July 25, 2012
“Hey man, are you from Sweden?”
“Nah, I’m from Amsterdam, can’t you tell?”
“No way! ...I’m Eoin (Owen) and this is Kelly, what do you
think about the underage drinking scene in Dublin?”
This was the conversation that started after two teens
approached me as I was sitting next to the W.B. Yeats monument in St.
Stevens Green, a public park smack dab in the middle of Dublin city. It’s a
gorgeous looking park at that, with lush stretches of manicured grass surrounding two different ponds, each lined with towering weeping willows and filled with countless ducks and swans.
There’s even a local man who shares a deep, deep empathy for the swans. Yet,
with all this beauty there remains a hidden, dirty side to the park, one that
can be found in the same Memorial Garden where the Yeats monument is held.
It isn’t much of a garden; mostly
stone ledges surrounded by dense trees, perfect cover for rambunctious youths
to take refuge. I began walking up the stone
steps to the monument around 2pm. At the top, a posse of teens were gathered clutching pounders of Coors Light and puffing hand rolled cigarettes; vintage tees and dyed hair trended pretty hard. I
hadn’t been sitting by myself for more than five minutes when Eoin and Kelly came up and introduced themselves; they weren't what you would call shy.
“You
know why we drink?” Said Eoin.
“I have no idea... why?”
“It’s so we can get laid easier. You know? Kelly's
DTF”
“Hah, is she?”
“Yeah she is, tell him.”
Kelly had a sulky look in her eyes, that
same look a little kid who knows they've done something wrong has. She went on to tell me stories how her vulnerability was a product of her unrestricted upbringing. I felt sympathetic, and at the same
time pretty awkward because I had no legitimate response. That didn’t stop her
from asking me half a dozen questions ether. She asked where I was from, why I was there and whether
or not I was an architect (at the time I was carrying a cardboard poster tube
with me). I could’ve went with an enticing Amsterdam designer back story, but
decided against it. Apparently
Eoin hadn’t heard me explain I was actually from the states, because when he
came stumbling back into the conversation, aztec pattern sweatshirt and all, he
asked:
“Do you smoke weed?
“Not for a while man" I said. "Plus I haven’t any euro. I don’t–”
“Hold on for just a second! Let me grab us some.”
Eoin ran across to the other side of the garden and
disappeared into the crowd of tipsy misfits. In a sudden turn of events, a
Garda (copper) appeared over my left shoulder and begin
shouting orders at the crowd, “Hey you with the bag, you! Fuckin’ stop, STOP!”
The funny thing was almost everyone had a bag, and at the sound of the
officer’s voice no one stopped.
About half the teens left their bags on the ground when they
bailed and the cop ransacked all of them. He threw out beer cans,
water bottles and who knows what. I found the whole situation rather
amusing and took a few pictures to document the fiasco. Kelly, still
sitting next to me, told me this happens all the time and that it’d be wise to
put away my camera. I told her I didn’t think the Garda would mind; after all I
was only there to see the W.B Yeats Monument.
After everyone left Kelly gave me a kiss on the cheek (I somehow deserved it?) and we parted ways. I began reminiscing about my
own underage drinking days, and how it was exactly the same, minus the
dyed hair. I came to the conclusion that kids are kids wherever you go, always
looking for an escape, a place to call their own, a causal hook up. Most times to overcome the cruelties of growing up we find ways distract ourselves and forget about reality completely. Booze can be, and often is that temporary fix. I just wonder
what Yeats would’ve thought about this whole debacle. Actually, I do
know:
A Drinking Song
Wine comes in at the mouth
And love comes in at the eye;
That’s all we shall know for truth
Before we grow old and die.
I lift the glass to my mouth,
I look at you, and I sigh.
-William Butler Yeats
