Coffee clutch

I love university towns in general, but Madison is special. Despite Scott Walker's cretinous effort to have the words "pursuit of knowledge" removed from the state University system's mission statement, Madison still has an energetic air of intellectual striving about it. My older son has lived here for the last 7 years, working on his PhD: his job has been physics research; mine, supporting him however I can—verbal encouragement, hot cookies, checkbook, vacuum cleaner, or anything else I think may make his life a little easier.

Saturday morning, I was flopped in a squashy chair at Ancora Coffee on University Boulevard...the best possible start to a holiday weekend morning. Seven years we've been going there when we're in town, for good coffee, respite from the world, and to watch the other folks doing the same. I had a mug the size of a young washtub, full of cappuccino, and the boys were good to sleep in for a couple of hours yet. Realizing this was likely to be the last time I did this here left me with a distinct tug around the heart.

Ancora is my favorite coffee house anywhere. A small craft roaster, it's everything (in my own opinion, anyway) a coffee shop should be: a small, quirky place, gas fireplace with two battered armchairs next to it, and perhaps half a dozen little tables with vases of fresh flowers. Warm-toned wood and local art on the walls (the current display is floral close ups and nature shots), with good music in the background (Saturday, a mix of Daft Punk and Canned Heat) make Ancora very welcoming.

The door was propped open, with a fresh breeze coming in to mix with the scent of coffee and cinnamon scones. The sun coming in through the east windows washed gentle warmth over the rest of the folks enjoying the morning here.

Like most university towns, Madison provides some of the best people-watching ever—almost as good as London's Victoria Station—and it seems most of it comes through Ancora on weekend mornings. Saturday, there was the usual kaffee klatsch of eight or ten professors and professors emeriti and their spouses (t-shirts, Birkenstocks), who have been coming to Ancora nearly as long as I have. They had just finished dissecting 'this social media stuff' ("Can't I just TALK to someone without hashtags?!") and comparing trips: one guy's to Australia and Antarctica, two different trips to Italy ("Roma? Forget it—so crowded!—Amalfi is much better!"). They'd already argued about the best constituents of a dinner party, skiing, earthquakes, the veracity of ouija boards Gilligan's Island, and an antibacterial coating inspired by sharkskin, for use on hospital-machine dials. One wife appeared to have been married for her beauty, rather than her brains: "It was inspired, like, by some writer...." They began squabbling about the half-marathon being run in Madison over the weekend, with plenty of 'expertise' offered by the guy with the Baaahston accent who has clearly never run in anything more than in from the rain, and my attention wandered to the other customers.

At a table for two by the north window, a guy in a black-and-white striped Izod and beret (yes, really) was drawing my portrait (surprisingly accurate) on his napkin and talking about 'the formal cultural experience' in Nepal with a drop-dead elegant Red Hat lady who was somewhere between 90 and 300.

Two design students at the corner table were wearing their own creations, surely—no earthly clothier sells cerulean-blue skirts made of what looks like seines cast off by a fisherman who decided there were too many holes in them to be of any further use to him.

Over by the counter, there was what must surely have been an escapee from a cow-town bordello: laced boots, corset, floral skirt, talking with two tall, silver-haired gentlemen and Crocodile Dundee about replacing all the parts in some mysterious device, and sharing digital photos of birds over mocha and croissants, with full details of an approaching 'birding' weekend in Minnesota. Should significant others be invited? Would they be bored enough to spoil it?

Rasputin in a ratty grey hoodie and pink Crocs—he had to be a computer science grad student; a copy of Aho's 'Dragon Book' was tucked under his arm—dashes in to get a mocha latte, and then out again like he knew where something was buried. (Who knows; he might.)

A Pre-Raphaelite girl with flaming ringlets, wearing a flowing pale-green blouse, brought her own mug—the size of a flower pot—decorated with sequins and glass jewels. That wasn't her name on it, I hope; it said "Rapunzel"....

Three Japanese girls in bum-skimming striped dresses (or are they shirts?), clearly undergrads, who couldn't decide whether they wanted White Zombies or Caffé Miel jostled with a tall lanky guy who ordered, then, while waiting for his doppio espresso, discreetly stretched out his calves against the counter.

A major clutch at my heart tells me how much I'll miss Ancora, and Madison. Sure, I could drive up any weekend—but with my son moved to Canada, Madison would be a ghost town, populated by the spectres of unstructured, unplanned good times. Long hikes around Lake Mendota; great food and better craft beer; long afternoons in Avol's used bookshop—now only a memory anyway, thanks to the elderly owner's retirement. Grad school is over for Christopher, and a chapter of family life is over for all of us.


Addio, Madison.

Not-so-Social Networking

Online friendships are great. Social networks, and, in a larger sense, the Internet itself, give us the opportunity to join a virtual community and meet people we otherwise might never have known existed. Granted, one does need to exercise care in forming friendships online, since visual cues are mostly missing, but with time, sometimes, online friendships turn grow into real ones, strong enough to even translate themselves into 3D relationships. Even more care needs to be taken in meeting up with online acquaintances in person, of course; most often, though, I think people who are nice online are just as nice face-to-face.

I've spent the last couple of months watching a good friend struggle with a group of his online 'friends'. My friend, a man I’ll call Charlie, is an online buddy repurposed as a 3D friend. A really nice guy, he has hundreds of online contacts. He’s cheerful good fun, able to make amusing and intelligent conversation on a dozen subjects—everything from music to technology to the country’s health-care quagmire.

One particular group of his friends had kept a steady conversational thread going on a daily basis for some months before things began to get a bit strange: oddly barbed little comments, people being left out of the thread, and seemingly random unfollowing/blocking, followed by equally random returns to friendliness. Charlie couldn’t get a straight answer out of any of the others about what was going on, and eventually, the whole thing had degenerated into little more than trolling. After a few months of puzzlement and frustration, he unfollowed the others, and locked his account down.

He’ll probably never know what actually went wrong. 

Seems to me some folks regard online friends and acquaintances as somehow disposable. Strange, since there are real people at both ends of the wire—but it’s alarmingly easy to block another person thoroughly, and edit them out of your life as though you can make them cease to exist entirely. Not hard to convince yourself it wasn’t ‘real’, too, since online communication seems so ephemeral. 

What a waste, and what a shame. Friendships shouldn’t, I think, be regarded as disposable.

If friendships are worth having, they’re worth fixing—whatever their format or medium: I hate waste, and I hate unnecessary hurt.

So…why nursery-school behavior online? I always wonder if the folks who behave so childishly online are that way in person—does it make them feel powerful in a way they don’t in their 3D life? Some seem to regard online interaction in light of an old-fashioned masquerade party: if you can't be identified, you can't be held to account—and never mind the cost, in terms of your own integrity. Frankly, I think that sounds more like a drive-by shooting than any other form of social intercourse, and I can do without it.

There’s also a significant underbelly of folks who use social networks for casual, indiscriminate sexual activity. What they do is their own business, until it impacts others. (NB: Make that kind of approach over here, honey, and I'll kick your sorry ass clean to the curb...!) There are good-sized grey areas where all these things, and a great many others, overlap.

Negotiating relationships is an art, a delicate process requiring the four F’s: finesse, forbearance, forgiveness, and faith—trust, if you’d rather use a homelier word.

Give everyone a chance to fix problems—or two or three chances, if you’ve the guts, and the time. I do understand that some things can’t be fixed. Repeated bad interactions or patterns? Reruns of thuggish or cruel behavior? Chuck the offender, and make better friends instead. Lord knows there are enough people out there; most of them are well worth getting to know. Anybody who makes you feel like you’re standing on a cliff edge with a stiff wind blowing at your back needs to be rethought. So too with the people who insist they’re your friend, but will cut you dead to ‘support’ someone else, or those who don’t have anything to say to you anywhere but via private message. Do they think others might think less of them because of the company they keep? 

As Charlie himself put it, anyone who isn't your friend in public isn't your friend period. I agree. 

Trust is hard to re-grow, since it’s never quite the same after it’s been damaged—better to keep it in good shape from the start. You’d have to go a long way to beat Tommy Clifford’s everyday eloquence: he says trust is a hard issue, and he’s right. Without it, though, you’re nowhere, because honesty is the core of life. 

How real is anyone, really—especially online, where people may hide behind made-up names and avatars? The only proof of what another human is actually like is how he behaves. This is exponentially true of folks who put nothing of themselves into their online presence—no name, no location, no nothing real? No chance.

Putting someone in the deep freeze socially may make sense—temporarily—if you've tried talking with them about behavior you find unacceptable, and they've been unreceptive to your concerns. Occasionally, it’s necessary to take a break to let tempers subside. If you just can’t get through, or—worse—if they blame you for their behavior, it’s probably time to cut them loose, as Charlie finally did. The decider is this: do your friends bring you down, or do they help you to be your best self? Tommy’s right on this one, too: “When you surround yourself with people who want to make you better, it's infectious. You thrive off each other.” 

At its best, friendship is a kind of love, building bridges between, sometimes, the most unlikely people. No, it doesn’t always work, and doesn’t always last—no matter how hard you try. Even when things don’t work, though, it’s worth it. As the wise Elizabeth Bushey once wrote, “Love is never wasted. It is creative and good. It makes us better. It makes us better to each other. Whether or not it is returned matters not.” 

Relationships as training for the soul? I don’t know about that, but I agree with her. Win or lose, friendship, like any other kind of love, is an opportunity to be more than you were, a better version of yourself—for real.

I doubt Charlie will stay locked down forever. He’ll probably re-evaluate, after he catches his breath, and refuse to let bent people make him be less than his best self. Smart guy, that Charlie.

Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Madness

Originally posted on Posterous, January 29, 2013

I saw a most unusual, and impressive, thing, a week or so ago.

I'd had lunch with a friend, and was coming from Kirkwood back to Webster. Going the opposite direction, rolling west up Big Bend towards Kirkwood from I-44 was a cortège, for the funeral of an iron horseman, it appeared. Something like 60 or 80 Harleys, all gleaming chrome, passed, moving two by two at a surprisingly sedate pace. The riders all wore black, and rode, eyes forward, with silent decorum, followed by a hearse. A Victorian Gothic glass-sided affair, all scrollwork and decorative black festoons, it was pulled by what has to have been the biggest bike I’ve ever seen.

The guy riding it could have passed for Hagar the Horrible: he was enormous, wearing battered jeans and a studded black-leather vest; bare arms; bare chest; copious tattoos. World-war-I spiked German army-style helmet, coal-colored aviators, and a long, rust-brown beard blowing in the bitter wind.

It was 27F that afternoon, with a stiff breeze blowing: braving the elements on a motorcycle in jeans and a loose vest was no mean tribute to whoever was riding in the hearse behind him.

Anyone who’s ever been to one knows funerals aren't for the dead, they're for the living. They’re intended to provide comfort for the bereaved, as well as a suitable send-off for the deceased. This was surely a man who lived—like the people laying him to rest—after the fashion of his liking, in a way considered outlandish, possibly even threatening, by more mundane folk—a freedom few people achieve.

Bikers aren’t famous for caring what other folk think, and y’know, there’s a lot to be said for refusing to be constrained by someone else’s ‘shoulds.’ Choosing instead a lifestyle that allows room to be the most you can be, in a way that feels authentic, without hounding or hindering others.

Doubtless the guy pulling the hearse grew up being told, “Don’t go out without a jacket in this weather!” by his well-intentioned mother. His willingness, and that of his companions, to suffer the bitter cold to honor the dead man behind them, told me all I needed to know about them. With a dignity befitting their chosen mores, rather than looking ill at ease in unaccustomed suits and ties, they saw to it that their comrade’s exit matched the way he had lived.

Being, and staying, true to yourself, and to your values—however outlandish that might seem to someone else—while allowing others that same privilege, is an art form few people master. If more of us did so, in our own chosen ways, I think the world might well be a better place.

Go for it.

Georgia (Q) on my Mind

Originally posted on Posterous, September 2012

The Death of the Month Club guest of honor for September was my sister-in-law Jo's mother. The service was in Georgia, in the small town of Chatsworth. We stayed next door in Dalton. Founded in 1847, Dalton has a population of roughly 33,000 souls. The battle of Rocky Face Ridge and Dug Gap was fought here, during the War Between the States, ending when General Joseph Johnston withdrew from Dalton on May 12, 1864. Johnston's chiefly remembered here for leaving: the townsfolk erected a statue of him for having done so.

After the service and lunch with the family, we spent the afternoon hiking Rocky Face Ridge outside Dalton. A lovely place for a hike/climb in the woods, it must have been hell to attack. Ridges of rock set in place as battlements (twice attacked, and twice successfully defended) are still there, tumbled over now, and peacefully growing lichen.

After an afternoon in the woods, we were starving, and dinner south of the Mason-Dixon line meant barbecue. We chose Miller Brothers Rib Shack.

It's a cheerful little place that seats no more than 40, and seems to do a booming takeaway business as well. Red-and-white checked tablecloths cover the tables, and I noticed a Bible lying on one of them. Not a slick Gideon number, this was an old King James, so well-thumbed the cover was curling.

The walls were covered with Black-experience posters: B. B. King, Nelson Mandela, the Rev. Dr. King, Malcolm X, Harriet Tubman—and we were the only white folks in the place. The waitress, a pretty girl of about 20 came over, a guarded look in her eye.

She asked what we wanted to drink, and brought it without comment. Returning to take our order, she asked if we were from out of town. Yes, we said; we were down from St. Louis due to a death in the family. Southern hospitality is no myth, and the people of Georgia are just about the most hospitable you'll find. No exception this young lady: the reason for our being in Dalton thawed her completely. After expressing gracious condolences, she did what generations of women in the South have done when succor and solace are required: she fed us—after detailed comparison of our tastes and the menu.

Miller's bills itself as a 'rib shack', but I'm not big on ribs. I can't eat bones; keep 'em, and just bring me the meat. We both chose the brisket instead: it was smoky, with a sweetish, lightly-spiced tomato-based sauce with a faint suggestion of vinegar. It could have been a little more tender, but the flavor was still fantastic. Sides were Brunswick stew, corn on the cob, and Texas toast.

I hadn't been to Brunswick stew  in 30 years. This one was beef-based, with  corn, a little tomato, a modest amount of okra, and a hint of onion. Faintly smoky and on the thin side, it was good enough I had to force myself not to lick out the ramekin after I'd gobbled the contents—I could have made a meal on this alone.

The corn on the cob (half an ear, interestingly enough) was fresh, not too buttery, and served upright in a ramekin to keep it chastely separate from its more influential plate-mates. The toast was likewise not too buttery; browned just right, it was just crisp enough to be perfect.

As we ate, my mind wandered back to the last time I'd found myself in the racial minority. I'd been working at the local middle school for a year or two. The African-American population in Webster is all of 6.6%; the African-American population of the district I work for closer to 24%. We all manage to live and work together without too many bumps and bruises, so I found myself horrified one day as I was working on the computers in one of the special-services classrooms. Most of the kids in the room were black, as was the teacher. The book under study was The Watsons go to Birmingham—1963, and I was listening to the conversation with one ear until the teacher said, "So what do you think Whitey's gonna do next?" Talk about sudden verticality, realizing that 'Whitey' was sitting in my chair.

The best remedy for uncomfortable memories, I say, is dessert. Pie, for preference, and Miller's offers Key Lime, chocolate cream, dark chocolate, and sweet potato—house made.

Tom chose the dark chocolate. He said it was good, but not spectacular. I must say (with a thoroughly unpardonable smugness) that my sweet potato pie was nothing short of a religious experience. Though the crust was indisputably an undistinguished boughten one, it was filled with a creamy custard. Neither too heavy nor too rich, it was satiny smooth, thickened with egg yolk. Lots of sweet potato flavor blended with just a hint of nutmeg, and a distinct caramel undertone—it was utter simplicity, Nirvana on a plate. The folks at Miller's know it, too: addition of a dollop of whipped cream might have been appealing visually, but would have made it too rich. They wisely leave well enough alone.

I made myself eat it slowly, and found I was doing so with my eyes closed when, last bite gone, I came back to reality with a bump. Grinning, the waitress took my empty plate, admitting she had had a piece of it for breakfast. As Harper Lee observed in To Kill A Mockingbird, there's just one kind of folks—folks. Sweet potato pie makes the whole world kin, and as she waved us out the door she sent after us that most Southern of open invitations:

"Y'all come back now, hear?"

You better believe I will.

Dinner: Porterhouse Reprise

Originally posted on Posterous, May 6, 2012

We'd take Porterhouse home to St. Louis if we could—lacking any good way of doing it, though, we content ourselves with another meal there. This time, we don't waste time on sampler-sized drink; Tom gets the Irish Red, and I opt for the oyster stout. The place is nearly full to capacity, so we're up on the third floor this time, at a table next to a huge copper still, which has been given a new life as a piece of furniture. The ceiling above it is also polished copper—incredibly beautiful. Through the window, we can watch a mother magpie feeding her nestful of babies, and watch the traffic about on Parliament Street.

The view inside is just as interesting: tonight, there's a female academic from Chicago loudly holding forth at a table otherwise full of students from the UK, who don't seem to have been to the US. This poses no problem, since the lady possesses the ability to chatter (loud, quacking voice) without any need to draw breath. She gives St. Louis a pasting, and pours scorn over Omaha—neither, according to her, is as stellar as Chicago...though I greatly wonder at her need to inform a tableful of intelligent people that Lakeshore Drive actually runs along the shore of Lake Michigan. I've nearly decided it would be worth whatever punishment assault gets, here in Dublin, for the pleasure of dumping my beer over her head, when we notice the two French girls (dark, exotically pretty) at the next table seem to think as little of Suzy Chicago as we do.

While I'm most sincerely sorry to note that the prettier of the two is drinking bottled Corona—surely a punishable offense here!—they're interestingly intense and expressive. Their conversation is fast and emphatic,and, while I haven't had French since high school, it doesn't take any doing at all to understand "Ce soir? Avec lui??? JAMAIS!!!"

Dinner arrives just about then: fish and chips for me, a Porterhouse pie and salad for Tom. The pie is a cute little thing, perhaps 5 inches across and1.5 inches deep, browned so dark its surface is nearly black. It's filled with chunks of very tender beef and a few veggies in a thick brown gravy. Fairly highly flavored with onion, it's delicious—so much so that the bite I do get I swipe while Tom is covertly eyeing the French girls. (Cherche les femmes, messieurs!) The beer for both of us was the Oyster we'd had the last time we were here.

My fish is a huge slab, elegantly enrobed in a golden batter. It's fried crisp, with no oiliness clinging to it, and the fish inside is moist, flaky perfection. It's perched on a huge pile of chips, thick-cut—gold-crisp outside, and mealy-good within. A full quarter of a lemon arrived with it, and, squeezed over fish and potatoes, it's the final touch required for dining delight.

There's a small pot of traditional British 'mushy peas' next the fish. These are the mushiest I've ever seen; perhaps the descriptor should have been 'mushed peas.' But they taste good, and I get around them in record time. I've also got a portion of salad—greens, garnished with slivered carrot and a splash of vinaigrette. The greens look alarmingly like dandelion leaves, and have a distinctive, spicy taste, and the counterpoint they make with the fish is stunning.

We have room to split a dessert, and opt for the bread-and-butter pudding. This is no dodge to use up stale leftovers—the bread is a challah-like triumph of the baker's art. It would be a proud addition to any Sabbath table, so, as a foundation for bread pudding, it has no rivals. Dense, sweet, and yellow with eggs, it's enhanced, rather than disguised, by caramel and chocolate sauces, cinnamon, and a handful of sultanas. A restrained scoop of caramel ice cream and halved strawberries complete the presentation, and it's so rich we can hardly finish it. Good? 'Good' describes this dish in the way a candle would be suitable metaphor for the blazing noonday sun. It was awesome, fantastic, magic.

Followed by a walk home across Temple Bar, it was perfect.

Possible tragedy?

Originally posted on Posterous, May 4, 2012

A cool but pretty evening sounded ideal for a walk along the Liffey, so we walked up past the Brazen Head to the Liam Mellows bridge to the west, along Usher's Quay. We turned back east there, thinking to leap-frog back and forth across the river as we came to each bridge. The tide was low, but beginning to come back in.

We crossed the Father Matthew bridge back to the south bank, and paused along Merchant's Quay to take a picture of the Four Courts building across the river—that shot of the building with the rotunda—when we noticed a commotion a little further down the river, at the Grattan Bridge. A motor boat and two men in the river; four fire engines and an ambulance on bridge and bank; a good-sized crowd watching them search the river for something—or someone. We stopped and watched with everyone else, for 15 minutes or so, until the fire trucks began to leave.

It didn't look as though they found anything.

The Gothnik on the Green: Trinity

Originally posted on Posterous, May 3, 2012

Another slow start today; I sat up most of the night editing a friend's dissertation, and felt deserving of a lie-in. Upon achieving full functionality, we decided to reconnoiter Trinity College. I want badly to see the Book of Kells, but not today; today, I just want to soak up the school itself. It's odd how much Dublin herself FEELS like a college town....she's about the size of Kansas City (well, that <does> make pigeon-holing it easier for a native Missourian), and I gather the average age of her citizens is something like 30. All of which neatly explicates her air of friendly energy.

Anyway, Trinity. We started by just walking the campus, looking at the gorgeous detailing of the Victorian buildings, and their ornate contrast with the grey concrete of the newer buildings, those housing the sciences. Trinity's science department, if memory serves, is known for her non-linear optics, though I don't know what else. Amongst the buildings was all kinds of artwork—particularly striking was a huge gold globe, interestingly riven with fissures.

Done walkabout, we went to have a look at that seldom-noticed treasure, the gift shop. Those in museums are high-order sources of all things wonderful. Forget the clodagh doorknockers, clairseach pins, and all the other kitschy stuff, head for the books and posters: there's a particularly good shop at the V & A in London, where I once bought a fascinating treatise on Victorian poisons, and the shop at Trinity's library didn't disappoint. If Tom hadn't gotten in my way—uh, I mean, been so thoughtful, I likely would have bought more books than two donkeys could carry.

An hour and change later, done with the gift shop, we stood for awhile, taking in the green in the late-afternoon sunlight, the other gawking tourists, and the students who belong here. Tucked away in one corner is a pale guy of something like 20, curled into a corner of a bench with a battered paperback—Jack Kerouac's On the Road, no less.

He's teeth-to-toenails black leather, studs, plaid, and odd piercings, topped off literally with a determinedly antisocial haircut—half Goth, half reconstructed Beatnik; how do you categorize such a person? Which is precisely the point: his studied Bohemianism is a means of rejecting society's standards, and creating his own. Neither genre is original, by now, but the fusion of the two is insouciant and entertaining. Is he a Beat-Goth? A Emo-Beat? A Gothnik?

The most important tenet of hipness does seem to be liking (or professing to like) things nobody else can stand—long-winded, tuneless jazz, grindingly dull 'poetry', and other such horrors. Taking a wider view, such earnest dullness is an attempt to arrive at an understanding of how societies work, and how individuals fit into them. Entirely appropriate, for an unusually intelligent young man growing into his full adult self; once he arrives there, the freak-show clothes probably won't be necessary any more. This young fellow was simultaneously looking for both ways to stand out, to define himself as unique among human creatures, and ways to fit in with others that neither stifle nor prostitute him. Get right down to it, isn't that what we all want from life?

Here's to his success.

Rainy Day in Dublin

Originally posted on Posterous, May 2, 2012

Lovely soft, rainy day today—spent most of the morning reading and watching the rain, since Tom chose to sleep in.

Taking onboard the counsel of the wise and experienced Marie Ennis-O'Connor and Ann Brehony (NB: Ann's the creator of the excellent Ireland: Are We There Yet? app), we opted to prowl George's Street Arcade, in George's Street Great South. (Well, that's what the street signs call it; makes me want to march into a café and order 'Tea. Earl Grey. Hot.') The Arcade is a warren of small shops and stalls, filled with everything from vintage clothes to used books to vintage records. One used-clothes shop looked like Jimi Hendrix would have been right at home there—it had just the right head-shop ambience, minus the suspicious scent of burning incense to cover the even-more-suspicious scent of burning hemp.

We spent a happy hour trawling the used-book stall—I very nearly bought a copy of Graves' translation of Suetonius' 'The First Twelve Caesars'—and then went to take in Powerscourt Townhouse, which is built around an 18th century courtyard, and makes shop space for a good number of antique shops and Irish clothing designers. I get the feeling I'm going to regret not buying a Georgian silver mug (Lordy, what a beautiful shape!) as much as I still regret the gate-leg table I passed up in Ludlow 25 years ago.

After several hours' dedicated poking around in shops, sustenance was in order. Marie's suggestion of Simon's Place was spot-on, since we didn't want anything fancy. It's a small place at the George's Street end of the arcade, with a very casual coffee-shop ambience. Papered in movie posters and flyers for events, it serves a limited variety of sandwiches, pastries, salads, tea, and coffee. Seems to me the salads are overkill—get a sandwich, and you'll find it's got enough salad built into it you don't need one on the side! Tom's ham sandwich came on thick-cut artisan-style wholemeal bread, and was really good, and my mocha left Starbucks in the dirt.

We were the only foreign folk in the place, though whether because it's off the beaten track or thanks to the rain I've no clue. There were older guys in flat hats, taking their time over tea; ladies of a certain age pausing from shopping expeditions, and determinedly Bohemian kids from the neighborhood's music school.

Done refueling, we split up—Tom had had enough for one day, and went back to Patrick Street to put his feet up. I wanted to walk through the city, and enjoy it in the rain. George's Street, Stephen's Street, Golden Lane, White Friar Street, Peter's Row, Kevin Street (Lower and Upper), The Coombe, Ardee Street, Cork Street, Marrowbone Lane, Thomas Court, Thomas Street, and back around via High Street to Patrick, I meandered til I was sodden well above my knees, seeing and feeling the city. The rain-washed pavement had begun to fill up with people rushing home from work, by then—no offense to the good citizens of Dublin, but walking in the rain is much more pleasant with a bit less company, so I got out of their way.

We've eaten enough for a regiment, since we've been here, so we ate in tonight—an omelette, stuffed with Dubliner cheese (yes, yes; I <know> the stuff's made in Cork—I don't care if it comes from Mars, I like it!), with a reasonably good South African merlot/Shiraz blend.

An email arrived from Erik as we were finishing. Neither of us had any qualms leaving him home by himself for two weeks; since he's cramming for finals, he hasn't time for shenanigans anyway. Erik took his brother's cat to the vet yesterday: when Christopher left home for grad school, he couldn't take Shadow, from whom he'd been inseparable since second grade. Erik (to his own cat's displeasure) 'adopted' his brother's cat, and has looked after him devotedly, so he was quite upset to be told that Shadow has either some kind of cancer, or diabetes. For a feline of 15, that's not really surprising, any more than how much it upset Erik.

Odd, isn't it, to find that life other places keeps going, even when you're not there to see it doing so? Somehow, my boys had both, in Sullivan Ballou's memorable phrase, 'grown to honourable manhood' while I was busy doing the grocery shopping and scrubbing the bath tub. Life keeps muddling along one way or another in St. Louis, even though I'm in Dublin; Dublin's going to be here, doing its own thing, after I've gone home again. And life in both those cities, like all the others on the globe, will likely keep on moving—long after all of us have vanished from time and memory.

And all that is as it should be.

Dinner: Brazen Head

Originally posted on Posterous, April 30, 2012

Husband still asleep; tea and time to think. Still full from dinner last night, which we ate at the Brazen Head—the oldest pub in Dublin, and possibly, as Marie so rightly points out, in Europe. According to the books, there's been some kind of pub/ tavern/eatery on the site since 1198—which beats Vienna's Gosser Bierklinik by a good 500 years.

We went out of our way to walk along the Liffey on the way—and had it to ourselves, since rain only deters lesser mortals. On arriving, you fend for yourself by poking your head into one after another of the warren of small rooms to find an empty table. We ended up in a cozy side room, at a small table against the an iron stove that looked as though it used to do duty as both heat and cooking. It was snug and warm enough without, thanks to the crowd, and the candle atop it was an inviting touch. A bit more disconcerting was the coffin against which I was leaning. Propped against the wall, it's apparently been there long enough to be part of the decor.

What to drink? Guinness, of course—and the books are right; it's an entirely different critter here than in the States. It's a great deal smoother, and far less bitter. No clue if it's less hops, or a different kind of them, but it was very suave, with a velvety head that clung to the sides of the glass like a cold egg to a plate as I drained it. If the gods drink beer, surely this is their choice.

The first glass done, we had another with the meal. Since the venue was so traditional, we went that way with the food, as well: beef-and-Guinness stew for me, and lamb stew for Tom. Mine came served inside the biggest Yorkshire pudding I've ever seen, and had chunks of meat half the size of my palm, tender enough to knock apart with the spoon it arrived with. Jostling with mushrooms, celery, carrots, and a few other veggies in a rich brown gravy, and topped by a double scoop of mashed potatoes, it was redolent of rosemary and thyme—indescribably delicious. Tom's Irish stew was nearly as good, though he had to twist my arm to make me honor my promise to swap plates with him halfway through the meal. I could only manage one slice of the excellent wholemeal bread that arrived with it, and dessert unthinkable. (Famous first....)

The ambience was friendly and low-key, with a blend of local and foreign folk. I caught French, Canadian English, and what I think was Polish in addition to the local accent, and conversation amongst tables was easy and companionable—hard not to be, considering their proximity.
The music was interestingly eclectic and not loud enough to impede conversation. I caught the Stones (Angie), Blondie (Heart of Glass), Dire Straits (Money for Nothing), the Beatles (All You Need is Love), and Dido (Two Little Gods).

The food was good enough to have carried the evening by itself—but the people made it an experience. Going back before we leave town? Hellz, yeah.

"In Dublin's Fair City..."

Originally posted on Posterous, April 28, 2012

First days anywhere aren't usually very interesting, thanks to things like getting settled into wherever you're staying, figuring out what's where in the neighborhood, and realizing how tired you are.

I can't complain; we've a small flat in Patrick Street, and very cozy it is: upper floor overlooking the cathedral green—LOVING the church bells!—sitting room, bedroom, kitchen, bath. I prefer this to the more usual hotels or B&Bs. I'd far rather leave scheduling loose, and having to abide by fixed mealtimes (especially breakfast!) is a pain in the backside. A kitchen makes it possible to play hands-on with local food (I still say Wales has the best lamb in existence), and hang out over something to eat with friends for hours without dirty looks from wait staff.

We're liking Dublin enormously, even after just part of one day. The people, every last one us ignorant furriners have dealt with so far, have been incredibly nice. What little we've seen of the city is beautiful, and perfect for hours of walking, which we like better than any other mode of transport when traveling. I'd far rather be able to pause and look at the buildings and people, and listen to the sounds of life going on around me. This doesn't preclude travel by speedier means when more efficient; I just like <feeling> other cities directly. Besides, walking leaves travel open to serendipitous discoveries—fun little shops off the beaten path, small local eateries, and things to see and do I'd otherwise miss.

Today's major fun was a mid-afternoon meal at Queen of Tarts in Cow's Lane. Their site (http://www.queenoftarts.ie/) details the food to perfection....and perfection it was, altogether. I admit I'd cheerfully swim the Atlantic to eat the stuff, but the place itself is just fun. It was hard not to compare the afternoon to a similar one at Maids of Honour in Kew some years ago—not unfavorably to either establishment, I hasten to say (before the English beat me up).

The recommendation of the excellent Marie Ennis-O'Connor (@jbbc on Twitter), the Cow's Lane Queen (there's another, in Dame Street, apparently) is small, and crammed. I wonder if the line ever disappears, though it's worth the wait. Lots of small round wooden café tables and chairs, all laden with flowered china; cheerful waitresses who take the time to chat over the offerings with you; enormous pots of tea (and very good coffee!)...we spent most of the afternoon eating, drinking, and observing and chatting with those around us.

The other folks were a very diverting cross-section of humanity. Next to us was a large group of mums, aunties, and small girls, all dressed up for a girly outing. They were convivial fun, breezy and friendly. Very different they were from Grannie, Mummy, and Isabella-age-six, the group in Maids—informal and outgoing, just really nice people. There were groups of teenage girls, anchored by put-upon fathers, young couples, and middle aged ladies taking a break from shopping. More surprising were the business men in beautiful three-piece suits, and the gaggle of teenage boys in hoodies—neither were the sort I'd've expected to see in such a place. And they were just as friendly and interesting as the more-traditional female contingent—mes hommages to the locals!

One final thing: anyone pedantic enough to need to tell me that the title of this is the first line of "Molly Malone", a vaudeville number written in the US, can go pound sand. /grin

Zen and the art of the Layover

Originally posted on Posterous, April 28, 2012

Here in the upper-central US, you can't go to hell without going through Chicago. I don't really mind O'Hare, or the delay; time was, though, either would have driven me bonkers with frustration.
Age? Experience? A little of both, I suppose, mixed with exhaustion. I'm thankful, just now, for an enforced opportunity to do next to nothing. Nothing but watch the world go by, that is.

The best people-watching spot anywhere is London's Victoria Station—the entire population of the planet goes through there in the course of an afternoon—but O'Hare isn't half bad. There's a lady with striped orange hair, wound into a slip-shod bun, bleating on about her last conversation with her therapist; an Indian guy in a green turban, exuding imperturbability; and some wacko doing yoga off to one side of the concourse. No screaming child anywhere (amazing; clearly, Central Casting slipped up today).

I'd say two third of the people around me have some kind of electronic device they're absorbed in. iPads are the hands-down favorite, and most of them are the current model ( including mine), though there are a great many iPods as well. Interesting how the technology facilitates conversation—the people with paperbacks (lot of Clive Cussler, a James Patterson, and one dreadful bodice-ripper) are absorbed entirely, but the electronic folk enjoy comparing devices, apps, and sharing opinions. Mostly, they're using the gizmos to read the news, check email, and do social networking (I seem to be the only one fooling with iMovie); they're connecting outward, doing stuff. Wonder if electronic activity is as refreshing an escape for most as hiding out in a good novel can be? On reflection, I'd guess that's why most of the paperbacks are some kind of suspense/action subject matter—they're good, riveting reads that take the reader <somewhere> to occupy the time. Looks to me like the tech-based folk are enjoying their arguments, comparisons, and conversation as much as the readers their books.

Boarding now—onward to Ireland.