The passengers behind me giggled. “Sure, I’d love one,” one guy replied. “I’ll take a gin and tonic,” another called.

And so on.

Of course, it was that easy.

The immigration office had moved since I last had to deal with it, and had upgraded significantly. I insisted on getting there as early as we could to avoid day-long queues, so by 9:45 we’d arrived and had gotten a number. By 10:30, we were walking out the door with a registration card (it looks like a standard ID card and has a chip with my fingerprints on) and permission for me to stay and work for 5 years.

There was no: trouble over having a different surname, questioning over what exactly I plan to do here, request for evidence of cohabitation, suspicious looks implying somehow I am trying to cheat them out of their lovely country and culture, fee of any kind.

There were: smiles, clear and kind instructions, fast and efficient service, and astonished respect that I’d managed to preserve my registration documents from when I was here years ago. (“That thing is ancient,” I had been told at passport control. The people in immigration passed it around with reverence, flipping carefully through the pages as if they would crumble into dust if poorly treated.)

I suspect many things contributed to my experience, some of them a result of hard work and planning, others mere luck of birth. They did not check my qualifications or ask for my title, but I did list my occupation as “scientist.” Not only was I married to a local, I had an Irish marriage certificate and it was clear that the marriage had taken – after four years, such things stop being convenient and people start taking you seriously even if you’re applying for a visa. I think being American, fluent in English, and white helped significantly, though I did notice people ahead of me from Afghanistan and Cameroon who were processed just as easily as me without being white or American (though they may well have been fluent English speakers).

In any case, it’s done now and I have no excuse for not finding a job.

Leaving LA for Dublin presents a new set of blog-friendly circumstances, however: I am unemployed and full of observations. Last night saw my happy Dublin debut, in which I forgot where Cassidy’s was (if indeed I ever knew), met up with people I haven’t seen in quite some time, found myself a game, and had my first decent pint(s) in years. The process of legalizing myself may take a little time, especially if the international banking system fails me and decides to hold my vast riches hostage, but last night assured me I will not want for things to do in the meantime.

I first took it into my head to leave the States when I was 15, and every large decision since then was based at least in part on that goal. While I certainly have new ideas and plans, it’s strange and disorienting to finally be here, clutching two hard-won things, looking out towards new goals that are lovely but lack the timeworn substance of those promises I made to myself so very long ago. Luckily, there’s quite a lot I need to get done. By the time things slow down, the short-term plan should have crystallised appropriately.

Perhaps I should serve cake at my viva voce.

For the uninitiated, I was best man at the wedding of Eamon and Lizzy at the weekend. The event was held in the grandest of venues, St. Patrick’s Cathedral. The synopsis is that the ceremony was glorious, and the bride stole the show. My main job was to keep Eamon standing and pointed in the
right direction for the day.

As per usual, I had been flying around in last-minute order getting haircuts, rehearsing ceremonies and collecting presents on the day before. There had been several sizeable setbacks, but these were
overcome with the power of love (and a flame thrower). For the most part, my duties had been completed some time ago, Eamon having been brought to stag in Dublin and North Wales.

The Wedding Day itself began early in Eamon’s House. A promise of Tootsie Royale cooking brekkie was the payout for an early morning journey, and delish it was too. Trips to town for cuff-links and
trimmed beards and socks left us dressed for the event with only minutes to spare.

The Groom’s party were all dressed in white cotton shirts and John Buform Memorial Club ties.

We had hoped to take a taxi to the door of the Cathedral, but our driver was a man of infinite shortcuts beset by transfinite traffic. A short dash through the gardens of the cathedral was the only way we got there near to time.

It has often been said that organising gamers is like herding hyperactive cats. The process of trying to get Mr.Target, Savage, Kindermord and I in the same seats at the same time was a powerful example. Due to late sword arrival, Savage was outside a lot; the Groom was doing his duty and
pressing flesh, but I was the one under the keen eye of the vicar, charged with timing.

It was a process of “I’ll go get him – No, stay here and I’ll get him” and so on. All through, I could see icecream popping up and firing off shots with his camera, and my mental “priest smiting photographer” guage was reaching the danger mark.

Everything settled down to the ceremony, where I was left on watch to notify Eamon of the approach of his dearest. I stood just behind him and to his right, with savage beside me and Target taking the extreme right.

The whole day was defined by being the first of the party to see Lizzy walking down, and to hear Eamon’s gasp as he turned at my signal. The poor man must have been on fire trying to keep his face forward as he heard the approaching bride. Still, he held out and all for the bettter.

The actual ceremony went very well, despite being out of order compared to the schedule and the rehearsal. We murdered the hymns – if I were a praying man I would be in penance for the
pain we have no doubt caused the innocent authors of those songs.

I didn’t drop the rings or get them stuck on my hand. Every time I looked at the floor, my grip felt less firm and the gratings looked more like deep, endless chasms into which I would doubtlessly cast the delicate bands of light.

The sword arch which savage organised turned out extremely well. Savage and I were lucky to have
the best view of the newly-minted couple sharing their first public kiss, and we avoided giving Eamon
an extra shave as he walked past.

There were some lovely pictures taken in the grounds of St. Patrick’s before we left for the reception. I’d like to apologise again for closed eyes / wayward limbs while we were posing.

The reception was held in a unique building. The house on Henrietta St. was pared back to a state in part of on-going restoration. The Early Georgian décor and large, echoing rooms made for a perfect feeling in character with the rest of the event.

There were speeches, drinks, excellent food and cigars. I elicited more wrath by leading Siskey, Lynn and BRO into dangerous, aunt-filled waters by taking main course food at an inopportune time. We had to exile ourselves to the garden in order to remain safe.

My own speech was rather a nice experience, despite the terror I felt. I felt that I stumbled through it, and it was all the harder to deliver some of the points with the happy couple standing on the stairs beside me … ready to push if I put a word wrong.

Thankfully, I had a generous and indulgent audience, and so I was not left with too much metaphorical tumbleweed.

The rest of the night is largely a blur, though I have distinct memories of Siskey running drunkenly down the street, and of Gorman securing a bottle of Jameson from what was doubtless the very most reputable licensee.

I’d like to extend my thanks again to Savage, Target and Honoraray Groomsman Tootsie for all the Honan-wrangling. I would like to thank everyone who attended either of the two events to honour Mr. Honan’s passing, and finally, I would like to thank Rose of Skye and Icecream for their photos.

Many refugees found a reasonable shelter in Mahaffy’s, named for the celebrated Egyptologist, John Pentland Mahaffy, friend and mentor of Oscar Wilde.

Mahaffy’s was also a home to gamers for many years, and a literal home to Computer Science postgrads, who lived in the apartments above the pub. There was even a direction antenna built
from a pringle can on the roof.

After the owner of Mahaffy’s, a man named Paddy (I think), died, there was a need to refurbish the building, which is listed as protected. Despite a recent renovation, and new tape on the seats, the watering hole’s clientele moved away from TCD and towards locals.

Most recently, Mahaffy’s has been re-renovated once again. The paintwork is rather nice, but there is one glaring problem:

The name. Mahaffy’s memory is gone, in favour of a new name, the Lombard, complete with a white square.

I am sorry to bring grim news to you, my friends, and I hope the shock will not cause too many womenfolk to swoon in dangerous places.

As soon as I have the chance, I will post a review.