It's Not Over Till the Last Euro is Gone

Jo is in the next room, packing six suitcases worth of stuff into four suitcases. Blessed with supernatural spatial skills, she greets such challenges with enthusiasm. We're just back from our last retail sweep of the south side of Dublin, and the last few centimeters of unused space that remained after she packed us up this morning will soon be gone.


Also gone is most of our stash of euros, that magical money that is small and pretty to look at and doesn't seem quite real. The 1 and 2 euro coins are thick and remind me of the foil-wrapped chocolate coins in childhood Christmas stockings. (But I've checked. There is no chocolate inside euro coins.)


Elsewhere in our lives, we are reluctant shoppers most of the time, venturing out into the marketplace when we need something but never shopping for recreation. We did not spend much money at all on this trip... until Sunday, the day designated as Jo and Annie's Official Big Holiday Shopping Extravaganza. Oh, the Irish swag we gathered! Oh, the heavy bags we swung from each arm! Who knew there were so many pleasant ways to part with our money in Dublin?


Now, if I were to itemize, it might ruin the Christmas surprise effect for a few folks who may be reading this, so I'll just say that Ireland is known for producing marvelous woolens and tweeds and pottery and jewelry and... well, that's all I'm saying.



Sunday was a joyous day--clear, not too cold, lots of Christmas shoppers on the streets, holiday music playing everywhere. Well not everywhere. One jewelry shop was playing Space Oddity, the Bowie song I referred to in my first blog entry. Hearing it at the end of my trip amused me. The Polish shopgirl with the piercings (not containing jewelry from her own shop, incidentally) said the staff doesn't want to get sick of holiday music too soon, so they're putting off playing it for as long as they can. Amen to that, sister. I'll take Bowie over Bing any day. (Come to think of it, Bowie recorded Little Drummer Boy with Bing. How about that?)


We had Sunday brunch at the restaurant upstairs at the Kilkenny shop because, well, we like it there. They offer a lunch comprised of slices of cold roast turkey on a plate with a choice of three freshly made salads next to it. Yummy things like shredded carrots and sunflower seeds, new potatoes in olive oil and garlic, shredded red cabbage and apples, fresh fruit salad, and on and on. Plus pots of good tea and slices of dense brown bread. Happy tummy time. In fact, it was so good that we went back again today for lunch, only Jo opted for tandori chicken with sides of cauliflower gratin and braised cabbage. I had turkey and salads again, including bulgar wheat and cucumber with cumin. Major yum.

Today there was an elderly gentleman dressed in tweeds over by the window, ostensibly reading the paper but nodding off into varying degrees of unconsciouness that eventually had him limp and snoozing in his chair. I was a little concerned but Jo said he was still breathing. He'd come to with a start and then doze off again. I can think of worse places to take a nap than upstairs in the restaurant at the Kilkenny shop.

Yes, there pubs everywhere in Dublin, and tourists do come here just to pub crawl. Pubs play a significant role in Irish literature and Irish life. But after some experimentation, we have decided that we are not pub people. For starters, we don't drink, and we don't like being in close proximity to people who have been drinking. And pubs are about lots of social interaction, while we are for the most part quiet people who prefer to observe strangers rather than engage with them. Also, traditional pub fare isn't very appealing to either of us, and the nouveau pub fare we've seen is more like American food we tend to avoid at home anyway. Sweet mother of prayer. Could we be any more boring? Perhaps not. But we've decided that going to pubs isn't much fun. We walked into the Stag's Head yesterday, took in the legendary Victorian decor, made our way through the crush of people drinking at or near the bar, and exited out the back door. So much for that.

So pubs in general get two thumbs down, but interesting restaurants are another story. We ended up yesterday at Yamamora, a busy Japanese place full of people far more hip than we, where we couldn't get a table on Saturday night. We bypassed the sushi menu and ordered hot and tasty dishes containing chicken and vegetables, although it was difficult to see any of what was served because they dimmed the lights dramatically just after we were seated. Ordering was a squinting crapshoot, but we were both happy with the meals that arrived. Mine had a nice ginger flavor going on and interesting veggies buried underneath, and Jo's was served with a little side bowl of miso soup that she liked. It was good to rest awhile and share a hot meal at the end of a busy shopping day. But the distracted wait staff contributed to the harried feel of the restaurant, and our waiter seemed a little put out that we didn't order drinks, starters or dessert. Oh well. I think you reach an age where snooty waiters and overpriced menus stop being impressive and start being ludicrous. I'm definitely there. I think Jo may there with me. Alas, we will never be hip foodies. Just foodies.


I do admit to being occasionally intimidated, however. Today we went walking at pink sunset to find the Shelbourne Hotel, the headquarters of Dublin poshness since the Victorians built the place on Merrion Square. Just going through the revolving door and into the lobby in my Reeboks had me feeling hopelessly schlubby. In a bar off the left side of the lobby, behind a side table laden with pots of gorgeous red amaryllis and poinsettias and bundles of cinnamon tied with red ribbon, were lots of fashionable men and women, the latter in high heels, little trendy dresses and an air of ennui, having drinks. Across the lobby, past the gorgeous big fir tree all done in big red and gold balls and little white lights, was the entrance to the legendary tea room. Attempting inconspicuosity, I listened to the piano music and took in the linen-covered tables full of mostly women--the sort that might have once been called dowagers, perfectly groomed, with their well-behaved if bored children and grandchildren--all seated on pale upholstered chairs, having tea and cakes and sandwiches. I was thinking, wait, what year is this? Jo loitered patiently at the foot of the lobby staircase while I wished I was dressed more appropriately and had a reservation. Little sigh. (Note to Babs: Next year, you are coming to Dublin, and we are going to the Shelbourne for tea.) We took some pix outside, but it wasn't the same. A random courier guy kindly offered to take our photo together as we stood somewhat pathetically on the sidewalk, looking past the big window wreaths into the warm illumination of the Shelbourne Hotel. Big sigh.



Carrying our bags from the last bits of Christmas shopping, we walked along the square back to Grafton St, where we saw two different sand sculpture artists at work. One was sculpting a puppy lying on a rug that was so real I did an actual double take. We saw a big English sheepdog--a real one--sitting obediently next to a similarly well-behaved German Shepherd outside a jewelry store. I heard a busker playing the guitar intro to I Feel Fine, a Beatles song I like so much that it's on my iPod. (I have heard a lot of my iPod playlists here in Dublin. Either the Irish have good taste or I'm not as hopelessly unhip as I feel.) Jo spotted a #43 Steelers jersey on a young man up ahead (Go Troy), so we kind of stalked him to get a photo. (Not too many Steelers fans here in Dublin. Go figure.) Jo had an unfortunate collision with an iron post on Grafton when she was looking the other way, walking and talking at the same time. The medical reports aren't back yet, but we think she'll live. The street was crowded and bright under a dark blue sky. We were taking it all in, knowing that we won't see any of it for a while, at least.






From Grafton we headed across Exchequer to George's, in search of a hot drink. We found a little place called Cafe Bar Deli, which we have decided was named for the owner, a Mr. Bardelli, who put together the lovely little Italian menu we saw at the bar and is making his fortune in cosmopolitan Dublin. (Or not.) We sat at the marble bar (no deli) awhile and ordered a coffee for me and a tea for Jo, and we decided we might come back later for dinner because the menu looked quite nice and we liked the music playing.


And here we are now, back at the flat for our last evening in Dublin. Jo has come in while I'm blogging away here and announced that everything is packed. That girl can pack suitcases like nobody else! When we were outside the Shelbourne, Jo had a call on her Ireland cell phone from John Nolan, confirming that he'll be picking us up at about 4:45 a.m. tomorrow. Wow. It's time to go home already.






Later that night...


Well, we went to Cafe Bar Deli for a late dinner, and it was wonderful. We're both wishing we'd discovered the place sooner. Jo had her favorite spaghetti bolognese, and I had pasta tossed in a lemon infused olive oil, a little tomato pesto, cubes of roasted eggplant, and some chopped toasted hazelnuts, and topped with raw rocket (arugula) and shaved parmesan. (I know, Kyle, doesn't it sound fabulous? It was!) We sat and talked about Ireland and how much we have enjoyed our time here. We're both ready to go home, but walking back up Dame St for the last time was bittersweet.


I feel as if I just got here, and I feel as if I have been here for years. I think I could love Dublin. To know for sure, I may just have to come back.

The Kilkenny Buzzkill

Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time: to take the bus to Kilkenny and spend the day exploring castles and cathedrals and shopping from Irish craftspeople selling their goods along centuries-old streets. An enjoyable way to spend our last Saturday in Ireland, right? Not so much, as it turned out.

Now, anyone who knows me knows that I consider kvetching to be an art form. I could get into a good griping rant here. But I will try to remain positive. Because there is nothing wrong with Kilkenny itself. I think the problem lay in ourselves: travel fatigue, poor estimation of our timetable, inadequate consideration of nutritional needs, and our shared dislike of crowds.

We started out early for the Dublin bus station, which is situated behind the Custom House, up the Liffey about a half hour from our flat. There was frost on the Ha'Penny Bridge when we crossed it, and the sidewalks were slippery. Dubliners are not used to such frost in December, they say. Some teenagers were ice surfing across the slick surfaces, with glee. Jo was bundled up, as usual, and we walked fast to stay warm.

We passed a group of chatty kids--I'm guessing Chinese--meeting up outside Paddy's Hostel (rooms 15 euro a night, with airport transportation offered on the "Paddywagon," according to a sign outside), near the bus station. I am feeling old in Dublin, where the streets are full of teenagers and 20-somethings, all seemingly with energy to spare, caught up in the adventure of the new city.

At the bus station, we got out the tickets we'd bought earlier in the week and found our queue for the #7, due in at 9 a.m. The station interior was bright and well-organized, in contrast to my memories the dark, noisy NY Port Authority station, back in my schlepp-to-Fordham days. The peaceful bus to Kilkenny was very unlike the NJ Transit bus I'd catch in Toms River, already full of Atlantic City gamblers sleeping it off on the way back to New York. Now that was a multicultural event, providing valuable first-hand experience in assessing a wide range of mental health diagnoses. But I digress. Our bus on Saturday was not quite full, even with a few more stops to collect more passengers. It was clean and comfortable and, except for the magpie chattering of three Spanish girls across the aisle for the entire trip on such riveting subjects as friends' activities, fashion news, camera and cell phone use, and Barack Obama (if my eavesdropping translation was accurate, which it may not have been, admittedly). Jo dozed as the trip got underway. I looked out the window and squinted in the bright morning sun for most of the trip.

The ride to Kilkenny was over two hours. The woman who sold us the tickets at the tourist center indicated the trip would take about half that time. Perhaps it is an Irish thing. Because it reminded me of my dear (Irish) father who, whenever I asked him how long it would take to get just about anywhere, would assure me, with great conviction, that a half-hour was all I'd need. I grew up believing that anyplace I wanted to go was (more or less) 30 minutes from where I was. So there is always an internal conflict between the part of me that believes the world is my oyster and anything I could possibly need or want is within my reach... and the fussbudget in me who wants to know actual distances and times and gets cranky when the half hour is up and I'm nowhere near my destination. The trip to Kilkenny was pleasant enough that my optimism didn't waver, and I could take some misty pix from the bus, but I was tired of sitting by the time we passed through Athy, and I was glad when the driver announced a while later that we had arrived at Patrick St in Kilkenny.

Once there, we got the lay of the land and made finding breakfast a priority. We were just under the wire for the breakfast menu at The Field, a pub at the corner of Patrick St and High St. We both ordered the "Full Irish," for sustenance, and shared a pot of tea. The Full Irish is a lot of food--a fried egg, a couple of sausages, a rasher of Irish bacon, sauteed mushrooms, a grilled half tomato, a hash brown, black and white puddings, toast. The b/w pudding stays on the plate (eeeeww); I trade my hashbrown for Jo's mushrooms, and we eat around the egg yolk. It is a good breakfast, but one I've had just a couple of times here. I rarely eat meat, but it seems OK to eat the sausages and bacon of a Full Irish.

But then on the way home from Kilkenny, we heard on the radio that there is a recall of pork products made in SE Ireland, where Kilkenny is, because of something toxic in the pig feed. So much for my venture into pork product consumption. I'm still breathing, so maybe the pig who gave his life for our breakfast was fed from the healthier feed silo. One can only hope.

Field's was a sports pub, full of English and American sports memorabilia, and when our eyes adjusted to the light, we saw that we were the only women in the place except for the server. Oh well. The lads at the tables next to and behind us were all eating their Full Irishes and talking about the big football game that afternoon. There was a schedule posted in the window for the weekend's games on TV. The Irish love their football.

Oh, and there was a license plate from New Jersey nailed to the wall near the bar. How bad could the place be?!

Thus fortified, we walked up the street called "The Parade" to Kilkenny Castle, passing major road construction en route. There is a of construction all over Ireland. The economy is as bad here as anywhere, but the Irish seem intent on improving infrastructure and getting established in the 21st century.

The castle is visible from all over town, situated as it is on a hill in the middle of about 50 acres of its own park. It has all the turrets and parapets and crenellation (is that what you call it?) that give it a fairytale appearance and lots of popular appeal. It's open to the public by tour only, so we got in line for tickets. We scored the next to the last spots for the 2 p.m. tour and went off to explore the town in the meantime.

So in case you're ever on Jeopardy and need to know about Kilkenny: The town is built on the River Nore, which provided a natural castle moat from about the early 1000s, when the usual Anglo-Normans established a walled town there. The earlier settlement was by St. Canice, who built a church and a school there in the 6th century and gave the town its name, from Kil Canneach, which translates to Church of Canice and was anglicized to Kilkenny. Enlarged in the 13th century, St. Canice's Cathedral is at one end of the town, on a hill, all dark and imposing and built out of local black stone. The Victorians restored it with the usual Vic flair in about 186o or so. It's second in size only to St. Patrick's Cathedral, in Dublin, and quite impressive from the outside. Which is all we got to see of it, because it closes early in November, and we didn't time our ascent to the cathedral early enough. It was that kind of day.

From Patrick St, High St turns into Parliament St, the main drag through Kilkenny, the one with the medieval buildings, cobblestone streets and narrow sidewalks. Off Parliament are several old side streets leading up hills to Interesting Old Things. At the end of one such street, called Abbey Lane, we came upon Black Freren Gate, part of the original walled city and dating to the 14th century. Someone has the good fortune to own the little blue-doored house adjacent to the stone gate and has created a lovely courtyard behind an iron gate. I wouldn't mind living there.

Through the Black Freren Gate and up a little way further is the Black Abbey, where black-robed Dominican monks (hence the name) had a community from about 1225. The bigger church was built about a century later, with stained glass windows visible from the outside. It's still a Catholic church unlike many of the older cathedrals and churches in Ireland that were taken over by the Prots after the Reformation and are Church of Ireland (Anglican). It's a lovely little church, with pretty roof lines and doors. And that's all of it we saw, because 1 p.m. Mass was underway when we got there, and we couldn't get inside. (Who has mass at 1 p.m. on a Saturday, I ask you?) We were taking some pix outside when two parishioners approached us to offer a leaflet about a rosary march up the Parade to the castle on Monday evening. When he heard we were in town just for the day, he smiled and took the leaflet back. Oh well.

Back on Parliament St we jostled our way through the crowds and looked in shop windows. Kilkenny was very busy on this Saturday, a few weeks before Christmas. The sidewalks were jammed. Jo and I cannot figure out the Irish sidewalk etiquette. Do we walk on the left, since they drive on the left here? No, that doesn't work. How about walking to the right? No, that doesn't work, either. People just walk in each other's path all the time, and it's like a game of chicken to see who will give way first. No one makes much eye contact, so that social cue is missing. And then there are the little groups of friends or family groups that just stop in the middle of the very narrow sidewalk and chat, taking up most of the space and not seeming too concerned that everyone has to walk around them. And no one seems to complain about it to them. Oh, and then there are the strollers everywhere, being pushed into crowds or across streets with abandon, or being stopped abruptly in the middle of the sidewalk for who knows what reason. (Oh, and commenting on how cute someone's baby is? Not done here. Most mothers look absolutely hostile when we notice their babies, who tend to be truly adorable.) So just getting from point A to point B involves much maneuvering and sidestepping. And no one really seems to care. And that's how it was in Kilkenny on a Saturday in December, when lots of people were out to do Christmas shopping along Parliament St. But I digress in the direction of kvetchdom.

Jeopardy break: "What is a tholsel, Alex?" is the correct response to "an 18th century square-shaped stone portico used for public business in a town center." The tholsel in Klikenny was built in 1761 and the address has an interesting bit of local lore attached to it. Seems that one Dame Alice Kyteler, a local legend for having survived four husbands whom she was suspected of poisoning back in the14th century, had a maid called Petronilla. The law caught up with Dame Alice and she was sentenced to death, in part for the deaths of her husbands and in part because she was suspected of being a witch for knowing how to kill them off in the first place (something about poisoning their meat at the public house she ran, I think). So Dame Alice is sitting in prison, awaiting execution, when something or someone incapacitated the guards and she escaped. So what did the town do? They decided to execute her maid Petronilla instead. Such was justice in the 14th century, I suppose. Thus poor Petronilla met her maker on the site of the later-constructed tholsel on Parliament St, and Dame Alice's public house is now Kyteler's, a pub in Kilkenny. There were carolers singing on the tholsel when we walked by.

It wouldn't be a town in Ireland without an Oliver Cromwell story of its own, right? It was in 1650 that the big bad bully Cromwell sacked Kilkenny and used the cathedral for his horses. Ol' Olly got around and wreaked havoc wherever he went. Forget whatever English history you learned that may have lionized Cromwell. In Ireland he was bad news from the get go, and they hate him as much as he hated Ireland.

Up another alleyway was St. Mary's Cathedral, a Catholic church with a Victorian look to it but not a lot of history available. The art for the Stations of the Cross was gruesome, but the windows were pretty. The big rosary window over the main door was obscured from the inside by a huge pipe organ. This was a serious church. I lit a candle for the leezards next to the statue of St. Joseph. I'm always surprised to find the doors unlocked and no security guard in sight on big old churches.

We did some book shopping on Parliament St and had tea upstairs at the cafe there. in the afternoon. Have I mentioned how much I like the whole concept of stopping for tea and something nice during a day's activities? Oh, perhaps I have.

So somewhere in the middle of all the Kilkenny sightseeing and sidewalk jostling, we made it up the Parade hill to the castle for our 2 p.m. tour.

Maybe I'm a little castled out by now, but I wasn't diggin' Kilkenny Castle. It's visually impressive, but the tour left me tepid. We learned that the castle construction started in about 1172 and that the property--castle and hundreds of acres of surrounding land--came into the posession of the Earls and Dukes of Ormonde, aka the Butler family, in about 1391. They had ties to the English royal family but lived for generations, happily, in Ireland. In the 19th century, the family Ormonde did some renovations, with the result being a Victorian Feudal Revival makeover. They added a portrait gallery wing and some hand-painted wood features, too. But the cost of maintaining the castle got prohibitive, and by the 20th century the family couldn't afford the upkeep. So in 1967, the 6th Marquess of Ormonde sold the whole kit and kaboodle to the Irish state for about 75 pounds. The castle deteriorated for a few decades before restoration efforts could be funded. Today Kilkenny Castle is a big tourist draw, and the 50 acre park it overlooks is a popular place for picnics and walking.

The tour starts in a big entry hall with a one-ton marble table in the middle of it, then goes up a grand Victorian staircase, hung with Christmas garland, to a dining hall with wood panelling at the windows and a mishmash of furniture that is not original to the estate. Then it's up another set of stairs to a library with silk-covered walls and a mix of reproduction and period pieces, mostly Victorian but some earlier. There's a pretty walnut pianoforte and a chess table. That gives way to a family drawing room with more of the same. Upstairs from that, two bedrooms, one showing the Chinese influence. And in a sideroom, the first indoor toilet in town, about twice the size of a modern toilet. And then to the long portrait gallery, where the painted wooden ceiling caught my eye, but not for long, because the tour was over. My impression was that the castle itself, and particularly the fairy-tale look of the exterior, is what people come to see, rather than the history of the place. But we did get to see it, and I'm glad. It was decorated for Christmas, a la mode Victorian, and that was festive.

There was an Irish TV film crew at Kilkenny Castle, doing a talent show broadcast from one of the rooms. We stopped at the loo and found ourselves sharing that space with a couple of dozen young adolescent girls, all coifed and rouged and in dance recital-style Irish dancing outfits. They were playing pop music on a CD player and all talking at the same time and sharing hair spray. We haven't seen them on TV yet, but maybe they're being saved for a Christmas special, along with the cathedral choirs. That's the story I'm going with.

So with the castle tour in the middle of the day, and toodling around town before and after (including a stop at the Irish Craft Center across from the castle, where things were just ludicrously expensive and being bought up by people with way more money than we have), we hit our Kilkenny wall and decided to catch an earlier bus back to Dublin. It was one of our better ideas for the day.

Riding through the darkness, it was interesting to see all the dark little towns we passed through, each with its own pub(s) and storefront take-away food place, each with people on the street, bundled up against the cold. It's very dark on the road in Ireland at night, especially once you leave the lights of the town or village. I could understand how stories of goblins and banshees might get started on those country roads at night in November.

The bus driver was listening to a call-in radio show about football (soccer) coaching changes. That gave way to an hour of 1970s disco music, including songs that weren't even that popular in the 1970s. Next was country/western. Unusual playlists for Ireland in 2008, I thought.

When we got back to Dublin, there was a traffic jam along the Liffey, and the driver opened the door just past the Ha'Penny Bridge and let everyone out. Bonus! He saved us at least 15 minutes of walking from the bus station. Yay for that. I was tired.

Also hungry and, truth be told, a little cranky. I'm like a toddler when we travel--good to go as long as I have had a little rest, a little food, and some fluids from time to time. But it had been a long day. We were both ready for dinner. Little did we know that every single restaurant in Dublin would be full and that, without reservations, we were SOL when it came to getting dinner in town. Believe me, we tried. No one had a table for us. It was hard not to take it personally. I was very tired and feeling like the ugly stepsister excluded from the ball by the time we decided to just go back to the flat. We picked up some bread in a little shop and went home for soup and bread and tea--not quite as pathetic as it sounds, because the bread was really good and the soup was nice, too. But you get the idea.

But it was a fitting end to a disappointing day. We both started talking about going home as a positive thing. That happens on a trip, doesn't it? There's the anticipation of going away, and then the excitement of being someplace new, and then the fun of getting your bearings and having plans for the next day, and then the adventure loses a little of its sheen and you start thinking about how nice your own bed will feel, and how good it will be to shower with familiar water pressure, and how making your own meals again will be a welcome relief. I think our Kilkenny experience brought us to that point. And it is just as well, because we leave on Tuesday. I will be sad to go, because I have loved being in Ireland. But it is time.

Well, not quite yet. Miles to go before then! (I do go on, don't I?)

When Cultures Collide (12/04/08)

What do you call a day that included visits to a medieval market fair, a Viking ship, a church tower, a Polish neighborhood, not one but two Irish pubs, a "trad" dinner theatre, a couple of trips across the Liffey, and a valiant effort to go to gaol? Why, that would be Friday in Dublin.

It was looking like rain, so we went over to the Bull and Castle, a pub we pass every time we head down Dame St but never went in until yesterday. I think it wants tourist traffic, because it felt more like an American version of an Irish pub. To wit, the menu that yielded our two lunches: onion soup followed by a beef-and-Guiness pie under puff pastry for Jo, and a chicken panini with brie and peppers for me. Not exactly traditional Irish fare. But that's not easy to find in Dublin. This is a city determined to expand the culinary horizon. And the residents (you should pardon the pun) just eat it up.

We chose a local place for lunch so that we could just go across the street to see "Dublinia," a sort of interactive museum with popular appeal. Families with school-age children would love Dublinia. It was a little Disneyfied for me. Plus, my heart belongs to Georgian Dublin now and have little interest in flirting with the Vikings and the medieval folk to whom Dublinia is devoted. (But being a tart when it comes to history, I did.)

Highlights, such as they were: An interactive medieval market fair with period clothing to pick up and look at, spices to sniff and brasses to rub. (I rubbed a papal indulgence for myself for a few pennies--one can't have too many papal indulgences.) A chance to try on chain mail. There was a character in stocks who'd only tell his story if you could hit him in the nose with balls at his exhibit. (Guess who got him to talk?) There were displays about different trades and a scene of a typical medieval kitchen. I got to help a child king of legend stay crowned. So it was interesting, if a bit over the top.


Upstairs from that was a room full of excavation finds that was very interesting. They displayed the skeletal remains of a woman they estimated to be 54 years old--pretty old in 14th century Dublin. They built up a head from the skull to show what she might have looked like, and they guessed from the condition of her jaw that she had severe dental pain most of the time. Poor lady. All the challenges of Dublin city life in the Middle Ages, and bad teeth as well. One hopes she had access to good liquor.

Other excavated goodies included household tools I like to see: pins that held cloaks in place, small iron sauce pots, itty bitty dice and gaming boards, eating utensils, that sort of thing. Every time they dig in Dublin for new construction or renovations, they find more stuff from the Vikings or the medieval city. Evidently there has been public outcry in favor of preserving whatever history turns up during construction. Dubliners like their history.

Upstairs was Wacky Viking World, or whatever they called it. Lots of fun facts about Vikings--you know, the endearing details, like the fact that they engaged in slave trading, including children. This piece of history was reinforced by inviting us to step onto the slave platform and try on the neck shackles. Can't beat that for family entertainment, eh? Another fun fact: Vikings gathered moss to use as toilet paper. Apparently some archeologists discovered it. How they figured that out after a thousand years, what with biodegradability being what it is, I do not know. The exhibit pointed out the the Vikings weren't a tough sell on Christianity because they had so many other gods going that one more didn't seem that big a deal. There was an amusing piece of jewelry (well, amusing to me)--a Christian cross pendant featuring one of the Norse gods smiling in the middle. Hey, it worked for them. But even though I can understand the huge impact the Vikings made on Ireland, they just don't sing to me, y'know?

A cool exhibit at Dublinia is one that you walk into and then realize where you are: on the deck of a 13th century merchant sailing ship, dockside at Wood Quay. Those were some small ships. Jeez. They had no comforts whatsoever--no toilets, no beds, little food. Just cargo, sailors and rats. (And to think Jo and I felt put upon by not getting chaises in a good location on a cruise once.)

The whole Dublinia extravaganza is housed in what used to be (and probably still is) St. Michael's Church. (I may be making that up, but I think I'm right.) Before we left, I persuaded Jo to climb St. Michael's tower with me, and we had some nice views of Dublin from there. She is a good sport.














At the end of Dublinia, we were released into a long stone corridor that turned out to be the connecting arch/bridge to Christ Church Cathedral, that architectural element being added by the Victorians who had a fondness for things medieval. The stained glass was pretty, and it was cool to look out over the street from inside the arch.





There was some kind of television production underway at Christ Church, so we didn't go in. I saw the cathedral when I first got to Dublin, but Jo hasn't been inside yet. The choir performances at Christ Church and St. Patrick's, down the road, get broadcast at holiday time. On Friday nights, there is church bell rehearsal. For a long time. A lot of bell ringing. Across from our flat. Ding dong ding dong. Bells, bells, bells.

OK, so feeling a little punchy after Dublinia, we went around to the entrance again and took our pictures. See for yourself. I think I look like Joan d'Arc, if Joanie was in her early 50s and wore lip gloss. I think Jo looks like she'd rather be touring Cooperstown.













And then we went walking toward Killmainham Gaol, where lots of Dublin history happened, particularly with the rebellion guys. We passed St. Auden's church (more holy real estate of the vintage variety), where there were flowers that might have been primroses blooming (but I could be making that up, and Lar will correct me) and then saw the Brazen Head pub (oldest in Dublin). And that's when we knew we were going in the wrong direction. And that's also when I started cursing the confusing street layout in city centre, and the map that had sent me in the wrong direction more than once. Arrrgggh. But we corrected our course and walked on. And on. And on. And the neighborhood changed, and there was Polish being spoken all around us, and I thought, holy crap, we've walked all the way to Warsaw.

But it was just another part of Dublin. There are SO many Poles in Dublin that I imagine empty streets with tumbleweeds in Warsaw. But not just Poles--there are so many people from other places here. Each city block has shops selling goods, especially food, specific to each of the different cultures. Amazing that they all come here.

It was getting a little dark by the time we realized the Killmainham Gaol was not in the vicinity. I asked a couple of people on the street if they knew where it was, but none spoke English and/or knew what I was talking about. Jo remained calm, but I was getting cranky, so I went into a fish and chips take-away place and asked the most Irish looking of the counter staff about the Gaol. She said it was another 30 minutes down the road, not around the corner. Our map fooled us again. Jo and I had a sidewalk summit and turned ourselves around to go back to the flat. When fatigue and darkness set in, good intentions are not always enough.

A few hours later, we were spiffed up (a little) and heading back out, this time across the Liffey to the Arlington Hotel, where John Nolan had arranged for the SRU group to meet for a dinner show of Irish traditional music and dancing. The Arlington has a big pub/disco upstairs and a big pub/dinner hall downstairs. Popular with tourists. We were seated at a long table with a good view of the stage and were fed a nice dinner We both had leek soup, salmon w/ boiled veg and mash, and a dessert plate with three mini pastries, all served by staff who were from someplace other than Ireland. Throughout dinner, an Irish trio played guitar and banjo and sang. The guys made good music, and there was considerable singalonging. (By this point, I know, if not all the lyrics, then at least the choruses to Molly Malone, Whiskey in the Jar, and The Fields of Atherny, as required for any visitor to Ireland.)

Everybody now:
Alive, alive-oh
Alive, alive-oh
Singing cockles and mussels
Alive, alive-oh

After dinner there was a burst of big flashy music and lights for Irish dancing that was OK but a little cheesy, intended to please the Michael Flatley lovers in attendance. (Flatley is from, like, Chicago or somewhere equally non-Irish.) One of the SRU girls bravely volunteered to dance with them in an audience participation number. And then the singers came back. I liked them better. I like trad Irish music.

There is photographic evidence of the evening's activities, but I can't find it at the moment. I'll look for the pix tomorrow to include here.

So when that was over, we walked back through the Temple District and cut over to Dame St toward the flat, dodging all the drunken fools wandering the city on a Friday night. Lots of alcohol consumption here, with bands of mostly young men staggering around from pub to pub, making noise and vomiting in the street. Maybe that's why there are street and sidewalk cleaning vehicles always on the move here. The Irish recently banned indoor smoking in public places, so now people spill out of the pubs (and every other building) to smoke, and whenever you pass the entrance to a pub (and you do that a lot in Dublin), you have to get out of the way of burning cigs and all the smoke that comes from them. Matters not that cigs are about 8 euros a pack (one euro is about $1.20) and that they come with big warnings on the package saying, "Smoking kills." There are smokers everywhere. It's hard to walk down the sidewalks, which tend to be very narrow, without dodging smokers and, later in the evening, drinkers. Maybe I'm more sensitive and critical because I'm a former smoker. But jeez louise, it is a nuisance. I suppose I should be thankful that no one empties chamber pots from the second story windows anymore. At least, I don't think they do.

So the day that started out with tea and quietude in a Georgian state of mind gave way to the Vikings and medieval Dublin, then detoured through little Warsaw, then dipped into traditional Irish music and dancing, then brought us back to the streets of 21st century Dublin again. No wonder we're tired!

Saturday is Kilkenny. Tune in next time...

Georgian on My Mind (12/04/08)

Even though all the periods of Dublin history seem to overlap in this post-modern age (if that is, in fact, what we are in), it is possible for a visitor so inclined to choose one era in which to become immersed. There are Viking fans (not the Minnesota football team). There are Norman castle lovers. And fussy Victorians. There are the bombs-and-bullets rebellion tourists as well as those drawn to the saints-and-scholars angle. And each has its merits, to be sure.

Now, being the sort of person who will order from all six columns in an Indian restaurant if given the opportunity, I have enjoyed all the history of Dublin and any the other parts of Ireland I've been fortunate enough to visit so far. But with time on the clock running down for this trip (note the sports metaphor, Jo), I've become a bit more selective. And it seems that my passion du jour is the Georgian period. My visit to the Georgian house museum at 29 Fitzwilliam on Wednesday threw a few more logs on that fire. (How many bad metaphors can we get into this paragraph?)

I managed to leave my gloves behind at that address, and since they were very nice lined leather gloves that I'd devoted some effort to breaking in just right, I wanted to retrieve them. The thought of having left gloves somewhere in the Georgian district of Dublin was itself pleasing, and planning an excursion to retrieve them was entertaining as well. (I am easily amused.) I mapped out a route that would take me deeper into Georgian neighborhoods and allow me to visit the National Gallery, Leinster House, St. Stephen's Green and the Shelbourne Hotel, which may or may not have been Georgian but was along the route and a potential stopping place for a posh tea.


But I was not feeling very well in the morning, with pesky respiratory issues exacerbated by the Dublin weather, and so I decided to be like Mrs. Beatty, the lady of the house at 29 Fitzwilliam, and spend the early hours drinking tea, directing the household staff, and attending to correspondence. The actual activity was more along the lines of making cups of tea, doing a load of laundry and blogging. But it worked for me, and by 11 or so I was feeling less punky and more ready to venture out.

When we travel, Jo and I take along little gifts from Wendell August, a company in Grove City that makes forged aluminum decorative items. We're always touched by how kind some strangers can be, and we like to be able to give a little thank-you gift made in our town. Since I was going back to 29 Fitzwilliam to collect my gloves, I wanted to leave something for Laura, the woman who'd given me such a wonderful tour. I put the box in a bag and set off with the idea that I'd pick up a card en route.

It took me three stops to find a simple notecard. Irish taste in greeting cards appears to be divided into two camps: very stiff or very sentimental. Example of the former: Christmas cards to "My Mum and Dad" containing the message: "You are nice people. May you have a happy Christmas." Seems a bit somber for one's parents. But then there is the other extreme, with tri-fold panels full of goopy poetry about the meaning of Christmas and sharing of the Christmas pudding. But both types tend to have illustrations of animals and/or holiday food, decorated with sparkly sand. And the non-Christmas blank cards are about the same. So it took awhile to find a suitable card for Laura. And then I was happily on my way to Merrion Square.

I took the long way around the park, looking at all the colorful front doors and the skyline chimneys, and when I got to 29 Fitzwilliam, I leaned against a lampost to write a note in the card. Then I went down the steps into the entrance of the museum and met up with the white-haired gentleman from the day before. He seemed genuinely pleased to remember me (but I don't know if it was perhaps just the act of remembering itself that made him smile). He handed me my gloves and I handed him the little bag for Laura, which he agreed to pass along to her. Several of the staff were in the room and wished me good travels as I left. It was all very pleasant. (I like pleasant.)

Thus reunited with my gloves, I walked across Merrion Square south and over to the National Gallery, one of those big, columned, imposing buildings taking up most of the corner of the block off Clare St. They had self-guide brochures left in every language but English, so I went to look around the main floor myself. There were a lot of muddy-looking Irish pastoral scenes, the usual oil portraits of no one I knew, and a corridor full of marbles and bronzes. Nothing too interesting. And then I turned a corner and saw a special exhibit that just opened last week, showing some of the work of Hugh Douglas Hamilton, a Georgian portraitist. Yippee!

While I love portraits in general, and I am in awe of portrait painters who work in oil, I much prefer sketches and pastels. Oils take a long time to do, and the technical skill of the painter often competes with the humanity of the sitter. But with sketches and pastels, the portrait happens more quickly, and the skill is seen in catching a mood, a gesture, a little smile. The exhibit of Hugh Douglas Hamilton's pastels was just delightful. He caught not only the details of dress and grooming that make a period come alive, but also the distinctly different personalities of his subjects that connects them to the modern viewer. I love how we are all connected, in the big scheme of things.

More Georgian Fun Facts: That middle- and upper-class Georgians were quite status conscious and vain, and they liked to sit for portraits that they'd use to decorate their more intimate living spaces. That it cost up to 50 guineas to have an oil portrait done, but only about six guineas for a pastel, and so the pastel work was quite popular. That Hamilton himself is known to have done 224 pastel portraits, but that number is likely to be much higher. That artists of the time were trained to do figure drawing and painting, copying the masters, but if they wanted to learn, say, sculpting or some other art speciality, they had to find an apprenticeship. That Georgians were so vain that portrait painters, wigmakers, tailors and dressmakers, and anyone providing an appearance-enhancing service made an excellent living.

One thing I liked about the Hamilton pastels was that he used plain, mostly grey paper, so there was no distracting background that might give indication of social status. Also, he focused on faces, so the wigs and lace were secondary to such details as a the turn of a smile or the arch of an eyebrow. Again, his little portraits show real people. Granted, people vain enough to hire him and rich enough to pay him. But real nonetheless. I loved that.

There was Lady Arabella Denny, whom Hamilton sketched in the 1770s, when she looked to be in her 50s. She grew up in Tralee (where we spent Thanksgiving), the daughter of the Earl of Kerry. The little history of her said that she was concerned with the plight of the poor in Dublin and had as a special cause the improvement of conditions at the Foundling Hospital at the Dublin Workhouse. It also said that in 1767 she founded a refuge for Protestant girls at risk of becoming prostitutes. I wondered what the assessment tool was for figuring out those risk factors. Also, what of the Catholic girls on the brink of prostitution? Because I'm guessing that the career option wasn't limited to Protestants. But Lady Denny was a lovely study, modestly attired, with a powder grey wig and white lace covering her bodice. She looked quite kind. She lived a long time, from 1701 to 1792. Perhaps acting on one's social conscience contributes to life expectancy?
Another portrait I liked was of Mary Watson-Wentworth, the Marchioness of Rockingham, who was the wife of the British Prime Minister, first in 1765-66 and then again in 1782 (same husband, different terms). She was depicted doing needlework and was described as having been a "well-informed and astute political observer" whose contribution to her husband's service was acknowledged publicly. I do like strong women who, despite social constraints, used their minds and spirits and made themselves useful. I like to think I'd have been that kind of Georgian woman.

So it was a lovely exhibit, and I feel fortunate to have stumbled upon it. I walked around the museum a bit more but was in no mood for the Big Serious Museum Paintings in the other rooms, so I followed the sound of cutlery against china and found--you guessed it--the gift shop and the cafe. The gift shop was quite nice--like the shop at the Met--and I picked up a few things but put them down because I didn't want to be carrying a bag for the rest of the day. I may go back. There was a box of Christmas cards with a painting showing five plump nuns in full habits (with wimples), ice skating on a pond. Problem is, I don't know 20 people who would find such a card as amusing as I did.

I asked a guide in a woolen vest for the time, and when he told me almost 2 I was surprised. I was due to meet Jo at the Kilkenny shop restaurant at 3. So I scooted out the door and down the street to St. Stephen's Green, a Victorian park surrounded by more Georgian houses. The middle class Georgian houses, like 29 Fitzwilliam, are narrower and of simpler construction than the mansions, which can be three times as wide and quite elaborate. The houses along St. Stephen's Green are quite nice. Larry and Tom would love the park, still well-maintained and busy with pedestrians. The Vics knew how to do a park, didn't they?




I managed to miss the Shelbourne Hotel, despite my best efforts to find it, and I think it's because although I circumnavigated the park, I didn't walk on one small stretch of the side where the Shelbourne is. So I'll have to go back again. Although... I've heard that they're renovating the interior to a more modern design, alas. I was hoping for tea in the old interior. We shall see.





So then it was down Grafton and over to Nassau and to the Kilkenny where I got myself tea and a cranberry scone. (The scones just find their way to my tray. I don't know how it happens.) I was glad for a seat, since I'd been walking a long time and didn't really feel too well. Also, the pinky toe on my right foot has been problematic when I wear my black walking shoes. Yes, this is fascinating, I know. But it's just so Not Done in Dublin to wear Reeboks on the street. Cobblestones notwithstanding, women wear real shoes. Even high-heeled real shoes. (It was the same in Mexico City, where I felt completely out of place wearing sneakers among women who were dressed impeccably at any time of day.) So my vanity cost me a very painful pinky toe. (I am considering having it removed.) I was glad to sit and drink tea awhile, looking out at Nassau St and all the people walking past.

When Jo did not appear at the appointed time, I gathered up my stuff and walked over to the loo, where there was a queue. I waited and waited. The two women ahead of me were chatting away, and the line grew behind me. I wondered if the two in front were just loitering until one turned and told me the loo was being cleaned. Her companion turned to me and said, "Aye, and no matter how mournful we looked, she said we'd have t'wait." Made me laugh.

That business taken care of, I searched the Kilkenny restaurant again for Jo, who was not yet there, and got another pot of tea for myself. The restaurant is on the second floor of the Kilkenny shop, which specializes in Irish crafts. Lovely stuff. (http://www.kilkennyshop.com/) They have scrummy items for lunch or tea. What's not to like about berry tarts? How can anything negative be said about ganache? I think all stores should have a place to stop for tea.

Jo came in, shivering, having waited an hour in the cold for a delayed bus. Poor Jo. Her body temperature has been about 70 degrees since she got here. She does not handle the cold and damp very well. Me, I bundle up, but truth be told, my occasional hot flashes serve a positive purpose here. But neither of us will miss the damp chill of Dublin.

Our plan was to go the the Stag's Head for late lunch, that establishment being an old pub frequented by Trinity College folks. But we couldn't find Dame's Court on the map, and the people we asked weren't much help, and, well, we were both a little cranky, so we walked up Grafton and stopped at Beweley's. Jo had the spaghetti bolognese and I had a ciabatta with goat cheese, roasted peppers and tomato pesto, and we shared a bowl of tomato and white bean soup. That and the pretty room cheered us right up. Then it was a couple of stops for provisions and then home, me limping a little with my silly toe, and Jo bundled up to her eyeballs. Quite the pair, we are.


A quiet evening at home--no trips to the theatre or to a friend's for a game of whist, as Mrs. Beatty might have done. We responded to hunger later in the night with an order of cod and chips from Leo Burdock's, downstairs and around the corner. Yes, bad for us, but so good. (It'll all end next week. Sigh.)

This morning I'm playing Mrs. Beatty again, having had a rough night of coughing and generally feeling punky. A little tea and blogging will set me right, and then Jo and I have adventures in store for this afternoon when she returns from her last day of observing students out in the 'burbs. We're meeting the kids this evening for a dinner and music at the Arlington Hotel, on the other side of the Liffey. And then tomorrow Jo and I are taking the bus to Kilkenny.

More later...

Gorgeous Georgians (12/03/08)

Yesterday, after stopping for (really tasty) chicken shish and flatbread at a Turkish counter restaurant near Trinity (where, incidentally, we were the only women not wearing head covering and the only non Turkish speaking customers), Jo and I went over to the travel info center to get bus tickets to Kilkenny for Saturday.

And while we were there we picked up some more brochures about things to do in Dublin. I was excited to discover a museum called 29 Fitzwilliam, which was described in a history brochure as "an exhibition of home life in Dublin 1790-1820." I perked right up at the prospect of not only walking around the Georgian district in Dublin, which I'd planned to do when I went to the National Gallery today, but also seeing something of everyday life in that era at a museum apparently devoted to that very thing. Poor Jo has yawned through enough Jane Austen film adaptations for me to know that she wouldn't mind missing 29 Fitzwilliam, so off I went on my own this morning. Little did I know what an absolutely marvelous time I was about to have!

I walked down to Trinity and then across on Nassau St, along to Clare St to Merrion Square, where there is a lovely little park. I cut through the park and came upon a war memorial that has an eternal flame surrounded by bronzes of four soldiers, all encased in a pyramid of stone and glass. I have to find out more about that one. I really was looking for the Oscar Wilde statue that was installed in the late 1990s, and at a corner of the path I found him. He reclines a big boulder, all ennui and erudition, looking out at two small statues, each atop a four-sided marble base engraved graffiti-style with his witticisms. The two smaller bronze statues are nudes, neither identified, but one of a pregnant-looking woman, kneeling, and the other of a man's torso, with buttocks facing Oscar, as I'm sure pleases him.

Walking through the park, I could take in all the Georgian row homes facing Merrion Square. There appears to be a renaissance of sorts happening in the district, with many of the buildings restored for mostly offices and some homes. I learned it was not uncommon in the 19th century to have a law practice or some other business at street level and a residence above. (I want my office in one of them, please. With a bright blue door, please. And a shiny brass knocker, please.)

The colorfully painted front doors with their brass hardware that are emblematic of Dublin line these streets. The story goes that when the perpetually in-mourning Queen Victoria was to visit Dublin, her advance team gave orders that all the doors be painted black as a sign of respect. Middle class Dubliners who were none too keen on the Brits responded by painting their doors the brightest colors they could find. The doors have stayed colorful ever since.

My next destination was 29 Fitzwilliam St Lower, but I walked past it and saw the numbers getting smaller. So I backtracked and spotted it across the street. I stood with a group of about a dozen boys, maybe 9 or 10 years old, and their teacher, waiting to cross. It became apparent as we waited that the boys and I were bound for the same address. I walked a little ahead of them and down the stairs off the street, to the museum entrance, where a white-haired gentleman in a tweed sportcoat asked if I were with the school group. I said I was not but that I wouldn't mind having the tour with them. He directed me into a small seating area with a screen on one wall and a map of Georgian Dublin on another and asked me to wait there. The boys all took off their coats and hung them on hooks by the entrance and then tumbled into their seats in front of me. Their teacher, a cheerful, middle-aged woman who was lovely with them, kept the conversation on topic and their behavior in check as we all waited for the film to begin. The boys wore grey flannel trousers and blue shirts under grey sweaters and came from St. Christopher's School, if my eavesdropping is reliable.

So we all watched an interesting little film about 29 Fitzwilliam St, which was first owned by a wine merchant named Beatty in 1794 and occupied by himself and his wife and their seven children. The Merrion Square area was being developed as a residential district away from the crowded conditions closer to the Liffey, with mansions for the rich and narrower four-story homes for middle class families like the Beattys. Mr. Beatty, who was perhaps 20 yrs older than his wife, died shortly after moving in, and at least one of the children also died young, but Mrs. Beatty remained in the house until 1806, when she moved out of Dublin. Her husband had not left a will, and so she became dependent on her father-in-law, who died while she was in the house, as well. She left the city for a house owned by her father-in-law near Wexford, where she lived until her 80s. A couple of centuries later, the house eventually came into the possession of the National Museum of Ireland by way of the Electricity Supply Board, the latter organization being the financial supporters of the project to turn it into the museum it is has been since about 1990. The house has been completely restored with furniture and other artifacts from the Beatty family as well as reprentative pieces from the era 1790 to 1820.

So let me tell you about the tour. It was beyond excellent. That's because as the school boys were being lined up to start the tour, the white-haired gentleman gestured for me to wait behind. He instructed me to leave my coat on a hook by the door and to lock up my bag and my camera in a little closet. I grabbed a handful of Kleenex and put a couple of Ricola in my pocket (I'm a public nuisance when I have a cold), and then the gentleman beckoned to me from across the room and introduced me to a woman named Laura. Turns out, the staff had decided to send the boys on through with their teacher and give me my very own docent. I was just twitherpated.

Laura was impeccably groomed, maybe late 60s, bright and outgoing, an expert on the house who said she's been doing tours for 17 years. She and I were on a first-name basis before we even started the tour, and I'd agreed with her optimistic assessment of Barack Obama (and scathing criticism of W) before we were out of the first room of the tour, the scullery. She was full of information but seemed a bit edgy. By the time we were on the third floor, I learned that her youngest son, en route to Australia from Dublin after losing his job here, was being detained in Bangkok due to the recent trouble there, and that contact with him had been sporadic at best. So I'm thinking that the universe put us in the same place at the same time for a reason today, as often happens. I'm a good listener who is fascinated by Georgian life, and she's a good talker who needed the distraction of work and a chance to vent. Truth be told, I think I came out ahead, because I got the tour of a lifetime.

We talked about every single thing in the house, from bottom to top. Ready for some Fun Georgian Facts?

A "hastener" was a tin-lined kitchen shelf, closed on one side and open to the fire on the other, in which the reflective heat kept food warm and hastened the rising of the yeast bread dough.

To keep the rats away from the food, it was stored on a shelf suspended from the middle of the ceiling because while rats will crawl, they won't jump. In the Beatty household, a high window from the housekeeper's bedroom into the pantry allowed her to have a clear view of the rat shelf so that she could catch the day servants if they tried to steal food to take home to their famlies.

Water was a precious commodity in c. 1800 Dublin, so an occasional sitz bath or a scrubdown with powder was what the middle classes considered good hygiene.

A prospective governness would use a needlework sampler as her resume. Her best case scenario was to become a companion to the lady of the house who might arrange a match for her so that when the children no longer needed her, she'd have a marriage to enter into, thus ensuring her economic survival.

Young girls played with dollhouses as a way of learning to manage a household so that their husbands could rely on them. Their middle class or upper class mothers often knew little about the actual running of the household, so the servants and governess might play dollhouse with the girls to teach them.

So many Dubliners at that time had "weak chests" from bronchial infections (go figure) that beds were designed to allow people to sleep sitting up.

A brass rail attached to the wall inside the front door served as a place to hang capes and wraps, as well as to give gentlemen homeowners returning home drunk from the club something to grip so that the servants wouldn't see them keel over.

Break-ins were such a problem in Dublin at the time that front doors had massive iron chain bolts on them. It was considered unsafe to walk outside except in broad daylight because of muggings in which anything of value--like silver shoe buckles--might be stolen. Carriages and chaises used to carry residents around town were often set upon by thieves.

The main floor of the house was most sumptuously decorated, and the curtains were left open so that passersby would be able to look in. The decor got simpler the higher you'd go, until the children's and governness's rooms on the top floor (like the housekeeper's room in the basement) were quite stark and utilitarian.

The scullery maid in the Beatty household earned sixpence a week. She lived in squalor in the medieval district of town and walked to and from work at sun-up and after sundown. She, like most servants, was Catholic, while the Beattys were Protestant. In Dublin at the time, the "haves" were Protestant and the "have-nots" were Catholic.

A system of bell pulls connected each room upstairs to the basement and the servants. Although the bell board was marked with the name of the room associated with the bell, each bell gave off a different tone that allowed the illiterate servants to know where their attention was needed.

Wedgewood china in the late 18th century was not blue and white, as it is today, but tan and black. And Wedgewood produced a pottery hedgehog as a coveted promotional item that ladies would grow their irises in.

The lady of this house had a number of small, porcelain pill boxes, including one that held her "patches," or beauty marks to be worn on social occasions. She also wore eyeglasses, and she had ivory glove stretchers for her new kidskin gloves.

OK, I'll stop now. This is the kind of stuff that gets my heartrate up. Imagine visiting a museum dedicated to something that really floats your boat, and having your very own docent take you through and share tiny little details as well as describe the big picture, and let you get up close and see everything in the place, and not once say, "Don't touch." I kept waiting for her to say, that's enough now, go home. But instead she's say, "Do you have more time? Let me tell you about..."

After a few hours, we made our way back to the basement kitchen where we'd started and said our goodbyes in the (inevitable) cafe and gift shop area. I was looking at books and things before I left, and after a while Laura came out to where I was and recommended some cookbooks. We shook hands and wished each other Happy Christmas again, and she said, "Sleinte," which I've probably misspelled, but is Irish (Gaelic) for goodbye. I hope she hears from her son tonight.

No photos allowed at 29 Fitzwilliam, but I found a website you can check out if you are interested: http://www.esb.ie/main/about_esb/numbertwentynine/about_us/default.htm

So that was just marvelous. I was still buzzing when I walked along Merrion Square and found W.B. Yeats' residence (when he was an elected official after the rebellion), and then I stopped at a basement gallery to look at art I can't afford, and then I was going to go to the National Gallery, but the white-haired gentleman at 29 Fitzwilliam told me it might be closed because a set of stairs had collapsed under a group of teachers not long ago, and, well, there might have been a fatality but he wasn't sure, and in any event, the museums often close down for a few weeks at this time of year. It's hard to know how much of what these Irish gentlemen say is true. I think Jo and I, with our tendency to fabricate that which we do not actually know, fit in quite well here.

After Merrion Square, I stopped at the Kilkenny Shop on Nassau to get a nifty tote bag I'd seen there. Then it was on to Trinity's shop where the last visit was cut short by the closing time announcement. Picked up a few gifties there. And then up Dame St with a detour on George St to get milk and tea for the flat at Dunne's, and then up the hill to meet Jo after school. We went Indian for a late lunch in a restaurant that couldn't have been more than 50 degrees (F) inside but had good naan, and then came home to try to get warm. She's napping. I'm blogging. Life is good.

Have I mentioned that I like Dublin?

St Pat's,a New Flat and the VAT (12/03/08)

The bells at Christ Church Cathedral just rang 6, and across Prince Edward St I sit sipping Theraflu and adding to the small pile of used Kleenex resting on yesterday's edition of the Herald Tribune. The Irish convert wind and peat to energy. If they could find a way to convert what's coming out of my nose into energy, they'd eliminate their reliance on foreign oil altogether. Of course, in order to maintain a steady supply of the resource, they'd have to put me up indefinitely in old buildings without central heating. It's not just castles and cathedrals that fit that description in Dublin, although I wouldn't be opposed to living in either.

Meanwhile, I'm in the flat on Prince Edward St, where we moved all our gear midday yesterday, Tuesday, when Jo's colleague left for home. It's a pleasant little second story flat in a five or so story building, with a kitchen, a sitting room, a bedroom and a bathroom, each coming off the entry hall. There's a small fireplace (presumably for heat) in the sitting room, and the windows off the sitting room and bedroom have wrought iron balconies overlooking the side street.

If you look down and to the left, you can see Leo Burdock's awning. I know this because last night at about 10:30 we heard a commotion of sirens and opened the window of the sitting room to see three fire trucks, lights a-flashing, in the street below, with a dozen or so firefighters milling about and looking all around, including up at us. No one told us to evacuate, so we watched from the balcony until they all got into their rigs and drove away. Who knows what that was all about?

We're in a Cathedral zone here, with Christ Church across the street and St Patrick's around the corner and down the road. Yesterday I got into St Patrick's for a few hours. I think the film crew I saw there last week (that kept the Cathedral closed to the public) may have been filming the choir for a Christmas special. I could be making that up (Jo and I fill in the blanks when we don't have all the facts; it makes for more interesting narrative in general and keeps us amused.), but the cathedral is known for its choir. In fact (and I'm not making this up), it was at St Patrick's that Handel's first Irish performance of his Messiah took place in 1742, using a combined choir from Christ Church and St Patrick's. It must have been magnificent in the huge vaulted space.

Both cathedrals are Church of Ireland, not Roman Catholic. St Patrick's was built adjacent to the reputed site of a well where St Patrick baptized Christian converts. Some sort of church has been there since the 5th century, with the current cathedral dating back to the 14th century. The tall spires came a few hundred years later. It's an impressive piece of ecclesiastical real estate.

A couple of cheerful Anglican priests (deacons?) sold me a ticket to tour the place, and I passed through a standard issue Irish souvenir gift shop area set up by the baptistry. There were businessy looking people having a meeting up by the choir. I think St Patrick's is a money-making operation in addition to a place of worship. It is also a museum, full of plaques and brasses and and statues and artifacts and, well, just a lot of stuff, all difficult to sort out on the first (and second) walk through. A disconcerting lack of aesthetic consideration. My Virgo self wanted to start rearranging chairs and tidying up relic cases and redirecting the lighting to shadowy corners. (Larry, you'd have a field day.)

Jonathan Swift was a dean at St Patrick's from 1713-1745, and his role is prominently noted in the cathedral, with informational banners, a couple of his death masks, a mold of his skull used for a phrenology reading (after his death, I'm assuming), early editions of his work, and other artifacts.

The cathedral has some beautiful stained glass windows--tall, thin ones, in gorgeous jewel colors, depicting lots of history that I'm not up on.

There are memorials to the war dead of just about every war, including some especially sad ones--like the list of former Dublin boy scouts killed in the first world war, and the marble plaque marking the battle death of the 20 yr old son of someone important enough to warrant that wall space. I may be naive, but it seems to me that instead of putting all that money into memorials after the fact, Christian churches and the people who support them financially need to be putting their efforts into opposing war in the first place. I find no glory in that kind of death, and I find lavish war memorials in churches to be deeply disturbing.

But there was plenty of other stuff to see. Like two big grave slabs from Celtic times, carved with early Christian symbols. Wonderful old brasses in interesting fonts. And a set of church keys dating back to who knows when, all different sizes and degrees of ornateness. And early sheet music for the choir. Oh, and each wooden seat used by the congregation has a different (and old) needlepointed cushion attached to the back of it. There are hundreds of them!

Not surprisingly, there were a few different statues of St Patrick, including a very old Santa-esque one that looked as if it had been exposed to the elements for a long time. It had a little plaque next to it saying the head had been replaced. I wonder what happened to the first head? (The Vikings kept order by putting the heads of their enemies on pikes around the castle wall and tossing them over to rot when it was time for a new batch. Maybe the Vikings took that St Patrick's head? Again, I could be making that up. Actually, I am.)

What do you call the sculptures showing the deceased person in repose? I can't think of the word. But there was one, in marble, of a viscountess or some such ranking person, that was lovely. Her hand came out of a ruffled sleeve and was quite beautiful.

Over the choir hang banners and what look like helmets (hatchments?) of the Order of St Patrick, which I've learned is a chivalric sort of organization that George III established toward the end of the 18th century, for Irish men of distinction. Not so much anymore, but it was considered a high honor at one time. (I wonder, did they run bingo like the Knights of Columbus?)

In a very dark corner of the North Transept is a wooden door with a rectangular hole in it, not looking at all like the famous artifact it is. I like the story: that in 1492, the Earl of Ormond and the Earl of Kildare were having a tiff that kept them from reaching any sort of compromise. Ormond was hiding out in the Chapter House. Kildare cut a hole in the door and reached his hand through it, thus ending the feud. The boys made up and there was peace once again (for a while at least, this being Ireland). So the door is in St. Patrick's today. Again, there is a lot of stuff in this cathedral.

FYI, even when you buy stuff in a church gift shop, they charge the VAT, a tax that adds almost 20% to the cost of whatever you buy. There's a way to get it back for goods you purchase while in Ireland, but the process seems far more complicated than the average tourist can manage without legal counsel. I'm going to have to sort that out before we leave.

Outside, I found a gate unlatched and wandered around a graveyard and along to what I think was a library, or maybe the choir school. In any case, there was good stuff to photograph before leaving the grounds.

The guys in the cassocks said it was OK to take photos, so I'll add some here, later. Now I hear Jo up and about, getting ready for today's bus adventure out to the schools. Time to get this Wednesday going myself. Achoo.