DUBLIN MISCELLANY

As I recall, the Irish Times used to have a regular feature titled “Dublin Miscellany.” Maybe it still does. Well, I’m borrowing that heading as the umbrella for the somewhat random musings that follow . . .

First of all, a simple gauge of the changes that have taken place in Dublin since I last visited in 2005. On that occasion, on my first night back in the city I met my old friend Fionán for a pint at Conway’s pub on Parnell Square South. Competing with The Brazen Head for the title of “the oldest pub in Dublin,” it was for me an emblem of the radical social and economic changes that had taken place in Ireland during the roar of the so-called Celtic Tiger: not only were our pints of Guinness pulled by a woman . . . but that woman was Asian. As Fionán explained to me at the time: Irish-born people no longer work in the service industry. Well, five years later that particular gauge is moot . . . as that one-time claimant for the distinction of ultimate longevity is now shuttered and out of business. Hmmm . . .

Second of all, today I did some particularly Joycean rambling, covering a lot of territory in the process. Around midday I stopped in to the James Joyce Centre on North Great George’s Street. I didn’t know what I would find there . . . and, frankly, I didn’t find much. It provides a very basic introduction to Joyce’s life and his works, mostly via a video and some displays. The major point of interest for Joyce fetishists would probably be the door from #7 Eccles Street, the real-world address for the fictional Leopold and Molly Bloom in Ulysses. Beyond that? Well, I don’t think there is anything beyond the door—it’s all façade!

In contrast, about 8 miles away via the D.A.R.T train, in the seaside town of Sandycove, sits the early 19th-century “Martello” tower that houses the James Joyce Museum, which I visited an hour or so later. I had been there before but I still found it to be “ambient”—Joyce himself lived in the tower briefly, and of course it is the setting for the opening episode of Ulysses, in which Stephen Dedalus’ antagonist Buck Mulligan describes it as “the omphalos” . . . the “navel” of the world. It has some interesting memorabilia, including Joyce’s old guitar and also a beautiful striped necktie given to him in Paris by Samuel Beckett. . . . Close by, of course, is the “Forty Foot” swimming place that Buck Mulligan plunges into at the end of the “Telemachus” episode. (“Forty Foot” also figures prominently in Jamie O’Neill’s fine novel At Swim, Two Boys.) It used to be “For Gentlemen Only”—it was essentially used for bathing in the nude—but is now a family swimming area.

Finally (for this installment), a note about my evening stroll tonight. I decided to see if I could make my way without a map to one of my old addresses—9 Effra Road in Rathmines. Well, I have to admit that I got very lost. I thought that I knew where I was going—I went past my previous “digs,” my bedsitter on Beechwood Avenue Lower, and I went past my friend Joan’s old flat on Dunville Avenue . . . but then I was suddenly in a brave new world: old landmarks had been replaced by new shops and condos, and even once-familiar street names seemed part of an utter “throughotherness.” I did end up in the heart of Rathmines . . . but even using Slattery’s pub (one of my old watering holes back in 1978) as a new starting point, I got desperately lost again. Finally I gave up and took a left turn that I hoped would bring me back in the basic direction I had come from. At the end of that street I paused for a second, my eye drawn by an ultra-modern looking house that was architecturally completely anomalous with the century-old (or more) row houses lining both sides of the street. I was truly stunned to realize that I was standing in front of 9 Effra Road. I had heard years ago in a roundabout way (from my parents, who met my old landlord—who happened to be celebrated Irish playwright, novelist and short story writer Eugene McCabe—when he received an honorary degree, along with my father, from the University of Prince Edward Island) that the house I lived in had burned down; but I had never imagined that it would be replaced by such an anomaly! Oh well . . . I am still in disbelief that I happened upon my old address after I had given up hope of finding it this evening.