Two occurrences this week have reminded me why I like living (and going out) in Dublin. Saturday night Samantha and I went to an Italian restaurant we like. We were sitting at a table outside, pretending to be somewhere warm and Mediterranean. After dinner I rested my sore foot on a spare chair. The new waiter raised his eyebrows at that and I apologized in Italian (as one does) but didn't move my foot. Shortly after that, the charming manager swept by to serve people behind us. He made no comment on my informal leg rest but returned with a red cushion and placed it under my foot.
Yesterday afternoon after a walk in the park on my day off, I called into my local pub. The friendly barman asked what he could do for me and I told him I was out of cash. "We are just the friendly neighborhood bank it appears." I replied that I was going to purchase something as well and he said that was entirely up to me.
I ordered a 7up, got my cash, and sat at the bar reading the book Reading Lolita in Tehran (good book by the way). After a while, I left my book and soda on the bar to go to the restroom. When I returned I picked up my book. I gazed at the back cover, thinking that something looked different. I turned over the book to discover a cheesy book about quotes. Still being perplexed, I heard the barman and the barwoman giggling away. He had switched my book obviously. I got my book back and all order was restored.
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