One of the first things people said when I told them I was going to Dublin for the semester was that they heard Ireland has some of the friendliest people in the world.

And it’s oh-so-true. Now, I’m not talking “I won’t charge you more money today for that extra cup around your iced coffee at Dunkin’ Donuts” friendly. But I am talking “I could easily take advantage of your clueless American mind, but I won’t because I actually have a soul” friendly.

And through a series of events over the past weekend, this incomparable friendliness was illuminated for me like a tacky, over-decorated house at Christmastime.

It all started Thursday evening, when the sun punched out its time card for the day and the moon took over the shift. The clock struck 9:40 p.m. just as my friend bravely dove into an eBay battle for two tickets to The Police concert at Croke Park on Saturday. Although we were the high bidders for three days, two more competitors joined the race with 15 minutes to go until the auction closed.

The atmosphere intensified as the duel continued. I couldn’t stop thinking about Sting, or his yoga-trained body dancing around the stage is his usual second-skin black pants and sleeveless white t-shirt, or about the sound of “Roxanne” blaring through the speakers to 82,000 people at the show.

But mostly his tight, black pants.

With only two minutes left in combat, it became more about winning the competition than the tickets. We were bidding a little higher than we initially intended to, but there was no way we could lose those tickets to people with user names like “MellyBelly25” and “HotBahamaMama.” There was just no way.

A drop of anxious perspiration dripped down my friend’s face as he clicked the “make a bid” button one last time. Victory was ours: We won the tickets with 12 seconds left, and all was well in the world once again.

Except for the fact that the tickets were purchased from England. We had only a day and a half until the show, and packages, as well as personal information, tend to mysteriously disappear into the hands of the guy in charge of the mailroom here.

The seller told us she would overnight them first thing in the morning to ensure that we got them in time for the show. But it turns out the post office wasn’t shipping anything that day, and on Friday afternoon, I received a frantic phone call from the seller, who told me to be at the bus station in one hour to receive an envelope from a bus driver named John.

I was at the grocery store, so I dropped my basket and ran for the door. Then I turned around, because I felt bad about leaving cheese out in the cereal aisle and probably causing the young boy working there to get yelled at by his underachieving manager. So I ran back in, put the cheese away and ran back out again.

Although it wasn’t completely necessary for us to sprint 50 yards to the cabs, it just felt more exciting that way. We arrived at the bus station with a few minutes to spare until John’s supposed arrival. I couldn’t stand still. I thought if John didn’t pull in with the tickets soon, he must be part of some mafia league and the envelope was actually filled with fingers, or I was being scammed by Ireland’s equivalent of Dateline NBC.

After an hour of asking bus drivers for their names and being continuously disappointed, the real Bus Driver John nonchalantly walked down the steps of a bus, pipe in mouth, and handed us a paper bag with a wink. He then disappeared into the crowd.

To my surprise, the small bag didn’t self-destruct. It contained two tickets to The Police concert. I shrieked with joy, realizing that only in this friendly place could a woman give such tickets to a bus driver in the northern part of the country to deliver to two American students five hours away in Dublin — and have them get there with no problems.

I can’t imagine where those tickets would have ended up if this had happened in Boston. One time back home, I gave this guy a study guide to pass onto my friend in his next class. He ended up using it for fantasy football strategies and as a plate for his Pop-Tarts. Bus Driver John puts that kid to shame.

On the same night we received our tickets, just after the rendezvous, an older couple we met at a neighborhood party offered us a ride downtown when they saw us unsuccessfully flagging down cabs. At home, I would have assumed that these gray-haired people wanted to kidnap and cook us up for a little early-bird dinner. Or that they were actually young and strong and waiting for the right moment to take off their old-people masks, laugh in an evil tone and drive us off a cliff.

Here, though, they were just a gracious gentleman and lady happy to give us a ride to the pub. They made sure we were buckled up, blasted the heat, gave us a little tour of the town and then dropped us off at the pub’s door, VIP-style.

I’ll never forget the woman who sent us tickets via Bus Driver John, Sting’s tight butt from right up close at the show or the cute old couple who gave us a lift when it was too cold to wait for a cab. I guess I owe it to all of them to be more trusting in people, more friendly and engaging.

Until I get mugged again, of course. Then the distrustful, uninterested, constantly nervous me is back with a vengeance.