Entering Dublin

This never happened. Then it again,maybe it did. It fooled my family into thinking that both me and my wife had visited the land of my granfather's birth, Ireland.

The passenger train in which we sat slowed markedly as it approached the curve ahead. I pressed my nose against the window beside me and peered out at the passing lush kelly green countryside while Billie focused her gaze upon the fabric of the seat she that was sitting.

     "Corduroy," She ran her fingers along the ridges, "MY FAVORITE . . ."     

I shook my head leisurely and grinned as I continued to gaze at the budding foliage that lined the train tracks.      

"Do you know that these seats are corduroy?" Billie asked me.

 I smirked as the train entered an aging train yard and nodded, "Yup."    

The old train depot we had passed as we had entered Dublin led into a much more modern terminal�"our stop. Our bullet-shaped train slowly rolled past several ceramic signs that spelled out in an unmistakable Celtic font, "Heuston Station." When the train eased into the stop, three quick bleeps sounded, and the doors hissed open. Billie clutched her pocketbook and I felt the seat. "Hey, this stuff is corduroy. Did you know that?" I asked.

     She just rolled her eyes and exclaimed, "C'mon Paddy."     The conductor helped me remove her collapsible wheelchair from the train and  onto the station platform, then tipped his cap and wished us a glorious visit to his country.  He asked: "May I give yous a fine suggestion, now?  You want to be savin' your hard-earned wages, so stay away from that cabbie there." He pointed to a green taxi. "Try Brian, there," which was the only other remaining cab at the stop.  "What you do, is tell Brian  'Sean says to treat us well.'"   

 Taking the conductor's suggestion, we rode along the busy streets of Dublin as our new friend, Brian, suggested a fine old pub where we could wet our whistles later that night.