I’m typing this on the National Express coach from Brighton to Victoria Station, London. I probably shouldn’t bother and just sleep instead, since I got, at most, three hours’ sleep last night (or this morning, rather), but I’m sure my battery will run down before my computer’s does, so let’s just see how far I get, shall we?
So then. On to the Dublin trip. This will be a monster post, by the way. It covers three very full days in Dublin, so consider yourself warned.
Tuesday 8/8/06Straight after class, at 5:00, we left Arts A for Falmer Station, where we caught the train to Gatwick. We got there in plenty of time, and even had a couple hours to kill in the airport. Cathy led us all to the Ryan Air check-in and then, in a preview of things to come, to the airport pub. All but a few of us hung out and ate dinner there; chronic iconoclasts Brandon and Sam went with McDonald’s. I haven’t eaten at a McDonald’s in over four years (not since DCI at Madison in 2002, but those were extenuating circumstances, and by the time we left I’m not even sure if the building was still standing), and I’m not about to now, especially in another country. Except Scotland. I’d eat at a McDonald’s in Scotland. Local cuisine.
(This is where I put the laptop away and slept on the bus. Predictably, I didn’t make it very far. Now I’m in the place I’m calling home for the next few days: Furnival House, at the University of Westminster. It’s more or less the same set-up as Park Village, in that I have a room to myself and share a kitchen and bathroom. Sweet.)
Anyway, where was I? Gatwick. Our flight was delayed (Ryan Air’s motto is “The on-time airline”), so while we waited we learned some fascinating tidbits about the capitol of Belarus, the details of punishments for various crimes in Singapore, and so forth, courtesy of Glynnis, who is apparently a bottomless well of Eastern Bloc and Asian trivia of this kind. Then came the cattle call, and we boarded.
I don’t remember much of the flight; I sat on the aisle and fell asleep pretty quickly. I have a vague recollection of a little kid making a lot of noise, and of the guy in the window seat simultaneously hitting on the girl between us and babbling about Islam. Then they attempted American accents. I don’t know what’s so hard about the American accent (any of them, really) but it seems like not even British actors (e.g., on “Knowing Me, Knowing You” or “The Day Today”) can really handle it. What’s with putting an “-r” at the end of every word that ends with an “ah” sound? I’m positive we don’t do that. Maybe it sounds like we do to them. Whatever. Point is, I heard all that, but I also slept pretty much until we landed.
After customs, we caught an airport coach into Dublin. The coach had fold-down trays on its seatbacks, but they wouldn’t stay folded up and kept falling down every time we hit a bump. Maybe we were just tired by that point, but it amused us to no end.
Cathy’s schedule had us landing at 10:30 pm and hitting the Brazen Head by 11:00. Of course, since our flight had been delayed, we didn’t get off the coach until about 11:28. We hit the ground running – literally. We hastened with all speed to the pub, but in vain. They were still open, kinda, but they not so much that they’d serve us. With many a muttered curse, Cathy led us on to another pub, and then another. She really seemed to know where all the pubs were in the area, which, of course, made her an excellent guide. It was a great first Dublin experience: running through the streets in the middle of the night trying to find a place to drink.
We ended up at O’Brien’s, which is a pretty inaccurate thing to say as you can’t swing a dead leprechaun in Dublin without hitting something named O’Brien’s. That family does everything. O’Brien’s was new, apparently, and therefore unknown to Cathy. She expressed a slight disdain for the place, and agreed with my comparison to T.G.I. Friday’s. Bunch of crazy crap on the walls. They were playing Billy Joel (“Piano Man”) when we walked in, which was contrary to my expectations of finding half a dozen sexagenarians in the corner playing tambours and tin whistles. But it was all good. The place was a little dead, but that was fine. We were lively enough.
After a bit, Cathy took Taylor, Sam, Glynnis, Heather, and Venise to the hostel while the rest of us stayed behind. The eleven of us were to share two six-bed rooms, and it quickly became apparent that the six of us still in O’Brien’s – Brandon, Nina, Leslie, Kelsey, Chelsea, and myself – would take up one of them. Taylor, Heather, and... I’m not sure who else... Glynnis? Anyway, they showed up at O’Brien’s again after finding and eating at a Chinese restaurant down the street that was still open, but they left again before we did.
That’s definitely one of the many ways in which Dublin was a nice change from Brighton: things stayed open. I’m not talking about clubs or whatever, because those are useless to me, but little restaurants and a newsagent’s or two were still shining bright when we finally left the pub at 1:30 (it might not look it in the picture below, but trust me). Cathy had recommended a place called Abrakebabra, so we headed there.
For no particular reason, Abrakebabra became the best restaurant ever as far as we were concerned. It’s not that the food was so great, or much of a bargain. I think it was just the combination of their goofy name and the fact that they were serving garlic cheese fries at 2:00 in the morning. Our needs were simple.
At about 2:30 or 3:00 we found the hostel, got our keys, and lay awake in the dark having a very weird conversation, most of which could not be repeated in polite company, I'm sure. I will say, though, that the phrase "best ____ ever" came up quite a bit, and that the blank was variously filled with "teacher," "room" (sorry other room!), and, of course, "field trip." It was sometime after 4:00 when the last of us shut up and slept.
Wednesday 8/9/06Cathy had warned us not to stay out too late Tuesday night, because Wednesday was officially the education portion of the field trip and it wouldn’t do to have a class full of hungover students. I will say on behalf of my classmates that although most of them ignored her advice, they handled their hangovers admirably.
The hostel stopped serving breakfast at 9:30, so I rushed down there before it was too late only to find that breakfast consisted solely of tea and toast. Meh. I made the best of it. Once we were all fed and ready to go, Cathy led us up the street, past Christ Church Cathedral --
-- over the Liffey --
-- and to a tram stop. I don’t know if it’s actually called a tram, now that I think about it, but it’s some kind of sleek, modern light-rail rapid transit system, so tram will do.
All the signs in Dublin (and, I presume, in all of Ireland) are in Irish first and English second. It was one of the many reminders that Ireland is a relatively young country, far younger even than the U.S. The Easter Rising of 1916 was less than a century ago, and it’s only been about eighty years since the Irish civil war. Learning about Irish history in the classroom setting was one thing, but to see tangible, first-hand evidence of it was something else altogether. Speaking of which, our first stop was Kilmainham Gaol.
Our guide, Mícheal (pronounced “mee-hall” -- apparently I’ve been getting it wrong all this time), started things off with a slide show about the gaol’s history, and the history of gaols in general, then took us around the grounds.
There’s really far too much to the place to write about fairly here, but one interesting statistic, according to Mícheal, is that every major political figure of the Irish independence spent time time at Kilmainham except three (one of the exceptions was Michael Collins, whom you probably don’t remember from the film of the same name that you didn’t see, but without whom the history of Ireland would’ve been a lot different).
Okay, quick story about Michael Collins and Kilmainham. Officially, Collins’ position in the Irish Republican Brotherhood was as head of intelligence, but he was also the driving force behind what were essentially a series of terrorist attacks against the English. We should probably call him a freedom fighter, though, as in the current political climate... well, the mere mention of the word “terrorist” probably means the FBI is already reading this. At any rate, he and Eamonn De Velera, the president of the IRB, were close friends for years until their clashing opinions over a treaty Collins negotiated with the English split them irrevocably. Eventually, that led to the civil war.
When De Velera was in Kilmainham, a guard there decided to mess with his head by carving “M. COLLINS” into a wall where De Velera would see it every day when he went out into the yard for his exercise (i.e., walking the perimeter of the yard with his head down and his hands clasped behind his back), but the deposed president never said a word. Frustrated at this lack of a reaction, one day the guard stopped De Velera before it and asked, “Take a look at that, now. What do you think of that?”
De Velera calmly replied, “The ‘N’ is backwards.”
And so it was. Joke’s on you, guard. The guard fixed it shortly thereafter, so now it looks more like “COLLIXS” than “COLLINS.”
Obviously, the gaol isn’t full of a lot of happy stories; it’s all pretty horrific, actually. Most of what could be pointed out on the tour was either “He was imprisoned here” or “He was killed there.” In the yard there, for example, are two crosses marking the places where Padraec Pearse and James Connolly were executed.
Incidentally, De Velera wasn’t executed, despite his position, because he was born in New Jersey, and technically an American citizen. The English didn’t want to cause any trouble with the U.S., so they let him live. His foreign birth also accounts for his obviously foreign name: as I recall, his father was of Spanish descent.
After the tour, we were turned loose to explore the gaol on our own, or at least part of it.
One of the many sad stories of Kilmainham is that of Joseph Plunkett and Grace Gifford, both inmates, who were married four hours before Plunkett was executed. Grace, an artist, decorated the back wall of her cell, which you can see through the “judas.”
A few of us wandered up some stairs and stumbled upon what must have been the old gallows, but it soon became apparent to us that we weren’t supposed to be up there.
Hey, they should’ve put up a sign.
When it was time to go, we caught a bus back into the city, and Cathy apologetically pointed out all the places she’d lived along the route. I totally understand the urge to do that; let me show you around Vancouver sometime.
We were all starving by the time we got off the bus, so we quickly found a pub for lunch. Unfortunately, they didn’t have enough food for us (!), so out we went again to find another one. Not that that’s exactly difficult to do.
We ended up at the Duke, which ascribed all sorts of literary significance to itself. There were pictures of and quotations by Joyce, O’Casey, Shaw, Beckett, and others tastefully displayed on the walls.
I had a ham sandwich that could choke a horse. It was pretty much an entire pig between two slices of bread.
Somewhere in all this pub-finding, I went to an ATM and saw this guy. I have no words to describe the mix of stereotype, weirdness, and Styx present in this ten-second clip.
I should also point out at this point that Ireland is a nonsmoking country, at least when they’re indoors. That’s right: the entire country. This made all these pub stops a positive joy for me, as before we left I’d been concerned about my ability to hold my breath for two hours at a time.
Lunch having been dispatched, it was on to St. Stephen’s Green, as featured in some of our class’s literature. I guess I haven’t mentioned exactly what we read, but at that point, we’d read and discussed
The Plough and the Stars by Sean O’Casey,
Dubliners,
The Charwoman’s Daughter by Stephens,
The Picture of Dorian Gray, and Yeats’s poem “September 1913,” not in that order. Of those, some of
Dubliners and
The Charwoman’s Daughter take place in part in St. Stephen’s Green.
In a shocking display of doing something I would do, Cathy had plotted out the paths of one or two characters from what we’d read, and told us “This is where Mary Makebelieve walked” or “Conroy and Lenehan, from ‘Two Gallants,’ came down this street.” I really dug that. Pretty much all I ever want to do is recreate or revisit scenes from film, TV, and books. One of my big goals in London is to find 23 Meteor Street, the house from “Spaced” [update: found it!]. Not exactly Joyce, I know, but I have to start somewhere.
Stephen’s Green really is gorgeous. It’s too bad we couldn’t have spent more time there. Actually, two of us did: when we left the park, we were missing Brandon, so Sam went back to look for him, and then, as might be expected, we were missing Sam as well. It took Cathy going in herself to sort it out, and she emerged from a side gate dragging each by their ears. Well, no, but that would’ve been pretty cool.
From there we made our way to the birthplace of Oscar Wilde. He and I share a birthday, so even though
The Importance of Being Earnest makes me roll my eyes so much it causes serious retinal damage, I’ve always felt a certain bond with him.
Don’t get me wrong; I loved
Dorian Gray. With
Earnest it’s just... the wit. I can’t take that much ceaseless, flamboyant wit. I can’t deny the wit itself – the guy was a genius, obviously – but it’s like being force-fed chocolate mousse. Anyway. Enough of me.
In the park itself is a recently installed statue of Wilde, and it is, in a word, awesome.
The facial expression and posture are great, of course, but the texturing on his clothes and attention to detail are phenomenal. It’s perfect (in addition to being awesome).
Trinity College was just around the corner from there, so off we went. They have the Book of Kells there on permanent exhibition, I discovered. I did not know that. The lines were far too long, though, and our schedule too tight, for us to dawdle, although I was able to get a picture of this weird sphere-thing.
We could've spent a good part of the day there, I'm sure, but there was simply too much to do and to see. In a case of bad timing,
Waiting For Godot was playing there the following night. Oh well.
On our way from there to some mid-day light refreshments, we passed a statue called Mr. Screen, standing outside a movie theater, that was apparently Cathy's favorite.
Taylor tried a Guinness for the first time here; she did not like it. Brandon, however, gave it a good home. That's teamwork, people. I want to say the place was called Mulligan's, although I don't really recall. It was of literary significance, though, I know that.
Lightly refreshed, we were out and back across the Liffey again, this time headed for the General Post Office and the busy center of Dublin. There were more statues to see. And the Spire.
Cathy kept apologizing for showing us a bunch of statues, but honestly, I enjoyed it. I like seeing that sort of thing. I come from a place with few, if any, monuments, unless you count South Coast Plaza. In addition to all the "regulars" along O'Connell Street (the widest street in Europe, incidentally) was a series of sculptures featuring these odd rabbit-looking things that none of us could quite figure out. Apparently they're part of a travelling exhibition.
Ah, the Spire. If I recall correctly, it's approximately eight
million feet tall. But don't quote me on that. The city's divided over it. Half of them think it's a breathtaking piece of modern engineering, and half think four million euros is far too much to spend on a bus stop.
Me, I think it's amazing.
It was time for a little shopping break, so most of our group popped into Carroll's to buy hideous leprechaun dolls and green teddy bears. I stayed outside and took a picture of these women sitting on James Joyce's statue.
Once a sufficient quantity of our euros had been pumped into Dublin's tourism industry, we headed back to the hostel through the Temple Bar District for a little break before dinner.
I slept (and snored, apparently) for a good two hours, then it was time to eat. Cathy had worn a pedometer all day, and according to that we'd walked nine miles. I believed it. I was beat.
Dinner was at a restaurant in the TBD called the Bad Ass, which was clearly a popular college hangout (and could very well have been so for Cathy when she was at Trinity -- just taking a wild guess here). Our meal was on the University of Sussex, which was cool. I think one half of our table got pizzas, and the other half, fajitas, so it was traditional Irish food all 'round, and all very good. I picked up a free comic there called "The Shiznit" which lives up to its name. I had a hard time resisting reading it the rest of the night, and often gave in. It had "Super Fun-Packed Comix" in it, which I hadn't seen in years.
Afterwards Cathy took us to the Auld Dubliner, where I and about half our party were to spend the rest of the night listening to a guy called Des Dublin sing Irish folk songs. It was pretty much exactly what I'd wanted. It was like the Red Fox, but with Irish music (suggestions of the Ould Sod, which actually
is the Irish equivalent of the Red Fox in San Diego, have been anticipated). The guy was talented and funny, and it was great to just sit in once place for a while. It wasn't all Irish music, though; he did try to sing "California Girls" for the benefit of our California girls, but... well, it would've helped to have known the words. Other than that, back of the net.
Somehow, we found our way at O'Brien's again, but now the place was packed. It was like being in a regular bar in many ways. Shouting was required. A barrel-chested guy with a broad face and a broken nose repeatedly re-enacted the breaking of that nose with a huge blond guy in a black T-shirt. Each performance was followed by Broken Nose stumbling down the length of the pub and accosting a stranger to ask if they'd seen the guy who'd broken his nose. "Was it that one there? In the black shirt?" Then he'd go reeling back to his mock assailant. Goto 10. I had no idea why he was doing this. He had a good long conversation with Venise, but to hear her tell it, it wasn't especially enlightening. Fair enough.
What could come next but Abrakebabra? Cathy eventually joined us there, and when we'd had our fill it was back to the hostel. Leslie and I talked comics for a while (she feels very strongly that the Huntress should die already), and at about 3:00 we finally fell asleep.
Thursday 8/10/06We awoke (figuratively speaking) to the news that British authorities had foiled a terrorist plot at Heathrow, so that put something of a damper on things. It also messed with our schedule a bit, as Cathy felt, in anticipation of flight delays, that we needed to get to the airport a bit earlier than we'd planned. At that point we really didnt know any details, or even how big a deal it was. Well, Cathy did, but she was wisely keeping that to herself. Later in the day she told us it was a much bigger deal than she'd let on.
Still, on with the tour. Checkout was at 10:30, and earlier in the morning a few of our party sought out the Guinness brewery, which apparently is nothing like how I'd pictured it (from all the Guinness frenzy around town, I thought it'd be something like the Wonka Chocolate Factory, but with stout instead of candy). They said it's just a big brick building with a plaque on it. Another illusion shattered.
Brunch was at Bewley's, which must be famous because I'd heard of it before.
All too soon, we had to get the coach back to the airport. I would've liked to have gone back to the Temple Bar District again, and just spent more time checking out the city. Immediately I started thinking of ways to get back to Dublin before the end of the session, but it just wasn't practical. I'll have to find a way back one day. Cathy inadvertantly teased us with talk of our flight being delayed or cancelled, and had already cleared another night's hotel stay (that's
hotel, mind, not
hostel) just in case.
Sadly, we boarded our flight with virtually no delays whatsoever. Maybe an hour, tops. I'm not sure. I was asleep most of the time we were waiting. They tell me it was an hour. Anyway, out to the tarmac.
I slept through the flight and the landing, but again, they tell me all of that went just fine, and when I awoke we were back at Gatwick.
Brandon and I concocted a plan to stop for dinner in Brighton before getting the train back to Falmer, so we wandered around town for a while. I had to finally get a picture of this place.
Yes, ha ha. This place is pretty cool, though. Everything sold there is produced within a 50-mile radius of the store, so it's about as local as local gets.
Eventually we ended up eating at the first place we'd passed: Gourmet Burger Kitchen. I'd more or less avoided the place until then, because -- well, I mean, it's just hamburgers, and shouldn't I be eating something a little more exotic in a foreign country? Answer: no. These are the best hamburgers ever. In fact, I went back two nights later.
And there's one in London, too, so I'll have to find that place. There was a Celtic music night right next door at Komedia, but it was £12.50 just to get in, and considering how tired I was and how long I'd have to stay to make my £12.50 really count, I decided it wasn't worth it and headed home.
(Later I found out I could've gotten in for £6 if I'd mentioned the school, but whatever.)
And so ends the best field trip ever.
We're at the Briskers' house right now, so I'm going to give just a quick rundown of the past few days to let you know where we've been and what we've done. From Heathrow we went to Oxford, as the picture above indicates, where Jill used to live.
