Chapter 4
Sunday breaks damp with a gray wind and several loosely connected hangovers shared
among the crew. Our hotel-room, which has a single four-paned window facing a brick
wall, also has a metric thermostat that appears to be stuck on tropical. It is 7:15am and
Dehlia has begun stirring in her Pac n’ Prison; a small 4 walled portable-crib that she
refers to, in name only, as her bed. We dress and go to the restaurant across the hall from
our room. It is here that I first make acquaintance with Black Pudding and the Irish
breakfast.
I am sitting next to Dehlia, with Brendan across from me. The lady who has checked us
into the hotel only yesterday (and who has also worked the bar, the Carvery and dropped
off coffee and cream to our room) places a plate in front me jammed with fried tomatoes,
sausages, bacon, burned-black ham, fried eggs, enormous button mushrooms and a mix
of White and Black Puddings all finished with a veneer of cooking shellaque. These
pudding things look far from the blissful chocolate and butterscotch cups shared in Bill
Cosby commercials, and appear to have strong ties to both the hockey puck and urinal
cake families.
Ti-Ti Carol is working steadily on hers—fork in her right hand and her left elbow
positioned so that anyone trying to clip a sausage link or mushroom button would be
summarily throttled. I sort of move things around on the plate like I’m playing a game of
Risk placing my Pudding in a position to invade the area surrounding my greasy tomato.
I ask Brendan what exactly Black Pudding is. “It’s a sausage made with oats, spices and
pig’s blood squeezed into the lining of a sow’s intestine.” He tells me, smiling, and
continues, “..And the white sausage is about the same, just no blood.”
Dehlia has one eyebrow raised in a, “You’re kidding me, right Dad?” sort of way and
pushes herself away from the table. She wanders over to where Brooke is sitting with
Mema and Erin. “Did you eat all your breakfast Dehlia?” Brooke asks. “No Mom”,
Says Dehlia, “breakfast is black.”
One by one the rest of the group files in, fills up and splits back to the rooms to change
and prepare for another day in Dublin. A plan is coming together. Brendan and Russell
want to see the Dublin General Post Office--sight of the Easter Rising of 1916, and the
Book of Kells at Trinity College. Brooke, Erin and I are looking toward getting inside
The Guinness factory and Rhetta is prepared to simply go with the flow. Frau Linda
doesn’t care so much where we end up as long as we’re in a constant state of motion and
the now amped Ti-Ti Carol, fresh off her pudding-polishing, is ready for some
excitement, or ‘citement’, as goes the translation.
We board a twin-deck bus and begin the day at around 11am. The drive into the city is
pleasant and Dehlia is enjoying riding on the upper level of the bus with her face mashed
against the front window. The bus empties us almost directly in front of the Dublin GPO
and the group breaks—Brendan, Russell, Erin and I head into the Post Office while the
rest of the crew heads into Rochey’s Department store in search of the impalpable baby
stroller.
The Dublin General Post Office is enormous, cold and quiet as a crypt. Half a dozen Post
office workers are vending stamps and weighing packages at half a dozen individual
teller-windows. There is a sectioned off area inside and to the right that tells the story of
the Easter Rising of 1916 through life-size murals and glass cases of gloomy
memorabilia.
On Easter Monday, April 24 th 1916 a force of Irishmen under arms, estimated at between
1,000 and 1,500 men and women, attempted to seize Dublin, with the ultimate intention
of attaining political freedom and the establishment of an Irish Republic. Centuries of
discontent marked by numerous rebellions, preceded the Uprising. The most recent crisis
had begun to develop in September 1914, following the outbreak of World War 1, when
the British government suspended the recently enacted Home Rule Bill which guaranteed
a measure of political autonomy to Ireland. Suspension of the Bill had stimulated growth
for a Citizen Army, an illegal force of Dublin citizens organized by socialist James
Connolly of the Irish Volunteers and of the extremist group, The Sinn Fein and by
educator Padhraic Pearse. Hostilities began at about noon on the 24 th , when 1,500 men
led by Pearse seized control of the Dublin General Post Office and other strategic points
within the city. Shortly after these initial successes, the leaders of the rebellion
proclaimed the independence of Ireland and announced the establishment of a provisional
government; the Irish Republic.
Additional positions were occupied by the rebels during the night and by the morning of
the 25 th they controlled a sizeable portion of Dublin. The counteroffensive by British
forces began on Tuesday with the arrival of reinforcements. Martial law was proclaimed
throughout Ireland. Bitter street fighting developed in Dublin during which the
strengthened British forces steadily dislodged the Irish from their positions. By the
morning of April 29 th . The post office building—site of the rebel headquarters—was
under a violent and brutal attack and the building was within a few blocks of being
burned to the ground. Pearse surrendered unconditionally in the afternoon of the 29 th and
a group of 15, including Pearse and Connolly, were executed by firing squad in front of
thousands of weeping onlookers. Four others, including the American born Eamon De
Valera and patriot Michael Collins received death sentences that were later commuted to
life imprisonment and eventually were granted amnesty after one year behind bars.
All things being equal, many Irish consider the Easter Rising to be simultaneously one of
the lightest and darkest days in Ireland’s history.
I’m staring at an original portrait of the burning Post Office dating back nearly 90 years.
It shows James Connolly, lame and hunkered on the floor, while attendants care for him
amidst exploding mortar shells and raging fire. Given the preciseness with which the
GPO has been rebuilt, I can see exactly where this scene would have unfolded. I walk
over to the spot where Connolly laid staring up at the ceiling. Inscribed on a mural, some
100 feet above reads, “Irishmen and Irishwoman! In the name of God and of the dead
generations from which she receives the old tradition of nationhood, Ireland summons
her children to her flag and strikes for her freedom.” There are several hundred people
inside the post office but it’s quiet enough to hear each of them thinking. The hair on the
back of my neck is standing up. It may be because of the early September breeze
blowing through the open windows, but I don’t think so. I buy a commemorative
Michael Collins postcard, complete with postage paid stamp, and head out the front door
greeted not by mortar shells, but by the bustle of a dwindling tourist season and an
Ireland that the ghosts inside had fought and died for.
I make my way over to Rochey’s and find an enthusiastic Ti-Ti Carol. “Ah, Brooke
bought a carriage and I think it was the most ‘spensive carriage in the store.” I find the
baby carriage section (the fact that they have an entire wing devoted to baby strollers is
immediately unsettling), and begin pouring over sales tags. Lest you, dear reader,
perceive the word sales to precurse any sort of bargain here, understand that it’s just an
adjective—and in this case not a very good one. I find Brooke at the exit, pushing out a
carriage the size of a Fiat loaded with our sleeping child. “Steven, don’t say a word. We
needed a carriage with a rain cover, this is a carriage with a rain cover and I don’t want to
hear anything about it.” Says she.
The stroller (which for the record hasn’t logged more than an inch of roll time since being
back on US soil) comes complete with an advanced shock absorption system, rear wheel
slip-differential and a crumple-resistant bumper. And it has one rocking rain cover. At
this point in the trip, we’ve experienced nothing but sunshine and flotillas of
unthreatening clouds. I did mention this to my wife, but she swiftly fired off one of her
“You’ll regret any further discussion on this particular topic” looks, and I decide to close
on the subject—at least for now.
I’m desperately longing for a bite of food neither laced with pig’s blood nor stuffed into
an intestinal stocking, but we’re close by to The Book of Kells, so I stay quiet and keep
my eyes peeled for vending machines as we head toward Trinity College. En route,
Dehlia wakes and asks to be lifted from the carriage so she can see the statue of Molly
Malone. In front of the statue, an impish Irish fellow, reeking of breakfast, is playing the
Bodrhan and trying to keep step to canned rover-music coming from his tape-deck. He
extends his hand to Dehlia, inviting her to dance with him. My daughter has a highly
over-developed sense of smell, a trait borrowed from her Mother, and wrinkles her nose
at him after a few nervous wiggles around the statue. “I don’t like his smell.” She
confides in me. “I want to go back in my carriage.”
We take a lightning-fast tour of The Book of Kells that dumps us into the Trinity College
Gift Shop. After loading up on postcards, souvenir pencils and introductory Tin whistle
guides, we head out into a soaking rain—no doubt ordered up by Brooke who is carrying
a look that I’ve seen several times before. Dehlia is tucked and sealed into her stroller,
perfectly dry and pulling the eraser heads off of her new pencils as the group moves
toward the Guinness Factory bus stop. The first bus rolls in right away, but it has room only for 5, maybe 6 of us and we let it pass. We wait another 10 minutes but are a bit slow on the uptick and only three of us are welcomed aboard—we pass again. This time, after another 7 or 8 minutes, the bus just rolls by without stopping. By the time we board a bus, make the 6 mile trip to the factory and unload, the factory is closed and we all make a half-hearted sulk through yet another gift shop. This time, Dehlia gets a rubber Guinness key-chain to gnaw on and an official bag of hops to poke. By now I’m hungry enough to eat a pig’s ears, tail and squeal, not to mention its pudding and I’m begging that we stop for food. The Hausmans are planning on crawling the evening streets of Dublin, again, and convince Brendan to go along with them—the rest of us head back toward the Hotel for dinner. Along the way, we stop at an Irish-pizza shop of some repute and Carol reminds us that cheese gives her an ‘uhset stomach’, before throwing a mini-fit when told she would no longer be pushing Dehlia in mega-carriage.
Back at the hotel, Rhetta has agreed to keep an eye on Dehlia while the rest of us get down to business in the hotel pub. Erin, Brooke and I are drinking full-pints of Guinness while the cheese-less Ti Ti continues to bob and weave her way around a light beer. “C’mon Carol, live a little, pound that thing.” Urges Erin. “Oh no, I’m not getting drunk and I don’t wanna headache. I don’t wanna headache in my stomach either.” Says Ti-ti. I’m eating lukewarm Hot Nuts at a fanatical clip when Brendan and the Hasumans pull in a short time later and take to drinking with us. It’s our last night in Dublin before heading southwest to Dingle and we’re looking for the elusive mighty craic—given the right situation, at this point we’d probably be willing to expose some as well.
We take seats against the back wall Erin, Brooke, Carol and I, along with Brendan and the Hausmans. A group of a dozen locals have filled a long cherry banquet table in front of us and are singing songs and slinging pints. The crew is clearly hammered, except for a few pre-teens who keep checking their watch-less wrists and rolling their eyes as their parents, uncles and aunts slobber through ‘She’s Always A Woman’, and ‘Only The Good Die Young’, by the almost un-green Billy Joel. They’re not half bad. Two of the them are vying for the entire pub’s attentions; a short fella that, not unlike Dehlia’s stewed dance partner earlier in the day, seems as if he may lose consciousness at any moment and the other a hulking cross between Johnny Cash and former Celtic forward Kevin McHale. The group’s proclivity towards American standards is disappointing. I’m looking for more Quiet Man and less (much less) Piano Man.
Brendan, who until this point has been providing back up support, comes to the rescue with a rendition of ‘Rare Old Times’ and the local crew immediately begins to yelp, ‘Hold The Taxis!’—in both appreciation of his fine work and in hope of actually finding a way home that doesn’t involve driving headlong into an Irish lamp-post. The crew leaves, but not before the man-in-black stands and offers an expressive rendition of ‘Funiculi-Funicula’. Properly motivated, I get up to go to the bathroom and on the way notice that the sign ‘Mighty Craic nightly, open until 11pm’ sign has been turned over, showing nothing but blank gray slate. I ask the bartender what time the place is supposed to close for the night and he says, “Just keep it up and we might not.”
Back inside the bar another group has taken up space at the banquet table. 12-15 men, in town for the All-Ireland Hurling finals slated for the following afternoon, are standing, drinking and singing loudly. Mr. Cash has stuck around and already formed a vocal-bond with the new group. The lights are on him again and he’s hammering away on some Irish song that I don’t recognize. I’m 6 or 7 pints deep at this point and trying my best to bleed into the wallpaper. Brooke has gotten out our video camera and is busy confirming another American stereotype. She’s egging them on and it’s working.
Another little fella, Paddy, who has literally slept through the first twenty minutes of the group’s performance, springs to life courtesy of Brooke’s 400 watt camera light which is busy blinding the entire room. He is barely coherent and has a certain whiff about him that suggests attendance at a week-long whisky camp. He’s trying to get Ti-Ti Carol to dance with him and it’s not going well. “C’mon and dance with me girl.” He says. Ti-Ti is pale with horror and is screaming for him to get away. Undaunted he moves onto Brooke who is more than happy to grant him a spin while continuing to roll tape.
Linda and Russ call it quits after Brendan follows a ‘New York, New York’, with an ‘I Left My Heart In San Francisco’. I notice that all 3 bartenders have stayed on well past 2am and are cleaning glasses with much less of a scowl than one would imagine. Per the Dumbass Guide, pubs in Ireland tend to stay open past the announced closing time, sometimes well past, when the craic is cracking. This seems to be one of those times.
I’m doing my best to ruin everything as I spiddle through a version of ‘Rhinestone Cowboy’ repeating the same 3 lines over and over (and over) again. Paddy is dancing with Brendan now and Brooke runs out of tape and bids goodnight taking along Erin and Ti-Ti. I think briefly about staying up for one more, but Mr. Johnny Cash is settling into a sentimental ‘Black Is The Colour’ by Christy Moore. The song, contrary to my associating it with the morning’s pudding, describes the singer’s true love; a black-haired beauty with a sweet smile and gentle hands. I decide to split before he follows it with an ‘Uptown Girl.’
On my way out I notice the front-desk/cleaning/delivery-lady setting up plates and saucers inside the restaurant. Before my head hits the pillow, I scribble a mental note to sleep through breakfast.