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...