Only in Ireland
My mother sent me a package while I was in Germany or Paris, so I naturally didn't get it. The post office people left me a note telling me where to go to pick it up. After spending a lot of time yesterday figuring out how the hell to get to the Ballsbridge section of Dublin 4, I made my way over there today. I got off the bus, and went down Upper Baggot St., which turns into Lower Baggot St., which turns into Pembroke Rd., which turns into Merrion Rd., where I hung a left onto Shelbourne Rd., where the place is supposed to be. As soon as I took that left I saw a "Post" sign. Ah, easier than I thought. Not really. I went in and found that it was the wrong place, and that where I was supposed to be going was up the street somewhere. So I meander up the street looking for another "Post" sign. By the time Shelbourne Rd. turned into another road, I realized I had gone too far, so I took the address back out of my backpack and saw that it said, "Shelbourne House, 7 Shelbourne Rd." I turned around and went back down the street looking for this post office.
I found Shelbourne House, and do you know what it is?
The Malaysian Embassy!
Which, apparently, houses a sketchy post office and United Biscuits (for those of you not in the know, biscuits in Ireland are cookies.) I find this hilarious.
So, you have to go through the embassy, down a barely lit, off-white, concrete corridor, until you reach two doors that are made of glass and metal bars. It's dodgy and no one is there, so you have to ring a bell and wait for someone to come and assault help you. A whistling man came along, I slipped him the paper that said I have a package, and he disappeared for a few minutes, and returned with my package that contained french fried onions and old mail.
Ah, Dubs.
I found Shelbourne House, and do you know what it is?
The Malaysian Embassy!
Which, apparently, houses a sketchy post office and United Biscuits (for those of you not in the know, biscuits in Ireland are cookies.) I find this hilarious.
So, you have to go through the embassy, down a barely lit, off-white, concrete corridor, until you reach two doors that are made of glass and metal bars. It's dodgy and no one is there, so you have to ring a bell and wait for someone to come and assault help you. A whistling man came along, I slipped him the paper that said I have a package, and he disappeared for a few minutes, and returned with my package that contained french fried onions and old mail.
Ah, Dubs.