Chapter 6
It’s just before 10pm and Dingle’s early September streets are wet and deserted. Driving
into town, a brick seawall borders the western margin of the city and a series of narrow,
mostly one-way streets are lined with seafood restaurants, souvenir shops and pubs—61
of them according to Brendan’s Guzzler’s Guide. We pass neat rows of fishing boats
rising and falling in the harbor-their nets precisely draped and drying along the dock.
The night air is almost winter-cold. Brooke crackly observes an open ice-cream shop and
makes mention that I’ll be going to get her some after we unpack.
Our digs are located directly above The Curtain Call, a curtain shop on Main
Street—kiddy corner from the Small Bridge Pub—aptly named for the small bridge it
abuts. The 4-bedroom apartment is immaculate. Polished-slick pine floors spread over
three levels with 4 full bathrooms, a recently done kitchen with a marble-topped breakfast
island and recessed lighting all combine to give the place a modern lilt here in Europe’s
most western city.
A set of French doors open onto a roof-deck off of the main living area—offering views
down to the waterfront. Brooke and I have our own bedroom, a private bathroom and big
windows looking onto the street. We set up an inflatable mattress with flannel sheets for
Dehlia who has slept through the unpacking as well as several door slams and the
brushing of her teeth. I feel a little guilt seeing her camped out on the floor to the side of
our Queen bed, but not much. She considers it camping and I’m happy to go along.
Main Street is broom-clean and lined with 10’ forged iron lamps. Almost every other
shop is a pub or at minimum has a draught-pull behind the counter. In Dingle it is
possible to drain a pint while visiting the dry cleaner, the fishmonger, even the cobbler.
With only 61 pubs, or 8 for every single local, this kind of resourcefulness is critical.
Signs in most of the windows, unlike those in Dublin that read ‘No War In Iraq’, and
‘Palestine Burns, Raytheon Earns’, advertise ‘Mighty Craic’, and ‘Traditional Music
Nightly.’
In a weighing of options, Brooke has decided to fetch the ice cream while I put Dehlia to
bed, or to floor as is the case. I read her ‘A Child’s Calendar’ by John Updike that offers
a few lines of rhyme for each month of the year. Dehlia is completely asleep and lightly
snoring by the time Updike explains that in March, “The mud smells happy on our shoes
and we still wear mittens which we will lose”.
I skim a copy of the Irish Independent, Dublin’s most popular liberal ink, and see stories
with varying degrees of disdain toward Britain’s parliamentary rule, America’s militant
mentality and something about Michael Jackson hiring an African Shaman (for $150,000)
to put a curse on David Geffen and Steven Spielberg.
Brooke and Erin tracked-back to the cheeky ice-cream parlor and have brought home
several pints of expensive dessert. I take down half a container of Bailey’s ice cream
without lifting my head, as the girls protect their bowls of Mint Chocolate Chip and
Raspberry White Chocolate like German Shepards.
I’m sunken into a comfortable couch at 11:30 pm, watching a news clip aimed at the
pending 1 st year anniversary of September 11 th . The broadcast is filled with heavy images
of fire and tragedy, as sound bites are delivered from a frosty host. There is no shortage
of opinions on next moves and international positions. At least from what we’ve seen so
far, Ireland’s public majority appears against any military action in Iraq.
The broadcast finishes its clip with an interview of a WTC employee; a survivor who, a
year after the devastation, goes to bed with his shades wide open in his New York City
apartment. “I don’t draw them shut anymore.” He says, “I want to be able to see what’s
coming next.” I switch off the television and stuff a last bite of ice cream into my mouth,
feeling a mix of guilt and thankfulness that a tired year is grinding down.
It’s now approaching midnight and Brooke’s parents, Aunt and the unflappable Mema
are still unaccounted for. They’ve spent the day traveling north toward Armagh and
Antrim, in search of rare archeological digs and fantastically old Celtic crosses before
making the 7-hour skip back south to Dingle. Clearly driven by Brendan’s wanderlust,
the remaining members of party-Brendan would have been just as happy to eat breakfast
at the hotel meat-locker and then travel directly back to Dingle. “How many
opportunities are you going to get to see a 2,000 year old Celtic High Cross? The Hills of
Tara? The Battle of Boyne war site?” Said Brendan in his most motivational pitch. Ti-Ti
Carol, in perpetual search for ‘citement’ and Mema, who could find joy in a tax-audit,
were easy prey and fell immediate victim to Brendan’s salesmanship. Loretta, a veteran
of endless walkabouts with Brendan was less optimistic but up for the adventure. North
they went.
Brooke is frantically pacing the hallways when Ti-Ti Carol explodes through the front
door--a fury of verbs and broken sentences—at 1:30am. “We went to some Hills thing,
and to da crosses and oh yer mudder, oh boy, she fell down and rolled down one of dem
hills, oh she’s not too happy wid Brendan.”
Next through was Mema who, true to form, found both the archeology of Northern
Ireland and the 12 hours of angry silence in the overstuffed Peugeot, exhilarating.
Loretta was next. She was loaded down with handbags, packages and luggage and not in
what I’d consider a playful mood. Something was said about stuffing a High Cross
somewhere on Brendan’s person but it wasn’t at all clear. She offered smiles and kisses to both Brooke and I, chatted for a few minutes and headed off to bed. Brendan received
neither kisses nor smiles.
Brooke’s Dad tip toed up the stairs with a grin and headed straight for the fridge. From it,
he yanked a cooling bottle of Tullamore Dew whiskey. He poured himself a tall glass of
Smithwick’s Ale while emptying the whisky into a highball glass. “How was your trip?”
He asked. “We got here almost 4 hours ago Dad, where the hell have you been?” Brooke
answered back both angry and relieved.
“Well we’ve been to some high crosses, and the Hills of Tara, oh the Hills you should
have seen them. Who wants some whisky?” Said Brendan who was now slicing cheddar
cheese and cutting a green apple. “I think your mother may be a little upset with me. She
took a tumble down one of those hills. I may have taken a wrong road somewhere too.
All in all we were in the car for 12 hours. Who wants a beer?” He didn’t expect any
takers. He was happy to sip alone, his nerves calming with each tug.
I’m the last to bed, not yet acclimated to Irish time or the pace of a vacation. Dehlia is
mumbling to herself and has rid the bed of everything—pillows, blankets and
sheets—except for her blankie that she has wrapped around her head like a turban.
Brooke has fallen asleep with her arm across my chest. I think about my family, my in-
laws and my good fortunes for a few minutes before nodding off. Dehlia’s book is open
and I read an Updike stanza about November:
The ground is hard,
As hard as stone.
The Year is old,
And birds have flown.
I’m asleep by 2:30am. With the shades drawn tight, I dream about shadows and smoke.