By T. Bennison

I was looking for the harp of Brian Boru. It never actually belonged to the legendary High King, having been constructed some 400 years after his 11th century reign, but it had become the symbol of Ireland - an ornate manifestation of poetry and music’s triumph over war and destruction.

After an hour of walking aimlessly through Dublin’s Trinity College Library looking for it, past endless columns of leather bound books and marble busts of old scholars, I finally gave in and sought out assistance. I approached a sleepy-looking guard leaning against a banister to ask for directions. Slowly, he righted is cap, clasped his hands primly, and shuffled into an approximation of attention. “Ah, the beautiful wooden harp of Brian Boru. Well now,” he began dreamily, his eyes vaguely focusing on some far-off image. “If you continue up these stairs just here and make a left at the porcelain display case, you’ll come to a long hall. Follow your way down that hall ‘til you find a door on your left, next to some fascinating old manuscripts - legal documents from ages past. Behind that door, you’ll find the finely-crafted instrument sometime next month,” he sung. “It’s away being cleaned.”

Of course, if I’d bothered to read any current guidebooks, I’d have known the harp was being restored elsewhere, but I’d stubbornly planned my trip on hearsay and idyllic visions spun by “Ulysses” and “Dubliners.” As I was due to leave for the States the following day, I consoled myself with the promise of a return trip.

If Dublin has survived on any one strength, it’s patience. Since its founding by 9th century Vikings, the city has been in a state of slow fermentation. Even today, with its fast-paced ascent as a leading European capital, there’s a pervading sense that she still has yet to fully bloom.

At the time of that first visit, in the summer of 1994, Dublin still had the faint air of a provincial backwater - by some accounts, more tourists were visiting Helskini that year. It was still “dear, dirty Dublin” then, characterized by sooty, sleepy neighborhoods, pockets of poverty, and dingy pubs. By the time I returned 7 years later, the place was almost unrecognizable. The long slumbering “Celtic Tiger,” fuelled by strong injections from the IT industry, had awoken with a vengeance, clogging the streets and bridges with luxury cars, and slick, smartly-dressed executives trading Euros via cell phone. Many musty pubs had been converted into minimalist wine bars under a skyline dominated by construction cranes. Vestiges of Dublin’s Irishness seemed hidden away somewhere, and at first glance, the city had lost some of its understated charm.

Amid all this frenzy, however, patience pays off. Ireland’s entry into the European Union, thought by many to have threatened its Celtic identity, has only succeeded in strengthening it, and unhurried sensitivity to obscure details proves that the Irish will remain Irish first, and European second.

Split in half by the River Liffey, walkable Dublin concentrates much of its activity on the south side, where foreign tourists flock in droves to the areas of Grafton Street and Temple Bar. Yet despite many of these new-fangled cosmopolitan draws - designer boutiques, four-star restaurants, cafes, and chic dance clubs - many visitors to Dublin come for its pub life. “A good puzzle would be to cross Dublin without passing a pub,” is an oft-quoted passage from Joyce’s “Ulysses,” and if it rang true to readers in the ’20s, it peals even louder today, and the ubiquitous pub is where you’ll find the true spirit of the city.

Though many places like McDaid’s, Davy Byrne’s, and the Brazen Head are Irish institutions, immortalized in literature and song, their foreign clientele has diluted the craic they once boasted, and they’re only tolerable before the hour of 2 p.m. Craic, pronounced “crack,” is an inclusive Irish term for good times, good atmosphere, and good conversation. Though it can be applied to anything, it’s most often heard in reference to nights spent drinking in the company of friends. “Good craic” sees all the evening’s elements converging wonderfully, where, like Goldilocks of childhood fable, you find everything to be just right.

Craic is harder and harder to come by in 21st century Dublin, and for that very reason, when you do happen to stumble upon it, it’s that much better. Amid a rash of multi-storied, soulless “superpubs,” places like Kehoe’s and Brogan’s on Dame Street, Mulligan’s on Poolbeg, Hogan’s, The Ha’Penny Inn, The Globe, and the wooded Long Hall on South Great George’s Street typify the quintessential Dublin pub, where the Irish form of civilized chaos rules every evening.

To be fair, there is more to Dublin than drinking, as evinced by the National Gallery, endless literary landmarks, the sprawling St. Stephen’s Green park, Trinity College, Christ Church Cathedral, and Kilmainham Gaol (Jail), where many of the valiant rebels of the 1916 Easter uprising met their end at the hands of British overlords. Of all Dublin’s attractions, Kilmainham is the most humbling and rewarding, yet it resides uncomfortably close to the tempting path toward the Guinness brewery.

A voluptuous glass of black Guinness may well be Dublin’s main tourist attraction. An inseparable part of any Irish experience, Guinness’ birthplace has become a mecca for stout afficionados. Reputedly the freshest, and subsequently, the best provider of Guinness draught, the brewery is famously located at St. James’ Gate. Though cheaper versions like Beamish and Murphy’s beg vainly for attention, Guinness remains the untouchable paragon of beer. Each nerve-rattling tour begins with an interminable animatronic presentation which chronicles the beverage’s history and brewing process. By the time you’re let out to the promised bar area for two free samples, you’re simply dying of thirst. I enjoyed my alloted glasses and yes, mother, I admit to slurping down tourists’ unappreciated dregs before leaving.

If food’s what you’re wanting, there’s no shortage of vegetarian eateries, upscale bistros, and purveyors of international haute cuisine to choose from. But somehow, I managed to survive happily on greasy Irish breakfasts (replete with delicious clotted blood pudding), gallons of stout, and the odd closing-time plate of kabobs, or curry chips from omnipresent “chippys,” essentially open-sided vans equipped with bubbling fryers. Well-pissed and cheery, this is where I forged many dizzily fleeting friendships, all of which sprang from a shared love of biting humor.

The best unattributed definition of “humor” I’ve come across is “an off-handed statement which surprises the mind,” and the Irish are masters of the unexpected quip. Even trusted officials dabble in the art, as I learned one night in the less fashionable area of Marlborough Street, north of the Liffey.
Heading home late one night, slightly sozzled, a friend and I saw flames licking the side of a Georgian building near the famous Abbey Theatre. Our hearts racing, we ran through the surrounding streets looking for some sign of life - all to no avail. It seemed we were the only ones awake at that hour, and the flames were spreading rapidly. At long last, a police car tooled by lazily, and we managed to flag him down. “There’s a fire over there!” I shouted, indicating the blaze. “Jaysis man, do I look like a fireman?” he huffed, then sputtered down the block.
True story, that.

During my last and most recent visit to Dublin in 2001, I broke away from my friends to resume my search for Brian Boru’s harp. Remembering the old guard’s directions, I mounted the marble stairs and entered the room where it stood behind plexiglass. Dark and pitted, its feminine form curving in carved, oaken curls and fancifully intertwined tendrils, it evoked every feeling I hoped it would. Some unsung bard plucked its strings and intoned poems over its gentle strum long ago. As strains of imaginary music wafted through my mind, I gazed across the placard at the base of the harp’s case, and read with inward laughter the appended word at the base of its description: “Replica.”
I asked a passing docent to explain. “Yes. A fine job, isn’t it?” he announced proudly. “The real one’s out on loan.”