Love in Dublin
DUBLIN — Ireland has a flourishing drinking scene, or ‘pub culture’ as it’s fondly known, but the concept of dating is as elusive here as a mystical dream.
Yet single people do exist, and the notion that this odd American practice could be a good thing is gradually infiltrating our national psyche. Last weekend’s Sunday Independent featured ‘Confessions of a Modern Irish Bachelor‘ by one Hugh Farrelly, a pallid, unsmiling journalist, who admitted he was ‘single, straight and 38’. The female perspective has been gaining ground as well. Irish TV today interviewed an intrepid New York woman who’s currently making her way through Dublin’s urban jungle. (Her website, interestingly, doesn’t mention any actual dates here). As background research, the reporters spoke to a few Irish women, all of whom agreed that dating in Dublin is awful and ‘very hard’.
Romance involves a trip to a pub, the consumption of a number of pints or whiskey or vodka, and a further journey to a nightclub or late bar, at which point the individual may approach and engage with a member of the opposite sex. As the night wanes and more drink is taken, primitive nuptials of a kind may occur.
The real romance is with the pub itself. Here we are eminently faithful, returning again and again to the same bars we frequented in our teenage years. Back then there was a frisson because we were underage and it was illegal, but after you hit 18 — and more than a decade on — the intrigue wears off. That rarely stops us, however.
Meanwhile women complain that men don’t initiate conversation; men say women are unresponsive and scary.
Last week I was at O’Donoghue’s on Baggot Street, a packed, roaringly noisy place, chatting to a beautiful woman in her early thirties, who told me how lonely and isolating Dublin is, and how hard it is to meet people. Her huge eyes fixed on me as she explained her plan to move home to the country to be closer to her family. She wanted to meet a nice man but told me she never met any in Dublin. Meanwhile we ignored a table of guys beside us, who looked over pointedly from time to time but said nothing.
After a while, I decided to conduct an experiment. I turned to the guy beside us and asked him if men and women ever spoke to each other in pubs in Dublin. I forget what his reply was, to be honest — this was after a third glass of the pub’s house white wine — but we got into a conversation. I looked around to introduce my friend, only to discover that she had departed for the toilet. Within five minutes another friend grabbed me. Everyone was leaving.
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