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.