(Of course, the title is a joke. I realize anything I’m writing is stereotypical and silly. But I haven’t ever paid a first visit to a country for such a short time – and just couldn’t resist the temptation to write my piece.)
At 9 AM, I have safely left my luggage at the airport ‘LEFT LUGGAGE’ – and I’m on my way to downtown Dublin. I climb up to the top level of a double-decker on a gray and drizzly November morning – of course – what do you expect? I’m in Dublin.
All the signs are bilingual, and I try to figure out ‘the other language’ as I’m mentally waving hello to my Celtic colleagues, housed in the Scandinavian department at UCB. The nice woman at the Tourist Information office draws a manageable walking route for me on the city map, and I head off towards the famed Trinity College. What first catches my eye is a large Finnish flag, swaying in the wind, on the roof of the college. Determined to find out, I walk around, read all the announcements, and finally approach the security office. The man behind the window informs me that the President of Finland will be arriving later for a visit. I can’t pry any more information out of him about Tarja Halonen’s schedule, so I walk on. I won’t waste my few precious hours waiting for Tarja. Clicking photos of my flag I almost bump into a modern building. I have to back off to read the sign, Berkeley Library. OK. This can’t be a coincidence. Maybe Dublin is the place – the perfect third space for me . . . the in-between. I really have to consider this carefully.
I walk up and down the streets. The doors are amazing – turquoise, topaz yellow, sapphire blue, emerald green, amethist pink . . . I recall the famous poster named Doors of Dublin. I’m really here! This is Ireland!
I stare at a window with lace curtains in an old building. There are two bottles outside, on the windowsill: a bottle of milk and a bottle of Guinness This must be Ireland!
I have several close calls, as I cannot quite figure out which way to look when trying to cross a street. They do drive on the wrong side. This is Ireland indeed.
I find the people very beautiful. I especially like their washed-out coloring. They’re neither Nordic blonds nor Southern brunets - tall and thin with fair skin and reddish hair. I keep staring – and I do know that they’re supposed to be redheads with ivory complexion. I am in Ireland.
I find the Temple Bar District my Irish travel mate on the flight had told me not to miss. Temple Bar is reputed to be Dublin's "bohemian quarter". Maybe a quick pint (I am in Ireland!), some food and then – unfortunately - call it a day. I look around, buy more batteries for my camera, and visit a fishing gear shop to ask for a recommendation for lunch. The owner points me across the street to Oliver St. John Gogarty - named after Dublin’s most famous poet, pilot, politician and avid fan of Guinness. It’s perfect as it reminds me of Ye Olde Leatherne Bottel on the Thames where I worked one summer long, long ago. I sit with my pint, waiting for a bowl of mussels – not Irish, but Norwegian – as I later find out. And I wish it wasn’t too early in the day for Irish music – and that there would be someone with me to share the moment.
After lunch, I have to rush to the bus. My four hours are almost up. As I pass the Trinity College, I wave to the Finnish flag and think of one of my favorite authors, Eva Hoffman. Hoffman, born in Poland and having immigrated to North America as a 13-year old, now lives in London –“halfway between Manhattan and Krakow”, as she puts it. Could Dublin be halfway between Berkeley and Paltamo, my hometown?
At 9 AM, I have safely left my luggage at the airport ‘LEFT LUGGAGE’ – and I’m on my way to downtown Dublin. I climb up to the top level of a double-decker on a gray and drizzly November morning – of course – what do you expect? I’m in Dublin.
All the signs are bilingual, and I try to figure out ‘the other language’ as I’m mentally waving hello to my Celtic colleagues, housed in the Scandinavian department at UCB. The nice woman at the Tourist Information office draws a manageable walking route for me on the city map, and I head off towards the famed Trinity College. What first catches my eye is a large Finnish flag, swaying in the wind, on the roof of the college. Determined to find out, I walk around, read all the announcements, and finally approach the security office. The man behind the window informs me that the President of Finland will be arriving later for a visit. I can’t pry any more information out of him about Tarja Halonen’s schedule, so I walk on. I won’t waste my few precious hours waiting for Tarja. Clicking photos of my flag I almost bump into a modern building. I have to back off to read the sign, Berkeley Library. OK. This can’t be a coincidence. Maybe Dublin is the place – the perfect third space for me . . . the in-between. I really have to consider this carefully.
I walk up and down the streets. The doors are amazing – turquoise, topaz yellow, sapphire blue, emerald green, amethist pink . . . I recall the famous poster named Doors of Dublin. I’m really here! This is Ireland!
I stare at a window with lace curtains in an old building. There are two bottles outside, on the windowsill: a bottle of milk and a bottle of Guinness This must be Ireland!
I have several close calls, as I cannot quite figure out which way to look when trying to cross a street. They do drive on the wrong side. This is Ireland indeed.
I find the people very beautiful. I especially like their washed-out coloring. They’re neither Nordic blonds nor Southern brunets - tall and thin with fair skin and reddish hair. I keep staring – and I do know that they’re supposed to be redheads with ivory complexion. I am in Ireland.
I find the Temple Bar District my Irish travel mate on the flight had told me not to miss. Temple Bar is reputed to be Dublin's "bohemian quarter". Maybe a quick pint (I am in Ireland!), some food and then – unfortunately - call it a day. I look around, buy more batteries for my camera, and visit a fishing gear shop to ask for a recommendation for lunch. The owner points me across the street to Oliver St. John Gogarty - named after Dublin’s most famous poet, pilot, politician and avid fan of Guinness. It’s perfect as it reminds me of Ye Olde Leatherne Bottel on the Thames where I worked one summer long, long ago. I sit with my pint, waiting for a bowl of mussels – not Irish, but Norwegian – as I later find out. And I wish it wasn’t too early in the day for Irish music – and that there would be someone with me to share the moment.
After lunch, I have to rush to the bus. My four hours are almost up. As I pass the Trinity College, I wave to the Finnish flag and think of one of my favorite authors, Eva Hoffman. Hoffman, born in Poland and having immigrated to North America as a 13-year old, now lives in London –“halfway between Manhattan and Krakow”, as she puts it. Could Dublin be halfway between Berkeley and Paltamo, my hometown?
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