Dublin: Meeting Dancers, and Walking to Christchurch

One of the first things you need to do before you go visit a big city across the ocean is invest in a good pair of walking shoes. Shoes you can walk for miles in. Shoes that don't scream "AMERICAN!"

I'm not sure why you don't want your footwear to scream "AMERICAN," other than it being disturbing to walk around in a pair of shrieking shoes. But this was a little piece of travel advice we received before we left: "Don't wear jeans and tennis shoes. They make you look like a tourist. An American tourist."

Now, I would think you'd WANT to look like an American Tourist, because then people would expect you to spend money in their establishment and would be extra nice to you.

But maybe I'm naive.

Yeah. I can bank on that. Which is why, before I went to the Land o' Leprechauns, I searched three Dillards locations and bought a pair of these:

Which were, frankly, fantastic. Born. (That's the brand. These shoes are not mammals and were therefore never born. They are, however, Born. I just don't have that slashy-thingie to go across the "o") These little bad boys walked me all over Dublin, and every other place we went–miles and miles a day–without ever once giving me blisters or rubbing me the wrong way.

As for the rest of the non-American ensemble, I totally nailed it. I didn't look at all like a tourist.

Well, except for the part where I was wearing a chartreuse raincoat and had a camera glued to my eyeballs.

Anyway, the reason I mention the shoes is because what I wore was wildly different from what these three munchkins were wearing on their feet, just a few steps down from the Christchurch Cathedral. Three girls I happened to notice doing a few little dancey steps as they walked alongside their adult companions. I asked them about it. Turned out they were in Ireland from Canada for the World Irish Dance Competition. They were beautiful, talented, and sweet, and after a bit of cajoling I got them to dance for us on camera. Check it:

Of course we needed to know who they were. And since I am an aspiring journalist, I asked. Because I think of these things. And talk on top of my interviewees. So I'm totally qualified:

Yeah. They'll be famous someday. And I discovered them. You're welcome. (The parents were very gracious about all of this interruption and filming of their charges  [parents to two of the girls, friends of the third], and so I give them a shout-out and a thank you for it.)

Speaking of Christchurch Cathedral (we were, remember? A couple of movie clips and paragraphs ago?), that place is amazing. Gorgeous exterior and grounds. Beautiful Synod hall. A presumably fabulous nave, but we wouldn't know since we were given the wrong time for Easter Mass and missed it by THIS much. I did get a slightly illegal listen-in before I was stopped. (Note how brave and not wussy I am in the clip as I stand up against authority):

Yeah, my Irish Republican forebears would be proud of my chutzpa.

Why don't we just move on, hmm?

Inner courtyard of Christchurch Cathedral on Easter Sunday. Punctual worshippers on the inside, jet-lagged stragglers on the outside. Love the flower windows. 

Vaults and spires, turrets and towers. Wonder if the dudes who dragged the rock over, cut it and placed it, got to stand back and sigh in satisfaction over the whole thing. I hope that's how it went down.

Very thorough, this sign. And now we are educated.

Okay, okay. I can hear you begging for an obnoxiously dizzy narrated tour in which I sneeze, sniff, get all full of myself and do an Irish accent that I felt sure sounded authentic, but on listening sounds like the Lucky Charms leprechaun on drugs. Fine. You talked me into it. It's on your head, not mine. Here it is. The Christchurch Synod Hall:

Sorry.

But, look what I found out back!

How fabulous are those doors?

And then there was this, the Dublin Castle Cathedral:

And look what's on the inside!

THAT'S a nave. Can you see the ceiling? No, look closer:

And the organ:

Don't you just want to hear it? Mark Andersen would set those pipes free.

Hope that's not a copy of my novel manuscript in his hands . . . 

Overwhelming, isn't it? I'm clearly overwhelmed. Either that or I am receiving revelation.

I don't know my history well enough to know if this building was Church of Ireland or Catholic. But if I'd been there on Easter Monday 1916, I would have met a few people to whom that distinction was quite significant. James Pearse–a teacher and barrister–gathered together the Irish Citizen Army, the Irish Volunteers, and members of  Cumann na mBan. Together they seized parts of Dublin and proclaimed Ireland a republic, free from British rule. It ended badly, as James knew it would, with Pearse and most of his cohorts being captured and executed. The Irish also lost a fair number of civilians and buildings in the conflict. But Pearse and his people eventually emerged heros, and their action helped give rise to republicanism in Ireland, and the Irish war for independence.

Some of this was explained to me by the kind garda (police officer) below, while we were listening to a passionate commemorative speech being given by the man following:

Listen to his cadence, the rise and fall, the emotion, and you'll understand how it was that our armies, during the American Revolution, came to be populated at 70% by Irish and Scottish immigrants. Stirs the blood.

The Dublin Post Office, which served as the Uprising's headquarters. Almost a hundred years ago . . . 

 . . . and just a few streets over, a memorial to fallen police officers, or Garda.

Quite a town, this. I've worked up an appetite. Think I'll stop in Temple Bar for some grub. Maybe have a bit of fish with my chips . . . 

Tune in next time when we leave Dublin and drive on the left side of the road to get to Doolin, where we'll find more food, more music, and the astonishing Cliffs of Moher. Not to mention cows, midges, and some mighty fine fudge, all wrapped up in the local turn of phrase.

Cheers!