snatch
dublin is a city with an edge. Historically a port city, it is still full of industrial architecture and railways of 3 kinds - the train, the tram and the DART; an overland version of the London Underground. new buildings in Dublin are much like glass and steel marvels anywhere in the world, but the city has a gritty fabric. i don't think it's ever really clean. it's version of regent street is not quite as glitzy, it's square mile not as chock-full of gargoyles and its answer to the borough of westminster looks like Southwark.
the difference between size and scale becomes clear when you compare London and Dublin. both have buildings of the same height, roads of the same width - even the parks are as generous; but Dublin seems to be made for people, and what's more, for local people. i could argue that local-ness becomes easier to achieve if you have a strong religious tie between everyone (catholicism), or an ancient cultural tradition to uphold (celtic), everyone just looks the same; but it isn't a prescriptive, predictive kind of localness. the grand (actually puny) canal isn't designed to be used in a certain manner only, exclusively by a certain group, ethnic, economic or age. it's a body of clear water, with grassy banks, benches alongside and a wooden pallet or two to sit on. not much premium has been placed on it by anyone. and that's why anyone can use it, freely. [including a generally grubby indian student dressed to the nines, sweating profusely before making a speech; trying to be 'subtle, sexy and alluring' inspite of the perspiration]
i did hear of a tremendous economic boom in Dublin, in recent times; whether the Dublin I saw this weekend is going to disappear fast, i cannot predict. it seemed to me in some ways an indoor city; grave mismatches existed between the insides and outsides of establishments; be it a hotel, a youth hostel or a pub, interiors were much more plush than exteriors. and yet, the exteriors weren't decaying or anything; they just weren't top notch, as if they didn't matter that much. and at times, this mismatch brought off splendid tableaux. like when we entered the seemingly deserted and dark courtyard of Dublin castle for a post-conference drinks reception, wondering if we were in the right ruin; the instant we stepped on to the sole ribbon of red carpet adoring the vast grey stone floor, the bagpipes opened up from all around us. most auspicious! [whether they were lurking in the shadows to surprise a chief guest, or unsure of whether to greet these bedraggled studenty type first shower uppers with music, or had fallen asleep, we will never know] but the drab courtyard was all the more remarkable when we re-entered it upon exiting the castle’s gilded and damasked banquet hall, having polished of most of the wine and all of the finger food, and remembering on the steps how music came from the skies. We were quite drunk then, which helped with the metaphor.
Escaping into a personal take - Dublin didn’t push or pull me. It allowed me to drift from pub to bar to grub to pub, sampling a different whiskey and a different Celtic band every hour; it didn’t stop me when I wanted to walk back a block to take a picture of a tower in a corner plot, with 2 chairs and a table sitting halfway up it in mid-air; it didn’t even stop me when I agreed to go along with a plan to be anti-urban and visit the seaside all of my only remaining day in Ireland.
Howth, the seaside place, is just a mellow greenish grey blur of yachts, lighthouses, prawn and wine. It drizzled desultorily when we sat on some stones strewn at the edge of a sandy sea wasteland, complacently missing our second last train home as we waited for our third to satisfactorily wet her feet. It doesn’t advertise itself much, the Irish sea. You have to choose to paint it, or write about it, or dive bomb into it for fun, like the sea gulls at Howth. But when the train was pulling out [45 minutes late] from the seaside retreat, I felt a strange reluctance to leave the seascape, so content in its misery. The same feeling threatened to make me unfaithful to London, as I was catching the bus to the airport two hours later. Could the breeze on Southwark Street be just as fresh and free? It poured steadily on the airport windows as we waited endlessly. [‘twas a bad day for Irish Transport] Apparently Dublin was back to normal after 2 miraculous days of sunshine.
Even with its sunny side up, Dublin didn’t seem to care much for wooing people. I had 2 romantically inclined walks in the city, 5 with good friends prone to giggling, some alcohol, some nepali food, lots of head-filling music, and a much needed break in (and around) the city. And it all seemed to just happen.
I think design may have some limitations.
p.s.: the breeze on Southwark Street turned out to be just as fresh. I do believe London knows I exist, and loves me back a wee fraction of my own devotion to it
the difference between size and scale becomes clear when you compare London and Dublin. both have buildings of the same height, roads of the same width - even the parks are as generous; but Dublin seems to be made for people, and what's more, for local people. i could argue that local-ness becomes easier to achieve if you have a strong religious tie between everyone (catholicism), or an ancient cultural tradition to uphold (celtic), everyone just looks the same; but it isn't a prescriptive, predictive kind of localness. the grand (actually puny) canal isn't designed to be used in a certain manner only, exclusively by a certain group, ethnic, economic or age. it's a body of clear water, with grassy banks, benches alongside and a wooden pallet or two to sit on. not much premium has been placed on it by anyone. and that's why anyone can use it, freely. [including a generally grubby indian student dressed to the nines, sweating profusely before making a speech; trying to be 'subtle, sexy and alluring' inspite of the perspiration]
i did hear of a tremendous economic boom in Dublin, in recent times; whether the Dublin I saw this weekend is going to disappear fast, i cannot predict. it seemed to me in some ways an indoor city; grave mismatches existed between the insides and outsides of establishments; be it a hotel, a youth hostel or a pub, interiors were much more plush than exteriors. and yet, the exteriors weren't decaying or anything; they just weren't top notch, as if they didn't matter that much. and at times, this mismatch brought off splendid tableaux. like when we entered the seemingly deserted and dark courtyard of Dublin castle for a post-conference drinks reception, wondering if we were in the right ruin; the instant we stepped on to the sole ribbon of red carpet adoring the vast grey stone floor, the bagpipes opened up from all around us. most auspicious! [whether they were lurking in the shadows to surprise a chief guest, or unsure of whether to greet these bedraggled studenty type first shower uppers with music, or had fallen asleep, we will never know] but the drab courtyard was all the more remarkable when we re-entered it upon exiting the castle’s gilded and damasked banquet hall, having polished of most of the wine and all of the finger food, and remembering on the steps how music came from the skies. We were quite drunk then, which helped with the metaphor.
Escaping into a personal take - Dublin didn’t push or pull me. It allowed me to drift from pub to bar to grub to pub, sampling a different whiskey and a different Celtic band every hour; it didn’t stop me when I wanted to walk back a block to take a picture of a tower in a corner plot, with 2 chairs and a table sitting halfway up it in mid-air; it didn’t even stop me when I agreed to go along with a plan to be anti-urban and visit the seaside all of my only remaining day in Ireland.
Howth, the seaside place, is just a mellow greenish grey blur of yachts, lighthouses, prawn and wine. It drizzled desultorily when we sat on some stones strewn at the edge of a sandy sea wasteland, complacently missing our second last train home as we waited for our third to satisfactorily wet her feet. It doesn’t advertise itself much, the Irish sea. You have to choose to paint it, or write about it, or dive bomb into it for fun, like the sea gulls at Howth. But when the train was pulling out [45 minutes late] from the seaside retreat, I felt a strange reluctance to leave the seascape, so content in its misery. The same feeling threatened to make me unfaithful to London, as I was catching the bus to the airport two hours later. Could the breeze on Southwark Street be just as fresh and free? It poured steadily on the airport windows as we waited endlessly. [‘twas a bad day for Irish Transport] Apparently Dublin was back to normal after 2 miraculous days of sunshine.
Even with its sunny side up, Dublin didn’t seem to care much for wooing people. I had 2 romantically inclined walks in the city, 5 with good friends prone to giggling, some alcohol, some nepali food, lots of head-filling music, and a much needed break in (and around) the city. And it all seemed to just happen.
I think design may have some limitations.
p.s.: the breeze on Southwark Street turned out to be just as fresh. I do believe London knows I exist, and loves me back a wee fraction of my own devotion to it
Comments
all i have to say is that if u don't make it in your current profession, writing, and especially travel writing is something you should SERIOUSLY give a go at... and i thought i used to write well! wish we had done the same course, it would have been fun getting to know you gradually.
you write well luv.
keep at it.