George and the Dragon

(It can’t be a coincidence that the two rival gay bars here have those names, recalling the mythic slaying of the latter by the former, can it?)

I’m a pretty happy person, I think. So it’s ironic that when my face is neutral, when I’m feeling a bit bored, I look sad. That’s just the way my face is. But I’m beginning to see that this has advantages. I was having an uneventful night at The George on Friday (drank a bit, danced a bit, watched some drag queens) and was taking a breather outside in the smoking section. I know this sounds paradoxical, but I actually like standing with the smokers because that’s where conversations seem to happen. With nothing happening I was about to go home when a lad turned to me and said, “Don’t look so sad!” I explained that I wasn’t sad, just tired, and we struck up a conversation. I told him about who I was (tried to explain yet again why I was in Ireland) and I learned in fits and starts about him. He was not from Dublin; he was in town with a group of friends who were seeing Britney Spears, who he hates, so he took a bath instead; and I believe he started to compare himself to the South Park character Cartman, but goodness knows why. Eventually his friends came back outside and I had my first encounters with flamboyantly-harsh Irish-gay bitchiness. I wish I could remember everything they yelled at each other, but only one comes to mind; a new friend gets upset at one of his group and yells (cigarette in one hand, drink in the other) “Shut up, ya big-eared cunt!” I thought that was the funniest thing I had ever heard.

I was somewhat invited into the group, but I am glad I was warned that they warm up to you by being initially cruel. Fortunately, all they picked at me about was being Canadian and since most people here know barely any Canadian stereotypes, I was safe. At some point, my new friend started yelling slurs at this pretty blonde girl, who started yelling things back (it sounded something like this: “Oh faggots!” “Oh dykes!” “I’m a bisexual!” “Oh bisexuals then!”) and of course they became friends. The girl, whose name is Rachel, began bonding with us and at some point ended up telling me personally all about her new Brazilian girlfriend who wanted her to visit her. “Want to come with me?” she asked. “What?! We just met!” “I like you, though.” Then there was lots of running around. Rachel wanted to buy me a drink, which all new Irish friends always want to do, and unfortunately my Canadian politeness forces me to always decline the first one (not that they accept that). It was after last call, and I had to chase after her as you briskly ran around to every bar to see if they were still serving (this girl is determined, as I witnessed her later doing the exact same thing when they told her the smoking area was closed and she ran around looking for an alternate exit). Oh, and then my favourite part, which I forgot until now. DETERMINED for a drink, she said down at a table with three half-drunk pint glasses of (presumably) beer and POURED THEM ALL TOGETHER. “Have some. Have some!” I got her cell number and I hope I get to see her before she goes off to Brazil.

Last night, at the Dragon. It was supposed to be another Pride event, but I got there very early, as I always do, and no one was there (the bartender didn’t even know if there was a special event) so I sat down with a coke next to a scruffy guy in khaki shorts. From experience now I knew it wasn’t that difficult to start a conversation so I did when he asked me if I wanted a coaster. I asked him where he was from and he requested that I guess. I couldn’t; he was from Brazil. And the longer I talked with him the more I thought he was beautiful. Not that anyone else at that bar would notice, as they are all clean-shaved, hair-gelled, tight-Abercrombie-tee-shirt-wearing gays, and here he was with a beard and his khaki shorts, but I felt like I had found a diamond in the rough. His name was Bruno.

He had the most adorable ESL-isms. He was pretty goofy and would go on and on about the most random things. At one point he interrupted himself and said, “Why I am talking about that? I’m supposed to be seducing you.” And I was like, “say what now!” And he said, “Oh, never mind. I’m drunk.” So I said, “It’s still early.”

Eventually the girlfriend he was staying with showed up and she joined us for beers, and rolled a spliff on the upstairs smoking patio in full view of the scary security guys. (Security people are intimidating here; they are all big and bald and Russian and, especially at The George, race around picking up glasses as soon as you’re finished, telling you to not be on the dance floor with your drink, telling you not to leave your bag on the floor, telling you not to crowd the hallways by the bath room... must be how Soviet Russia felt). When his friend went on a bathroom break I decided to take the risk (what’s the point of travelling if you’re not going to take at least some risks?) and leaned in to Bruno. “Okay, this is awkward, but I have to ask: do you want to come home with me tonight?” “Oh... no, I don’t think I can... wait, are you inviting me?” “...yes.” “Okay, well, no, I shouldn’t leave my friend. Like, she’s here because of me. It’d be rude.” “I understand.” But I did invite him to watch a documentary about politically active centurions at the Irish Film Institute today.

We arranged to meet at Temple Bar square in the spitting rain and he was fifteen minutes late, so we had to run to get into the movie in time. It was very interesting and tear-jerking. One of the ladies profiled, an 104 year-old anti-war activist, says at a rally, “If after a century of experience I’m not hopeless than you have no excuse!” Anyways, made me miss my grandma a bit (so I talked with her on skype tonight). Afterwards I half-purposefully, half-accidentally (nothing is open on Sundays) led Bruno to a diner half way to my house. I had some grainy coffee and he had a milk shake (he’s not THAT much younger, 21) and we talked about our lives. Finally, as he had the night before, he interrupted himself when saying something about dating and said, “Is this dating?” I said the only thing I thought of to say, while leaving open the possibility while saving face; “I don’t know.” We both laughed. Then it was awkward.
Afterwards, I wanted to head home and he wanted to head back to the North side so we said our goodbyes.

I may see him before he goes, but I may not. Either way, I should put the effort into meeting more Dubliners.