Dead Dubliners

by Brent Laurenz (United States of America)

I didn't expect to find Ireland

Strolling through Dublin near the end of a shockingly sunny day, I did not expect to find a dead body. I mean, does anyone ever? Yet, there I found myself. Let me back up for a minute though. I was on day one of a monthlong solo adventure around Ireland and, in many ways, it was a typical tourist day. The sun gleamed off bright buildings like a brand-new nickel on the sidewalk. And a cool breeze bounced off the flowing River Liffey as I strolled through the city, careful not to get run over by cars or buses coming from the opposite direction. My agenda included many of the classic sites and I wandered through Dublin Castle, St. Patrick’s Cathedral and Christ Church Cathedral. After reaching my quota of dour and imposing religious spots, I made the pilgrimage to St. James’ Gate, home of the Guinness Brewery. Guinness, truly an invention of the gods, was the first beer I ever fell in love with, before I ever fell in love with a woman, so visiting the brewery and getting a pint straight from the source was a must on my tour of Dublin. It didn’t disappoint. At this point, I was exhausted and slowly meandering back to my room, but on the way, I came across St. Michan’s Church. The exterior was not overly impressive, a simple, gray stone structure being encroached on by modern buildings like the last redoubt against modernity. The humble church rested on a busy street not far from the Liffey, but it seemed interesting enough to duck inside. It ended up being so much cooler than that. I’m not usually one for the guided tour, generally preferring to go at my own pace through places, but there was no other option, so I found myself on a tour of the 300-year-old church. While the building itself dated to the late 1600s, a church of some kind has been on the site for almost 1,000 years. A mind-blowing fact to someone used to the relatively modern history of the Americas. The church was modest, especially when compared to some of the grand cathedrals of Ireland and Europe, but featured a beautiful, massive organ that dates to almost 300-years-old itself. At any rate, it was a pleasant enough detour I felt like, but then they led us down a set of narrow stone stairs to the crypt. I couldn’t even stand up straight when we reached the bottom, but there in that cramped, musty vault were perfectly preserved dead bodies from hundreds of years ago. Including one as old as 800 years. I felt like Indiana Jones uncovering some mythic mystery. The only thing missing to set the scene was lit torches in place of the light bulbs casting barely enough dim light for us to see where we were going. It was amazing how well-preserved they were, something to do with limestone and the temperature or dryness of the vault. There were five of us uncomfortably squeezed into that dark, eerie tomb, and we were all sufficiently impressed to be in the presence of real-life mummies. Or, real-dead mummies, I suppose. Then, with an ancient creak that echoed off the claustrophobic walls, the tour guide opened the gate to one of the crypts and offered us the chance to shake hands with a mummy. Considering that a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, I ducked into the crypt and touched my first ever dead body. It was creepy and delightfully macabre and, for something that wasn’t even on my radar for Dublin, a fantastic find. After shaking hands with a mummy, it was clear my day had peaked and nothing else could top it. As I walked along the river through the gathering twilight toward my room, I was struck by the beauty of travel and how a day that began in typical tourist fashion could finish so differently than expected.