I know, I know…it has taken forever to post this. And it is turning into a longer piece than I imagined, so it will be posted in 2 parts. So as not to annoy anyone too much. Mainly, myself.
Black Rock – lunch with Bashir. Dropped Rebecca off at the airport. Got here on the 6th
flew out the 5th. We went to Radiohead at Malahide Castle the 6th. Beautiful day mostly, then it started to rain, but it was light and two rainbows appeared in the sky. I learned, and so did Thom Yorke, it does not get dark till after 10 in Ireland at this time of year. They played “How to Disappear,” which made me happy. I remember Life As a House with Ayat, and so I tried to call home to at least leave it on the machine for her to hear. I could not hear if someone had picked up or it went to the machine. Turns out Baba answered the phone and did not know what he was listening to, so he hung up the phone. Awesome. They played “15 Step,” “Weird Fishes,” “There There,” “Paranoid Android.” They played two encores, and I hate encores. When I worked at The Patriot Center and saw band sets I learned that encores were staged, part of the performance, and I was disappointed. Music should be spontaneous. I remember seeing Pearl Jam once and they decided to just play through the encore. I was grateful, because why waste our time. I refuse to scream and clap loudly when I already know you are coming back out on stage. Imagine if everyone remained quiet. Malahide is outside though, so even though we did not want to miss the train and slowly made our way out of the fenced in area, we stood and listened and got a different view of the light show. I was tired and cold and wet, and full of energy from Radiohead. Thom danced like he had never danced before, hips swinging, arms flailing, head spinning. I loved every moment of it.
On Saturday we took the Dart to Bray. I was reminded of Mumbles. We walked along the footpath near the beach and made our way over one mile up a steep hill, at the top of which stood a large cement cross, grafitied. This hike was a reminder that no matter how much I walk in NYC I am out of shape, and it is not uphill, not this steep, not for this long. It was really beautiful up there. I could hear the wind blowing through my stretched ears, which was funny. Everything just seemed so at peace, so slowed down, easy, without expectation. I could sit and enjoy. We ended the day out with some dinner and the Portugal/Turkey match at a local pub.
On Sunday we walked to Phoenix Park, about 5km/3miles from Bashir’s. We stopped at the Irish Film Institute along the way to see what was playing, but either Bashir or I had seen them, or they were of no interest. As much as I love going to the cinema, I was totally cool with not attending any shows. I felt like Bashir wanted to, and it didn’t work out. We did, however, watch a lot of movies at his place.
At Phoenix Park we rented bikes from two rather funny guys with a cute boxer dog Frankie and rode around for 2 hours. It had been nearly 10 years since I rode a bike, so I definitely started out a little wobbly, especially as we rode along the path with cars. Not a good time or place to be wobbly. Almost forgot that along the way to Phoenix Park we met Roger and his two friends and their bunny Jeffrey, for whom they were building a nest. These boys fit the stereotype of hooligan Irish kids in movies, kinda dirty, big blue eyes, football jerseys, and there was something really endearing about three boys making a nest for their shaggy little bunny. And they were not shy about it, or hesitant. In the park we met a horse named Harvey at the polo fields, definitely a rich man’s sport, and several magpies, all of whom we saluted.
1 for sorrow
2 for joy
3 for girl
4 for boy
5 for silver
6 for gold
7 for a secret never to be told
That night we watched Germany/Poland at the Ferryman, Bashir’s local pub. That was especially enjoyable because there were 2 young men, an older woman, and an older man there speaking German, Polish, and English, all watching the match as well. One of the young guys rooted for Germany, and the other for Poland. They were really fun and good-natured people to watch the match with, teasing each other at times, but not maliciously, and cheering with us sometimes.
A group of older white ladies from the US came in and we tried to make sure none of them realized we are from the states as well. At one point one lady asked the barkeep – a really friendly guy who asked me from that point forward who I was cheering for each night we came to view a match – who was playing, and when he replied Germany v. Poland she hooted “Go Germany.” The young man rooting for Germany gave her a strange look, as did we. I was annoyed because she clearly was not a fan of football or the German team, but said it with a definite dislike for Poland, which of course prompted the three of us to talk about US ignorance towards Poland and Polish people. There is an historical significance to the match seeing as how Germany invaded Poland over 50 years ago, and this woman clearly did not think before speaking. My dream games – and I am speaking World Cup finals – Ireland defeats the Brits and Iran defeats the US. Iran beat the US in a ’98 World Cup match and I remember my cousin jumping up and down with joy. It is a small victory, one could argue, but a significant one, a symbolic one.
Monday we went into Howth, another beach town. I woke up late and felt even more tired. Somehow my sleeping was not letting me feel rested, like my whole body was trying to adjust to the time difference, but failing. We didn’t have much time in Howth, but we did see seals! One seal and I went back and forth making noises at each other, and I called him Boy Cat, since Boy Cat is after all a descendant of the seal, mostly the beached seal. We had to get back in enough time to get ready for dinner with Bashir’s co-workers, Katherine, Sarah, Caroline, Violet, and Lauren. It was a good time, a lot of teasing of Bashir, mention of The Big Lebowski, Bashirisms, and of course Batman. At one point conversation turned to talk of weddings, rings, and other things that Rebecca, Bashir, and I all find boring and pointless. It was interesting to see the conversation shift to that and the three of us have nothing to say. It occurred to me, not long ago, that not only am I opposed to marriage, but if someone were to ask me to marry them, I would be insulted. Why is that “the next step?” Why would an already existing commitment not be enough?
At some point during the weekend we wandered a bit around Grafton St and Temple Bar. We stopped and got a snack at the outdoor market of Temple Bar. I like Temple Bar better than Grafton St. Grafton is all these shops, a lot of designers, US places, fast food, things I wanted to avoid when leaving NY. Temple Bar was mostly restaurants and pubs and small independent shops. Though there was a Hard Rock Café that snuck its way in.
Tuesday morning Bashir had to return to work. Rebecca and I wandered. We went to Hueston Station to get times of trains to Cork, Galway, and Kilkenny. Cork quickly became a no with a cost of 59 Euros. So the choices were narrowed to two and we decided on Galway, after hearing from Bashir and his co-workers that it was a better choice. We had hesitated at the recommendation from his co-workers only because there seemed to be a definite interest in shopping, something neither Rebecca nor I care for. Once Bashir said it was a better choice, and he does not enjoy shopping either – he, Rourke, and I once cleared Tyson’s mall in about 20 minutes searching for a shirt – we agreed to go there. The train was a three hour ride, departing Wednesday at 710am. We spent the rest of Tuesday wandering about, into Saint Patrick’s Cathedral, which is large and old and beautiful. We rested on the lawn outside and watched these young girls blowing bubbles. They had to be between the ages of 5 and 7 and when a younger girl, a toddler, made her way over the girl with the bubbles asked the toddler’s name. I did not hear her reply, but the girl with the bubbles responded, “that’s a lovely name.” Who says that? Irish kids, that’s who.
We also made our way back to Grafton Street so I could go to Tower Records where I purchased The Big Lebowski for Bashir, and for Rebecca’s benefit since she had never seen it and Bashir and I spent a good amount of time quoting it. I had just purchased a soy chocolate shake before entering Tower from a small Starbucks like chain, therefore expensive, yet crap. I should have figured that this place, the name of which now escapes me – something Chocolate and Butler – was going to suck since I had seen so many. I asked the lanky English teller at Tower if he had a trashcan for my now empty cup. He replied, “rubbish bin?” I think he was being a smart-ass. Maybe he thought I was.
Wednesday Rebecca and I rose early and made it just in time to Hueston Station to grab a quick breakfast and get on the train. We saw several cows, sheep, and horses along the way, which did not cease to amuse us. One would think neither of us had ever seen them before, not to mention the fact that I at least have been on several farms and used to work with horses. I eventually fell asleep with my iPod playing a shuffle of Radiohead, Beirut, NIN, Sonic Youth, and others.
When I awoke and we stepped off the train, out of the station, into Galway…it was raining. I HATE rain. It makes me depressed and not want to do anything. Walking around Galway for the next proposed 8 hours was going to be a struggle, and although we cut the trip short by three, it still was, for both of us. We still wandered, first in search of St. Nicholas’ Cathedral. After two bad directors we found the way with the help of an old man in a repair shop. We saw the cathedral after making two rights and a left, crossing over a small bridge, and walking along a narrow path, but we entered at first, the wrong way, toward a monastery. It was a small white building with an encircled patch of grass in front, occupied by five cows. After unsuccessfully trying to pet some of them Rebecca and I approached the monastery door. The first set was open, but the second locked. I turned to look, before leaving for St Nicholas’, at the collection of praying cards and fliers on small table, and then the door was opened by a tiny nun in full habit, Franciscan I think. I was quietly excited and wanted to tell her my mother used to be a Benedictine Sister, but I kept quiet on that and told her we thought we had walked toward the cathedral. She kindly directed us to the actual entrance and returned inside.
St Nicholas’ was beautiful and catholic, unlike St. Patrick’s and most other cathedrals in Dublin. I lit some proper candles and purchased pendants of St Jude for every Agah. On the back of each pendant is a red and white circle. I asked the teller if it was a sticker to be removed, I thought maybe it told him how much they cost. He looked at me as if I were a complete idiot and replied, “They’re relics. These have touched relics of the saint.” He definitely knew I am not Catholic.
Saint Jude is the patron saint of lost causes and the same saint our grandfather used to light candles to when praying for the family. I had no intentions of getting gifts for anyone but my parents and had already gotten St. Patrick pendants for them, but this was important to me. I plan on getting a St. Jude tattoo with Iranian motifs, one of those traditional icon images, on my right arm.
After five hours in Galway, soaked in rain, with sandwiches in our stomachs, and a Batman Total Film purchase, Rebecca and I called it quits. We were cold and tired and unable to explore properly. We got back to Dublin right outside 6pm and walked home, stopping along the way for a coffee.
Thursday was Rebecca’s last day. We wandered more, this time into Trinity College’s campus, out the other end and into a park. We looped the park and came to a large rock with an Oscar Wilde statue perched on top. We both wanted to try and climb it but people kept walking past and several lingered to take pictures and stare. In retrospect, we probably looked shady, like we planned to do something. But no defacement was planned, just a quick climb into Wilde’s lap, something I imagine he would approve of. We hung about for quite some time hoping people would back off, but they did not, and finally our annoyance led us away to finish a tour of the park.
We happened upon parts of the city we had not been to before, crossing through several poor areas, and a large strip mall. Eventually we found our way back to Grafton St so that I could return The Big Lebowski, which did not work. An observation, Tower Records employees were a lot friendlier and less elite than the ones in Tyson’s and Fairfax. In fact, Rebecca and I noticed that there was such little judgment overall in Ireland in comparison to the US. We first picked up on this at the Radiohead show. Radiohead themselves seemed so relaxed and fun. Generally, audiences in the US – and I say this having just seen REM and Pearl Jam in the last two weeks – no matter what band I have seen, have been so fabricated, so judgmental. I always felt as if I were not cool enough, which was probably a little bit of me, but definitely a lot of them too. And I certainly am not the only one who ever felt that way. But the Radiohead show, and all of Dublin was different. Everyone, despite all the different styles, seemed so chill, so unconcerned with the looks of others. I didn’t know if Radiohead were more relaxed because maybe of where they are at themselves, or maybe if they feel better playing outside the US and so close to home. I’ve heard Yorke say he’s not a fan of the US. I can’t blame him. He’s rock star, and he’s probably not cool enough. Walking around Dublin and Galway was not like walking around certain parts of DC (Dupont and Georgetown come to mind) or NY (Williamsburg anyone?) where you can feel the eyes burn into you. Watch the hipster olympics if you have not. Pretty priceless.
Class really stood out in Ireland. I feel like class is one of those things in the US that is elusive. There are the definite rich and the definite poor, and then there are the numerous that fall in between. We are lied to and lie to ourselves. It seems that hiding class and hiding from class can often be done with ease. We are sold lies. It reminds me that the US is false, an illusion, one that many of us, most of us support, sometimes willingly, sometimes not, sometimes without realization. The US sells itself to the world, and primarily its own residents, as a land of dreams and opportunity, where everyone not only can, but has made it. So why do those of us who live here and know differently, still believe it? Even most of us who know it to be false believe it by our very actions.
