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...