On Saturday the husband and I went to Dublin to celebrate the sister-in-law's 40th birthday. I liked my outfit for the night: a silvery black lamé jumpsuit from the local granny boutique with silver ankle boots and black leather jacket with a cream faux-fur collar. (I guess I've taken to dressing like a retired disco queen in my middle age.) After dinner, we sidled into a nightclub on Lower Baggot Street: it was heaving with young people, out for their last boogie before the nightclubs close today due to new Covid restrictions. The manager was apologetic about our private table, which wasn't ready, and dropped down a bottle of gin, small bottles of soda, and glasses of ice. Half of us left to shiver outside of the bar across the street. The rest of us remained, giddy with our close proximity to Armageddon, before leaving after ten minutes to join our party.

The next day I walked around our bit of the city. What happened to corner shops? Only a Tesco's that was all self-checkout, no cash accepted, a lone worker occasionally looking up from his phone screen. 10 am on Sunday: not much else was open. I went to Fitzwilliam Square, a park I found on Google Maps, but it was gated and locked, a private community garden, members only. The streets were empty in this part of the city, lined with handsome brick Georgian townhouses, with snarling lions for door knockers and garrets haunted by the ghosts of governesses past. I was the only person in the world, I imagined, and I thought of that screen still from 28 Days Later, Cillian Murphy's character newly woken from a coma, wandering the deserted streets of London.

Later we walked to St. Stephen's Green. During the Easter Rising of 1916 members of the Irish Citizen Army holed themselves up here while fighting the British Army. Second-in-command was Constance Markievicz, who advised women in those revolutionary times, "Dress suitably in short skirts and strong boots, leave your jewels in the bank and buy a revolver." During the battle, gunfire ceased temporarily so the park's groundskeeper could feed the ducks.

Where a people's army had dodged sniper fire from the Shelbourne Hotel across the street, I wandered around, hungover, watching a boy pushing a pram loaded with loaves of white bread and listening to at least a dozen languages being spoken. Everyone was probably saying the same thing in those languages: What a beautiful day. Sunlight glinted off the ponds, and you couldn't look at the water, it shone so brightly.

We finished our trip with brunch: wee plates of steak tartare followed by french onion soup with a glass of red wine and creme brulee accompanied by intensely vanilla ice cream. Elegant and contrary: not at all the kind of meal you could get in our small town. After the last bite, I was eager to return home.

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