know….” Silence.
“You know. Like Republicans are for the Republic. And um. The United Kingdom.” No, the United Kingdom is a term now that we might find offensive. I said it gently.
“Oh, but the United Kingdom is like, what Ireland is part of. Before. Um, in history like.” No, we were never happy to be part of the United Kingdom. Even Scots and Welsh take exception to that one.
“Oh but like not belonging to. Sort of more, um, you know….” No.
“Well anyway, it’s like Britain. You know. Um, being part of the United Kingdom.” Silence.
“Well everyone loves the United Kingdom, when they know it’s just um, like Britain, and the rest of the Kingdom….no, wait. I mean, the band was like a way of like….my friends sort of did it and um….a part of history. Like being British.”

At this point I just nodded and gave up trying to follow him. I could have helped him but didn’t want to, and although I was polite, I really couldn’t bear to speak to him after that.

Anyway, I think my cousin had a nice weekend even though I had to work most days, and it was probably the most quality time we have ever spent together. He is an elusive character, warm and funny, yet obviously angry at his parents and justifiably so I must admit. They are good people, but they must have been very difficult to have as your own parents. His dad has a new family with 3 kids all under the age of 7, and he was never really there for him even before. His mam desperately wants to mother him and is invasive to the point of being an army sergant in his life. He avoids talking about serious things when it suits him but randomly opens up completely, a fact that surprised me, and led to me making him lead the conversation so that he could decide what made him most comfortable. He is extraordinarily generous and I was surprised we didn’t have any arguments at all, given how difficult I can be.

Next week my old housemate from Dublin will visit. That will be an altogether different experience, but hopefully also very enjoyable.