Galway 3

July 19, 2017

The Galway Art Club’s annual show is crap. I think I remember this from before. The other art venues are moving and spectacular. Went to one on Middle Street where the attendant was having her lunch, and between bites of sandwich told me how some Asian woman wants to marry her son to get a Eurozone passport, while he wants to marry an American to get an American passport. Went to the Galway City Museum. Saw fierce spearheads dredged out of the Corrib. Walked the streets. Stopped at some of the old places, Taafee’s and the King’s Head. God-like bartenders. Napped heroic naps. In the evening went to Nun’s Island to see a play called Pumpgirl. Again, impeccable Irish acting glazes over whatever flaws there might have been. Powerful language, powerful situation– the problem is that it wasn’t actually a play, but three monologues–eventually revealed to be related-- delivered by people who sat on stage and never spoke to or acknowledged one another. I think that must be much easier for a playwright than actually to have dialog and interaction. But, I was mesmerized, and impressed with what it did accomplish. Every play I have seen out of Northern Ireland has dealt with the abject squalor of life. Sat next to the President of the Eugene O’Neill Society, and who is in town for an O’Neill conference at NUIG. At one time he was #2 attorney in the State Department (I think he said) and chief of the EPA for the western US. He and his wife are fans of Thomas Wolfe, and had been to Asheville to take in all that.  I have the best luck with theater neighbors. Drank my way back home. Lisa Hannigan at Roisin Dubh. At the bar on the corner, the name of which is not coming to me, I was propositioned by Jim, a restaurant worker having a few drinks before the last bus from Eyre Square.  Whatever else was happening, I thanked Ireland for still seeing me as a sexual being. I might have said yes but for the whole midnight bus ride into the boondocks thing. Rain last night, drizzle now. I fooled the gods by remembering to pack my big yellow slicker.

Went to inquire at the Laundrette, and found it filled with Amazons, with Valkyries, tall, strong women with blond hair to their shoulders. I don’t think it is actually a laundrette.

Ate lunch under an awning in Quay Street in the rain. Five women at the table behind me were complaining about how much Irish women complain.

I’m reminded how I know I’m Irish: they and I can find a smart retort for nearly everything that’s said. Here they appreciate it, like it; at home it’s smart-alecky.