The Conrad Dublin
Dublin, Ireland

Ah, ‘tis a warm Irish welcome. The sun is shining and Christy Barrett, snappy in his tails and top hat, waxes lyrical in his Irish baritone. As greeter extraordinaire to both Dublin’s fair city and its Conrad International Hotel, Christy is his own trumpet. Checking-in with more genial Irish staff, I begin to relax after the transatlantic trail in the spacious blond beech wood-lined lobby with its rich carpets and Irish greenery.

Christy tips me off, and just around the corner, I find half of Dublin sprawled around the spring-sprung St. Stephen’s Green. An unofficial work holiday is in progress and all manner of Dubliners sing, sun and smooch in celebration of the sun. Loitering office workers and snoozing old men crowd the park benches. Children tumble after balls which roll through the spontaneous picnickers as they lounge on their coats atop the brilliant green lawn. The ducks are being seriously overfed.

Back at the hotel, limos and a small battalion of security sentinels suggest something big is underway, and so it is—former President Clinton is speaking here tonight. The Conrad staff is still talking about the three full floors Clinton’s people needed when he came here during his presidency to give the Irish peace process a boost.

I stop by the Lobby Lounge for a snack. The Irish salmon is heady with the flavor of the oak wood in which it smoked and is served on crusty, country bread. A nice pot of tea and time to relish every grand hotel’s real pleasure—inspecting the crowd as it passes. Here, smartly-dressed, youthful operators of "The Celtic Tiger"—Ireland’s roaring economy—deep in conversation with one another or with their cell phones hustle through this epicenter of Ireland’s economic boom. Gone are the days Dublin had no rush hour (few could afford cars,) gone is the cheap housing (the unemployed couldn’t even afford that) and gone is the small town feel and the greasy food to go with it. Today’s Dublin, brandishing the benefits and the blemishes of prosperity is quickly becoming the happening European city.

The next morning, Christy’s rendition of "Oh what a beautiful morning" gets my day off to a fine start. I wander through the gorgeous Georgians of Merrion Square, the antiques of Francis Street and onto the upmarket Grafton Street which is lined with brick, flower sellers and buskars (street musicians) and dense with shoppers. Moving on, Temple Bar is definitely "new Dublin:" oozing with hip, bursting with clubs, splattered with art galleries and fueled by cappuccino. At Trinity College, I met up with Johnny O’Connor who is part of a group of Trinity historians who present a historical walking tour. While observing the Old Parliament House, Christ Church Cathedral and Dublin Castle, I laugh harder and learn more in two hours than I often do in two weeks.

At the gloaming—Ireland seems to have a rather longer gloaming than most—I return to the Conrad for a pint in their polished-brass and dark-oak Pub, the Alfie Byrne. Alfie Byrne, ten times Dublin’s Lord Mayor, commuted by bicycle and always had sweets for the street urchins. Alas, Friday night’s tipplers have the place packed—a tribute to Alfie’s pints and pub grub—but I prefer the peace of my room. With my new Dubliners tape playing in the music center, I kick back in my Conrad-supplied cushy bathrobe on the pleasingly plump down duvet to skim The Irish Times and start my new O’Hanlon novel. However, the view out my large bay window of chimney-potted roofs backed by Ireland’s hills grabs my attention. After nine when the last light leaves, I am reminded that Ireland is on the same latitude as Moscow.

This bay window, along with the clean lines of the beech wood furniture and the chrome lamps endow the room with a sleekness softened by royal blue velvet chairs. A most adequate desk lodges all manner of geeky gewgaws. The marble-tiled bathroom is well-stocked with hip amenities composed of Irish herbs and seaweed essence. The whole floor is non-smoking for a real European breath of fresh air.

The Conrad’s two restaurants complete the dining scene. Plurabelle, a casual venue, starts with a tremendous breakfast buffet and continues serving through dinner under its original and lively works of art. The Alexandra, elegant with its burgundy-leather-and-dark-paneling private club feel, showcases the New Irish Cuisine, the sustenance of the Celtic Tiger’s handlers.

Dublin’s Conrad is part of Conrad Hotels, a group started by Conrad Hilton’s son, Baron (where do the Hiltons get these names?) and while managed separately from Hilton Hotels, I do get points from Hilton Honors staying here. That’s nice, but the real reason to stay here—I mean besides the comfort, the food and the luxury—is to get a Christy Irish ballad send-off.

By Kate Crawford          February 2002

LINKS WITH ATTITUDE

Here's the web site of The Conrad Dublin.

Find out more about Ireland's history at this fine site.