Bray to Greystones in Images

Last weekend I decided to shake up my regular trek around Howth, and instead take the DART south to Bray. There is a walk that goes from Bray, which is small seaside town, around Bray head and to Greystones, which is a slightly bigger seaside town, but one that seems to be growing. The pics below start at Bray's promenade with Bray head in the distance, and then they follow the 6km walk to Greystones. I love train tracks - always have, so they feature fairly prominently. I also have video of a train coming out of tunnel, but I haven't looked into uploading video yet. Greystones is a hip little place, with lots of fairtrade this and eco that for sale. The last pic is from my (alone at coffee shop, armed with camera) still-life study of a cappuccino and my gloves at The Happy Pear. What comes to mind most when I look at this pic is: I wish they washed their windows. I was punch-drunk on sea air and sunshine by this point, so the angle's a bit canted.

Locked doors and other totally irritating things

Dublin is not all romance, let me tell you. There are plenty of irritating things about being here - I've just been holding back. But seeing I am currently experiencing a yoga deficit (I have had less today than I require), and I have realised that my particular brand of politeness that is Canadian is part of the problem, I'll just let it rip. Here are some irritating things I've noticed in Dublin:

1. Doors to public and semi-public buildings are locked, and you have to buzz to get in.

This can make for awkward situations, such as when you decide to 'drop in' to a place that, well, welcomes you on their website to drop in. I went to this institute for work-related purposes a while back, and when I arrived, I had to buzz to be let in. Of course when you buzz, they ask who you are and what you want. My response was something like "My name is Natalie, but you don't know me, and I'm just dropping in to visit your place, with no particular agenda." Talk about feeling like a weirdo. It's as if that kind of free communication is not welcomed, which is odd, considering how well people do talk to each other here at pubs and cafes.

But the incident that prompted this posting happened earlier today, and caused the yoga deficit, which means I haven't breathed yet today, which means I am off-kilter and I might swear soon. In the blog. Anyhow, I had a few things to do this morning so I was rushing around, but I was all packed up for a class that is not too far away. It's farther than I budgeted for, clearly, but not too far. Off I go. I can see the time is going to be tight, so I start running a bit. But I have to keep stopping for traffic (see irritation #2 below). I finally get there, out of breath and flustered (which feels wrong, heading into yoga), but it is two minutes after the hour. Now, if this were in another city without such freaking weirdness about locking every door, I could have calmly slipped in without disturbing the class. In fact, that class probably hadn't started, but I didn't KNOW, because the only way to find out would be to hit the buzzer, and that would definitely disturb the class. The teacher would have to get up and buzz me in, which I know means crossing the entire room, and stepping over people in downward dog. I deliberated for a bit, and decided that I just couldn't do it. See, there's that useless Canadian politeness coming in. I would have been mortified to interrupt the class, because I knew that it was my own fault for being late, so I chose to trade mortification for irritation, grumpiness, and stomping home.

2. Stupid useless walk signs that never say walk even though no cars are crossing in front of you.

It's true! There are walk signs - with little red, yellow and green man options - at most every corner, but they make you wait forever, even when all traffic seems to be going in the same direction as you intend to go. People ignore the red men all the time and just cross, and I try to do the same thing, but I still find myself looking both ways, never sure which way the traffic is actually coming from. I am not sure I will ever get over the instinct to look to my left first. Sometimes, when I am not feeling bold, I decide to wait for the green man to actually appear. It can take a really long time, no matter how many times you hit the "please let me cross" button. It makes you later for yoga.

3. People wearing big bags standing sideways who don't move in the aisle of stores even though they see you coming.

Ok, I grant the fact that this can happen in any city, but it is WAY worse here in Dublin. Stores and sidewalks are really narrow here, and there are lots of people, so one is always doing the two-step to try to get around. But people just don't seem to move! I swear I carry a field of energy around me that tells me someone is coming, so that I can make myself smaller, or hug in closer to the edge. Well, apparently that field does not exist here. People just stand in the middle of an aisle, slowly contemplating their purchases, and making no effort whatsoever to share the space. Do they not see me coming, I wonder? Is there something in the Dublin water that has wiped out peripheral vision? Or is space always at such a premium that if you can grab a little bit of it, you hold onto it for dear life? Of course, I could say 'excuse me,' but the phrase would soon become way too frequent in my vocabulary, and that peculiar brand of Canadian politeness prefers to use body language before verbal language. Oh ya, no one moves over on the sidewalks, either, but I found that at home as well. WTF is wrong with people?

 4. You have to buy the mixer separately from your booze.

Ok, I know this one is on a different topic, but I was sitting here thinking about what else irritates me (aren't I a productive little bunny), and I remembered this one. If you order a whiskey-soda in a bar, you have to pay for the whiskey and then the soda. This is just dumb. And expensive. And the bottle of soda is usually really tiny, which sucks. At least they call hard alcohol "spirits," which sounds uplifting. Oh, and while I am on the subject of soda water, it's frustrating that I can't buy it in cans. I swore off buying plastic-bottled water at home, but I love the bubbly, and I can only find it in plastic.


5. No one drinks ale.

While I'm on the subject of drinking, it's super irritating that no one drinks ale. I mean, we're in Ireland, folks - - what's up with the ubiquity of Carlsberg and Stella Artois, and, egads -- Budweiser -- on tap?! Smithwicks is a damn fine beer, and yes,  you can find it on tap in almost every pub. But hardly anyone drinks it, so it means that I have to drink stale crappy stuff that has been sitting around for a long time. I mean, I love the Guinness, but you can't drink that stuff all the time. Like, for instance, when you're thirsty.

6. The bus drivers don't give change.

I hardly take the bus, but this one is a pain. Now, you need exact change in Toronto as well, but in Toronto, the fare is the same no matter how far you are going. I'm not saying this is superior to charging based on how far you go, but I think if it's a mystery what you are going to have to pay each time you get on the bus, then the driver should provide change. Oh, they give you a little slip that you can redeem at this office on Merrion Square, but who wants to show up and say "Gimme my 10 cents"?! I've decided to walk everywhere, no matter how far. But then there's the little problem of nos. 2 and 3 above.

Ok, I got it out of my system. Oh, I know that I've forgotten many irritations, but I feel much better now, and will get back to work. I have to leave time to do yoga at home this evening, after all...

Of travel and things lost and found (and how to get from Toronto to Dublin in only 53 hours)

I've been thinking a lot lately about the concept of 'coming home,' because I currently feel that I have two homes. I've never quite felt this way before, and perhaps it is because I am living, eating, and traveling alone so much of the time... In some ways, I've started to build a life here in Dublin, with friends, and a job, and bits and bobs of schedule and ritual. But it feels like an additional life. It is not a parallel one, nor simply a new one, but it feels like a life in addition to the one that I have in Canada. I have a collection of things that constitute a life in two different places, and oddly, these two lives feel almost mutually exclusive.

I've always associated the idea of 'home' (as distinct from 'house') with the people or person who lives there in that home, and when I go away and return, it is with that person, or to that person. Yet I return to no one in the house that is my home in Dublin. Still, the place is starting to collect the attributes of home. Four of my five livingroom plants survived my three-week absence. Or more accurately, they survived the indoor drought, and the coldest weather Ireland has seen in 40 years. It snowed more here than it did in Toronto over Christmas, and that is a real anomaly. One plant -- I suppose the most tropical of the lot, a once bushy and abundant deiffenbachia -- did not survive, and weeped at me as I stepped into my chilly living room:

I watered it well, but after a week it still looked pretty much the same, so I tossed it, and replaced it with a gorgeous flowering plant with blood-red leaves. I think I miss True Blood. Go big or go home: when something of great beauty leaves, try to fill the space with something even more beautiful. It's what the heart wants (and it matches my occasional chair, which sits right below the ledge).

I'm not sure that I am making any sense here, but my senses are all askew anyway, so what the hell...

I had quite the time returning to my new home -- my additional home --  here in Dublin. I left Toronto on Friday night, after having only slept for 4 hours the night before. I made a last minute visit to some friends in Toronto, got back to Oakville late, and then really couldn't get to sleep. Change is very difficult for me, but it's hilarious, really: here I am living change every day, but knowing I had to fly from one place to the next - from one home to another - did my head in, and no number of Kalil Gilbrain poems could lull me to lala land. My Dad and sister and I arrived at the airport fairly early, only to find that the lineup to the security area was pretty short. We hung out for a while in the cafe. Isn't it funny how airports create little cafe and restaurant spaces, like in the real world, when we all know that airports are just mirages where we touch down and depart for other places?

I include these pics as proof that I was already super tired before the whole transatlantic travel began, so that I can gain silent blog-reader sympathy for the ordeal that was to follow.

So... the flight was lovely, but I did feel a pang of jealousy at all those folks angle-parked in their little pods in Business class. I've never seen that kind of seating before -- Jetson-like seats which no doubt recline all of the way, providing the traveler with a restful red-eye experience. My communist side really rears up in these moments, as I ask why these particular people deserve such comfort, while the rest of us head-bob our way across the Atlantic, with pasty mouths and flaking skin. But then I clear my throat, and remind myself of all the jetfuel, and well, something like the situation in Haiti. Comparisons under capitalism are really useless.

We arrive in Heathrow, and I hear something about Dublin over the PA, but can't quite make it out. I go through eighteen levels of security, and then go to check into my BMI flight, only to find out that the Dublin airport is closed. I have to pick up my bags, and then come back to the counter to figure out what to do next. Off through the maze that is Heathrow, I feel thankful that, really, it's not going to be a big deal if I am delayed for a bit. I had the good sense to plan my travel for the weekend, so that I could get myself sorted before Monday. Not that I had anything in particular planned for Monday, but I was feeling the urge to get back to work. Too much free, unstructured time can be a bit difficult.

Retrieving the bags took only, oh, TWO HOURS, but I managed to meet some great folks who were in the same situation. In fact, in some cases, they were in a worse situation. Noel and Padraig, who had met on a plane back from Sydney, for example, had already been traveling for 36 hours. In the baggage room, standing by the belts that kept revolving and promising luggage, we bonded, and decided to face BMI together.

At the counter, we were told that the Dublin airport was closed because of weather conditions, but while they were saying this, Aer Lingus was making its final boarding call for a flight to Dublin. Hmmm, something fishy. As it turns out, the airport was now open, but BMI had no de-icers, so they had canceled all flights. What were we to do? Noel asked about flights to Cork and Shannon, but they were no-goes. I finally suggested Belfast, which I think is closer than either of those places, and, woo-hoo, there were flights available! The friendly staff at BMI booked us on a 6pm flight to Belfast, and off the six of us went to have some lunch, and figure out the best route from Dublin to Belfast. In the airport pub (another mirage...), we ate sandwiches, unwisely drank pints, and decided we'd try the train, but if it was too late, we'd split a cab. Noel was starting to look a little delirious from lack of sleep, and unknowingly, we were getting carried away with our North to South travel plans. Because when we left the pub and went to check in for our flight, we found out that it was canceled as well. Hmmm, back to the BMI counter.

No more flights for Saturday anywhere to the island, and not surprisingly, everything to Dublin for Sunday was full. Note to self: living on an island is trouble. While we were in the pub, dutifully waiting for our Belfast flight, other wayward travelers were arriving at Heathrow only to find that they couldn't get out that day. They filled up the Sunday flights. NOW what do we do? Lots of discussion and text messages. News that a huge storm was expected for Sunday. Shall we take a bus to the train to Wales to the ferry? I decided to cut my losses, and book a Dublin flight for Monday. Back to pick up the luggage that I had recently checked to Belfast. We had to undergo a full body frisk, and as the woman patted me down, I said something like "woo, this is the most fun I've had all day!"| She responded with something about how it would have been better if she were a tall, dark, and handsome guy, and really, I didn't want to break her bubble. How nice of her to have been playful in her response, when airport security folks can be so damn serious!

Steve, Joe, Noel and Padraig near the BMI counter, after finding out our Belfast flight was canceled.

It was easy for me to decide that I would just stay over in London and not pursue the god-awful-sounding ferry option, because my dear friend Sophie lives in London, and would be happy to put me up. No matter that she already had an Australian house guest. I figured we'd make a nice little mini-Commonwealth.

So on this trip, I lost a few days in Dublin, but I gained a few days in London. I lost a lot of sleep, but I gained the experience of meeting these other travelers, and maybe I'll even meet up with some of them back here in the Dub. I lost some money, but I gained a most magical weekend in London. I used to make fun of places that shut down after only a centimetre of snow, but I've backed off. I mean, they just do not have the infrastructure to deal with it. No ploughs. No grit. No shovels! No idea. I read that Dublin is importing a boat-load of salt to replenish its supplies. But, I think that they use this lack of infrastructure to their great advantage. Close all the schools! Shut down work! Relax and just be snowed-in! I've mentioned before in the blog how Dubliners seem to make the act of socialising an unequivocal part of their day, but it goes further: if there is an honest opportunity to turn it down a notch and enjoy family time, then take it! I realise I am conflating Dubliners with Londoners and that I could be lynched for this in certain circles, but ah well, the real comparison point is to North Americans...

When I arrived at Sophie's on Saturday night, I was kind of delirious from being awake, but I think I sat at the table and used language. The next day, we (including the lovely Australian traveler Josh) put on our woolies, and ventured to the market as soon as we got up (that was 1pm for me, holycrap).

Some very hearty vendors were outside, offering all sorts of delights: flatwhite espressos, organic fruits, pies and apples... I got a great espresso, and a delicious cheese toastie:

 

SF took some ghostly Polaroids, and headed home to scan them before the colour faded: he's not only using old cameras - he buys vintage film. Sophie, Josh and I decided to roam around Alexander Park and watch the tobogganers. Walking down the hill, we had to dodge a few. Not very experienced, you see.

The snow-travel was indeed a delight, but the real magic came back at the cosey flat, with blankets piled high, beautiful chili-chocolates passed around from bed to couch to settee, and great books at every turn. I devoured two of SF's novels in the afternoon, with great music playing in the background. We napped, we read, we spent silent time together...

All told, my little unexpected sojourn in London was the best possible thing I could have done to transition back to my additional life in Dublin, and I could never have planned it. It was a little moment out of time, filled only by time...

Dissed in Dublin, Part I: Dissed by David

I said to my sister the other day that I am becoming a ‘coffee whore,’ in the sense that I will ask pretty much anyone out for a coffee or pint if they seem interesting. This is a new thing for me, or perhaps maybe it’s an old thing that has resurfaced under my current circumstances – in a new country, single, and determined to create a rich and interesting social circle. Most people have been very obliging (you know who you are!), but you can’t win all the time.

Last weekend I went to see a production of Knives in Hens by playwright David Harrower. This is a very special play to me – I directed it six years ago in Toronto (almost to the day), and during the audition process, met the amazing woman I would spend the next six years of my life with. And of course it was written by a fellow Harrower, even if I don’t think we’re very closely related (who knows? Need to get on that family tree one of these days). My friend Paul suggested that I see it with his friend Florry, who lives in Dublin. Paul was one of the stage managers on the TO show, and his friend Florry is friends with the publicity guy for this Dublin production. Lots of odd connections here and there.

The production, by Landmark Theatre, was being staged at the Smock Alley Theatre, which is just steps from my apartment (like so many things!). I set out a few minutes before I was to meet Florry, taking a small winding street that conveniently connects my street to the quays. As I turned the bend, there was David Harrower himself, walking in the same direction. I knew that he was going to be doing a Q&A after the show, so I wasn’t surprised to see him, but I was a bit surprised by my own ease in chatting him up. The conversation went something like this:

Me: Hi, aren’t you David Harrower?

DH: Yes, I am

Me: Ah yes, I’m going to see Knives and Hens as well, just around the corner (I think I was hoping for something more than ‘Yes I am,’ so my response was a bit awkward).

DH: Oh yes.

Silence. Walking.

Me: Actually, my name is Harrower as well.

Pause.

I wouldn’t normally find that so interesting, but we both know it’s not very common. I’m Natalie. Natalie Harrower.

Pause (with me thinking ‘Your turn now’).

Me again: Actually, I directed Knives and Hens years ago, in Toronto.

DH: Oh, yes. Wait – did you send me a Facebook message a couple of years back?

Me: Yes! And you never responded! Hahaha.

DH: Oh yes, sorry about that, I was into Facebook for a while, then I wasn’t, then... (mumbles something).

Me: Ah well, it was a random message.

We talked about a few other things – the origin of the name Harrower or something – he thinks it’s from Fife – and then I somehow managed to make a joke about his lack of response to my email, and slapped him heartily on the back as I said this. I was thinking to myself, geeze, no shame here! I’ve just met him on the street and already I am making fun of him. We entered the space and both got caught up in the folks we were meeting, and that was it for a bit. In my peripheral vision on one of the uncomfortable benches that made up the audience seating, I could see him sitting a few rows behind me, struggling to make notes in the low light of the production.

There was a short Q&A afterwards, where I managed to ask a couple of questions about the play, and then when I was over, I went up to him and said “I don’t know how long you’re in town, but I am here until Wednesday morning, and then I have to head out to a conference, but if you have time I’d love to have a coffee and talk more about your work,” handing him a scrap of paper with my mobile number on it. He said he was around until Thursday am, and seemed vaguely interested in calling me (I did tell him I was a theatre academic). I smiled, and went off to dinner with my companion.

He never called (are you surprised?!)

I was dissed, for a second time, by David Harrower.

Looks like our common heritage and my interest in his work didn’t warrant a response the first time, and that my shining personality, presence in the same city, and continued interest in his work couldn’t even grant me the chance to buy him a coffee! Maybe I shouldn’t have slapped him on the back. Ah well, dinner at Gruel with Florry was lovely, and now I’m going to the Carribbean.

To soothe the Tiger King's weather-beaten skin

This one is for Brian, Charlie, and all of my past Celtic Cinema students (one of whom I bumped into on the street yesterday!)

I was visiting a small farmer's market a few weekends ago, and came upon a great find: Man of Aran beauty products! Aran, of course, refers to the islands off the coast of Galway. They are known for their dramatic cliffs, windswept vistas, and proliferation of Aran sweater shops. When I visited years ago, Inishmore (made famous more recently by Martin McDonagh's macabre The Lieutenant of Inishmore) seemed to be populated by artists, innkeepers, and tourists. So that's Aran.  

Man of Aran is something else - a film released in 1934 about the poor and rugged but romantic Irish folks who 'scratched out a meagre existence' on the islands alongtimeago, digging dirt from between rock crevices in order to plant gardens, and fishing for sharks to obtain oil to light their lamps. The film was marketed as a documentary, but came under significant criticism when it became clear that many elements of the film were anachronistic, or fabricated for effect. Anyway, that's enough of a lesson for now. It just completely cracked me up when I saw Man of Aran beauty products at the local/organic market. The irony of branding luxury items on a film about the decidedly beauty-product-free characters in the film was too much. I expect several folks were wondering why I was crouching down in front of  a serviceable metal shelf to take photos of shampoo and body lotion.

Speaking about the shelves, the market had one stand that served a fabulous lentil soup (they only had half a bowl left, so I was charged half the price, and went around that afternoon half-full), and the most reasonably priced natural soap that I've seen in Dublin. Many bars are 7-8 Euros (ahhhhh, don't convert!), but this place had some for 2.50. Small pleasures...

 

The SuperNatural Food Market operates indoors at the St. Andrews Resource Centre on Pearse Street, and is open until the mid-afternoon on Saturdays. If you walk along Pearse St. past Trinity College in the direction of Dublin Bay (notice I refrained from saying 'east', 'cause Dubliners don't use compass directions), you'll find it on the right (south) side of the street, across from Pearse Square. If you reach the bridge over the Grand Canal/docks, you've gone too far.

Observation: Smells like Guinness

A not-so-great pic of the massive Guinness brewery, taken on my walk to Phoenix Park last week

 
I know that Ireland is associated with Guinness, but really, it smells like Guinness in the air. And I am not referring to the smell that wafts out of pubs on any of the city's popular nights out (which appear to be Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and sometimes Wednesday).

I was walking home last night, and the air was filled with the fragrance of fermentation. It sounds nasty, but in fact it's kind of like the smell of bread baking. I estimate the air is filled with the scent of stout, at least in my neighbourhood, about every 10 days. The Guinness brewery is 2-3 km away, so it's got quite a powerful waft. I haven't figured out quite what is going on. Does it smells like this every day near the brewery, and it only makes its olfactory presence known in the Old City when the winds are right? Or am I catching the smell of a particular moment in the brewing process? My guess is that it's the latter. Anyone know? Is 10 days a key number?

Ballygowen sparkling: 7/10

It's called sparkling water here, in order to distinguish it from 'still' water. At home we call it soda, or bubbly. I'm addicted to it, but have found that it's just not as bubbly here. I like really big, sharp, mouth-popping bubbles, so I am going to track the different brands. Today I had Ballygowen sparkling, and it caught my attention because it seems to pack more CO2 than the others I've tried. I'll give it a 7/10, in the hopes that I can find an 8 or 9...

Farmer's Market

 Yeeha, I just found out that there is a weekly farmer's market in Temple Bar, just around the corner from my new flat (more on the flat-hunt later). I'm getting used to things being on a smaller scale here - grocery stores are smaller, apples are smaller, and neighbourhoods are smaller -- so I was kind of expecting a very small market, with maybe three vendors. But to my great suprise and glee (I think I may have audibly yelped), it's a full market that rivals the one at Dufferin Grove Park in Toronto. There is one major fruit and veg vendor who does everything organic, and then there are several cheese stalls, bakers, butchers, and even one flower stall. There are also a few prepared food vendors, serving noodles, sandwiches, burritos, and 'Gallic fare', and all of it seems on the healthy side, and not the fast-food side. I'm eating the kale I bought right now, and it tastes very fresh and earthy.

Translation moment: I know that aubergine = eggplant, but there are a few other translations necessary for the interested eater:

rocket = arugula
mangetout = snowpeas
spuds = potatoes

I'm sure there are more, so I'll update this as I go along...


In the same way we have seen the rapid growth of the organic food movement at home, the local food movement seems to be rapidly growing here; I've been noticing signs in many restaurants about where food is sourced. Very exciting, because eating cheese from 'Wicklow cows' is much more exciting than eating regular old cheese.  I came across a list of other farmer's markets, so I look forward to checking them out.

I spoke with one woman at a bakery stall (I bought a lovely loaf of rosemary garlic bread, which, as it turns out, is a bit salty), and asked her when they closed up for the day. She said that they closed at 5pm, which is great news for me, because despite my early rising these days, and my intentions of getting out early, I often find myself attending to other homey kinds of things on a Saturday morning. "Great!", I said, "and when do you close down for winter?"

"We never shut down - we are here every Saturday, all year, rain, hail, or sleet"

Well didn't I almost fall over. I thanked her profusely, as if Ireland's temperate climate were all her doing. Yes! One point, finally, in favour of Ireland's climate!

The vegetable vendor is all little off on his own through a laneway on the east side of the Meeting House Square:

 

 

But the rest of the vendors are smack dab in the middle of the square, which has its nicest entrance off Essex St. East:

 

  

  

  

 

Lily O'Connor and My Hike at Howth

Seeing I couldn't do much in the way of getting settled on Sunday, I decided to take a trip to Howth. Howth is a small suburb about 25 minutes north around Dublin Bay on the DART. It's quite tony now, but I have made a point to go there every time I've been to Dublin, in order to hike the ridge that follows the sea. It's a beautiful, peaceful place for contemplation, and just what the somewhat dazed and lonely expat requires. I looked up the timetables for Pearse station (Tara and Connolly stations also go to Howth), and found I only had a few minutes to make the next train. I ran there, argued with the attendant who said he could not make change for at 20 (you mean I am going to miss the train because you don't have change??), and finally arrived, breathless, on the platform, only to discover that the online timetable was not correct. I had 40 minutes until the next train....

Luckily I met Lily O'Connor on the platform. She was asking me for timetable information, which I thought was hilarious, seeing I detected a faint Irish accent in her voice. Here's a picture of Lily, just before we had to part ways half an hour later:

Turns out Lily is Irish, but she's been living in Australia for 30 years. She's also a writer, who has published two memoirs and is now working on her first novel. We had a lovely chat about living in Ireland and living abroad, and we shared our love of walking. She told me that she was going to a small town on the DART line to find her sister's friend. Her sister is also in Australia, but had lost touch with this Dublin friend. So Lily looked up the friend in the phonebook, found the street name, and jumped on the train. No phone call, no map - she was just going to ask around to find the street. I love her sense of adventure! I'm carrying around two maps, my mobile, and my notebook that has all the DART times listed in neat To and From columns...

As Lily left the train she grabbed my hand, and gave me the following advice: "You've got to keep fit in life. That, and a good diet. And observe. I take down everything I hear. In a cafe (she mimics scribbling on a notepad). Observe. It keeps you alive. Take good care of yourself!" If Lily's books are even half as interesting as she is in person, they're bound to be a great read.

Lily's books are on Amazon.com

A couple of stops later I was in Howth, and it was raining, so I was happy to find the  O-One Coffee shop - a very cute place to wait out the latest shower. 

I ordered my first coffee as a Dubliner - so far, I've been practically drown in tea, and despite the heart palpitations from all the caffeine, I just needed a change. I had a long espresso with cream, and much to my delight, the cream came whipped, on top of a tiny perfect bowl of espresso. I'm extremely picky about my espresso - I don't drink it very often, so when I do, it better be good. O-One, despite their kind-of-dumb name, passes the test.

I picked up a wifi signal from the Quay West Cafe across the street (thank you thank you for not password-protecting - I promise to frequent you in the future), and soon the rain had passed and I was off on my hike.

It takes about 10 minutes to cross the harbour and get to the road that leads to the mountain path. Along the way there are drop-dead gorgeous houses, and, of course, little bits of humour:

 

  

And then you get to the beginning of the path. It's really not dangerous, unless you decide to walk many many metres off the path, and lean over the cliff. This cannot happen without intention.

The walk is stunning, and I managed to stay pretty chipper despite getting soaked in my efforts to take pictures of myself doing yoga amidst the heather. The umbrella had to shield the camera, which was on a rock on timer, so I was left exposed to the elements. Thankfully it was a warm day, so I'm still pneumonia-free. Here's one of the outtakes (it's really hard to press the button, run 20 feet away, balance, and pose gracefully all in ten seconds - thankfully regular yoga does not require such sillyness):

But mostly, the scenery looked like this: stunning but drearily romantic, fresh and cleansing:

 

The prized view is just before you reach the 'summit'. One can turn around at the summit, or keep going for a much longer hike around the other side of the ridge. I haven't done this longer one yet, but it's in the books for a future hike.

Dogs are meant to poop outside

I was meeting a new friend for dinner tonight in the Temple Bar area (I know I know it is touristy, give me a break, I've only been here for a few days!), and decided to go for a little walk first. My intention is to walk around as much as I can, so if I find a great flat, I can confidently decide in an instant whether or not I would like living in that neighbourhood. Dublin's not really that big, if you plan to stay within 2km of the absolute centre (which I guess I would poinpoint as the O'Connell Bridge, but maybe living here will change that attitude).

My mission was to find some soap - just a nice bar of soap made from, you know, pure ingredients, essential oils - the usual. It takes a while to find a Kensington Market-like space when you are in a new city, but I hold out no hopes for finding anything as cheap and down-home as Sugar and Spice.

I found a great bar of lemongrass soap at Down to Earth on South Great Georges Street, and decided that was my new scent. Bright, lively, ready-for-anything. It was 4 Euros, and seeing this kind of soap at home is often 4 dollars, I figured this place was on the mark. I've decided not to convert currencies anymore - it's too painful. The numbers stay the same, even if the conversion speaks of highway robbery.

I left the chipper guy at the counter of the store, and continued walking south. Oddly, Dubliners call this 'walking UP the street,' which is confusing, seeing I have always associated 'UP' with walking north. But maybe I am too attached to maps, which place the north arrow at the top...

I had a few minutes before I had to turn around and head back to Temple Bar for my dinner date, so I popped into Penny Farthing Cycles Shop, thinking I might find out if they had any second hand bikes that were suitable. Air Canada was going to charge me $275 to bring the bike over - $225 for an extra 'bag', and $50 for the that 'bag' being sports equipment -- and I figured that it would cost the same to bring it back, which just made it not worth it.

So there I am in this (admittedly kind of grotty - I should have known) cycle shop. The fellow said they had very few used bikes, but then a woman on the phone placed her hand over the mouthpiece, and said "How 'bout that silver-and-grey Ladies' that just came in? It's not serviced yet, but it's a 16."

Well, I am short, so 16" would be perfect. I proceeded to the back of the shop to inspect the bike. There was a very large boxer moving around, but he seemed friendly enough, and didn't jump on my head (dogs for some reason like to come up and lick me on the face, no matter how far my face is from the ground). He pointed out the bike, but it was in a big stack, so I moved around back to inspect it. I was talking about derailleurs and the like - making myself out to be the knowledgeable cyclist that I am (or pretend to be), and I noticed this...smell.  I was thinking, phew, that doggy sure does smell! Then I realised, um, that is the smell of...poop. Dog poop. And yes, I was standing in it. Great big fluffy piles of it.

On the concrete floor of the shop.

INdoors.

The guy was like "oh no, I hope you didn't step in it." I looked down, and there were, like, TEN PILES of poop at my feet. Under my feet, actually. That is WAY MORE than a day's worth. WTF? Who DOES that? I mean, a warning would have been nice.

Let's just say that several toilet paper rolls and visits to a grotty bike-grease covered bathroom later, I was in St. Stephen's Green, not paying homage to Joyce and Bloom, but wiping my soles for dear life. I was a little late to meet my friend at Temple Bar, but... I had a pretty good excuse. And oh ya, the bike sucked.

PPS Number

So I popped out of the shower this morning, stood out the window to check the weather, and found it sunny and mild. Got dressed, finished my extra-strong Marks and Spencer fair-trade tea (which I think is only extra-strong because they put more in each bag), and got ready to head out. But in the minutes between dressing and exiting, I had to...re-dress. The temperature had dropped, and the sky was covered in ominous, dark clouds.

When people say it rains a lot in Ireland, it really means that it rains many times in one day, not that a lot of water comes out of the sky during any given instance. This is very different from Toronto weather, where it either tends to be rainy all day, or not rainy all day, and the amount of rain, especially during fantastic August thunderstorms, can be torrential. But back to my topic...

I went to apply for a PPS number today, which stands for Personal Public Service Number. At home we call this a Social Insurance Number. The last time I got one of these, I was 15, and applying for a Christmas job at The Bay. I didn't know that I had to take care of this myself, because, funny, my world-class institution of higher learning neglected to mention it (anytime over the last 4 months). But no bother, the guy at the bank told me where to go, because in addition to requiring an address, one needs a PPS number to get a bank account. So off I went in my newly changed clothes to find the Social Welfare Office on Tara Street. I found it, and found the little machine that gives you slips of paper with your number in the queue, but tacked to the front of that little machine was a notice saying "PPS Allocations have moved to 20 King's Inns Street, Dublin 1". Apparently they are reducing the number of offices that issue the numbers, so check here before you go.

Now, I didn't know where King's Inns Street was, but luckily there was an information window, with only one woman standing in line. This will take me no time at all! But, there was no one at the window on the official side. About 10 minutes later, a social welfare office worker showed up, she had a five second exchange with the one woman in line, and off she went again for another 15 mintues. I was starting to feel a bit irritated, because I only needed directions, and a confirmation that they were still open. Finally I decided to ask the one woman in line - the one taking up more time than I think one person should, and her response was great: "Aw geeze, I don' know where dat is. Well, it's in Dublin 1, and sure, that's the north side. So you just go up to the north side."

Now, I have only been in Dublin for a couple of days, but I know that Dublin 1 is central and north of the Liffey, and that Dublin 2 is central and south of the Liffey. But I also know that the 1 and 2 are postal codes, which means they cover, oh, about 2 square kilometres each. I supposed I could zig zag through hundreds of streets until I found King's Inn Street, but the concomitant problem is that many streets are not named at each intersection....I did a lot of walking in circles this afternoon - all around here:


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I finally found the office, was issued a number that seemed very far away from the number currently being served, and went off to do some shopping. I kept checking back in, but after an hour and a half, they were only 12 numbers later, and there were still 20 people ahead of me, but only an hour until closing. I went off for another 20 minutes, only to return and find they had just passed my number. How did you do it, I asked? But there was no answer; instead, I elbowed my way to a wicket as soon as someone left, and pleaded. The guy wasn't impressed, but he helped me nonetheless, and now I only have to wait 2 weeks to receive it in the mail! Fortunately, he gave me a number to call on Monday to find out: (01) 704 3281. Now everyone can use it!

Yamamori Noodles, yummm

Today my new colleague Lisa took me on a city centre walking tour that had three themes: cheap eats, cheap electronics (my request), and useful libraries/archives (isn't this everyone's perfect walking tour of a new city?) We had lunch at Yamamori on South Great Georges Street, but I see that they have two locations. The atmosphere was fresh and lively, but not swank and chi-chi as the cheese-oid music on their website might suggest. Around 1pm, we seemed to be the only people in the place, but by 3pm it was packed - a fact that I only realised when I noticed I was sort of yelling at her over my bowl of noodles.

Happy to find ramen on the menu, I ordered the seafood version. (Ramen is hard to come by in Toronto, and the one new place that features it in TO -- Kenzo Ramen on Dundas St. -- proved to be a bit disappointing when I went there a few months ago with my friend Phil). Anyhoo, in expensive Dublin, I was expecting that for 10 Euros I would get a tiny bowl with canned salad shrimp and pollocky fish balls. Moments later, a massive steaming bowl of fresh seafood, veggies, and noodles arrived. The broth was a silky miso-garlic combination (I couldn't taste the oyster sauce that was listed on the menu), the prawns tasted like lobster, and overall, it was very good. I even had to leave some behind, but that might be blamed on the jet-lag. Thanks, Lisa!

P.S. Speaking of foods tasting differently, the cottage cheese here is DEElicious! It tastes...cheesier.