Here is a rather long entry detailing most of July, up to the end of my trip of Belgium. Sorry it's been so long in coming, and I apologize for the numerous grammatical and other errors with which it is no doubt filled - I haven't had a chance to fix them yet, but I wanted to put something up.
Sadly, looking back on the week of the 30th-4th, few specific events about the week days stand out in my mind, as that week is now more than a week gone. Happily, I can faithfully state that little of significant interest occurred during that time and that, in so far as significant things did happen, I remember them.
One day early in the week John sent me home early. Riding the LUAS back towards the city, I contemplated the long blank stretch of afternoon before me with no small measure of despair – I was too tired and there wasn't enough time to go far a field, but I didn't want to get back to the flat at 4 PM and sit there for the rest of the night.
And so, rather randomly and impetuously, I got off the LUAS a few stops early. The train automatically announces the names of the stops as the train passes and, since I've been riding the train for more than a month now, I'm well familiar with the stops along my route. One of the stops is named, in Gaelic, "Ard Mushaem" and, in English, "Museum."
Using my acute logical faculties, I surmised that this stop was probably rather close to…a museum. I like museums, so I thought I'd get off and explore a bit.
And so I found the National Museum of History and Decorative Arts. The museum is housed in the former Collins Barracks, a splendid but severe complex of grey stone: four buildings surrounding a massive flagstoned parade ground. It is ironic that the building now used to celebrate the richness and diversity of Irish culture and people was once used to subjugate it: the building that is now the museum formerly housed one of the largest British garrisons in Ireland, there primarily to prevent the Irish subjects from rising up against colonial rule.
The museum was impressive both in its massive size and the contents of its exhibits. There was an interpretive exhibit of the Easter Uprising, a rich collection of Irish Silver, and a massive wing of the building dedicated to Irish Military, whose history is /quite/ unlike our own.
For many years, Irishman fought not for their own land, but shed blood on the soil of others and for the causes of other men. They served in the British armies, primarily, but many Irish troops served in the American Civil war, etc. Ireland has only been an independent country since the 20th century, and it remained neutral in WWII. Since then, the Ireland has maintained a small but robust military whose purpose is primarily defensive. Ireland also has a proud legacy of contributing troops and equipment to UN humanitarian and relief missions.
Thus, unlike most every other military in the world, Ireland has never mustered arms as Ireland to take offensive action against another land. Her man have fought and died for others, but not on her own agenda. It was a very interesting exhibit.
Certainly, however, the highlight of the visit was seeing an exhibit celebrating 100 years of Boy Scouting Ireland. There was a large room filled with books, pictures, flags, trophies, patches, letters, uniforms, boats, drums, and structures from 100 years of Scouts in Ireland, including a signed copy of Lord Baden-Powell's last message to scouts.
Boy Scouts in Ireland had to contend with something that the Boy Scouts of America never faced: religio-political division. For a time, there were the Scouts of Ireland and the Catholic Scouts of Ireland. Even after shirking the imperial burden, this country festered in quasi-civil war for decades. Only within my brief lifetime has 'The Northern Question' come to at least a tentative peace.
Boys are ill suited to fight the battles of men who bleed simply because their parents did, too, and they don't know how to stop or why. I was pleased to see that in Ireland, as in many places in the world, the Scouts have long been a force for peace and cooperation across boundaries. Seeing the collected memorabilia of the scouts of this nation, I was able to reflect with profound gratitude on my own years in Boy Scouts and all it has given me. Surely I am shaped both profoundly and subtly by the rigorous and principled programme that I followed for years in the Scouts, and I am pleased to have had the opportunity and the support. The exhibit allowed me to appreciate that the ideals and practices of Scouting are truly global in reach and concern.
I signed the guest book of the exhibit with Troop 1523. Many other representatives of Irish troops had come, but none from so far as Virginia or the National Capital Area Council. I was pleased.
Viewing history is hard work and produces a great hunger. I found, somewhat randomly, an establishment called "The Epicurean Food Hall", a food court of sorts with many buffets and cafes. It is not quite epicurean, I do not believe, but I found a greek buffet whose food was gloriously plentiful and cheap. I was filled to the brim for 8 euro, which is a near impossible task.
So appreciative was I of the loveliness of this establishment that I have returned, and here I sit as I write of last week.
Every now and again we are struck by experiences that seem to defy reality, that would seem only to exist in bizarre dreams or television programmes had not our own senses leant veracity to the reality of events. I had one such an encounter upon my return to the National Library of Ireland, whose reading room I have previously described in appreciative terms.
One day after work I decided to pass the time before going home in the reading room, and so I headed to Kildare street. As I entered the building, I had the following conversation with one of the attendants.
"Cheers, hi there."
"Hello, sir."
"Wotcher doin there?" (At this point the man blocks my entrance to the cloak room
"Oh, I thought I might go read"
"Read! Just a bit of casual reading?"
"Yes."
"Well I'll be. Where were you after doing that…reading…at?"
"Well, you know, I was thinking maybe…the reading room?"
"Oh, no. Well, we discourage that."
(Pause for a few moments of stunned reflection on my part)
"Do I require some sort of special pass?"
"No, it's quite open to the public, sir."
"But I can't go up there now?"
"That's right, no, I'd rather you didn't. We discourage casual reading."
"So, to clarify, you prefer for people to not read in the reading room of the National Library?"
"Yes, because you see…it's the NATIONAL Library."
"Ah, yes, I quite see your point." (I said it in a manner that made it clear that I really did not)
"Yes, quite right. The reading room is especially designed for people who have come to do research using the library's resources. We generally frown upon people just comin' up to sit and read in the reading room, though."
"Really."
"Why yes! It spoils the atmosphere."
Because I was so clearly dubious of the man's sanity, he made an exception and allowed me to pass, whispering as I went by "now don't go spreading it around that I let ye do this, now! I wouldn't want it getting round that the reading room was open!"
I suppose that, to some degree, his point is well taken – we wouldn't want to crowd out the people using resources that could not be found elsewhere. The room is huge, however, and the demands placed on it are rather low. The man's primary concern seemed to be with the room filling up with people who were just…reading and enjoying themselves and the quiet society of others gathered for the same purpose. Ruin the atmosphere? That is the atmosphere! That's the entire point of a library. Libraries are open to all for a reason, and the National Library of a nation, in particular, should be concerned with serving the people of that nation, not shutting them out to preserve some sort of non-existent atmosphere. Perhaps if the reading room were more opened, it would be overrun by eager readers…but that's among the more joyous problems that I think any library could hope to face, and it's a problem that could be addressed as it arises. I couldn't believe that a library would make it a policy to turn away people who wanted to simply read but, sure enough, this one was trying quite hard to do just that. This has been a very interesting summer.
It's been quite some time since I have celebrated the 4th of July abroad, and the last time I did I was quite young and was surrounded by other Americans on an Army base. Our little expatriate community was determined to not let the day pass unmarked. Several of our brethren from other Universities celebrated Independence day in what might be called a typically American fashion – loudly, with hot dogs and yard games and beer. Sadly, when they decided to sing the national anthem, the sops were so well-lubricated by their merry making that they could not remember all of the words of that brave hymn. Oh dear.
Jessica wanted to celebrate the day in a more restrained manner, so she had purchased some Champagne and bade me to say "something epic." Several of the other UVa students and I went outside and opened the Champagne and toasted Virginia, Mr. Jefferson, and his University, and I gave a little speech about America. It was a tasteful celebration, one that I daresay caused some bemusement among the other Shanowen residents who were not similarly blessed with such an auspicious founder.
My friends, bless them, had also noticed that my 21st birthday, an occasion celebrated in America with much liquid revelry, was swiftly approaching. We are not in America, and I have been able to consume whatever beverage pleases me since arriving in this country, but they still convinced me to go out to celebrate. We (Jessica, Veronica, Devin, Monica, Meagan, Yumi, and Vince) departed for the City Centre around 10:00. We stopped at Messrs. Maguire for a time, where everyone was very enthusiastic about purchasing me a lavish quantity of drinks from the bar, a most kindly gesture that I appreciated a great deal. I looked at my watch to notice, with some amusement, that it had become midnight and I was 21. After an indeterminate period of fraternizing with ourselves and the Irish men who seemed eager to get to know the women of our party, we quit Messrs. For Fitzsimon's, a larger and somewhat rowdier establishment in the Temple Bar area. Fitzsimons is five stories of dance floors and bars, and is quite a common attraction on weekend nights, so off we headed. We stopped along the way in front of The Hardrock Café - the most American location in sight - to regale Dublin with the Good Old Song. Ireland, no doubt, was very impressed with our Virginia spirit and bravado.
We bided awhile at Fitzsimon's, where more people purchased drinks for me, including some that I had not met before. At some late hour, we went outside and I hailed a cab to take those of our party that remained back to Santry. We arrived back at the flats around 4:30, I believe, and a quick reconnoiter of the hour and the state of our fatigue led us to the conclusion that our previous plans to see Killarney on the morrow – which would have involved an 8:30 AM busride - were no longer feasible.
We arose the next morning at a decidedly leisurely hour and decided to wander to Dun Laoghaire, instead. We took the train down along the bit and alighted at the Harbour. Observing a map upon which an x was drawn next to the words "Seals often spotted here!" we resolved to walk out the pier to the lighthouse. A rather insistent and chilly rain soon began to fall, however, and as many of us were not suitably equipped for the inclemency, we modified our plans to include the warmth of a coffee house. After drying off therein, we boarded the train again for Dalkey. In Dalkey, which I had previously visited after descending from Killiney, we met Vince and wandered around making generally appreciative noises about the bucolic quality of the village, its signage, and its plant growth.
For dinner, we decided to satisfy a powerful craving that a number of us were experiencing for Thai food. For some strange reason, the Thai restaurants in Dublin do not serve Pad Thai, a lacking that had already caused me some significant distress. Handily, the restaurant in Dalkey did not share the fault of its urban companions, and we all dined lavishly – me on a heaping platter of noodles. It was a pleasant birthday dinner.
It began to rain again on our return trip, and most of us became rather uncomfortably moist on the walk from the train station in Dublin to the bus station on O'Conell – myself included, since I had leant my jacket. Monica, Jess, and Vince decided to stay in the City to watch a movie, but I returned home with Meagan, Yumi, and Devin.
After a Friday and Saturday of busy activity, I was eager to spend Sunday in relative repose and to catch up on some of the rest that I had missed. Much of the rest of that week was passed in a similar manner – I was feeling tired so I went to work and generally came straight home after.
It is interesting how swiftly a city becomes our own. I have been in Dublin for 6 weeks and, although I certainly do not consider it "home", I do not consider myself a tourist – perhaps a long-term visitor. I look with amusement on the conspicuously foreign people squinting at maps and walking out into streets because they're not aware of the flow of traffic. I continue to appreciate the beauty and colour of Dublin city and her inhabitants, but they are no longer surprising to behold. The Old Post office is now as familiar to me as was DuPont circle last summer – it is no longer a curiosity but a fixture. I can speak knowledgably about the layout of the city and its history and, for the most part, feel comfortable here. For all of that, however, I am still an American, and the sensation that I am not at home is seldom far from the surface. There is a rather constant awareness that I am in a place that, for all its kindness, does not embrace me as its own and whose health I only temporarily work to benefit. It has been a great deal of joy living and working here, but I shall still look forward to returning home.
On the evening of the 9th, I took in a show at the Gate Theatre. Apparently, our program fee included the price of the ticket, and so I was joined by a great many of the EUSA students from Shanowen. The Gate is a very old and rather cozy theatre built on Upper O'Connell near Parnell Square in the mid to late 1700s. I have already had the pleasure of seeing a great deal of quality theater this summer thanks to the generosity of my grandfather, so it was with a critics eye and a novice's anticipation alike that I settled in to watch the show, Conor MacPherson's "The Weir".
The Weir is a One Act, One Scene play. It is set in the Pub of an unnamed Country town and has 5 characters: the pub owner and two other locals, their friend who moved from the country to the city, and his lady companion. They all sit in the bar and drink and exchange stories, most of a decidedly macabre flavor. It is a play about the power of personal experience and the discovery of common circumstance but, really, it is a vehicle of Irish flavour. I enjoyed the show tremendously and seldom stopped laughing, but mostly because of the powerful accents and piquant mannerisms and phrases and idiosyncrasies that are so distinctly and amusingly Irish. It was all very amusing for me, an American, to behold this caricature of rural Irishness, but that was the prime draw of the production. I am not sure how much the play would have held for an Irishman who, already steeped in the language and customs so accurately shown in the play, would not have found them to be novel or unusual. For him, I imagine, the play would have been a bit of comedic fluff – funny, but light. It was for a me a rich cultural experience, certainly, but the play was devoid of the thematic impact or plot originality that would have been required for a truly top-notch performance. All in all, an enjoyable show. I sipped at a glass of wine afterwards, but was rather too tired to go out anywhere, and returned home.
Much of the work week was consumed with the completion of the research project that has taken my time of late, a rather laborious trawl through old newspapers. I completed it at the end of the week and headed home for a quiet weekend (the 12th and 13th of July) of reading and watching TV episodes online.
It is interesting to be in a foreign nation – a place with such potential for adventure – and to spend a quiet weekend at home instead of going out and seeking that which lies shortly beyond the city (and, indeed, within it). I have come to realize, however, that there is only so much energy to go around and, while cultural experiences are enriching and excellent, profound laziness is sometimes required to leaven the pace and to recoup one's energies and appetites. That's what summer is about, anyway, and so I was happy to sit on my ass for Saturday.
On Sunday I went for a walkabout the city. I had seen a large sign for a 5 Euro haircut on Upper Dorset Street and, ruefully eying my mane in the bathroom mirror, concluded that this was no way to appear before Maria. The primary goal of my walk, then, was to find some place to relieve me of some of the red bulk atop my head. Sadly for and to their credit, perhaps, Irish barbers are tastefully closed on the Sabbath. I was preparing to submit to my untrimmed fate when, on Henry St (I think) I espied a window with polish words on it, through which were visible several men with clippers. A barber shop, at last! Even better, a cut appeared to be only 5 Euro, which is a better deal than it is possible to get in the US, where a haircut costs a dastardly $14, at the very least. I found it difficult to communicate with my barber, as I do not speak Polish (neither did he, I do not think) but managed to convey my intent by means of a lot of handwaving and gripping my hair while making a disgusted face. There are only so many reasons for a man to enter a barber shop, I suppose. He gave me a rather passable, though quite short, cut. I was sad to pay 10 euro in the end, however, for apparently the 5 euro offer is only in effect on Monday and Tuesday. Bollocks.
Having left my UVa hat on a bus, I went in search of a hat to cover my new haircut. The only ones I could find, however, said "Guinness" on them, so I had to abandon that plan. To console myself, I had a tasty and reasonably priced Kebab before continuing my walk, which took me then to Stephen's Green. I executed a loop of that pleasing park but was rather hard pressed to find a quiet corner because of the many like-minded individuals who, like me, had come to enjoy the park on a Sunday afternoon. I retired instead to Merrion Square, which was predictably and mercifully empty. Merrion is located only several blocks from the much more popular Stephen's Green, and is surrounded by a charming Georgian neighborhood. It is beyond me why it is not more popular but I was thankful for its abandonment because I was able to lie on the grass and read for a time without being trampled.
Hungry, I returned home to cook some Chicken and Pasta and to hear about the weekend adventures of Jessica, who had returned from a weekend trip to Wales, where she stayed in a B & B and made exploration of the countryside around Holyhead. Judging from her pictures and her ebullient demeanour, it was a very enjoyable trip for her.
After dinner I did three loads of laundry and sat down to ponder the logistics of my trip to Belgium. In order to secure the discount air-fare, I had booked a flight departing Dublin at 8:00 AM, which required me to arrive at the airport at the rather uncivilized hour of 6:00. There are busses departing from the City Centre to the Airport at 5:15 and 5:45, but no busses that will take me from Santry to City Centre in time to catch the early busses to the Airport. Because I generally abhor the expense associated with taking a taxi, I resolved to walk from the flat to O'Connell street and, from there, take a bus to the airport. Because I made this decision around 1:00 AM and my new pedestrian plan mandated departure from my flat at 3:30 AM, I decided that it would be silly to go to sleep and risk missing my flight the cell phone alarm clock is not nearly as clamorous as that beast I have at home. I read, wrote directions from various Belgian train stations to my hotel in my pocket notebook, and generally paced about for a few hours before throwing a few shirts, my toothbrush, a book, my passport, and camera in my backpack and setting off. Before departing I fixed a heaping peanut butter sandwich – the only food left in my pantry – and washed it down with mineral water – the only liquid remaining in my refrigerator.
I left Shanowen around 4:00, when it was still dark. It occurred me as I was walking through the neighborhoods that this plan was one of which my mother would thoroughly disapprove. Don't worry, Mom – the suburbs are safe and the streets I chose were quite well illuminated, and I was familiar with the route after covering it many times via bus. I would not select foot as the ideal way to commute the several miles on a daily basis, but it was a nice walk – tolerably cool because of the early hour, and I could see the sun rising over the hills in the distance and observe the various delivery carts taking produce and bread around for the start of the day. Besides, it seemed fitting to begin my journey to Belgium and Maria by means of a stalwart and probably unnecessary gesture. I am pleased to report that, although the journey often takes 40 minutes during rush hour, I was able to cover it on foot in about an hour and a half. It is the first time in quite a while that I have had occasion to be sweaty before 6 AM. Having over-compensated for the distance with my early departure time and anxiously rapid gait, I arrived at the bus stop with 20 minutes to wait for the airport bus. An entrepreneurial cabby approached me and the group in which I was standing (several travelers from France) and offered to take us to the airport now for 6 Euro each, the same price as the airport shuttle but without the wait. I was pleased to take him up on his offer, and was conveyed to the airport sooner and a swifter pace than I otherwise would have hoped.
It was interesting to arrive again at the Dublin airport, where I had begun my time in Ireland six weeks ago. It was pleasing to reflect on how much I have seen and done since that time, and amusing to look at the café where I had so eagerly devoured my first meal on Irish Soil, The "Full Irish Breakfast". Not surprisingly, I have not eaten a breakfast of similar absurdity since that original occasion.
I am, in general, quite proud to have inherited my father's penchant for being over-prepared for travel contingency, but this penchant did have the effect of depositing me at the airport with two and a half hours remaining before my flight. I was so early that there was no line at check in, and passed through security with little event. Some foolish woman behind me had secreted in her luggage what appeared to be the entire contents of her refrigerator. She was either unaware of the liquid restrictions now in place or she foolishly underestimated the capacity of the security equipment. Either way, it was amusing to see the array of condensed milk, cans of beans, and jello dumped out on the security tables. Perhaps the security personnel enjoyed a nice lunch that day.
With little else to do, I proceeded directly to my terminal. Having booked the discount flight on the discount airline, I was not surprised to discover the sparse nature of the waiting accommodations. The RyanAir gate area resembled a large concrete holding bay in which several steel benches had been haphazardly deposited and through which clusters of travelers – just as thrifty as I but far louder – flocked with an energy that I found to be dismaying for the early hour. Having safely reached the airport, the energy that had carried me thus far with ease seemed to abandon me. I sat idly on a bench for a time, and then got up to get a coke to energize me. I had the good fortune of getting in line behind a woman and her elderly mother who had purchased $6.85 of beverages and were attempting to pay for it in pennies. The women refused to allow anyone else to pay for their beverages, and the cashier kept losing track of the pennies. It was a very aggravating exercise and, at its completion, I retired to my seat to suck my now-lukewarm cola in exasperation.
Like many of the discount airlines in the US, RyanAir has an open seating plan. With about 30 minutes to boarding, people began to line up at the gate, eager to be the first ones onto the plane and to have the privilege of sitting the longest in the small space. I waited until 10 minutes before boarding to stand in line, but the plane boarded 15 minutes late. At least I got a good seat: close to the front of the plane, by a window, and with no one next to me. The airborne portion of the flight went smoothly, and the views from above were quite impressive: the iron colored ripples of the sea, the jagged coasts and beaches, the brilliant patchwork green of the Belgian Countryside once we gained the land again.
I landed in Brussels Charleroi-South Airport around 11AM local time, having gained an hour since Dublin. It's not a very large airport, with a single narrow terminal after customs. I was somewhat amused to discover that the "Airport" train station was, in fact, a 15 minute busride away. I purchased a bus and train ticket and waited about 20 minutes for the shuttle, during which time I amused myself with watching a group of scouts (or guides, as their shirts proclaimed) adjusting their backpacks and neckerchiefs, off on some adventure. I arrived at the Charleroi Sud trainstation to discover that, not surprisingly, I was no longer in an English-speaking Country. The official language of Belgium is Dutch, but various regions of the country are dominantly French and German speaking. The signs and schedules were a conglomeration of languages of which I had no knowledge. I would have been fine except that even the proper nouns are varied by language, and I didn't see any train at all headed for Antwerp. Handily, one of the ticket people spoke English, and directed me to track 7, where I just managed to catch a train bound for "Anvers" – which is apparently French for Antwerp.
The train was leaving at 12:35, which left me little hope of keeping to my originally scheduled meeting time with Maria of 1:00 PM. In fact, my preliminary research had been incorrect – the train ride was not 45 minutes but an hour 45 minutes from Charleroi to Antwerp. It was a nice ride, though – I had a bench and a table and a view of the countryside that was rather pleasing. I passed the train ride by alternatively reading and looking out the window, and arrived at Antwerp's Central Station. On the way in, I happened to think "I wonder if this will be as grand as Union Station in DC." Union Station is a massive building, but Central (or rather, Centraal) station in Antwerp is significantly larger, if less opulent, dirtier, and not as well laid out. It is a massive glass and metal hanger-type building that is 7 or 8 platforms wide, several blocks long, and goodness only knows how high – it is like being outside while being inside. On the north end of the station is a marble façade carved with statuary and holding a golden clock, under which one passes to enter a vaulted marble rotunda. It is an impressive building, but it held little interest for me at the time, excited as I was by finally being in the same city as Maria once more. I was especially eager to proceed since, by this time, transportation delays had combined to make me 2 hours late and, with no cell phone, I had no way of apprising her of the situation.
I emerged from the station into a bustling cobblestoned marketplace. Antwerp is not found of labeling street names, and it was in vain that I cast about for the lengthy conglomeration of consonants that, according to my directions, was the name of the street that would take me to Maria.
Not surprisingly, the mapping software on the train's booking website had also been incorrect and none of the streets around the train station bore the name that I was looking for. With the help of a boy on a bike (who impressively cycled through three other languages before he found one I understood) I was able to gain a better impression of where I should go. After a few turns that my directions did NOT indicate, I found myself on the road corresponding to the Hotel's address. I had, however, entered the road at the 800 block, and the hotel was (or so I fervently hoped) located at 2A.
And so I begun beating a rather hasty path through central Antwerp. After about 25 minutes of arduous and rather sweaty walking, I saw at long last the Holiday Inn on my left. It was interesting to think that, after more than a months separation and 14 hours of travel by foot, taxi, plane, bus, train, and foot again, I was now within 50 feet of Maria…or so I fervently hoped. I stood on the other side of the street vainly hoping that my shirt would dry a little bit before I went to see her, and appreciating for a moment the joy of having come far enough to take but a few more steps to be in her company.
I crossed the street and entered the Holiday Inn Lobby and looked around a bit…I did not see Maria, and was rather saddened. Suddenly, I was hit by a warm, soft, rapidly moving, and very excitable bundle that seemed quite intent on hugging me and making general noises of happiness. It was, I am happy to report, my lovely girlfriend, who had seen me before I could catch a glimpse of her and wasted no time with decorous and stately greetings, electing instead to pounce upon me. It was a most joyful reunion, one that consisted of us hugging each other and then stopping to hold each other at arm's distance for visual inspection, as if to assure ourselves that the other was really there, before hugging and kissing again. I was quite happy to be finally in sight of her smiling face and I had quite a difficult time attempting to check my ebullience for a moment so as to check into the hotel without laughing / singing / doing heel clicks for the poor check in clerk. Thankfully, the desk attendant appeared to appreciate something of the magnitude of the situation and handed us the keycard with little fuss.
We retired to the hotel room where we continued our enthusiastic greetings. I was happier than I have been for quite some time, I must say, to finally be with Maria again. It is a rather painful loss to have to be away from her for so long.
Belgian Hotels, even those that are copies of an American Brand as was our, are interesting in several ways that distinguish them from others of my experience. For one, even the TVs in Belgium are polite: the one in our room was already on, and merrily blinking "Welcome to our Hotel, Mr./Ms. Patrick Dorsey!" How nice of it. Also, we spent five minutes attempting to engage the lighting in the room: the switches, puzzlingly, were not effective in accomplishing this task no matter how often we switched them on and off. Finally, I discovered that the power in the room was only activated by placing the room's keycard in a small unmarked slot near the door. Since the lights are only operative with the key in the slot and since the key must be taken upon departure to regain entrance to the room, this clever mechanism makes it nearly impossible to leave lights on in an empty room, since lights blink off when the card is removed to leave, unless you are foolish enough to quit your room without the means for re-entry (which is unlikely, since the key card is always close to the doorknob, in the line of sight on the way out). It was a deucedly clever mechanism, and I wish that more buildings in the US were equipped with similar features.
We went for a brief walk through the surrounding neighborhood which is, as I have just relayed, about 25 minutes walk north of the Central district of the City. I chose the Holiday in because of its proximity, according to the map, to the docklands. I reasoned, when booking the room, that it would be a convenient short walk for Maria from the Dock to the Hotel. Alas, however, the "docklands" next to which our hotel was located are berths for small recreational craft and personal yachts…not the massive piers required to accommodate sizable oceangoing vessel's like Maria's Ship, the MV Explorer. An understandable oversight, but still an unfortunate one in that it required Maria to walk even farther than I had. I chose the hotel because it was cheap but also because of its location. Had I known the true location of Maria's docking in advance, perhaps I could have selected a hotel for a reasonable price that was closer to her ship and the Center of the City…but no matter! We were both tired from our extended walking, and returned to the room to take a late-afternoon nap.
Later, we awoke and set out once more in search of dinner, eventually settling on a small Italian Ristorante called "La Bella Sicula" (Literally, "The Beautiful Sicily – fitting, considering Maria's family's background) down the street from our Hotel. It was a small, softly lit establishment with a waitress who, though she did not speak English, seemed pleased to have us in.
It was a good thing that, through long practice, I have become relatively familiar with the meanings of various Italian foods…not only was the menu not in English, but it was in some Dutch translation of Italian foods, I think…handily, there was some Italian on the Menu. My understanding of Italian is mostly limited to things like "Pizza" and "Spaghetti". Thus, though I may have wished to try something more unusual, the only things I could understand on the menu were the basics. We had a carafe of a tasty but unidentified white wine, soup and a tomato/mozzarella plate, pizza and a baked pasta combination thing. It was all very tasty, even if it was quite a long time in coming. We were stuffed long before we finished the food, and attempting to secure a box to take home the remnants but, alas, were not understood – the waitress took our food and our money and never brought back the box. I suppose it's all right, though, as our hotel room didn't have a fridge and we certainly weren't going to be able to finish the food that evening.
Maria got up early on the morning of the 15th to go back to the ship to depart for her bike trip through Flanders. Unsure of the danger of Belgium's street's early in the morning, I accompanied her to the ship. The bus was set to leave at 7 in the morning, so we left at 6:30, sadly underestimating the time it would take us to cross the city. With a bit of confusion as to the location and some very fast walking towards the end, Maria managed to make it across the city before the bus left.
Deprived of my walking partner and the need for urgency, I set off on a decidedly more relaxed amble back across the city to the hotel. When I reached it about 10 after 8, I partook of a large and lavish 'continental' breakfast – juice, milk, coffee, water, salami, fruit, yogurt, cheese, a croissant, and a bewitchingly tasty curled pastry that was stuffed with something appealing but mysterious. Stuffed from my feast and tired from my early rise and walk across the city after a short sleep, I stuffed my pockets with the pastries for later and retired to the hotel room for my morning nap. I took a shower slept until the afternoon, getting up to laze around the hotel room reading, writing my weekly papers, and slowly consuming the pastries I'd stolen from breakfast. Maria returned to the hotel from her bike trip around 5:30, tired but very enthusiastic about the adventure. Of course, another nap was in order after the exertions of the day: significant on her part and almost non-existent on mine. We woke up later to go in search of food, which we found at a Sidwalk café by the harbour. We originally thought it was a Mexican tapas bar (because it said "Tapas Bar" on the window and the staff were of Hispanic extraction) but it turned out to be a Greek place, instead. I love Greek food, though, so I was still happy. We got some sausage and cheese to nibble on while our food cooked, and tried some Belgian "Jupiter" Beer (I was pleased, Maria less so by the tasty but nondescript lager). Maria had curried chicken and I opted for a skewer of meat and vegetables that, although not as good as Dad's marinade, was quite pleasing nevertheless. Especially enjoyable was the rich and cool tzatziki sauce. We paid our bill and wandered back to the hotel and to bed. Maria, after her athletic feats of cycling excellence (40 km of them, apparently) fell asleep rapidly. I, on the other hand, had napped extensively and woke up around 1:30 and couldn't get back to sleep until around 6. We woke up around 9:30 on Wednesday morning to go to breakfast and returned to laze around the room for a while.
Midway through the afternoon, it occurred to us that, being in a city of great culture and antiquity, we may as well see a little bit of it. I was much more concerned with holding Maria's hand and looking at her as much as possible than with seeing the millionth museum of the summer, but we both decided it would be prudent to have a walkaround. We strolled the 30 minutes into the Old City Centre, me eagerly taking pictures the whole way. Antwerp is a very different city from Dublin. Dublin is coordinated in its architecture and street layout, generally clean, largely neo-classical in style, and years of British domination have left the indisuputable stamp of Albion on the face of almost everything. Antwerp, on the other hand, is very much a European city in the grand Continental style. Parts of it are far more lavish and opulent than anything in Dublin, but it is also far less consistently appealing: there is a great deal of garbage in the streets, and parents allow their children to urinate essentially at will. Outside the core of gorgeous architecture of ancient origin are relatively unappealing districts of 60s and 70s architecture, whereas Dublin maintains more visual integrity throughout the city.
The Old City Centre, however, is quite unlike anything in Dublin. It's a pedestrian-only district, covered entirely in cobblestones and filled with old buildings, whose intricately carved stone facades are laced with balustrades and cupolas, gold sculptures adorning the top of nearly every gable. The City Hall, veritably clothed in flags, stands in front of a massive cobblestoned court, in the center of which is a bronze fountain atop a crag of rocks. Uniquely, the water does not flow into a pool in a contained vessel but splashes down onto the cobble stones and rocks surrounding it. The effect is quite powerful, and seems to suggest something organic and powerful jutting out of the stone beneath rather than a fanciful ornamentation placed by human hands.
Overshadowing the entire central district, however, is the towering Cathedral of Our Lady, which has been rebuilt and destroyed several times since its original construction in the 14th century. Its spire is of a tanned sandstone with elaborate carving, rather in the style of the Parliament Buildings in the UK. It features a massive gold clock suspended out from its tower on several sides, and easily commands the landscape around it.
Perhaps the most appealing part of the central district, however, is that in the midst of all the grandeur, the ground floor of everything is a sidewalk café or shop. When we arrived in the evening, things were in full swing: dining and dancing and drinking, spilling out from all spaces, broad avenue and shaded back lane alike. It was a very happy scene, one that reminded me tremendously of the public atmosphere in Germany of many years ago, and I took many pictures that I am sure bemused the occupants of the cafes for whom this sort of thing was a regular state of affairs.
Maria returned briefly to the ship to do me the favor of emailing in my assignments for the week, and I had the chance to look around the exterior of her ocean-going home (due to security regulations, only immediate family and spouses are allowed to board the ship as guests. I was a bit saddened that I didn't qualify under this bill, but alas). The MV explorer is a large cruise ship that has been converted to a floating school while retaining many of the amenities found on more leisure oriented ships. I could see pools and tennis courts, etc, and the whole thing looked very festive. I was especially pleased to see that the hull of the ship was painted with Virginia Colors and that the gangway up to the deck featured a UVa banner – most students on board do not attend UVa, but UVa is the academic sponsor of the voyage and provides the professors and deans, and students from other schools have the privilege of earning UVa credit for their coursework.
I ogled the ship from the dock with several other foreigners who seemed to be saying in Dutch something involving sighs of exasperation, "Americans", gesticulations of amusement made towards the ship, and expletives. Maria returned in a different outfit from before (a friend had kindly exploded Orange soda all over her on the ship) and we went in search of dinner. Our pre-dinner routine took the form in often does, which is to say a non-committal dialogue in which each of us concedes and defers to the wishes of the other to such an extent that it takes 30 minutes to decide where to eat. I, in particular, am bad about this – we have only seldom had a date in which I have affirmatively and decisively stated our destination at the outside. It is a rather endearing outgrowth of our affection for each other, and one that I imagine must annoy the knackers off anyone who has the misfortune to be tagging along.
We finally settled on an Argentine Steakhouse with a view of the square, the fountain, City Hall, and the Cathedral (to be fair, the Cathedral was so massive that everything in the region commanded a pretty decent view of it).
The table next to us held a French family with adorable children, a boy and a girl. The parents seemed quite disgruntled. I don't see how anyone can be angry with kids who are so cute and well-behaved: my brothers and I probably weren't cute and we certainly were not often well-behaved, but my parents seemed pretty happy most of the time…I suppose we were lucky to get the good ones.
It's impossible to find Mexican/Hispanic/Latino food of any stripe in Dublin, so I was excited. We split some nachos, by now accustomed to the Belgian tendency to test the endurance of the patrons of their restaurants by causing them to wait at least 50 minutes before food is presented to them. In this manner, I suppose, they render customers so slavishly famished that anything will be received gratefully and consumed rapidly, even if it is not tasty. I suppose the real way to go about it would be to report to dinner an hour before you actually become hungry. We were hungry, though, and ordered to nachos to stave it off. I wanted to continue my exploration of Belgian Beer, but I know nothing about Belgian Beer. I was staring at the menu and attempting to choose by some other method than random guessing, but in the end just decided to ask the server what was good. "You like strong?" I indicated to the waiter by means of derisive scoffs and affirmative head nods that I certainly would not accept some watered down beverage consumed by women and men with shaved chests. To this, the waiter replied "Good. Strong. Bruin." and departed. At first, I thought he was complimenting my masculinity by comparing me to a large grizzly bear, but it turns out that "Bruin" is the nickname of a Beer more formally known as Talmero…I think. He brought me a goblet of liquid nearly as dark as Guinness, but not quite. Unused to drinking beer from anything but a pint glass, I was a bit suspicious, but needlessly – the beer was excellent: dark and heavy with hints of caramel and lots of spices. I wouldn't have thought that herbed beer would be tasty, but it was. It was also strong: at 8% by volume, it has twice the content of Budweiser and similar products. It went well with the nachos and, later, my mixed grill platter, and was about half as much as I would have paid for something similar in Dublin. I was pleased.
We wandered around the City a bit more after dinner, occasionally running into Maria's friends from the Ship, many of whom were drunk, and most of whom were pleased to meet me. We got some ice cream, walked back to the hotel, and fell asleep.
We got up and breakfasted early, with the intention of seeing a bit more of the city before I had to catch my train. Those plans fell through, however, as we elected to happily lay around the hotel for another hour or so before heading out. The train station, as I have previously mentioned, is a very impressive building. It is located in the middle of the "Diamond District" it which nearly every store is a Diamond business owned and operated by a Hasidic jewish man. I learned that, apparently, 80% of the world's diamonds pass through Antwerp on their way to becoming Jewelry – that's pretty impressive. I gazed at the diamonds a bit, we took pictures in front of a statue or two, and headed to the station.
I bought my train ticket and we sat sadly on the steps, confronting the reality that it would be another month before we saw each other again. I am not comfortable or happy about this long periods of separation thing but, sadly, I did have to go. I boarded a train right behind a troop of Belgian Boy Scouts toting packs and being herded by their harried leaders – a familiar scene in an unfamiliar setting.
For much of the ride back to Brussels-Charleroi, I had the cabin of the train (this time, the top of a double decker) to myself. I was filled with none of he excitement or energy that had characterized the first leg of my journey: I may have been heading to a city that I admire and enjoy but, in doing so, I was heading away from Maria.
The train ride from Antwerp to Charleroi went smoothly, and I arrived at the airport 4 hours before my flight's departure (recalling the uncertainty of pervious travel arrangements, I wanted to leave plenty of margin for error). The Charleroi Airport is very small, with only a single check-in terminal. Thus, one is unable, as is possible in larger airports, to proceed directly to check in upon arrival. I had to wait for 2 hours before they started allowing check ins for my flights, and was corralled into line for a very small number of ticket windows. I got through security, waited, and boarded my plane. The flight back to Ireland was more crowded and had more loud babies than the flight to Belgium, and I was wedged next to someone. He was of normal size, but the seats are sized such that only small people can fit in them comfortably.
I arrived back at the Dublin and, after purchasing a sandwich to break a bill for change for bus fare, struck upon a more convenient transportation than the way I had begun my trip. Instead of taking the airport shuttle to the city centre and then my local bus from there to Santry, I was pleased to discover that there is a single local route from the airport to a neighborhood close to my own (since I live close to the airport anyway, going all the way to City Centre is a long way in the opposite direction, but I didn't know that there was a bus going directly to the airport). I spent 2 euro instead of 8, and was pleased even though it began to rain on my walk back to Shanowen.
I arrived back and, after making some pasta, tumbled into bed rather tired from my travels. I would have unpacked and cleaned up but, given the finite amount of time between my return and my departure again for Kerry, I elected to use it on sleep instead of laundry.
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