white male consumer

Saturday, 24th

I woke up whenever there was movement in my room. Didn’t want my stuff getting ripped off, since I had just stashed everything under my bed. Wallet, expensive cellphone, etc., in clear sight. So I woke up when the three got up in the middle of the night, a few hours later. Had to use the bathroom. O-K. Except one of them couldn’t be bothered to walk all that way. He wobbled over to the front of my bed, and proceeded to piss. I was only half-awake, so this didn’t fully register. It also didn’t register that my shoes and socks were right there.

The next morning it did. I remembered the kid pissing, I looked down there, and saw my shoes. I was somewhat perturbed (understatement?). Fuck this, I thought. I got up, gathered all my stuff, and assessed the situation. Somehow, my socks were soaked, but my shoes had weathered remarkably well (completely dry). Bed, sheets, and the rest of my stuff were also perfectly fine.

I have no idea what I would have done if my shoes or other belongings had been soaked. I mean, I had missed my window of opportunity of doing something earlier — when all three were piss-drunk. At half past six, I left my room with all of my stuff, went to the bathroom, and soaked the socks in a sink while I showered.

Stupid fuckers.

I requested a different room, but everyone else was only staying for that one night, so I would have entirely new roommates on Saturday night. I hit the streets at half past seven, with a few plans on my itinerary.

Although it was nice to get away from the morons who I was sleeping with, it was still a mistake to get out that early. Because, in Dublin, nothing opens in the morning. Even cafes serving “breakfast” were opening at noon.

So once again I walked around randomly. I found Ha’Penny Bridge, one of Dublin’s larger landmarks. Or so I’ve read. To me, it was just a sad, little pedestrian bridge crossing a mucky stream in an uninteresting part of town.

I almost didn’t take a picture of it.

When the Guiness Brewery finally opened, I walked to it. I’m not sure if calling it a ‘brewery’ is correct. The place is mammoth – Guiness ‘plant’ would probably be more accurate. Needless to say, the place reeked of that peculiar Guiness smell. And at those levels, it quickly began to smell like vomit. The brewery tour was closed years ago. However, there is still a giftshop, and a tour of some sort of museum. I got my Guinness loot and booked.

I walked some more. Eventually I wandered further north, to a tattoo shop that I had specc’d online a few days previously. The artist’s name was Pluto, and he was a massive, tattoo’d biker (there was a really nice bike shop right next door, that must have had some connection to Pluto’s parlor). When I entered, he was working on a little Laos tourist, there with his girlfriend. I was put off by the fact that he did the work right there, in front of the window. He did have to buzz me in, but we talked while he worked. Mixed first impression. However, I had really liked some of the work that he showed on the site, and he generally had an air of professionalism about him. He liked my design, and was able to fit me in later that day. I put down a 20 euro deposit and planned on meeting him in four hours.

I immediately had second thoughts, of course. But damnit, I had put down twenty euro! So to pass the time, I saw a movie. Land of the Dead. I believe it was opening in theaters that day. Great movie, by the way. Just for the few Americans who didn’t see it months ago when it was in theaters in the states.

Had dinner at a Turkish place, and then met up with Pluto. He was working on the template — a hand-drawn reproduction of my requested image, resized and drawn with some sort of ink that would leave a mark on my skin, for him to follow. It was very sharp. For the Laos kid earlier, Pluto had been blasting some heavy rock. I was only there for ten minutes, so it might of been the same for him. But for me, the music varied greatly. Hard rock, metal, and then the next second, international, drumming and chanting. It made a great tattoo’ing soundtrack.

He was a friendly chap. One of the big fears I had when I went to get my first tattoo, regardless of where I ended up going, was encountering a total dick who tried to intimidate me. This guy was alright, talked a bit, but seemed to be one of those artists who would rather not carry on a full conversation while they worked. This suited me fine, of course.

It took him an hour, and cost me seventy euro, all told. The actual procedure? Ridiculously painless. I expected a lot worse. The deeper outlining was slightly more uncomfortable than the light shading. But on the whole, not bad at all. I believe that I chose a good location (the underside of my forearm). Pluto said that this area can be fairly tender, but from reading around, it seems that the fleshier the area, the less painful it is.

After the tattoo, I checked back at the hostel. Everyone else had vacated my room, and no one else had yet checked in. Cajoled in part by Pluto (when we were finishing up, he asked what I was planning on doing. Saying “going back to the hostel” out loud, at seven pm, even sounded incredibly sad to myself), I decided to hit a pub. It was a nice, quiet place, not too far from the hostel. I switched to Heineken (the stench of the Guinness Brewery turning me off of Guiness for awhile), sat in a corner and watched soccer clips.

Went back to my room, read a bit. The new roommates filtered in, had no problems with any of them.

Sunday, the 25th

Woke up pretty early again. Checked out, ate breakfast, walked around a little bit. Decided to hit the airport earlier than need be, and just read a book. This was a good idea, since once again I had to deal with Dublin’s public transportation system. Eventually, I took a different bus than I was suppose to, because the bus I was told to take was full, and was going to fly right by without stopping. To get to the correct bus, a few other hostel’ers and I were allowed to hitch a ride on another bus for a few blocks, for free. Absolutely crazy bus system.

I got to the airport, finished the book I had been reading (Kurt Vonnegut’s God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater), and looked through the entire airport bookstore before finally settling on John Grisham’s The Broker. Throughout Sunday, I read the bulk of it’s 465 pages. Easy reading, but generally engrossing.

The trip back to Freiburg was uneventful, but for the final leg, the train ride from Frankfurt to Freiburg. It was easy to tell who was coming back from Oktoberfest. If they weren’t still intoxicated, or passed out, then they had t-shirts. Can’t believe I didn’t go. Plans just fell through. C’est la vie.