Dublin...Whore of a City (standard:travel stories, 1004 words)
Author: Cyrano	Added: Oct 23 2006	Views/Reads: 3768/2308	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Forewarned is forearmed at sea, so when the radio warns of gales heading my way I make for the nearest harbour and look for somewhere to rest up. But Dublin is a sorrowful place at five in the morning.

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“This'll be yer room, sir.” 

I enter and feel heartened by the simplicity of its furnishings. ‘On
suite' means a hand basin below a cracked mirror in the corner of the 
room. The old girl grips my hand harder, leading me through another 
door into a hallway bathroom with a claw-foot bathtub. Somehow its 
charming, even quaint, and not what I'm used to, being spoiled and 
pampered by luxurious bathrooms with all the accompanying in-room 
entertainment. 

On two walls hang pictures of the Virgin Mary. On the lopsided cabinet
at the side of the bed, a scented candle burns. No need to worry about 
smoke detectors going off in this accommodation. 

I turn back to her. “How much?” 

She smiles. “Oh it'll be nothin' dear lad, after all, yer got yer hair
clipped by m'boy - that'll be payment enough fur sure now.” 

I almost laugh in embarrassment but instinctively know the old girl's
sensitivity, her honesty and thoughtfulness. I explain I cannot be 
staying for free, that fifty pounds will have to be paid for my stay. 

“Then you'll not be a stayin' sir, I couldn't face m' lad if I were to
be takin' yer money.” 

She pulls the covers down the bed and folds them neatly. The sheets are
brilliantly white. 

“Yer a client of my son and we looks after our customers if we can. Now
you'll be bringin' yer things through, won't yer, and I'll be makin' 
yer a cuppa hot tea.” 

The barber said nothing about the room being free, saying simply, "The
old woman'll look after yer." 

Sea salt stinging my face, I turn on the tap. Water gurgles, knocks and
rushes its way through the lead pipes a hundred years old. I pull off 
my clothes and sit chest deep in the huge enamel tub. What bliss, what 
eternal bliss to feel my body soaking after taking such a beating from 
the waves. My rib cage bruised and blackened by the tiller, my hands 
sore from rope burns. Bliss I tell you. 

Heaven is a claw-foot bathtub in an old lady's home in Dublin. 

Leave me now. Let me sleep. 


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