Go to Dublin, Sleep in a Clawfoot Bathtub.
<p>It’s 5 a.m. as I step ashore. The early morning fog glides across the city’s slate rooftops, licking at windows, sliding down drainpipes until it catches in my throat, chilling my breath.</p>
<p>Dublin, did anyone ever know such a town? Open your nostrils, smell the religion, touch her stricken heart.</p>
<p>Women and children sitting in endless doorways, wanting your change. Hands and hearts stretched out — “ Giv’ somethin’ mister — I’m pleadin’ wid ye, just a little, the gods’ll be kind ta ye, mister.”</p>
<p>The gods would not have put me at anchor outside this forlorn city had they been kind.</p>
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