The next morning, we took a taxi from our hotel back to the Dublin airport, where we picked up a silver Ford Fiesta at Dooley’s car rental and carefully checked it for scratches.  For ten minutes, we pointed out every speck we could find to the poor agent who finally wrote “marks everywhere” in capital letters across the paperwork and happily sent us on our way.  We were halfway to Cork before we noticed there were 151,000 km on the odometer and a bright red warning light on the dashboard. I looked in the glove box for the owner’s manual.  It was empty.  When I told Paula, she just smiled and said, “It’s all part of the adventure.”

Soon, we stopped at the Rock of Cashel in Tipperary County.  Originally, the home of the kings of Munster, it was developed into a major Christian center in the early 12th century.

What remains of the Rock of Cashel Cathedral

After touring the ruins, we drove on through the countryside.

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Fields of Tipperary 

Paula, who’d driven on the left side of the road on a previous trip to Europe, was behind the wheel.  My job was to navigate.  Taking my duties seriously, I’d written down the directions from Dublin to Cork the night before.  The hotel, which was supposed to be conveniently located as we entered the city, should have been easy to find — that is, if there were street signs.  Unfortunately, there weren’t.

The closer we came to the city center, the more I noticed Paula’s mood begin to change. By the time we reached downtown Cork, she’d gone from cheerful and calm to glaring at me and cursing at the other drivers.  The narrow one-way streets, pedestrians jumping out in front of us and cars stopping in the middle of the road were too much for her.  She started to freak out!  “Call the hotel and find out how to get there!” she yelled.  “I would, but I have no idea where to tell them we are,” I replied.

Spotting two men standing in front of a spicy kebab shop (I know it sounds strange, but it’s true), I told her to stop while I rolled down my window and asked for directions.  “Excuse me.  Do you know where the Ambassador Hotel is?”  One of them approached the car and replied, “No, but there’s a place down the street where you can stay.”  Just then, a truck began honking his horn behind us.  Paula, now at the end of her rope, screamed, “I’ve got to get out of here!”  The car jerked forward as she hit the gas (almost running over the spicy kebab man) and turned the corner up a steep hill.  Once at the top, we saw a sign pointing to our hotel.  At the same time, the red light on the dashboard went off.  It was a miracle!

We spent the rest of the evening in the hotel restaurant and bar, thankful to be alive and convinced someone up above was watching out for us.