For those of you who do not know them, Crystal Swing is a band from Cork, consisting of Mary, the mother, and Dervla and Derek, her daughter and son. Mary plays the keyboards, and her clothing and gestures are right out of 50s America. Dervla fancies herself a purer, more Irish Shania Twain, and Derek is.... well, a cross between Elvis, Buddy Holly, and Gumby.
Recently, Crystal Swing made it onto Ellen DeGeneres's show. It was a boon to Irish people all around, but Irish people in Dublin, if I can generalise for over a million individuals, think that Crystal Swing are funny. As in, silly funny.
When I first saw Crystal Swing, I thought that they had to be kidding. I thought for sure that they were ironic -- pretending to be all innocent and country bumpkinish, but really, this was all a ploy to differentiate themselves from other bands, and their performance was faux-innocent. But my friends in Ireland assured me that they were serious. Very serious. I couldn't understand -- I mean, check out Mary, and her little head bops, and her hair style and dress and makeup, and facial expressions...it's so June Cleaver from Leave it to Beaver! She can't be serious! And the kids -- siblings -- singing about sex to each other, all the while looking at the camera with faces of pure innocence! Is this a joke? I was really confused.
Things only got worse (for my comprehension) when Panti -- a famous drag queen here in the Dub -- did a parody of "He Drinks Tequila" in her weekly show, referring to her band as Cryshtal Shwing. I thought that Crystal Swing were already parodying something else, so how could Panti parody a parody? Is there a word for this? Linda Hutcheon, where are you when I need you?
But recently, after watching way too many YouTube videos of these folks, I figured it out. Crystal Swing are popular because they tap into what we all want, but are afraid to admit we want. They stand for hope in a world of cynicism. They make us want to believe that life could be so simple and clean. They are ... pure and innocent, and we all want to taste just a little bit of that. I heard them interviewed on Irish radio a few days ago, when they were in Los Angeles for Ellen's show. At the end of the interview, the host said that they were "genuine, warm people," and that they were good people, "and that's the truth." The fact that he felt the need to mention that last part -- to clarify that he was talking truthfully -- is telling, because it's hard to know if anyone (the performers or hosts or cheering audience members) are taking the piss. Audiences are made defensive by their earnestness. Watching Ellen DeGeneres watch Crystal Swing while they perform on her show is telling: she dances around a bit, but every few seconds, she looks over at one of her crew. The look is small and discrete, but it is clear. She is asking: are these folks for real? Do you actually LIKE this? Because, uh, I think I actually like this, but I'm not sure I'm supposed to, because I think maybe they can't really be serious. And then I would be the silly one.
And the truth is this: people like Crystal Swing, but more importantly, they want to like Crystal Swing, but they fear they will look like fools for doing so. So the telling looks appear, and the under-the-breath guffaws break the surface. I understand, because I do it as well. How could I enter into pure enjoyment while watching them, without feeling like other people might think I am naive and have bad taste? It's only possible to like them if... well... if you pretend not to. This whole discussion reminds me of what Carl Wilson writes about in his book about Celine Dion. He hates her music -- he finds it mewling and appalling -- but still, he is driven to understand why so many people are moved by it. He meditates on the nature of taste, and the elements of ego and aesthetic judgment that constitute taste.
I could say a lot more about Crystal Swing and how they provide a way to measure our perspective on contemporary life, but instead, I'll leave you with Derek, and his mouth full of adolescent teeth, doing the Hucklebuck on Ireland's Late Late Show:
Showing posts with label People. Show all posts
Showing posts with label People. Show all posts
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Shifting perspectives
As you may have noticed, the blog entries have slowed down considerably. I'm aware of this, but because I promised myself that this blog would not be about work or anything resembling work, I needed to keep it purely in the land of inclination. And I guess I haven't been so inclined, for various reasons.
But one reason is simply this: Dublin just isn't as weird to me anymore. When I first got here, my eyes were peeled in a newbie kind of way - I noticed the odd phrasings on street signs, and the way people walked, and the different foods on offer in the shops. But now that I've been here for seven months (today), the quirky has started to shift into the mundane, and it isn't captured by my consciousness in quite the same way. I have to intentionally create Brecht's verfremdungseffekt , in my mind's eye, to see the cultural peculiarities.
The fact that life here is becoming familiar is very interesting to me, because acculturation happens on many different levels, and at many different paces. Plenty of things still appear unusual or alien to me, but the things I notice now are harder to articulate, because they are about the fundamental ways that people interact with the world and others in it. When I have a better grasp on these more intuitive aspects, I will write about them.
My shift in perspective has been highlighted recently by a couple of factors. I have a new friend who is originally from Italy, and immediately I found her compelling; she is so different from the Irish. It's not that I am tired of the Irish, but more that, maybe, her particular cultural distinctiveness is refreshing, and it puts Irish customs and practices in relief. It helps me to see Dubliners, and myself, in a new light. My Italian friend, Elisabetta, is animated, and quick to engage passionately in conversation, and verbally free - she says things directly. She told me that in order to get along with colleagues in Ireland, she had to learn to be less direct; she's had to figure out how to come at things a bit sideways, because her regular approach - which she would use with colleagues at home - would be considered too forthright.
The international stereotype of the Irish is that they are friendly, and quick to bring outsiders into a chat, and great conversationalists, etc. Just look at the first 5 minutes of The Quiet Man, when the American is greeted with glee and offered directions by half a dozen animated little 'ole wans'. Or all the shenanigans that go on in films like The Matchmaker and Waking Ned. I choose the Hollywood Irish films because they have been instrumental in fabricating Irishness for lands beyond Ireland. And these representations are not complete fabrications - the people I have met are friendly, and they do love a great conversation and opportunities for good craic, but I am also finding that there is often a barrier or wall to real social intimacy. My friend Paul pointed out to me that Torontonians are not quite so different - we, too, can be friendly and welcoming to the outsider on one level, but then slightly closed when it comes to really letting people into our inner circles. I like to think that I have thrown away that barrier as I crossed the Atlantic and allowed myself to become vulnerable in so many ways. But it's hard to tell, of course, because how does one use the V-effect on oneself? I know that, in this blog in general, I have been approaching people entirely as products of their culture and society, and that this leaves out a whole realm of other factors that shape identity and behaviour, and that such an approach is reductive and potentially stereotyping, but... oh, well, I said this wasn't work :)
The second recent thing that has shifted my perspective is the arrival of my sister Amber, who in fewer than 12 hours has shown me how accustomed I have come to this place. She is finding so many things interesting that I now take for granted. She giggled at the sign for 'Irish Ferries' that was pointing in the direction of the harbour, and seemed genuinely concerned that our bus was going to crash into other vehicles on the way back from the airport. She isolated the combination of the short buildings and narrow streets as the distinct architectural feature of Temple Bar that creates the character of the space, and she noted the oddity of having one's washing machine in the kitchen. These are all things I noticed when I arrived, but that do not cross my radar any more. They seem like simple differences, but I think they are fundamental differences - radical differences, in fact. What I mean by this is that objects and the layout of objects in space affect our movement patterns in daily life. The narrowness of the streets means that bodies interact in a closer proximity than they do in places that have more space, like Canada. The height restrictions create a different aspect relationship between the human body and the world it inhabits - we are not dwarfed in the streets of Dublin. Amber said that the smaller scale made her focus more on the people and how they were interacting (she also had her ear opened outward, trying to soak up all the Irish accents). The placement of the laundry machine means that certain household tasks become related to one another in particular ways. It might sound like I am grasping at straws here, but I really do think that the shift in spatial relationships can have a concomitant effect on social relationships and customs. But this is starting to sound a bit like work, so perhaps I will switch gears, and leave you with two pictures of my lovely sister Amber, excited by the cobblestones of Temple Bar, and the Liffey and the beauty of its bridges, on her first night in Dublin (and her first night in Europe).
But one reason is simply this: Dublin just isn't as weird to me anymore. When I first got here, my eyes were peeled in a newbie kind of way - I noticed the odd phrasings on street signs, and the way people walked, and the different foods on offer in the shops. But now that I've been here for seven months (today), the quirky has started to shift into the mundane, and it isn't captured by my consciousness in quite the same way. I have to intentionally create Brecht's verfremdungseffekt , in my mind's eye, to see the cultural peculiarities.
The fact that life here is becoming familiar is very interesting to me, because acculturation happens on many different levels, and at many different paces. Plenty of things still appear unusual or alien to me, but the things I notice now are harder to articulate, because they are about the fundamental ways that people interact with the world and others in it. When I have a better grasp on these more intuitive aspects, I will write about them.
My shift in perspective has been highlighted recently by a couple of factors. I have a new friend who is originally from Italy, and immediately I found her compelling; she is so different from the Irish. It's not that I am tired of the Irish, but more that, maybe, her particular cultural distinctiveness is refreshing, and it puts Irish customs and practices in relief. It helps me to see Dubliners, and myself, in a new light. My Italian friend, Elisabetta, is animated, and quick to engage passionately in conversation, and verbally free - she says things directly. She told me that in order to get along with colleagues in Ireland, she had to learn to be less direct; she's had to figure out how to come at things a bit sideways, because her regular approach - which she would use with colleagues at home - would be considered too forthright.
The international stereotype of the Irish is that they are friendly, and quick to bring outsiders into a chat, and great conversationalists, etc. Just look at the first 5 minutes of The Quiet Man, when the American is greeted with glee and offered directions by half a dozen animated little 'ole wans'. Or all the shenanigans that go on in films like The Matchmaker and Waking Ned. I choose the Hollywood Irish films because they have been instrumental in fabricating Irishness for lands beyond Ireland. And these representations are not complete fabrications - the people I have met are friendly, and they do love a great conversation and opportunities for good craic, but I am also finding that there is often a barrier or wall to real social intimacy. My friend Paul pointed out to me that Torontonians are not quite so different - we, too, can be friendly and welcoming to the outsider on one level, but then slightly closed when it comes to really letting people into our inner circles. I like to think that I have thrown away that barrier as I crossed the Atlantic and allowed myself to become vulnerable in so many ways. But it's hard to tell, of course, because how does one use the V-effect on oneself? I know that, in this blog in general, I have been approaching people entirely as products of their culture and society, and that this leaves out a whole realm of other factors that shape identity and behaviour, and that such an approach is reductive and potentially stereotyping, but... oh, well, I said this wasn't work :)
The second recent thing that has shifted my perspective is the arrival of my sister Amber, who in fewer than 12 hours has shown me how accustomed I have come to this place. She is finding so many things interesting that I now take for granted. She giggled at the sign for 'Irish Ferries' that was pointing in the direction of the harbour, and seemed genuinely concerned that our bus was going to crash into other vehicles on the way back from the airport. She isolated the combination of the short buildings and narrow streets as the distinct architectural feature of Temple Bar that creates the character of the space, and she noted the oddity of having one's washing machine in the kitchen. These are all things I noticed when I arrived, but that do not cross my radar any more. They seem like simple differences, but I think they are fundamental differences - radical differences, in fact. What I mean by this is that objects and the layout of objects in space affect our movement patterns in daily life. The narrowness of the streets means that bodies interact in a closer proximity than they do in places that have more space, like Canada. The height restrictions create a different aspect relationship between the human body and the world it inhabits - we are not dwarfed in the streets of Dublin. Amber said that the smaller scale made her focus more on the people and how they were interacting (she also had her ear opened outward, trying to soak up all the Irish accents). The placement of the laundry machine means that certain household tasks become related to one another in particular ways. It might sound like I am grasping at straws here, but I really do think that the shift in spatial relationships can have a concomitant effect on social relationships and customs. But this is starting to sound a bit like work, so perhaps I will switch gears, and leave you with two pictures of my lovely sister Amber, excited by the cobblestones of Temple Bar, and the Liffey and the beauty of its bridges, on her first night in Dublin (and her first night in Europe).
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
St. Patrick's Day Parade in Dublin
Just came back from the parade - I was able to watch it about 200 metres from my apartment, which reminds me how glad I am that I chose such a central location. It makes finding a bite to eat (at home) and changing clothes for the next adventure (at home) quite convenient.
This was my first Patrick's Day parade in Ireland, and I was quite excited, because it has to be the largest and most public way that Ireland performs her identity for herself, for the tourists, and to the world. I wasn't sure what to expect, but I did think it would be big.
I was right, but it was not big in some of the ways I expected. For one, there seemed to be a real emphasis on bicycle or people-powered floats. There were lots of huge puppets operated by groundlings, and usually one person cycling, while others helped to push the float from behind. In some of my pics, you can see them struggling to get up the hill on Dame St. at Parliament. Only a few floats were gasoline-powered, and this was a nice surprise. I mean, I barely made it through all the cigarette smoke that surrounded me on Dame Street - burning fuel would not have been very pleasant. Most of the large spectacle items were animal figures, which I guess fits with the whole pagan thing, and the colours were bright and lively. There was an artisanal feel to many of the large puppets, which was a nice contrast with, say, all the plastic used in the Pride parade in Toronto.
There was hardly a nationalist inkling in site - in fact, there seemed to be an absence of demonstrably "Irish" elements. A few Irish cities/counties had contingents - Donegal, Waterford, Belfast, and there was an international presence as well - I saw Madrid, something from Italy, a group that looked like they were in traditional Indian garb, and a couple of African-themed groups. The most random one had the be the North Carolina State Marching Band. I was like, WTF? Overall, I would say that the multiculturalism of the parade - the presence of different ethnicities - outweighed the visibility of different ethnicities that I encounter on my wanderings around Dublin. But I don't really wander all that far around Dublin, so whaddoIknow?
The crowds were upbeat, but as far as I could tell, not really drunk yet, so that was a relief. Someone told me to wear wellies because it can get that messy outside. But right now, in my very central apartment, it's once again quiet outside, and the barriers on the street were coming down as the last group of cyclists passed by.
Anyway, off I go to other Patrick's Day adventures. Just needed to dump the SD card, recharge the camera battery, and fuel myself.
The pics below show my wanderings around Temple Bar and O'Connell/the Quays before the parade began, the parade itself, and then my street afterward. I had an ok position on the street, but there are lots of heads in the shots, so please skim through quickly!
This was my first Patrick's Day parade in Ireland, and I was quite excited, because it has to be the largest and most public way that Ireland performs her identity for herself, for the tourists, and to the world. I wasn't sure what to expect, but I did think it would be big.
I was right, but it was not big in some of the ways I expected. For one, there seemed to be a real emphasis on bicycle or people-powered floats. There were lots of huge puppets operated by groundlings, and usually one person cycling, while others helped to push the float from behind. In some of my pics, you can see them struggling to get up the hill on Dame St. at Parliament. Only a few floats were gasoline-powered, and this was a nice surprise. I mean, I barely made it through all the cigarette smoke that surrounded me on Dame Street - burning fuel would not have been very pleasant. Most of the large spectacle items were animal figures, which I guess fits with the whole pagan thing, and the colours were bright and lively. There was an artisanal feel to many of the large puppets, which was a nice contrast with, say, all the plastic used in the Pride parade in Toronto.
There was hardly a nationalist inkling in site - in fact, there seemed to be an absence of demonstrably "Irish" elements. A few Irish cities/counties had contingents - Donegal, Waterford, Belfast, and there was an international presence as well - I saw Madrid, something from Italy, a group that looked like they were in traditional Indian garb, and a couple of African-themed groups. The most random one had the be the North Carolina State Marching Band. I was like, WTF? Overall, I would say that the multiculturalism of the parade - the presence of different ethnicities - outweighed the visibility of different ethnicities that I encounter on my wanderings around Dublin. But I don't really wander all that far around Dublin, so whaddoIknow?
The crowds were upbeat, but as far as I could tell, not really drunk yet, so that was a relief. Someone told me to wear wellies because it can get that messy outside. But right now, in my very central apartment, it's once again quiet outside, and the barriers on the street were coming down as the last group of cyclists passed by.
Anyway, off I go to other Patrick's Day adventures. Just needed to dump the SD card, recharge the camera battery, and fuel myself.
The pics below show my wanderings around Temple Bar and O'Connell/the Quays before the parade began, the parade itself, and then my street afterward. I had an ok position on the street, but there are lots of heads in the shots, so please skim through quickly!
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
How to Meet People in Dublin
I've been thinking a lot about the act of meeting people, because my first months here have been pretty focused on this pursuit. Life is pretty crap without other people in it, so naturally, I wanted to avoid having a crappy year. My experience has been about Dublin, but I bet this applies to lots of decently-sized cities that have things going on. If you live in the suburbs or a really small town, I can't help you. I sure someone can, but I haven't been both a)in a small town and b)available to meet new people since I was doing my undergrad. And back then, the town didn't matter, because we were all so navel-gazing about the campus-as-world.
Just recently, I discovered a site called Meetup.com. It is AMAZING! Basically, the site acts as a hub for social groups. Kind of like Facebook, only the main organizing factor is the group, as opposed to the individual. A Marxian Facebook, if you will.
Anyone can start up a group on Meetup, and a quick perusal of the Dublin nexus shows that all sorts of different people have done so; there are groups for cinema-going, naturism a.k.a. nekkidism, restaurant-going, ex-pats of all origins, queers, meditation, spirituality, business networking, and so on. I joined a few groups, and have somehow (twist me rubber arm) been drawn into helping out with one group's organisation. I went to events this past weekend with two different groups; first, an afternoon tea party with the brand new Dublin LGBTQ Women's Social Networking group, and second, an exhibit of New York photography with the New and Not So New in Dublin group, which seems to be one of the most active Dublin groups. Both events were relaxed and the people were delightful. I didn't really know what to expect, because usually I meet like-minded people by going to things I like, and therefore, finding myself amongst other people who like the same thing (ya, I guess I just defined 'like-minded'). But in this case, the group descriptions were quite open, so I had no idea what to expect. Maybe only weirdos attend these events, hahahaha... The art event in particular was good for easy socialising, because if you're shy about jumping into extended conversations, then the activity facilitates a kind of casualness. "Oooh, that's an interesting angle on the Chrysler building; "Wow, that Cindy Sherman is such a chameleon;" "I wonder how they captured that panorama?"
As I said, I only came upon this Meetup thingy last week, but I've been here for months, and thankfully this weekend wasn't the first time I met people. Here are some other ways:
1. Talk to people in airports. I've picked up four people this way! One of them, Carla, has become my go-to gal for all kinds of emotional blubbering here in The Dub. I met her at the gate in Toronto before I actually immigrated. Met some cool folks watching other people's luggage endlessly circle on the belt... Met one more person on the way to the airport - at a bus stop. So it seems that anything to do with air travel works. Perhaps this is because it's so frigging boring, that people are desperate to socialise!
2. Have lunch with your colleagues. Everyone needs to eat. If you don't have any colleagues, get a job so you can have some.
3. Join a yoga class that meets regularly. Often, these classes have the same people attending them every week, so you can chat while rolling up your mat, or unpacking your stretchy clothes. Or, like me, you could follow your yoga teacher from a class in one studio to a class in another studio, joke that you're her yoga stalker, and then hope she wants to become your friend. Now, I suppose you could join other classes if you don't like yoginis, but yoginis are known for being calm, open-minded, and present. What more could you ask for in a friend?
4. Take a workshop on something that extends over a few days. If you do this, you will see the same people everyday! It works.
5. Look like you know where you are going. For some reason, I get asked for directions no matter what city I am in. I don't necessarily know where I am going, but I must look like I know where I am going. And no, I don't carry a map anymore.
6. Do some things by yourself. Now I know that this can suck, and once you've made one friend, you may be tempted to do everything with that friend. But then you talk only to that friend, and miss opportunities for meeting new people.
7. Squeeze every potential contact out of your friends and family at home. I've met some of the most special peeps here in Dublin because someone at home knew someone who knew this person in Dublin... The common connection, no matter how tenuous, somehow breaks down the initial meeting barrier a bit.
And finally, say Yes to everything. Talk to strangers. Ask people out for coffee, even if it feels too soon. Push your own level of discomfort as far as you can - what do you have to lose?
Just recently, I discovered a site called Meetup.com. It is AMAZING! Basically, the site acts as a hub for social groups. Kind of like Facebook, only the main organizing factor is the group, as opposed to the individual. A Marxian Facebook, if you will.
Anyone can start up a group on Meetup, and a quick perusal of the Dublin nexus shows that all sorts of different people have done so; there are groups for cinema-going, naturism a.k.a. nekkidism, restaurant-going, ex-pats of all origins, queers, meditation, spirituality, business networking, and so on. I joined a few groups, and have somehow (twist me rubber arm) been drawn into helping out with one group's organisation. I went to events this past weekend with two different groups; first, an afternoon tea party with the brand new Dublin LGBTQ Women's Social Networking group, and second, an exhibit of New York photography with the New and Not So New in Dublin group, which seems to be one of the most active Dublin groups. Both events were relaxed and the people were delightful. I didn't really know what to expect, because usually I meet like-minded people by going to things I like, and therefore, finding myself amongst other people who like the same thing (ya, I guess I just defined 'like-minded'). But in this case, the group descriptions were quite open, so I had no idea what to expect. Maybe only weirdos attend these events, hahahaha... The art event in particular was good for easy socialising, because if you're shy about jumping into extended conversations, then the activity facilitates a kind of casualness. "Oooh, that's an interesting angle on the Chrysler building; "Wow, that Cindy Sherman is such a chameleon;" "I wonder how they captured that panorama?"
As I said, I only came upon this Meetup thingy last week, but I've been here for months, and thankfully this weekend wasn't the first time I met people. Here are some other ways:
1. Talk to people in airports. I've picked up four people this way! One of them, Carla, has become my go-to gal for all kinds of emotional blubbering here in The Dub. I met her at the gate in Toronto before I actually immigrated. Met some cool folks watching other people's luggage endlessly circle on the belt... Met one more person on the way to the airport - at a bus stop. So it seems that anything to do with air travel works. Perhaps this is because it's so frigging boring, that people are desperate to socialise!
2. Have lunch with your colleagues. Everyone needs to eat. If you don't have any colleagues, get a job so you can have some.
3. Join a yoga class that meets regularly. Often, these classes have the same people attending them every week, so you can chat while rolling up your mat, or unpacking your stretchy clothes. Or, like me, you could follow your yoga teacher from a class in one studio to a class in another studio, joke that you're her yoga stalker, and then hope she wants to become your friend. Now, I suppose you could join other classes if you don't like yoginis, but yoginis are known for being calm, open-minded, and present. What more could you ask for in a friend?
4. Take a workshop on something that extends over a few days. If you do this, you will see the same people everyday! It works.
5. Look like you know where you are going. For some reason, I get asked for directions no matter what city I am in. I don't necessarily know where I am going, but I must look like I know where I am going. And no, I don't carry a map anymore.
6. Do some things by yourself. Now I know that this can suck, and once you've made one friend, you may be tempted to do everything with that friend. But then you talk only to that friend, and miss opportunities for meeting new people.
7. Squeeze every potential contact out of your friends and family at home. I've met some of the most special peeps here in Dublin because someone at home knew someone who knew this person in Dublin... The common connection, no matter how tenuous, somehow breaks down the initial meeting barrier a bit.
And finally, say Yes to everything. Talk to strangers. Ask people out for coffee, even if it feels too soon. Push your own level of discomfort as far as you can - what do you have to lose?
Me and Carla checking out Dun Laoghaire
Sunday, January 17, 2010
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!
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:
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...
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Dublin Made Me Gay!!
Well, of course this is not entirely true, but I can say that living here has made me gay-ER in my daily activities.
As a recovering-Catholic Republic that only decriminalized homosexuality in 1993 (and still criminalizes abortion), Dublin is not the first place that pops to mind when one thinks of gay-friendly cities. But there is something still kind of sparkly and new about the out gay scene here. Toronto's scene has been around for such a long time, and there is a whole street dedicated to everything LGBTQ. If you miss an event, no worries - there will be another one coming along soon. I suppose the same is true of Dublin, based on the small but growing body of knowledge I have about lesbian/queer activities in the city, but it hasn't been this way for as long, so there is still a kind of buzz around events.
Take, for example, the Gay and Lesbian choir I went to the other night. My friends Shannon and Debs asked me out, and we were joined by a couple of their friends; on my way out the door, another friend, Florry, called to see what I was up to that night - did I want to join him at Gloria, the Gay and Lesbian choir? Well yes indeed, see you there. When I posted the pics on Facebook, another friend of mine tagged a friend of hers in the pic of the choir. Do all the queers know each other in this city? The venue was packed - I would say there were easily 600-800 people in the church, and not a spare seat to be found. I think this is a pretty fantastic turnout for any kind of event, let alone an amateur (in the not-paid sense) choir from a slim slice of the overall Dublin demographic. (A note on the venue - we weren't sure at first if St. Anne's was Catholic or Church of Ireland, and while it would have been more deliciously transgressive if it had been the former, the fact that it is Anglican still scores one point for the good side of the schism).
Come to think of it, maybe it's not a gay thing at all. I've been amazed by how tightly knit many communities are in this city. For example, in the theatre world, the people who write about theatre (critics and academics) seem to know the people who make theatre (directors and writers and actors etc) well. I mean, they give each other little hugs and hellos when they see each other. It's not that there is no overlap at home, but most real interaction between academics and practitioners seems to be about the work. People here seem to know each other socially. I am living in an entirely different culture than my home culture, and I am continually amazed by the little Eureka moments I have that remind me of this.
In the beginning, I noticed cultural differences, and was hit with a short but intense dose of culture shock. At one point, I thought "I am an ALIEN! Who are these people??" That seems to have passed as I return to a more moderate view of our differences, but now I am starting to see the subtle differences a bit better. To come back to the gay thing -- I need to tune my gaydar to a new wavelength. I thought I was getting pretty good at quickly noting who was likely playing for the team at home, but here, forget it. The public appearance of being gay/lesbian is different than it is at home. I am sure this observation does little to help those who argue that being gay is biological (and therefore more politically defensible, somehow), but it's true! I can't even identify, yet, why my gaydar is so off, but it's been very interesting. It kind of means everyone can be gay, in my imagination. Talk about queering the world around you...
Well, I am off home for the holidays tomorrow morning, which means I will be missing at least five queer holiday events in Dublin. But I figure I can just pick up where I left off when I return - there is so much going on! I never thought I would say this four months ago, but I think I might actually miss my wacky new Dublin life...a wee bit...over the holidays.
As a recovering-Catholic Republic that only decriminalized homosexuality in 1993 (and still criminalizes abortion), Dublin is not the first place that pops to mind when one thinks of gay-friendly cities. But there is something still kind of sparkly and new about the out gay scene here. Toronto's scene has been around for such a long time, and there is a whole street dedicated to everything LGBTQ. If you miss an event, no worries - there will be another one coming along soon. I suppose the same is true of Dublin, based on the small but growing body of knowledge I have about lesbian/queer activities in the city, but it hasn't been this way for as long, so there is still a kind of buzz around events.
Take, for example, the Gay and Lesbian choir I went to the other night. My friends Shannon and Debs asked me out, and we were joined by a couple of their friends; on my way out the door, another friend, Florry, called to see what I was up to that night - did I want to join him at Gloria, the Gay and Lesbian choir? Well yes indeed, see you there. When I posted the pics on Facebook, another friend of mine tagged a friend of hers in the pic of the choir. Do all the queers know each other in this city? The venue was packed - I would say there were easily 600-800 people in the church, and not a spare seat to be found. I think this is a pretty fantastic turnout for any kind of event, let alone an amateur (in the not-paid sense) choir from a slim slice of the overall Dublin demographic. (A note on the venue - we weren't sure at first if St. Anne's was Catholic or Church of Ireland, and while it would have been more deliciously transgressive if it had been the former, the fact that it is Anglican still scores one point for the good side of the schism).
Come to think of it, maybe it's not a gay thing at all. I've been amazed by how tightly knit many communities are in this city. For example, in the theatre world, the people who write about theatre (critics and academics) seem to know the people who make theatre (directors and writers and actors etc) well. I mean, they give each other little hugs and hellos when they see each other. It's not that there is no overlap at home, but most real interaction between academics and practitioners seems to be about the work. People here seem to know each other socially. I am living in an entirely different culture than my home culture, and I am continually amazed by the little Eureka moments I have that remind me of this.
In the beginning, I noticed cultural differences, and was hit with a short but intense dose of culture shock. At one point, I thought "I am an ALIEN! Who are these people??" That seems to have passed as I return to a more moderate view of our differences, but now I am starting to see the subtle differences a bit better. To come back to the gay thing -- I need to tune my gaydar to a new wavelength. I thought I was getting pretty good at quickly noting who was likely playing for the team at home, but here, forget it. The public appearance of being gay/lesbian is different than it is at home. I am sure this observation does little to help those who argue that being gay is biological (and therefore more politically defensible, somehow), but it's true! I can't even identify, yet, why my gaydar is so off, but it's been very interesting. It kind of means everyone can be gay, in my imagination. Talk about queering the world around you...
Well, I am off home for the holidays tomorrow morning, which means I will be missing at least five queer holiday events in Dublin. But I figure I can just pick up where I left off when I return - there is so much going on! I never thought I would say this four months ago, but I think I might actually miss my wacky new Dublin life...a wee bit...over the holidays.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Meta Blog
Loyal readers (if indeed there are any out there), I know I've been away for a while. It's just that...I got kinda...distracted (bonus points for anyone who knows that is a quote, and can name the source). I've been trying to figure out why I haven't felt as compelled to write about my experiences lately as I did in the beginning, so here is my opportunity to work that out. Meta-blog: the blog posting about the process of blog postings. Here are some possible explanations:
1. First and foremost, I've been busy during the social hours. I usually write blog postings at night and on weekends, but I've been rather busy at night and on weekends. My friend Andrew even wrote me an email saying "Are you ok? Because you haven't blogged in a while!" Blogging: proof of life.
2. Related to the first: my social life has kind of taken off. Whopppppeeee! I was dreadfully lonely in the beginning, but I forced my way into several people's lives. Just picture a sad clown wearing a Canadian flag, holding a light saber, and grinning madly - that's how I likely came off. Several of those people magically adopted me! Some of them even drop me texts when they haven't heard from me in a few days! I am always delighted and just a bit amazed when someone wants to be my friend, because for a long time, I was so freakin' busy that I had no room for adopting new people, and I lost perspective. I thought everyone felt that way.
3. Cultural Life: I have been going to the theatre and other traditional cultural events since the beginning, but, partly through my very cool dancer friend Deirdre, I've been introduced to a burgeoning indie/arty/dance/performance scene. There are lots of exciting smaller-scale/one-off things happening in Dublin, and I've taken the opportunity to attend what I can. In terms of artistic tastes, I am really moving towards the visual and kinesthetic. I mean, I've always preferred theatre that verges on performance art, demonstration, or 'happening', but lately I want to soak up anything with great movement, preferably if it has few words. Blame it on the Irish dramatic tendency towards monologue theatre: I need a break from all the blarney.
Last night I went to The Back Loft for Mamuska, which bills itself as a 'cross-media arts salon'. There were a series of short performances - dance pieces, performance art, experimental films, soundscapes, clown -- and the audience was encouraged to wander around the space. At this particular event, they had the chairs (a great collection of armchairs, kitchen chairs, and office chairs!) arranged in a traditional forward-facing, aisle-in-centre fashion, so the wandering didn't happen too much, but I did manage to meet a few new people. One of the performance artists - Hilary Williams - was sitting beside me, and struck up a great chat. She told me that she had returned to do an MA in Performance Art at age 55, without having much knowledge of the field at the time. She was just bursting with energy, and wanted to chat about every performance as soon as (or before, LOL) it ended. And as I made my way to buy a raffle ticket, I saw a woman who had been in the restorative workshop I had taken earlier in the day. I keep forgetting that Dublin is not very big - there have been several instances where I have bumped into someone in one place early in the day, and in another entirely different place later in the day. I am glad she singled me out and said hi, because I was so blissed out at the workshop that I'm not sure I really saw anyone else there. Think of it as perma-dristy.
I was at another event at the Back Loft of La Catedral Studios last weekend - this one was called 'Zero Gravity', and it was hosted by a newish collective who have dubbed themselves 'Art Freckles' (at first I thought Art Freckles was some philanthropist guy with a wicked name). The event was also an eclectic mix of short performances, but I got a bit weirded out hanging around by myself because everyone seemed to know each other, so I didn't stay much past Deirdre's performance.
4. Back to the reasons why I haven't been blogging so much. I think the fourth reason - and final for now, gotta get to work - is that I am not finding Dublin as weird as I did in the beginning. I'm probably not noticing the cultural particularities so much. This could be a really big loss, but I see it as a good sign: I am integrating. My dear dear friend Paul (who visits me via the Skype gods daily) even caught me saying "em" instead of "um". My unconscious verbal tics are turning Irish! Jaysus!!
Finally, to my Canuck friends out there: I am home on Friday. Looking forward to seeing everyone!
1. First and foremost, I've been busy during the social hours. I usually write blog postings at night and on weekends, but I've been rather busy at night and on weekends. My friend Andrew even wrote me an email saying "Are you ok? Because you haven't blogged in a while!" Blogging: proof of life.
2. Related to the first: my social life has kind of taken off. Whopppppeeee! I was dreadfully lonely in the beginning, but I forced my way into several people's lives. Just picture a sad clown wearing a Canadian flag, holding a light saber, and grinning madly - that's how I likely came off. Several of those people magically adopted me! Some of them even drop me texts when they haven't heard from me in a few days! I am always delighted and just a bit amazed when someone wants to be my friend, because for a long time, I was so freakin' busy that I had no room for adopting new people, and I lost perspective. I thought everyone felt that way.
3. Cultural Life: I have been going to the theatre and other traditional cultural events since the beginning, but, partly through my very cool dancer friend Deirdre, I've been introduced to a burgeoning indie/arty/dance/performance scene. There are lots of exciting smaller-scale/one-off things happening in Dublin, and I've taken the opportunity to attend what I can. In terms of artistic tastes, I am really moving towards the visual and kinesthetic. I mean, I've always preferred theatre that verges on performance art, demonstration, or 'happening', but lately I want to soak up anything with great movement, preferably if it has few words. Blame it on the Irish dramatic tendency towards monologue theatre: I need a break from all the blarney.
Last night I went to The Back Loft for Mamuska, which bills itself as a 'cross-media arts salon'. There were a series of short performances - dance pieces, performance art, experimental films, soundscapes, clown -- and the audience was encouraged to wander around the space. At this particular event, they had the chairs (a great collection of armchairs, kitchen chairs, and office chairs!) arranged in a traditional forward-facing, aisle-in-centre fashion, so the wandering didn't happen too much, but I did manage to meet a few new people. One of the performance artists - Hilary Williams - was sitting beside me, and struck up a great chat. She told me that she had returned to do an MA in Performance Art at age 55, without having much knowledge of the field at the time. She was just bursting with energy, and wanted to chat about every performance as soon as (or before, LOL) it ended. And as I made my way to buy a raffle ticket, I saw a woman who had been in the restorative workshop I had taken earlier in the day. I keep forgetting that Dublin is not very big - there have been several instances where I have bumped into someone in one place early in the day, and in another entirely different place later in the day. I am glad she singled me out and said hi, because I was so blissed out at the workshop that I'm not sure I really saw anyone else there. Think of it as perma-dristy.
I was at another event at the Back Loft of La Catedral Studios last weekend - this one was called 'Zero Gravity', and it was hosted by a newish collective who have dubbed themselves 'Art Freckles' (at first I thought Art Freckles was some philanthropist guy with a wicked name). The event was also an eclectic mix of short performances, but I got a bit weirded out hanging around by myself because everyone seemed to know each other, so I didn't stay much past Deirdre's performance.
4. Back to the reasons why I haven't been blogging so much. I think the fourth reason - and final for now, gotta get to work - is that I am not finding Dublin as weird as I did in the beginning. I'm probably not noticing the cultural particularities so much. This could be a really big loss, but I see it as a good sign: I am integrating. My dear dear friend Paul (who visits me via the Skype gods daily) even caught me saying "em" instead of "um". My unconscious verbal tics are turning Irish! Jaysus!!
Finally, to my Canuck friends out there: I am home on Friday. Looking forward to seeing everyone!
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, October 12, 2009
A portrait of the woman who used to live in my flat
I never met her, of course, but I know that she used to live here. When I rented the flat just over a month ago, the letting agent told me that the previous tenant had stayed for two years, because "she liked it so much." In this short statement, I found out that, well, the previous tenant was a woman, and that she, like me, really liked this flat.
I like my home to be very clean. In fact, I am just a bit freakish about cleaning when I first move into a new place. I want to know that I'm starting fresh, and that, as my Aunty Nancy said, when dirt finally does accumulate weeks later, at least I know it is my dirt. So the night before I moved in (which consisted of dragging two suitcases along the cobblestones), I came over armed with microfibre cloths, eco cleaning products, and a bottle of wine. (Side note on the bottle of wine: I am a notorious nester. I hate moving, and find it extremely stressful. I actually was happy to return to my residence room the night after my clean-fest, because the residence room had become familiar, and I really like familiarity in a domicile. So the red wine was meant to drown my sorrows at having to acclimatise, again, to a new space. And I already liked this new space - imagine if I didn't?) Cleaning the space is a kind of ritual - a ritual of making it my own, and putting my little Ecover stamp all over the floors, doors, walls, bathroom grout, baseboards, light fixtures, sinks, door handles (you get the picture).
As I was cleaning (moving furniture around, etc.), I came upon a very small number of items that collectively told me a little bit about the previous tenant. It's time for me to dispose of them, so I arranged them on my counter, and took a pic:
I know these are very few items upon which to paint a portrait of an entire human, but if you consider that the letting agency had professional cleaners in before I took possession of the place, then really, this is a fairly good haul. Let's take a closer look, from left to right:
The first item is a bookmark that contains a poem about beagles, so from this we can assume that the woman who used to live in my flat (WULMF for short) like to read. And she liked dogs -- particularly small ones with good noses. And... unless this was an unwanted present that she failed to regift -- she was okay with something as cheesy as a bookmark with an ode to beagles on it. This tells us something of her personality, but admittedly, not that much. I found the bookmark under the bed, so I guess she liked to read in bed.
WULMF is either a woman of simple tastes, or of small means, when it comes to clothing. But she does buy clothing, so that tells you something. The hanger is from Dunnes, a medium-end department store that has decent stuff, but also some really cheap stuff. Such as the "Le Bain" toilet brush I bought for 5 Euros, which just broke this morning because I was, er, scrubbing the toilet too vigorously (I don't spend my all my time cleaning, despite the apparent focus of this posting. But it's Thanksgiving at home and not here, so what else am I to do with my weekend?) Anyway, this hanger is just representative of the 10 or so identical hangers she left behind in the wardrobe. There were also some metal hangers, and one hanger from Penny's (kind of like Walmart), but the bulk of the hangers were from Dunnes. Dunnes puts the size of the clothing on the hanger itself, and they are all size 12. This means that WULMF is an average sized person. I'm a size 8, which is actually the smallest size they carry at Dunnes, and I am kind of puny. Back in Canada, I think they would call it a 4 or 6. So, WULMF is bigger than me, but not too big for our very modestly sized flat. Oh yes, she also likes girly things, because there was a tag from Dunnes underneath the bed, and it read "Shorty Yellow Polka Dot Dress." The tag didn't make it to the picture -- it was likely recycled with the empty bottle of wine.
Speaking of things that didn't make it to the photo, I also found out that WULMF is straight. Or at the very most, bisexual. OR she just likes to play with condoms. I'll never really know, but the empty, torn condom package that also made its way out from under the bed means that at least one of the previous statements is true.
WULMF fancied herself a gardener, but she was not a very good one. There are about 5 pots filled with earth on the balcony, but nothing survives in any one of them. The earth has been very useful to me, however, for repotting those IKEA plants from several blog-posts ago.
WULMF was not a very thorough person, because as I was cleaning out the (emptied) kitchen cupboards, I found a package of instant noodles (one of those "yummy real Italian side dish in 5 minutes!" thingies) that expired in 2004. Recall that the letting agent said that WULMF was here for two years. This means that the pasta side dish predates her occupation of the flat. She just never looked that far back in the cupboards, which I think means that either a) she is very short, b) she is not very curious, or c) she didn't cook much, because she didn't need the entire cupboard space for food storage.
Back to the photo. The blue thing with an "R" on it is, I think, a perfume bottle. I don't know of any brand of perfume that has this kind of bottle, so I am going to assume that her name starts with R. That, and the fact that the piece of junk mail in the mailbox had her name on it, and indeed her name does start with R. I like this little bottle, and might just keep it on my counter for its decorative properties. WULMF likes pretty things.
WULMF (or should we call her R?) had medium to long hair. She didn't have short hair, because she's straight. Whoops, I mean, she didn't have short hair, because she had this red baubly thing that is only useful if your hair is long enough to pull back in some fashion. I found this hair tie between the couch cushions (or should I say, the vacuum found it, announcing its catch with a deafening squeal of delight). From this fact, we can also surmise that she would recline on the couch, release her hair from the bauble, and watch television. The tv placement corroborates this rather speculative 'fact'. I must add that she was very careful with her hair ties, because if this had been my flat prior to when I moved in (?), there would be at least fifteen hair ties in the couch.
And finally, we come to the last bit of information. On the right of the picture there is a ticket. It's a receipt for the Dublin bus from the airport to another location in the city. There is a fair bit we can learn from this artefact. First, she took at least one trip by plane while living here. On this particular trip, she returned back to Dublin on July 6, 2009. Also, she had at least one friend or acquaintance in Dublin, because instead of coming home to this flat, she went to a different address on the way back from the airport. She's also fairly frugal, because this receipt is for the regular city bus, which costs just over 2 Euros from the airport, when, by comparison, the airport shuttle costs 6 or 7 Euros one way.
WULMF: A short, girly woman of medium build with medium to long hair, who earns a modest income, likes dogs, reading, and watching tv while reclining. Doesn't cook much, once tried her hand at container gardening, travels abroad, but likes to keep costs down. Had sex with a man once.
Nice to meet you, WULMF.
I like my home to be very clean. In fact, I am just a bit freakish about cleaning when I first move into a new place. I want to know that I'm starting fresh, and that, as my Aunty Nancy said, when dirt finally does accumulate weeks later, at least I know it is my dirt. So the night before I moved in (which consisted of dragging two suitcases along the cobblestones), I came over armed with microfibre cloths, eco cleaning products, and a bottle of wine. (Side note on the bottle of wine: I am a notorious nester. I hate moving, and find it extremely stressful. I actually was happy to return to my residence room the night after my clean-fest, because the residence room had become familiar, and I really like familiarity in a domicile. So the red wine was meant to drown my sorrows at having to acclimatise, again, to a new space. And I already liked this new space - imagine if I didn't?) Cleaning the space is a kind of ritual - a ritual of making it my own, and putting my little Ecover stamp all over the floors, doors, walls, bathroom grout, baseboards, light fixtures, sinks, door handles (you get the picture).
As I was cleaning (moving furniture around, etc.), I came upon a very small number of items that collectively told me a little bit about the previous tenant. It's time for me to dispose of them, so I arranged them on my counter, and took a pic:
I know these are very few items upon which to paint a portrait of an entire human, but if you consider that the letting agency had professional cleaners in before I took possession of the place, then really, this is a fairly good haul. Let's take a closer look, from left to right:
The first item is a bookmark that contains a poem about beagles, so from this we can assume that the woman who used to live in my flat (WULMF for short) like to read. And she liked dogs -- particularly small ones with good noses. And... unless this was an unwanted present that she failed to regift -- she was okay with something as cheesy as a bookmark with an ode to beagles on it. This tells us something of her personality, but admittedly, not that much. I found the bookmark under the bed, so I guess she liked to read in bed.
WULMF is either a woman of simple tastes, or of small means, when it comes to clothing. But she does buy clothing, so that tells you something. The hanger is from Dunnes, a medium-end department store that has decent stuff, but also some really cheap stuff. Such as the "Le Bain" toilet brush I bought for 5 Euros, which just broke this morning because I was, er, scrubbing the toilet too vigorously (I don't spend my all my time cleaning, despite the apparent focus of this posting. But it's Thanksgiving at home and not here, so what else am I to do with my weekend?) Anyway, this hanger is just representative of the 10 or so identical hangers she left behind in the wardrobe. There were also some metal hangers, and one hanger from Penny's (kind of like Walmart), but the bulk of the hangers were from Dunnes. Dunnes puts the size of the clothing on the hanger itself, and they are all size 12. This means that WULMF is an average sized person. I'm a size 8, which is actually the smallest size they carry at Dunnes, and I am kind of puny. Back in Canada, I think they would call it a 4 or 6. So, WULMF is bigger than me, but not too big for our very modestly sized flat. Oh yes, she also likes girly things, because there was a tag from Dunnes underneath the bed, and it read "Shorty Yellow Polka Dot Dress." The tag didn't make it to the picture -- it was likely recycled with the empty bottle of wine.
Speaking of things that didn't make it to the photo, I also found out that WULMF is straight. Or at the very most, bisexual. OR she just likes to play with condoms. I'll never really know, but the empty, torn condom package that also made its way out from under the bed means that at least one of the previous statements is true.
WULMF fancied herself a gardener, but she was not a very good one. There are about 5 pots filled with earth on the balcony, but nothing survives in any one of them. The earth has been very useful to me, however, for repotting those IKEA plants from several blog-posts ago.
WULMF was not a very thorough person, because as I was cleaning out the (emptied) kitchen cupboards, I found a package of instant noodles (one of those "yummy real Italian side dish in 5 minutes!" thingies) that expired in 2004. Recall that the letting agent said that WULMF was here for two years. This means that the pasta side dish predates her occupation of the flat. She just never looked that far back in the cupboards, which I think means that either a) she is very short, b) she is not very curious, or c) she didn't cook much, because she didn't need the entire cupboard space for food storage.
Back to the photo. The blue thing with an "R" on it is, I think, a perfume bottle. I don't know of any brand of perfume that has this kind of bottle, so I am going to assume that her name starts with R. That, and the fact that the piece of junk mail in the mailbox had her name on it, and indeed her name does start with R. I like this little bottle, and might just keep it on my counter for its decorative properties. WULMF likes pretty things.
WULMF (or should we call her R?) had medium to long hair. She didn't have short hair, because she's straight. Whoops, I mean, she didn't have short hair, because she had this red baubly thing that is only useful if your hair is long enough to pull back in some fashion. I found this hair tie between the couch cushions (or should I say, the vacuum found it, announcing its catch with a deafening squeal of delight). From this fact, we can also surmise that she would recline on the couch, release her hair from the bauble, and watch television. The tv placement corroborates this rather speculative 'fact'. I must add that she was very careful with her hair ties, because if this had been my flat prior to when I moved in (?), there would be at least fifteen hair ties in the couch.
And finally, we come to the last bit of information. On the right of the picture there is a ticket. It's a receipt for the Dublin bus from the airport to another location in the city. There is a fair bit we can learn from this artefact. First, she took at least one trip by plane while living here. On this particular trip, she returned back to Dublin on July 6, 2009. Also, she had at least one friend or acquaintance in Dublin, because instead of coming home to this flat, she went to a different address on the way back from the airport. She's also fairly frugal, because this receipt is for the regular city bus, which costs just over 2 Euros from the airport, when, by comparison, the airport shuttle costs 6 or 7 Euros one way.
WULMF: A short, girly woman of medium build with medium to long hair, who earns a modest income, likes dogs, reading, and watching tv while reclining. Doesn't cook much, once tried her hand at container gardening, travels abroad, but likes to keep costs down. Had sex with a man once.
Nice to meet you, WULMF.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
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:
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.
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.
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