The short version is: Ireland is awesome. I stayed with Ciaron O'Reilly, who I've not yet googled, but whom I imagine would warrant several thousand pages. He's an old-school activist and all around neat guy. The sights and sounds of Dublin are confusing at first, but somehow less so once you have Guinness in your system. And Guinness is better in Dublin.
The anti-war protest at Shannon was powerful, and enjoyable. I met a lot of people, and just had a really good day that day.
The marathon was nice. I hear. I didn't run it because I hurt my foot the day I got into Ireland. It still hasn't gotten better, although my doctor assures me it is not fractured. I have an inflamed tendon. And it hurts. Sometimes more than others. I've taken to using crutches if I know I'm gonna be doing a lot of walking and not carrying things.
Instead of running, I took a tour of the Wicklow Mountains, which was another quite high point of my trip. It's gorgeous.
Below, I've uploaded some of my journal entries from the trip, so you get to read what I was thinking all the way through. More or less. I dropped some of the more tedious entries, so keep that in mind if you think this is getting tedious. :)
love all,
kati
10/24 7:43pm CST
I’m over Lake Michigan. A sea of blackness, taking the city away from me. Chicago is beautiful at night—the lights strewn out in perfect grids. They’re becoming dim as we fly into the blackness, shaking through the clouds. Goodbye, Chicago. The journey begins now.
8:58pm
Dinner was remarkably good for airline fare. The man next to me offered to buy me wine—apologizing for not offering earlier. He said he’d needed to find out if they accepted credit cards. I was so surprised I said no before I’d thought about it, but I’m not really up for wine anyway.
I’ve taken some cold medicine because, actually, I’ve been feeling pretty crummy lately. Now in the air I’m all achy and snotty. Not nice. Didn’t tell anyone because I didn’t want anyone to worry about me being sick overseas. Not so bad anyway. Just not so good.
10/25 2:03am –8:03 local time
The descent is hell on my ears and sinuses; I feel like my eardrums are going to pop out of my head. I worry about tomorrow’s flight, and the next day’s. Typically the flights get worse each time if they’re all in a row. Ah well. Pain. Whatever.
Ireland is beautiful from above- vast and green with rivers cutting through. I hope to see the Wicklow Mountains from up top, but I think I’m on the wrong side of the plane.
Ahhhh. Better. Pressurization.
4:40pm, local time
Dublin’s a pretty city, but also a confusing mass of streets, especially compared to Chicago’s neat grid system. I got lost trying to find where Ciaron works, wound up back where I started. You wouldn’t think directions like, “Cross the Liffey toward Trinity College. Turn right on Dame Street” would be confusing, but you’d be wrong. Second go round, rather than asking people which way I should go, I just went to where I thought I should be and asked people if I was there. People are very friendly, very willing to help.
Ciaron is not who I expected. In addition to not being a woman, he is not the young gung-ho activist I’d pictured. He’s a smidge past middle age, 50-ish, which makes him the veteran activist. I associate him now more with the 8th Day folks than with the TN activists I’d known in college. Very nice guy, at any rate. He drew me a map to get to his place so I could crash for a few hours, gave me the key and exact bus change – which Michelle was right about. It really helps to have exact bus change during your first few hours in a foreign city.
The house is really nice. Sturdy. Brick. Big. Lots of rooms. Lots of Catholic stuff everywhere. It is a parish home, and a Catholic Worker house, but still. Oh, and I think he said that the Catholic Workers from Notre Dame are Americans. Meaning… Indiana. Not France. Yeah? I’m so confused. Not enough sleep. No one is what I thought.
Michael left me a note in my bag. I put it on my nightstand. It’s not been a day. I miss him so much.
Tonight I’m meeting Ciaron downtown to go to a meeting with some Z Magazine editor. Said it was a political meeting with a bunch of lefties. Don’t know quite what to expect. I want stew.
10:00pm
I’ve had stew. Now I need a shower.
I went to met Ciaron for this thing, giving myself an hour and a half to get there. I figured I’d be waiting for him. But the bus was over an hour and a half in coming, plus the ride… I was late. Tried to call his cell but the payphones didn’t like me. Decided to go have dinner in a pub. Yup, a real Irish pub. Not to be confused with the “Irish Pub” named bar and grill you might see in the States. Oh no. This one was in Ireland. And plus, Irish people kept coming in to order Guinness and watch part of the football game. Which is soccer.
And, dear god, Irish stew is so friggin good. With mutton… and “brown bread” which is this hearty bran. And of course, a Guinness. Best damn Guinness of my life, that was. Guinness really does taste better on draught, really does taste better in Dublin. And Dublin feels better when you’ve got stew and Guinness in your belly. Is less confusing, things look more familiar. I’m recognizing me way. Not even a day gone. Woot!
Manana: Paris.
10/26 2:41, I think.
I’ve made it to Paris. I’m sitting in a parking lot. Jeremie is nowhere to be found. I know that he is chronically late, so I’m not yet worried. But I could use a coffee, a meal, and a bathroom.
The flight over was pretty bad. Not much for flying anyway, but man! I have never been so very astutely aware of sitting inside a giant chunk of hollowed metal, hurtling through the air at untold velocities. The plane was swerving during take-off, turbulence the whole way through, and then we bounced, literally, down the runway at landing. It was awful.
Best part was that Ciaron had given me a book to read—one he’d written about non-violent actions for East Timor. It’s called Remembering Forgetting, and apparently goes for about 80 euros on ebay. What a life this man has led. I did, finally get to sit and chat with him this morning. He’s a good guy. I respect him.
It’s good to be traveling again, and honestly only slightly more intimidating to be in France than in Ireland. I don’t speak the language here, but in Ireland people have trouble understanding me anyway. Here I can just smile and point. There people have to fight through my quiet voice and bizarre American accent.
10/27 1:25 local time, Paris
I’m on the plane, actually, getting ready to leave. Paris was absolutely lovely. I didn’t get to see just a whole lot, but I did get to visit quite a bit with Jeremie, and then his family. Also I got to call Michael at work. Jeremie had apparently called my house while everyone was getting ready for work in the morning to tell them that he couldn’t find me. Well, actually he was hoping my home number was a cell. Anyway, Michael had suggested he make a sign, but he found me right after that—then didn’t mention for hours that he’d spoken to my husband and roommates. Didn’t occur to him they might worry I was lost in France. Michael said he was, a bit, but knew I’d be okay.
Didn’t see just a whole lot of Paris—got to see the Eiffel Tower, a bunch of the universities, the Assembly. Got to drink coffee in a real Parisian café. Had a real Parisian meal. Had a real Parisian pastry. With prunes. Had a ham and cheese sandwich like you’d never have in the states. Cheese like doesn’t exist in the States. Soft and smooth, like butter. Had a great time with J’s family. They’re real nice folks. I loved their house. And they really took to me, and took care of me. His mom even brought me over to the neighbor’s when she went to feed the cat, so that I could see the lady’s lovely garden.
10/28 10:27, Ireland
We’re on the bus to Shannon now. My seatmate is Danny, an Australian who lives in Kells just outside of Dublin. He’s good company—very knowledgeable about Ireland (as an Irish History scholar), and friendly. Easy to chat with. Perfect seatmate for me, really. I quite like him.
It’s a dark day. Fat gray clouds blanket the landscape. But beautiful still. I feel better, sick-wise. I’m better each time I sleep, culminating in mostly good health today. My food is still killing me, though. Three days now. But I don’t believe it’s a stress fracture. I think instead I’ve pulled or maybe torn a ligament or tendon or something. I don’t know if I should try running. I guess I’ll wait and see. I don’t want to have to quit mid-race, but I also don’t want to not start. Of course, it’s been the plan for months to hurt my knees on Marathon Day. What’s a foot thrown into the mix? Anyway, I’ll probably wake up tomorrow and it’ll be fine.
10:54am
Call just in from Shannon. A local newspaper reported today that the CIA has been bringing prisoners through the airport, as they outsource their terror and torture to other countries. One more reason to call for the demilitarization of the airport. God, when will it all stop?
8:51pm
What a great day. That was the most relaxing yet empowering demonstration I’ve been to. I got to talk to a lot of people—my busmate Danny; Paul from Dublin who spoke quietly and with a thick accent, who has three girls age 3, 7, and 17; John from a small town outside Limerick who was so friendly and sincere about everything; Mary from Dublin who lives in the projects and plays music in the streets and who is afraid of the young boys, but loves them; the lady from Dublin who’d lived in San Francisco and who loved Sausilito, who dressed up like a bloodied American soldier; Joshua, Tony and Other Guy (?) who’d been interrogators at Abu Gharaib (Tony lives in Chicago—I’ve got his info!); and the old married couple who were former CIA operatives.
It was such a friendly demonstration. Lots of people dressed up, especially in the theme of the funeral march. We were surrounded by cops with dogs, some on horseback (the cops, not the dogs), taking pictures and filming us.
We listened to the talks, we chatted, we were with each other. It was a four hour bus ride both ways, but as I’ve mentioned, best seatmate possible. Other than my foot hurting like hell, I feel great. It was a great day. I think Michael’d have enjoyed it.
So about this food. (I’m eating now, was previously ravenous). I had tea and scones today. Scones with raisins, or something like raisins but not as dry and named something completely different. I’ve decided I love scones. I also had a fast food chicken caesar sandwich, which was perhaps the nicest, tastiest, and healthiest fast food chicken caesar sandwich I’ve ever had. Now, I am at ‘Eddie Rockets’ or something like that, and am having a coke float (ice cream tastes different here) and a reuben with Gerkin. I hypothesize that Gerkin is either like sauerkraut or like pickles. But at any rate, I’ve now had Irish fast food, and I’ve had scones. And while the fast food is better than our fast food, I think it’s the scones that win.
10/29 1:30 maybe… (12:30 really)
Terrible news. I’ve lost all faith that my foot will heal. It’s worse than ever today. Kept waking me up all last night, it hurt so bad. It felt somewhat okay this morning, as it has every morning, but it only took ten minutes of walking before the pain really hit. I’ve been going back and forth as to whether I should try to run. But I don’t think I can. I know I can’t. If I had a five mile practice run, I’d skip out. I’m so bummed I want to cry. Almost did in the street when I finally made my decision. I’m cheering myself up now with a Guinness, potato-leek soup, brown bread, and a goat cheese currant salad. And with the idea that I’ll hide from Dublin tomorrow—hide from the Marathon I’m missing.
Worse yet, though—this is the last one. My knees will never again put up with 6 months of training abuse. This is my last chance. I’ll never do this again. I’ve run one, though. I have done it. I just… I thought I could do it again. Do it better. I think the Guinness is making me more sad. So much for drowning my sorrows.
My consolation-hide-from-Dublin idea is to go to Wicklow Mountains tomorrow. I’ll tell myself over and over that it’s better that way. My salad’s here. And I have Guinness. It’s better this way. I still raised over $1,400 for AIDS. I still got to Ireland. Who needs the marathon after 6 months of training? Who needs that accomplishment twice, unless you’re shooting to win? It’s not so bad. I just need to suck it up and move on. Let go and all that tripe.
Oh. My God. The universe is laughing at me in my misery. Insult to injury—they’re playing Rod Stewart in the restaurant!!! WTF, mate? Jeez. And the people at the next table are singing along! Oh my god. The universe is laughing at me and my sadness has become absurd. Only thing left is for it to be funny. Screw it. Screw it all.
In other news, the clocks changed back today. I’ve gone to Dublinia, which is a Viking Museum in this cool little church castle thing by Christchurch Cathedral. Went to Dublin Castle. And went to, although not in, the Guinness Brewery, where the entire neighborhood smells of hops. I got an ace bandage, and that helps alleviate the pain in my foot, but causes a weird limp. So yeah, life goes on, even without the marathon. Damn foot.
7:45pm
Went to Kilmainham Gaol (pronounce Kill-mayn-ham jail). Holy crap was that powerful. The long history of the Irish revolutions is a bloody and sad one. I want to learn more. The history cuts deep. Got Michael a book. It’s stiff and heavy and in consequence I can’t read it, since it’ll break the spine and bend the cover.
I’m in the back of a restaurant now, waiting for my bacon and cabbage. Back of the restaurant has actually given me a splendid view of the Quays. All lit up, I can see the foot-bridge west of O’Connell St. People are walking by, many dressed in Halloween costumes.
A little girl caught me on the street. “Trick or Treat,” she said, grinning up at me in a pink princess fairy costume. I didn’t have anything, so I called Trick. She started to run away after her mom, but then stopped suddenly, ran back to me, and did a finger trick. It was awesome.
10/30 8:25am. Marathon Day.
My plan of the Wicklow Tour has not managed to hide me from the Marathon after all. The mass exodus of runners files past me on the way to the start line, which is about two block away from where my tourbus now sits, waiting to take off. I’m on the bus first, at least, which means I have the best seat. And the bus is neat. Small, and the driver/guide person is this older Irish gentleman who kind of reminds me of Padre Quinn.
5:54pm
I have had such a beautiful and amazing day. That was way better than running a marathon. Well, no, it’s a wholly different sort of satisfaction – experiencing a perfect day of beauty and relaxation, coupled with instruction and now Guinness, versus the accomplishment and satisfaction of completing that 26.2. I’ll never forget that ultimate feeling of love when I crossed the last time. Perhaps the closest to Nirvana I’ve ever experienced.
Anyway, today. Wicklow is gorgeous. Pat, the guide, was extraordinarily informative. I learned how the Liffey begins in the bogs of the mountains, giving it its black hue; how women rose up to be able to swim in the forty foot beach; how they created pools to capture the tide water so kids could swim all day while the tide was out; what the numbers on license plates mean and how they stay with the car to its death; how they shipped in sand from France to surround the black lade in the mountains that the Guinness lady lives in so that it’d look like Guinness; how they buried every German that crashed in Ireland during the war in one spot, and that now it is a center for peace and neutrality; how the Irish took in German children during the war; how James Joyce fired a gun in the middle of the night in the tower he’d stayed in, and how it was the only shot ever fired there even though it had originally been a fort to protect against raiders; and about St. Kevin at Glendalough, the white cow that appeared and milked for him and the doe that appeared and milked for his adopted son at the monastery.
And the coffee and lunch breaks were at great little places out in the middle of it, with great coffee and food and super-friendly people. I love scones, by the way.
At the end of it, I went to the Guinness brewery, just in cast I was on time, and I was! Just barely, I was. The tour was neat, a self-guided affair through a level-up system of crossing escalators and museum scenes and info. Then, at the top floor (7), there is a bar that is surrounded by floor to ceiling windows for a complete view of the city (at night, because it’s night even at 6pm) and a free pint of Guinness that I’m downing now while the bartenders start cleaning up, and those late people like me drink happily, watching this gorgeous view.
I’m so drunk and happy now. What a great day. Cheers to the marathoners—may they all have reached Nirvana this morning. Or afternoon, depending on their run times.
10/31 2:11 Halloween
Turns out everything I’m doing today is free, so I’m treating myself to lunch. Real lunch. I talk about food a lot, but what I don’t talk about is all the friggin’ peanut butter on bread meals that I’ve had in between. Food makes a big difference. Peanut butter I can oh my god! They’re playing Freebird!!! get by with, but steak and mushroom pie is just awesome. And when it’s in complement to art and history museums, landscapes, and learning about culture, that all makes a bid difference too.
But back to this music issue. Shops or restaurants that play American music in their mixes are interesting to me. They use it indiscriminately. It’s mixed in with Irish music, but, well… This place for instance, plays Freebird, then an Irish pop song, then some American heavy metal, then I’m Turning Japanese, and now another Irish pop song. And I don’t think it’s just to hit a wide variety of American tourists. Some of them are clearly playing radio stations, with commercials and all. There are no genres within American music here. “American” is the genre.
5:56
You know what I’ve done today? National Irish Natural History Museum, National History Museum, National Gallery, St. Stephen’s Green, War Memorial Gardens, and Phoenix Park, the largest city park in Europe. It was my last day, and I really did it up. My legs are exhausted. Foot still wrapped, doing better, all told. But dude… what a day.
The museums are free, as all museums are in Europe, it seems. And great museums, too. I love museums. St. Stephen’s Green is a lovely park. It’s… it’s lovely. There are statues and monuments to artists and writers and activists and revolutionaries. It’s a testament to all good things, and it’s so beautiful. The War Memorial Gardens are a sort of addendum to Phoenix Park, and are so large in and of themselves that I thought I was in Phoenix Park proper until it occurred to me that the expanse of it couldn’t be miles. Only maybe, mile and some. And sculpted and landscaped the way I imagine that ancient Greece must have looked like, or pretended to history to have looked like. And a true testament again, but this time a testament to not forgetting that bad things come too… to holding them in your heart and never letting them take over again. I feel as thought I’m beginning to understand how much “Irish Neutrality” means to the people here, why they mourn the death of it with the Irish involvement in America’s War on Terror.
Phoenix Park really does go on forever, and really is surrounded by city. It’s on high ground, so you can always see the city around you, the construction cranes and city lights. I got there at dusk and I walked a long stretch of it, to the huge cross that marks the place JPII said mass to a third of the Irish population. I was walking, within the city, and there was a herd of reindeer not fifty feet away from me. I was there, and I got to touch Ireland, kiss the heart of it. I was there, and I got to be there, do nothing else but be there. It was a very nice last day.
11/01 10:19am
On the plane, waiting for take-off. I said goodbye to Dublin, to Ireland, on the bus ride to the airport, which drives you through city center, round to the outskirts, and then briefly through the countryside. I was surprised by how sad I was, am. This trip has been a great (parentheses) for me—time to think and be alone and adventure and explore. It was so very relaxing to me, a perfect retreat. Would that I could take it with me. Would that I could own something so beautiful within me, to carry always.
