May 30, 2024

Not a day of the journey when I have not worn the old lined yellow raincoat that I thought I’d brought just for arctic emergency. Looks just as cold this morning, though a shaft of light punches under the clouds from the harbor. 

Bad night last night, sleep-deprived as is measured in my well-slept world. Partially it was the Africans in the next room. I thought they were fighting, but after a while I realized it was simply conversation in a tradition louder than my own. I didn’t want to be the elderly white guy shouting “Quiet” at people who had no idea they were trespassing in any way. Also it was the mistake of poring through old journals. The past is always a tragedy, always sad with the sadness of a range of mountains that allow one to get so high and no higher, forever. 

Also it was the snippy hotel bar waitress who looked everywhere but at me, hoping I’d go away and let her continue stocking.

One more thing about the opera: Verdi can take two arias to make a point for which the playwright has a sentence. 

Returned to the Crawford, where my visit had been interrupted by opera tickets. Contemporary offerings thin and ephemeral, traditional offerings mostly patriotic, though several galleries were closed.

Fish & chips at the Oliver Plunkett. If inedible is a 6 and nasty is a 5, my lunch was a 4. Am becoming reconciled, however, to mashed peas.  A family of eleven from Mauritiaus wanted to be seated together in the pub.

Wandering north of the north river in a bit of sunny afternoon. Five French kids had pulled café tables together on Pope’s Quay and played cards in the slanted, mellow light. Three girls, two boys. I considered how providing that French kids playing cards beside the river in peace and safety is the goal of all government. 

Beamish at Dennehy’s.