Where the Streets Have No Name

Okay, the streets have names, but it takes awhile to find them, and if you walk far enough on one of these winding streets, it turns into something else, so getting street based directions is pretty useless. Fortunately, I followed my sense off direction for the most part today, and it didn't fail. But then, we meandered more than setting a goal of getting from one specific place to another.

I got up rather late in the morning, had a full Irish breakfast (still don't know what those round flat things were that I ate, but I liked them), then I headed out for a short walk before coming back to the hotel to wait for my sister. I happened across a woman selling flowers who was quite happy to sell me some yellow miniature carnations and some purple statis for 5 Euro. As I walked back to the hotel, I saw Pam getting out of the cab. It was a little surreal seeing her here, standing in front of this old hotel on this tiny street. She was full of energy and happy, and I was thrilled to hug her.

I thought she would like the Queen of Tarts, so we headed back there for lunch, and we found ourselves sitting next to a very nice woman who happily made suggestions for what we might do and see and who explained a bit about tipping wait staff here, which still has me a bit uneasy. It's nice, it seems, but it is not expected in the way it is in the US, where servers earn little if anything more than their tips. I feel bad if I don't tip, and I feel foolish if I tip as I do in the US, so I'm sticking with my usual motto: just pay and don't think about it.

Pam though the area around the Liffey was pretty cool (me too) so we hung out there for awhile, and I made her take my photo with the giant statue of Daniel O'Connell. Very touristy, but, shit, I'm a tourist. The Liffey really is nice; I expected a stinky river flowing through town, as the Chicago is in many places it, but the Liffey is really nice, and I like saying "Liffy."



After a nap, we met Al for dinner, and he was with an ISU alum, John Whipple, whom I remembered from about 10-12 years ago. Very nice guy. He took us by the Irish FIlm Institute and I wish I could have stayed in the cafe or looked at some DVDs in the shop. The latest Almodovar film is playing, as is a restored version of Days of Heaven. I'm realizing now I made a mistake in not planning more time in Dublin. It takes a couple of days to deal with the jet lag and just being able to find your hotel. There are sites to be seen (still haven't walked across Trinity's campus, though I've been all around it), but the real pleasure is in finding a place like the IFI cafe, and just hanging out in it for an afternoon--no rush, no gotta get to, just coffee and people watching, and listening to the voices around you.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location:Dame Ct,Dublin,Ireland

The Abbey Theatre, and Chicago is the Center of the Universe

After a great dinner with Al Goldfarb, who is responsible, after all, for getting me to NYC and beginning this theatre madness about a dozen years ago, I visited the Abbey Theatre for Sam Shepherd's Curse of the Starving Class. I was not keen on this kind of play my first night, since I was dead tired from the trip and the time change, but I wanted to make sure I did not miss a visit to the historic Abbey.

In some ways, the Abbey was disappointing. I knew it had been renovated, but I was not expecting an interior that had no real hint of history or age, and the house was quite small.

Seated next to me was a young man who is studying acting, and who spent about 6 months last year in Chicago. So I spend one day in this country, have extended conversations with four strangers, and they all have close ties to Chicago?? Anyway, it was great talking to this guy, who is also a musician, and I would have invited him for a drink had I not been so beat.

About 20 minutes in to the performance, I realized I was more or less the only person laughing in the theatre. Now, I'm not a laugh out louder at the theatre by nature, but I have learned over the years at ISU to make more noise when I am enjoying a show, as the actors really like it/need it. At first I thought perhaps Shepherd's references were too specifically American for the audience, then it dawned on me that every Brit actor whom I have heard interviewed about performing on Broadway talks about how much more vocal American audiences are. I'm anxious to see more theatre here to see if I have similar experiences with audiences at other shows/venues.

And then it struck me like fresh water: I've just experienced something new, I've just learned something. It was glorious. At other times I thought how odd it was to be in Dublin watching a play about American masculinity, and the specifically American poor in the changing landscape of the west/the family farm. And no, I'm not buying that "good theatre or writing is universal" crap.

The Abbey is across the Liffey river from my hotel, which the music and noise outside at 2:30 am as I write this reminds me is right in Temple Bar. As I walked back (found my hotel without asking directions or needing to retrace my steps), there were people everywhere, and the river was lovely. It is a warm clear night. I realized I tense a bit whenever I pass groups of men, which I also do in the States, especially if they've clearly been drinking. I'd best quickly get used to this, as the street is full of groups of people. That probably seems obvious, but what I mean is actual groups of 4 or 5 or 6 seem to be more the norm than couples or folks walking around alone. I noted that this afternoon too, so I don't think it is just a Friday night phenom. More on this later, I imagine, as I've just started to mull this in relation to the work done in American Sociology about 15 years ago regarding the decline in public space for teens, especially males, in the US.







- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location:Exchequer St,Dublin,Ireland

Flying to far away places

I am exhausted. Everything went smoothly with my travels, but of course I was too damned excited to sleep on the plane. My backpack was too heavy for my shoulders--yes, I know, I should have worn it around the block a few times, but I really didn't have that much in it it. Turns out, the pack itself hits my shoulders in weird ways and feels heavy even empty. I bought an extremely lightweight folding truck for it in the Atlanta airport, but those things are never very stable. I was all set to send some stuff home by post, but, honestly, I could only eliminate about 3 lbs, unless I want to send away my cpap and my DSLR and telephoto lens.

And my checked bag showed up in Dublin torn. Still usable.

So that's the funky travel news. Here's the good stuff.

My hotel could not be better located. It is just a few blocks from Trinity, from Temple Bar, and from Hannah's Queen of Tarts cafe. There is a guitar store right across the street with a big ole Rickenbacker in the window. I counted 10 guitar stores on my very very short walk this afternoon, and I passed by one place where a woman was singing "I Shall Be Released" in a storefront.

The room is a little worn, but really comfortable and much larger than I expected.

But here's the cool stuff. At the Queen of Tarts, which is very tiny, the folks sitting next to me introduced themselves. Two sisters--about my age--were traveling with one woman's college age daughter. One woman was from Illinois, the mother and daughter live in San Francisco. The young woman, Amy, is interested in stage management, and they all were quite keen to hear about ISU's Theatre program. Then they asked about my sabbatical and what I was working on. I told them. I mean told them I was writing a book about growing up gay in small town middle America. The woman from San Fran said "I'm from San Francisco. I spotted you right away" and we laughed. It was really great, and I felt my professional self in a really okay way. I loved telling them about ISU.

Then I got back to my hotel--just had to take a shower and a nap--and found an email from Al Goldfarb: he's in Dublin this weekend!! We tried to work out seeing a show together tonight, but that isn't going to work, so we are having dinner in a few hours. Perfect.

And then there was the cab driver, who flirted with me shamelessly, talked to me about history and politics and how to get around Dublin. And I handled the flirting okay. When he stopped at my hotel he said he wanted to give me directions to Trinity, but he'd have to get in the backseat with me to do it, and I firmly but kindly said "no you don't" and he laughed and told me how to get to Trinity and then to the Abbey theatre tonight. It was actually kinda fun instead of creepy, only because I felt completely in control of the situation.

For no real reason, I suppose, except that I feel a confidence emerging in me already that is new and exciting.







- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad. Haven't figured out how to add photos with this app yet. Give me some time.

Location:Dame Ct,Dublin,Ireland

I can't sing

Those of you who have known me forever may think it is not news that I can't sing, but I'm not talking about singing on key, I'm talking about singing at all. I went to a funeral yesterday and tried to sing a couple of notes of Amazing Grace, and I simply could not do it. This inability shocks me; sounding funky is one thing, but losing a function is something else.

I have started talking a bit, and my voice sounds better to my ear, though the tests at the speech therapist's office today tell a somewhat different story. I have more vocal strength, but the distortions in my speech pattern are still pronounced, and in a couple of respects are worse than three weeks ago. Mostly I found today's visit encouraging, but it is clear keeping my vocalizations to a minimum needs to continue for awhile longer.

On the outside

I went to a meeting yesterday of Chairs, Directors, Advisors, Associate Deans. I sat in the front row so I could use the white board on my iPad to ask a question if I needed. A few cracks about being "one of those first row types" started the session. These remarks were jovial, nothing unkind intended at all, but they reinforced the oddity of my position.

As I listened to my colleagues chat and greet each other before the session began, I was reminded again of how much of this particular job is about just showing up and making conversation. But it was during the question and answer portion of the meeting that my silent position really became pointed.

My friend Julie, who is going through her own challenges with her vocal cords this summer, remarked that silence puts you on the outside, and as an outsider you have some clarity on what is going on inside. She said it more eloquently, but that is the gist of it.

Academics are a pretty irritating lot, really, when you are looking at them from that perspective. Folks asking questions that weren't questions at all, but challenges in the form of "I'm smarter than you" assertions, the tendency to be immediately negative or critical...things I know all too well from my normal behavior. And I felt my own urge to be a voice in the room, to make myself and my brilliance known. When you are silent in an academic world, you are dismissible.

Venturing out

I ventured out into the world today. I had to get some glasses repaired and order a spare pair. With the aid of a whiteboard application on the iPad, it worked out pretty well. People are generally quite satisfied with a broad smile and a thumbs up sign in lieu of verbal communication.

The day is like wide water, without sound

I have always loved Wallace Stevens' "Sunday Morning" in many moods. This line is apt for my current week of silence, though, in the poem, I think sound has a doubled meaning.

I am in my third day of this vocal rest, having blown the first day at 3 am when I woke up and told Callie she was a good dog. Oops. She has adjusted well to my silence, coming when I clap, and responding immediately to hand signals. Smart, smart dog. She and my cats have been my only companions these last three days. I had not expected how isolating this experience would be. I took Callie for a walk, and a man stopped his car to remark how pretty she was and ask her breed; of course, I couldn't answer him. It was both awkward and dispiriting to be unable to enjoy this simple interaction.

I am not depressed, oddly, but being alone and being quiet look an awful lot like depression, and I am conscious of keeping that at bay. I am learning a tarantella on the guitar, and such liveliness doesn't jibe well with melancholy. There is also a John Wayne marathon on TV all weekend, so I can happily indulge my guilty pleasure in Wayne films (I hadn't seen Wings of Eagles in years, and they are showing Horse Soldiers, which I have never seen in its entirety). Since I am loath to go to a restaurant and not be able to order my food without writing, I am cooking and eating well. A very cocoon-like existence; not depressing, but I do feel cut off from the rest of the world.