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.