Dublin

December 28, 2007

I am established on the third floor of the Charles Stewart on Parnell Square, part of which building was the birthplace of Oliver St.John Gogarty. My room is at the back and looks out on what must have been a lovely park or garden, but which is now a car park and a series of undistinguished blue-green outbuildings. It must be used sometimes as a playground, for the roof of the nearest outbuilding has a groove in it and the groove is lined with brightly colored balls and frisbees, soccer balls and kick balls and the like, kicked or thrown there and never retrieved. The far side of the space is a rank of tall brick houses, like this one, showing their narrow backs, some of which are, or were, quite elegant. It is by many levels of magnitude the quietest digs I have ever had in Ireland.

Shared my seat on the ride to Atlanta with a woman from Hendersonville who was reading a book on how the world will come to an end–as suggested by the ancient Maya–in 2012. The matter-of-factness of her tone left no room for the hilarity with which I wanted to approach the whole subject. Delta was its usual troubled self, and though I had plenty of time on paper, I eventually had to make my international connection at a dead run, and my luggage did not make it with me, so I am, for the moment, dispossessed of all accouterments of civilized life. My seat mate from Atlanta was a big, talkative man who goes on beer drinking vacations with his buddies in various European cities, their favorite being Brussels. He is meeting his Hungarian girlfriend in Dublin to celebrate the New Year.

Wandered, as I must, immediately upon arrival. The atmosphere was clear; indeed, the brightness of the northern winter is quite amazing. Fashion persuaded me to leave my cap at home, but I regretted it, for there was nothing to shield my eyes from the white blast from the south. The light seemed to flow like liquid around the spires and roofs, and they no shelter at all. How do the natives endure it? They are eagles from looking at the sun. It is well the weather is fine, for all my heavy gear is in the misplaced luggage.

The biggest and worse change in Dublin is the closing of the Andrews Lane Theater. A big “To Let” sign lies across the window. Andrews Lane was at the center of my cultural life in Ireland, and I never considered continuing one without the other. My conviction had been that one of my plays would be seen there. I’d even begun making inquiries back when Monday Morning was interested in 7 Reece Mews. Now no such thing is ever going to happen, and I am sorry.

The café north of Parnell Square where the proprietor was one of the handsomest men in the world, “Lovin’ Spoonful” or suchlike, is To Let as well.

*

I have disgraced myself by stumbling back to the B&B before midnight. Did a tour of nearby bars before heading to the Abbey. The Shakespeare is now Chinese-owned and serves Chinese bar food. Met Brian Kennedy in the Metro a few doors down. Brian is a follower of Manchester United, as is most of Ireland, and with brightened countenance told me of his holidays along the Welsh coast. Brian was excellent company, and I told him I would meet him again at the Metro, as I mean to do.

Saw Farquhar’s The Recruiting Officer at the Abbey. It was funny and engaging, whereas I has expected it to be a cultural duty. I’d expected wit, and there was wit in abundance. It rockets near the top of my unexpected preferences, along with London’s The Man of Mode. The play inhabits a remarkable world. Everyone is dazzlingly witty, yet everyone is, in his own way, a bit of an idiot, locked-stepped in a peculiar, skew world view that will never quite get them what they want, until one of their number steps aside and is forgiving, or sincere, and then everyone is quite willing to realign themselves into happiness. Also, has anyone ever remarked on how aggressively homoerotic the play is? My God, the asking of men to lie with you, the oft-repeated preference of men over women, the kissing of other men and the uttering “my dear,” the dressing of women in pantaloons in order to gain the attention of men. It never even winks.

Scuttled through the wintery blast after theater to Madigan’s, where I met Ronan, from Limerick. He studied in Italy and now lives in Dublin, but heads out tomorrow morning with some mates to celebrate New Year in Berlin. He took a call from his mother in the bar, telling in what sales to take advantage of before he leaves. I thought for a moment that red Ronan was going to invite me to Berlin. I would have gone.

The room is grossly overheated, and I am cherishing every prodigal BTU. Moon over my courtyard, his bright hat flattened.