Archive for the 'Dublin' Category

The Best 24 Hours of 2010 (So Far)

I’ve been thinking about a running list of “reasons I want to go back to Ireland,” which reminded me:

I never told you about the best 24 hours of 2010. So far. It all started 36 hours prior…

Monday, April 26, 10PM, London: I read on The Swell Season’s Facebook page that Glen Hansard, my all-time favorite musician and mascot for the kind of passion with which I want myself and those around me to live, is playing a solo gig in Dublin. On Wednesday. In less than 2 days.

10:45PM: After several IM, in-person, and phone conversations, with me asking, “Exactly HOW crazy do you think it would be for fly to Dublin, like tomorrow…?” I booked a ticket to Dublin on RyanAir. Um, no, it was not £5. The gig was at a private club in Dublin, so I couldn’t get tickets, but was assured by several friendly Dublin-based Glen fans on Facebook that I’d have no problem getting in.

Tuesday, April 27, 9AM, still London: I wake up ridiculously joyful. I turn 31. I find out that the Glen Hansard show is sold out. I receive this news via phone from the only non-lovely Dubliner I will encounter in the next 36 hours. I proceed to celebrate a lovely birthday with lovely friends and am surprised by a VERY lovely homemade cake. I cry a little. Happy tears, shocked at how deeply I love this new branch of my global family. Blessed.

Wednesday, April 28, 11AM: I arrive in Dublin. See lovely airport stories here.

1PM: Armed with an email from an Irish friend-of-a-friend in the know, I stroll up to the Odessa Club. It’s closed. I ring the buzzer. I enter, no one’s there. No one’s even around. “Hellooo…?” I wander around until I find someone. The following dialogue enuses:

JS: Hi! I’m here about the Glen Hansard show.
Odessa Club guy: It’s sold out.
JS: (smiling broadly and twirling hair) Yes, I know, but I was just wondering… What’s your name? Peter. Well, Peter, here’s my story… did I mention it’s my birthday?

1:10PM: Peter acquiesces. He puts my name on the list and says the bouncer will let me in “if there’s room.” I remind him that (I honestly said this) I’m “narrow.”

1:15PM-5:45PM: I fall in love with Dublin, helped along the way by St. Stephen’s Green, a charming used bookstore owner, and Terry.

7:00PM: I have a pint of Guinness at the pub around the corner from the Odessa Club where my friend of a friend said I might find someone trying to sell tickets. I don’t, but I do learn from the bartender that Glen DJs here on Fridays. I write my adventure manifesto, gearing up to have a great night even if I don’t get tickets. I promise myself I won’t cry if I don’t get in. I wipe a tiny tear away at the thought.

7:45PM: I arrive at the Odessa. I glance at the bouncer’s list and don’t see the handwritten name that Peter had added. I start to explain that I’d spoken to Peter, and he’d put me on the list if there was room, and the bouncer replies, “Ay, you must be Jennifer.” He flips to newly typed portion of the list, subheaded “Extra.” Mine is the only name on the list, with the note, “Please let this lady in if there’s room.”

7:50PM: I find a seat on a couch SO close that I have to be careful not to kick Glen when he arrives (around 9). I frantically text and Facebook that “I’m IN! I’m IN!” I thank God several dozen times. I play it cool, sipping my stout, while I squeal like a little girl on the inside. After 25 minutes of hearing some stories from a lone super-fan on my right, I meet two of Dublin’s loveliest boys on my left. They tell me they’d had a bet running about whether I was Glen’s girlfriend since I arrived. I never did figure out which one lost that bet, but I certainly won. They proceeded to extend the most lovely Irish hospitality (kindness and pints) for the rest of the night.

9PM-12AM: Glen plays. FOR THREE HOURS. Mostly off mic and without his guitar plugged in, sitting less than two feet from me. There’s really no describing it. Roughly 140 people in a room. Transcendent.

12:15AM: Paul and Eoin, new Irish friends, convince me I should get a photo with Glen, against my, “I don’t want to bother him,” protests. Paul snaps a shot.

12:16AM: We realize Paul didn’t actually press the button and no photo was snapped.

12:25AM: We try again. Eoin successfully snaps the photo. Glen stops to ask me my name, we chat for several minutes about New York, his Radio City gigs etc. I beam like a giddy schoolgirl.

2:30AM: I walk back to my hostel singing “Heyday” through the streets of Dublin.

The remaining eight hours included too little sleep, an early morning walk, a trip to the airport, and a huge revelation that if God cares enough about me to give me such a huge, joy-filled evening with my favorite musician, who KNOWS what He’ll do when it comes to the significant things in my life?

Friendly Skies? If you land in Dublin, yes.

I really can’t get Dublin off my mind. What a trip. What a people. I had a ridiculously good time there. Probably the highlight of my travels — and given I was there just 24 hours, that’s an impressive accomplishment for this big small town.

Perhaps the most striking part of my experience, however, was the friendliness of the airport staff. When’s the last time you encountered friendly airport staff? Anywhere? Certainly not New York. And UK Border Control always leaves me nervous, even though I’m here utterly and completely legally.

But Ireland? Oh, Ireland. A couple vignettes:

Passport Control

  • Friendly Immigration Official: How long are you staying in Ireland?
  • Overeager American music fan (that’s me): Just 24 hours.
  • Immigration: Why so short?
  • Me: I’m hoping to see a concert.
  • Immigration (genuinely interested): Ah, who?
  • Me: Glen Hansard, of the Frames.
  • Immigration (pride his country’s music shining through): Ah, Glen! Where’s he playing?
  • Me: The Odessa Club, but it’s sold out. It’s a small charity gig. I’m hoping to charm my way in.
  • Immigration: Well, Jennifer, you’ve charmed me. (Stamps passport. With green ink.)

RyanAir Check-in Counter

The desk agent saw me waiting in the queue with what was obviously just hand luggage. (As a non-EEA national, I have to present my passport to be issued a special boarding pass). She took my pre-printed boarding pass and passport, walked behind the counter to do what I needed, and delivered it back to me. All with a huge smile. This process took 25 minutes at Gatwick. And there were only 10 people queuing.

Security

“Ladies and Gents, please make sure your liquids are out of your hand luggage. Any liquids: shampoo, toothpaste, makeup … Guinness.” The security agent flashes a wink my way, that can only be described as Irish eyes smiling. “This is Ireland after all.” It was 9AM.

An Adventure Manifesto

I found out at 10PM last Monday that my favorite musician, Glen Hansard, was playing a solo gig in Dublin on Wednesday evening. By 11PM, I had booked plane tickets and a hostel. Adventure.

At 10AM the next morning, I found out the show was sold out.

I wrote the following from a Dublin pub, around the corner from the concert venue, waiting to find out if I’d make it into the show.

My Adventure Manifesto, 28 April 2010, 19.45. Dublin.

  • I will live in the moment.
  • I will ROAR, speaking powerfully and gracefully with a red-hot passion and purpose on the inside of me that oozes to the outside.
  • I will stoke the fires of that passion and purpose by engaging with art, new people, and new challenges.
  • I will choose to laugh at the unexpected.
  • I will welcome changed plans, thwarted strategies, and potential disappointments, believing they bring a better outcome than I could have devised on my own.
  • I will abolish fear with joy.
  • I will shatter self-pity with gratitude.
  • I will believe anything is possible, hope for bigger and better—beyond what my eyes have seen and my ears are capable of hearing.
  • I will step outside my comfort zone. DAILY. (Even as I return to it, geographically, next week.)
  • I will not let sticks and stones break my bones. Let people say what they will. I am confident in who I am.
  • I will not whine about my circumstances. I may reserve the right to change them, however.
  • I will be open: to people, situations, possibilities, in every context. I’ll keep checking in with myself to make sure I stay that way. I will not be a jaded New Yorker.
  • I will live with the bubbly-anything-goes joy I experienced yesterday; with a giggle on the inside and a glow on the outside, inviting people to ask the reason for the hope that I have.
  • I will take as many relational risks as I do professional risks.
  • I will (try to) spend less time on my BlackBerry and more time talking to people, to God, to myself, and writing.
  • I will reread this manifesto anytime I start to settle for less.

Terry

Garden of Remembrance

I met Terry while standing to take this photo, at Dublin’s Garden of Remembrance. My Lonely Planet guide touted the friendliness of the Irish, saying you’d be greeted by a helpful local anytime you took out a map.

Terry, with his broken yellow teeth, faint smell of alcohol, and endearing smile, indeed offered his help as I checked my map en route to the Hugh Lane Gallery. I had my iPod in one ear, so misheard him when he told me he was “one of Ireland’s sons.” I thought he said “songs,” and loved the poetry of calling oneself music, particularly in a country that has produced so much music I love.

Once I’d assured Terry that I knew where I was going, he gestured at the Garden of Remembrance, telling me its story. I confessed to him that I’d known very little about Ireland’s history, how recently the country had struggled for its independence. The IRA battles, of course, were part of the background noise of news reports of my childhood, but I’d honestly not known that this lovely country had only been fully independent for just 60 years.

“Pray for the IRA,” Terry asked me. “They are misunderstood. They fought for Ireland. They fought so she could be free. Please,” he asked me, this New York girl he’d just met. “Pray for the IRA.”

“I’ll pray for peace, for everyone in Ireland,” I said. My knowledge of the current political situation is insufficient (and my awareness past violence adequate) to allow me to commit my allegiance to one side with this man on the street.

“That’s good,” Terry said. “Pray for peace, please pray for Ireland. And I will pray for your country, I will pray that God blesses your country.”

I wonder at Terry’s story. What has happened to him, what led him to the place where he is imploring strangers, with incredible sincerity, to pray for the IRA?

I was touched by the earnest, heartfelt plea for divine intervention from this slightly drunk Irish man in the street; by his love for his country and people, his cry for peace, and his generosity toward my own nation.

Terry completely challenged my perspective of the homeless man approaching me on the street. I’m glad I met this son of Ireland. He may have lost his way a little, but overall, I think she did a pretty good job raising him with what she had at the time.


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