In Dublin, God has a Plan

At some point in the supra weirdness of old age, not yet old enough to be deemed ancient yet old enough to be called sir, the bell ringing begins, soon overtaken by the jackhammering and the fumes as if the bell ringing had never begun, and you find yourself in Dublin. The uprising is past-if there was to be one at all-except for the occasional centennial celebration, and you come close to the end of your rope from a long journey that began in southern France.

Danny O'Sullivan McGuire, guest relations manager at the hotel in which you are staying, asks, 'are you happy sir?' Well Danny, it's like this: occasionally competence strikes but not too often, not often enough for me. When I reported for duty as a tourist I didn't expect to be greeted by a blaze of jackhammers and electric drills at 8 a.m.

Danny's the one who tells you that God has a plan. And after all Danny's been through-the military; 4 years working for Hilton in Dubai after he'd told his mother, a Galway widow, it would it be 1; his wife running off with a younger man right after the birth of their first child-and still God has a plan.

You are sorry to hear the litany of Danny's tragedies and say so. 'No need sir,' Danny says.

Well, the vivid face of a dawn you had no desire to see, being exhausted from travel and only wanting to sleep, is still in your eyes as Danny speaks. The best part of being in Dublin is that Danny hears you out, you don't have to show him the pictures you've taken of being woken at 8 by jackhammers and drills remodeling the north side of the hotel, he believes that what you say is the truth; you were wakened far too early as the jackhammers weren't to commence until 9.

'God has a plan sir,' Danny says once again and you are torn between the temptation to believe him and the temptation to believe that every man feels the failure in himself more than the success.