Another Opening, Another Show...

Behind this door lies theater.

Monday, May 14: This is my third opening in Dublin and they don’t get any less fraught, less exciting.

But what do you do on Opening Day, when everything’s just marking time until curtain, and the playwright’s become a useless appendage, like a vestigial tail that drops off as the organism evolves. I don’t feel redundant (that’s a line from the play). Also, everyone starts talking in lines from the play.

I remember the day, the moment, “Outlook” was born. I was on my way to work, fussing at myself because there was a deadline for the EATfest looming, and I didn’t have anything new. I’d already worked my way through my “trunk” plays that might be suitable for a one-act festival; while I generally think highly of the plays I send out, sometimes the artistic directors don’t. So I had nothin’. And I thought: It’s not like there’s a magic wand. Then: wouldn’t it be great to have a real magic wand? I almost stumbled on the steps up from the PATH train as the idea hit me. I clutched the rail and went on.

I was on my way to a training session for Outlook, the email program that our company was transitioning to; and one of my colleagues had to shuffle us in and out by the hour, in groups of 30, and teach us the rudiments of our new software.

I didn’t pay that much attention to the lesson, because I had started writing the play called “Outlook” in my head. I realized I knew there was a woman named Susan who spent her days teaching people in a corporation how to use software; and there was someone from UPS who came in…with a magic wand. I tried to keep the details in my head.

And I kept repeating the details over and over, and adding to them, and embellishing them, and finding out more about the characters; that night I went home and started to write. I can’t remember how look it took, but soon enough I had a one-act play.

I gave it to Paul Adams, EAT’s artistic director and he said…not for us. And I showed it to Tina Howe, my friend and teacher, and she said: that character of Brown is wonderful, but we don’t know anything about the others. (There were 4 characters by then).

Somewhere in there, it became clear that the play was meant to be longer than one act, and I started making mental marks on the script: here would be a place to let out a seam, here would be a place for an addition. What would make the ending work? Which person would Susan end up with at the finish? I thought I knew, but then the character I was writing took over, and in no uncertain terms made it clear she was unsatisfied with the ending. And when they start talking, I listen. At that point, it feels more like taking dictation.

Susan acquired a daughter, and I had a cast of 4, all women, and I even had in mind which actors I was writing the two leads for. I started to bring it into Playwrights Circle at EAT, and as often happens with my plays, the main critique was: nothing HAPPENS. And I said: a woman falls in love, loses her girlfriend, her job and her home, and acquires a wand with magical powers and NOTHING HAPPENS? Sometimes, this is what it feels like to be a woman playwright.

And, I think what drives me, if not a lot of other playwrights, is that I know, in my heart, if I can just make the audience see what I see, they’ll get what I’m trying to say. So you can tell me “nothing happens” and I can try to make it clear that EVERYTHING happens. Somewhere in there, we went to Dublin again (with my play, "The Adventures of..."). And before we left, I asked Mark Finley, in his capacity as TOSOS Artistic Director, to schedule “Outlook” for a reading sometime in May after we got back. That would give me plenty of time (I thought).

I wasn’t finished a draft. Oh no, not me. But a deadline…now there’s something to get you writing.

When I got back from Dublin I thought: oh shit. I have a reading of this thing in a couple of weeks, I’d better finish it. (I don’t think I’m revealing a big playwright secret here. Many of us are like this).

Outlook: The Original Cast (TOSOS, May 2009).

And in the meantime, the actors I had in mind weren’t available. They’d either moved on (physically, to another state), or weren’t available on the day. In a brief discussion with Mark, I suggested Meghan Cary, who’d already worked with us on a couple of full-length readings and a short play reading, and been in a short play of mine. She was a bit young for the part of Susan, but 1) you can do that in a reading; and 2) she said “yes.” For Patience, Susan’s girlfriend, we went to our EAT larder (the deep and talented acting company), and Mark and I looked at each other and said…what about Danielle Quisenberry? And to look at her fiery beauty you wouldn’t think of her as playing an uptight WASP, but it was, in fact, what was underneath the character’s surface that suited her for the role so well. We had Irene Longshore for the ingénue, because she’s the one you call up when you need a good actress who can play young (who is young) and you can HEAR her. (And she’d also been in one of my short plays where she made her singing debut playing a tween star).

But for Brown, the mysterious catalyst…fortunately, I’d made the acquaintance of Lisa Kron, the wonderful American playwright (and founding member of the Five Lesbian Brothers) a couple years previously at a New York Innnovative Theater Awards party (I think Lisa was the host that year). And I was telling Lisa about “Outlook” and worrying that I could not find the right actor to play Brown, and she looked over and called “Donnetta…there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

Donnetta walks the stage preshow.

And Donnetta Lavinia Grays turned out to be the whole package: actor, playwright, fellow South Carolinian. We’d even done a reading of her play “The B Factor,” at TOSOS, and Doric had made her a member by the time she came onboard with “Outlook.”

 So the names were in the blanks, and we rehearsed once, as is our TOSOS custom, and Mark looked at Danielle and said: “let’s hear the monologue.” THAT monologue… a long and complex bit that goes from superego to ego to id in the space of one page. It came to me in a dream (after seeing Staci Swedeen’s show, “Pardon Me For Living,”) and I had to jump out of bed and run into the next room and turn on the computer and write it down. I never do that.

And Dani nailed it in rehearsal and in the reading and we watched as she hit that sucker out of the part and gave notice that NO ONE else was playing Patience. And Mark and I were fine with that.

Everyone else brought it as well, and Doric loved it, and I knew I had a lot of work to do, but it seemed like I finally had a good piece of marble to carve, so to speak, and to follow Michaelangelo’s advice, I would try to cut away anything that didn’t look like a statue.

And then, you know, time goes by. And I kept working on Outlook and taking it deeper, and peeling away the layers. Not every night, or even every week. I’m pragmatic enough that I pull it out when there’s a chance that someone might see it, or hear it.

I’m also someone who has to “sell” my plays a lot (except to audiences). Audiences generally like my plays.

So we read “Outlook” again at EAT at last year’s “First Taste” series, which coincided with the EATfest (in which I had another short play in which people complained “nothing happens” except EVERYTHING happens). The idea of that program was that you’d hear the play, and go away for a month or so and come back with the feedback incorporated and the next draft. I could get on board with that, so we read Outlook in May, then in June, last year. The second reading was over at the Dramatists Guild, and as we walked over to our headquarters (Zuni), I listened to Paul’s suggestions that the epilogue could go, and that Brown needed more moments which established her own wants and needs, and made her less mysterious but more human. And I started thinking how to do that.

Then late last year, I asked Paul: Can we go to Dublin again? And we hadn’t the previous two years what with the economy and all, and battling life for art and vice versa. And I told him if we brought the puppy home, I would walk it and feed it, and brush it. So he said yes.

And I applied for Dublin again, and no one heard from the festival for awhile, because (we were told later), the Irish government wanted to charge a hefty tax on the visiting companies, and Brian Merriman (the artistic director) knew if that happened, he wouldn’t have ANY international visitors. Great idea! When your economy’s in the toilet, charge the ARTISTS. That’ll make up your deficit.

But Brian fought the law…and HE won. So we got the invite and began a three month Chinese fire drill that brought us here today. Or whatever day it is.

Opening Night presents!

And on opening night I didn’t think of all of that as I woke at Jurys Christchurch, and walked down the street to check in at Trinity Capital, and I know it was only Monday and today’s Wednesday, but I can’t really remember how I spent the rest of my morning. I ended up at the apartment where the cast was staying, and I did some shopping for Opening Night presents, because it’s NOT an opening night unless there are presents. Chocolate, t-shirts, chocolate, coffee…little souvenirs (to remember). The only wrapping paper I could find was wedding paper, so I bought that.

And walked to the theater in my red velvet dress and flats, hair (at least starting out) in a shiny, flat style, and makeup on my cheeks and lips for the first time in many moons.

I sat at the back of the theater and wrapped the presents, and watched them set up the lights, and the early arrivals, and gave the presents, and got one of my own (a literary pub crawl! Two of my favorite things!) and wondered…canwe pull it off?

The folks from the US Embassy arrived, and a decent crowd of both men and women. Would they get it? Would they laugh?

Mark and Jen in the back row before the house opens.

Spoiler alert: they got it and they laughed, and they listened when they needed to, and knew what was going on, and nodded “yes” when they liked something and shook their heads when they didn’t. Great applause at the end, and I decided I liked the shorter version of the play (we’d cut it down by a good 20 minutes or more in rehearsal) better.

Beautiful actors, great director, backbone of a Stage Manager.

Then off to find food, and to the First Night party at the Arlington Hotel. And dear Brian was there and we hugged for a long time, and I worked the room because that’s the kind of producer/playwright I am, and inside I was humming and buzzing and my heart was overflowing because we know what we are doing, and they knew what we were saying, and it definitely is a play where something happens and everything happens and we are here in Dublin doing it.

The cast of "Outlook," Dublin, May 2012.

And You May Ask Yourself: How Did I Get Here?

Sunday, May 13 was our tech rehearsal. And even before then, I had lots to do: check out (regretfully) of the lovely Merrion, grab a cab to Jurys Christchurch. As always, I chatted with the cab driver who began to ask rather pointed questions about the play. When we got there, he tucked the card into his pocket and said: maybe I’ll have a look-in, I’m bisexual. (I refrained from saying: Good for you! After all, there are some who say that bisexuals, like leprechauns don’t exist).

To the sound of church bells pealing, I unpacked in my room across from Christchurch Cathedral, and dressed for the panel on gay theatre (there is a fine line between serious theater person and slob). Then headed toward Temple Bar, with dead computer, aka craptop, aka Important Prop and xylophone aka sound effect, in my bag.

View from my hotel window.

I went to find the venue, the Exchange Cultural Center, which like many places in Dublin has no numbered street address. On my way, I stopped at Tesco and bought a burner phone (the definition of which according to UrbanDictionary.com is: “A prepaid cellular phone, replaced frequently (weekly) (monthly) to avoid leaving a trail and getting caught up in illegal activities.”)

As if calling your mother on Mother’s Day is an illegal activity!

And I found the venue good and early (always my first order of business when I’m on a panel or going to a show in a new place), and then sat down to make the phone work. Couldn’t figure out what the PIN was…couldn’t call to ask them…when I came back to the venue, Callum, the producing director of the festival, pointed out that the PIN was on the bottom of the box. This is why he’s running the festival.

So we paneled on “whither gay theatre/er” as we are wont to do in gay theater/re. The other panelists were me, Callum, playwright Lisa Saleh (who has a piece in the shorts), and a guy whose name completely escapes me who had by far the most credentials and gave the actual Aiden Clarke Memorial Lecture on Gay Theatre before we opened it up to questions.

Gareth Hurley moderated the panel; he’s been with the festival practically since its inception, and has been taking on additional duties with artistic director Brian Merriman out of action due to a family emergency. So we discussed the usual intangibles and problems that will never be solved: Is gay/queer theater something that still needs to exist apart from the mainstream (I say, yes); is the mainstream a place for plays that have predominantly gay content or themes (yes); and can straight playwrights write gay plays (yes again). I’ve been on many panels over the years; on all kinds of topics, and I can hold my end up with stories, quotes, pithy rejoinders and anecdotes.

So we passed a pleasant 90 minutes or so on a street that turned out to be a lot busier than it looked…people passed by and banged on the windows. Two little kids wandered in and out of the room, and loudly chatted with each other, and of course when it finally got to be the audience’s turn to ask questions, there were a few people who confused “question” with “statement of my own beliefs.”

And then it was over to the Joyce for the tech rehearsal, already in progress. I took a cab and the driver knew pretty much where it was…but not exactly. And heading up Great George St., he pulled over and asked a lady if she knew, and she pointed back down the street and said: next to the for sale sign. And the driver did a u-turn and went the wrong way own a one-way street, but nobody was coming towards us.

And I got there, and brought the all-important xylophone into the controlled mayhem that is a tech rehearsal. The room I thought, was lovely. And one of the most acoustically “bouncy” I’ve ever been in. Every word, every step, every movement seemed to reverberate off all the surfaces simultaneously and come back and echo itself a few times. It’s a beautiful room: wide wood-paneled floors, huge windows with wooden shutters, pocket doors to the next room, and a lovely ceiling painted a kind of peach/orange with white moldings of classical freizes. Gorgeous and LOUD.

With the shutters open, the outside light was lovely, and it gave the room the feel of being lit by Vermeer. Shutters closed, they worked 'neath artificial lighting.

Jen sat at the back with our lighting guy, and two stands of stage lights had been erected on either side of the room. At the far end, the playing area had a piano, two tables and two chairs. That was our set. And one Mr. James Joyce glaring down from a portrait to the right of the fireplace. 

What Would JJ (James Joyce) Do?

Watching the actors take possession of the room and tame it and fit their craft to the structure was to see what actors really do. They rasied and lowered their voices walked on their heels and their toes, turned and spoke with their faces at different angles, bouncing the sound off the walls like an outfielder taking a carom and turning to throw home.

Rows of chairs awaited an audience; the next room quickly became a prop/dressing room, and the chill of the late Dublin spring seeped in. Books…most of them by or about Joyce were piled on a table, and carefully put into a corner to wait for their eventual restoration. Ulysses, Ulysses, Ulysses…

In the hallway, on the staircase, were reproductions of theatrical posters, and another bookcase filled with translations of Joyce’s works. There’s another staircase to a third floor…which I haven’t yet taken. On the first floor landing, there’s a statue of Narcissus, light streaming over him from the tall, arched window.

Himself also watched from backstage.

The actors ran and worked, Mark called out changes and gave direction about their voices and movements, and where to put props, and who should strike them. And I began to wonder if it was all going to fall into place. Had we bitten off more than we could chew when I blithely sent in the application back in December? Did I really think we could create a new piece of theatre in the time and space allotted to us by the boundaries of dayjobs and daily living and picking through the emotional and financial minefield of the start of the second decade of the 21^st century? This is how I am during tech.

Then suddenly it was time to go and we’d had close to a runthrough, but not really. And everyone was ravenous, but Mark had to go across the river to the Speakeasy to do ANOTHER tech, this one for Michael Lynch’s show, “Livin’ on the Real.” And Jen went to finish up her first week, by moving out of the apartment she’d shared with Andrea Alton, over to the apartment she’d be sharing with the “Outlook” cast. And we told her we’d email her when we decided where to eat.

I said: I know a place. And we headed for a restaurant at the far end of Temple Bar, just a few minutes across the river on foot.

We were joined by Shalema, Donnetta’s wife, who’d arrived that day and had the dazed look we’d all had the day before. We wended our way to The Larder, a restaurant where Chris Weikel and I shared a memorable meal back in ’09, and which I suggested our authors put into the Ireland book (they agreed), and it’s still there when a lot of other places are gone, and the restaurant said they had room for us, and we told them we’d be there by 7.

Chris Weikel deciding to take his MFA.

The night Chris and I ate there, we talked about what we wanted to do with our work; Chris was there with "Pig Tale" and thought he might apply to the Hunter program for his MFA; I was there with "The Adventures of..." and I had the first draft of a play called “Outlook.” I went to see Chris’s thesis play for his MFA at Hunter last week. And I’m here with “Outlook.”

So there’s an emotional resonance there. Which is good for the appetite. We fell to with great relish and all but ate the plates beneath the beautifully prepared food set before us. Then we looked in at the Front Lounge, across the street from The Larder, where we dropped off more postcards (I don’t want to take ANY postcards home), and then the cast wended their way back across the river, and I went back up the street to Jurys Christchurch, where I stayed up too late. Because even though I’m tired, I don’t want to miss a minute. I’m not sure of what, but I just don’t. The air is different here, and the light, and when I am walking along the streets of a city not my own, and looking out onto landscapes that aren’t the ones I see every day, I feel as though I must make the most of it, and eventually the saner part of me talks me into getting into bed and pulling the covers over my head and sleeping…for a bit. Because there is the wake-up call coming, and the full Irish breakfast, which holds you for…several hours, if not days, and the hotel hopping to the next place, which is why I can’t do morning activities, and the phone calls home (since I finally got the phone to work) and shut down, mind. Why is there no “Sleep” button, as there is on my computer?

And go to sleep and try to remember dreams, or not, if they’re bad, and wonder at the tunes running through your head, and maybe have the TV on for a little just to hear the voices. Think about getting up early…know that I won’t. Tomorrow is opening. Tomorrow we find out what we have (or not), and tomorrow is, as Scarlett said, another day.

Welcome Back...Three Years Later

That's a nice thing about the Internet...you leave something out there, and 3 years later, it's still there. Sometimes.

The last time this blog was updated was the last time we were in Ireland, in 2009. But we're back and the blog is still here, so let's continue, shall we?

Isle: Still Emerald!

First Wind…Friday, May 11

Well, it’s not like there was a whole lot of sleep the night before the day we left for Dublin; rehearsal til sometime after 10pm, and of course, that was the day the President said he supported gay marriage, and of course we had to watch the news and all.

But just-before-7am came and there was still workwork to be done, meaning a few more chapters of Frommer’s New York City to go over; I like that book a lot, and these days, I wonder whether each edition is the last I will edit. That’s the way it is when you look out the window (in Hoboken! Really!) and know you’ll miss the view, and some colleagues won’t be there when you get back because they’ve taken other jobs (what with your imprint up for sale and all that). It’s one thing when you’re not emotionally invested in the job, and you think of replacing it with another paycheck, and another when you like what you do during the day, and enjoy the people on all sides of you, and have a really great view.

And there are last-minute calls from some of the others who are also packing and ticking off their lists, and need to know things like whether to take a taxi from the airport, and whether it’s still possible to change a seat. It’s part of my job to know these things.

And then Filezilla sucks  the files from my desktop and spits them out on the server where the production editor will move them right along and they’ll be in a shiny, color book in August.

Then it’s time to really pack, really get ready. I’m leaving for Dublin in six-ish hours and there are miles to go before I sleep. At least 3,000.

Shopping, packing, remember the adapter, printouts of reservations, more calls, camera, laptop. Which dress(es)? Have to dress up for openings and closings. Good shoes to walk in, scrape the dust off the makeup. This pill, that pill, socks, books, jewelry.

Somewhere in there, maybe after a hoagie and too much coffee, I get the second wind.

Second Wind…Friday, 3pm

I hate to leave my wife behind, but I’m so ready to be away for a bit. She comes home, full of packing advice. “I am a Travel Professional,” I tell her, before I mislay the bottle of Tylenol. Then I trip over the suitcase.

I remember I had a piece of jewelry repaired…we run up to get it, and the place is closed. Yes it’s that late. We need to get to the airport at least two hours before departure (as recommended by my travel guides) rather than the 3-plus hours recommended by the airline. And yet…we leave our part of the borough of Queens at about 7:15-ish. My wife could be a cab driver, she’s that nerveless. We get to the entrance of JFK by 7:35pm. And as we circle round to the terminal she suddenly points and says: “THERE’S THE SPACE SHUTTLE.” And there it is! It’s still sitting on the back of the 747 that brought it up to New York just over a week ago. It flew over our office and everyone ran to the windows by my cube, and took pictures of it buzzing the Intrepid and the Statue of Liberty, and it was truly the coolest thing all week.

At the airport, Danielle Quisenberry (fine actor) and I see Irene Longshore (fine actor…we don’t see Meghan Cary and Donnetta Lavinia Grays (fine actors both) yet. Modern travel: take off the shoes, take off the jewelery, put the computer in a separate tray, untie, undress. Then put it all back on hopping on one foot, with the computer under the arm on the other side.

We reach the departure lounge, I yell MEGHAN and no one answers. But she & Donnetta are already there and then the gang is standing next to each other, running lines. I have a pizza and it’s good.

We’re called to board and I get into my (paid extra for) emergency exit seat, which turns out to be half a good idea; one of my legs stretches out in full; the other’s right up against…I don’t know, whatever part of the plane sticks out from under the emergency exit. I have my magazine and the fellow sitting next to me has his Harry Potter, and we start talking. He’s Irish, and our conversation ranges from places he recommends in Dublin, to places I recommend in New York (because his company sends him there regularly) He stays at the Ace Hotel, and I say: Hipster Central and he says, oh yeah. I end up taking notes on the conversation because he tells me about places that aren't in the book that are worth investigating.

We talk until my eyes grow heavy…but there’s only so much you can sleep in coach on an overnight flight. So I doze or something until my body says it’s 4am, and the clock on the other side of the Atlantic says it’s around 9. No breakfast? I know the airlines are skating on the thinnest of margins, but it would be nice to have a roll and coffee.

Third Wind, Dublin, 9:30am (4:30am, EDT)

Top o' the Airport Bus to ya!

We roll out of Customs and into the daylight in Ireland. There’s an aura of exhaustion that surrounds us all, except Irene, who can sleep on planes, and it’s like a thick stuffing that gets between reason and action. There’s some kerfuffle about the bus tickets. And we buy some chocolate and water. Breakfast of champions. And hop on the upper deck of the bus. I have to drop the gang off at their apartment, and we get off at Parnell Street; and my map smarts and street memory are ALMOST good enough to get us where we need to be. A kind young man offers to show us the rest of the way, but it turns out he just wants to talk to a bunch of American women, and we end up in front of the restaurant where he works and he gives us coupons for discounted meals.

Then someone tells us where we REALLY need to go. We give him a postcard. We give everyone a postcard. There’s some more kerfuffle about the rooms and beds and they can put us in the same apartment for the whole stay and it’s certainly worth 10 euro for that. So up we go to the place that the cast will call home for the next week, and when they’re in and getting ready for power naps, I decide a cab is in order, and look forward to one of my own. The cab driver (I’ve found Dublin cabdrivers to be both knowledgeable and opinionated) tells me the hotel, The Merrion, is the best in Dublin, and President Obama stayed there. Good enough for me!

But my room’s not yet ready so they invite me into the Drawing Room where I order a pot of tea, so as not to keep me from my nap. And the room's a beauty when I get there, and I wish I could spend the rest of the day…but it’s time to go back and meet the whole gang and do some logistics for tech and what props need to be bought yet and all that…and in thinking about it. I’m not sure I can remember how I got there. By cab, I think.

Mark smiles...because there's COFFEE!

And there’s COFFEE, lovely coffee at a little shop across from the apartment. And our Stage Manager Jen Russo is there, and director Mark Finley, and I eat something called a Bacon Whoopie, which I think is the first non-chocolate thing I’ve had all day. And we actually have a meeting, much of which I can’t remember, and we decide to go see our buddy Andrea Alton's show, “The F*cking World According to Molly,” which is at 4:30, which seems like a great idea to me, because I can go back to the hotel after and nap.

Fourth Wind, Dublin, 4pm

The coffee has got me on my feet again, and we go across to the shopping center, where the actors buy things for their kitchen and we talk to a lady about getting a “burner” phone. It seems reasonable and we go into Tesco to get them…but Tesco is out of them! Oh Tesco, you disappoint me.

Then we make our way to Pantibar (Yay, Pantibar!) and I decide if I have a whole pint, I’ll go to sleep at the show, but I could probably make it through with a half-pint. And I do love Molly. We laugh and laugh, and I laugh at some things that probably no one else can hear. And somehow, when it’s over, I decide to walk back to my hotel. Because it’s bright now, and I can walk all over! And the combination of coffee and beer has given me great wisdom and genius.

It is a beautiful day, and I take pictures, and feel like I’m in Dublin again, and suddenly walk past a bookstore window filled with the books I edit. It fees like a sign. But at this point, pretty much everything feels like a sign: the red light, the lampposts, the bikes in their racks.

And I’m back at the Merrion and…it’s time to get ready for the event I’m supposed to attend, and the pantyhose seem to swim up my legs, and I put on the little black dress and a pretty jacket (DRESSES!) and make my way downstairs to the Cellar Bar…and we are presented with coffee-flaved treats: a macaron and coffee pannacotta. I’ll take it. They ask if I’d like a glass of wine, and I believe a red goes well with coffee, and ask for a Malbec.

It turns out that it’s Opera Europe Week. Or Something. And we’re going to hear Opera Theater of Ireland do a short piece called “Coffee Cantata.” I’m beginning to think that perhaps my spirit animal is the coffee bean. We go upstairs into the garden, and there’s a lovely fountain and a statue of James Joyce, and artful landscaping. It’s very restful. And the artistic director of the company makes a little speech. She says that they don’t have a home theater so they consider ALL theaters in Ireland their home theater. I refrain from yelling I FEEL YA! Then there’s a cantata. By Bach. About Coffee. And the singers sing of their love for it, and the singer sings (beautifully) about how she can’t do without it, and grabs handfuls of coffee beans and rubs them in her hair and on her chest, and runs up and down the audience, handing coffee beans to people. I’m pretty sure I didn’t dream this part. I love this. This is my kind of opera. And it’s only 40 minutes long! I could get used to this.

Fifth Wind, 8pm (or 20:00 as they say here)

Nope, there’s no fifth wind. I go up to my room and try to set the alarm clock on the TV, but it’s somehow beyond me. I do check the email. And I think I probably posted some stuff to Facebook. And I mumble something to my sweet wife using Facetime. I will get a burner phone from Tesco…tomorrow. And use the steamroom in the spa…tomorrow. And go to sleep….now. And I do. For 10 hours.

Not "goodbye" but "see you" to Dublin and this year's festival

Why do I feel like I'm at church? Well, the cross-shaped "altar" with the awards...the lectern that sent me back to the days of "This is a reading from the Acts of the Apostles." Though we didn't have a giant rainbow-colored bottle of vodka stage left of the altar, and it wasn't Oscar Wilde with a green carnation in his mouth looking down on us all. Except if you are in Dublin!

We gathered at the Button Factory, a large venue often used for concerts and dances, just off Temple Bar early Sunday evening. I'd spent the day re-packing, writing a little, and preparing a little party at my suite for the EAT/TOSOS gang and our friends. What's the good of having a full kitchen & living room if you don't use it? I wandered up George St. to the Dunnes Store, and picked up wine, pate, baguettes, a really cool chocolate cake, hummus, and sparkling juice. On my way back, I realized I hadn't had a pint of Guinness the whole week! To remedy that, I stepped into the Auld Dubliner on Temple Bar (yes, it's touristy, but locals go there as well), and sat down to enjoy the stylings of the guitar player. Across from me were two young nuns, one tall and skinny, the other small and energetic. They waved their cups of tea as he sang, and one of them picked up their two spoons and clapped them together. They finished their tea, and danced out the door.

The guitar player seemed to have a "one everyone can sing to" and "one I like" system, which worked for me. I was surprised/appalled at the reception of "Sweet Caroline," which has had a long and apparently immortal life in pop music. I blame the Red Sox fans. He also sang "Leavin' on a Jet Plane," which I think can be called a true folk song. Brought tears to my eyes.

Then back to the hotel and to quote Hedwig: Put on some makeup/turned on the 8-track (well actually the "on demand music system" in the flatscreen), and had a little glass of wine. The party came in around 6 o'clock, dressed in glad rags and bearing more food. The customer service manager of the Morgan swung by and took me on a quick tour of the hotel, including the amazing duplex penthouse with grand piano and stairs up to the roof, on which there is an actual retro-fitted period Airstream trailer, and a propane barbecue. Glamor!

I was happy enough in my apartment on the third floor, and soon rejoined the guests, and we toasted a time or two more, and then made our way down the block to the gala.

I'd also been asked to present an award, and was told to present myself backstage at the interval. The Pig Tale boys were also presenting the Mama Truth scene in the gala, and Adventures of was the last selection. So we sat back and enjoyed the first half, which included scenes from plays I'd seen (and ones I wished I'd seen) interspersed with the awards. The winners and nominees are listed here. A lot of the nominees came from the first week; I wish I'd had the time/money/superpowers to come for the whole festival. (That would include the superpowers of flying and turning back time, also needing no sleep).

At the interval, I went downstairs and all the actors were getting ready for their scenes, running lines, and practicing their staging, changing from dresses and dress pants into their costumes. I love being backstage when I'm actually supposed to be there, and watching as the transformation is prepared. Sometimes what goes on backstage is more interesting than what you see out front. (But not with any of the shows in this festival, she hastened to add).

I got to present the Eva Gore Booth award for Best Actress; Eva Gore Booth (as we learned last year) was an Irish lesbian, who with her partner, Esther Roper, were lesbian/feminist activities in the early 20th century, and even published the first lesbian magazine. Eva's sister was the Constance, the Countess Markewicz, who was imprisoned for her part in the 1916 revolution. Carolyn Gage's "The Countess and the Lesbians," was written after her first visit to the festival, and was done by an Irish company last year. That's Constance and Eva to the right...at the opening of a creamery. Which would seem to be the reason they are dressed in such milkmaid-inspired costumes. As I stood backstage with Brian and John, one whispered to me: of course you'll say a few words. And I knew it was "pull it out my ass" time. In blue velour. I commented that I was probably Facebook friends with half the people in the room, which got a laugh, but is also true. And is one of the reasons why word spreads about this festival, and who ought to go to it, and how well they treat you. I mentioned how wonderful it was for us all to see shows from England and Ireland and New York and Indiana and Poland and Russia, and even more next year. And I said I'd see them all right back here next year. And the award went to Diane Wilson, from Careful, the lovely South African actress who was in Fiona Coyne's two-hander. (And dear Elizabeth Whitney was also nominated for Wonder Woman).

Then I got to go and sit down again and watch the rest of the thing (whew!) We were thrilled when the stunningly fit Mr. Hunter Gilmore was nominated for Best Actor, the Micheal Mac Liammoir Award, for both his parts in Break and Adventures of... Deb and I and J. exchanged terrorist fist bumps, and shrieked. Ooh! Look at Hunter on the red carpet! May it be the first of many trips to awards ceremonies for him. Looks like all those vegetables were worth it.

Of the stuff I got glimpses of, but didn't actually see, I wish I'd been able to go to Two Boys in a Bed, from which Scott Cunningham did a powerful monologue. (They're doing it this summer at the Arthouse in P-town!), and Silenciados, the performance piece from Madrid that won the "Aspect of Production" award (and they all look like Almadovar heroes). Also in the first week was Broken Nails, a Polish production with a puppet Marlene Dietrich; I Love You Bro, from Australia, Lord Arthur's Bed from London, and Minor Gods from Washington, DC, and Walnuts Remind me of my Mother, from Ireland. And a production everyone raved about, The Bird Sanctuary by Frank McGuinness. I'm also going to catch up with Dan Bernitt on this side of the ocean; his Phi Alpha Gamma is nominated for a Lambda Literary Award, and I'm going to the ceremony next week.

While we'd played to sellout houses all week in the Shorts, there were lots of people who hadn't been able to see the shows (those with other 8 o'clock performances, for example!) So it was a pleasure and an honor to be able to show them all the great things about EAT: the actors, the directors, the overall quality of our company in NYC. The boys, as usual, adjusted to the new space. Jamie projected into the large space with the very last of her voice. (J. took the wonderful pictures of me at the podium, of Hunter, and the one of "The Adventures of" below).
The crowd got every bit of it, and roared at the denouement. (Or the "payoff" as my fellow Ambassador of Love, Roy Gardner, called it).

Then they called all the volunteers up on stage, and everyone held hands and sang "Seasons of Love," and there was not a dry eye in the house. We all got fabulous goodie bags on the way out (with chocolate and liqueur, and a calendar of handsome men), and proceeded across the street to the Front Lounge, which was not nearly as crowded on a Sunday night as it had been the previous night, which was a comfort. I got myself a cosmo, and circulated among all the people I hadn't had a chance to talk to yet, for this was the last night.

Fiona Coyne (playwright of Careful), Chris Weikel and I bonded instantly, joined by Roy Gardner (we exchanged kisses as each hemisphere's Ambassador of Love). And made the Irish kids promise to come over to New York as soon as they absolutely could, and told the Indy kids to GRADUATE and come to NYC, and the "Dog Called Redemption" folks to get their asses to NY because their play will rule, and so on and so on...

You don't really care how late you stay out on the last night, because you know you can sleep on the plane (maybe) the next day. And you keep wanting to stretch the good feeling just...a...little...bit...more.

I cleaned up the remains of the party back at my room. Finished the pate, left the unopened wine & beer for the housekeeping staff. Went to sleep knowing it had been a good festival, and knew that even though I'd said to myself before I left: well, I really shouldn't go every year. That's a lot of time and effort for a short play...and I should probably check out some of the other...HA! I know I'm coming back. The folks in Dublin are family, and I'm the loopy foreign cousin they welcome with open arms each year.

I'll carry out my ambassadorial duties by scouting out new talent for the next festival, and the next one, and make sure they are the Right Sort (and if they ever act the diva or insult our hosts, I will get all New York City on their asses).

So I've accomplished, in some way, what I set out to do with this blog: track my experience of the festival (and finish it within a week after I got back). This bodes well for a very full summer I think. With more writing (got to figure out what to bring next year!) and activism and enjoying the good weather and WNBA basketball. (I am a woman of many interests).

One thing I particularly love about Dublin is that wherever you go, there seems to be music; younger people and older people, playing guitars, harps, drums, flutes, horns, you name it. Playing trad and pop, stuff of their own. Singing and singing and playing and playing. I don't know if there's that much music left in New York City these days...carefully penned off as official subway music, or in monitored free festivals. In Dublin, if there's a wide spot in the street, someone has a guitar case open and is singing Bob Dylan. On my last day, coming down Bewley Street, I saw three guitar players, who broke into a beautiful harmony on "Knockin' on Heaven's Door," in the wet morning. The woman's voice took the lead, and the guys chimed in. It was their lives. It was so beautiful, it made me want to cry. It's a good memory to carry around for a year. Or forever.

Who am I, where am I, what the hell am I doing?

I was once in a community theater production of Annie, and the director, trying to get her large & varied cast into character, suddenly wheeled on one young ingenue and said: WHO are you, WHERE are you and WHAT are you doing? The ingenue helpfully replied: "I'm Rhonda Jane, I'm in Town Theater, and we're rehearsing Annie."

I ask these questions of myself quite often, out of the necessity of reminding myself which life I happen to be in at the moment, and lately, which time zone and country.

We're back since Monday, and I've had a very full week. But there's a part of me that has post-show homesickness, and I look at my watch and think "it's curtain time in Dublin" and "I wonder what those kids from Indiana are doing."

I still have to write up a bunch of stuff for the Frommer's website, and I'd like to do it before it gets too stale in my mind. I curated my reading series, Drunken! Careening! Writers! last night, and was thrilled with the writers. I've gone through the copyedited files of my New York City book. I wrote a short play which was due to a festival today. I'm trying (unsuccessfully) to schedule our next meeting of the EAT Playwrights Circle. I have a play reading of a full-length next Saturday, May 30!

So it's not like I'm napping here. In fact, I would prefer a little time to cogitate, to simmer, to let things take root, but that's not going to happen. Fortunately, we've got the three-day weekend, and I'm determined to get to the end of my stay in Dublin before it's a week since we came home.

Ahem. (Or, a ham, as the case may be).

Saturday (May 17) was a good and bittersweet day. It was the last day of our show; Deb, our director, was coming in to see it, and whatever else she could in her 2 days in town. We'd coordinated via email to meet at the Mermaid Cafe at 1.

I'd arrived at the last hotel of my stay, The Morgan, which would host me for two nights. The Morgan, along with The Morrison (of the legendary bathroom) and The Clarence (owned by Bono, where I stayed in a suite last year), is considered one of the hippest hotels in Dublin (if not Europe). While my room was being prepared, I sat in the lobby and gazed out the front window where they seemed to be shooting a short film out on Temple Bar. A pretty woman walked down the street in front of The Morgan. She did it again. And again.
And soon my room was ready, and I went up in the Mona Lisa elevator (pictured at the top of this post). They'd put me in what they call an "apartment," that is a nice suite with a full kitchen and living room, the bedroom separated from the living area by a clear glass wall and doors with the word "DREAM" inscribed on them. We later opined that the words are there so people don't walk into the walls. I bet they still have to clean faceprints off of them.

The room faced the back, a blessing in a Temple Bar hotel. Staying in a Temple Bar hotel on the weekend is rather like staying on Bourbon St. in New Orleans any night of the week. You'd better have double- or triple-paned windows, or a room at the back.

I got settled in and headed out to the Mermaid Cafe, on Dame Street, just a few blocks from The Morgan. I realized I looked rumpled, because I was well into the "recycling" part of my wardrobe, which I had carefully rolled and packed, but never unpacked because I was staying in a different hotel every night. I like the Mermaid Cafe (and wrote about it last year). I said that if I lived in Dublin, it would be my Zuni, though Jamie pointed out that it doesn't have a full bar. It's awfully pretty, though, and has a great menu. The "stunningly fit" Hunter Gilmore decided he'd allow himself to eat more than fruit and vegetables at lunch; playing the part of a strung-out junkie, he'd been stricter about diet and exercise than Jillian Michaels. Hunter talked about the great meal he'd have when he didn't have to take off his shirt every night. I'd had my usual massive Irish breakfast a few hours before, and ordered the best seafood chowder I've had. Well, maybe as good in Provincetown, but it was very, very close. It was a good, fast lunch (because lots of us had tickets to matinees), and we savored the moment. I was the only one at the table who'd been able to catch any of the other shows, and I reported on them. This was the cast and Terra's rare chance to see another show, and they went through the program to decide which new friends to visit.

I was going off-campus, so to speak. I'd been seeing posters for a show called "Only an Apple," by Tom MacIntyre, directed by Selina Cartmell, at the Abbey, in their Peacock Theatre (the downstairs one that generally does new works). On their website, the play was described as follows:

"Only an Apple is a lusty and disquieting tale of an ailing playboy Taoiseach. On the brink of being overthrown by upstart Government Chief Whip McPhrunty, the Taoiseach must act fast. Enter surprise guests - Queen Elizabeth the First and Grace O’Malley. The brazen administrations of these fantasy creatures wreak havoc among the men. Are these women sexual playthings or more sinister messengers of fate." I knew that Taoiseach is the title used by the Irish Prime Minister, and that Grace O'Malley was a pirate (and not just because there was a terrible Broadway musical about her). I wanted to see a play that was Irish in Ireland. (There was a production of All My Sons on at the Olympia, but I wasn't going to see an Arthur Miller play in Ireland. If I'd had the time, I would also have gone to see Michael Collins, the musical). So I dashed across the Liffey, and found the Abbey easily. The Peacock space is, I'm sure, considered their "second" space at the Abbey, Ireland's National Theatre. (Why can't WE have a national theater, mommy? Mr. President? Can you do something about that, Mr. Landesman?) The Peacock is also a space a lot of Off-Broadway companies would cherish, and which would send any off-off company into paroxysms of unbelieving happiness. The set was shiny and well-built; huge portraits hung out on the walls, extending from the "reception room" on stage, past the edge of the stage, out into the house.

A young man in tails came out and made the cellphone announcement, welcoming us in Gaelic. He turned out to be one of the cast, in a non-speaking role. There were at least 2 or 3 guys who did nothing but come on and move things, and take them off, and join in the musical number (yes, there was a musical number). There were two actors who appeared in only one scene. A play with a cast larger than four and an actual set! Be still my heart!

The language was English, but it didn't fit my ear. When the butler spoke, I couldn't make out what he was saying. The Taoiseach himself had a grand accent that seemed like it must have been upper class. In addition to the language, the structure of the play was mysterious. It was like a dream, and characters entered and exited in clouds of smoke, doors and windows opened of their own accord, and wolfhounds, peacocks and horses prowled the grounds just outside the massive windows.

At the end of the first act, Queen Elizabeth and Grace O'Malley sang a song called "Pussy Drives the Train." Yes, THAT kind of pussy. As they sang, the other cast members emerged from the doors and windows, masked as peacocks or dogs, and performed intricate dance moves, singing along with the Queen and the Pirate.

At intermission, I bought a copy of the play, so I could read what had just happened.

I love that I can buy a copy of the play I am seeing (with everyone's bios and information about the designers) in the lobby. As I perused it for the finer points of the plot, I got some of the cultural references, and understood why the butler talked like that (he was from Cavan, apparently). I'd also looked up the reviews online, and they were mixed. The critics didn't understand a lot of it either, but I didn't care. The actors were flinging themselves about the stage as if their lives depended on it, and the design and directorial touches were enough to make me fan myself over their beauty. There was even a bit of snogging between Queen Elizabeth and Grace O'Malley, which was a pleasant lagniappe.

Afterward, my mind was a tumult of language and ideas, and I was almost glad I hadn't gone to see the play with anyone, so I could just think about it on the way back to the hotel. I laid down to nap, and even dreamed of it. I didn't hit a second matinee because I was planning on staying to see the cabaret after our show; four shows in a day would have been a record for me, but it'll have to wait until I am better rested.

So I made it to the Cobalt Cafe to find that we were sold out, which was great, but I might not be able to see the show, which was not. Deb had bought a ticket, as had Zeke, Jason's partner. So they got to sit down. I wedged myself in the back, and sat on a barstool. J. wasn't feeling well, and not up for standing for the length of the show, so he peeled off back to the hotel. The Fraulein started the evening off again, though she'd changed her act completely since the first night; she'd added a long monologue and "backstory" for her character, and I didn't think it worked. In fact, it was kind of a buzzkill. That's something I've seen performers do on occasion: they play something well, and it gets a good response, then they immediately do something different, instead of expanding on the parts that got a good reaction.

It's one thing to make wholesale changes from night to night if you're doing your own evening, but if you're fronting an evening of short work, you have to think how it will flow into the next piece, and what kind of energy you want people to take from the start of the evening.

The audience stayed with it, though it was a very quiet group. I saw Brian Merriman beforehand (he produced/appeared in the "Singing Out Six" cabaret act that followed the shorts Friday/Saturay). Brian told me he'd like us to perform "The Adventures of..." at the gala the next night: the entire play! I was touched, and thrilled. Hunter was also thrilled, as it meant he could start eating again a day early. (He leaves his shirt on for "The Adventures of...")

Deb and our cast hung around for the singing, and the Cobalt is a great space for cabaret. Brian complained of a bout with sinus and lung trouble, and said he'd asked several friends to join him: there was our buddy Rian, and some other guys (no program!) including one fellow, Eoin Cannon, who arrived late...he'd just finished his evening's performance in Michael Collins, in the lead role! That's him at the left. Mmmm. He sang a hysterical song called "Skanky Ho," which he delivered with a Broadway-level gleam and legit voice. Rian rocked us with selections from "Legally Blonde" and "Altar Boyz," (he is totally an Altar Boy). And so on and so on and scooby dooby dooby...

They closed with "Seasons of Love," and everyone sang along. And then it was off to the bar, at well after midnight, but the spirit was definitely willing, and the music at the Front Lounge was excellent, and Chris Weikel had found himself a devout fan who looooooooved Pig Tale, and we all had a fine time until they played, "Dueling Banjos," which Rian opined was so we'd all go away. And we did.

...until tomorrow, and the big gala.

Everybody's working for the weekend...

...at least I am, since it's already Wednesday and I'm only up to last Thursday in Ireland. However, I'll make a last push today (or tomorrow at latest) to finish up the trip.

On Thursday night (that is LAST Thursday night, May 14ish), after a few drinks with friends in the suite at the Morrison, I did use the Best Bathroom in the World (double Jacuzzi, massive shower, votive candles, lots of pretty-smelling stuff) and if I were a complete sensualist (I'm too lapsed-Catholic to be one), I'd say the bath was the highlight of the trip. And I LOVE theater.

(Speaking of theater, that fabulous picture to the right is of Jamie Heinlein, Jason Alan Griffin and Hunter Gilmore in this production of "The Adventures of..." It was taken on opening night by J. Stephen Brantley, and perfectly captures the play._

Friday morning brought the familiar wheeling of the suitcase out the door, after yet another filling Irish breakfast (all the rooms included that whopper of a meal, and it cut down considerably on my food expenses because if you have a full Irish breakfast, you really don't need to eat until the far end of the day). I tell you what I miss most this week at breakfast: mushrooms. I do love Irish sausage, and smoked salmon, and fried eggs and beans and a nice grilled tomato. But what I most looked forward to was the giant pan of sauteed mushrooms in each of the buffets, fancy, hip or humble. It's a custom I'd love to see take hold in the U.S. Hey mushroom marketing board, get cracking on that "Mushrooms: breakfast of champions" campaign. It'll confuse the druggies.

(End of breakfast fantasy).

Friday saw me headed out a bit to Ballsbridge, where I stayed at the Grand Canal Hotel. It was a smart, pleasant place, in an actual neighborhood. And I love Central Dublin...but staying there and thinking it's what Dublin is, is probably a lot like staying in the Theatre District in Manhattan and thinking that's what New York City is. It's certainly a part of the big picture, but it's also the part that makes visitors say: oh, I don't see how you can live here. (And we don't. We live in the boroughs or uptown or downtown, mostly).

So there were hardware stores and laundries, and attached houses with small, well-kept lawns. The pub/restaurant at the hotel seemed to be some people's "local." (And at 4 euro a pint I can see why! It's 5-6 euro closer in). I had an appointment at the Four Seasons at 2pm, and at the desk they gave me a map and I walked into Ballsbridge proper, where I mailed my postcards, saw the only Cuban restaurant I'd seen in Ireland, and then down the road with the 50 euro B&Bs on one side, and the high-end hotels on the other. I wasn't able to stay at the Four Seasons this time out, but they'd kindly offered me and a friend a spa treatment and high tea. (If this ever happens to you, just say "yes, please" and show up on time). So I met up with Jamie in the lobby, and they took us in at the spa for a massage (me) and a facial (Jamie).

Afterwards, we went up to have a traditional tea at a table facing the outdoor fountain, and raise a toast to a lovely friendship. I first met Jamie back when we were both fetuses in an acting class taught by Mirror Rep founder Sabra Jones. I worked for Sabra, and Jamie auditioned for and got into the Apprentice Company one summer when the Mirror went to Bar Harbor to do Stage Door and The Seagull. Jamie and I were both in the Kaufman/Ferber play, and while that was toward the end of my acting career, it was an early success for Ms. Heinlein as a thespian. With a "th."

We stayed in touch through the many phases of life in New York City (anger, bargaining, denial and acceptance...oh wait...those are different phases...) and I saw her in a bunch of shows while I realized over the course of a decade or so I was best suited for the page, rather than the stage (I realized some other things, too, which is why I'm at a gay festival).

I went to see Jamie in a reading of Chris Weikel's Penny Penniworth (Coming this fall! Off-Broadway) a few years ago, and barged up to Chris and introduced myself, as I am wont to do in the presence of talent I admire. Start of a beautiful friendship there, too. And Jamie was in the reading of The Audience at TOSOS, which became the production of Rock the Line at EAT, (that's a shot of Jamie and Noelle Holly in the production above), and has done readings of my plays, and shows up at the ones she's not in, which is always appreciated.

A couple years ago, I pulled her name out of the hat for a 24-hour festival at Wings Theatre, as well as the setting "Atlantis: One Million Years B.C."and the words "obstinate" "gymnastics" and "birthday cake" and a play was born. I wrote it to fit her voice, and knew as soon as it was done that it was a great match for her. That picture at the right was taken by J. Stephen Brantley on opening night, and perfectly captures the play. You're all going to see Penny Penniworth this fall at EAT aren't you? Jamie portrays the title character! Of course you are. Even if you are reading this in Ireland, Indiana, South Africa or LA, you know how low the fares are at the moment. Book it RIGHT NOW.

Speaking of Indiana...(how'd you like that segue?) after we finished our high tea (with the bonbons we couldn't finish packed in a box to take with), we parted ways: I had tickets to the Picture of Dorian Gray and Jamie had a show to do in a few hours. I rested a bit and took a nice, leisurely walk back to Temple Bar. Staying in a lot of hotels can be a bit exhausting, but I really like having the chance to see the different neighborhoods, and how they change from block to block, and get to know a city the best way: on the ground, walking. And I also began to feel the germ of an idea forming for a play, and wanted to jar it loose with fresh air and interesting scenery.

I arrived at the New Theatre in plenty of time, and Chris was also there, and we settled in to see the deconstruction of Picture of Dorian Gray. Is structure was simple: three actors are putting on a play about the novel, and they address each other by their real names (Hanna, Miles and Lawrence). They take turns portraying all the characters, as they tell the story chapter by chapter and there's some intersitial stuff (pop-culture based) in which they recap and re-enact the structure of the book's chapters/story, and their own lives seem to follow the patterns laid out in the book. All of them play Dorian...and all of them play Basil, and Lord Henry, and many other characters. It was really well done, and 2/3 of the cast isn't even old enough to drink (in the U.S.)! It was one of the hits of the festival, as audiences younger than even Dorian's picture poured in. The piece was created by Neal Utterbuck, directed by Jonathan Courtemanche assisted by Ryan Gohsman. I think it would go over quite well in the Fringe in New York, and by next summer, most of the kids will be at least 21. I kid because I wish I had been that talented and focused at that age.

After, I headed across the Liffey and swung by Pantibar, Chris went on to the "Sing Out Six" cabaret performance up at the Cobalt, and I stuck around...found a seat, which makes all the difference, and had a chance to catch up with Elizabeth Whitney & her wife Lea Robinson, as well as Jeffrey Solomon, whose one-man show Santa Claus is Coming Out was also at the Outhouse. (He's from Jackson Heights! Queens represent! And by "Queens" I mean the borough!)

It's funny how you can live in the same town, and not run across or be able to spend time with people...and you end up bonding thousands of miles away from home. It was a pleasant night all the way round, and I ended up grabbing a cab back to Ballsbridge (how many times can I say that in one post?) and ready to move for the last time on Saturday morning.

In a futile attempt to time-travel back to the past...

...forging ahead with recollections of the previous week before they disappear like so many half-remembered dreams. (I had a dream on the plane that my sweetie came to pick us up at the airport and we got lost on the way home).

I'm heading back to work today, and part of what I need to do is begin to convert the raw material of last week's travels into the finished product of articles online and reviews in books. I have notes from my interview with the genealogy butler at the Shelbourne which must be written up, a pile of press packets and other information I was given, and brochures and flyers that I picked up and put into my pockets (always travel with a jacket that has pockets; a now very dirty, wrinkled jacket. Back to the cleaners for the second time in two weeks!) I have already had some followup correspondence about the hotels I stayed in, and on the plane, I wrote up about five pages of notes for my Ireland author. I took a copy of Frommer's Ireland 2009 with me, and found that it is in very good order; the files for the 2010 edition will be on my desk in less than 2 weeks, and a good portion of my summer will be spent editing it. This week, my work includes books on Boston, Washington DC, and New York (fuckin) City. Also on my desk: The Cayman Islands.

You'll also see the results of my work on the "Behind the Guides" blog on Frommers.com. (I haven't posted about Ireland yet...my most recent posts are recaps of The Amazing Race...which I didn't even finish because I was in Ireland for the finale! And for the Prison Break finale, and The Biggest Loser and Hell's Kitchen. I do not regret it.)

Anyway...back to last Thursday (screen goes wavy, flashback music): came up from Dun Laoghrie on the train (it was raining, the staff at the Royal Marine went into their lost & found and came out with a much-needed umbrella) back to Tara Street, and pulled my wheelie suitcase down the quays to The Morrison Hotel. As I crossed a street near the hotel, a truck wanted to make a turn. The driver leaned out the window and yelled at me C'MON! C'MON! C'MON! and I instictively yelled back, OKAY ASSHOLE! and he looked quite startled. I just don't think of myself as a tourist, even when pulling a wheelie suitcase. I'm crossing the STREET here, okay? Cities are cities, and I think you have to take a little New York with you when you go traveling.

And arrived at The Morrison Hotel (yes, named after the Doors album). That photo at the start of the post is a self-portrait I took of "me with camera reflected in mirror in lobby." That's how fabulous it is. It's like living in a piece of art; there are high ceilings, lots of glass (doors, walls), and many, many mirrors. Original art is everywhere. I was given the penthouse suite, which looks out over the Liffey and across to Temple Bar. I could see the flags for the festival flying by the river. There's teak flooring, and a Mac mini (most of the rooms come equipped with Macs), but what floored me was the best bathroom ever: a 2-person Jacuzzi, with a rainforest showerhead above; attached was a HUGE separate shower, which had a bench on which you c0uld conceivably lie down while the water poured over you (I did). Votive, scented candles ringed the deck of the Jacuzzi, and later I lit them as I bubbled merrily away.
As beautiful as the suite was (and it was!) I went out to make sure I had my tickets for the night; I'd been told the shows were selling better than ever, and I found that out, as I couldn't book a ticket for Picture of Dorian Gray that night; I settled for Friday, and also picked up a ticket for Chris. I added tickets for A Dog Called Redemption at the Theatre Project and Goodnight, Alice at Smock Alley. I knew I'd be back at the Cobalt for the shorts on Saturday.

From the most expensive hotel suite in Dublin, I sallied forth looking for a cheap dinner. Dublin's still an expensive city: less expensive than last year, when the dollar was taking a pounding from the euro. (It still is, but not as much of one). The recession has caused bargains to spring up everywhere: slightly lower prices and deals galore at restaurants and hotels, but it's still New York expensive, if you know what I mean.

And I have a fondness for the Spar and Londis chains of stores: they are roughly the equivalent of 7-11s or Wawa, with much better food. And I found one on Dame Street that has fresh-made crepes and to-order stir fries, and a little dining area. I had a nice portion of stir-fried noodles with duck breast and vegetables, a big bottle of spring water and a Cadbury caramel bar for less than six euro! I'm sure I was quite annoying boasting about my cheap dinner for the next two days. But they were good noodles, and I'd had a dinner at a restaurant practically across the street from there last year that cost more than 3 times as much.

A Dog Called Redemption is a two-hander from England, featuring a young drug-addicted homeless guy, and the mentally ill man who crosses his path, and how they end up affecting each others' lives. It's a laugh riot. But seriously, it has some dark, dark humor in it, as the two men struggle to get by for several days: the younger one has been living on the streets for some time, the older one seems to have wandered away from a group home and stopped taking his pills.

The language was dense and colloquial; between the accent and the slang, sometimes I just got the gist of what was going on, but the physicality was there for both characters, and their stories were quite clear. Matthew Landers, the writer, also played the young man, and Graham Newell was the bi-polar man (the characters don't have names...just Man 1 and Man 2). The production succeeded all the way around: sharp direction, a minimal but atmospheric set, and two dynamite performances. If they can find a way to get this one to New York, New York will "get" it. (Provided a handy glossary or supertitles are used! I kid!)

I had to run to get to the next performance, about 3 blocks away, the 9:30 show of Goodnight, Alice, by Suzanne Lakes. I saw the genesis of the play last year in the shorts, a 10-minute piece called "Mammy's Boy." She expanded it into a full-length this year, using the same characters. A woman after my own heart.

The Smock Alley is where Corpus Christi was shown last year, and is probably one of the oldest theaters I've ever been in: the Vikings were there first (though apparently they didn't build theaters), and later on there was a sort of Viking-themed attraction there that Brian Merriman once managed. But in the 1700s, Sheridan (yes, that Sheridan) ran a theater there, then it was a church, then it wasn't, and then actors playing Vikings ran around in it. (I think I have a career as a historian, don't you?)

The crowd was quite Irish; Kaolin and I might have been the only Americans there. (And of course, it was the night Ireland competed for the Eurovision song title, so most of the country was at home, rooting for Sinead and Black Daisy). The story of the play is simple: Rose and Alice are sisters and best friends. Rose's son, Tim, has been left with an infant daughter to take care of by his now-gone girlfriend. (Tim's clearly gay). They are poor/working class Dublin folks who get by the best they can with a sense of humor and a few (well, many) well-chosen curses. Alice gets some bad news that changes the course of the play, and the hard-won humor takes a dark turn as Rose must prepare to lose her best friend, and Tim finally comes out to his family (only to find out they've known all along). Some of the culture, and the jokes, were clearly local, and yet I got most of what was going on. The speech was MUCH easier for me to understand that the heavy accents of the play I'd just seen. It's a piece I suspect could only have been done in Ireland, at this festival. And I really need to get ready for work now!

More anon...

A-pear-antly, one must embrace the pear...