If you ever want to understand Dublin, stand at a bus stop for twenty minutes.
Any one will do. O’Connell Street, College Green, Donnybrook, doesn’t matter. Time stops working there. The timetable is just decoration.
I used to start some of my walking tours near the stop outside Trinity. It was like a theatre. Students half-running, old ladies with shopping bags, tourists holding maps upside down. The buses came in packs of three, or not at all. You’d see nothing for half an hour and then three Number 16s at once. Like the drivers had decided to hunt in herds.
People get angry, but it’s useless anger. You see them stamping their feet, staring at the display that says “2 mins” for eight minutes straight. Then there’s always one person who sighs like they’re in a film. Everyone else ignores them.
When I was still guiding, I’d tell visitors the trick: don’t believe the number, believe the crowd. If people are relaxed, it’s coming soon. If they’re pacing, you might as well walk.
The 46A has been ruining people’s mornings since before I was born. It’s practically folklore now. There’s a whole generation of Dubs who measure time by how long they’ve waited for it. “I’ll be there in a 46A” means “don’t wait up.”
Every bus stop has its own personality. The one outside Heuston smells of diesel and wet chips. The one at Leeson Street Bridge is where you’ll hear the best arguments about politics. The airport coach stop on O’Connell is pure panic. Half the people there have already decided they’ll miss their flight and are preparing the speech for the gate staff.
One morning years ago, I watched a tourist couple get on the wrong bus three times in a row. Same driver, same polite smile each time. He didn’t even charge them the third time. Said, “You’re nearly locals now.”
That’s the thing about Dublin buses. They drive you mad, but they’re also where strangers still talk. If you make eye contact, you might get a weather report, a confession, or a full life story before you reach your stop. You’ll want to escape it, but part of you will miss it when it’s gone.
I don’t use them much anymore. I live quieter now, somewhere you can hear birds instead of brakes. But when I see a photo of O’Connell Street and those yellow buses lined up like giant wasps, I still feel it. That small electric buzz of the city waiting for something that’s nearly there, maybe, possibly, any minute now.
