We wake up the next morning (all have slept, except for me) to arrive in Shannon as our first stop before finally arriving in Dublin. The morning mist must surely herald the most magical time of day in Ireland, with its myriad shades of green covering its undulating hills which reach out from the ground to embrace you. Arrival in Shannon is peaceful, and quiet. We must change planes, which is not so pleasant, because that entails pulling luggage through customs and lugging it around until the time of the flight. But the landing was magical, and I hold onto the vision of the green rolling hills positioned next to the jagged coast, small fishing boats making their sleepy way out for the day’s work.
Once in Dublin, a million memories flood back to me, not one of them pleasant. I refer back six years to 1999, when a three-year old Rosie and I flew into Dublin to meet Dad for a month-long stay with him. His girlfriend at the time, a crusty Bavarian woman named Hertha, was supposed to meet Rosie and me to see us to the train to the West. Well, as if to ensure that no companion of Dad’s would disappoint us in the reason they connected so well to him, she had met two young Bavarian students that morning and took the train with them… I didn’t know this until we had made our way from the airport to Heuston Station. There I was, exhausted with way too much luggage and the most cheerful three year old there ever was, in a strange country and not sure how to get to where we needed to be. Needless to say, we figured it out.
But, as I stood there with my brother, my now nine year old, my father, and only slightly less luggage than before, I shuddered as we moved towards the bus stop to get to Heuston Station… with luggage (which seemed to have immediately expanded in the seconds between terminal and curb)… and now a sleepy, not so happy nine year old… at the height of the morning commute. The delighted trio of them found a spot upstairs, while I waited with the precariously balanced luggage downstairs. I pressed up against the luggage, nose to the glass which unfortunately welcomed the now very bright sunlight flooding into the bus. So, in the wake of no sleep, stress over the social experiment of taking the bus instead of a nice, roomy (albeit expensive) cab, I was still beyond excited to be back in Ireland and on our way.
Dublin was as I remembered it, and the social experiments that my father wanted for us were to continue. As would become a pattern in our journey, his goal was to find those places which either existed in his memory or were mythical but as real to him as the nose on his face. We searched for hostels he remembered or restaurants, until we screamed for Relief, the patron saint of trips with one’s elderly, but by no means docile, father.
The first holy grail was Bewley’s. Now, Bewley’s is a wonderful café that served wonderful coffee and tea, as well as breakfast. I remembered its large ceiling and black and white tiled floors, dark wooden tables and small booths (but I wonder now if that is true or just what my mind attached to the experience). But, first to the hostel to leave our things. Grace allowed me the small concession of a taxi from the bus stop at which we had been left.
We gratefully found our hostel, next to the James Joyce house. The small, rather vertical hostel was what one would call clean enough, but almost dingy or Spartan. This was a very student-friendly, if you catch my meaning, and matched the mood one had when reading Joyce. Apologies to all those who feel Joyce is not dingy; I do not intend to offend.
Dad was, indeed, offended, when I insisted on locking our bags together in the luggage room since our room was not ready, it being 9AM. He felt I had insulted all international backpacking students, whose morals, apparently, are above reproach, even though those same students (or the few bad apples among them) had stolen plenty from him over the years he traveled in this fashion. So, we moved past his disappointment in me, and as punishment, he made us walk at least two miles to find breakfast.
Which brings me to another habit of my father that endears him to his children, over and over again – asking for directions. Most women complain that men do not ask for directions; they would not be so disappointed in Richard. But, my father does not limit himself to one person, he truly embraces this as an opportunity to meet the world. Every sixth or seventh person was such an opportunity. He asked each nicely dressed Dubliner, on their way to work or play, the way to Bewley's. Each answered with the same quizzical look, surely, Bewley's was closed due to business troubles, so there was no café open at the time, but the old location was ever shorter up Collins Avenue over the Liffey River Bridge.
Alas, when we arrived at the location, the windows had been plastered with signs telling the awful truth, that Bewley's was closed, the tile entrance leading to the great wooden doors now a home for scattered papers and trash being tossed lightly in the morning breeze.
So, our now two mile walk at an end, a new adventure presented itself, Dad had to find a new place to eat. This was wonderful! A brand new reason to introduce oneself to the rest of Dublin, at least those poor souls on Collins Avenue who found themselves unlucky enough to be interrupted in their morning routine.
Thankfully, the cafeteria at the local department store was open, comfortable, and the best breakfast we ever had. We must have looked quite the sight, a crew of four, pretty disheveled, speaking only in sparse words to one another, because bonding was the last thing on our minds. We had been reduced to the primal self, the carbon unit in search of food. Like cavemen huddling over the recent kill, we ate in silence and each thanked God for small favors.
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