Round and Round It Goes

Into the Dublin

Friday

As I walked back to the hostel this evening, I looked up at the sky over the Common House. The green dome was lit against a dark denim sky, and I was surprised to see the full moon floating above it, nestled among faint clouds. I knew it was a full moon tonight -- we would have celebrated V-night had it not been Good Friday, had people been able to make it. Still, the sight of something so familiar and friendly in this city that is so strange to me was unexpected. It's the first full moon I've actually seen since moving to the UK.

The day has been very long. I made it harder on myself by getting so engrossed in a story I was writing last night that I didn't go to bed until ~3 a.m. (The story? It's called "Wish in One Hand" for now. I wonder if anything will come of it.) Up this morning to pack and clean the house before heading to the Vic to meet the rugby boys and board the coach. The way this little trip came up, after all, is that the Menai Bridge Rugby Club (Paul's team) is going on tour to Thurles, Ireland this weekend. I thought it was thoroughly unfair that Paul would get a fun weekend away and I didn't, so I hitched on with the boys as far as Dublin. I'll spend the weekend on my own, exploring the city.

The coach and ferry ride over was a raucous affair. Half the boys were drunk before they got on the coach, but the other half quickly caught up. Their theme was silly hats, and they created rule after rule for the trip, all designed to be violated at every turn, resulting in either monetary fines or alcohol consumption.

I tried to nap a bit on the ferry, my late night catching up with me, but Paul made a poor pillow as his drunk-ass shifted and hollered with the rest of them. Why I married a man whose voice is at a perfect timbre to burst my eardrums and sauté my brains I'll never know. (Lie, but whatever.) That, added to the group "HeeeEEEEYYYY!!!"s as guys fell, spilled, or got caught sans silly hat, was enough to disrupt any rest I might have gotten. On top of everything else, we shared the ferry with the inevitable trashy, hammered girls who alternately screeched, threw bottles, or shook their boobs at all the guys. They even attempted to start fights between the boys and an English rugby team also on the boat. The last didn't work terribly well, as the Welsh settle their battles with the English by -- what else? -- out-singing them. Most of the lyrics involved some form of "Stick your f**king chariot up your ass." Ah, centuries-old rivalries.

At one point, the trashy girls actually turned on Paul and Stan, accusing Stan of having diminutive genitals. Stan, who could fill in for Van Damme, was not at all fazed by slights to his appendages. "Eh, I'm not worried about the size of my dick -- I know how to use it. But if you really wanted to hurt me, you'd accuse me of being emotionally stunted and incapable of intimacy. I'm not so sure of myself there."

We reached Dublin, and the coach dropped me in the city center. I was on my own. I headed for Isaac's Hostel to check in and stash my pack. At age 29, this is the first time I've ever stayed in a hostel (I don't think the teepee one in Taos counts). I chose it out of tight-fistedness primarily, but also out of curiosity for the experience most of my friends had 10 or more years ago. So far, it's not bad -- it resembles a college dormitory more than anything, with common areas, lockers for personal belongings, and community kitchens. There are a lot of youngsters, but I'm definitely not the oldest (thank goodness for old hippies!). The Americans are as easy to spot as ever, with their UCLA Ts, LL Bean backpacks, and loud voices. I have to admit, I avoid them.

I checked in and stowed my pack, then headed right out to find Excedrin (the ferry ride was hot and noisy, a lethal combo for my migraines), and some dinner. The chemist (pharmacist for the Yanks) seemed so grateful I knew to ask for the drug by its ingredients, including "paracetamol" instead of "Tylenol" or "acetaminophen."

I wandered for a little while, snapping a few pics. The city was teeming with people. Heaving. On every corner there is some sort of queue with 15-20 folks, I presume waiting for the next bus. The sidewalks are cramped, clouds of cigarette smoke tufting overhead. Groups of 5-10 cluster in doorways, laughing, smoking. What is striking is how young everyone is. It's like being on a huge high school campus. In a city of 1.4 million, half are under the age of 28. And like teens and 20s everywhere, they travel in packs and loiter. All over the city. It's startling, especially after being in North Wales for four months, where it seems like there are maybe 1000 people total, and they all have gray hair.


The River Liffey from the O’Connell Street Bridge

The city itself, what little I've seen of it, is a little New York. The streets are old, European in their cobblestones. The buildings are cramped, rows and rows of 2-3 story storefronts with apartments above. On this holiday evening, many shops are locked behind roller doors, their faces covered with graffiti. Then, on the next block, sits a building in proud Georgian splendor, lit up for the tourists, or a cathedral, draped in spotlights, spires and crosses soaring into the midnight sky. The River Liffey bisects the city, with several bridges spanning, including the O'Connell, which is the only bridge in Europe whose width exceeds its length, and the Ha'penny pedestrian bridge, so called because the toll to cross used to be half a penny.

I eventually found myself in the Temple Bar district -- dozens of pubs, a bunch of tourist traps, hotels, and eateries. Many places were closed for Good Friday, but I found a shop selling cheap crepes, and settled in for a break. The man who handled my order was young, Indian (I believe). He smiled, thanked me for my order. Even when he cleared my plate, his face softened and smiled again. Like the visible full moon, it was unexpected. I hadn't realized how accustomed I have become to the brisk and impersonal attitude of service people in Wales. The difference was lovely.

I had hoped to wander a bit more, getting some night shots of the sites. I'm planning to do the Literary Pub Crawl tomorrow night, and I don't know what chances I'll have for night shots then. But my exhaustion caught up with me, threatening me with a full-on migraine. I headed back to the hostel to snuggle into a sofa with my iPod, my journal, and a book.

So far, I love the traveling alone thing. No decisions by committee. I do what I want to do, period. I was scared to do this alone, terrified, really. I've never been anywhere by myself, let alone a completely new city. (Note: Now that I've typed that out, I realize what a lie that is. I've been alone in a lot of places, not the least of which was LA. I seem to have a rather selective and dramatic memory.) I almost backed out a dozen times. But I rock at this. The hostel clerk even seemed relieved to check me in after spending forever with several others -- I bothered to read the notice behind the desk that told me everything I needed to know. This is cool.

I'm going to read for a bit, then head to my assigned bed. Haven't been there yet, we'll see how that goes.


Saturday

Note to self: "coed" rooms in a hostel means me and seven guys. Oi. I didn't remember choosing coed, but it must have been cheaper. Damn my miserly heart. It wasn't that bad, really, except that I kept thinking I was in completely the wrong place, and some inebriated 19-year-old Czech was going to crawl into my bunk at 1 a.m., thinking it was his. But other than the reveille trumpet of farts this morning and an unbidden glimpse of naked ass (his, not mine), it wasn't horrible. I'm not even sure they knew a female was in the room with them, as my hair is pretty short at the moment.

I got up and made my way down to breakfast, which at that point was some tasteless bread and Styrofoam cups of what attempted to be coffee. I gave it up, grabbed a chunk of bread and headed out.

This morning the city was relatively empty, especially in comparison to last night. It gradually filled up, mainly with tourists. Today I can see more of the disparities: grand, soaring monuments of architecture, art and culture alternate with dirty, graffiti-covered alleys, homeless wrapped in sleeping bags, and ugly glass and chrome evidence of corporate money.

I marched around the Common House and up Marlborough Street. Passed the Millennium Spike (Why does this exist? I dunno), James Joyce, the big beautiful General Post Office.


Common House


Corner of Marlborough and Abbot


James Joyce


General Post Office


I went up Moore Street, full of colors, fruit and flower vendors. I bought a box of strawberries from a nice lady who called me "love" at least 10 times in the course of our transaction: "What'll it be, love? One box is one Euro, love. There you go, love, have some grapes, too. All right then, love."


Moore Street Market

I immediately chomped into the grapes, and pressed on past the Gate Theatre to the Dublin Writers Museum. Frankly, for a city that touts itself as a literary powerhouse, the museum was paltry. A bunch of old library books and "facsimiles" of personal correspondence does not a fascinating exhibit make. Oh, well, at least I only paid the student entrance fee.


Dublin Writer's Museum

I was getting tired, so I headed down Canal Street toward the Castle, expecting a place for lunch to pop up somewhere. I wandered past the Four Courts and Christchurch Cathedral, where the sky suddenly spat sleet. I had a turkey sandwich in a little shop, then made my way to the Castle.


Four Courts


Dublin Castle

The line to get in was thick and long, however, and filled with Americans, so I abstained. What is with the American obsession with castles? I guess it's because, with the exception of Barbie-plastic versions at Disneyland, we don't have any.

It began to sleet again, turning cold and nasty. I decided to seek out the infamous bookstores in search of a place to rest and get out of the cold. I first popped into a tiny bookshop near Temple Bar, across from the Bank of Ireland. It was cramped, long and narrow, but with a mezzanine along one side that curved out from the wall like this:



I very much wanted pics because it was such a neat space, but it was packed and I didn't think people would appreciate me taking photos of them.

I next hit Hodges Figgis, Dublin's oldest and largest bookstore. I browsed a bit, happening on a thick tome of literary criticism all about how all the stories in the world boil down to only seven plots. Let's see if I can remember them:

1. Overcoming Monsters
2. Quest
3. Voyage & Return
4. Comedy
5. Tragedy

Well, 5/7 isn't awful. (Further research indicates the last two are "Rags to Riches" and "Rebirth.") Anyway, I sat down with this book, and quickly found myself too tired to comprehend it and too tired to get up.


Hodges Figgis

So I pulled out my copy of The Subtle Knife and finished it. I find it annoying that Philip Pullman gets away with switching 3rd person point of view mid-scene (not that he really gets away with it -- I don't think it works -- but somebody published it as-is), but whatever.

Knowing I won't get through the next day and a half without a book, I bought another and set off again.

But my little guidebook was gone. It had been falling out of my pocket all day, and I guess I finally failed to notice it. Probably the worst place to lose a book is a bookstore, and I was unable to track it down.

I meandered, found The Duke, where the Literary Pub Crawl starts, then strolled along the shops on Grafton. I had hoped to stop at the Bewley, an old coffee shop the guidebook recommended, but without the book I was clueless as to where it was. Luckily, I stumbled upon it. After waiting interminably for a table (and traitorously eyeing the half-empty Starbucks across the street), I got a mocha and some choc cake, hoping they'd help kill the headache the Excedrin wasn't totally able to vanquish.

The Bewley is all right, but not the paragon of early 20th century atmosphere it claims. It's just a 3-story coffeeshop, nicer than most, but a coffeeshop all the same.


Bewley's Oriental Cafe

This area is very Americanized. Starbucks, the Gap, Urban Outfitters. Everything is watered down, catering to the tourists. I suppose you have to get out of the city, into less well-traveled areas of the country to really get the feel of Ireland.

The Literary Pub Crawl:

Okay, by this time last night I was way tired, my migraine making me nauseous, and all I could think about was getting to bed. But this was the one thing I had planned to do, and I didn't know if it would run on Easter Sunday. So I went anyway.

We started at The Duke, where the two actors (one male, one female) did a scene from "Waiting for Godot." Then to Trinity College, where we all gathered around the first stone placed as the school was built in 1592. They did a bit of Oscar Wilde in Leadville, CO, schmoozing with the miners as part of his tour of America. On to O'Neill's, a rather huge pub, to sit and twiddle our thumbs for twenty minutes. Well, I guess everyone else drank and chatted, but I was sick with migraine, and I had no one to talk to (the thought of making the effort over the noise made my skull shriek).


O'Neill's Pub

Then another brief, cold performance outside the tourism center -- something about men forced to beg on the streets after the workers' strike of 1913. Led by Jim Larkin against the big cahuna employer of the day, William Martin Murphy, the workers were unsuccessful, and many were forced to the streets. The characters were engaged in judging whether passersby were Catholic or Protestant, so they could choose the proper hymn to sing as they held out their hands.

On to The Old Stand, formerly the Monico, for another twenty minutes packed into a noisy pub. At least this one had rugby on. Apparently, this pub was near Michael Collins's (freedom fighter) secret meeting place, and its proximity to the Castle (where the local Brit government was) made it a grand meeting spot for the British agents.

There's a lot of convoluted history in this town.

Then on to The Duke again, where they did a little quiz to give out a T-shirt and some whiskey, and to chat about the next pub, Davy Byrnes. A whole chapter of Ulysses is set there. They also talked about Brendan Beehan, who spent a lot of his short life in jail for IRA activities, and the rest serving as the village drunk.

They went on to Davy Byrnes, but I didn't. I headed to the hostel, a shower, and bed.

Sunday

Last night was quieter than the previous, maybe because I took some Excedrin PM before bed. Unfortunately, this morning the seven other guys in the room had to wake up at 8 to discuss the night's debauchery and fart in one another's faces. There's a lot to be said for hotel rooms, expensive as they are.

I spent today hitting the major sites I missed the day before. The city was empty, either because it was Sunday morning, or because it was Easter. Hard to find a place open for breakfast.

St. Patrick's Cathedral -- truly impressive. It seems like every city -- hell, every village -- in Europe has several cathedrals to draw tourists. They get a bit old after a while. But St. Pat's, built for the man who brought Christianity to the Irish, is really something. Spires anchored to the building by arching spans rise above long silvery stained glass windows. Celtic crosses top the roof peaks. The gardens hug the building, allowing children to play in the shadows of the intricate structures. There are so many angles, so many nooks and crannies for light to play in, it's a photographer's dream. My only regret was the fencing keeping me at a distance, and the clouds that sheltered the church from the sun.




St. Patrick's Cathedral

Back past Christchurch Cathedral -- the sun out enough now for me to play with reflections -- and down Dame Street to Trinity College. It's a lovely campus, but the gray buildings and the gray day didn't make it very picturesque. Perhaps if I could have captured the dissonance between the gorgeous gothic buildings sitting stately beside 1970s concrete shoeboxes, I would have some meaningful photos to share. As it is, I had to be content with the bell tower (the site of the 1st laid rock of Trinity), whose bell only rings when a virgin passes underneath. It has not made a peep in a very long time.


Christchurch Cathedral


Trinity Bell Tower


The New and the Old

I played with reflections again here, and did manage one "dissonance" shot -- a modern sculpture fronting a Dracula-esque building.

Onward to Merrion Square, a park surrounded on four sides by famous and colorful Georgian doors, and the street artists selling little paintings of them. Then around St. Stephen's Square (a bit of a larger park), through the Santa Monica Promenade-like Grafton Street, on to Temple Bar to meet Paul and Stan.

Beers at Temple Bar, lunch at some pizza joint, beers at the Quays (pronounced "Keys") and the Oliver St. John Gogarty (serenaded by some very unnoteworthy Irish musicians), back to Temple Bar to meet up with the rest of the boys. Then bus, ferry, bus, and finally home. Yay -- I missed my bed and my dogs and kitties.

I have to admit that in the end, the trip probably would have been more fun with a good traveling partner like Paul or Mom. I'm not a drinker, and Fri-Sat's mild migraine kept me from appreciating the pubs very much. But a little live music and a couple of drinks with friends would have made a big difference (well, that and no nausea-inducing migraine).

I would love to be able to go back when I have more time to take some day excursions out of the city, or to do an entire island tour, really. Someday soon, I'm sure, Paul and I will get it together enough to do our bike tour. That will be awesome.

posted by Lyle Skains @ 3:54 AM