Getting My Bearings

I hit boots on the ground a little after 5am local time, still groggy from lack of sleep and the Ambien that I was sure would have knocked me out for the duration of the flight. (Right after I took it, the man next to me decided to chat about why I was going to Ireland. I could feel my thoughts begin to scramble, and put my earplugs in at the first break in the conversation. The last image I saw before drifting off into a fitful drowse was Christina Ricci, somehow cursed with a pig's snout, being plucky and empowering. Was I asleep already?) Customs was ridiculously fast, so it was barely 6:30 when I arrived at DCU. A security guard took pity on me, and gave me a key to an unoccupied room where my body clock fought with the lingering drugs and I slept almost as badly as I did on the plane.

Some of the first people I saw when I tried to check in were some boys from the Minneapolis and Atlanta teams who I had hung with in Bingam '04 and '06. My room wouldn't be ready for another 4 hours. Would I like to join them for a beer at a local pub? If nothing else, it would give me a chance to walk around in what was turning out to be a warm, sunny day. DCU is located near a stretch of road that leads into the heart of Dublin from the airport. The houses along the throughway were charming split levels with neat yards and well cropped trees that seemed just a little too tropical for the weather. Against one house, a yellow rosebush snaked its way up the wall to a second floor window, its blossoms already open in that riot of petals that signal its imminent death. Against the blue sky, the colors all seemed too much of what they were. And then we turned the corner and there was the pub.

I suppose the lack of good sleep and the philosophical tone of the previous post has made me a little more reflective as I write this. That's a luxury I won't have as the week goes on and more people I know arrive and the beer begins to flow and the games start. The boys I was with were already in that headspace, as each downed two or three pints while the bar staff prepared for their lunch crowd. Someone had brought a local gay paper with them, and we glanced through it at all the articles and photos dedicated to the Bingham Cup. The health and beauty column even talked about scrumpox! More so than London, and more so than NYC, the gay community here seems excited by our presence and what this tournament can mean to them.

But beer and lack of sleep take their toll, even on the heartiest of ruggers. The sun was blazing as we took a roundabout path back to DCU, and the neighborhood became even more suburban: the streets quieter, the houses bigger, the sidewalks shadier, a small chic cafe next to an off-license was abuzz with young, smart-looking midday diners. Passing by them, we looked every bit the Americans as we stumbled about checking the map, occasionally pulling out a camera to take pictures of a church or each other. I ate a packet of cheese and onion crisps and felt my backpack grow a little heavier. Just a little more sleep, I thought, then I too can start making memories.