An American in Dublin

For almost 13 years now, I haven't observed daylight saving time. Since I was nine years old, I have neither sprung forward nor fallen back. Because of this, my internal clock has settled, like the contents of so many bags of Fritos during shipment, into an unshakable stasis.\nSo what better way to totally upend my mostly happy existence than by traveling halfway across the world and drinking myself silly for seven consecutive nights? Ah, yes, you thought this wasn't going to be a "what I did on my spring break" column, but I tricked you. Double-knot your sneakers, kids, we're taking a trip to Dublin.\nThat's right -- Dublin, Ireland. The Emerald Isle. The birthplace of such greats as James Joyce, Oscar Wilde and Colin Farrell. But before we get to that, our journey begins in Chicago. As usual, I argue with the check-in counter agent, insisting my bag will fit in the overhead compartment, and after squeezing it into the breadbox-sized frame, she had little choice but to acquiesce. We're off to a good start. Next stop, the duty-free shop. These tiny, tax-free bottles of Crown Royal should help pass the time in economy class. Eight hours and one poorly played game of euchre later, we're there.\nDublin? Oh wait, our flight actually connects in Amsterdam -- but before you hippies start salivating all over your Grateful Dead T-shirts, the layover is only three hours, and the distance between our connecting gates is so far apart I'm not entirely sure we're still in Holland when we get there. But we're at our last gate now -- the final stretch. Should I be tired? Let's see, we left Chicago at 4 p.m. Saturday, and it's now seven in the morning Sunday in Amsterdam. But Chicago is an hour behind Indiana, which means it's actually … (here is where my eyes roll back into my head and I fall into a coma-like slumber). \nFour seconds later, I'm awakened by our plane touching down in Dublin. The first order of business is to exchange some money. But between the value of the dollar against the euro and the commission for the exchange, I feel like I'd have done just as well to set a pile of cash on fire. But hey, we're on vacation.\nA quick and terrifying taxi ride across town and we're at the hotel. Taxi rides are usually pulse-raising under the best of circumstances, but factor in driving on the left side of the road, and you've got one seriously white-knuckled American in the back seat.\nYay, we're in Ireland! And it's not raining! How about a Guinness? I thought you'd never ask. \nFive hundred Guinnesses, seven days later and sadly, it's time to go home. This time, I don't have the energy or the sobriety, to argue with the woman at the check-in counter about my bag fitting in the overhead compartment. The customs agent gave me a strange look when I handed him my American passport and said, "Cheers," in my best Irish accent. Maybe I should hold off on my imitations for a little while.\nAre you sick of getting hungry and wanting to go to sleep at the same times every day? Try international air travel. When you come back, your body will have no earthly clue what's going on, so it'll err on the side of caution and issue orders for you to eat and sleep constantly. That's what happened to me, and I'll be honest, there are worse ways to go through life. I'm going to get some sleep now so I can wake up at 4 a.m. and have some lunch.