The best way to cross a busy street in Dublin is to sidle up next to a local and stick with them.  But stick closely; they don't allow a lot of room for error.  Try to pick someone in their 20's or early 30's, as, by that age, anyone with slow reflexes or poor spatial awareness has been weeded out, and they won't be too old or weak for the motorists to pick them out of the pack yet.

This is the safest method I found, though I can envision some problems with it, such as a small group of tourists cohering together in the mistaken belief that one of them is a Dubliner and getting run down by a lorry or a determined local in a Mini.  I'm sure it happens, it's just covered up by the tourist board in the national interest. 

Walking through the throngs, which seem to cover every square inch of Dublin city centre like swarming honeybees, is no easy feat, and it soon becomes apparent that, although personal hygiene has vastly improved since the 18th century, it's still a bit sketchy. 

On the corner, a bus is idling near a milling crowd of uniformed boys, obviously some sort of sport team.  As we wend our way through them, I note that they are field hockey players.  Field hockey?  I thought the Irish were more macho than that.  Where I come from, field hockey is a girlie sport.  I think about mentioning this to them, but they are all bigger than I am, and they're carrying sticks. 

Trinity College, I'm pleased to discover, is a sea of relative tranquility in the midst of all this hubbub.  Its cobbled courtyard and stately buildings exude serenity and solemnity, but we're not there to soak up the academic atmosphere; I just want to see the book of Kells. 

Apparently, I'm not alone; right from the entrance a series of signs point the way to the small museum that presents the history of The Book and houses The Manuscripts themselves.  As we follow the signs across the campus, it seems all I can hear are American voices.  Most are tourists, though there are some students, as well. I'm not surprised; the Americans love the Irish and, if you're in Dublin, a trip to see the Book of Kells is almost compulsory.  After all, little cousin Jenny, who takes Irish Step Dance lessons back in Ohio, is going to want to hear about it.  Another reason for all these Americans, I suspect, is that, with such a large Irish population, a lot of money is funnelled from the US to the IRA (not the retirement kind); so I expect at least some of these folks are here to check up on their investment. 

As we reach the door of the museum, the voices fade. Inside, it is suitably hushed and dim.  Attractive panels and the occasional video tell the story of The Book in preparation for the actual presentation.  It's all very orderly and reverential. 

Then someone starts taking pictures. 

It's a middle-aged woman with an idiot-proof tourist camera snapping photos of the panels, right next to one of the many signs that read, "No Photography." 

"She's probably an American," my wife quips, then apologizes for making such a stereotypical judgment.

I'm not offended, I'm chagrined; it's obvious she's an American.  She's with a small group who take turns photographing themselves in front of the various artifacts and with each flash I'm regretting not cultivating a better British accent; I don't want anyone knowing we're from the same country. 

In the museum, at least, she's simply an annoyance--nothing out here is going to suffer light damage--but now she's heading for The Room.  I pull my wife away from the panel she's reading and follow.  I'm not sure what I have in mind but, if she takes that camera out and attempts to photograph those extremely old and fragile manuscripts, I think I might rip it out of her hands and strangle her with the lanyard. 

It proves unnecessary, however; there's a guard watching over the small group of tourists and he's obviously had instruction on how to identify and deal with Those Americans.  Our shutterbug doesn't even make an attempt.  She and her group look toward the cases where the manuscripts are on display and shuffle off to the gift shop. 

Now I'm able to relax.  We go to the first of the four cases and admire the ancient manuscript.  There are not many people in the room, just a few others milling about and another American and her pre-teen daughter admiring the final case, where the really pretty manuscript is.

My wife and I finish at the first case and move on to the second, then the third.  The American and her daughter are still at the fourth case.  We stand patiently behind them.  Then a queue begins to form behind us.  Still, they don't budge.

Maybe they don't know we're all here, or maybe they think that flying 3,000 miles across the ocean gives them the right to stand there as long as they bloody well please.  We start edging forward, peering between them for a glimpse.  At last they move on and we are able to view the final manuscript.

I'm sorry, but I can't describe it; the age of these things boggles my mind and the story of their production and history would take, well, an entire museum to explain. Rest assured, they were amazing.