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Published: June 10th 2005
Giant Whisker
One of the giant whiskers that erupt from the ground every Saturday morning. California Dreaming
From the moment I landed, I could recognize the echoes of the Bay Area in Dublin. It's younger inhabitants are hipper and more distinct from the old UK guard than I had expected. Perhaps it is because I walked out of my hostel and straight into the throbbing heart of the youth culture, on nearby Camden Street.
In a glut of organic eateries, juiceaterias, cafelounges and multipurpose pubspaces, I found the two-headed monster that is Whelans and The Village. A pair of shiny nouveau loft buildings so out of place amongst the weathered brick that I half expected them to be plyboard fronts, hollow in back. Instead, the rear end of the block offered additional entrances to musical venues atop the well-kitted throngs of the portobello and prosciutto set. I just made that up!
SF Weekly, here I come. Halfway around the block again, I found the ticket office closing up for the night. I ducked in to see who was playing and found that 3 separate notable acts were on tap. The cashier (picture a cute Irish B-Girl) was most enthusiastic about all three acts, but spoke reverentially about Scratch, beatboxer for
The Roots. She hesitated and then tore off a ticket and told me the complimentary pass was mine.
JACKPOT A mild euphoria took hold at the brainstem and I immediately remembered the thrilling sense of possibility that comes with taking on a foreign country. The last time I'd felt this adrenalitic, I was about to unburden myself in my pants in a bus stopped somewhere in Eastern Spain. I'd fallen asleep and awoke to an empty bus and a glance outside had revealed road, brush, and a bus kiosk (too small to be a station, I thought).
Well, obviously that one worked out.
With an actual plan for the evening, I set out to track down a bike. A seasoned traveller knows that having a bike in a city can mean the difference between running errands for half the day and making short work of all the major tourist traps with time to spare for drinking. However, this was the beginning of a multihour trek to every confusing back alley in Central Dublin, leaving me frustrated at every turn. Whether it was the Irishman who spoke like a singing dolphin or the one who stuttered like a
jungle beat, not a one could provide accurate information about a bike rental. Many even laughed. My face was turning redder than theirs, and I knew this was a bad start.
So, I donned my Optimistic Hat (no such thing) and began to make a mental catalog of all the interesting places I'd wandered past on BikeQuest 05. With the bike I'd have first thing in the morning, I'd be able to show those stuttering dolphins who was the real boss. Not that any of them had asserted bosshood.
Head high, I returned to my hostel, now legally allowed to see my room, and it was a beaut. By beaut, I mean full of bunkbeds. There I met fair Sheldon, dull Kansan, full of enthusiasm about nothing of consequence. He did, however, threaten to "maybe" blow up France. He is also greatly impressed by a free pair of overalls. "That's a pretty great company that will buy you some overalls. That's a pretty great perk." I didn't take his picture for fear that it would wash out the rest of the photos by association.
You can find me In The Pub, bottle full of Bud
Off
Queen of Tarts
For straw, read scone, and for camel´s back, read Jason´s belly I cavorted to
The Village to show off my shiny complimentary pass. Inside I rubbed elbows (and in some more brazen instances, knees) with the hot and happening of Dubloon. Apparently, the evening was sponsored by Budweiser, which is even more of an inescapable presence here than it is in America. What's worse, is that it's preferred to Guinness and costs a buck more. I ordered vodka tonics in protest.
Upstairs, Dalek began a half-hour set with little variation, but who could blame them? They had a dynamite formula. An MC with the kind of stentorian and measured flow reminiscent of Chuck D and O.C. paired with a sonic overload ala My Bloody Valentine remixed by Amon Tobin. It was so
BASS I had trouble concentrating. I began to feel the urge to run in place and shout "Woyoi!" That was fortunately sublimated, but it wasn't long before I was giving Americans a bad name.
When Scratch came out ("What the deal, Dublin??"), he chided us for not being enthusiastic enough about his presence. When this tactic also failed to impress, he beseeched us to demonstrate our love of hip-hop music via a chorus of Heys and Hos. Still
Burial Place of Georgie O´Washington
With his teeth made of peat, and his butter-covered bashing stick (a shillelagh) unconvinced but realizing that time was at a premium, Scratch launched into his first song construction of the night. I call it a construction because with the aid of a sequencer, Scratch vocally recreates all the tracks in a song, leaving his beatbox-style manipulation for last. If this is your kind of thing (and I'm wagering it's not), then you knew you were watching a master at work. (Although technically he's no match for Rahzel, his fellow beatboxin Roots alum).
Scratch waited for a moment and declared, "I just came here from Denmark. Is Denmark liver than Dublin?" I immediately yelled, "Are you kidding me? F--- Denmark!!!" I figured I could get away with it, as I'm not even a citizen here! As Scratch's performance continued, he rolled into a string of hits, including his renditions of "Wu-Tang Clan Ain' Nuthin ta F Wit" and "In Da Club" If you know me, these are like the Beatles of my youth and The Bay City Rollers of my early 20's. Soon, all of Dublin was privy to my unbridled dancefloor stylings. Scratch concluded a brief set and returned for an encore after a smattering of half-hearted applause. After a more
energetic encore, I yelled, "Admit it! Dublin is liver than Denmark! Denmark is wack, D-Town is the nicest!" He laughed and waved. Perhaps he was signaling for security.
Which would have been a prudent move as I ran around out back to intercept him as he left the building, with designs on getting backstage for free drinks. I pled a thin case with befuddled security guards.
"Help please! I've forgotten my jacket. I'm Scratch's brother....in law. His friend. I'll be quite cold without my jacket. " Those were apparently the magic words, or the point of disinterest. However, Scratch had already made his way to the bar, where he was virtually ignored in favor of extremely attractive Irish women. I bothered him, asked him about Denmark (not really a fan) and peaced out. After some socializing outside, I found my way home.
It continues
On the way back, I was chased from across the street by a very drunk man. He asked me for 20 cents and I obliged. He put me in a headlock and warbled, "I love ye. " Unfazed, I said, "This is my gift to you, as an American!" I
Chillin out
Maxin, relaxin all cool, in Iveagh Gardens left that fat drunken Irishman thoroughly perplexed, his mouth more agape than usual. That's how we do it in America!
Wednesday is Bike Day
I rose with Sheldon, seeing as how I'd asked him to be my alarm clock. Fun fact - showers at the Avalon House dispense perfectly heated water....for 45 seconds at a time. I recalled there was a complimentary continental breakfast for which I made multiple dietary exceptions.
Now permitted:
Processed white bread
Pasteurized room temperature juice
Nescafe coffee-style drink
Plasticine marmalade
Heaping portions of all of the above when I hate breakfast - check. It's like I was saying,
Let's Do This, dietetically.
I'd spent a few minutes the night prior planning out my targets and it all began with the acquisition of a bike. Without the bike, it all went to my wife in the settlement. Although thoroughly bloated and aching from breakfast, I stopped at the Queen of Tarts just west of the Temple Bar district. I ordered fresh coffee and a sultana scone (more of a raisin biscuit, really) and flirted aimlessly with the preposterously cute cafe staff. Determined to not let a single scrap of
paid-for food go to waste, I spent the next 40 minutes trying to find room for the coffee and scone. A distinct air of excess permeated the room, kindling fond memories of Mikado and Danny.
I groaned and heaved my generous midsection across the Liffey to
Cycleways.com, the very LAST bike rental place in ALL of Dublin. Believe me, I am most certain of this. It's on Parnell street, west of O'Connell Street (the huge and boring main thoroughfare, as unnecessarily hyped and over as the Champs Elysee). The young Dubloons at Cycleways were quite aware of their exclusive offer and so charged me a sickening €20 for the day, €80 for a week. Of course, I accepted without hesitation.
With a bike, I was officially unleashed. Dublin is reputed to be a dangerous city for cyclists, with reversed flow of traffic, countless one-ways, detours, diversions and dead ends. Not to mention homicidal taxis. For the first 11 seconds, I experienced some minor trepidation. After that, I felt like the Predator, racking up Irish landmarks like so many mercenary skulls.
Immediately, I set off for the western reaches and
Phoenix Park, the largest enclosed city park in Europe.
An epic 1750 acres (Golden Gate Park is 1017, for comparison), I biked all the way through it, all the way around it (7 miles), and took countless diversions within its borders. Words do not adequately embellish on the feelings of joy and amusement I experienced tearing down hills, across verdant fields and around lakes. I actually laughed out loud when, while biking through a field, I came across a resident herd of
deer.
I circled and examined all of the landmarks and monuments, conquering all suspect and forbidden paths and creating ones of my own. Anything to prolong the trip. Whether it was shooting little videos around a giant cross erected for a papal visit or attempting to sneak onto the property of the President's house, I was exuberant. Another unexpected pleasure of the park was seeing the Garda (Ireland's police) constantly tearing around the perimeter of the park at hellacious speeds, wearing futuristic black leather, looking very much like tairmanatahrs.
After a few hours there, I ventured aimlessly out of the park, riding a crest of cyclic confidence and inspiration renewed. I wandered to the
Irish Museum of Modern Art and delighted not only in their fantastic exhibitions by Dorothy Cross
Temple Bar
Knows how t´ party and Fred Tomaselli, but also in the absence of an admission charge. Situated amid gorgeous gardens in an old Army Hospital and priced right, this will be a stop on all future visits.
Having biked close to 200 miles (remember, this is an approximation) in the first 5 hours of the day, I empirically determined that I was dehydrated. I became confused/deranged and spent the next two hours searching for bottled water that didn't offend me with it's price tag. During that time I thirstily explored St. Stephen's Green, home to most of the siesting college students and young professionals, all sporting the popular accessory, pocket paperbacks. I continued on to Iveagh Gardens, hidden within the property of the University College of Dublin, a cosy and idyllic retreat where I guzzled and allowed myself to nap for an hour.
It is an unmistakably gratifying feeling to recognize my desires and be able to satisfy them immediately! Hungry and looking to treat myself, I arrived at Liston's Deli in chic Camden Street (26), breaking all the traffic rules I could. Not to push the enthusiasm to further levels of sickening excess, but this place was fantastic!
Liston's declares itself "the source of good food", and while their motto could use an invasive depomping, there's much to their claim. With an extensive selection of gourmet foods, it's like they've whittled
La Grande Epicerie in Paris down to a manageable size. With a diverse cheese counter (cheese of the week - Morbier!!!), well-chosen and affordable wine selection (with funny and informative descriptions), chocolates, homemade organic fudge, ice cream and bread baked daily, along with a wide array of soups, sandwiches, salads, quiches, crostinis, wraps, and more, all made fresh and tended to by a friendly staff.
With my Liston's haul in hand, I biked over to St. Patrick's Cathedral with the intention of snarfing my food in the garden adjacent and attending an organ recital I learned about earlier. Fortunately, I was distracted by young Irish dancing frenetically to "You Can't Touch This" and decided to dawdle. When I arrived, late, I was told I couldn't come in. I pleaded, saying the music sounded beautiful. The manager instantly relented and let me in for free, just as the choral service was concluding (magnificently!!!) with the building quaking beneath with the force of the organ.
BASS I had some design
The Cliffs of Howth
They be seriously tall yo on trying to get a closer look at the incredible stained glass behind the choir, but the
Organ performance began soon afterwards. What a treat. I'd thought I'd missed it, but instead saw the entire program and for free, saving €7.50 (approximately 2 Guinnessi). As I was leaving to bike away, a Father approached me and thanked me for coming, lamented the meagre turnout, asked what I thought and inquired about my stay and my travels. He filled my heart with Caaathlic warmth and I wished I had a bike bell to ding at him as I rode away.
Dreading the throngs of drunken tourists, Id done my level best to avoid Temple Bar at night, the mini Bourbon Street of downtown Dublin. Figuring I would be scorned if I hadn't done the proper Irish thing (considering I elected to skip the Guinness Storehouse as well), I subordinated my elitist urges and hit up the Stroll. Most memorably, I had a phenomenal strawberry-champagne gelato in between pints and found a reggae cover club night. Nothing like a bunch of Irish dancing to Max Romeo's "I Chase The Devil." NOTHING!
Later, I bantered relentlessly with a spit-flecking Greek named
Ireland´s Eye
Visible AND Visitable from Howth Harbor Adonis who reiterated what I'd heard already - don't waste my time in Athens.
So it's Santorini and Paros and Crete, and a hearty endorsement for Bordeaux as well. He began to dress me down for venturing to Brussels, bore capital of Europe, but then quickly digressed into a lecture on the virtues of mandatory service in Greece. It was so comprehensive that I needed to squeegee my glasses
afterwards. Late night led to meeting of some fellow USAns and some very cool Parisians who taught me utility phrases not appropriate for reproduction here.
Looking forward to getting more than 5 hours of sleep one of these days.
The conclusion - A Joycean daytrip for my Father
Referring to Dr. Joyce Brothers, of course.
I returned my bike this morning with no small measure of sadness, not even mitigated in the slightest by the staggering buzz bequeathed to me by the masters at Milk Bar (18 Montague). In a caffeine-addled fury, I roamed one of D-town's numerous shopping districts, all coming together under the unifying theme of SNORE. Finally, I located a very nice pen and paper shop, and purchased a pocket Moleskine to accomodate
my notes as I've had enough of trying to decipher the scrawl on my receipts and tickets.
Having had my fill of the bustle and feeling too cheap to pay for admission anywhere, I caught a Dublin Bus out to Howth Summit, a posh cliffy area north of Dublin, with cliffs for hiking, shores for fishing and, well, that's it. Before I proceed, allow me to unquiver a bolt of pure criticism for the Dublin Bus. It was 30 minutes late, and took over an hour to travel the same distance the DART rail system traverses in 25 minutes, for the same price. Death to Dublin Bus! Ireland's 32!
The bus dropped me off in the middle of nowhere, so I instinctively climbed uphill. Reaching the aforementioned Summit, I selected an attractive cliff path and began whistling a little ditty. I think it was "Milkshake" by Kelis.
Howth Summit is capital Q quiet. It could have been a blissful technochrome memory if it weren't for the occasional storm of seagull chatter. I trod gaily through fields and more warily through crags and crevices, taking breaks to appreciate the endless expanse of blue-grey and to allow my heartrate to return to normal. "If you are very nervous doing this, you are missing the point, " I thought to myself.
I descended the northern side of the cliffs and found myself wandering through a bunch of REALLY choice homes. Huge, walled yards, spectacular sea views. Among them Oscar Wilde's former residence. All along the route, brogueish sorts were fishing for mackerel. One tipped me off that one of those "on-the-seas" belonged to BONO! How ironic would it be if Bono lived in Oscar Wilde's old house? I'm asking because I don't know.
Now feeling pretty tranquil, I return to town and wander the harbor. I encounter a grandfatherly type enjoying an ice-cream cone and immediately it came to me: I want an ice-cream cone. He had a beautiful gold
claddagh ring on. When I inquired about ice-cream, he pointed me nearby and said, "You'll want to be going to Ann's. When you get there, ask for the "99" and you can't go wrong."
Then he smiled warmly at me and his eyes twinkled. What the? Is this some skill that kindly old Irishmen acquire at an advanced age? I go into Ann's and it's just a corner store catering to tourists. The "99" is a Cadbury product and there are posters of it plastered all over the place. While I'm there, two people come in and order it. It's just soft serve with a stick of chocolate jammed in it. So much for my pseudo-leprechaunic experience. That old man was not my Irish guardian angel.
That old man was was planted there. After that, the spell was broken, along with my heart. All of the pots of gold have been found.
It's time to go.
Next stop: Brussells, Belgium (Bruxelles)
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anonymous
non-member comment
This rocked my socks
I'm so glad you're doing this. I cant wait to read your Brussells experience. Hahaha I could smack you for making me open up that damn deer link. 80 Euro for a fuckin week on a bike? Thats just bullshit. - NinjaWadzi