Something was different about Easter this year; besides being in a different country, I mean. There were no tears, no lingering frustrations, about this morning. I sat in mass carefree, for the first year that I can really remember. The reason being is that the Easter Bunny over in Dublin is much less maniacal than the one back in Minneapolis.
For years, I was tormented by increasingly aggravating locations of my Easter basket, accompanied by the nonsensical off-the-cuff clues that my father, his messenger, would grant me, and then justify in retrospect. In contrast, my sister's basket was likely to be found at the foot of her bed, or just underneath the coffee table, so while she munched away on delicious treats (like my kryptonite, Starburst jellybeans) I was left questioning if there even was a God on the day I was supposed to be celebrating his resurrection. All the while, Mr. Clues would sit on the living room sofa, donning his ancient red-robe that covered not nearly enough of his legs, a cowlick to make Alfalfa Switzer envious, silently laughing through his nostrils as he generously offered up another clue.
I remember one year specifically that my mother pulled my into the bathroom, with puffy eyes and snot dripping down my face, and whispered with great emphasis the euthanizing words, "Look... behind... the drawer... in the living room!". I promptly did as I was told, and then pretended like I had come upon it by my own resources: we're a proud bunch, we Lambs. Even when covered in snot, we're proud.
Outside of windows on the roof, hung by coat hangers behind an unused swinging door, underneath glass bottles in the recycling... and that's just ages 7-9. Some years it would be eight o'clock in the evening before I found it, having to give pause to my expedition to allow time for mass and a family party or two. Even in later years, when I would boycott the search altogether, the smug look on that disheveled man's face would bore into me to the point where, even at fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, I was convinced that this would be the year that I would defy the fates and prove him wrong. It never happened. I have dreaded Easter ever since... and simultaneously can't wait to do the same thing to my kids one day.
This year, Kathleen and I spent the morning at Easter service, followed by a nice brunch at Elephant & Castle, home of the best omelette in Dublin, and home made ginger ale. This was a great capper to an eventful week with my lovely aunt, which I believe warrants a Top 5:
- The Dramatized "Stations of the Cross" at St. Mary's Church: We walked out, and Kathleen instantly said, "that will be burned in my memory for the rest of my life". Without saying much else, for fear of being struck by a bolt of lightning on this most sacred of days, I will say that if you told me that Christopher Guest had directed it I would believe it without hesitation. Put on by all local parishioners, the event showcased a tooth-optional Jesus, Simon in street clothes, an overly-contemplative Centurian guard (clearly the Brando of the bunch), and a howling group of female high-priests, who harmonized their unexpected shrieks like a chorus of stray dogs to the wails of Mary Magdalene (okay, bring on the lightning, I couldn't resist). Really, the best show in town.
- High Tea at the Shelbourne Hotel: This place was so nice it had its own barbershop next to the restrooms. Located right across to St. Steven's Green, the Shelbourne was one of those places that you never want to be rich enough to actually afford. It was fun to sample, however, and boy did we ever: a three-level feast of scones, sandwiches, and various pastries.
- Trip to Glendalough: A beautiful day in a beautiful part of the country, headlined by Irwin, our tour guide (and someone who should not be given a microphone -- I think he ended his sentences after every word), that had us (particularly me) cracking up all the way down and back.
- "All My Sons" at the Gate: Len Cariou, of Guthrie and original Sweeney Todd fame, was the lead, and was very good. It was interesting watching an American play performed by predominantly Irish actors, particularly because all of them had different regional dialects
- Lamb Alley: I had been meaning to get over there, if only for the photo opportunity. Turns out, that's about all there was: it was most certainly an alley, with barbed wire and beer bottles decorating it. So much for our namesake!
- Honorable Mentions: Easter Mass with the archbishop of Ireland, lunch at Bewley's Cafe
London finished up in fine fashion, as well. Noah and I went on a Jack the Ripper tour, and ended at a bar, The Ten Bells, that supposedly all of the slain prostitutes once frequented (a wonderful marketing ploy to say the least). The Tower of London was a highlight for me, since they were highlighting the controversy around Richard III (one of my favorite Shakespeare plays) and showcasing the armor of Henry VIII (who had the codpiece the size of a baseball helmet due to his terrible syphilis, the profile was quite amusing). We checked off the London Eye, Big Ben, Abbey Road, and Buckingham Palace, and spent Monday afternoon in Hyde Park on a paddle boat, attempting to catch a goose.
Anna and I went on an adventure, setting out to find some graffiti art by this guy Banksy , who has kind of made a name for himself in New York but is originally from London. It turns out, his artwork was painted over, but it led us to the El Dorado of graffiti art. It was like walking through a museum, inside of this government-approved tunnel on Leake Street. It was a great payoff to our impromptu scavenger hunt.
Before London, Katie and Tim were here! They flew into Dublin before heading westward to where the real action is, scenically speaking, then looped back for the last couple days before flying home Friday morning. The first day we were a little concerned that Tim was dying: a combination of jet-lag and sickness made a guy who's chipper even after a 70-hour workweek look like he was on his last legs. Luckily, he recovered in fine fashion, and they seemed to have a great time (I think taking over 600 pictures). I credit the mediocre Apache pizza, which we picked up and ate in their hotel room the first night, as the miracle remedy that brought him back to good health.
We did manage to squeeze in the Book of Kells that first day. I don't know what I was expecting, but for all the fanfare, it's one page of a (granted, well crafted and historically significant) book. Kathleen informed me that they change the page every day, however, so maybe after multiple viewings I'll get a better sense of it (though at eight bucks a pop, I'm skeptical). Anyway, check it off for experience. The Long Room upstairs in Trinity College, however, stole the show, stacked floor-to-ceiling with old books and statues of famous writers.
I was writing Acts 2 and 3 of Bernie when they got back, but we managed to still have some fun as well. We went to dinner at Gruel (aka Sam Shepard's bathroom encounter) and they gave me a sampling of the pictures they had taken and the sights they had seen. I was glad that Tim was back to good, even clueing me in that T-Rex arms actually faced upwards and therefore were not as useless as depicted (believe it or not, it was relevant the conversation at the time... not sure how we got there, actually). We headed over to the Stag's Head pub afterward, on the recommendation of playwriting teacher Michael West, for a couple pints and more merriment: putting me in the perfect condition to write thirty pages when I went home (hey, it worked!).
The next day we met for brunch at my favorite breakfast place "The Joy of Coffee" (I also took Mike and Haley there... I'm sort of a broken record), and afterwards made the leisurely walk to the Guinness factory. I personally thought it was better than Jamieson, for a couple of reasons: one, you could tour it on your own, instead of following a tour guide (though I believe they have that option as well), and two, there is a seven-story high bar (one of the very few skyscrapers in the city) with 360-degree windows where you can enjoy your pint that comes as complement with the ticket. There was a sign in the factory that read 'There's Poetry in a Pint of Guinness', so I figured there must be a play in there as well, if you had enough of it. Again, afterward, I walked home and knocked off my entire third act... I'm not one for superstitions, but...
Anyway, it's been great to have so many visitors and to visit new lands, but, as I told Liz in an email on Good Friday, I could use a couple days in the tomb myself! Unfortunately, it looks like a busy week: a history paper and an edited draft, full day of class on tuesday, class and a play on wednesday, and thursday/friday helping Jake with his final music video (not in drag... that I know of). The weekend is atypically free: I couldn't afford the ticket to Seville, but Chelsea heads in the following weekend to be the better cousin of the two of us. I guess her friend Munch is coming too. I'll be breathing easier by then.
Here's a hodgepodge of pictures from the past couple of weeks (my computer's on overload, so I might have to upload more later. I'm also uploading some clips from The Stations onto my YouTube Channel, so check in on the sidebar in a little while to see what you missed).
I think I've made myself sick from Starburst Jellybeans, so I'm off to remedy that. If you see that Bunny, punch him for me, will ya?
- D
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