(Reinactment)
Ireland was swallowed in darkness when we arrived. We stumbled about, rudimentary tourist map in hand, searching for our hostel. Even with the aid of the sun, we would have been lost. The map showed only major roads and street signs were few. Like a survey crew looking for landmines, we moved along a grid. Up one street and then back the other scanning for clues.
Relief was short-lived when we teamed with two Canadian backpackers looking for the same street. Combining our American street smarts with their innate orienteering skills, we found our destination around midnight. Our exodus from Scotland led to a hostel that was less New Eden and more Forty Years in the Desert.
The lights were yellow and emitted a buzz. The doors were heavy and locked magnetically. Only the barely conscious receptionist could hit the button to let us through. His direction to our room consisted only of the word: Last.
The jail cell “ka-thunk” of the door behind us reinforced my sense that we’d just entered a maze. Our room was numbered 21, but the signs only acknowledged the existence of rooms 1-19. Corridor after corridor, floor after floor, our Kafka story continued. The guests sitting in the halls were comically unresponsive, suggesting a minor episode of “The Twilight Zone,” rather than “The Prisoner.”
A second trip to the front desk brought a helpful hand gesture to those foreboding directions of “last.” His finger pointed toward the ceiling. Up, up, up we went.
Over the next two days we learned that two things are big in Dublin
- Fashion
- Beyonce
At all times of the day, large percentages of Dublin’s daughters are dressed to go to the club. The streets vibrate with the click of high heels and swish of miniskirts. Mascara is caked on like icing and perfume sprayed like disinfectant. For Stacy, traveling with the three shirts and two practical skirts I told her would fit in her backpack, the standards were intimidating. On any street corner I was bound to encounter an aspiring Twiggy. Sometimes the settings were too perfect, transforming me into a fashion photographer complete with neon commentary in the background.
On the other side of the street were The Neon Kids. A name I devised because they wear neon colors. As demonstrated in this London photo, all the public servants wore a particular green. Police officers, crossing guards, ambulance drivers all sticking out like nuclear thumbs.
Somehow this color seared itself into the psyche of European islands. On these islands were fashion designers. There were also fourteen-year-old girls and ten-year-old boys, the target demographic of the worst hide and go seek uniform in history. Despite my lack of photographic evidence, rest assured that the youth of Dublin are safe from nighttime traffic accidents.
Beyonce awareness began before we’d even entered the country. Going through airport security, I watched an adorable three-year-old make a mess of her mother’s luggage. A deep Caribbean voice chided, “Beyonce! Beyonce! Stop that.” (Be sure to ask Stacy for her spot on impression.) Many an Irish child is the namesake of John Fitzgerald Kennedy, but there seems to be a new movement for Sasha Fierce.
Walking around Dublin there would be occasional groups walking close together, smiling about a secret they shared. A secret at least until their matching shirts came into focus. Each group had their own self-designed outfit celebrating the coming of Beyonce. Later research confirmed she played multiple shows at the city’s largest concert venue. Out of the many classics, these are my favorite, as well as the only ones I was able to snap pictures of.
(Notice the “Food Served All Day” sign, confirming this as the same location of the Twiggy photo shoot.)
Fierce fashion sense in Dublin wasn’t limited to women, as this actual Ken doll mannequin at the Barbie store is eager to demonstrate.
