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I hauled myself out of bed, washed, brushed my hair (wilder and more extravagently Raphaelite than ever - thank you persistent Dublin humidity for making me feel like Golide Hawn in the final scene of Private Benjamin whenever I go out) and headed out into the world. Or rather Blackrock, Co. Dublin, which actually falls under the jurisdiction of the Dun Laoghaire (pronounced 'Leery') and Rathdown County Council.
On my way out, I stopped in the lounge and found that someone had deposited a TV on the TV stand! Mirabile Dictu! I have no idea which of my flatmats it belongs to and I shall have to find out - particularly as when I turned it on tonight, all I got was the blue screen of death, which makes me think that either there's a secret that I'm not privy to or the residence doesn't turn on the cable signal until you've showed them your licence, in which case, I shall most definitely offer to contribute. At any rate - TV! Hoo-rah! It doesn't quite make up for the fact that UCD won't let me use any P2P software, so I don't know how I'm going to get US TV this fall (or even UK, if the best stuff keeps showing on BBC3) - there may be throwing myself on the kindness of strangers - but it's a start. And, if all goes well, I'll be able to watch the soccer on weekends without heading out to the pub - even though I quite like the pub.
Anyway - wash, clothes, drink of water, discovery of TV, grabbing of backpack, heading out of residence at twilight. It's amazing how quickly after you've done the 45-minute hike to Belfield campus and the 30-minute hike home from Stillorgan the seven or so minutes from the doors of my residence to the crossroads of Frescati Road and Carysfort Avenue becomes nothing at all. I'd become amazingly spoilt living on Queen and considering anything farther away than across the road to be inconvient. Here at Blackrock, I think my expectations have normalized and now 10-minutes to the Super Quin's or Marks and Spencer's seems quite reasonable.
Tonight, I crossed Frescati Road and wandered down into Blackrock 'village' - a shortish high street composed mainly of pubs and cafes, posh boutiques and a handful of chemists, convenience stores and wine shops, not unlike the stretch of Queen Street East at Lee. The buildings appear to be a mixture of Victorian and Edwardian brick and I was somewhat suprised, as I wandered along the main street up the Post Office, then down to the DART station not to see older buildings. And as I wandered along Idrone Terrance, I was again surprised that the row of late Victorian townhouses looking across Dublin bay did not seem more posh. But perhaps as there is no access to the sea here, the DART lines running paralell to the shore, there is more attractive real estate elsewhere.
I am not living in the heart of Dublin but rather in an 18th-19th century tourist town later swallowed whole as the capital sprawled across the surrounding countryside, so whatever people's expectations of Dublin or Ireland may be, I have yet to come across it (except, perhaps, in Lonnegan's pub in the Montrose Hotel across from Belfield campus, done up inside to meet tourists' ideas of kitchen sessions and cellar taprooms with plenty of dark-stained wood and fake brick facade). Most of Blackrock could be a residential neighbourhood anywhere in Britain, perhaps a nod to its history as a preferred escape from the smog and bustle of Dublin among the Anglo-Irish Ascendency, and the view up and down the Stillorgan Road (aka the N11, which runs parallel to the south shore of Dublin Bay between Dublin city centre and somewhere else) has little to recommend it. But there are three views that I particularly want to remember from my first days here.
One, the view across the grounds of the Radisson SAS St. Helen's Hotel Dublin from across the Stillogran Road/N11 and over the wrought iron fence and the hotel grounds, past the white stone building to see Dublin Bay and Howth in the distance. Two, the fox I flushed as I walked along Stillorgan Park after seeing Atonement Friday night and the syncopated, galloping skitter of his nails along the asphalt that reminded me of the patter of the cat's paws as he'd run into my bedroom in the apartment on Queen Street. Three, my first proper view of Dublin Bay, the shore a circle of light around the dark water, from Idrone Terrace and the white glow of the ferry boats out of Dun Laoghaire against the rich darkening blue sky at dusk.
After, I continued my wander and finally found the Roman Catholic church (at least, a grey stone church with a Jesusly-hugs (pardon the pun) white plaster Christ-sur-cross shrine behind it). I'm assuming that it's the Catholic parish of St. John the Baptist as, frankly, the protestants are more discreet. Three churches I've seen so far in Dublin and two of them have been Church of Ireland, which says something about the area and the history of Ireland, if you know how to interpret the data. I'd be more sure of which church exactly it was but there was no sign... even in Italy, they put up a bloody sign so at least you know which of the 43,000 churches in Rome you're about to enter. Not so in Blackrock.
I walked towards the end of the road, far enough to find the bus stop with more of Dublin Bus' frustratingly unhelpful route information, then turned around and headed back towards Carysfort Avenue and 'home' (i.e. where my underwear is currently). I stopped in at the Italian pizza place I passed on the way only to discover that they didn't appear to do pizza by the slice and ordered a latte instead, figuring that the milk and the caffeine would do me good. I also passed "Sheehan's", the most modern of the bars along Blackrock's high street and the busiest. But I kept on walking, back up to Carysfort Avenue and the "Avoca", which may become my local by dint of being the closest bar to home and first I stopped in at.
The rugby was over by the time I arrived - Ireland won, although you couldn't tell by the tube's grim commentary on their performance - but I settled in with my copy of the Observer, a pint and a pack of peanuts and read away the rest of the evening. If I needed further proof of my fundamentally perverse nature, it's that I've come to Ireland for a year and I read the British papers. Then again, I haven't found an Irish paper I like and the Guardian is actually cheaper than the Irish Times, which makes absolutely no sense at all.
And while it's very literary and very Irish and what have you, I want to note that a diet of Guinness and peanuts does unexpected and not entirely pleasant things to one's digestion (technically a diet of Guinness, peanuts, an occassional packet of crisps, tea with milk, a few chocolate digestives and the odd cheese sandwich/bowl of pasta - but mostly Guinness. I really must find a vegetable soon).
Classes begin tomorrow and I'm torn between excitement and nausea at the thought - par for the course this week.
On my way out, I stopped in the lounge and found that someone had deposited a TV on the TV stand! Mirabile Dictu! I have no idea which of my flatmats it belongs to and I shall have to find out - particularly as when I turned it on tonight, all I got was the blue screen of death, which makes me think that either there's a secret that I'm not privy to or the residence doesn't turn on the cable signal until you've showed them your licence, in which case, I shall most definitely offer to contribute. At any rate - TV! Hoo-rah! It doesn't quite make up for the fact that UCD won't let me use any P2P software, so I don't know how I'm going to get US TV this fall (or even UK, if the best stuff keeps showing on BBC3) - there may be throwing myself on the kindness of strangers - but it's a start. And, if all goes well, I'll be able to watch the soccer on weekends without heading out to the pub - even though I quite like the pub.
Anyway - wash, clothes, drink of water, discovery of TV, grabbing of backpack, heading out of residence at twilight. It's amazing how quickly after you've done the 45-minute hike to Belfield campus and the 30-minute hike home from Stillorgan the seven or so minutes from the doors of my residence to the crossroads of Frescati Road and Carysfort Avenue becomes nothing at all. I'd become amazingly spoilt living on Queen and considering anything farther away than across the road to be inconvient. Here at Blackrock, I think my expectations have normalized and now 10-minutes to the Super Quin's or Marks and Spencer's seems quite reasonable.
Tonight, I crossed Frescati Road and wandered down into Blackrock 'village' - a shortish high street composed mainly of pubs and cafes, posh boutiques and a handful of chemists, convenience stores and wine shops, not unlike the stretch of Queen Street East at Lee. The buildings appear to be a mixture of Victorian and Edwardian brick and I was somewhat suprised, as I wandered along the main street up the Post Office, then down to the DART station not to see older buildings. And as I wandered along Idrone Terrance, I was again surprised that the row of late Victorian townhouses looking across Dublin bay did not seem more posh. But perhaps as there is no access to the sea here, the DART lines running paralell to the shore, there is more attractive real estate elsewhere.
I am not living in the heart of Dublin but rather in an 18th-19th century tourist town later swallowed whole as the capital sprawled across the surrounding countryside, so whatever people's expectations of Dublin or Ireland may be, I have yet to come across it (except, perhaps, in Lonnegan's pub in the Montrose Hotel across from Belfield campus, done up inside to meet tourists' ideas of kitchen sessions and cellar taprooms with plenty of dark-stained wood and fake brick facade). Most of Blackrock could be a residential neighbourhood anywhere in Britain, perhaps a nod to its history as a preferred escape from the smog and bustle of Dublin among the Anglo-Irish Ascendency, and the view up and down the Stillorgan Road (aka the N11, which runs parallel to the south shore of Dublin Bay between Dublin city centre and somewhere else) has little to recommend it. But there are three views that I particularly want to remember from my first days here.
One, the view across the grounds of the Radisson SAS St. Helen's Hotel Dublin from across the Stillogran Road/N11 and over the wrought iron fence and the hotel grounds, past the white stone building to see Dublin Bay and Howth in the distance. Two, the fox I flushed as I walked along Stillorgan Park after seeing Atonement Friday night and the syncopated, galloping skitter of his nails along the asphalt that reminded me of the patter of the cat's paws as he'd run into my bedroom in the apartment on Queen Street. Three, my first proper view of Dublin Bay, the shore a circle of light around the dark water, from Idrone Terrace and the white glow of the ferry boats out of Dun Laoghaire against the rich darkening blue sky at dusk.
After, I continued my wander and finally found the Roman Catholic church (at least, a grey stone church with a Jesusly-hugs (pardon the pun) white plaster Christ-sur-cross shrine behind it). I'm assuming that it's the Catholic parish of St. John the Baptist as, frankly, the protestants are more discreet. Three churches I've seen so far in Dublin and two of them have been Church of Ireland, which says something about the area and the history of Ireland, if you know how to interpret the data. I'd be more sure of which church exactly it was but there was no sign... even in Italy, they put up a bloody sign so at least you know which of the 43,000 churches in Rome you're about to enter. Not so in Blackrock.
I walked towards the end of the road, far enough to find the bus stop with more of Dublin Bus' frustratingly unhelpful route information, then turned around and headed back towards Carysfort Avenue and 'home' (i.e. where my underwear is currently). I stopped in at the Italian pizza place I passed on the way only to discover that they didn't appear to do pizza by the slice and ordered a latte instead, figuring that the milk and the caffeine would do me good. I also passed "Sheehan's", the most modern of the bars along Blackrock's high street and the busiest. But I kept on walking, back up to Carysfort Avenue and the "Avoca", which may become my local by dint of being the closest bar to home and first I stopped in at.
The rugby was over by the time I arrived - Ireland won, although you couldn't tell by the tube's grim commentary on their performance - but I settled in with my copy of the Observer, a pint and a pack of peanuts and read away the rest of the evening. If I needed further proof of my fundamentally perverse nature, it's that I've come to Ireland for a year and I read the British papers. Then again, I haven't found an Irish paper I like and the Guardian is actually cheaper than the Irish Times, which makes absolutely no sense at all.
And while it's very literary and very Irish and what have you, I want to note that a diet of Guinness and peanuts does unexpected and not entirely pleasant things to one's digestion (technically a diet of Guinness, peanuts, an occassional packet of crisps, tea with milk, a few chocolate digestives and the odd cheese sandwich/bowl of pasta - but mostly Guinness. I really must find a vegetable soon).
Classes begin tomorrow and I'm torn between excitement and nausea at the thought - par for the course this week.
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