In Dublin

 The River Liffey

            I arrived at Abbey Court Hostel at around 6:00am, decided that if I was going to have any chance of staying awake that I would need to be on my feet, and walked the two miles to Phoenix Park and the Dublin Zoo. Standing in line with kids on shoulders, in strollers, kids ferociously hugging their siblings, weeping, sleeping, parents, grandparents, and the occasional couple, I realized that no one really visits the zoo on their own. But, of course, visiting on your own means that you can linger over the California Sea Lions pool for 10 minutes, watching them zoom show-offy figure eights around the concrete islands, and no one will be bothered or impatient, and afterwards, when purchasing a packet of crisp (yes, crisp) M&Ms, you will not feel obligated to share them with anyone. (Another perk of traveling alone is that you can spontaneously return and laze about your hostel/hotel for a few hours to regain energy, and not feel the least bit guilty about it).  

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            I started off day two walking along Grafton Street, a major shopping street where buskers, panhandlers, and the Leprechaun Yourself man (with a leprechaun outfit for tourists to try on) entertain or harass the crowds. 

 

Mime-like acrobatics performed to electronica on Grafton Street

Returning at various points in the day, I encountered a excellent but tired looking spoons player, acrobats with hula hoops, a violin and cello quartet, solo guitar players, an accordionist playing along to a recorded soundtrack, and a curious unicorn-like creature covered in streamers, which sat in the middle of the street and clacked its mouth at passersby. 

What is this streamered beast?

            As recommended, I tried to go on a literary tour of Dublin, but as I was the only one to show up, the tour was cancelled. One of the guides pointed out several places of interest (and maybe less interest -- I wasn't particularly enthusiastic about visiting the pharmacy where the main character of Ulysses buys a bar of lemon soap, though maybe I should have been -- I haven't read Ulysses). On his recommendation, I visited the National Library, which was running a great exhibit on poet and playwright William Butler Yeats. It included the results of a creativity survey he had taken (Did he revise? Always. Did most of his work begin with seemingly directionless attempts? Usually.), a documentary about the women in Yeats's life (he pined after 6-foot-tall revolutionary Maude Gonne for most of his life. As one scholar put it, he was obsessed and liked to be obsessed), and information about his plays, his interest in the occult, and his importance for Ireland during the revolutionary years of the teens and twenties.

            After the library, I wandered down to Oliver St. John Gogarty's, a pub and hostel in Temple Bar, and caught a fiddle and guitar duo while I had dinner (something tasty called Hibernian Chicken, cooked in a cream curry sauce with a bit of mashed potatoes and a side of fries). The music ranged from traditional Irish to Elton John to R.E.M. At one point, there was a disturbance in the bar, and it became clear that a woman had stolen one of the diner's bags and taken off toward the River Liffey with it. One of the staff members managed to catch up with her, and returned triumphant with the bag. The following conversation ensued between the musicians:

Guitar: Well, that's good. It doesn't usually turn out that way, getting the bag back.

Fiddle: No, we usually meet them around back after the show!

Guitar: I guess there's no dinner for us tonight, then...

Maybe you had to be there.  It was an excellent joke in the moment.

Here's a bit of one of their songs: 

A snatch of the traditional Irish song "The Otter's Holt" or "Waterdog's Hole," as performed by musicians at Oliver St. John Gogarty's. I wish I had their names so as to properly credit them.

And to end, a curious take on The Last Supper