Dogs are meant to poop outside

I was meeting a new friend for dinner tonight in the Temple Bar area (I know I know it is touristy, give me a break, I've only been here for a few days!), and decided to go for a little walk first. My intention is to walk around as much as I can, so if I find a great flat, I can confidently decide in an instant whether or not I would like living in that neighbourhood. Dublin's not really that big, if you plan to stay within 2km of the absolute centre (which I guess I would poinpoint as the O'Connell Bridge, but maybe living here will change that attitude).

My mission was to find some soap - just a nice bar of soap made from, you know, pure ingredients, essential oils - the usual. It takes a while to find a Kensington Market-like space when you are in a new city, but I hold out no hopes for finding anything as cheap and down-home as Sugar and Spice.

I found a great bar of lemongrass soap at Down to Earth on South Great Georges Street, and decided that was my new scent. Bright, lively, ready-for-anything. It was 4 Euros, and seeing this kind of soap at home is often 4 dollars, I figured this place was on the mark. I've decided not to convert currencies anymore - it's too painful. The numbers stay the same, even if the conversion speaks of highway robbery.

I left the chipper guy at the counter of the store, and continued walking south. Oddly, Dubliners call this 'walking UP the street,' which is confusing, seeing I have always associated 'UP' with walking north. But maybe I am too attached to maps, which place the north arrow at the top...

I had a few minutes before I had to turn around and head back to Temple Bar for my dinner date, so I popped into Penny Farthing Cycles Shop, thinking I might find out if they had any second hand bikes that were suitable. Air Canada was going to charge me $275 to bring the bike over - $225 for an extra 'bag', and $50 for the that 'bag' being sports equipment -- and I figured that it would cost the same to bring it back, which just made it not worth it.

So there I am in this (admittedly kind of grotty - I should have known) cycle shop. The fellow said they had very few used bikes, but then a woman on the phone placed her hand over the mouthpiece, and said "How 'bout that silver-and-grey Ladies' that just came in? It's not serviced yet, but it's a 16."

Well, I am short, so 16" would be perfect. I proceeded to the back of the shop to inspect the bike. There was a very large boxer moving around, but he seemed friendly enough, and didn't jump on my head (dogs for some reason like to come up and lick me on the face, no matter how far my face is from the ground). He pointed out the bike, but it was in a big stack, so I moved around back to inspect it. I was talking about derailleurs and the like - making myself out to be the knowledgeable cyclist that I am (or pretend to be), and I noticed this...smell.  I was thinking, phew, that doggy sure does smell! Then I realised, um, that is the smell of...poop. Dog poop. And yes, I was standing in it. Great big fluffy piles of it.

On the concrete floor of the shop.

INdoors.

The guy was like "oh no, I hope you didn't step in it." I looked down, and there were, like, TEN PILES of poop at my feet. Under my feet, actually. That is WAY MORE than a day's worth. WTF? Who DOES that? I mean, a warning would have been nice.

Let's just say that several toilet paper rolls and visits to a grotty bike-grease covered bathroom later, I was in St. Stephen's Green, not paying homage to Joyce and Bloom, but wiping my soles for dear life. I was a little late to meet my friend at Temple Bar, but... I had a pretty good excuse. And oh ya, the bike sucked.