Alcohol in Dublin

Dublin—not surprisingly—had by far the largest drinking culture of all the cities we visited. Ireland being the home of Guiness, Michelle, Angela, and I pair homage by going to Temple Bar (the area where all of the bars were), entering an Irish pub, and ordering a half-pint of Guiness. Actually, Michelle and Angela ordered the half-pint; I just tasted it. I made out on the deal, though, because the alcohol was so thick and strong, neither of them wanted any more than a tiny sip, either. The best part of the experience was getting to listen to live Irish music in an actual pub atmosphere. It was exactly the way I would picture it: brightly colored wood, very crowded, with bearded men bobbing their heads as a fiddler and singer performed loud, lively melodies. I could have done without the singer, but the fiddler was phenomenal.

The next day, because Angela was determined to see it, we set off to find the James Joyce museum. We walked up the street where it was purportedly located but failed to see any sort of façade that might demarcate the front of a museum. Thus, we turned around and began to walk back down the lane, looking more closely at each address over every door. As we passed one doorstep, we saw an unkempt straggly-looking woman sitting on the bottom step. She reached out to us, calling, “A hand, ladies….” Having been similarly approached by other beggars and bums, I proceeded to walk past, ignoring her.

As the three of us continued on our way, we all three mentioned feeling badly. I had noticed crutches resting on either side of the woman; she probably just wanted some assistance getting down the street. Nevertheless, traveling and seeing so many homeless beggars and tramps has made me wary for my own safety, so I was perfectly willing to proceed to the museum, which I soon located a good ways down the street. Turning, I found Angela right behind me. Michelle, however, was a good ways back. “We found it!” I called, but she only nodded and continued to proceed slowly. Once she finally reached us, Michelle handed us her bag. “Here, watch this,” she said. Then, she turned and jogged back up the street. Angela and I were thus faced with a dilemma: should we follow her? We decided to wait outside the front stoop of the museum and watch her, to make sure she would be safe.

The woman had indeed wanted some support walking down the street. Angela and I watched as Michelle supported her at the elbow and the two of them progressed very slowly toward us. The woman clearly could not support herself with the crutches; she was trembling so violently that she and Michelle had to take two breaks to sit on a step before they managed to reach us. Finally, they made it to the museum, and the woman virtually collapsed onto the steps. “I’m going to go get you some food,” Michelle told her. “I need vodka,” the woman corrected. “That’s the only thing that stops the shakin’.” She held out her hands as if we couldn’t see her whole body jerking around. She couldn’t even sit still on the step. “I’m going to get you some water and some food,” Michelle repeated, and set off down the street. Maybe I misheard, I thought to myself. Maybe the woman just asked for water, and I misunderstood because of her accent. However, soon the lady was beseeching me and Angela to go to the store and get her some vodka. It was just right around the corner. Wouldn’t we be a dear and get that for her so she could survive. She might not make it much longer, and treatment centers wouldn’t act fast enough, she knew that. Angela and I politely declined, saying that we had to wait for our friend to return.

Because the woman was sitting on the step and I was standing upwind, I suddenly discovered how horribly she stank. Not only that, but upon closer scrutiny, I could see that her pants were completely undone. This was what alcoholism had reduced her to: a quivering, chattering, pitiful skeleton that stank like shit. From seeing her condition, I truly did believe that if she did not get alcohol sometime soon, she might indeed die. And yet, drinking was what was killing her.

As it turned out, the woman got her vodka. After Michelle finally brought the food and drink back, the woman insisted upon being helped down to the bus stop. We walked along with her down to the corner, and there, at the corner—just as she had claimed—was the liquor store. She wanted to go in, and although Michelle had only agreed to walk her to the bus stop—not to buy her alcohol—if she let go and left, the woman would surely collapse right in the doorway of the liquor shop. Therefore, she walked the woman inside, stood there as she bought vodka, and then led her to the bus stop up the street.

I have been thinking about this incident ever since. Michelle is a staunch Christian, and she no doubt helped this woman out of the “Good Samaritan” ideal that Christianity promotes. Yet, did her actions actually benefit the woman? She did what the woman asked and made her “happy,” but was helping her to feed her addiction actually an act of kindness? How can you define a “good” act when some people’s desires are not—as we might define them—good? The man the Samaritan helped was obviously in need of medical help, and that was what he asked for. However, this woman was also in need, but what she needed was intensive psychological and physical care, and what she wanted was a quick fix. We couldn’t provide what she needed, and we felt morally opposed to providing her with what she wanted. If the intent is what counts—which is no doubt what most Christians believe—then I suppose Michelle did the right thing. However, I cannot help thinking pragmatically: did what she do actually help that woman, or did it just help her to hurt herself?