If This is Dingle, It Must be Friday (11/28/08)

We headed out of Tralee on Friday morning with a new passenger on the coach, a local guide named Sheila, who provided the narrative for our trip out to the Dingle Peninsula. She told us about the Rose of Tralee competition held there annually and pointed out a small monument in Tralee dedicated to Rose Fitzgerald Kennedy. This being Ireland, the Rose of Tralee contest does not include a swimsuit component. From the way Sheila described it, the competition winner is invariably charming, wholesome, virtuous and, although contestants come from around the world, usually Irish. Jo and I decided we will not enter next year, just to give the other girls a chance.

It was a cold morning but the sun was shining and the clouds were huge and white against crystal blue sky. Spectacular day. There was snow on the low mountaintops outside Tralee. Sheila said that doesn't often happen. The cold weather here is making news. Single digit Celsius readings are a big deal. (European Travel 101: to convert C degrees to F degrees, add 10 to the number and double it.) (P.S. Our server at breakfast in Galway on Sunday used the word "desperate" to describe the cold. She'd be so unhappy waking up in western PA at this time of year, wouldn't she?)

The Irish harvest their abundant wind and convert it to electricity. We see big white wind turbines grouped together on hilltops as we travel along. The design is quite pleasing against the sky. (In the middle of the country, where all the peat bogs are, the Irish convert peat heat to electricity. Those plants are not quite as pretty to look at as the windmills.)

We headed out toward the Dingle Peninsula with a stop at Inch Beach. My jaw dropped when I saw it approaching and realized where we were. If you know the film (or "fill-im," as they say here), Ryan's Daughter, then you've seen Inch Beach. It's that broad stretch of gorgeous beach where Robert Mitchum's character, the schoolmaster, walks with his students on the day when Sarah Miles (it's Sarah Miles, right?) is having a rendezvous with the British soldier, in the dunes. The fill-im was set in and around Inch Beach, in Dingle, which Sheila told us was, until recently, considered to be the "back of beyond" in its remoteness. It's still not too developed, and I would live there in a heartbeat (if I could have a half-dozen residences to travel among during the year... and if I could persuade Jo to live somewhere without cable).

So we got to walk on Inch Beach on a clear, stunningly beautiful morning, and I had another one of those moments of incredulity that I am actually in Ireland. It hardly seems real, sometimes.

























All the signs as you travel west are in Irish first, English second. That's been the law since about 2000, Sheila said. In an attempt to preserve Irish language and tradition, Irish is taught in schools now, and all college students are required to pass an Irish language exam before they graduate. (We heard young people speaking Irish (Gaelic) in the streets of Galway over the weekend.) I am beginning to recognize some parts of words ("Baile" is town, as in Ballyvaughan, and "kil" is church, as in Kilkenny). The Gaelic names got Anglicized here when the Brits moved in. Kind of the way they went to India and made turned Mumbai into Bombay. Bad, bad imperialist Brits. This is Ireland. I'm joining the mob (and pretending not to ignore, for the moment, my own country's imperialist tendencies).

We stopped briefly in Dingle, a fishing town founded by the Normans and currently busy with maritime industry, and, in better weather, tourists. It's got colorfully painted buildings lining narrow streets that wind up from the docks. All kind of boats are docked there, and even in the drizzle that had started to fall by the time we arrived, it had that fresh fish and diesel fuel smell that I love. Note to brother Frank: You would love Dingle. You would have ditched the group, pulled on your foul weather gear and talked your way onto a boat for the afternoon. Me, I'm happy taking photos of boats and fish monger barrows.

From Dingle we drove out onto the peninsula, where the vistas were nothing short of awe-inspiring. What a breathtakingly beautiful part of the world the Dingle Peninsula is! Huge sky, vast sea, massive clouds, steep cliffs, rugged sheep and cattle, snug cottages, squalls giving way to rainbows... I don't have the words to describe it. I'll post some pix so you can see, too.



















I'll put more pix together and give you a link to them later, now that we've downloaded or uploaded or whatever you do to get them from the memory card to the laptop. (Guess who handled that technology maneuver? Hint: Initials are JML, not AML.)



We went along very narrow roads, stopping from time to time to see what we could see. Sheila said the original roads were made to be about two cows wide, so two farmers coming from opposite directions could each take their cattle past the other's. The roads aren't much wider than two cows now, so John's driving was even more impressive than it had been (and that is saying something!). The man has nerves of steel.




Slea Head, the westernmost point of Europe, has a crucifixion statue looking out to sea, at a bend in the road. The Blasket Islands lay just beyond--as far west in Europe as you can go.

We saw some beehive huts--small, round dwellings made of stones placed without mortar, where ancient monks lived. There were three or so standing on an impossibly steep hill that had been cultivated as grazing ground for sheep. That the huts have withstood centuries of wind and rain, not to mention human and farm animal traffic, testifies to their amazing construction. While I was snapping pix, I wondered what it was like to live in one of those huts. But I didn't wonder long, because John told us that the owner of the house adjacent to the huts gets ornery and comes out and makes tourists pay 2 euro for photographing her property. Seems fair to me, but she didn't come out in the rain while we were there.

We made a stop at the Mulcahy pottery studio, overlooking the bay. It would be so cool to have a business like that on the peninsula. Of course, I'd need to produce something that people want to buy, so that might be problematic. He makes pottery; she weaves things; together they sell it. We've seen his pottery in shops in Dublin. It's really nice. So nice, in fact, that we bought some and had it shipped home.

It was unsettling to see the "famine huts" along the road--tiny little stone dwellings where whole families subsisted during the famine years in the 19th century. Can't imagine such hardship. We are so soft, so untested. It is believed that St. Brendan set sail from Dingle Bay in the 6th century, in boats made of wood and lanolin-treated leather, and reached North America. The courage of such an endeavor--seeing the cliffs of the Dingle Peninsula receding in the distance as he sailed away--gives me shivers.

There was rain and some sleet as we drove back from whence we came, toward the town of Dingle again, and then on to our next destination(s). John has been playing Van Morrison CDs on the coach, and that makes me happy. Except that he fast-forwards over "Gloria" (G-L-O-R-I-A Glooooria...) every time. Probably wants the group to stay relatively mellow while he's behind the wheel. I'll never hear Van Morrison the same way again, though. Just sublime, as we move through the Irish countryside.

When we made a quick pit stop on the way back through Dingle, Jo and I scooted up the main street through the rain to a grocery store to get some sandwiches. There was a Nirvana song playing in the store. Did not expect to hear Nirvana in Dingle.

Back on the coach, John played a video about Tom Crean, whose pub, the South Pole Inn, we were going to pass that afternoon. Crean is a local legend because of his involvement with Antarctic exploration with Shackleton and Scott. He was part of the 1914 expedition on the Endurance, with Shackleton. So another note to brother Frank (whose borrowed copy of Shackleton's account of the Endurance experience is on my bookshelf in Grove City): I saw Tom Crean's pub. How cool is that?

We passed through the town of Listowel en route to the ferry at Tarbert, and we crossed the River Shannon from Tarbert on our way to Lahinch, where we spent Saturday night. The sky was darkening over a broad vista of rocky beach and crashing waves as we came into Lahinch, a little seaside-y kind of town. Not Seaside, NJ. More Victorian seaside-y. In fact, we stayed in the Atlantic Hotel, built toward the end of the 19th century and utterly charming, from the plush lounge with the fireplace, to the thickly carpeted stairs and warren of wallpapered hallways, to the gleaming brass fittings and curtained windowseats. Just a lovely place to end the day. I am a total sucker for civilized niceness. I may daydream about living the monk's life in a beehive hut, somewhere overlooking Dingle Bay, but I'd have the nickname of Brother Cranky by sundown on the first day.

Dinner was served in the pretty dining room of the hotel. The menu made choosing difficult, but we both started with a rich chowder full of all kind of fresh swimmers and scuttlers. That was followed by an entree best described as roasted chicken breast over a layer of some kind of stuffing with fruit in it, over a thin slice of baked ham, over very creamy mashed potatoes. Yeah, it was good. (Anyone care to venture a guess on the points value of that meal so far?) This being Ireland, one of the side vegetables served was a plate of fried spuds (a.k.a., chips). I passed on those, partly because I'd already consumed a few pieces of the grainy brown bread that is in every bread basket here (I tell myself it's high in fiber). And also because I knew there was an order of profiteroles coming with coffee later. (No, I'm not clairvoyant. I know because I ordered all three courses myself.)

Re profiteroles: What is not to love about itty bitty walnut-size creampuff pastries filled with chantilly cream and drizzled with chocolate sauce? Six of them, to be exact? Someone in the kitchen of the Atlantic Hotel in Lahinch, Ireland, fully comprehends the concept of profiteroles. I respect that in a person.

We went out to walk after (read: walk off) dinner, but the town is very small and it was drizzly, and besides, we wanted to find some live music at a pub, and we heard that there was some next door. So we went there first, and we heard music coming from the back, and the lad in front said to go into the back room, but what we heard there was Elvis singing, and we knew that, most likely, he was not live. So we went across the road and down a-ways, and we ran into some of the SRU kids in that pub, helping one of the guys celebrate his 26th birthday, and there was live music... but it was reggae, played by local Lahinch lads. Not quite what we were looking for. So we went out to another pub, but we struck out there, too. So we climbed the stairs back to our lovely room at the Atlantic, and Jo watched bad TV while I blogged a big and rationalized the eating of profiteroles with a vow that the ones at the end of our excellent dinner were the last I'll have for a long time. Big sigh.

Somewhere during the afternoon we deposited Sheila back near Tralee and sent the Dean and his lovely wife off to the train to Dublin so they could return to PA the next day. There may have been some non-essential spending of euros along the way. It's all a blur. John packs a lot into a weekend trip! So much to take in and process. But such a wonderful Saturday it was!

More to follow, if you'd care to come along...

Celebrity Status... Or Not

Great story related by one of Jo's student teachers, from her Irish supervising teacher, or co-op:

Seems that the co-op and her friends were out one night at a pub, and who should be outside for a smoke when they went outside for a smoke but Bono. Yeah, that Bono--U2 lead singer and internationally known humanitarian effort kind of guy. So the women chatted with him and his American friend outside the pub awhile, and when they all went back inside, Bono sent over a round of drinks for the women. And then the gals asked Bono if they could have a photo with him, and he said sure. So they had their photo taken. And then Bono left the pub. The women were talking about it at the bar when the bartender asked them why they hadn't wanted to include Bono's American friend in the photo. The women didn't know who the guy was. The bartender had to tell them it was Bruce Springsteen.

Erin Go Gobble--Thanksgiving 2008

We met John Nolan at 5:45 a.m. on Thanksgiving day and climbed on board the coach to collect the kids at their meeting place just outside the city. Dark and rainy morning. Everyone subdued, drowzy. Quiet drive west. Barely discernable shapes on the side of the highway. Thursday morning traffic on just another workday in Ireland. I dozed.

There was a little more light when I opened my eyes again, and I could make out a bit of color in the rural landscape, a few lights in the windows of distant farmhouses, the silhouettes of bare trees along the road. I watched the sunrise, such as it was, and the sky slowly lightened and I could see smoke coming out of chimneys and the outline of faraway hills, and gradually the monochrome gave way to shades of green, and we were on the N7, heading toward Limerick.

The scenery was a little more mysterious and romantic when it was darker. Because when the light came up, the vista was very much like Pennsylvania as seen from Rt. 80 in the middle part of the state. I heard one of the kids say, "If were weren't driving on the wrong side of the road, I'd swear we were back home!" He was right. The interior of Ireland (that I've seen so far) is not where they take the good postcard photos.

We stopped at Dunkerrin for breakfast a few hours after we started out. The view from the window of the restaurant (that was really a kind of truck stop in what wasn't even technically a village) could have been in Lancaster. John had arranged for us to have an Irish breakfast, and the ladies at the steam table were ready for us. There is nothing light and healthy about what the Irish consider a good breakfast: fried egg, pork sausage, black and white puddings, rashers of bacon, tinned baked beans, toast, butter, jam, scones, and pots of tea. Yikes. (The scones get my vote, though. Lord, but I love scones.)

Sidebar on puddings. We're not talking Jello pudding cups or English summer puddings with custard and fruit. No, the Irish mix up animal innards, blood (yes, blood) and some sort of grain and stuff it into casings and then cook it and slice it. I can't even look at it straight on without gagging a little. Think scrapple with blood mixed in. Eeewwwww. What is up with that?

Don't think about black and white puddings. Visualize nice scones and cream. Nice scones and cream. Nice scones and...

Thus fortified, we were off to the west again, with first stop at King John's Castle, along the River Shanoon in Limerick. Lots of history and folklore there, including a made-for-the-exhibit film telling the story of the seige of Limerick from a woman apparently suffering from PTSD and in need of trauma treatment unavailable in her century. Quite the drama it was. Interestingly, King John commissioned the castle but never actually visited there. The Brits who did were not welcomed warmly and, this being Ireland, the Irish lads who fought them were the martyred heroes of the day. Bad, bad Brits. The castle itself was as cool as castles are. I dig castles. While walking the ramparts (if that's what you call those high parts) I was recalling a castle my father built with (for) me in grammar school. (It was an A+ effort on his part!) The views of the river and the town were spectacular, and the cold, clear morning was a perfect time to tour the site.

Next stop was the village of Adare, which bills itself as the typical Irish village of long ago. But it actually was constructed by some rich landowner, who may have been an earl or something, in the mid 19th century, when Irish folk life was romanticized. It's not quite Disneyfied, but it's kind of like New Hope, or maybe Volant, but with thatched roof cottages and a kind of Ye Olde feel to it. Ick. The bus stopped long enough for kids to pee and buy family crests and souvies, and then we were off again. John Nolan, the cruise director (and a very nice man), packs a lot into his weekend excursions for these kids.

John has CDs for the trip--some Irish folky stuff like "Kilgarra Mountain" with a rock arrangement; some Van Morrison; a song that could be by the Pogues but I'm not sure; some Bruce Springsteen because John considers him honorary Irish; a song that his favorite footballers use as their anthem.... a mixed bag. I have enjoyed listening to Van Morrison and U2 while he drives us through the Irish countryside.

There was a big rainbow as we came into Kerry, with rain and sun mixing comfortably as they do here.

We stopped at the Kerry museum for a tour. The smell was awful inside. Why? Because they'd constructed an "authentic" medieval village in the basement, complete with sights, sounds and, yes, aromas. Jo and I had to see what was down there. Quite impressive, it was. A full panorama of life in the middle ages in Kerry, with a butcher slaughtering a chicken, a blacksmith shoeing a horse, sewage running down the drain sluices in the street, monks chanting w/ incense, the whole lively scene. Including the stench. One understands better the value of pomanders and sachets in the Middle Ages. I could have used an orange studded with cloves to get through the exhibit. We skipped the rest of the tour and went along the winding, narrow streets in search of something with "Kerry" on it (Jo's brother is Kerry), and a cup of tea. We found both. (Full disclosure: there was a scone involved.)

Kerry is not far from the sea, and the squall that blew up confirmed that. We tucked into a shop where we found a cobalt blue teapot that is coming home with us. We also found a new tea cozy to replace our overused one. I spotted a steeple and dragged Jo along to see St. Michael's church, where the big oak doors were locked, alas. In the vestibule was a photo montage of the five current priests of St. Michael's. Apparently the vocations are alive and well in Ireland?

We ended up the day in Tralee, as in the Rose of Tralee, which is a perfectly charming little town with narrow, winding streets and lots of shops and such. It was cold and wet by the time we arrived, so we were relieved to check in to the Tralee Townhouse, a pink and white stucco hotel run by a woman whose method of registering us all was to hand Jo a basket of room keys and ask her to pass them out. The ensuing chaos was shortlived enough, and we were soon taking a little nap in our small, quiet room on the 3rd floor. Jo and I were able to call our folks back home to say Happy Thanksgiving, something that made both of us happy.

John Nolan arranged for us to have a Thanksgiving dinner at the Brogue Inn, a short walk from the hotel. We were in the upstairs room--a pub, really, with the beginnings of Christmas decorations all about. The owners didn't quite get the concept of Thanksgiving, but I'd give them points for effort, because they had festive napkins and tablecloths for us--in Christmas designs, but again, not their big holiday, T-giving.

Dinner was a typical 3-course Irish affair: soup, meat/potato/2veg, and dessert. We had a nice pureed veg soup with the amazing grainy brown bread that we find everywhere we go (and I, for one, am not complaining about that one bit). Then came the pub's version of our T-giving dinner, created just for us: a stack comprised of a slice of tukey atop a layer of stuffing atop a slice of ham. A baked potato, some roasted new potatoes, a half-ear of boiled corn, and a mix of boiled winter vegetables. Also a tablespoon of fruit jam masquerading as cranberry sauce in the dimly lit room. Then they served warm apple pie--a tart, really--with cream. And tea.

Basic Irish cooking that I've sampled is clean, simple, hearty, hot and tasty. Not a clove of garlic in sight, nor a splash of EVOO. But it's good. They do tend to serve potatoes in more than one presentation in every meal, but that isn't necessarily a terrible thing, y'know?

The meal over, we listened to the song stylings of one each Derry, a cheerful old fellow who played the accordian for us. Seems that for the last couple of years, Derry has been the entertainment and performed Irish songs for the group. Since 2007, however, he learned himself some American tunes. So his first set started off with When Irish Eyes Are Smiling and Danny Boy and gave way to such Yank-pleasing ditties as Yellow Rose of Texas, Dixie, Bicycle Built for Two, and Yankee Doodle. Perhaps having heard that the Latino population of the US is gaining numbers, he included El Condor Pasa and Que Sera Sera. He also played a waltz and a polka before ending up with the Star Spangled Banner. It was quite the repertoire. Derry sipped at his Guinness throughout his performance and took no breaks except to tell a joke that was really, really bad but which cracked him up enough that he had trouble finishing it. (I'm not sure, but it might have been an old one Uncle Wal used to tell.)

Somewhere toward the end of the evening, Jo's colleague had everyone there say what they are thankful for. It was touching to hear the kids express their gratitude for all the things that are important to kids that age. Some of the students had family members come over for Thanksgiving, and those folks shared their thoughts as well. The one English major in the group read a funny poem he'd written (English majors rock).

When it was my turn (and you know how I dreaded that), I heard myself saying what was in my heart--that my life is rich with blessings, and the older I get, the more aware of what all those blessings are. I am filled with gratitude every day, including on a Thanksgiving day spent in Ireland. How grateful I am for that!

An Unfortunate Incident at the Museum, 11/26/08

Back along the Liffey after the Inns of Court, I determined that I had two objectives for the remainder of the time before I was to meet Jo: to find a cup of coffee and perhaps a scone (because after a few days of steadfastly honoring my best intentions not to succumb to Dublin-specific simple carbohydrates, the ubiquitous presence of sultana-laden, gorgeously textured and nicely browned scones is more than I can resist). Oh, and the other objective: to find the Dublin Writers’ Museum.

A skinny latte (yum) and a cherry scone (ditto) later, I was back on the street, where I was passed by a fish delivery van on which was painted the slogan, “Wrights of Marina—If It Swims, We Have It.” Then cut over Capel St to Wolfe Tone St, all lined with the non-posh shops where the real people shop, and around the corner to Henry St, a pedestrian mall filling up with lunchtime traffic. And up to the spire monument on O’Connell, and left to the Parnell monument, and then around Parnell Square. Lots of mothers pushing strollers in and out of the Rotunda Maternity Hospital on Parnell Square, across from the Sinn Fein office and row homes. Past the bouquets of flowers stuck in the fence around what is called the Garden of Remembrance, although I’m not sure who is being remembered and want to find out.

It took me three tries to find the correct front door for the Irish Writers’ Museum at 18 Parnell Square, no doubt a test to be sure that anyone entering can actually read the sign. Those clever Irish.

Also clever is the little handheld device the red-haired woman gave me when I paid the admission fee. It was like a cordless phone receiver, with buttons to push to hear some narrative and other audio recordings as one goes through the exhibits. The museum is in a restored old townhouse with beautiful stucco work throughout. The front drawing room has exhibits about Irish writers up to about Shaw, and then the second room starts with Yeats and ends around Brendan Behan. We’re talking English major’s gluttony of riches here.

(Note to self: Ask Sara, the vampire aficionado, if she has read Bram Stoker’s Dracula. Her Edward Cullen has nothing on the Count. Stoker? Irish.)

So I got lost in the exhibits for quite a while, reading personal letters and looking at first editions and learning stuff I didn’t know. And doing my best to not end up at the same stopping places as the young German couple who marked the end of viewing each display with an episode of vigorous snogging. I have nothing against PDAs, mind you. But these two freaked me out a little, because (a) they were right with me the whole time through the first room, like a shadow of conjoined twins, and (b) no matter whether they were reading the wall displays or listening to their audio wands or making out with each other, their affect never changed. Completely flat. Robotic. Too weird. Maybe it’s a German thing. I dunno.

Well, I was up to about Liam O’Flaherty and Frank O’Connor in the 20th century room when I began to think that a visit to the loo might be in order, but then there was one more thing to read, or one more pipe or pair of glasses or pen to look at, or one more segment of the audio commentary to listen to. But eventually, just as I was up to the last display case, Brendan Behan, I could ignore the idea of the loo no longer.

So I scooted out the door and down the hall to the Ladies’, where in a mad flurry of coat and bag and program and audio wand and the usual apparel adjustments, I heard a splash and saw, to my utter dismay, that the audio wand had fallen into the toilet. Holy Mother of God, thought I. They’ll throw me out of the Writers’ Museum for sure, now. They'll rescind my BA in English, and Larry and Paul will cross me off their Christmas card lists forever.

Well, I fished it out (thank God it happened post flush) and dabbed at it with TP, but it was dripping badly, and when I looked I saw that the display screen was clouded over. There was another woman finishing up, from the sounds of things. So I stalled for time at the sink with much handwashing and lipstick applying and hair fluffing, until she was gone. Then I pulled the wand from under my coat and put it under the hand dryer machine. For, like, 10 minutes. It was then that the wand started to buzz. I’m thinking, holy crap, this can’t be good.

Now, see, this is where my 12 years of parochial education come in. Because any public school kid would be likely to say, so what, I dropped it in the toilet, it was an accident, what’s the big whoop? But not me. I’m already racked with guilt for doing something stupid and mortified that I’ll have to ‘fess up to the red-haired reception lady when I return the wand. Plus, as annoyed as I am that I now can’t listen to the Brendan Behan audio piece, I know I don’t have the moxy to ask for another wand. Because the wand in my hand is now very hot and making noises that don’t stop when I try switching off the power.

To buy myself some time, I head back to the book shop, hoping that the noise will at least stop before I have to turn it in at the front desk. I drop 45 euros on cool literary swag. The lass at the register notices the buzzing of my audio wand, in part because every couple of seconds, the wand seems to be eliciting a responsorial beeping in the security box on the wall to her left. Or am I imagining the correlation? Had we been in Trenton, NJ, she might have said, “Girl, your wand is buzzing. You break it?” But this is Ireland, where no such brazenness occurs. She just looked at the wand and smiled politely, and when I confessed that I’d dropped it in the sink (I just couldn’t admit to the toilet dunking, so I added a lie to my original offense), she actually looked mortified for me, as if she felt my pain. “Ah, that’s too bad. I’m sure it’ll be all right. Here, I can take it up to the front for you, if you like, if you don’t want to.” This girl clearly understood the burden of shame and fear of reprisal. But then my American self got all mature and said, “No, I’ll take it up front. It was my carelessness.”

So I walk up front, trying not to think like a Catholic on the way into a confession box where the penance is likely to be at least two rosaries. But the red-haired receptionist has been replaced by a very nervous white-haired literati type who clearly does not want interface with the public. I thought about nonchalantly putting the wand on the desk, la la la, and walking out without saying a word. But such irresponsibility is wrong. So I went up to the gentleman and I said, “The wand. It’s wet. Dropped it in the sink. Tried to dry it off. Now it’s buzzing. What shall we do to make it right?” He took it from me and looked it over. “Oh my. Yes. It appears to be wet.” He squirmed just a little. And I knew he, too, felt my pain. My Irish Catholic DNA found resonance. He quickly walked the wand over to a little shelf, out of the way, and said, “Let’s just put it here and see. It may dry out. It will be… all right.” (Translation: I know it went into the toilet, you lying American tourist. I’m not stupid. But it’s not in my job description to fix wet audio wands. When red-haired reception woman gets back from lunch, she’ll deal with it. Now just go on your way and let me get back to what I was doing.”)

I virtually skipped out onto Parnell Square, needing to get distance between me and the Irish Writer’s Museum, and power-walked back to meet Jo at the hotel.

I’m going to have to Google Brendan Behan to find out what I missed.

Inns and Outs of Court, 11/26/08

Wednesday began with a walk around the corner and down the road to the laundry we’d scouted out the day before, when Jo decided that a little laundry doing was in order. The counter clerk wasn’t 100% clear on what we meant by “bulk laundry” or “turnaround time,” but she assured us that if we delivered a duffle of dirty clothes in the a.m.., we’d have clean clothes in the afternoon. When I dropped off the bag, she said, “You’re American, yeah? I suppose you want a cold water wash?” She told me, with an air of amusement, that Americans always request that their clothes be washed in cold water. She no doubt shares her fellow Dubliners’ opinion about Americans liking intentionally chilled tea, air conditioning, and ice cubes in their Coke. (Good question though--why do Americans have such a fondness for the chill factor? There's a topic to consider. But now now.) I said she could use any water temperature that would get the job done, and I exchanged euros for the pink ticket receipt she wrote up for me. “Lovely,” she said.

“Lovely” is an all-purpose adjective here. It can describe the sauce on a chicken breast, the satisfactory end of a negotiation, or an hour without rain. “Grand” can mean lovely, too. In general, if it’s a good thing, Dubliners refer to it as lovely, grand, or brilliant.

Down the block from the laundry on St. Patrick St is St Patrick’s Cathedral—the big Protestant one. I walked down to poke around and was met by a line of vans full of film equipment. Seems that there was movie-making going on and the Cathedral was closed to the public. No hints about what the filming was about. Bummer. So I headed up St. Patrick St and under St Auden’s Gate, an arch built in 1275 as part of the old city wall, adjacent to the aforementioned Christ Church Cathedral, a striking mishmash of about 700 years of architectural modification. Then it was down Winetavern St and across the O’Donovan Rossa Bridge to see the Inns of Court, on the other side of the Liffey.

The Four Courts have the big green rotunda roof that you see in photos of Dublin. It’s the main judicial seat in the city, built in 1785. I like that period of architecture—I want to call it Palladian, but Dad, correct me if I am wrong. I wanted to see inside, but the gates all were closed, so I wandered around to find an entrance. An Irish woman stopped me to ask directions. Hello? I’m wearing my old Reeboks (ugly but allowing me to walk today); I’ve got a map sticking out of my left pocket; I’ve got a camera strap coming out of the other pocket; and I keep stopping to look up at architectural details on old buildings. I mean, do I look like I live here? I think it’s the phenomenon I share with my mother—we attract total strangers into our energy fields without trying. It's happening in Dublin, too.

When I found an entrance, it was a serious-looking security checkpoint, and before I’d actually decided to go in, I was swept along in a little mob of people who moved with great purpose. So I surrendered my stuff to the x-ray machine and went through the security check. Mind you, I didn’t really know what I was there for, other than to see the inside of that rotunda. But they gave me the once-over and let me in. So I went.

Inside the big walls is a courtyard that is a car park. (Tell Uncle Wally I saw a Subaru Forester but thought better of whipping out my camera due to the armed guard 50 ft away from me at the time.) I went into a doorway that had an arrow pointing to it (why not?) and a pleasant man asked me if I were lost. I said I probably was. He said, “There’s nothing much here, love, just offices. You want to see the courts, you go around here, and up there, and here, now, I’ll show you.” So he did.

And I entered the Inns of Court, where dozens of barristers, women and men, with their powdered wigs and flowing black robes, milled about, talking about cases, and walking hurriedly up and down marble hallways. Quite impressive. Me, my Reeboks and my keen sense of direction (!) made our way to the inside of the rotunda and stood looking up at it. Beautiful. I loitered awhile. It was fun. Lawyers take themselves so seriously. I suppose that’s a good thing, in the line of duty. Then I walked out through the security gate and on to the next destination.

Dateline Lahinch, 11/28/08

We're checked in to the Atlantic Hotel, a really charming little pensione kind of place in this tiny western seaside town of Lahinch, where all the shops closed at 5, shortly after our arrival. Our room has an upholstered window seat that won me over immediately. We're up several floors around around several corners.

I'd have little trouble believing we're in another century, except that Jo has managed to get us linked to the internet. Not sure about the details, but I am of the belief that it is far easier to ask forgiveness than permission, so here we go. I've been writing a bit offline, as time allows, with the thought that I'd have internet access eventually. The moment is now. So before we go off to meet the group for dinner ("at half seven," as they say), I'll post some more episodes of this excellent adventure. More to follow...

Dubliners Don't Wear Sunglasses

As utterly wet and dreary as Monday was, Tuesday was bright and sunny. I mean, clear blue skies and actual SUN in the sky. But because of the latitude, the sun doesn't ever climb too high in the sky. Just high enough that it blinds you when you walk toward it. So all the Dubliners (and I) who had sort of scowly expressions against the rain on Monday were, the next day, squinty and not noticeably any happier. What's up with that myth about smilin' Irish eyes? Maybe they smile outside the city. We shall see.

So I set out for O'Connell St because I wanted to see the General Post Office (GPO), where some of the 1916 Easter Rebellion happened. I set out along Wellington Quay to the Ha'penny Bridge, taken in by the sight of all the skyline against the blue, blue sky. There are layers of history when you look up. And what's on top of the building is often in contrast to what's at street level. I wished that I could take a walking tour, but they offer those only until October, and probably with good reason. But you know there would be crazy Yanks, myself included, willing to pay someone to walk them around in the rain for 3 hours on a November day. I'll put that in the suggestion box.

The GPO, it turns out, was destroyed in the uprising and then rebuilt in the 1920s. So it's a shrine to history as well as a place to buy stamps. I thought I'd get some postcard stamps, just in case, and I queued up in what looked like a short-ish line. Of course, I was behind the impossibly tiny old woman with the grey bun on the back of her little head, the one paying for her stamps one small coin at a time, and evidently buying stamps for her Christmas cards, because there were a lot of stamps being handed over, and whole coinpurses of small coins being handed back. Quite the procedure. My transaction took considerably less time, and the clerk was equally kind to me.

Back out to O'Connell St, I walked as far as Parnell St., looking at the monuments that line the wide avenue. Always interesting to me, wherever I go, that the men (and they are usually men) we immortalize in bronze and marble are usually revolutionary/military, literary--or, in Dublin, a blend of the two.

Somewhat disconcerting to me is that the statue of Molly Malone, a tourist attraction near Trinity College, shows not a strong survivor of a woman but rather an almost obscenely proportioned wench, with a tiny waist and big Playboy bunny size breasts all but tumbling out of her bodice. Tourists hop up to be photographed next to her, gazing lasciviously at her bosom. So the one female statue I've seen so far is totally sexualized, while the men are all depicted with great respect. What's wrong with that picture?

But I digress. Back on O'Connell St. I took side street detours, partly to get out of the blinding sun that obscured everything, and partly because side streets are usually more interesting. I found the Abbey Theatre site and the charming bronze statue of James Joyce. I cut through Clery's Dept Store and spent some time browsing around but not buying anything. It reminded me a lot of Macy's. I did see a gorgeous handbag (I do love bags) in red suede and red leather, with a wonderful suede bow on one side--just too pretty to describe. But it was 450 euros. It's not coming home with me.

I came back over the River Liffey by was of O'Connell St. bridge and wandered into the main entrance of Trinity College. Just inside the gate, two middle eastern looking tourists were posing for one another next to a sign, in English, prohibiting dogs from the quad. The two young men found this hilarious, evidently, and were laughing away. I didn't get it. But to see people in Dublin actually laughing was encouraging. I walked into the quad and liked all the bicycles chained to the iron fences there. Lots of activity. Lots of languages, lots of dialects. I decided to save the Trinity tour for a day when Jo can go with me. It'll be more fun.

So I headed up Grafton and, still blinded by the sun, made one wrong turn and then another turn that didn't correct my position any, and I walked and walked, and finally I admitted to myself that I was lost, because I was in a decidedly residential district. So what to do but step into the first cafe I saw and order a skinny latte? That always makes things better. I asked the barista to help me find my bearings; he only spoke enough English to take coffee orders. His associate had a better command of the language but not the geography. So, fortified with caffeine, I went back to the street and tried to remain optimistic about returning to the hotel.

Eventually I came to a sidestreet with fruit and veg barrows, and I knew I was heading back to town more. I asked a gal selling flowers to point me in the right direction and discovered I was just a few blocks away from George's St., where I'd been lost only the day before. I knew my way home from there. Heading back toward Dame St. I stopped in at the Carmelite RC church where mid-day Mass was underway. Those in attendance were a dour lot, and the priest scolding someone in back for talking was more than I could take. I stayed for the readings and left before consecration, stopping to drop some change into the box and light a candle for the leezards, as I do whenever I am able to. A little prayer, a dab of holy water (because you never know) and then out to the street to head back to meet Jo after school.

We were both famished, so we made getting a late lunch the first order of business. We went down Parliament St to a charming little bistro called The Larder, where Jo'd eaten once before. We sat in the window in two red velvet wingback chairs at a little table with a black and white cloth, watching the street traffic through ivy topiaries. We shared a bowl of amazing winter vegetable soup--all pureed and lovely, with tiny chickpeas at the bottom, and dense bread on the side.

While we waited for the meal, I asked the server what was in the soup, and he went and asked the chef, who wrote it down for me. MM and Kyle, take note--you will love this one. It's roasted corgette, eggplant, carrots, leeks and onions, pureed till smooth, and then simmered with chickpeas. I'm guessing there was a little chicken stock and maybe a splash of cream, but chef didn't share that part. In any case, it was very very very good soup!

I had a hot roasted chicken on toasted ciabatta with pesto and red peppers, and Jo had roasted chicken in a brown sauce, over potatoes lyonnaise. We girls love our good food. This was another excellent meal. So far, no Irish stew or blood pudding, but we are definitely not complaining!

So then we made a stop at the pharmacy to buy foot care supplies, because, well, I may have overdone it on the first couple of days. As we selected plasters (that's band-aids), we both chuckled at the conversation between the late 30ish Irish woman buying condoms and the 20-something non-Irish guy selling them to her. Seems there was a 5- pack of condoms, and the next size was a 12-pack. But she wanted to buy only 8. Only that option was not available, and she was not happy about it. So I'm thinking, what, her paramour is on death row and she's got only 8 conjugal visits left, and she's frugal? Or she only has need for condoms twice per month in months with a Y in them? Jo and I had ourselves a giggle over that exchange. (She ended up buying the 12-pack. Let's wish her all the best.)

Later on, with my toes wrapped a la Barishikov before Swan Lake, we met up with Jo's colleague here, and the Dean and his wife, who are visiting, and we all walked down to catch the bus out to the 'burbs. We were to meet all the student teachers, their co-ops, and some various school adminstrators at a pub in Ballantyre, for a reception of sorts. The ride took about an hour through neighborhoods I'd not yet seen. (Jo is on one bus or another every morning to go out to supervise the kids. ) We rode on the top of a a double decker bus, which was fun--you can see so much more! The party was a rousing success.

I slipped away from the noisy group and hung out at the bar awhile, chatting with the bartenders a bit. I ordered a glass of Guinness because, well, I'd never had it before and I am in Ireland, so why not? I took one sip. It was absolutely awful. I'm not a drinker, and I don't like beer, so I suppose I shouldn't have expected to love it. But it was really bad. I found a kid who'd been drinking Guinness earlier and passed it off to him. He was quite pleased. I was relieved. Yuck.

We headed out to catch the bus home, and after some confusion about bus numbers (it's like trigonometry, figuring out the bus schedule here), we hopped the 48A and ended up pretty near the city center. We cut across a few streets and then up Grafton St toward 'home.' The street was illuminated by beautiful swags of white Christmas lights across the broad walkway, with huge chandeliers of lights in the middle as you go. Just gorgeous. One of the stores (Brown and Thomas?) has sumptuously decorated windows that are beyond my ability to describe here. I'll take photos.

How much better can a day be when it begins with sunlight and ends with Christmas lights? The adventure continues...

OK to Be American (Again)

Monday p.m. P.S.: Later in the evening we were hungry and stopped at an Italian cafe whose name is hiding in the recesses of my overstimulated brain. (I want to say Grand Tocino, but no, that's the restaurant where Johnny proposes to Lorettea in Moonstruck, and this ain't Brooklyn.) So we had bowls of hot homemade vegetable soup and shared a little pizza margarita, and we chatted about the day. At the next table, very close to us, was a young man eating pasta that he described as fetuccini with a thyme cream sauce and declared, 'lovely.' And then he asked us where we were from, and we said Pennsylvania, and he said he'd gone to high school for a year in Idaho (he made us guess), and then for a year of college in Mississippi (and I'm thinking, poor kid, was he remanded to those states as part of some juvenile justice exchange program? But that wasn't the case.) So of course he's wild about America.

So it seems that Gordon is from Galloway, Scotland, but hanging out in Dublin awhile as he sorts out what his future might be. He's been living in a hostel for 15 euros a day. (I'm thinking, am I too old for hostel living? Probably so. Sigh.) Then he asked, quite tentatively, what we thought of the recent US election. I made a little sign of applause. Jo said, 'She was so happy, she cried when they called it.' He seemed genuinely pleased to learn this.

Gordon shared his story: that on election night, he was so excited that Obama might win that he checked out of the hostel and into a hotel costing him 70 euros he really couldn't afford, just so he could watch all the cable news shows and follow the results. He was thrilled to watch Obama win. And he says most people in Europe are eagerly anticipating the end of the Bush administration and the start of the Obama one. I said Ialways feel as though I need to apologize for how badly Bush has done the job. And Gordon, gracious lad that he was, assured me that no one in Europe holds me accountable for Bush's madness. I felt exonerated. We can move bravely into the future with hope in our hearts. Gordon will be watching our progress closely.

Day One in Dublin

Should we be concerned that as we walked down Lord Edwards St and what could well be city hall (or maybe I am making that up), we cut through a sidewalk demonstration of men and women protesting something about bin tax but with the words Sinn Fein on their placards? I got a little (as Emma used to say) 'nuh-vuss' but kept on walking, as it is usually better to do in such situations. (I'm remembering the 'manifestacion' during the general election in Mexico City when we were there in 2005 and how out of control it felt to be caught in the middle of it. It is better to steer clear of any street activity that Christiane Amanpour is likely to be covering. No such activity here, but I've had a lot of coffee.)

So here I am, in DUBLIN. Wow. The 737 landed in darkness, with just the lights of the city showing anything Irish from the sky. Walking out of the well-used airport to the carpark with none other than himself, Paddy Ryan, leading the way, I was struck by how dark the sky was and how the dark clouds seemed low enough to reach up and touch. Paddy was the fellow holding a sign with my name on it as I came through baggage claim. He drove me into town and dropped me at the hotel, all the while reminding me of one of my uncles.

In fact, a lot of the men here remind me of the Leadem boys. Who knew so many people in Dublin would look so, well, Irish?! It's like a huge casting call for a Eugene O'Neill summer stock company. The characters from Ulysses and Finnegan's Wake walk by, heads tucked, looking somehow sad and happy at the same time, nodding if eye contact is made.

The guy across the aisle and one up on the plane looked exactly like my brother Frank, if you could somehow lift the transparency containing all the Italian features from the picture. He was funny. He and a bunch of his very large and burly and, truth be told, perhaps a little buzzed from the airport bar buddies filled all but one seat in the row in front of me, left and right. I believe at least one of them had a former career as a boxer. Down the aisle came a hapless man, young and lean and perhaps eastern European in origin, looking at his ticket and, in the moment when he realized he'd be cramming his scrawny self into the row with two hefty Irish lads, registering the fact with bare dismay. The one who reminded me so much of my brother Frank said, loudly, 'Aye, and you'll be wishing you were travelin' wit the baggage before this trip is over.' Made me laugh out loud. Which prompted immediate conversation--well, monologue (they were Irish, after all)--over the seats. One warned me that the other was nothin' but a predator, and then offered me a candy. And then they chatted on, offering to lift my backpack to the overhead bin and telling me about themselves. I understood about 30% of it all and just laughed. And that's how the flight took off.

So thumbs up for Continental, where the spiffy flight attendants are actually attentive, and they feed you. I guess I fly Southwest too much to know any better. And get this--they have a little touch screen on the back of every seat, and little headphones in the pillow/blanket bag, and you can watch any of 19 movies or listen to 50 albums. So I'm flying over the Great Banks listening to Exile on Main St. and Billie Holliday before getting out my own iPod for the long haul. The Stones at 30,000 feet, watching a little animated flight plan move us closer to Dublin by the hour.

Fun moment in Dublin airport between the passport stamping and the luggage claiming: Got caught walking among a bevy of veiled flight attendants from Qatar Air. I was the big black crow amid the fluttering little starlings, all chattering to one another, fragrant with their duty free designer perfumes. There was a moment.

OK, so I know most of the people in the airport were speaking English, but I swear I understood more that was spoken to me en Espanol in Mexico City than I did this morning. I have to learn a new way of listening.

So Paddy is driving the VW van up McConnell St and he gestures with his right hand and says, that'll be the post office. There was a bit of an uprising there back in 1918 or so. I'm like, you mean the Easter Rebellion?!? He says, ah, yes, you know of it? So I'm rubbernecking at this historical edifice as he chats on about how the city won't let developers touch the facades of the building. I had chills.

I checked into the Jury's Inn Christ Church, so named because it is directly across the street from the one and same Christ Church Cathedral, where construction started in about 1050. Apparently the plumbing in the hotel was installed at about the same time. It is a bleak affair of a hotel. Maybe not 1050, but think somewhere on the far right of the European map during the height of the cold war. Oh my.

FYI, the folks with the Sinn Fein signs are now chanting across the street.

So I dumped my stuff in the aforementioned dreary hotel and took a little nap, since it was only about 8 a.m. by the time I got there. And then I bundled up and headed out to see what I could see. I like to just start walking, turn down a street, walk some more, turn up an alley, keep walking, and so on, getting the lay of the land. (I have been blessed with my father's sense of direction. Thanks, Dad!) I was somewhere on St. George's St. when the rain, misty until then, became a spitting drizzle. The wind blew off my hood one too many times. I tucked in to a cafe, where a Polish girl took my coffee order and a Chinese barrista poured it, and I sat at a little table and drank it, watching the street traffic. Umbrellas don't stand up to the wind, it seems. Everyone just gets wet and keeps walking.

The music in the cafe was some Euro alternative stuff I didn't recognize, followed by Petula Clark's Downtown, and then REM singing End of the World As We Know It (and I Feel Fine). Both songs seemed apt for the moment.

Dublin seems a hip, youngish city. I'm way older than what I'd guess the median age to be. Lots of languages, lots of facial structures, lots of young adults from someplace else.

So I spent most of the day walking and dodging the rainfalls, getting a couple of coffees along the way. I chuckled at one point when an older gentleman in a tweed cap stopped and asked me, in a brogue, for directions. I smiled and shook my head (but felt way cool for looking enough like a local that he would ask, or perhaps he didn't see well...) I went into Dunne's, a nifty food store (Kyle would love it) and bought Belgian hummus to take back to the hotel for lunch with the carrots I'd packed for the flight.

In the afternoon I went over to poke around Christ Church Cathedral and enjoyed that very much, including the spooky crypt where all kind of marvelous artifacts from centuries of altar action are kept. Oh, and guess what they have there? The mummified remains of the cat and mouse that Joyce mentions in Finnegan's Wake. As the story goes, a cat chased a mouse into a big organ pipe and they both got stuck there. So now the mummified remains are on display. Who knew? On the main floor, there was a sweet Lady Chapel with a beautifully embroidered altar cloth. The church is open to the public for services, and I want to go back. Those Anglicans do a church right. No candles to light and no bleeding statuary of martyred saints, but I'll get over it. I want to stand in the two story high pulpit. I wonder if the deacon could be persuaded to let me try.

It was wonderful to meet up with Jo in mid afternoon. She took me walking again to show me routes to cool things I will do on my own for the next few days, including Trinity College and the Temple Bar district and Ha'Penny Bridge over the River Liffey and all the places I am itching to see. We are right in the middle of Dublin, where everything seems walkable. I like to walk. Moving under one's own power is a good thing. I was thinking back three years to when I was so weak. To be walking around Dublin in the rain this November is just another in a series of blessings in my life.

Dublin has every cuisine imaginable, so for two girls from Grove City, where the culinary options are severely limited, it is wondrous indeed. (We get this way in cities, in general!) We ended up tonight in a beautiful Thai restaurant with big chairs upholstered in rose and olive velveteen, and lovely carved statues in little nooks all around. So my first meal in Dublin, if you don't count the Belgian hummus (why import chickpeas from Belgium, I wonder?) was Phad Thai. It was really good.

It's cold and windy this evening, and we're in a warm internet cafe run by a guy who looks like Luka Kovach on ER. Very handsome. The guy to my right is shopping for cars online. Jo is to my left, answering email. The clock is ticking, and it's time to go.

So, what have we learned today? That there are lots of Irish people in Ireland--and lots of folks from Other Places, too. That the natives may be speaking English, but my ears aren't yet translating most of it as such. That it rains a lot and no one much seems to care. That there is much to see and do, and the adventure is just beginning!

As Paddy Ryan said to me this morning, 'Aye, it's a grand city, Dublin.'

Commencing Countdown, Engines On

As the snow falls (and falls) in Grove City, I'm happily packing for a damp Irish November and enjoying that warm little buzz that comes with seeing the passport sticking out of my red backpack. Tomorrow--finally!--I leave for Dublin.

Jo has been sending back scouting reports all week, and I can't wait to join her there and see everything for myself. We shall have ourselves another excellent adventure!

I've had a rapid-fire montage of things Irish going in my head all day--verses of Yeats' poems... counties called Clare and Cork and Kerry... James Joyce's little wire glasses... medieval monks in beehive huts on lonely crags... illuminated manuscripts (Larry, remember when we saw the Book of Kells in Philadelphia?)... cable patterns in heavy woollen sweaters... a queen named Maeve... stepdancers with rosy cheeks... arial views of patchwork farms in every shade of green... creamy foam on a Guiness pint... funny lines from Oscar Wilde... Judy Collins singing "The Patriot Game"... disconnected names from history, like Parnell and de Valera and Bobby Sands... Fr. Keane and Fr. Minogue and Mr. Rooney from my high school days... names like Tyrell and Spillane and Murphy and... one thought after another, all day long, as I pack my bags and count the hours down.

I am going to Ireland tomorrow! What a life I have!