Wandering through Dublin and GalwayJames Joyce remarked of his country, "If Ireland is to become a new Ireland, she must first become European." Mr. Joyce, we meet yet again, but this time around I find myself no longer cursing the day of your birth. James let us forget and forgive, I
did tape those pages back into Ulysses afterall.
One month in France. Time to leave. Never did I imagine this to be possible--to
weekend (verb) in Ireland. By no accounts may I accredit here a spur of the moment adventure, this trip had been in the books since day one. The occasion: the birthday party of a dear friend--not just a friend, but
that friend, the one you consider family, and (depending on your outlook) have either been blessed or lucked with friendship. Me: damn lucky. K's 21st birthday, In Galway, Ireland, the land of Pubs. A nice little escape from the hustle and bustle of the Paris city life--understatement. For a country only an hours flight north, Ireland could not be more different from Paris, nor could it be more homey, comforting, and familiar. Paris is exhausting for a foreigner: big, fast, French--its own world in which one is a pin prick attempting to navigate and blend. Ireland: Gray, tepid, small, messy hair, tawdry sweaters, and
English.
Undoubtedly a statement to offend many an Irish--but
I finally felt at home. Joyce said Ireland must first become European, I trust him now. Ireland is not European at all--and is worthy, I now admit, of being time-capsuled in eight hundred pages of stream of conscious.
The previous noted travel woes of this author would have any cognitive reader questioning her solo attempt at crossing a border via 5 different modes of transport. And right you are for questioning--wrong metro stop, wrong bus, missed exit on Luas...but the difference? I predicted these, scheduled them into the time table if you will. Once in Dublin I was to take a shuttle bus to Heuston train station, not surprising I found myself on the wrong bus. I informed the bus driver if I had actually boarded the
right bus, the cosmos would have torn apart. I scheduled this in: I had 5 hours in Dublin to roam in the footsteps of Stephen Dedalus and Leopold Bloom, so the above the ground tram car the driver took me to was more than what I could have hoped for, until i missed my stop distracted by a brawl between the conductor and a ticket-less youth. Unphased--walk to the station from the next stop. Dublin is brilliant. My four hours walking along the quay of the Liffey River, switchbacking the myriad bridges, the Guinness factory, pubs, Ireland's national museum, pubs, people, the James Joyce House where the story
The Dead (in
Dubliners) took place, and more pubs. Though brief, Dublin was breathtaking, a preview for my next visit and a n inspiration to finally attempt a second round Ulysses, for the bastard did say,
"The demand that I make of my reader is that he should devote his whole life to reading my works." Teatime Joyce. Teatime.
Dublin and Glaway are on opposite coasts of the country latitudinally, therefore I may claim that I crossed the nation of Ireland by train. What lays in between the country's two largest cities: grass. Fields upon fields of austere cornea-burning green pastures spattered by herds of grazing sheep. Irish sweaters are scarves are not cliche, for there absolutely are more resident sheep than people. The sheer beauty of endless fields, small farmhouses, dotty stone fences, and overcast skies left me with an esoteric nostalgia for home, family, and friends. Arrival in picturesque Galway was one for the films: K and J were waiting for me on the platform, waving and beaming like an old married couple. Stations and airports are notorious abodes for tears, hugs, and laughs either commencing or ending a separation.
Dinner was already simmering on the stove; a chicken curry, rice, and homemade naan bread (K is an exceptional chef and baker, we have very similar interests). After dinner: Irish Pub, my first Irish Pub, and therefore my first Guinness in an Irish Pub. Make that first sips of Guinness, for as an acquired taste, it is not one I have 'acquired' yet.
Galway lies on the sea, a welcome sight for this Seattle born. The salty air, swift breeze, seagulls, and humid air were yet more bolsters for that ol' nostalgia. Peaceful, happy, and friendly is the definition of Galway with its winding streets, packed shopping allies, Guinness, Guinness, and Guinness, beached boats, and 24-hour super store centers. Not, a city. No, not a city, but rather a home.
K's birthday commenced with (my standard) two hour breakfast. In Ireland: porridge, fruit, and two teapots of liquid love. English television is a perk, though the television hours were spent on Father Ted, a beloved BBC program of mine I feared I would never again find, though there it was, in neat DVD format...was I indeed meant for Ireland? Presents from France: wine, scarf, chocolates, and yes, a baguette. All things French minus the beret. Presents in tow we headed to Salt Hill, a sandy point where one can gaze out to sea while the rocky Atlantic waves crash into the ancient stone walls below. Evening was passed in bowls of potato soup, cider, chocolate cake
, and more Father Ted. Not the raucous 21 many an American immortalizes, no something much better.
Irish coffee, cards, tea, Ted, and warm mist. My weekend in Galway rescued this drowning foreigner from this brilliant, yet exhausting Charybdis of a city, depositing me in welcome arms that recreated home far from home. Appreciate the second half of "family and friends" for more likely than not, your friends will invariably become family to you. Ireland now for me represents all of this; an escape home from Paris. The weekend was spent traipsing down memory lane, while yet experiencing a completely new life. The new and old melange; somehow life is built with enough room to keep everything while adding tenfold. The ride from Galway to Shannon to catch my flight home dug up Joyce's words yet again, "Every life is many days, day after day we walk through ourselves, meeting robbers, ghosts, giants, old men, young men, wives, widows, brothers-in-love, but always meeting ourselves." Pick up the tome again he's telling me.
One may find here the saccharine tone tiresome to follow. Well, Ireland gave me a new phrase for response: feck off!
A bientôt
Walt Disney may have patterned his fairytale castle after the famous Newschwanstein Castle in Fussen, Germany, but it is beyond any doubt, in my mind, that Cinderella, Snow, and Tink all made residency in the Czech Republic--in the enchanting gilded city of antiquity known the world around as Prague.
There are far too many elements one could recount and embellish on from a weekend passed in Prague--the streets, skyline, food, markets, people, puppets, music, sparkle, and nightlife--as such it is an act of great difficulty to synopsize the finest points of Prague. Over the past few decades it has risen to the ranks of one of the most densely visited cities on the European continent, a tourist haven on par with the dazzle of such cities as Paris and London. Though the Czech Republic was made EU member only in 2004, Prague has been a world cultureal and economic center for over 1100 years and remains under the aliases of the Golden City, the Mother of Cities, and the City of a Thousand Spires. Prague seems of existence for the single purpose of gaiety and a good time, an unspoiled majesty remains on the land that perhaps before one thought only possible to find on Main Street and Splash Mountain. It is a nonpareil city in this respect; a poignant contrast to the cool sad grayness left behind in Poland. There are Pixies and Pucks to be found in the winding streets of Praha, and a certain mystery seeped in the odd and puzzling atmosphere of a Scandinavian village mingled with an Eastern Turkish feel and a whimsical Bavarian charm. I say, put down the map and look up--there is a puppet show to be seen, and a 20 crown Pilsner with your name on it.
What is this? This can't be real? Are the classic first words heard to escape ones mouth as they emerge from the winding cluttered village onto awe inspiring Charles bidge. The sheer population and commerce found atop the Charles Bridge is enough to deem it a city upon itself; portrait artists, painting peddlers, puppeteers, novelty salesmen, and musical artists of every make inhabit the outer lanes of the bridge from dawn until dusk. The ever present classical and authentic Czech style music paired with the smell of sweet roasted street nuts is a constant reminder that you are on vacation in a fairytale kingdom.
The Charles Bridge is perhaps the most prominent landmark of Praha; of the myriad bridges that traverse the Vltava River, it is the most highly decorated and revered as it boasts the history as the replacement of the first bridge (the Judith Bridge in 1170) when it collapsed in 1342. Charles Bridge is named for the Holy Roman Emperor Charles IV, and is the direct link between the old town and new town on opposite sides of the river. The bridge is lined with a near 30 baroque style statues depicting Christian characters and icons pointing and jabbing in directions every which way. Of the many, the statue of Saint John of Nepomuk is the most eye chatching--though do not be fooled by the sparkling austerity of his golden crown, for all of the bridge statues are replicas of the originals who have since 1965 been residing in the national museum. Regardless they are wonders to marvel at. Though once across the bridge on both banks there are spectacles to gaze upon that leave all thought of counterfeit deceit behind: Prague Castle, the Opera House, the the Town Hall Tower and Celestial Clock, St. Vitus Cathedral, Tyn Church, and the Old Jewish Quarter. This city has by far too much to see. But make sure you squeeze in a black light show or you will regret it to the end of your days.
If there is a single thing one picks up on in cross-border travel, it is the similarities and differences in the everyday and average aspects of life. For instance--beer. Beer secretly runs th the world and civil society as we know it. In Ireland one must dig deep to find an add, sign, or human not boasting the label Guinness, and in France it is without a doubt Kronenburg seen on the tables of the nouveau-sans-vin generation as it is manufactured in Strasbourg in the Alsace region of France. In the Czech Republic it is Pilsner, and there is no competition. As often as one encounters Guinness in Dublin, once encounters Pilsner in Prague.
Pilsner Urquell originated in the Bohemian city of Pilsen in the mid nineteenth century, and has since become one of the nations top grossing manufactured exports world wide. Aside frm the beer, kabobs are rudy everywhere in Europe--though I much prefer and recommend the rabbit roasted and stewed in a red wine and plum sauce served with golden raisins and potato dumplings followed by a slow mulled hot wine. But would you believe if I said 10 euro for said feast? Fairytale land, I will emphasize once again--the currency of Crowns, or Koruna, is an unearthly wonder for an An American living USD through Euro. Yes, Prague is quite the affordable city.
It is common knowledge that a travel companion can make or break a voyage--it is paramount to find an amicable, trustworthy, and dependable associate in order to not only survive but to have a good time. For every Frodo there is a Sam, every Huck a Jim, every TinTin a Milou, every Lewis a Clark--my expedition was no different, Prague was made only more bright by the company of my comrade H, whose life as a professional photographer meshed well with my charade as an amateur one, and whose similar fondness for marzipan allowed us time for the search as well as a newly mustered mutual respect for our shared interests. Travel is stressful, unpredictable, and certain to proffer a dilemma no matter how carefully the schedule is followed or the steps taken measured--it is not the circumstances of how or when the inevitable happens that matter in the least--but rather that one can come out of them just as happy as when one entered. (As well as, I suppose, not being kidnapped and sold into slavery to an illegal black market puppeteer--but come now, I had everything under control.) That is the unit of measure of a travel companion--if you can laugh and work together through the marshes then it is hardly possible to ask for more short of a Gandalf. But who needs a wizard when you have a friend and a bar of marzipan.
Violins, puppets, and paper mache eggs are symbols of Prague's novelty and beauty. A visit to a medieval village preserved from time is enjoyed through afternoon lattes and evening mugs of grog as the glistening shafts of the dying sun poor through the dusty haze--proof of the City's being sprinkled by golden fairy dust. Even now it seems surreal, a pastoral image paralleled to the likeness of those created by Monet, Sisley, and Bruegel on canvas. But it is real. And had Disney not so knavishly claimed his kingdom the happiest place on earth--such a title would indisputably fall upon this cracker-jack city in the east.
A bientôt
