Tag Archives: Dublin

Coffee woes

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They get me here!

When we first arrived in Dublin, we noticed a French press coffee maker in the kitchen. Brilliant! We bought ground coffee at the grocery store, and Marcus prepared to brew coffee on our first morning in our new digs. But the French press was broken. He took one look at my mournful, jet-lagged face. “I’ll make it work,” he promised. It wasn’t easy, but he did. (Never travel without an engineer.) 

I messaged the friend of our host* who had checked us in: Coffee maker broken. His reply: No worries! I’ll replace it today. 

*Note: The owner of our apartment was out of town, so she had her friend greet us on arrival, something not uncommon in the Airbnb world.

We were out sightseeing all day. When we returned to the apartment, there was no new coffee maker. Had we missed him? Was he reluctant to enter the apartment without us here? I messaged him. Him: Yeah, my car broke down. Sorry. I’ll deliver it tomorrow. Us: Thanks! Hope you and your car are okay. On our second morning, Marcus managed to work his coffee magic again. That evening a sparkling new French press sat on the kitchen table when we returned home. Us: Thanks so much! Him: No worries! Anything else you need, just ask.

So I was a bit mystified when we checked out a week later and the host sent me a message. Her (not Him): Your incessant demands for a coffee maker were OTT [over the top]!!! I supplied instant coffee for you to drink.

Okay, let’s not even address the “incessant demands” comment and get to the crux of the matter: Instant? Really? Do they even make that anymore?

A few days later I was reading an Irish novel to Marcus in the car (to keep his mind off the single-track roads and blind curves), and I came to a part where the main character, who is British, reflects on the fact that the Irish don’t know how to brew a decent cup of coffee. They just drink instant. Yikes! I didn’t know the protocol. Maybe I did overstep my bounds!

Wait a minute! What about all those coffee shops I’ve seen in every town we’ve visited. I can’t drink caffeine after my two morning cups, so I’ve never tried the shops, but walking past them I smell real, brewed coffee. And then I recalled our visit to Starbucks just hours after we arrived in Ireland, while we were waiting for Tourist Information to open so we could stow our luggage for the day. [Passing time: Dublin, Day 1] I nursed a cup of coffee for an hour while we waited. What I declined to say was that the coffee was so bad I could barely drink it. After an hour, I finally threw it out. And I thought Starbucks would be a sure thing.

We are now the proud owners of an Irish French press. We bought our own. We continue to brew coffee wherever we’re living, and I’m a happy camper. These blogs are powered by Java, in more ways than one!

What a craic!

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Garda dog

I blame myself. I neglected to tell Marcus about the most important, and likely the most frequently used, word in the Irish language. Craic.

So we were walking in downtown Dublin, and Marcus stopped to talk to a man walking a dog wearing a Garda (police) canine vest. As most Irish are wont to do, he asked how long we were in Ireland. 

“Tree months, is it? Now, why would you be staying here for tree months den?”

“For the weather,” Marcus replied, to which he received a hearty laugh.

“No, it can’t be for the weather,” the man chuckled, looking up at the rain-saturated clouds. “I’m sure you’re here for the craic.” [pronounced crack].

Marcus looked taken aback. “Oh, no, I’m not into that!” he declared.

The man looked at him oddly and said, “Well, good day to you den,” and walked off with his dog.

I couldn’t hold it in any longer. As soon as the man left, I burst out laughing. “Do you know what craic means?” I asked.

“Are we talking about drugs?” he asked.

“No. C-r-a-i-c, pronounced crack, is Irish for ‘fun.’”

I don’t think I’ve ever seen Marcus speechless before.

Rebellion

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Dublin’s General Post Office

The Irish War of Independence came to life for me when watching the mini-series, Rebellion, released on Netflix in 2016. Told from the perspective of three Dublin families, it highlights the impact of the revolution on three economic levels, from the affluent to the tenement. Brilliantly told, it details the six days of the 1916 Irish rising against the British government who had ruled Ireland, often tyrannically, for 800 years.

On Easter Monday, April 24, 1916, Irish rebels occupied the General Post Office in downtown Dublin, proclaiming Ireland’s independence from Great Britain and forcing Dubliners who generally were not in favor of independence—and certainly not open rebellion—to sit up and take notice. Heavily outmanned and outgunned, the rebels knew they could not win this battle and were booed by their countrymen as they were carted off to prison upon surrender. But public sentiment changed when seven of the rebel leaders were executed by the British in retaliation. James Connolly, dying of wounds received in the skirmish, couldn’t even sit up to face the firing squad. He was tied to a chair to be executed. They became martyrs in the six-year war that ensued.

The sequel mini-series, Resistance, was just released on Netflix this year, and is even better than the first one. It advances the story to 1920. We’re hoping they continue the saga. There’s a lot of fascinating history yet to tell. If you’ve got Netflix, it’s worth having a look to better understand the birth of this young republic, barely 100 years old.

We visited the General Post Office’s Witness History Museum. The exhibits, as well as the 15-minute film dramatizing the action all over the city as rebels squared off against the British Army on the day of the rising, were very well done. The Irish are extremely proud of their history, as well they should be. It takes a lot of courage to stand up to 800 years of suppression.

Cúchulainn

Displayed in the front window of the General Post Office is this sculpture created by Oliver Sheppard of the mythical Irish warrior Cúchulainn (as best as I can tell, pronounced Koo-HOO-lin). In one of the best loved Irish legends, Cúchulainn defended the Kingdom of Ulster (northern Ireland) against the armies of Queen Maeve of the Kingdom of Connacht (western Ireland) in the famous cattle raid of Cooley. (Keep in mind, in those days cattle were money and entire kingdoms went to war over a single bull.) Cúchulainn died in battle, but he stood up against the enemy to the very end by tying himself to a pillar as he died to intimidate the enemy. It wasn’t until they saw a raven land on his shoulder that they realized he was dead. This is the sort of valor the Irish cherish. It’s what defines them as a people, and how they came to see the rebels who sacrificed their lives to end the oppression the Irish had endured for centuries.

Anna’s voyage

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the Jeanie Johnston

The barque, Jeanie Johnston, sitting at dock on Dublin’s River Liffey, is a replica of a ship built in Canada in 1847 and later sold to Irish merchant John Donovan of County Kerry. Donovan’s original intent was not to haul human cargo, but rather than sail empty on its voyages to North America to purchase timber, he chose to assist the hundreds of thousands of starving Irish waiting to flee their homeland during the worst potato famine Ireland has ever known.

Unlike many who transported victims of the famine to North and South America and Australia, Captain James Attridge did not operate a “coffin ship.” He never carried more than 254 passengers—the maximum number steerage could comfortably handle with five people sharing a six-foot by six-foot bunk—and had a qualified doctor on board who knew how to prevent typhoid and cholera and insisted on regular hygiene. While Donovan owned the Jeanie Johnston, between 1848 and 1855, the ship did not lose a single passenger on its sixteen voyages to Quebec, New York, and Baltimore.

My great-grandmother, Anna Fife (likely age ten at the time), her sister Isabelle (age 20?) and brother Edward (age 7?) were fortunate to be aboard a ship, the Lady Franklin, with such a captain who insisted on the well being of his passengers. The Lady Franklin was a larger ship than the Jeanie Johnston. Launched in 1851, the same year Anna and her siblings sailed, it could comfortably carry 400 to 500 passengers. And it was a steamer, which gave it the advantage of speed. The shorter the voyage, the less time exposed to disease. Regardless, thirteen people died on Anna’s voyage.

Sometimes I take for granted that I am on this planet, especially when I consider how healthy my parents were and the overall quality of healthcare in the 20th century. But when I think back three generations—to a woman who was just a name I found inscribed inside the front cover of the family Bible twenty years ago, but who is also the mother of my more tangible grandmother and the grandmother of my very tangible father—I have to marvel at the tenuousness of life and consider how fortunate I am to be here at all. I think about how brave our Anna was to step foot on a ship that was to take her away from all she knew, in a day when people did not leave home. She had no way of knowing that fifteen years later in New York, she would meet and marry an Irishman from her home county of Londonderry and they would have ten children together. She risked so much in search of a better life, and, as a result, laid the path for mine. For that, I am grateful.

Passing time: Dublin, Day 1

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trying to be Spring

So, flights from the US get into Dublin early. Ours, before 7:00. 

Good news: no lines at Passport Control and Customs. In fact, Customs was not even open for business.

Bad news: Neither was anything else. What to do to while away the hours until we can check in to our apartment at 3:00? [This from our Airbnb host after I had already booked the place: No early check-in! NO EXCEPTIONS!!!]

First order of business: Check bags at Tourist Information so we can start to explore Dublin unencumbered. Took a cab from the airport to downtown. Hmm…TI doesn’t open until 9:00. It’s not quite 8:00. Fortunately there’s a Starbucks next door—the size of a broom closet. We, and all our bags, filled the shop for an hour precluding any other customers from sitting to enjoy their cuppa. I nursed a small coffee for an hour. The kind baristas never said a word.

great spot from which to watch Dublin go by

9:10. Off on an explore! We crossed the River Liffey to Dublin’s Southside: the shops of Grafton Street, a walk through St. Stephen’s Green, and a spot of lunch at the Camden Bites & Brews. We’d been told that the Guinness served in Ireland is nothing like the tasteless stuff we get in the US. I wanted my first Irish Guinness to be special, so I turned on my pub radar. No travel guidebook, travel app, or advice from friends is as reliable. It’s not just good food and drink, but the atmosphere in which you enjoy it, that makes a gastronomical experience, and to accurately assess the atmosphere you have to pound some pavement and peek in some doors. The results are worth it. And so was the Guinness!

first Irish Guinness

It’s 2:00 now, and I’m starting to get fuzzy around the edges. I only got about three hours of sleep on our overnight flight. My feet are tired. It’s cold and windy and starting to rain. I’m not hungry. Another beer and I’ll be curling up in a corner of the pub. I’ve had all the caffeine I can safely consume. There’s nothing else I’m interested in doing at the moment. We wander around Trinity College a bit, barely seeing the stately stone buildings around us. 

Trinity College

2:15. If we show up at the apartment early, will we be left standing in the rain or will there be somewhere we can take shelter? We’ll take our chances. We retrieve our bags at TI and hail a cab. The driver recommended a coffee shop in a grocery store near the apartment.

2:20. We’re toasty and dry and reading the grocery ad.

2:25. I break down and text our host: Is it at all possible to meet us earlier than 3:00? It will take him 25 minutes to get there, he says, but he’ll meet us at 2:50.

2:47. We drag our bags down the street and plant ourselves outside the apartment building.

2:50. Our host is prompt. Happy days!

Dublin, Day 1: Eight hours. 14,777 steps. 6.9 miles. A shower and bed never felt so good!

Happy days!

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Dublin from the air

I have read nothing but Irish literature, history, and mythology for the past five months, and enjoyed every word. (Well, almost. The Gaelic, or Irish, words are mystifying. Even when reading to myself, I try to hear them in my mind. Inevitably there are either too many consonants or too many vowels sequentially to even know where to begin. In the rare event that the author tries to help by spelling a word phonetically, I am dumbfounded. How do they get a “w” sound out of “dh”? A “c” followed by an “e” or “i” has a hard “k” sound, as in the Irish word for church, cille (pronounced “kill”). Irish, apparently, is not related to any of the languages I’ve ever studied.) So you can imagine my excitement on my very first introduction to Herself.

Upon our wake-up call at 6:00 on our approach to Dublin, Marcus noted that sunlight was edging over the horizon. I flipped up the window shade and watched the curtain going up on Ireland. The buffeting winds and thunderclouds we had been promised by the captain as we tumbled off into dreamland only a few hours before were only cottony wisps revealing teasing glimpses of fairy villages in the darkness below, twinkling like the proverbial pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. As Ireland rolled over to greet the sun, the darkness became a deep, emerald green. I smiled. Something tells me this is going to be an amazing trip. As the Irish say, “Happy days!”