It was dark and rain was relentlessly attacking from all angles. The streets were packed with what seemed like every commuter and tourist in Dublin. Umbrellas loomed out of nowhere and narrowly missed eyes and heads.
The dark, the downpour and the dawdlers were all working together to make actually getting anywhere a struggle.
I wasn’t in the best of moods. After a double dose of insomnia, a looming assignment deadline and a long day in work spent feeling hungry due to a lack of coffee, fighting the tides of people and rain wasn’t my idea of a great time.
It was miserable. My bag was ridiculously large, as my mother had repeatedly pointed out, something I had chosen to ignore, but when said bag was filled with my laptop, charger, bits, bobs and assorted layers, I could no longer deny its cumbersome weight. The straps were stretched over my coat, and kept sliding off.
My boots, beautiful beige ankle boots I was unable to resist once they were spotted on Bershka’s shelves, were already hurting. I had bought them in the belief they would be ideal for work. In my lust-filled haze I hadn’t considered the fact that the heel was deceptively high and any walking that went further than the bus stop, coffee shop radius led to an ungainly gait and a slowed pace, as well as aching feet.
And now, the albatross of a bag and the heels worked in tandem to assure that my mood was plummeting with every plodding step. That, and the umbrella I was wielding, which had decided to start to slowly collapsing around my head, over and over.
A usually fast walker, the distance from Merrion Square to Drury Street seemed eternal.
There were slow, stalling, foolish walkers on every street. Why, oh why do people walk so slowly?
Why do they take up an entire footpath? Why do they walk in threes, stopping to talk when they are in the middle of a city street during rush hour?
I just wanted to go home. But, instead I had to wait around until 7.30 pm for a dinner commitment. I was hungry, and couldn’t decide whether to bide my time in a coffee shop, where I would have to go decaf, and avoid anything but a small one, so as not to spoil my appetite, or in a bar where I probably couldn’t work on my laptop and could very well end up drunk.
My prospects weren’t good.
I began to slow down as I passed Stephen’s Green. I was running out of time and needed to make a decision. After walking further and becoming even more indecisive, I found myself on the street where we were meant to meet for dinner. Then there was one location that began to stick out in my mind, but I wasn’t sure if it would be too busy.
In the end, I had no other ideas, and so I gave my bag one last hoist and shook off my pathetic umbrella. I pushed the heavy wooden door, my hand pressed against the gold handle, and entered an airy yet cosy, dark yet with ambient light coming from candles, room that is the Market Bar.
It was thankfully near empty, and I spotted a man on his laptop. Smiling, I ordered a wine, and took my seat at a dark wooden table with a perfect view of the room.
My mood was lifting by the second.
I no longer felt crabby. Two hours seemed like nothing, and I actually felt inspired. This was just what I needed.
I imagined how great it would be to come here to work every day. I allowed myself to imagine a life of writing, picking and choosing my office each day. That would be great.
For now, that may be just a dream, but I’m going to make it my business to come to beautiful places like this more often.
To write. To while away the time, and to feel inspired.
Oh, and I’m most definitely coming back to Market Bar to test the stomach-rumble-inducing tapas menu. A plate of cheese and meat sounds absolutely perfect right now.