I believe I left of with the airport, and the sunrise, and the taxi man. That was at 5:15 AM. By 5:20 we were in the car and headed for the city. In the interstate time between tarmac and capital, the driver talked about cyclists—“It’s jus’ de’ cyclists, t’ey’re crazy, y’know, so when y’cross t’street, look left, d’en right, d’en left again. D’ey don’t follow any a’d’ rules.”
I nodded and looked out the window, too excited about this new place to be too caught up in cyclists, as much as I tried to listen, or at least act like I was listening. The ocean spread gray in the dull morning light, edged by curling green grasses and tall heather. I smiled at the bright yellow forsythias spouting among the green and brown—“There the first thing to come out in spring,” my mother said once.
“Look t’ere, see t’at, t’tunnel? It’s a new tunnel d’ey built for t’trucks. Trucks can only come in’t t’city now before six and aft’r nine, b’cause used to every time t’e ferry came t’city would be packed wi’trucks, and d’eyed hit d’cyclists and not feel’t. You have tunnels like d’is in t’states?”
“No,” I said, making eye contact with the short, leather-skinned gent in the rearview mirror. His eyes crinkled at me.
“Well, watch out fer d’ose cyclist, y’really must.”
And then we came into Dublin, the city still sleeping, empty sidewalks and empty roads beside brick and stone shops, some left red and gray, some painted bright blue, pink and green, the Georgian architecture so simple and consistent, relying more on elegant proportions than on flourish. Rows and rows of neat, windowed rectangles, some with bright colored doors and wrought iron balconies, black or white. The tall windows hinting at the tall-ceilinged rooms on the other side.
Then we were on O’Connell Street, once Dublin’s heart, now full of McDonalds’ and Subways—“D’ey let it get too plastic, y’know? D’ey tried to revitalize’t. D’ey widened it and put in d’e trees, but d’e sout’ is much better, jus’ stay sout’.”
And then we were across the river, and down into the south side, past the tall, gray stone of Trinity College, I pointed to a pale steeple poking above the other rooftops—“What’s that? That steeple there?”
“Oh, d’at’s a church.” (Stupid American, don’t you know what churches are?)
(Silly Irishman, I meant what church. What’s its name?).
“T’ough it’s not a church now’a’days. ‘s a school, a’tink. Lost a lot’a churches here’a late. B’cause d’at child abuse scandle’s so drawn out’ere. T’ere’s anot’er grand ol’ church’s now a club or a restaurant. Yeah, lost a lot’a churches here.” Coming into his role as tour guide, he pointed out the different places good for groceries and other necessities, what to do when I was lost, what not to do when I was lost, “You got an Iphone?”
“No.”
“Oh, ‘cause d’ey bin snatchin’ Iphones, y’know. Lots’a people use’em, y’know, when d’ey get lost, for maps and stuff. I always tell’em t’jus step int’a shop, you don’t have’t buy anyt’ing, but just step int’ d’e shop.”
“I like maps just fine,” I mumble.
We pulled into the house, a little gray house with a purple gate, one of the uglier ones on a street of neat brick homes, but that meant the neat brick homes out my window. The driver pulled in, “Le’me jus’ ring d’is guy’s t’come meet’ya.” But as he was on the phone only a moment before a young man walked up, carrying a satchel and a set of keys. He waved to me through the car window.
“Oh, t’ere ‘e is.” The driver got out, seeming a little gruff, and walked around to the trunk. I followed him, ready to take my unwieldy backpacking pack shoved into an even more unwieldy duffel.
But the driver went right around me to the young man, “’ere, y’can carry d’is for’er.” The young man fumbled and struggled with the pack, looking confusedly at the driver before settling the black bulk across his shoulder.
I turned back as the engine started. The driver watched us out the window as he drove away, waving one last time.
Settling in, unpacking, rearranging, making the bed, setting my books in a neat stack on the bedside table—Mothers and Sons by Toibin, Lonely Planet Ireland, a Raymond Carver collection, two blue Moleskine notebooks. Showered, brushed my teeth, felt mostly human again.
I left home at 11:00 AM, walking up Rathgar Road, running north from my brick suburb of Rathmines towards the city center. The dark-painted doors of the cafes, the bright red or shiny black of the bars, a domed church gone green like a penny, topped with golden angels, bicycle shops, bake shops with flowery cakes, knickknack shops with rows and rows of gray Buddha heads lined up in the window, a collection of used tables and mismatched chairs on the sidewalk out front.
I almost collided with a young man rushing past with several bags of groceries. I dodged right, but he hopped left, and we awkwardly mirrored each other for a moment before sliding past. I have to remember to walk on the left side of the sidewalk here.
A few blocks further and I came to the Grand Canal, a straight and even waterway cutting across south Dublin to the harbor. The blue water spreading between green banks lined with trees and white daffodils. I have a guilty love of these man-made nature spaces—canals, groves—places where humans curve Earth’s apparent randomness into order. With a Sierra-Club father, this appreciation sometimes feels like sacrilege, and I enjoy the untamed spaces too. But I love great trees planted in rows, like a growing colonnade, or this canal with its ruler-straight banks. These spaces feel collaborative somehow, and make me feel less like a being whose only worth is in how little she messes up the planet.
Two blocks left to St. Stephen’s Green of ponds, rock bridges, tulips, cherry trees, lumpy old sycamores. Toddlers chasing ducks and sea gulls on their tricycles. A single swan trying to appear aloof. Bronze and copper casts of poets and patriots (groups that often coincide in this country), statues commemorating warfare, rebellion and famine.
Then I was out the other side, to a white marble arch not unlike the Arc de Triomphe, and through the arch the famous Grafton Street, the Fifth Avenue of Dublin. Pedestrian only, Grafton was crowded with tourists and locals, flower vendors with plastic sheafs of roses, an artist sculpting a tired Labrador out of sand, and a few feet further: a hammer dulcimer player—yes, a street hammer dulcimer player, only in Ireland—a bassoonist, two guitarists, a sax and trumpet duet playing Italian opera tunes, a one-armed youth playing the pan pipes. His songs ranging from Botcelli to Lady Gaga. A crowd gathered around him.
He held his instrument in his left hand, the other end supported on the forearm without an elbow. He contorted his body quickly, hunching further over the pipes, jerking back, to change the pitch or volume, wiggling his chin for vibrato. An amp and cardboard box at his feet, which is quickly filling with silver and brass-colored coins.
He finished his song to loud applause, nodding his head in thanks. He paused to adjust his pipes, and nudge his box. I noticed his blue eyes beneath the ashy brown hair sticking out around his narrow face. A very short, round man in a black pin-stripe suit approached him, standing very close as if to give him secret information. The young man nodded, and nodded again as the other motioned down the street. I worried that he wants the young musician to go away, but his face seemed friendly, even concerned. I wandered towards Trinity, hoping to hear another song when I passed back by. But after photographing two churches—“You lookin’ for the tourism office, d’ere love?” “No, just wandering, thanks”—I came back and Mr. Pinstripe was still there. He finished a sentence as the boy continued to nod, put a handful of change in the box, and strode away. I hoped that Once, that movie-turned-musical about a Grafton Street musician recording his first CD, was happening before my eyes, that the business man needed a pan-piper, or knew a guy who needed one.
When I come back two hours later, after reading Joyce in the Trinity Green and seeing the Book of Kells, the young man is still playing. I decide that this doesn’t mean anything about my hopes and suspicions. His cardboard box his half full.
Eveline Crosses Back 