Saturday, July 19, 2008

Limerick

I shall resist the temptation to break into a Learesque poem as I announce that we are firmly ensconced in student hosing at the University of Limerick. We are here for the first of three weddings this trip, but have chosen this little refuge to recover from our weariness and jet lag. As I write on the first morning here, it is morning, and I am the only one awake, having chosen to drag myself out of bed at a respectable hour; no worries, there are 10 solid hours of snoozing behind me.

We did a little shopping before our early bedtime yesterday, enough to put together a simple supper of organic chicken breast, snow peas and rice, the latter two being leftovers from our in-trip stores. Earlier, we had had a good midday meal at Ciaran’s café, the little hole-in-the wall across the way. Absolutely delicious, organic and vegetarian, it was the perfect kind of healing food our travel-weary bodies needed.

***

I find I am missing Number One Son, and it surprises me. I always look for four chairs at a table instead of the three we need. I know there are certain moments when he would just roll his eyes, but then there are special ones, like Wednesday. We spent much of the afternoon (we got up late) tooling around south of Limerick, near a place called Lough Gur. It's a lake, like its name implies, but surrounded by a huge concentration of ancient sites—the largest stone circle (like a short Stonehenge) in Ireland is in some farmer's field, but he's opened it up for all to see, and there was a small passage grave. His neighbor though, has an electric fence around some 4,000 year-old stone ring forts, and there was a sign in front of the 15th century castle that said, "No Trespassing, Cross Dog" so we didn’t venture in there.

So we headed to some ruins of an unpronounceable Cistercian Abbey that looked very inviting from the road. We were thinking we'd hit another locked fence, but then Little One spotted a stile next to it. So we parked the car (a black Ford Focus, ugh), and climbed over. There were ruins to a smaller chapel and churchyard on the way to the Abbey, so we poked around. Then we headed toward the little bridge to take us over to the Abbey. The farmer had very thoughtfully put the electrified cow wire on a bungee, and rigged it so there were two to make sure the beasts didn't get out, but when we met the herd, they were led by a rather large bull who was drooling and grunting rather loudly. He didn't seem terribly friendly, and we realized that there were far too many of them, and they seemed hungry. The reader may or may not be glad to hear that we didn't throw Little One to the bulls as a distraction to get to the abbey (we would have needed a second distraction to get back to the car, and we didn't have Number One with).

On the way back to the car, Little One started talking about the Aer Lingus symbol, and we explained that the shamrock, or clover, was a symbol for things Irish. He wanted to know what they looked like, so we pointed down--they were everywhere. I was thinking about what his widow had said at a classmate’s father’s funeral, about how he always found four-leaf clovers, and mentioned to Little One how it was considered good luck to find one. He told me to find one, and of course, I had to tell him that in all my years of looking (and I have looked), I'd never found one. But here they were, hundreds of them, so we set to looking. We looked for a while, and were giving up, when I took two steps—you know how it is, you don't really want to stop looking—and looked down. There it was, a four-leaf clover! I picked it, still not believing it. Darling Husband took a couple dozen pictures, and then turned around and looked down—and he found one, too! At this point, Little One couldn't believe his bad luck, and started to cry. So we hunted for one for him, but of course, there are none to be found when you really need them. So I consoled him with the knowledge that he had found the stile that led us to this magical field, and that was far more useful.

***

And here it is Saturday and we are packing again, a musing half-written, our hangovers still fresh. The first wedding, that of an Irish colleague, was terrific, done in typical Irish style. Just as they can't work long stretches, they can't seem to party without frequent breaks, which means that everyone headed to the bar (at least two rounds of Guinness) between the ceremony and the dinner. The ceremony was high mass, meaning the priest was long-winded (his assistant priest actually fell asleep during the homily), and everyone took communion. There was live, Irish music in the church (the recessional was "Haste to the Wedding"), and then during the break between the three-course dinner and live band for dancing (another two rounds of Guinness or Bailey's on the rocks, since it was after dinner), a few people produced instruments and played a mini-session: two banjoes, a fiddle, and spoons from the table.

Little One sat through the entire mass ceremony (and is very proud of the fact), and we all made it until around 11 pm, when we decided it would be wiser to go home and sleep a bit than be completely wiped the next day. It's taken until now for my head to clear a bit (a hot shower and cocoa helped).

Tuesday, July 15, 2008

Fireflies

I saw my first fireflies two evenings ago. Magical, as if someone gave cameras to bugs, and they were taking flash pictures of the impatiens. We were coming back from a delicious Board dinner at New Heights in Washington, D.C. (the other Washington), a Zagat-rated restaurant that would have been pretty close to sublime in many ways if they could lose the attitude.

The next night saw us hot and sweaty from heavy-duty way too many monumements touristing, in the Lebanese Taverna across the street. We adults grazed on scruptious mezze, while Little One stuffed fresh-baked pita with chunks of the butter that our gracious server—no attitude here—provided him. I realized I had asked for a table for four: my mother brain seems to have forgotten that Number One was lodged with the Mistress of Indulgence, and is probably too busy cruising the mall with her minions to have time to miss us.

We were sorely tempted by signs and awnings reading Petits Plats, Murphy’s Pub, and Organic Chinese Food among others, but there are only so many meals we can eat in a 24-hour period, and the friction economy is alive and well, gobbling up far too much of our time, and forcing us to resort to grab and go meals far too often.

But this city seems to be at odds with itself: L’Enfant’s sweeping views and allées, heavily influenced by his contemporary Haussmann’s Paris, has been filled with enough concrete barriers to sink an island the size of Manhattan. Bollards and fences everywhere ignore the meandering nature of nineteenth century pathways, forcing tourists into TSA-like cattle chutes. A folly tucked into the woods is inaccessible from the reflecting pool on the Mall.

It is easy to see the magic that this city once hold, and perhaps I am jaded by travel and extremely muggy weather, but I can’t help but feel that the spirit and history of the city is being stifled in the name of security.