I was scheduled to meet Councillor LaHarte at Waterstone's Bookstore at 3:00. I left unnecessarily early to give myself enough buffer to allow for sudden mechanical failures, meteorological mayhem, labor insurrection, or the sudden occurrence of my mother in the driver's seat (I love you mom).
Waterstone's is the European equivalent of Borders - like the european equivalent of nearly anything that originated on the other side of the Atlantic, the European version is cleaner, more aesthetically pleasing, more expensive, and probably morally superior. One of the things that sets Waterstone's apart from Borders is that it continues to sell books as its primary product. The front of Border's stores today are clogged with various ill-conceived bric-a-brac that are only tangentially related to the reading and enjoyment of books: coffee warmers, lap tables, gift cards, stationary, flowers, magnetic toys, and other detritus. None of this nonsense was to be found in Waterstone's, for which I was quite grateful: it left more room for the books.
It's a jolly good thing that I enjoyed the bookstore so much - the Councillor, detained at a rally, was a bit more than an hour late. I could not be miffed, however, after he compared the rally's speaker to Robert Kennedy, for whom he was full of praise. Perhaps I carry a placard that says: to get on Patrick's good side, compliment one of the Kennedy family.
There is one other intern, a girl from Amherst named Jennifer Rybak, who seems quite nice. Awkwardly unsure of the proper attire, I decided to err on the side of overformality. My initial suspicions were correct: John complimented me on the smartness of my suit, but then informed me that I would be sent home immediately if I were to ever wear a tie to work. He's a humorous fellow, laid back and friendly. He seemed excited to have us around, and was quite welcome. He didn't seem especially eager to assess our qualifications for the job in the manner of a formal interview (he'd already seen our CVs, etc) - my dramatic and well-conceived spiels were, thankfully, unnecessary. After a bit of friendly banter, his paid for our coffee and dismissed us until 1:00 PM the next day - quite a rigorously early beginning to the workday, of course.
Not ready to go back to the flat yet and determined to wear my suit for more than 2 hours after laboriously carting it across the Atlantic, I decided to continue my rambling exploration of Dublin. I ranged somewhat west of the Temple Bar area along Dame Street and the Liffey towards the Old Walled City. I briefly entered and absorbed the spectacle of Powerscourt House, which is one of the few surviving mansions from the height of British Royal occupation of Dublin. For much of Ireland's history, Dublin has been a center of occupation and colonization of the rest of Ireland. Many of the biggest and proudest buildings in Dublin were the city homes of British Lords. Most of this sort of thing has fallen by the wayside since Ireland became independent, but some of the old buildings remain, the resident of the Lord Powerscourt among them. It's a splendid five story building, square, with a courtyard in the center. The inner walls of the building are open to the floor of the courtyard, five floors below.
After Lord Powerscourt was rather forcibly compelled to abandon his Lordship, his city house became the stamp office. Today, it is a shopping center: a rather sadly commercial demise for the old house, but it is about the nicest place to go shopping that I have experienced. A lot of the original moulding and statuary is still intact, and it's full of marvelous stone flagging and plenty of dark wood. It's most impressive feature to me at the time, however, was its restrooms. I attempted to use the bathrooms at Stephen's Green Shopping Center, but the blighters were charging 20 cents for entree. There was actually a man at the front of the doors whose only job in life appears to be collecting bemused but desperate shoppers of their 20 cents on their way in to have a rather expensive shit. I refused to be exposed such usurious indignity on principle, but principled resistance can only last for so long before the rather insistent demands of ones bladder begin to weigh all the more heavily. Thankfully for me, I found the aforementioned shopping center and was able to relieve myself, gratis, and maintain my dignity. I'll be damned if anyone will tax certain of my functions. Bless your soul, Lord Powerscourt.
Shortly after exiting the shopping center, I was beset by a rather painful hunger pang. Handily, the discovery of my longing for dinner coincided with a sighting of one of the establishments from the "Budget Eats" section of my handy Dublin Guide. The place has been named ...Gruel, perhaps in an attempt to scare off the hordes of people that the pleasing aroma of the place would otherwise attract.
I entered an was immediately struck with the utter lack of any sort of refinement. It was a narrow, dingy place, with chipped formica tables haphazardly scattered about a rather cramped dining compartment. The small was delicious, though, so I banked heavily on the reliability of the guidebook, closed my eyes, and chose a table with a relatively unobstructed and linear path to the door incase rapid flight became necessary. I snagged the only area of the gloomy room into which any sort of sunlight was able to penetrate, so my table featured a somewhat bedraggled potted plant that was eagerly photosynthesizing, as if it would soon lose the chance. I was rather pleased for the hearty little fellow, and titled him towards a more brightly lit corner before reaching to open the menu. There was no menu, however - I was directed instead to a rather incompetently scribbled chalkboard perched in a rather precarious manner above the head of customer, who looked perhaps only a little more pleased than Damocles would have about his seating choice.
Unable to read the menu or to understand the mutterings of my waitress, I waved my hand somewhat arbitrarily at one of the chalkings and said "food?" in a hopeful manner to my server, nodding vigorously in the hope that she would understand and bring me something edible. My gesticulations seemed to tell her exactly what I wanted, even if I myself did not. I was not eager about the prospect, but departure at this point would have been most unseemly.
My food finally did come, and with a Lager that I didn't recall requesting. My fortitude reaped handsome rewards - it was the most tasty and gratifying meal I have had in quite some time: some sort of cajun chicken, a stuffed, twicebaked potato that was oozing sour cream, cheese, and spices, a sweet corn relish, and the leafy sprout that I believe is called "Rocket" here, though I am not sure. It seemed to bear a remarkable resemblance to the plant on my table, but it was very tasty. I devoured the entire meal with gusto, indicating my pleasure to the waitress with a somewhat greasy smile through a mouthful of food. She had a "see, I told you so!" look. Once I had the tasty food, the uninspired interior decoration of the place was no longer grime, it was cheerfully unpretentious and no-nonsense. Here the focus was on the food, not the attitude or the cunningly placed candles. There was also a pitcher on the table, which I appreciated since I am constantly forced almost to the point of deploying signal flares to attract the attention of the waitress to have her please, for the love of our Lady of Guadalupe Hidalgo of the Holy Fount, bring me any glass of water. What a lovely guidebook, taking me to the dubiously named "Gruel." I shall not doubt it in the future!
On my walk back to the bus, I noticed that a surprising majority of the passersby where attired in a rather fetching pale / dark blue jersey that said "Arnotts" and a phrase that, even in Gaelic, looked defiant and rowdy. I deduced that it was the night of a Gaelic Athletic Association contest, and that Dublin was playing some unfortunate opponent in Croke Park that evening. Gaelic Football and the other traditional sports of Hurling (not curling), etc, are central to the Irish Cultural Identity, John later explained to me. Like the language itself, the Gaelic Games are only played in Ireland and almost everyone is fanatically attached to one team, sport, or another. We're currently in the midst of the All-Ireland province playoffs. Dublin is, by far, the biggest city in Ireland so its teams have the biggest following, but they have not won the cup since 1995. Since Ireland failed to qualify for Soccer's EuroCup (which appeared to bring John palpably physical pain when I was foolish enough to mention it), all of the attention is focused on GAA, and Dubliners make the most hardcore football fans at home look like lily-livered cowards, about as aggressive as a league of competitive gardeners.
At one point, I walked in front of a pub, out of which were spilling scores of intoxicated sports fans, ages 11-93. They were all yelling, and were all wearing the exact same shirt. One of them grabbed me by the collars and berated me: where are your COLORS, man!? Get ye gone if you're not supportin' the boys!" I was eager to oblige him, as there were several hundred of them and all I had was a knife best suited for making small slices of cheese.
I had a quiet evening and attempted to go to bed early, failing as usual.
I woke up this morning and departed the flat at 11, figuring that 2 hours should be plenty of time to get me to work. It was, but only barely: after catching a bus from Santry to O'Connell, I walked to Abbey Street and caught the LUAS (Dublin's Light Rail System) Red Line all the way out the Red Line to Tallaght. Though it is much slower in speed, smaller in capacity and destination options than Washington's metro, using the LUAS is an infinitely more gratifying experience because the cars are so clean and sleek. At every stop, a pleasing voice announces the name of the stop in a lilting gaelic.
Dublin is so large that it is no longer managed by one government authority: it is divided into four administrative districts. The one with which I will be working this summer is named South Dublin County. Its headquarters are in Tallaght, on the outskirts of the city. The LUAS doors opened directly in front of a Starbucks, also a central feature of metro travel in DC.
The area in which the Government Centre is located is lots of glass and steel buildings. It has a rather constructed community feel to it, much like the Reston Town(e) Center in VA. I found the government center with some difficulty, and John showed Jennifer and I around the area while explaining some of its history to us. I was pleased to note a Marks and Spencer store in the proximity, and John Took us to lunch at a restaurant named - and this is really too good to be true - Captain America's. For some strange reason, American things are exotic and desirable here. Bud Light is a very desired commodity, otherwise sensible Irish people proudly display apparel from truly terrible tourist traps in America, American tabloids are best sellers, and stores purporting to outfit shoppers in the "American Style" are full of posters of such models of good taste as Paris Hilton, Dennis Rodman, and a panoply of atrociously garbed rappers. John was very eager to show off the Captain America's restaurant to us, his REAL americans. My intern companion and I had a hard time not laughing, but the food was very good, and John asked us interesting questions about our backgrounds and future plans, etc. Apparently in the 80s when John was dating, Captain America's was the only place around to eat that young people could afford, so he goes back for nostalgia's sake. I had a thoroughly palatable mushroom soup.
After lunch, John deposited us in the slick new County Library that is adjacent to the government centre, vouching for us so we might procure library cards. Those of you who recall the grievous failure of my earlier attempts to secure a library card can imagine my relief. I read Charlotte Bronte's "The Professor" for about an hour before John came to collect us for the plenary session of the County Council, which meets in full only once a month. They elected a new mayor right in front of us, though he will only serve for two weeks, the remainder of the term of the old mayor, recently passed, before the ruling party coalition selects a new one. John says that direct mayoral elections are often proposed but, so far, they haven't taken hold - the Councillors elect a mayor from among themselves. The mayor chairs the meetings of the Council and, for his trouble, has the privilege of wearing a rather profoundly chunky Gold Medallion about his neck. After the election and congratulatory speeches devolved into discussions of road repair, John ushered us back to the LUAS and sent us on our way home.
I wasn't in the mood to go home yet, so I stopped back into the Flowing Tide Pub (conveniently right across the street from my LUAS terminus) to watch some of the football game between France and Romania. The whole place was glued to the TV screen, and soccer is something I know a bit about and can appreciate, so I enthusiastically joined in. To my pleasure, I recognized three or four of the same fellows from the last time I was in that pub... evidently, the regulars. To my even greater pleasure, one of them gave me a friendly nod. The bartender (pubtender?) is a great bear of a man who speech is totally incomprehensible but very cheerful and laced with lots of bucolic utterances. I watched the game for about an hour before heading out, leaving a much more crowded pub than I had discovered on my entry. I stopped at the market on the way home for the ingredients for dinner and now, I do believe, I shall make it.
2 comments:
Can I have your boss ? Or better yet, your internship ? It sounds great !
Sunday is the day of shopping to me. This time I have to shop for some sports apparel & will surely visit CCS for it.
Post a Comment