Vacation Day One-Who's That Guy?

Another year, another vacation. Like the inevitability of high school kids dying in two-a-day August Texas high school football practice, I’m going on vacation in September. This year: Ireland and Scotland. The cab driver on the way in from the airport asked me why I’d go to Ireland. Well, its relatively cool climate, compared to the dozens of 100 degree + days I’ve endured these past weeks living in Austin. The people are reputedly friendly. The scenery supposedly is extraordinary. And I’ve seen The Quiet Man about 50,000 times and just figured that’s the kind of place I want to see for myself. I was originally going to France. But as I wrote earlier, the prices went very high by the time I bought my ticket because I screwed around too long so the market went out of sight. The only halfway reasonable price was to Dublin. It was on my list anyway, and this way I wouldn’t have to take a crash course in conversational French. I should mention that I have to fly business class due to my wretched back. The coach seats reserved for the steerage passengers leave me incapacitated for about a week. Its not because my butt’s too big for coach. Its because I’m a delicate flower. Rather than spend two weeks in Ireland, which seems like a little too much, I’m going to split the two weeks between Ireland and Scotland. So this will seem like a whirlwind, as I try to fit a travel schedule into a week what really should take about 10 days.

The flight over was fairly uneventful. Lots of BYU fans at the airport on their way to the Texas-BYU game. Funny, they didn’t look too cultish. Didn’t see any purple shrouds or Nikes. You know, with any other religion, people would find such little quips offensive. Well, maybe you can insult Southern Baptists too. The Mormons, however, don’t seem to garner that same respect. Not sure whether it’s the idea of finding the mystery golden tablets in upstate New York, with previously unknown teachings of Jesus, not drinking sodas, the historic polygamy thing (why can’t the women have multiple husbands), or the fact that the enterprise is run by a small group of guys in their 90s who in every way act like the mob bosses in Casino, or maybe its something else. Still, it seems to be open season on the Mormons. Or as my Dad calls them, the “Cult.” I guess if you’ve never heard it, the traditional story of Jesus must sound kind of bizarre too (“Ok, there was this carpenter and a virgin, see…cured lepers…hung around with a prostitute…loaves and fishes…nailed to the cross….” Yeah, some Amazonian rain forest pygmy might have a hard time with that one.)

I flew Jet Blue and Aer Lingus. For once the Jet Blue flight left relatively on time and wasn’t packed to the gills. With my business class ticket I got to while away my JFK time at “The Oasis,” a sort of combined elite status departure lounge for various national airlines. Sadly, Vera Farmiga wasn’t there waiting for me. Given the international nature of the clientele, this was more like the Star Wars cantina scene. I kept looking for the band and for Greedo to come after me with a blaster. Still, I got “free” dinner (built into the obscene ticket price) and got to sit in a nice seat watching college football during the three hour layover. The security line was complete anarchy. Some bitter, disgruntled TSA agent was barking “hilarious” comedy lines to the thousands of people huddling in line with their chickens and boxes and the like. This was the poor huddled masses yearning to go back home.

The Aer Lingus flight was pretty pleasant. The “steerage” seats weren’t too bad, but the up front seats were very nice. Service was excellent. As usual, I couldn’t get any sleep. Its just me; everyone else was sleeping. I tried; I must have listened to all of side I of Dark Side of the Moon (kids, there used to be “sides”…uh, never mind). We caught the jet stream or something, and arrived more than an hour early. Though I had advanced planned and got semi-cleaned up on the plane (not because I’m morally superior, I just wanted to look a little less serial killeresque while going through immigration control), everyone else drudging through the line looked like they slept in their car. Or were Aggies.

From the air, Ireland looks a lot like Nantucket. Lots of greenery, lots of washes and bog. Dublin seems kind of small, like flying into Lubbock (but without the delightful feedlot smell). I took a cab to my hotel, even though the guidebooks said to take the 6 euro shuttle bus. The cabbie was really talkative, and gave me my first exposure to the Irish brogue. I understood him, but have been having trouble understanding people ever since. In fairness though, I can barely understand Americans, so it must be me. It was a really dreary day, with off and on rain throughout the day. I noticed a lot of “for sale” signs on the trip in, and the cabbie said that the economy had never returned since the 2007 bust. That confirms what the guy I sat next to on the plane said, that both his kids had to leave the country to get decent work because Dublin lacks good professional jobs. Of course, the cabbie attributed the decline to Poles moving into the country after all the mortgage lenders went bankrupt, which I didn’t exactly follow.

I’m staying at the Schoolhouse Hotel, which is a nice, small, quiet hotel about a 10-15 minute walk from the city center. Its located on the "Grand Canal" (see above), a very lovely waterway cutting through town, reminscent of the canal running through Chrischurch, NZ. The hotel is not a hovel, nor is it the Four Seasons. Its got all the amenities, which over here doesn’t include air conditioning. Which is absolutely amazing. But here the problem is getting cold, and on balance the problem here has been the wet winds blowing at storm force. All day it would clear up, then just as quickly cloud over and start misting and drizzling.

After dropping my bags at the hotel, I began the walk into town, seeing a number of Sunday morning runners. At Merrion Square Park, on the way, I noticed a little festival happening. Turns out it was some sort of bicycling event sponsored by the city and some corporations. Lots of families were riding around the town on their bikes. The park is quite small but lovely, the centerpiece is a large garden with lots of geranium- and marigold-looking flowers, as well as the Oscar Wilde sculpture, across the street from his birthplace. Lots of people were having their photo made with Oscar. Near the finish line, a guitar duo (with a bass player) were playing Django Reinhardt songs. It made for a lovely scene. Outside the north side of the park, lots of artists had encamped their portfolios along the park wall, displaying them to passers by. Kind of like Gene Kelly in An American In Paris, except without Gene, playing the chip-on-the-shoulder starving artist stalking Leslie Caron. That was a great movie, but, that was a weird movie too. I’d like David Lynch to remake it and take it to its logical conclusion: Leslie Caron as an alien with a mental illness, Oscar Levant as a cannibal, Nina Foch as having an oxycontin addiction and selling her organs to pay for them, and Gene Kelly as, well, Gene Kelly.

Where was I?

From the park I made it to Grafton Street, a pedestrian mall in the town center. It has some interesting architecture, and today, even though it wasn’t such a great day, was fairly crowded. Lots of groups of teenagers hanging around (though, unlike at a US mall, they mostly didn’t appear to be on juvenile probation, or as Tina Fey once said on 30 Rock with dread, “Oh no! Youths!). As I walked through the area, the drizzle stopped, the clouds rolled back, and the sun came out. For about 30 minutes it became a beautiful day. And I left my sunglasses in the hotel room.

I walked on to other areas of town. Temple Bar, with its cobblestone streets and 1800s architecture, is littered with pubs, restaurants and shops. But the vibe resembled the touristy French Quarter…very plastic. From there I walked as far as Christ Church Cathedral, a magnificent Anglican cathedral dating back to 1030 A.D. I didn’t take time to see the tour, though, but saw the grounds as Mass was letting out.

I walked from there to the River Liffey, which runs east and west, cutting the town in two. The south portion typically is regarded as the more interesting and relevant, though the financial services sector, whose 1990s expansion Dublin rode to prominence, is located on the north side. I walked on over to the north side, crossing on one of several footbridges. I headed to Henry Street, yet another open air, pedestrian mall, with lots of designer shops. Its longer and a little more well heeled than Grafton Street. It runs into the Dublin Spire, the largest structure in Dublin, which is just a big old metal shaft. I never did get an explanation about why it exists, in all its metal toothpick glory. But I did learn it’s the exact center of town.

From there I walked back toward my hotel to Trinity College. This college dates back to 1592, but is pretty small for being the nation’s leading university. The reason for visiting is to see the Book of Kells, which is an incredibly beautiful hand manuscript of the four Gospels, prepared by monks in the Monastery at Kells, Ireland around 800 A.D. Though I was nearly ready to pass out from jet lag and not having eaten since breakfast, I pushed through and am glad I did. The intricate work, all done by hand with specially designed inks and quill pens, is truly amazing (and I hate that word “amazing” but this is the rare case where it truly applies). I simply cannot describe the art work, so I encourage you to do a little surfing to see it (they don’t allow photography). Each page had several exquisite drawings, often free standing, but often the first letter of a sentence. The drawing work puts today’s modern computer graphics to shame. As an art dealer once told me (ok, that’s a douchebag phrase, I got it), what makes something art is the human imperfections in the otherwise flawless work—the Ming Dynasty vase that at the top isn’t exactly round, the Chippendale furniture with a slight edge between two corners, or in this case, drawn lines that don’t quite mechanically match up. Like the supermodel whose uneven cheek bones or left eye bigger than the right eye gives her the million dollar look, these hand drawn works make the Book of Kells one of the treasures of the medieval world. The tour also includes the Old Library, where around 200,000 volumes of the College's oldest books are stored, in addition to some historic documents and artifacts.

Climbing down from the top of Mount Esoteric, I walked around the College grounds for just a bit. I passed a family, with two little girls. The younger girl, who looks about six, pointed at a statute of some old white guy, and loudly yelled to her parents, “Who’s that Guy?” They laughed and then said they didn’t know. I loved the simple honesty in the midst of all the intellectual superiority surrounding the girl. Nations have toppled, revolutions have won, science has advanced, all because someone dared to ask something as simple as “Who’s that guy?”

Well, anyway, I laughed.

The rest of the night was kind of a blur. I made an abortive attempt to find somewhere to watch the Texans game, and though I found a couple of pubs showing Giants vs. Redskins and Steelers vs. Ravens, I never found Houston. I instead ate dinner at a little Italian place called, imaginatively, “Pacino’s.” It actually wasn’t too bad, though I struggled to stay awake. As I walked back to the hotel, the rain really kicked in. I left my rain jacket at the hotel, stupidly thinking the rain had passed. That meant that I got soaked pretty good, which is ok, because with Austin not having had any rain for three months, a little cold September rain really hit the spot.

Tomorrow—more Dublin.