Nineties movies romanticized the idea of traveling abroad: falling in love with the handsome stranger, renovating the beautiful villa, or discovering long-lost family. We watched those movies growing up and thought to ourselves, “How wonderful,” “How special,” or “How I can’t wait for that to happen to me.” We watch those movies even now as adults, adults with jobs and responsibilities, and fantasize about how one trip could change our lives. Well, when I think back on my time in Ireland, when I describe what it was like to live in Dublin during law school, I catch myself thinking, “Wow, I lived out that nineties movie.” Here’s part of that story.
It all started when I decided to study abroad during my third year of law school. COVID-19 had already wreaked havoc on a normal law school experience, and I thought to myself, “Why not?” I had always wanted to write a book, and I thought, “Maybe it’s now or never.” Fast-forward a few stressful weeks of the program being on and off again due to COVID, and at 6 p.m. the night before my scheduled departure, I got the word: the program was on, and I was off to Dublin.
Moving overseas by yourself is daunting in normal times. Moving during a global pandemic poses unique challenges that everyone acknowledged yet no one seemed to have answers for. When I went to orientation that first Monday and the program (the very program that gave me the green light to get on the plane) had no record of me or why I was in Dublin, I knew I was going to have to take matters into my own hands to make the most of my time abroad. So, I did what any tourist in Dublin does—I set off down Grafton Street in search of a cozy pub to pass the rainy day.
I don’t know what it was about the Old Stand specifically that pulled me in, but as soon as I stepped inside, I felt something. Maybe it was the gold railings or the red seats or the ornate ceiling; or maybe it was even the few patrons well on their way to a pre-noon buzz—I’m not sure. But the moment I stepped inside, I knew I had found the place. Being the shy tourist that I was (and struggling more than I care to admit with the Irish accent), I ordered my cider and chips and pulled out my journal to start writing. I figured as long as I had food on my table, and as long as there wasn’t a line to get in, they hopefully wouldn’t mind me working. Over my glass, I caught glimpses of an equally shy waitress and we exchanged smiles, but neither of us initiated anything more.
The next day followed the same pattern. Get up, get dressed, explore, and then head back to the Old Stand. By the third day, I was sitting, minding my own business when an accusatory voice exploded at my shoulder: “Are you ever going to order anything other than chips?” The voice belonged to a red-haired chef, face pink from the heat of the kitchen, uniform covered in flour and whatever else he was whipping up that day. My halting laugh and smile appeared to have no effect and I realized, “Oh, he actually wants to know.” “Oh,” I said, “I have Celiac, and I didn’t see anything else I can order.” “Of course there’s more you can order. Give me ten minutes.”
So, I sat, thoroughly red from the eyes the scene attracted, and waited. Closer to thirty minutes later (Irish time), and he came up from the kitchen with a gluten-free sandwich and a cup of soup. To this day, I remember looking at the soup and thinking to myself, “Whatever it is, you’re going to eat it, and you’re going to like it.” Any shy Celiac knows the drill. Luckily, I did like it. I loved it in fact, and I let him know that. Well, something about seeing me interact with the chef I guess told the waitress that I was friendly enough to approach. “Are you American? Are you in school? Which school? Do you have friends here? What are you writing? A book! What about?” I answered the questions almost as fast as they came. “It’s an adventure/mystery. I just started. Yes, I’m American. I’m in law school. Your accent, it’s not Irish, right? How long have you been in Dublin? Have you worked here long?” Within an hour, I had my first friends in Dublin. Within a week, I had cemented the Old Stand as my spot.
I will never forget calling my boyfriend (now husband) after that first week visiting the Old Stand. I remember telling him my tales of gluten-free dishes appearing at the table, ciders and hot teas ready almost without me asking, and a booth that I had decided was where I was going to write my book. He laughed at the excitement in my voice and said what I think everyone who grew up watching Friends wants to hear at some point in their life: “Babe, I think you’re a regular.” We had no idea how right he was.
The next few months followed the same pattern. I would walk (usually in the rain) from my cozy flat in Ranelagh down Grafton Street to my waiting booth. I would tuck in with a pot or two of tea and write through the morning until lunch. At some point, I’d place an order for “Whatever the chef can do gluten-free,” and without fail, something hot and delicious would appear at the table. My tea would switch to cider by the afternoon, and I’d write until I either had to leave for class or walk home before it got too dark. That was the routine.
I could have followed that same schedule at any café in DC or New York or I guess even in Dublin at another pub. I could have showed up every day, ordered food, worked and left, and my experience would have been nothing special. But instead, I found nineties’ movie magic. Why? The people at the Old Stand. It was their warmth, their acceptance, their food (thank you to the chef), that added the magic to the place: The front door would be open ten minutes before opening because they knew I walked quickly and always seemed to get there early. My good friend, Dee, the waitress, let me write, but she always was ready to chat or share a drink. My booth, the perfect corner booth with a view of the whole pub, was somehow always ready for me (now talk about turning red, the booth was occupied once when I came in and one of the waiters actually offered to ask the people to get up so I could have it. No, I did not take him up on it. Yes, I about crawled under a table with embarrassment when the other patrons heard. Yes, my heart did swell thinking I was that much of a regular). Every day, tourists and residents alike would come in and would point (not so subtly), my way and whisper. The first time I heard the manager say, “That’s our writer,” I about fell off the bench.
I guess what it boils down to is this statement that makes me feel extraordinary lucky: I spent four months traveling a gorgeous country, finding inspiration for my book from the landscape, the history, and the people. I made life-long friends and built a family while I was away from my own. I wrote my book in my booth surrounded by generous, warm, kind, and all around good people. I became a regular. Pure movie magic.
It is my dream to take my family to Dublin to experience the Old Stand once I publish my book. Who knows, maybe they’ll get to experience a little of the magic too.