Fado, Fado
I black-rode the Luas yesterday and fuck ‘em, those greedy bastards who run the public transit in Dublin. Every time I step on a bus, or a train, or a streetcar, I pay. No feckin change, just a weak-ass refund slip that you can only redeem during business hours in Centre City. Luas means quick in Gaelic. You can’t transfer from the Dublin Bus orDART to the Luas, or to the bus from the Luas, or from the DART to the bus, or from the bus to the DART or any of the three-factorial combinations thereof, but it’s “quick”
Yes, fuck ‘em says I. Besides, I was on my way to see Patti Smith play Vicar Street and I kept on saying to myself “what would Patti do?” Not ride the Luas looking over her shoulder incessantly for the ticket checker. No guilty conscience for Patti. No “all’s-gone-pear-shaped” scenarios played to the hilt where she ends up in the Garda tank and is subsequently transported to Mountjoy Prison and mistakenly hanged. Patti would say “fuck ‘em” and ride the glorious ride from Busaras to Jervis singing “Those who have suffered, understand suffering, and thereby extend their hand. The storm that brings harm also makes fertile. Blessed is the grass and herb and the true thorn and light.” Yeah, baby, yeah!
And, oh yeah, Patti has a message for all of you non-believers who are asking, “what the fuck?, why did you do a 12 cover song album?” “Because I wanted to”, says Patti. I loved the concert by the way. It was class. Got waaaay in touch with my feminist side.
In my foolish schoolgirl way, I scribbled a little sign that said “Happy Mother’s Day” and held it up. I know she saw it, I got a definite look of recognition. It wasn’t Mother’s Day in Ireland. That’s left to the Sunday near Patty’s day, and is called Mothering Sunday. So she knew, I knew.
Her son Jackson (20 years old) played rhythm guitar and switched off on bass. At the end of the concert she screamed, “I’m Jackson Smith’s fucking Mom and this is the best fucking Mother’s Day I’ve ever had.” as she ripped the strings off her guitar. It was class.
I was surprised I could get tickets to the small club on short notice, but after excitedly telling a few cabbies and work colleagues that I was going Sunday to see Patti Smith at Vicar Street and getting, “I’ve never heard of Paddy, does he do Trad?”, I knew why the tix came so easily. I stopped before the show at my Italian ghetto at the foot of the Millennium Bridge to have some of the best coffee in Dublin. There are 6 or 7 places, all Italian; a wine bar, a café, an Italian grocery, a gelatoria, and a few restaurants all with excellent coffee, the stuff that hallucinations are made of.
There’s a giant fresco of a modern-day last supper that features a bunch of very esoteric looking folks who obviously posed for the photo in a setting in Rome that looks very much like the real last super. Some look very Irish, some very Italian. I think there’s a footballer or two in the photo. No one is able to tell me the story of the photo fresco, but it’s become a sure-fire curiosity for tourists and locals alike.
A couple of years ago on Saturday nights, they’d put out the DJ rig, and everyone danced the tango in the little square in front of the fresco. The dancers included Mick Wallace, the property developer and contractor who built and owns the alleyway. Apparently, Mr. Wallace has a passion for all that is Italian.
I love this little alleyway, but it wasn’t until this day that I looked up and realized reading the street sign, that the name of the alleyway was Bloom’s Alley. No wonder, I feel so comfortable here. I could sit for hours and let little Europe pour over me. After a few cappuccinos I forget completely that I’m in the heart of Dublin.
There’s something to this European Union thing! It could turn out to be a stoned soul picnic, and America is definitely not invited. We can’t surrey, we can’t picnic. We were very, very bad, and we’ll pay for years to come……..
Cabbies Ain’t Crabby ……………………………..
As crabby as Dublin Bus drivers are, cabbies ain’t. “How crabby are Dublin Bus drivers?”, you ask. I’ll tell you how. I was on the quays on a piss, cold, rainy day in January waiting for the bus. The 29A arrived and we all got in. The driver pulled 2 feet away from the curb and was immediately halted in traffic. It was clear he wasn’t going anywhere for a few minutes. Meanwhile a dear little old Irish woman runs up to the door of the bus, newspaper held over her head to block the rain. She tapped on the bus door with her umbrella trying to get on the bus, but the driver refused to open the door. The bollocks!
The old lady was probably his own fookin’ mammy who made him and his 9 brudders and sistars lovely coddle, “ah bud, it was gorgeous”, but the rules say “once the bus has pulled away from the bus stop, there’s no opening of the door.”, so sorry mammy.
Coddle, by the way, is a Dubliner’s dish. Ah, loovley. I used to think it was like cobbler or something, until I found out it is a dish made by boiling Irish sausage and rashers to extract a stock, then layering the sausage, rashers, and potatoes in a pot with the stock and baking for an hour. Toss in a hand-full of barley if you like and ah, loovley it is.
But, cabbies, saints be praised, always have a good word and a good story. “How’s the craic?”,or “Where’s the craic?”, they say when you get in the cab. “Had a scoop or two?” (a few pints). So one of my cabbies tells me..
“You know the Brazen Head Pub? There’s a young fella who’s a barman there. He’s going on 84 now and he’s been tending bar there for 50 some years. In fairness should have retired 20 years ago, but he wouldn’t know what to do with himself. So anyway, this American bloke comes into the pub and has a pint or two. He chats up Charlie the barman for a while and then asks for the toilet. Charlie duly points him to the toilet.
In a few minutes the American comes back, knickers all in a twist saying to Charlie, are you aware that there are no locks on your toilet stalls?
Charlie can scarcely believe this blather and retorts, that is true sir, but there’s been a pub on this spot since 1198 and ancient history aside, in the 50 years I’ve pulled pints here we’ve never had a shite gone missing.”
I’m off the next two weeks to England’s penal colony Australia. What did I do to deserve penal transportation? I’m still trying to figure that out. Maybe it will all come clear to me on the 2+ day trip.
I’ve heard the internet reaches down under, so I’ll try to write to you from there, alright bud?.
Copyright (C) 2004 – 2019 Abram Richman All Rights Reserved
The Only Other Jew In Dublin 