Notes from Dublin

We started in Dublin, a five-plus-hour overnight flight from Boston.  By the time we got our drinks and dinner on board, read a few pages of a novel, and closed our eyes, we were landing...at 7 a.m. local time or 2 a.m. Boston time.  Which gave us all day to explore, except that we couldn't see straight, were lightheaded, and our hotel room wasn't ready.

So we grabbed breakfast and sat on a comfy sofa in the lobby.  By the fire.  Yes, in Dublin in June they needed a fire.  When my eyes rolled back in my head and my mouth hung open with drool slithering down my chin, Charley returned to the front desk to beg for our room.  By noon we were in.

We didn't bother to unpack.  I would never have found anything I put away, anyway.  Instead, I peeled down my slacks, tore off my jacket, and crawled on all fours across the bed covers like an animal.  Charley wasn't far behind.  We stayed there for four hours, till we got hungry again.  So much for our first day in Dublin.  After a spectacular dinner of fresh fish, we found our way back to our lair.

The following morning brought sunshine and temperatures into the seventies.  Ashes smoldered in the fireplace.  We dug through suitcases to find tee shirts and shorts.  For four hours a guide walked us through Trinity College, the Temple Bar section, Dublin Castle, and two cathedrals. Guinness Storehouse had to wait till the following day, with its free sample of ale.  We got our own pints at lunch and headed back for...what else? A nap, but not before we'd fallen in love with Dubliners and their city.  

Nothing in two weeks of travel that followed would top the time I spent in an apothecary there...James Joyce's apothecary, to be precise, where he'd chatted with neighbors who later appeared as characters in his novels.  China shaving mugs with lather brushes sat on wooden shelves along the walls.  Lime soaps, Joyce's favorite, remained stacked in glass cases.

Five members of the James Joyce Club sat on wooden benches behind the counters. They were reading from The Dubliners.  Twice a week they read, until they finished. Then they'd select another of Joyce's novels. I stood and listened.

"Come in, come in," the man on the end said.  "Sit with us."

He was stout with a bulbous nose but slid his haunches over so I could fit.  I listened to the flow, since I'd missed the entirety of the story (they were on the last chapter), and I'd never read the book.  My companion took his turn reading in a deep, sonorous voice that commiserated, then laughed, with the priest who was the protagonist.

When he stopped, he handed me his copy.  "Would you like to take a turn?"

I'd studied Joyce in college and had taught English in high school.  I figured I couldn't flub up too badly, although my voice was missing the brogue.  I began reading and continued through the ending.  "Great job!" my companion said, as I passed his book back.

The rest of them clapped.  Too bad it wasn't for me.