Dubliner

In my most infinite wisdom I decided that, despite the fact I was obviously coming down with a sore throat, going salsa dancing the night before leaving for Dublin was a good idea and one I could not possibly pass up. This is why, after getting to bed at 2.00 the night before, I stumbled off the 8.00am Cork-Dublin bus to a sunny, crowded city, bewildered, sick, sleepless and somewhat in awe.

Dublin is large, no doubt. After hopping city-to-city, each one smaller than the last, it was a bit of a shock to be somewhere larger than Cork. It was a sunny day, sunny to the point of blinding us as we stood on the street corner unsure of where to go, turning in circles and squinting in the sunlight.

Eventually we made it to O’Connell Street, the double-wide main drag of Dublin, filled with fast food and tourist shops and monuments and people, but the most spectacular sight was the Spire (affectionately called the “Spike”) a 390 foot metal pole officially named An Túr Solais, or “the Pillar of Light,” and it is lit up at night as we learned when using it as a guide us on our drunken stumble back from the Guinness Storehouse later in the day.

After finding our room and catching a bus back out to the city, we decided to try and make the Guinness Storehouse before it closed. Tired from a five hour bus ride from Cork and another 20 minuets city bus to and from our room, as well as the fact that Erica and I were obviously coming down with something, we were determined to salvage the remains of our first day in the city. Unfortunately Dublin is large and the small-scale we are used to in Cork does not apply there. Running along the banks of the Liffey we ended up going the length of the brewery before discovering we had gone too far. In a mad dash we ran the two blocks back up to the street and down around mazes of alleyways to reach the Storehouse before tours stopped at 5 o’clock.

But we made it, and saw all the pint-shaped museum had to offer including our free taste and free pint of Guinness- a drink I do not favor, but since I worked so hard to get there I was going to drink no matter what. So we stood in the rooftop Galaxy Bar above the Storehouse and chugged our pint-glasses in record time in order to get back down to the giftshop before it closed. After what I call my first experience “drunk shopping” we were discharged back into the city by way of what appeared by all accounts to be a back door, myself being sick, tired, and more than a little tipsy. A good first day in Dublin.

Sample at the Guinness Storehouse.

On Saturday we set out to accomplish it all, hitting first the National Museum of Ireland, then the National Gallery, Christ Church Cathedral, Saint Patrick’s Cathedral, Dublin Castle, and somehow even Trinity College, which we stumbled into and could not get out of.

The dome of the National Museum.

By far my favorite was Christ Church. Started in 1038 it’s one of the oldest churches in Ireland, having undergone extensive renovations around the turn of the century resulting in beautifully colored marble inlay and mosaic floors, bright colored windows, and wonderful stonework as well as a bridge over Winetavern Street to the Synod House where an exhibition called Dublinia was being shown, but this part was closed. In the crypt we found displayed the mummified remains of a cat and rat that were found trapped in the church organ, as mentioned in Finnegan’s Wake. As for myself, I found the church quite rat-free.

Mosaic on the flor of Christ Church Cathedral.

St. Patrick’s was at least twice the size of Christ Church, but somehow there was much less to see. These churches are less worship space and more museum now, with gift shops sitting right alongside marble tombs. But this does nothing to lessen the feeling of the long sanctuary and towering ceilings that echo every footstep. I love places like these.

Our tour of Dublin Castle, which is really more of a Georgian Palace, was a guided affair through a number of staterooms and bedrooms, ballrooms and throne rooms, each brightly colored and lit with high chandeliers. Among these rooms were the King’s Bedroom, where Queen Victoria slept, a large parlor room displaying a mirror taken from the Palace of Versailles, and the ballroom where every seven years the new president of Ireland is inaugurated. From here we were guided into the underbelly of the castle where ancient stonework shows the original walls of the castle joined to one of the city gates, long closed off with brick.

The mirror from Versailles.

The day was waning so we trudged back towards O’Connell Street and decided to take a detour through the gates of Trinity College, with its long greens and stonework buildings. It’s much like I though UCC would be, full of old educational edifices, stern and charming at the same time. It’s like a walled garden of knowledge from the moment you walk through the gate and the traffic fades behind the screen of buildings. Overhead the Irish sky- always churning with clouds, was moving through its evening motions. It was a wonderful end to a long day.

On Sunday, before jumping the bus back to Cork we decided to take a break from the noise of the city and see the Dublin Zoo. Our roommates had spent last Sunday there after discovering that most things in Dublin are closed on Sundays. So we caught the bus to Phoenix Park- a beautiful walking park and lake on the outskirts of the city- nest to which sits the Zoo. Small in comparison to Baltimore or Washington, it was not at all crowded thanks to the cloudy February day. The Zoo is not much more than a large lake where the primates live on islands connected to the shelters by log bridges, primates being unwilling to go into the moving water and being therefore effectively enclosed. There were almost no barriers between the visitors and the animals, to the point where I was sure a child was going to climb over and tumble into the enclosure unwittingly. Luckily many of the traditional animals; lions, tigers and elephants, had more protective barriers in place. It was a lovely time, really.

Our final sight was an exhibit called “Bodies; the Exhibition" a smaller version of the Body Worlds 2 exhibit that was in Baltimore last year. It was one of those exhibits where actual human remains are on display, showing the way in which the many systems of the body work in tandem. It was a very interesting exhibit, but I couldn’t help but get the feeling that I was touring a novelty, something that will be extinct in 30 years except for the mention of it in history books of the “Bizarre and True!” What really got me was the way human muscle looks so much like animal meat, considering meat is muscle. If I wasn’t a vegetarian before, I would be now.

Afterwards we decided to try and catch the 4.00 bus back to Cork and spend our Sunday night in recovery before setting out for our next grand trip: Edinburgh.

The sky over Trinity College.

Valentines In Vadrafjordr

It being a calm weekend around the apartment, we packed up and headed on a day-trip to the port-town of Waterford, about two hours to the east of Cork. It’s the oldest city in Ireland, dating from 914 AD when it was originally the Viking outpost of Vadrafjordr. Back then it sat on a projection of land between the River Suir to the north and swampy marshland to the east, of which the John’s River is all that now remains.

We first toured the Waterford Museum of Treasures where we experienced an encapsulated version of the city’s history given to us by two floors of displays and self-guided informational audio. Any number of historical articles of clothing and jewelry, parchments and furniture pieces were on display for us as well as a quite unexpected turn on a simulated Viking ship.

An illuminated manuscript.

Afterwards we took a stroll down the banks of the Suir where small personal motor and sail boats moored and where across the river we could see a large banner hanging on the side of a factory. Without words or logo, it was simply the large, pale face of a girl of about ten staring at us from across the water. Even though the day was warm and bright, it was a confusing and unsettling picture, and we still don’t know what it means. Strange way to advertise.

Farther down the promenade we found the local bandstand where we broke for lunch before touring Reginald’s Tower. A stout three-story stone construct sitting on the farthest corner of Waterford’s original projection, it served as an easy post from which the river could be watched and the port held. When it was first constructed by the Vikings it acted as part of the original walls surrounding the city, but with the walls all but completely gone, the Tower sits wedged between two modern buildings of comparable height and blends almost unnoticeably into the city line.

At the bandstand.

From here we decided to tour Christ Church Cathedral, which contains the tomb of James Rice (a somehow very important Waterford figure) as well as being host to the allied marriage of the native warrior Strongbow and the anglo-saxon princess Aoife. But unfortunately the Cathedral was closed, so instead we headed over to the People’s Park, a 16-acer plot of green situated by the city court house.

Perhaps just because it we’re still in on the edge of winter, or perhaps because of the park’s actual disrepair, it was a rather poor sight with the browned bushes and strange smell, but we took a turn around it anyway, posing for pictures on the adorning cannons and coming across an exercise platform where we stopped for a quick “workout” (consisting of us trying, and failing, to do chin-ups.)

Afterwards, quickly running out of ideas, we headed to a small gallery found on our map, which turned out to be even smaller than we expected. Just two rooms, the Garter Lane Arts Gallery is just two white rooms in an old townhouse hosting two modern local artists, all of whose works are on sale.

By this time Waterford had given us just about all we could find, the famous Waterford Crystal Factory already being closed due to bankruptcy, so we caught the next bus to Cork, saying goodbye to the suburban sprawl of Waterford.

The sky over People's Park.

A Little Something About the Nightlife

With a drinking age of 18 and at least three universities in the near vicinity, Cork has a nightlife that, while in itself is rather small, is entirely new to me, the girl who goes to school in little old Chestertown with its two (rather pitiful) bars and no clubs to be spoken of.

Here there are pubs at every corner, more than even my little guidebook can count. I’ve only been to a handful so far, but of those I’ve been enough times. There’s the Monday night Franciscan Well, with live music and a selection of specialty brews- the very same place I went my first night here. It’s a nice, warm pub where people can sit and talk and I like that I don’t need to dress up to go there. Also that’s it’s an easy distance from the apartment.

On Tuesday there’s Cavanaugh’s, a younger, more upbeat place with live music every night. But truthfully they cater to a more inebriated crowd, with old pop songs everyone knows and inevitably ends up singing. From there we can usually snag free passes to Club Classic, which is as the name suggests, a classic nightclub; no more, no less, with neon lights and the usual dance beats you see on MTV. It’s not a bad place, but without a pass the cover is much too expensive for what you’re getting.

On Wednesday after English Lit we head over to the Old College Bar, an on-campus pub and venue for sponsored gigs with a big-screen wall usually showing some rugby game. The wooden tables are all marked up and in all, it looks like what you’d think a well-patroned college bar would. It’s usually pretty subdued on Wednesdays, but that’s not bad, it’s a good place to talk.

From there we head down to An Brog, arguably the most popular college hang-out in all of Cork. I like this pub probably more than any of the others. It hosts sometimes live, sometimes DJ’d rock music, a place to dance, and a million nooks and crannies to get away from the bustle. There’s something in the atmosphere that just says, “yes, this place works.” If I’m willing to make it a long evening we’ll head up to Freakscene afterwards, a club situated over the Brog where the music is a bit more diverse, playing everything from 80s classics, to modern rock, to Britney Spears. It’s the oldest running nightclub in Cork and so far my favorite as well. It’s not like the Classic, which to me seems to be trying to hard to be suave. Here there’s music that, while it may not quite be mainstream, you can dance to it. That works for me.

At this point I should probably issue a disclaimer, seeing as I’ve outlined my week by the pubs and clubs I’ve frequented. While a few of my flatmates are very much into dressing up and heading out each night, often I’m just as content to curl up with a glass of wine and a movie. With all the options though, it can be tough to strike a balance. Usually I limit myself to one outing per week, or I’ll hit up a pub with them, but come home before the club as there’s always someone else who forgoes the dance scene as well.

What’s interesting about the Cork nightlife though is that its height is during the weekdays. Even with classes the next morning I have seen the girls out until 2am or later, and most UCC students seem to follow the same pattern. It is true that most local Irish students go home during the weekend, so I suppose it makes sense that the weekdays would be crowded, but it is the opposite of what I expected.

This week is especially lively, as it’s UCCs annual “Raising and Giving Week,” affectionately called RAG. The college, in conjunction with school societies and certain venues, puts on a host of parties and activities, which usually amount to another excuse to go out. All the money goes to selected charities and all the students show up drunk for class- or don’t show up at all. The English Department has even cancelled all lectures for this week in order to host “make-up exams” for last semester, which leaves me with only one class this week and more than enough time to have some fun.

Rivers

I have only seen four Irish rivers, and they have all been in cities, something strange and violent in their aspect as they rush brutally through inflicted channels of stone, confined to single-file paths as the people mill on their banks, completely ignorant of the vicious force turning in hard pulls and whorls just a few feet from their vantage.

It’s especially exhilarating when standing on a bridge. I walk the Banks of the Lee each morning in part because I get to cross the river three times, once seeing it pushed into the straight canal that takes it through the city, again as it flows in its own natural mud banks, and a third time as the other fork is taken along the edge of campus and channeled between the stone- but somehow still pitifully weak looking- arches of the campus bridges.

There are tides to it, and when the tide is high and it is raining it always appears to me that surely, this time, those stone arches will fail and the water will pour over the walkway in a torrent and then the incautious walkers will remember the dragon they live with, this River.

How do you confine a river to such deep paths? I wonder as I examine the brick-laid walls that plunge into the muddy churn. Near certain bridges, older ones wide enough for cars to cross, there are sets of stairs that dip into the water and disappear beneath it, ending where? What or who would walk into that water? It is not a pleasantly weaving body, it has no beaches or sandy banks. Maybe at one time it did, before it was made to work like an ox here on its way to the sea.

The Shannon and the Abbey are like it, and even the Corrib in Galway as it flows into the bay. The first time I crossed the Corrib it was late at night and you could see the harbor lights reflecting in the distance, little orange orbs on a mat of dark, and it was noise and white caps churning to be free from the strains of Galway city before settling into the calm, dark, wide bay.

We stood on the edge of it and watched it foam under the bridges, becoming filled with deep, rough eddies from the arches, and we tossed in a paper airplane that caught up in the shrubs climbing up the stone before falling into a whirlpool and being devoured.

Have I seen an American river in this way? I have seen them in the forest as they lap their flat banks. I have seen them plunge and thrash through gorges. Have I seen them thus run into channels? I have never lived around one long enough to know. I am getting to know the Lee a little better.