ireland.

Worn down from the never-ending sales pitch found onboard every budget Ryanair flight, I landed in the bustling Dublin airport a wee bit punchy.  There’s a flying phenomenon in Europe that I completely fail to comprehend: vacant exit rows.

Americans fight over exit rows like they were first-come, first-class seats.  Tall men like myself regularly glare down any shorties that dare sit atop these spacious cloth thrones.  Here it’s the complete opposite – exit rows must symbolize either impending death or an abundance of responsibility, because I’ve never sat in a full one and I now exclusively fly in the leper section.  Love it!

Entry into Dublin was nice and easy – met up with a few friendlies for a few pints (YAY beer sans purity laws!), dinner, and pub-hopping our way back to the “bad” part of town right up against the Guinness brewery.  I had borrowed pieces of the camping puzzle for the Electric Picnic but still had a list of supplies to take care of.  This was not to be a trip of leisure!

Luckily Dublin is a great city for walking – compact and flat with some nice obvious landmarks to keep you combobulated.  I lugged back sacks of dried foods and sleeping supplies, hindered by a belly full of spicy Chinese. The soundtrack to my meal was the owners screaming FUUUUCKKKKK YOUUUUUUU over and over at one another.

Pre-camping dinner that evening was quite splendid at the Bull and Castle.  Dr. Dutch and I both ordered the family farm steak served up juicy as hell.  This fine piece of beef was probably the best splurge I’ve had all year.

The next morning I gathered my things and made the long trek out to the awaiting bus.  The ride to Stradbally was my only chance to take in the Irish landscape – the abundance of fat happy cows knee-deep in lush grass made me appreciate that lovely steak even more.  The bus collectively squealed as we pulled in to a bright and sunny Picnic.

I wasn’t prepared for the sheer scale of this event.  After walking a good 10 minutes to find a suitable spot away from fence, noise, and toilet I set up my tent and headed toward the not-tents.  15 more minutes of scenery involving nothing but people, food stands, and tents tents tents tents (so many tents) finally got me queuing for a tug on my wristband followed by an abrupt stop. I was a bit stunned and quite giddy at the number of distractions which had unfolded before me.

Electric Picnic does a fantastic job of making the festival about more than music.  The comedy tent was always jam-packed full of people, there were writing workshops, amusement park rides, book readings, sculpture and art everywhere, space for political causes, and poetry slams (one poem so penetrating it had me guzzling Jameson).

Back at camp a group of young guys were setting up tents around me.  I introduced myself and shook hands before snacks for dinner and heading out to see what I came for: BANDS!!!!!  Little did I know I would catch these fine young men 6 hours later, pissing designs all over my tent.  Well, not mine - the tent of Lady A.  God I hope she doesn’t read my blog.  This was after my camp chair was stolen.  Right... her chair. Needless to say my guard went up and down several times that weekend – the many packs of Irish boys were wildly friendly and wildly unpredictable.

What I didn’t successfully wrap my head around was the plethora of boundary-pushing jokes.  I get the jokes bit - the Irish live for laughing.  I love that part, especially being in all-too-serious Germany.  It was the never-ending toggling of gay and black that never sat well with me, and I found it impossible to tell when people were crossing cultural lines.  The two kids with ski-masks and shirts reading This Guy Is Gay + direction arrow, standing beside people was oddly funny at first.  Unfortunately it started appearing in spray paint, written in Sharpie on tents, and the same few words kept hitting my ears over and over again.  I couldn’t help but wonder what it’s like to be a gay black man living a decent distance outside of Dublin.

My favorite two dudes were old(er) and bearded, more than happy to share a smoke and tales of travel right after I’d showed up at their tent door full of all that Jameson I told you about.  I certainly felt old at Electric Picnic, so moments like these were nice reminders for the lot – not all of us needed to be doe-eyed and under extreme peer pressure to put out.

The bands here were a bit of a mixed bag.  I was sad to see some of my most anticipated shows (Modest Mouse) muddled, stiff, and failing to scale while others OH MY GOD THERE SHE IS (Fever Ray) were so arty you couldn’t even make out the performers.

The most “epic” moment had to have been the last evening of the festival – drenched beneath a half-poncho in the midst of a monsoon.  Before me stood Massive Attack, larger than life and taking me back, in perfect sync with the thick crowd surrounding me. Brilliant.

We all awoke to rain and sludge, doors torn off of toilets, trash piled high, and thousands of people in dire need of a bath.  The long line of broke and hurting kids dragging their belongings through the slippery 3-inch mud was an amusing sight to see.  The ride back was dead quiet and connected.

My alarm rang at 4:40 the next morning for the flight back.  I slid back into still-wet pants, tried not to wake my gracious hosts, and found I had the entire city to myself.  Those 30 minutes of owning the streets and the skies?  My absolute favorite moments in any populous place.