Hello From Dublin

Statues of The Famine along the Liffey river

Where are thoroughly enjoying Dublin - but internet at hotel is sketchy at best...so haven't been able to post until now. And uploading of photos is quite slow, so only posting a few. Here you can see Jim and James Joyce. For those of you that don't know this, Jim's full name is actually James Joyce Gioia - named after his mother's favorite author. She was born and raised in Ireland, and we plan to visit her hometown of Longford on Thursday.

But here are some thoughts from Jim at the end of our first day here (Sunday night):

Expectations are a funny thing. Sometimes they are very clear and articulated but most of the time you only come to know them when they are not met. I’d have to say that the first day in Dublin was about the unmet variety. Granted, I was exhausted and cranky. We’d been awake for 23 hours by the time the bus from the airport dumped us onto O’Connell Street. The nonstop flight from San Francisco to London was non-descript. It was long, I believe the shuttle can circle the globe in less time, but nothing unique. It wasn’t until we boarded the Aer Lingus connection from London to Dublin that my first un-articulated expectation surfaced. As we sat, strapped into our seats, the captain welcomed us to “flight 155 to DOOOblin.” There it was…the brogue. Suddenly my unconscious fantasy about Ireland became a florid reality in the form of cochlear vibrations hitherto experienced only through Liam Neesom movies and Lucky Charms commercials. I was here for the brogue. You could have served me shit on toast and I’d have asked for seconds if you did it with a brogue. For all I know the captain was a Texan who took a dialect training course in Bangalore, but no matter, I was all in..pot o’gold and all.

The problem with Dublin, however, is that it doesn’t seem to be a very uniquely Irish town. Again, I am cranky and tired and this is just the first day, but there are no Irish in Dublin, at least none of the brogue–endowed I had imagined. That is when another expectation surfaced. Dublin is a melting pot of incredibly diverse peoples. Walking Earl and O’Connell streets is no different than Broadway in New York or Las Ramblas in Barcelona (somehow Champs D’Lysee seems to maintain a uniquely French quality). The patchwork of storefronts and their ethnically diverse patrons made it clear to me that what I wanted, what I came to Ireland for were the Irish. I wanted the legendary Irish townspeople with the twinkle in their eyes and the red in their cheeks. I wanted the genial warmth and good cheer, the story-telling over pints of Guinness. I wanted the fair-skinned beauties with their freckled skin and red hair. I wanted the Dublin of James Joyce and Ezra Pound. I wanted wit and charm and stubborn optimism in the face of bleak economic times. These are not days of famine but the economic boon Ireland has enjoyed over the past few decades seems to have faded along with the rest of the European economy. This shopping district was more discount mall with 50- 70% off signs papered over its store windows. I embrace the mall experience. For centuries the market-place has been the beating heart of the community. Whether Stoneridge Mall in Pleasanton or Stonehenge (oh yes, I believe that Stonehenge was once a failed strip mall) people are drawn to the marketplace to merge with each other in communal agape. The only things Irish here are the monuments to Parnell, O’Connell and the inconspicuous statue of James Joyce on Earl Street. There he was, even my beloved James Joyce, whose unreadable novels have vexed me for years, was nothing more that a gathering point for semi-comatose druggies of the sort you can find anywhere. Where are the Irish?

While searching for a Vodafone store to unlock the cell phone we bought last year in Portugal we were approached in the street by someone asking if we needed help. There she was... a twinkle-eyed, genially-grinned native of Dublin who, in a matter of a few Irish story telling minutes, shared that her family has inhabited this town for 10 generations. She herself was born and raised here. Her grandfather and uncles were part of the Easter Uprising in 1916. She not only directed us to the street we were looking for but told us the history of that street as well as the history of other points surrounding us including the protestant church where John Wesley delivered his first Irish sermon in 1747 and Alec Guinness was married in 1761. She asked about us and could tell we were Americans. She could easily been my grandmother or a spinster aunt because I was sure somehow we were related. That’s how at home she made me feel. I had found my Irish. It brings tears to my eyes and gives me hope that my expectations, conscious or yet-to-be conscious, will be met in the Emerald Isle.

More to follow...