After a good night's sleep being fanned constantly by our slaves, Dan and I woke up in Dublin deciding that we should try to put our own two legs to good use for the first time on the trip. But first we had to try to figure out the temperature in the classic New Yorker fashion of sticking our hands out the window. The inconclusiveness of this exercise forced us into the torturous shorts v. pants debate. Of course we settled on capris.
Two Guinnesses later and we had hit the streets. Now the first gentleman we saw was a fine Irish chap and he immediately started talking to us while wiping sweat from his brow:
"Hot day, isn't it lads?" (The actual temperature was about 65 degrees and the sky was mostly cloudy)
"Yeah, I guess so." (Little did he know that we had spent the last two weeks in weather so hot that it would have killed him.)
"You lads Spanish?" (The combination of my dark complexion and Dan's proto-mullet (more on this later) may have inspired this line of questioning, but we quickly straightened him out)
"No actually, we're from America, New York City."
"Well then you could use this more than I could." (And he proceeded to open his bag and take out a book entitled Daytrips Ireland-50 One Day Adventures and hand it to us.)
He then said, "Enjoy Ireland," before disappearing into the growing fog.
Dan and I spent the rest of the day wishing that we had worn pants and a sweater.
(Editor's Note: True story)