Fado, Fado
“–Our swim first, Buck Mulligan said. He turned to Stephen and asked blandly: –Is this the day for your monthly wash, Kinch? Then he said to Haines: –The unclean bard makes a point of washing once a month., –All of Ireland is washed by the gulfstream, Stephen said as he let honey trickle over a slice of the loaf.”
Clontarf Road – Every day and every day, the stream of young faces. They suspect, but don’t know yet that they are punching the same time clock that Mum and Dad did. It’s a softer clock, but it has the same hands and no fewer hours to make. But not today, it is June 16th, Bloom’s Day. Perfect Hibernian June, cold, gray, a little drizzle.
Connolly – Nothing stirring. Hung over from Friday night, perhaps. No one wakes in Dublin before 11:00 on Saturday. Leftovers from the Knacker drinking on Amien Street. Clad in the finest that Adidas has to offer. Little and thin as rail, but made of wire and cheek, and broken jagged bottle-ends poured into the top of a garden wall. “Stowrey Bud?”.
Tara Street – The cacophony of tongues grows almost perceptible. None English. Polish perhaps, some Italian? Czech? Don’t really like Dublin. Dirty. Kids run wild. Have our own stores, bake our own bread, have our own bars, have our own daily rag StrefaÉire.
Pearse Street – Could go either way here. On the Southside now, headed south. Flutters on a heaping helping of giggling gals. Must be twenty or so of ‘em. Sitting three in a seat, just for the craic. Talking loudly, not in English. Couldn’t be Polish, too poorly behaved.
Grand Canal Dock – The beehives of the Celtic Tiger. This is living it up yuppie style. If only Ikea would hurry up and open so I can furnish the place.
Your one with the unknown language starts chattin up an Italian lad in perfect English. Dons a pair of those stylish shades that make one look like a fly or Paris Hilton going to jail. “Do you like my sunglasses, my darling?” She pretends. Mario blushes and tries to look away. “Bon Journo” she says waving her hand in your man’s face. The others laugh and chatter in language “X”.
Lansdowne Road – Rugby land closed temporarily. Rebuilding. What a proud moment when we beat the English at the Croker. Not a whisper during “God Save The Queen”. Ireland is a nation among nations now, how proud we are.
Your one’s buddy is fanning a handful of tickets. Counting them to make sure. They all look a little hung-over.
Sandymount – What a nice life we’ve made for the kids and us. The best crèches, Montessori for sure, and a nice little French-ish place for coffee and a biscuit. Holiday in central France if it’s not too dear. Not exactly the “world and his wife”, just the “top thirty-two percentile and his spouse or sig-other”.
Sydney Parade – D4 for sure. Your one jabs one-word sentences at your man in Italian. That doesn’t play, so she jabs in English. WHERE. ARE. YOU. GOING? Now your man sees the whole gaggle looking on with interest. Chattering away in language “X” again.
Booterstown – Closer to the sea now. The gaggle paste their noses excitedly to the glass. Pointing at the sea and the ferries arriving.
Blackrock – The beating heart of D4. ‘Dublin 4’ or its abbreviation, ‘D4’, is sometimes used as a pejorative adjective to describe an Irish liberal elitist attitude, based on the perceived opinions and characteristics of some residents of this area. Naw!
Seapoint – Now with a full view of the sea, the gals really start getting rowdy. Chatter, chatter, chatter in language “X”????….wait a tick! Welsh. It’s fookin’ Welsh. It’s a fookin’ hen night from Hollyhead and they’re hung-over and headed home on the ferry from Dun Laoighire.
Salthill & Monkstown – My mind turns to the task at hand. It’s shite cold out. Are you sure about this? Is there a better way to celebrate Bloom’s Day? Certainly, there must be. The logistics of the deed run through my mind over and over again.
On come the uber-teens with pierced lips and tendrils of matted black hair pointing north-east and due west. Cause a big stir with the Welsh women. “Cows”, the uber-teen girl mumbles under her breath as she struggles to her seat to frig her expensive mobile.
Dun Laoighire – “Ciao Bella”. Bye, bye gaggle of gals. Off to the land of studly Tom Jones. Some day I must go and visit his birthplace. Worship at some kind of shrine or something like that. Surely they have some sort of shrine to the best thing Wales has produced since Dylan Thomas.
Sandycove & Glasthule – My stop. I make my way to the expensive little village. The celebration in full swing, tables in best white linen line the shop fronts. Wine is poured, coddle is eaten, gorgonzola sandwiches too, by well-healed types in antique clothes. I ask two lovely women (I never ask men, if women are about) “How do I get to the Forty Foot?” “The restaurant or the swimming, dear” replies the prettiest. “The swimming one”, says I. “Just right, then right again, along the sea walk behind the Martello tower. Happy Bloom’s Day” they wave.
The English built Martello towers all along the coast of England, seventy-four in all. They extended this, as well as other endearing building habits, along the coast of Dublin to serve as gunneries to protect the port of Dublin and Dun Laoighire.
But James Joyce (and Buck Mulligan) only lived in one of these, and it was in Sandycove just behind the Forty Foot. It came to be called the Forty Foot after the 42nd Highland Regiment of Foot (now known as the Black Watch), a regiment of the British Army, which built a fortress here in 1747 when it was sent over to repulse any possible Napoleonic invasion of Ireland.
In later years it became a popular men’s swimming club where a man could enjoy a brisk dip in the Irish Sea completely and utterly starkers. In the 1970s those feisty feminists invaded the club and now a sad little sign reads “Bathers must wear togs”.
So, I don my togs after finding a suitable place to hide my bits from the Japanese tourists clicking photos in every conceivable nook and cranny of the place. A light drizzle continues to fall. Air temperature 60F, 16C. Water temperature 52F, 12C.
–Is this the day for your monthly wash, OOJ? –All of Ireland is washed by the gulfstream……..
And so am I. “A voice, sweettoned and sustained, called to him from the sea. Turning the curve he waved his hand. It called again. A sleek brown head, a seal’s, far out on the water, round. Usurper.”
Copyright (C) 2004 – 2019 Abram Richman All Rights Reserved
The Only Other Jew In Dublin 