46A

Back in the day, the Burlington Hotel was a pretty fashionable address. But times have changed—several times—and now even a visiting academic with a small budget can afford to stay there. The hotel is still stylish and well-maintained, and for my money I could not have asked for more. And as for location, location, location . . . well, it was about a 12-minute walk to anywhere I wanted to go in the heart of Dublin—the National Library, the National Gallery, St. Stephen’s Green, Grafton Street—and also my old stomping grounds of Ranelagh and Rathmines. It’s also on the AirCoach bus line—a direct ride from and to the airport for just 8 Euros each way—and it’s on a couple of regular bus lines as well, the #11 that goes far into the northside and the 46A that goes south. . . .

I took the 46A last night out to meet my old friends Bairbre and Gerry (and their sons Oisín and Eoin) at my old “local” back in 1977-78, Byrne’s Galloping Green pub on the dual carriageway in Stillorgan. Bairbre was one of the first people I met when I came to Dublin as a student in 1977—we’ve almost fallen out of touch a couple of times, and I hadn’t seen her and Gerry since 1998 (in Galloping Green) and had never met their handsome young sons. But seeing them after a dozen years made no big difference—time collapses under the substance of old friendships and we spent a wonderful few hours together. Now if only I could do justice to Gerry’s stories—including several about a friend’s yellow Ford car! Gerry was insistent that his stories were not only “good” but also “true” . . . Hmmm.

Perhaps needless to say, seeing Bairbre and Gerry under the roof of the Galloping Green pub brought back many memories for me, some with literary associations. One of them is Galloping Green’s claim to literary fame as the only pub that barred legendary writer Brian O’Nolan/Flann O’Brien/Myles na Gopaleen from its premises . . . in writing. (Clearly, publican Jerry Byrne, who ran the establishment when I frequented it and who wrote the letter, took serious exception to something!) I believe that incident is recorded either in Anthony Cronin’s biography of his crony, No Laughing Matter, or in Peter Van de Kamp’s illustrated biography of the author of my favorite novel of all time, At Swim-Two-Birds. In fact, as I was riding the bus out to Galloping Green I had yet another memory . . . of my first-ever pint of Guinness, which I enjoyed at Kiely’s of Donnybrook, a well-known pub which happens to be on the 46A bus route. Not long after that experience, in September of 1977, I read for the first time this passage in At Swim-Two-Birds:

We sat in Grogan’s with our faded overcoats finely disarrayed on easy chairs in the mullioned snug. I gave a shilling and two pennies to a civil man who brought us in return two glasses of black porter, imperial pint measure. I adjusted the glasses to the front of each of us and reflected on the solemnity of the occasion. It was my first taste of porter.

The mind may be impaired by alcohol, I mused, but withal it may be pleasantly impaired. Personal experience appeared to me the only satisfactory means to the resolution of my doubts. Knowing it was my first one, I quietly fingered the butt of my glass before I raised it. Lightly I subjected myself to an inward interrogation.

Nature of interrogation: Who are my future cronies, where our mad carousals? . . .

Ah, what oft was thought but ne’er so well expressed . . .

Anyway, there’s a funny story about Kiely’s pub, told by author Benedict Kiely—no relation to the publican, though he lived almost directly across Morehampton Road from the pub for the last couple of decades of his life. Kiely told me this story in person back in 1998, but I think he may have written it somewhere as well. It’s about an American friend who grabbed a cab at the airport and told the driver—vaguely, he thought—“Kiely’s . . . Donnybrook”: when the driver headed off without further details, the American thought that Ben Kiely must have really made a name for himself if even a random cabbie at the airport knew exactly where he lived. The American was dropped off at the pub . . .

DEAR, DIRTY DUBLIN

So . . . within minutes of getting settled into “the Burlo”—the Burlington Hotel on Dublin’s southside—I received an email from my old friend Fionán: “Welcome Home!” he exclaimed. And I have to say that Dublin does feel an awful lot like home. . . . As I was passing through the city on the bus from the airport, I was reminded of our family visit to Dublin in 1998: our three daughters were young and not really “into” urban life—“dear, dirty Dublin,” indeed—and we actually ended up cutting short by a day our planned time for wandering the city; but my wife told me afterwards that the girls whispered to her: “Dad just loves Dublin, doesn’t he? He seems so happy . . .” And I guess it’s the happiness of unselfconscious familiarity with a place—of still feeling comfortably and naturally at home in a place that once was “home,” even with the inherent temporariness of a student’s lifestyle.

I have to admit that I didn’t choose to stay at the Burlington with any great designs: my wife actually booked it for me after getting the unbelievable rate of $54 (that’s dollars, not Euros) a night. Hey, that’s cheaper than I can live at home! But its location is perfect for getting into and out of “the Heart of the Hibernian Metropolis” . . . and today it was perfect for allowing me to walk about 10 minutes to the neighborhood of Ranelagh, where I lived in a tiny “bedsitter” at 103 Beechwood Avenue Lower for about 3 months in 1978. That building is still standing—and looks like it’s being renovated, maybe as a condo. But the rest of the neighborhood has certainly evolved—or been gentrified. Conspicuously absent is Beechwood Stores, the little grocery that used to sit directly across the street. But I was especially struck by the number of small coffee shops and other casual eateries lining the main drag of Ranelagh Village. . . though I was surprised that the Kylemore Cake Shop is gone. (I remember coming around the corner one morning in 1978 and seeing Johnny Fingers, the pajama-clad pianist of The Boomtown Rats, coming out of that Kylemore’s. That now seems so long ago—and in a sense so far away, though perhaps less so for me than for Johnny Fingers, who I’ve heard has settled in Japan, where he works as a “greeter” for visiting rock bands.)

So . . . “the Burlo” will be my base for the next 8 or 9 days. When I checked in today, the desk clerk asked me: “Are you here for business or for pleasure?” I replied: “Well, my boss thinks I’m here for business, but my friends think I’m here for pleasure.” Then—did I have in the back of my mind the fact that the Burlington claims to have the largest ballroom in Ireland?—I added: “I’m not sure what my wife thinks.” Without missing a beat, the desk clerk smiled and said: “Well, we’ll not let on to her . . .”