The second two days of the week were significantly less eventful or remarkable than their predecessor. So much so, in fact, that I have little distinct recollection of what I did on Tuesday. The only concrete evidence I have of that day is that, apparently, early on Tuesday morning, I felt compelled to take a photograph of 30 or 40 (presumably empty) beer kegs that I found sitting on the walk outside Murphy's Pub. It was a strange sight for so early in the morning but, then again, I was barely awake.
Jennifer and I began working on a massive research project for John that has, so far, involved the perusal of hundreds of newspaper articles from a year or two ago. Not only is interesting to read about the Irish events but, perhaps even more so, it is interesting to read about Irish coverage of American events, especially political ones. One of the more glaringly interesting facets of their coverage is that it has been rendered erroneous by the progress of actual events: several of the papers here quite confidently predicted that the general election would feature Senator Clinton contending against Governor Romney. Oops.
(Not as bad as the famous headline "Dewey Defeats Truman" that was printed and ready to be sent out on the morning after Truman, in fact, defeated Dewey for the Presidency).
John is one of 8 delegates from Ireland (and, strangely, given the division of the population, the only delegate from Dublin) who sits on the European Union Committee of the Regions. His duties for that body required him to be in Brussels, Belgium, on Wednesday and Thursday. I do not enjoy the taste or smell of Brussels Sprouts, so I elected not to go. Or rather, that's what I told myself in the 10 seconds that I was disappointed for not receiving an invitation to cover my grief. It almost surpasses belief that the government of Ireland would not see fit to spend the money to send me, the intern, along too. But there you have it.
And so, on Wednesday, we worked from home. It was a rather long and tedious day of research but, given how exciting the job has been so far, I have little room to complain. I halted work around 5 PM and dove right in to my Organizational Theory text book in preparation for the completion of that night's writing for class. I did a "Discussion Item of the Week", a "Structured Journal" and "Short Essay No. 2". It was great fun. I made dinner and, for the first time ever, was disappointed by Tortellini. It was filled with a rather unsavory cheese that twinged the jolly old olfactory gland in a rather unpleasant way.
THURSDAY
John had received VIP tickets to several events on Thursday that, due to his commitments in Belgium, he was unable to attend. Like the obliging fellow that he is, he dispatched Jennifer and I in his stead. In the morning, I was pleased to attend the unveiling of a newly Commissioned Statue of Count John McCormack, the (evidently) legendary Irish Tenor of whom I had previously heard nothing but whose work I now wish to investigate. It was a rather pleasant affair: 50 or 100 or so people gathered in the sunny and green Iveagh Gardens, a rather obscure but delightful park behind the National Concert Hall. There were speeches memorializing the legacy of McCormack and praising the beneficence of the benefactors of his statue, and remarks from the artist on the tecnique of casting the bronze. Women were wearing hats, and men were clapping each other on tweed-covered backs (it's cool enough to wear tweed in the summer here) and taking pictures of each other clasping hands in front of the statue. The figure itself was finally unveiled in dramatic fashion by Dr. T.K. Whittaker, doyen of the Irish civil service and, according to John, the "architect of the modern Irish economy". Jennifer and I were the only ones under the age of 40 in the garden for the event. I was filled with the distinct sensation that I was surrounded by important and influential people but, as this is not my country, the faces meant nothing to me.
After the cloth came down and photos were taken, we moved to the atrium of the Office of Public works for tea and a reception. Jennifer and I held VIP tickets to the event but, sadly, were unable to brandish them to secure any special treatment - they let all of us in without checking. The event was quite nice, though: plenty of wine, cheese, grapes, Sushi, and several unidentifiable but delicious fried items. A harpist played in the corner, and a couple of spirited girls had an ambitious go at a few arias. It was an enjoyable way to avoid paying for lunch.
Jennifer was feeling under the weather and went home, but I wanted to explore the rest of Iveagh Gardens. Sadly, a rather tremendous downpour began I was drawing close, so I ducked inside a huge, noble-looking building made (like so much else in this city) of grey granite. I saw a sign that said "library" pointing up a flight of stairs, so I ascended them in the hopes of waiting out the storm among books. It didn't take long to discover that, though once used for Academic purposes, the building was now entirely deserted. It was painted well, and academic titles and departments were displayed over the lintels of doors, but a coating of dust touched everything, and it was clear that the building had not been used for some years. It was somewhat strange that I was able to walk right in, I thought, but I decided that it was as good a place to pass the storm as any. The building was not any less dry for its desolation, and in order to read one requires little but a book and a chair. The former I had brought in my bag and the latter was most graciously furnished by the strange old building that was sheltering my head from the storm outside.
I entered a space that was, according to the faded gold leaf above its door, the "Bishop O'Riordan Room". I found a spot under an old stained-glass window that cast interesting light over the pages of "The Count of Monte Cristo", which I have taken to reading when Ulysses causes me to enter into existential postmodernist crises of philology. Dumas is a good storyteller and his work is straightforward, refreshingly absent of any attempts to reinvent the his language or the form of the novel. In can be hard work to process ingenuity, so I can't read Ulysses for great stretches at a time, but 'Monte Cristo' flies by. Looking at my watch, I was surprised to discover an hour's passage. Looking at the window, I was pleased to discover that the storm, too, had passed.
I descended the old grey giant (I later found, after making inquiry with John, that it was one of the buildings of University College Dublin before that school moved out of the center of the City) and gained the outdoors. I walked back to Iveagh Gardens. Like in so many green places after the abatement of heaven's falling, a quiet mist was rising from every surface, so I walked among the gardens on tiny stone pebbles surrounded by a rather fetching mist. There are many statues of figures in the gardens that, though unidentified by any sort of helpful plaque or marker, are Hellenic in posture and costume. Remarks during the McCormack statue unveiling ceremony indicated that the tenor is the first to have his likeness cast in this garden for more than 150 years, so I can only assume that the other statues I saw are from that era. They certainly betray their antiquity, too: many of them have been picturesquely decapitated or are missing limbs. The overall effect is of a place very old, in the middle of but untouched by a great and bustling city. Unlike the massively popular Steven's Green, Iveagh Gardens are relatively unknown and were very quiet. I walked several paths covered with a leafy bower. Statues hid in garlands of ivy. Fountains stood in the middle of pristinely maintained but totally empty greens. I found a circular rose garden with paths wending through it and, desirous of securing a photograph of its pattern but unable to effectively capture the view from ground level, I scaled a nearby precipice of rock and mud so as to obtain the visual advantage that altitude's perspective affords. I had dressed for the morning's more gentle and formal activities, so I was not ideally attired for the venture that I then undertook. It was the first time I have ever climbed something wearing a bowtie, jacket, and gabardine. My shoes hardly had the gripping soles that would have been advantageous on the slick rock, but I was determined to secure the photo, so I prevailed upward to the summit of the cornice that, though modest in height, presented a challenge to me, outfitted as I was in clothes fit for more sedate activity closer to the ground. The one boon afforded to me by my kit is that my recently purchased umbrella proved to be a stalwart substitute for a mountaineer's pickaxe and an effective stabilizing device.
Though my clothing did much to handicap the ease of my vertical ascent, it also did much to increase the satisfaction with which I surveyed the gardens from on high. The novelty and strangeness of perching atop the rugged vista, while cutting the figure I did, was most amusing and thoroughly satisfying. Dramatically, a beam of sun appeared at the opportune moment to warm me from my peak, and I captured the desired photograph. It is a nice one, but hardly reflects the effort to which I went to acquire it. I am pleased to report that I ascended and dismounted the mound without suffering any injury to myself and without soiling any of my clothing. I couldn't, you see - dry cleaning is expensive in this country.
Having regained the firmament, I continued the exploration of the garden, making my way down a straight path towards a distant white marble object that I detected, gleaming becomingly, in the distance. As I approached, I ascertained that the marble was, in fact, a white sundial. It was located in the middle of a maze crafted through an immaculately trimmed hedgerow. It was a surprising and lovely sight and, as I was admiring it, the sky began to darken once again, foiling the light for my pictures.
And then, as I retreated down the pebbled lane, it began, most impolitely, to rain again. The energy of the clouds exceeded even the impressing display of the earlier afternoon. I deployed my bumbershoot but, though it doubles as a swarthy mountain pickaxe, its canopy is significantly less than infinite. It was quite unequal (being of the traditional single-sided model) to the task of shielding me from rain that both fell and drove, vertically and horizontally. Beleaguered as I was, necessity compelled me to seek shelter under a tree. Imagine the situation: I was dressed formally, alone under a tree among 50 acres of perfectly and elegantly crafted English Gardens, surrounded by walls of water from above. I was alone in the middle of a large city, and feeling the strength of nature while dressed, patently, for anything but. I imagine that I would have presented a rather humorous sight to anyone who was watching. But of course, no one was.
So situated under my arboreal steward, I was able to pass the storm in relative comfort and dryness aided by the combined protection of the umbrella and the tree's branches. The downpour was powerful but brief, and I poked my head from among the leaves after about 10 minutes. The sky was blue and there was no sign of the rain that, just 10 minutes previous, had driven me to seek what available shelter there was.
Having twice tempted nature, in her rocky and liquid forms, and escaped each time miraculously unsullied and dry, I decided to no longer push my luck. I retreated for the less rugged district of the city. Soon, I was treading the avenues with a certain satisfaction that comes from having completed an improbable task. I felt as a country squire, having completed the rounds of his estate, dressed nattily, retiring to his fire. Lacking a fireplace, however, I found the national library.
As I believe I mentioned several entries ago, the library is currently displaying a William Butler Yeats exhibit. The National Library of Ireland is the largest depository of Yeats' documents and originals anywhere, a portion of which comprised this rather cunning display. It was a dark room, lit dramatically, with various interactive displays and videos, corners made to resemble the Yeats home, etc. There were many glass cases filled with books, papers, photos, drawings, and notebooks, many of them original manuscripts or first copies, many of them in Yeats' own hand. The exhibit was helpfully accompanied by historical commentary, and I easily passed two hours in the exhibit before being informed, rather gruffly I thought, that the exhibit was closed and that I had to leave. Having only seen 3/4 of the exhibit (and having seen none at all of the rest of the library) I made plans to return as I made my retreat from the building.
I grabbed a sandwich, a salad of lentils and other healthfully crunchy legumes, and a mineral water from the cooler at the previously mentioned Marks and Spencer and went to a bench by one of the ponds in Stephen's Green to eat it. There, I enjoyed a dinner that was both lower in cost and superior in view to any that I might have enjoyed in a restaurant. The sun emerged briefly but magnificently from its customary location behind the Dublin clouds and cast the lake and the trees and the flowers in an intoxicatingly fetching light. I was so distracted by the beauty of the scene that I nearly missed my next engagement.
John had been given two tickets to a concert that, unable to attend because of his trip to the EU Meeting, he had passed to Jennifer and myself. Jennifer was home ill, but I made my way back to the National Concert Hall. I was going to see "Alfie Boe" and, though I knew not who he was, I am seldom one to turn away free music.
The National Concert Hall is a lavishly appointed building with lush red carpets and deep green walls with all sorts of low, curving couches and high, swooping arches and columns. Liveried staff walk about purveying beverages and charging 4 Euro for programs. I refused on principle to purchase one and thus proceded even to the downbeat of the concert in ignorance of Alfie Boe's identity.
It turns out that he is a British Tenor of great ability and capacious lungs, accompanied in this instance by Ireland's National Symphony Orchestra, which interspersed his Opera classics with sprightly and powerfully rendered overtures and fancies of brief but exciting duration. The National Symphony Orchestra, though not performing in the majesty of Christ Church Cathedral as the Dublin Symphony was the other night and not playing a program that elicited the same sort of emotional response from me, was undeniably the superior musical organization. They were a truly professional orchestra, the equal of most that I have heard in the United States. Boe himself was a powerful and charismatic presence, gesturing and emoting as he sang, unamplified, over the entire orchestra and through the large venue.
I found later that Alfie Boe is the Tony-Award winning tenor who has just completed a run as the lead of La Boheme on Broadway under Baz Luhrmann, and I saw him for "free". Politics Swag Last Year: Papa John's Pizza. Politics Saw This Year: Concert Tickets. Next Year: My income taxes increase. N
I walked the several miles back up to O'Connell street and caught the bus home. I returned home, tired, around 11 PM.
FRIDAY
This morning, I awoke with some reluctance and rode to work. I worked for a few hours in the library alone, hacking through more of the research project. John wasn't in until noon because he had clients. Shortly after he arrived, we went for lunch. Our burger and fries then turned into tea and then into an extended conversation about religion (he read theology at University), early moral philosophy, and rationality as an anatomical and metaphysical entity. We then digressed into psychology and the power of emotion, fields in which I am less familiar, at which point the debate became much more of a listening exercise for me. It was clear that he was approaching it from a pedagogical point of view, to teach me something. He is an educated man, and more knowledgeable than I in some (and probably all) of our fields of discussion, but I believe that I acquitted myself in a manner that did not dishonor my training. Though his knowledge is superior in scope and breadth to my own, he has grown secure in the long certitude that his views are the correct ones. My knowledge, on the other hand, though smaller in volume, assumes this reduced size not just as a function of my relative youth but also a function of my attempts to cleanse my conclusions in acerbic self-doubt and merciless rational verification. I know very little for sure myself, of course, but on the other hand I am usually able to expose the flaws in the arguments of others, especially when they may not be regularly accustomed to rigorous challenge. To use a sloppy analogy, his weapons were powerful and heavier, but mine were sharper and more nimbly wielded. We were able to debate to a gratifying standstill on what points were contended, before he shared a series of anecdotes in an endearingly paternal manner to which I had no response. He was not used to seeing me speechless, and crowed a bit at having (it seemed to him) rendered me such. In actuality, his stories brooked no response, and I felt it unnecessary to talk for the sake of speaking, and held my peace. I suppose that is a rarity, in itself. Pleased, he sent me home early.
I had a Guinness in "my" pub (total visits: 5) and read in the cool dark for a while until the friday evening crowds became too loud for me to concentrate. I caught the bus home and here I sit.
Tomorrow, some of the other UVa students and I are making an excursion to Glendalough, Co. Wicklow. I shall report back upon my return.
Pictures from the events described herein may be found in the "Dublin - III" album on Facebook.
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