"And as the feeling grows; She breathes flesh to my bones; And when love is dead; I'm loving angels instead"
Updated: Apr 18
The plan is simple: Kiss a Scottish man.
The plan is simple: Fly into Dublin, rent a car, find a place to stay overnight.
We arrive in Scotland’s most populous city following a battle with late-day traffic. Porters take our luggage and escort us into a luxurious hotel overlooking the River Clyde. Crisp springtime air welcomes us to a new adventure.
Inside our plush room, the sun beats against the high-rise tall window. I take in the room’s amenities before venturing toward a hot shower to wash off the long coach bus ride. I put on a fresh and cute outfit, style my hair, and add makeup and jewelry. As I wiggle my feet into gray suede half boots, we strategically plan our evening, noting this is a last opportunity to complete my mission: kiss a Scottish man.
We leave our place of refuge and walk through Glasgow, noting graffiti along structures on Clyde Street, crossing Bridge Street to see boarded up Georgian Townhouses on Carlton Place. We question my mission, thinking maybe I can do without that.
Making a loop back toward our hotel, we follow locals in a different direction. The manic crowd rushes. Their quick pace leads us to the city center. We discover popular fast-food establishments, shops, and the train station.
After securing tickets for the next stop on our vacation, I ask the pretty young ticket examiner where I might find an available and attractive Scot to kiss. She giggles and invites her colleagues into the conversation. A flamboyant man in a three-piece suit utters a suggestion.
“No, that’s too posh. She doesn’t want that,” she replies to him.
After another minute of brainstorming with them, she exclaims, “Yes! Ketty O’Shears! It’s just downstairs and across the street.” Her accent is thick. She repeats herself three times, reassuring us of the directions.
Outside the train station, we repeat the train examiner’s directions, look at each corner for “Ketty O’Shears.” We are bumped and jostled by residents who insist on walking on the left side of the sidewalk. We look up. Over. Down. She sees a neon sign perched on a second story with a green and red arrow pointing to an entrance.
“That’s it!” She shouts.
We walk toward the sign. “Kitty O’Shea’s.” Two burly men with beards stand guard. They open the doors and welcome us in as if we’re royalty.
“They’ll work,” I say over my shoulder to my friend. “Just fine.”
The truth can no longer be denied. We can no longer run. Reality sets in. We arrive in Dublin after an hour-long delay and have to face the challenge. The plan should be simple: Rent a car and find a place to stay. Except, I can’t remember which company holds our vehicle reservation and after scouring my email inbox, I don’t have the documentation.
The sun will soon set and we are already behind schedule. Crap.
We exit the plane, stop to collect brochures, take silly pictures, and reclaim our baggage. We maneuver through the international airport, follow signs, and translate unfamiliar vernacular. When we reach the counter of numerous car rental brands and their bright branded colors, I approach the first one and explain my circumstance. Within minutes and by a sheer stroke of luck, the tall bald man repeats my name to me with instructions of how and where to pick up the economy car.
Roughly a half hour later, we stare at the gray hatchback. Excitedly, I take in the magnitude of my decision -- a stick shift. AND, driver seat with its controls on the wrong side of the car.
She focuses in on it. “We can return it for an automatic. Driving on the opposite of the road is enough of a challenge,” she offers, pleading a tiny bit.
I am adamant. Terrified, but determined. Stubbornly, we get in. She makes the sign of the cross and I grind the gears. We do a lap around the parking lot before entering a left-sided rotary and merging into traffic.
At Kitty O’Shea’s, we order pints, sit at a tall barrel table on bar stools, and survey the room. “I can make this work,” I say to my best travel companion.
Cliques gather at the bar, tall tables, upstairs, and in secluded rooms off to the side. The ambience is reminiscent of a movie highlighting the Prohibition Era in the United States. Along the dark wood bar are glossy white subway tiles decorating the walls. The exposed ceiling highlights copper pipes and ductwork.
“We definitely have to come back,” we say in unison as we finish our drinks and get ready to leave. We have a group dinner that will soon begin.
We have successfully achieved two steps of the plan. Now, we need a place to stay. Initially, we planned to visit a friend of mine. We secured the arrangements eight months ago, but something changed on her end and seven days ago, she told me that was no longer feasible. While I wished her the best that day, I received the news on the way to the airport and wasn’t able to make new plans.
We weren’t and aren't worried. After all, we’re mentally and physically strong, independent, and educated women. We have the internet, the wherewithal to figure out challenges, and the ability to take problems in stride.
Following dinner, we change plans and embark on a quick trek to MacSorley’s, a corner pub just steps away from our hotel. Our tour guide made the recommendation. With us is a new friend we met while exploring the Highlands. She laughs at my mission, but is excited to be a wing woman.
MacSorley’s is an open and airy layout and with a high ceiling. The bar is V-shaped. Patrons stand around it, mingling. We order drinks and situate ourselves at a tall table in the center of the room right, directly in front of the guitarist playing familiar tunes.
A man standing directly behind me catches my eye. Resembling an old flame with blonde hair, he is glued to his phone, texting, smiling, and looking up at me with a hint of interest. Beside him are a group of three or four men talking and laughing.
I take my pint of fresh hard cider and talk to the tall blonde man. We converse long enough for me to steer my attention elsewhere.
Behind him, one particular guy notices me. He is also tall, but his expressions are animated and we communicate in a nonverbal conversation. The longer I stare, the more he reminds me of William “Will” Thacker, English actor Hugh Grant’s character in "Notting Hill;" with a hint of Barry Allen, in the CW's "The Flash" television series. The lead role is played by American actor Grant Gustin.
His friend Lance approaches me. Lance is lean and his shorn head reaches as far as my chin. He stands at attention with his shoulders pinned back. His polo shirt is tucked in alignment with his pants’ zipper. His arms are donned with colorful tattoos. Lance points to his friend Craig who is in the midst of an existential crisis. I inform Lance of my mission. He thinks Hugh Grant, or rather Craig, is the perfect suitor.
My personal Hugh Grant is wearing black Adidas sneakers with white stripes, dark jeans, an untucked button-down shirt, and a lightweight brown suede jacket. He looks messy in comparison to Lance.
I approach Hugh Grant, who is now standing at the bar. We each order another drink and he pays for mine. His beautiful dark Grant Gustin eyes stare into mine. His voice is distinctly English, not Scottish.
Immediately, we discuss his predicament and I offer my mission as a solution. He thinks about it, staring off into the great beyond.
“I hate Americans. I hate all Americans,” he says catching me off guard.
I open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. After a minute, I reply, “Uh. Hmmm. Well, my friend is Australian and you were talking with her.”
“I hate Australians, too.”
“Hmm. May I ask why?”
“You think you’re better than us,” he says with the utmost importance.
“I assure you that’s not the case,” I retort with a bit of laughter.
“Well, some of you do. Why is that?”
“If I had to guess?”
“Yes.”
“Uh, well. Hmm. Well, we were forced into a revolutionary war against England and we won. Maybe that’s it.”
“You have beautiful eyes.”
I smile. For a minute, we’re in our own universe. Background noise ceases to exist. I can no longer hear the musician. We stare at one another, wondering the next move.
The sun is bright and the sky is clear. But the roads are not clearly marked, street signs cease to exist, and neither of us understand highway designations. I pull the car into a parking lot of a well-known Canadian gas station and convenience store.
She goes inside and asks for a map. The attendant does not have one.
When she returns, we each take a deep breath with exaggerated sighs. I turn the car off and we purchase snacks. After all, a little sugar and caffeine might be what we need. Upon returning to the boxy vehicle, I connect to the internet and we search for possible hotels in Dublin. Deciding upon one, we’re ready to go, except …
Except, I cannot figure out how to put the car in reverse. It’s not like any standard vehicle I’ve owned in the past.
I soon watch a video on YouTube as my friend suggests it’s not too late to request a car with an automatic transmission.
Nope. I’m stubbornly determined.
I drive away from the Circle K. She reminds me to stay on the left side of the road. I echo her. The internet disconnects. Our hatchback zigs, zags, and jerks through city streets nowhere closer to our destination. Twice I pop the curb before making a wrong turn into a residential neighborhood. I pull up beside a man and his son and ask for directions. He looks at us, scratches his naked head. He puffs out his chest, and stares in various directions before finally uttering, “West. Go west.”
The bright sun begins to make its descent toward the horizon, blinding me in the process. I drive toward it. Eventually, we reach Dublin proper. Throngs of people, one-way streets, historical architecture, and orange-white-green flags dominate our vision. She becomes increasingly frustrated as there is no rhyme, reason, or consistency to the grid layout.
Playfully, I ask, “Where’s your sense of adventure?”
“Back at the gas station,” she deadpans.
By the grace of all that’s pure and mighty, we reach the front of the hotel as the sky begins to change from bright blue to a pink and purple. The room is far more than we want to pay. We leave and make our way to another destination.
We are both frustrated by Ireland's capital city and are determined to be anywhere else. Wandering aimlessly through the unmarked streets, we eventually come across what might be highway signs. Sure, we’ll drive toward Belfast. Certainly, there’s a hotel between here and there. Right?
Please be right.
The realization hits. We are in a foreign land. We don’t know the local language. We know no one. We have no wi-fi. No map. No points of interest. No reservation.
Anxiety creeps in and I begin wearing my shoulders as earrings.
Lance approaches us. “Let’s go to Wunderbar. They have karaoke and dancing. It’s a great time.”
I turn to my new friend and best friend. My new friend is in agreement, while my best friend decides to return to the hotel room, but assures us she is fine and encourages us to take the adventure. We gather our belongings and tell the men we will meet them there. Seconds later, Lance, Craig, and their two friends have vanished.
My wing woman and I pop outside. The men are no where to be seen and neither of us, now a bit buzzed, remember the directions. I bound back in the bar to find the original man with blonde hair playing with his cell phone. I ask him about Wunderbar. He claims no knowledge of it, but googles the directions.
I thank him and return to my partner in crime, who has also mapped the location. We stumble through the streets of the historic city, getting lost at every turn. We laugh and trade stories about our new men. We giggle like schoolgirls, but are dressed in puffy winter coats, dark jeans, and comfortable shoes. We ask strangers for directions, eventually finding our way to the mythological Wunderbar that’s tucked in an alley.
We exit from the highway to back roads. One or two lanes. The sky darkens to pitch black. There are no street lights, nor white or yellow center lines. One small town extends to another. There are no hotels with vacancies, nor suggestions on where to go.
Tired, I pull into another gas station parking lot in the middle of nowhere recognizable. Following a similar playbook, I connect to the internet and browse a hotel booking site. I make reservations for one night at the only nearby place offering reasonable rates. Quickly, I enter the necessary information as the site shows only two rooms are still available.
Lance and Craig welcome us with open arms, excited by our arrival. A guitarist plays the country version of “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” and we are all about getting down with our white girl moves on the dance floor. Craig pulls me close and holds me to him. His head gently tilts to the right. The distance between us closes. His lips gently touch mine. They are soft and soothing. I catch my breath.
My fingertips trace his jawline. The kiss intensifies. His tongue caresses my lips and slowly meets mine. I am lost in the moment, feeling care from a man who outwardly hates my nationality. He shows more compassion and fervor than the moron who claimed to love me for eleven years.
We break apart, dance, moving freely between groups of twenty-somethings discovering their first club experience and desperately trying not to break the seal or get cut off by the bartenders. We find and tease each other. We nuzzle up like lovers embracing intimacy rather than strangers becoming acquaintances. We kiss passionately and lovingly. Our embrace healing one another.
Before disconnecting, I hand my phone to my friend. She sees the directions and follows the blue dot marker, navigating the route. Our path is a squiggled tangent spoken by a former friend’s mother. There is no direct line or point to the conversation, but it covers every topic and is ever-changing.
She counts down the kilometers and meters. Anticipation grows. She announces our arrival. Only it’s a church on a town green with closed stone buildings around it. I park the car and we both close our eyes.
Determined to try again, we back track. Eventually, EVENTUALLY, we arrive at a small inn housed above a bar. Our journey took us through five small towns, two cities, and a handful of gas stations over three-hundred never-ending minutes.
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