the storyteller of Dublin (or Better than trying to read Joyce)

"I cried when they told me I was made reduntant - cried, I'm telling ya. From relief!"

This taxi driver ticks all the boxes on the  Dublin Taxi Driver Stereotype Sheet  - round-faced, spewing out incredible stories, maniacal in his driving, harbouring a special hatred towards buses, and adorable. He drives around the city centre, trying to make it to the airport bus stops just before the airport bus and pick up customers there. Today, he has got me, a Swiss gentleman and the Swiss gentleman's son, having talked us into a good deal.

"I just couldn't wait to leave that job, and the supervisor. Some people are pure evil, ya know wha' I mean?"

We hurtle down busy Dublin streets, taking corners on two wheels and barely avoid getting hit by one of the hated buses. Strangely, I'm completely calm. Whatever else you want to say about Dublin taxi drivers, they do know how to avoid collisions. I keep up the conversation just for the pleasure of hearing the Dublin accent and all those tall stories. By the time we have cleared the city centre, we have moved on from the driver's riveting life story to a no less entertaining account of how Bruce Springsteen once paid his friend's restaurant bill. The Swiss gentleman listens with an astonished look on his face. His son, who clearly doesn't understand a word, tries to grab attention by eagerly pointing out Croke Park, but the driver is having none of it.

"See that other taxi over in the next lane? That driver won two mill on the Lottery. Believe it or not, he still gets up at seven every morning to drive his taxi for ten hours a day. Just money-mad, if ya ask me! Ya know wha' I mean?"

We cut in front of a bus and screech to a halt at the main entrance of the airport terminal. I feel as if I heard all of Dublin's collected stories in twenty minutes. Light-headed, a little dizzy. There is no better way to leave Ireland.