~gutter, stars~

January 8th, 2008

The day began rather late, as our internal clocks are all crazy and we stayed up until 2am giggling over the absurdity that is Scarface on the local tv station. So this morning I loafed in my pjs and planned my schedule for the next few days.

Today’s agenda:
First, a visit to the formative stomping ground of my favorite faggy wit, Oscar Wilde. The sun was shinning bright on the bay as I left the hotel, blithely ignoring the 70% chance of rain warnings and leaving my umbrella behind. By the time I left the train it was sprinkling, edging toward drizzling.

The childhood house (1855-1878) of Mssr. Wilde was closed, indefinitely, no one knew why exactly. There is a statue of him, carved of multi-colored stone and lounging on a rock that known on as The Fag on the Crag. It is so horrible in its bright, shiny textures and awful smug grimace that I won’t reproduce it here. Instead, here is a picture of Oscar, no doubt taken while waiting out one of his mother’s endless salons….

Off I went to the National History Museum in the now certain drizzle. I was very excited to see it, as I had read it was a relatively untouched Victorian collection, showing at the seams, as it were.
It was also closed, indefinitely, in this case from a seriously collapsed staircase. If it had been open, it might have looked a bit like this:

No matter, thought I, let’s see about the smutty bas-relief murals and turn-of-the-century garden maze at the Newman House.
Closed, for the season.
I stood–by this time dripping—in the lobby of the building and flipped thru some pictures that the kind man at the desk had retrieved for me. Incredible heart-shaped locks on the doors. The rest, had I seen it, would look like this:

I wandered through St. Stephen’s Green, a lovely, well-planned park that features a duck pond, gazebo, a garden for the blind, and many herbaceous borders. Until 1800, The Green as its known, was the designated spot for public whippings and hangings.

The whole neighborhood is now quite tony. The square around the park is lined with stone and brick mansions, all matching and austere, except for the brightly-painted, mismatched doors.

Drenched and tired, I went to the one place (besides a pub) that I new would be open in the land o’Catholics.
Whitefriar Carmelite Church opened in 1827, two years before Catholic emancipation, a decade before the great potato famine. It is said to house the remains of Saint Valentine.

I lit a candle for the man who protects lovers and those inflicted with the “falling sickness”, epilepsy.
The prayer in the book before mine was pages long, in tiny, exact script.

From here I tried to find a certain library, but failed, and as I was soaked through my wool coat, sweater, shoes, socks, and levis, I relented, heading for The Stag’s Head pub. It is hidden in a back alley known as Dame Court (who you calling a dame?), and was not easy to find.

A rather unhelpful man whom I had troubled for directions said, “You are very wet, you know.” Rain dripped off my nose in response. Carrying on, I came upon a floor mosaic which pointed the way, very Wonderland…

After a half-hour in the ladies room drying some parts of myself enough to sit down, I had a Smithwicks (don’t pronounce the “w”), a red ale first made by monks in the oldest brewery in Ireland. Tasty.

Finally, we supped with Ali’s friend Lizzie at L’Gueuleton, also in Temple Bar area. A lovely lady and lovely place (very New York—no sign, no business card) I am sure we will return to.

The bath I enjoyed before bed brought warmth to my bones I thought would never return!