Day 1: (Christmas Eve) I somehow make it into Dublin even though the airport was closed the night before and flights are cancelled left and right. Dublin is buried under snow for the first time in like 20 years.  Christmas Day, the airport is closed again. Upon arrival, my friend, V, refuses to let me sleep (to ward off jet lag) and takes me down to Grafton Street to see the sights.

THESE are the sights…

BONO! GLEN HANSARD!

YES.

One love, one blood…

We’re one, but we’re not the same.
We get to carry each other, carry each other… one…

We run into an impromptu show with Glen Hansard, Bono, Declan O’Rourke, Damien Rice and other famous Irish musicians. They are, in local speak, busking, or singing for charity.  No microphones, no stage, just some random street corner.  No huge security detail, one police car.  I have to stand on tip toes but yes, it’s them.  We’re in shock. Dublin is c-o-o-l.

Day 2: (Christmas Day) Downtown Dublin is a ghost town. Like scarily empty.  We actually have to hitch a ride into town because the buses are not running and we can’t find a cab.  The guy who pulls up is old, on the smaller side, he has Jesus on a cross on his dashboard, and I figure, worse case scenario, the two of us can take him. It’s freezing outside and we’re basically desperate.

We’ve been invited over to a friend’s house for a traditional Irish Christmas dinner in North Dublin, and we have to get there somehow. Dinner turned out to be very much like our Thanksgiving meal: turkey, ham, cranberry sauce, but with “new potatoes” and plum pudding…  It’s really a beautiful time.  I learn some new Irish curses and work on my accent (Is it “shower of shite?”).  I meet a sweet gay couple from San Francisco.  The fun continues late into the night.

Day 3 (St. Stephen’s Day): V and I are holed up for much of the day, watching the snow melt and keeping warm by the fire. We venture out in the evening for fresh air and some food to Ranelagh Village. We first try Russells, a cute dinner spot with a bar but they’re not serving food. We next stop in at a pub, Smyths, which doesn’t look like much from the outside but inside is FILLED with people (the guy-girl ratio is A-mazing; there’s a game on and we’re surrounded by like 40 guys) and alive with energy.  I have my first Irish Guinness (delicious!) but we strike out there too. It’s “too busy” and despite the “Food Served All Day” sign, they’re not serving food.  Strike 2.  We’re resigned to pizza at Luigi’s on the way home, or failing that, cheese and crackers and new potatoes that V has in her fridge, when we see a cute little place… Gourmet Burger Co.

Starving, we stop in and gratefully order burgers, fries. We start in on dessert.  Colin Farrell walks in. Yes, Colin M.F. Farrell. Not only does he walk in, but he sits down next to us. V alerted me when he entered, but I didn’t believe her because I’m still reeling over Bono.  I look up, he’s looking back at me. Holy… He looks exactly the same. Only cuter.  We were just talking about him. I think we must have conjured him. I was telling V she had to see Intermission, a cool movie with him in it, and in he walks. O.M.G.

We were also just talking about how everyone in Ireland plays it cool when they see celebrities. They barely deign to look over and smile. They’re all like “WHATEVER.” So that’s running through my head and I’m thinking I can’t act the fool and start screaming my head off and asking for a picture, so we both play it cool. We pretend he isn’t there.

But then he leans over. He leans over, looks at our dessert and asks us what we’re having.  It’s a brownie. It looks like a brownie. There’s no question it’s a brownie with a scoop of ice cream on top.

I say (almost yelling with a big goofy smile), “IT’S A BROWNIE!!”

V echoes, “It’s a fudge brownie.”

He says, “Oh, it’s a FUDGE brownie.”

The three of us are idiots.  Inside, I’m losing my shit.

He’s beyond sweet. Friendly.  Boyish smile.  Almost shy.  Polite to the wait-staff.  Everything is, “Thanks, love” and “Please tell the chef I said thank you.” I want to leap over the table and hug him.  Instead, I sit quietly with V talking about minutiae.  Kill me.  All for the sake of being polite and not “bothering” him.

That was it.  We had the perfect opportunity to politely ask him for a photo and continue the conversation when it was just him and a friend.  We choked.  Overly concerned with playing it cool. (Let this be a lesson to all of you. Cool is for suckers.)  Then, another couple joined their party, and that was that.  Game over.

We walked home and tried to make sense of our unbelievable luck.  I suggested we buy lotto tickets.

If I see Jonathan Rhys Meyers tomorrow, all I have to say is fuck cool.  I’m going for desperate school girl.

"Christmas Busk" with Bono and Friends, Dublin, Ireland

P.S. Colin, if you’re reading this… Call me!  I was an idiot.  I’m sorry.  I couldn’t help myself.  I was overwhelmed.