The Days

Day 3

If the first night provided a much-needed amount of rest, the second night had its fair share of wakeful moments.  A group of older people from I think a Scandinavian country had filled the breakfast room, having a meeting to explain the plan of the day (I guessed, because I heard the word "Richmond").  Then someone had a question for the hotel manager, how many bathrooms were there in the hotel?  I supposed it was a good thing I had got a room with its own bathroom, even if it should be called a bath closet.  I asked a woman if she would share the table, since all were taken but one.  It turned out she was a French woman from Paris who had come to a Marketing course at IBM.  I also learned from her that Egypt was a good tourist destination, although she had gone with an organized trip and it was really full of tourists, she said.

Went back to the British museum to read my book in the reading room.  I took note of the grey blue leather covering not only the chairs but also the table tops.  It is also interesting to see how the workstations, they must be the original from a hundred years ago, have one little door to reveal a tablet, and another one to reveal what must be a book holder.  In between, four little hooks, apparently not coat hooks.  Walking through the museum on my way out, I noticed they had not only a lot of Egyptian and middle-eastern antiques, but also a lot of Asian ones, apparently more than you could find in China, for example.

Couldn't resist a nap in the afternoon.  I think it will help me to stay awake tonight to go to a small theatre nearby.  Two steps from here is the Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts and there's a practice theatre called "Drill Hall" where they try new stuff.  I would rather do that than going to a big theatre where I may still fall asleep during the presentation.  I wonder how people do on these "London Theatre Trips" -- don't they fall asleep?  I would.  Maybe a lot of coffee.  Speaking of which, there are Starbucks everywhere, it's crazy.  I guess since there wasn't such a thing as British Coffee before, it is like another American thing to add to the omnipresent Mc Donald's and Burger King.  Still I didn't see the same zombies walking around with coffee cups as we see in America.  What I saw in the busier part of town was the omnipresence of the cell phone (let's say there are probably as many as in America, but here people don't drive so they walk around a lot more with phones).

The British Library is also nearby.  On my way I saw a store for the royal blind agency (it was closed).  The Library has a museum area where one can see old manuscripts, medieval ones but also some by more recent authors.  The library itself is open only to people with a pass (I didn't try to apply for one) but I also saw that they couldn't get in the manuscripts section with anything but pencil and paper (no pens, no bags, no jackets).  I will return tomorrow with my computer because they are trying out WiFi for free until the end of June.

Tomorrow I see there are Sunday activities such as a puppetry faire and an antique map show.  If it doesn't rain I'll get the bike out for spin in the lighter traffic.

Day 4

I think the experiment with the computer worked, sending photos and all.  The connection at the Library failed to receive messages in outlook so my best bet is the cafe where I just have to buy coffee and a pastry to get 30 minutes.

This morning I took my bike out, as traffic was not going to be hectic on a Sunday.  I almost got the left-side riding thing in my head except for right turns which are still weird (I just have to keep my focus on its oddity while doing it).  On wide streets the left lane is for buses and bikes.  Between here and the library there's even a bike lane, colored green.

My first stop was at Covent Garden where they celebrated the anniversary (or was it the birthday) of Mr. Punch of Punch and Judy with a parade and a fair in the church yard.  A bit funky but at the same time I walked along their parade in the streets to discover a bit.  In fact I found a poetry cafe on one of the streets and took note of the street in order to return to it one night.  Then the faire people went to church (St-Paul's church, the Actors' church) and I went down to find the Globe Theatre on the south side to buy a ticket for Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet on Tuesday.  I chose Tuesday because there was also a lecture about it before the show.  Then I returned to Covent Garden to see the Punch and Judy shows.  On the street outside the gate I noticed a black Rolls Royce with a flag and the license plate "WC 1".  In it a man and a woman looking very official, the woman being covered with gold medals.  I assumed she was the mayoress of the borough or something.  Later I saw them walking around the Punch and Judy shows.  It was funny because the husband was dressed in a rather formal manner and the two could have been mistaken for performers, had they been a little more colorful!  Life is a comedy!

So far I confirm that I prefer these little things to the standard tourist stuff.  But of course it takes a lot more time to discover, and I have time as long as I don't try to judge myself to fit the tourist mold.  It's good to have time.  I don't think I would like to be a tourist.

Now I'll go back to reading.  Last night I had a Chinese dinner (vegetables), today I had a peanut butter sandwich from the choir people at the faire.  I could take a chance on a pizza tonight.

Day 5 – see document Henry IV

Day 6

A visit to Greenwich

I started the day with a guided visit to Greenwich. You meet the “London Walk” guide at a subway station and follow him to the programmed destination. Apparently this group was larger than usual. We went from the Tower to Greenwich by a river boat. All along the river the docks are no longer existent and have been replaced by apartment buildings. As many other modern buildings here, the architects seem to have tried to be original with each one. Those along the river have themes of sailboats and docks. The office buildings have non-square shapes. The Millenium Dome, which apparently cost several millions to build, went bankrupt and the government sold it for 1 pound to an American company which doesn’t know what it will do with it (sounds like a tax write-off to me). At Greenwich is the original boat the Cutty Sark, yes the same name as the whisky. The cutty sark is a boat that engaged in tea shipping from India, then went out of commission when they built the Suez canal. Apparently it is rotting and they need several millions to restore it.

There was of course the observatory, perched at the top of the hill, where you can sit on the zero degree longitude line. Did you know that the way they had found to figure a ship’s current longitude was by having it take a precise clock set at the Greenwich time, and figure out the time difference from the sun? To do so they had a contest to build a precise ship clock, and it took the winner several years and several different versions before a good clock was made. So they had a clock exhibition at the observatory. I saw that a cesium atom clock is made by Hewlett Packard.

On my way back I remarked how crooked the subway rails were. Well the same day the big news in the afternoon paper were that a train had derailed on the central line! I wonder if that happens often.

Romeo and Juliet at the Globe

At the end of the day I was to go to the Globe theatre, the reproduction of the theatre that Shakespeare had built and had his plays performed in.

First I attended a talk about Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet by a professor from the University of Western Ontario (funny that they had to go to Canada to get a speaker). In fact I don’t think there was one Londoner (save for the ushers) in the audience. She made a point that nobody knew the stage directions for certain, because the texts that we use nowadays made assumptions based on the different original versions. So she argued that the Globe theatre was some kind of laboratory in which they could experiment with the space that was practically identical with the one built in the 16^th century. This is an argument often made about writing and performance, because the effect on the audience depends on a lot more factors, including the audience itself, than just the text.

The theatre itself was very impressive. How to describe it? A semi-circle for three floors of seats, a large space in front of the stage where people can stand (no seats, and no roof, so if it rains they get wet). The stage has a roof supported two columns that obstruct the view of many people (other poles all around also do that, so the price of the ticket varies according to the quality of the view), and the back of the stage consists of two doors on each side, one larger door in the center, and a balcony above it. The floor was filled with people standing, and that actually helped me imagine how the theatre experience would have been 400 years ago. The audience was very informal, due in part to the fact that we were almost all tourists on holidays, and also to the informality of the standing area. The play itself was very good and I must say that I was pleased with the fact that they used a man to play the role of the nurse. Since the play had been written for performances in which men (or boys) would play female roles (due to the laws of the time), some of the comical aspects of the play rely on that fact (some of the lines would not work when addressed to a real woman). They also had to figure out ways to switch between scenes without the tricks of the modern theatre (e.g. without dimming the lights and having stage hands change the furniture). This was done very well, rolling Juliet’s bed in and out, and transitioning from the grave scene where Romeo goes down a hole in the floor to be rolled back with Juliet “inside” the grave he had just descended into.

This was a theatre experience that puzzled me somehow. I think the building, the setting and the audience were part of the show, and that made it worth attending. But then when the expected lines are delivered and expected scenes are set, isn’t it like hearing a song reinterpreted again in which interpretation we want to hear the subtleties? I often find myself trying to decide if a line is delivered as I expect it as opposed to just letting it all happen.

Day 7

Greenwich and Michael Pennington at the National Theatre

I knew Michael Pennington from a text on Hamlet he had written, so when I saw his name I thought it could be interesting to attend this interview-style thing about a book he coauthored with an as famous director of the traveling theatre of England. The book is called “A Pocket Guide to Checkov, Ibsen and Strindberg” and talks a bit about each author and every one of their plays. They had a few jokes about the book marketing people who added Strindberg to their list “in order to have three men with beards on the cover.” But the thing was about naturalism and how pivotal the plays of these three was to reorient theatre. I didn’t get the book, but only with regrets, as I am starting to believe that these need encouragement. I was trying to figure out a scheme of sending the book by mail to my teacher with a note saying that if he didn’t want it I would be pleased to find it when I would be back, but that started to be a little too complicated. I was concerned he would not want it. Another episode in defeating good ideas.

At a subway exit there was a man you could call very English in a tweed jacket and tie, well-trimmed gray beard holding two cans for donations for the blind. Nobody was giving him anything, what with being in a hurry to catch a train or a TV program. So I walked back to him and put a pound (I have come to understand that you can instantly know when someone puts a pound in your bucket by its weight) and he said “Thank you Sir, you must take a sticker.” So I have a sticker on my windbreaker that says “Greater London Fund for the Blind” and I think that’s what has been making people nice to me since. A bit like the homeless guy at the end of the Millenum bridge as I was the only one among the hundreds of passersby to put money in his cup: he made me smile even in his misery by looking at me with sincere thanks.

Day 8

The sun was partially out this morning and I wanted to go to Paddington Station to buy the ticket for Swansea. I chose to use my bicycle also for the purpose of measuring how far I would have to go from the hotel. That is a point that I will need to clarify, whether I could leave the bicycle at the hotel for the four days I will be in Paris, or lock it at Waterloo station? Either way I know can be done and as long as I lock both wheels it shouldn’t be a problem to leave it at the station. Yet it would be convenient to just leave it at the hotel.

Getting the ticket was easy, the woman was very nice and helpful with reserving a bicycle spot on the 4:30 train that afternoon. That would leave me plenty of time to do my connection transports. From the station I decided to explore a little bit in the direction of Hyde park. It is a very large park and rather pleasant to ride around, since there is a dedicated bicycle path. From there I proceeded towards Buckingham palace, following other cyclists as a way to relax and not watch signs constantly. At the palace the crowds were watching the changing of the guard parade, so I stopped for a while observing what was happening. The parade itself is not that interesting: there are no clowns in it. Some of the tourist behaviors are funny, though, because when you look at it from afar, the parade is followed by another parade, that of the tourists. Then they try to watch what happens on the other side of the fence (there isn’t much). I suppose there is an implied policy of making the tourists happy, otherwise the royal parades would have been slashed from the royal budget. Next to me there were two policemen and two young men came to get each their photo with the policemen. The only characteristic being that they wear a funny hat. From there I rolled down to the street in front of the parliament, the Big Ben, to then cross the bridge to Waterloo station. A woman asked me if I were a courier (a bike messenger) and I wondered if she wanted to give me a letter to deliver, but she just wanted to know where the house of commons was (isn’t it the parliament, I said, pointing at Big Ben). She saw a policeman and went to ask. I thought the house of commons was in Ottawa, but then who knows what she meant. Then later a man asked me for directions again in Covent Garden (I pulled out my map and explained his route). It must be the bicycle. The bicycle makes you approachable, and if you ride a bicycle you must be a local and knowledgeable about the streets. In fact I did feel confident in giving him directions, although I had lost track of a store I wanted to return to, to get juggling balls.

No fiction writing today. I write a lot of e-mails, with photos that I have taken and that I think could be of interest or at least amusing. Isn’t an important book review magazine, I think the New York Times, going to stop reviewing fiction? I wonder if that is because there is so much happening in the world and so much of it is reported, even as gossip, that fiction has become less interesting because it is less believable. In other words, we already live in fiction. I even heard prime minister Blair say, from a sound bite on TV, that those photos of mistreatment of Iraqis by U.S. or U.K. soldiers were probably fake (does he know something we should know, is he talking from experience?). I think that as a high level politician he knows that they put out a lot of fiction which is in turn perceived as non-fiction by the public. But if one follows their reasoning, there is just no truth.

I ended the day by going to the poetry café, of course a place where everybody seems to know everybody, but then maybe not. There is a bar upstairs and I order a Guinness which come in a big 333 cl bottle and I take it with me downstairs where the reading would be and where there is no smoking. There are small books (chap books, I guess these are called) and leaflets all over, this can be overwhelming to the newcomer. I sit down with my Guiness and it induces some writing because the theme of the evening is “survivors poetry” apparently for those who survive some mental illness (I suppose they mean the dreaded depression). The woman who runs the show comes to me and asks if I am Christian. Now a few hours later I am quite sure she meant am I the person who goes by the name of Christian, but there at the moment I thought she wanted me to say a prayer or something really scary like that which made me consider running for the nearest exit, so I said “no” which was the correct answer in any case. She also asked if I was going to read and I also answered no to that question as I really didn’t have anything with me and I really didn’t know how foolish my reading would appear to be. Beautiful voices some of them had, and their poetry adapted to it very beautifully. I was pleased by my attendance. A couple of less extraordinary readers assured me once again, even on this side of the English world, that my stuff would be just fine. The final one was a man who said “this is a film script, and it’s a bit long, so I will forgive you if you leave in the middle,” which was practically impossible. He said it was a “film in black” or something like that meaning that there was no image other than all white for the first scene and all black for the other scenes. His text was pretty good for reading but I can’t imagine sitting in a movie theatre watching nothingness. And it was really long. So long that after “scene five” he looked back at the woman who was ready to go to sleep and she politely suggested that he come back to read the rest of it. All very proper, I suppose as English people should be. I liked the evening, the way these people were real in comparison to the surface we see as visitors or even as people who do not venture down into places like those.

There’s a store called “Books for Amnesty” to which I would like to go (I found out from a book-marker at the Poetry Café). I am quite satisfied by this visit to London, what with the theatre, the reading room, the poetry café, the availability of sandwiches at grocery stores, riding the bike around, discovering little things here and there.

Day 9

Found the Books for Amnesty store but it was closed. I had previously registered The Voyage Out on www.bookcrossing.com so I left it at the door.

I started writing a short story about an average American who has to spend a day in London. I’m concerned that nothing ever happens to my characters other than having happy events. Yet, I don’t want my man to get mugged, caught in a bar fight, or having a one-night stand.

I went to the Wyndham theatre to see a new play called “Democracy.” I think the highlight of the evening was that the balcony is really high! They send you up rather gloomy stairs (but then, there’s a bar at the end) and the rows are staggered except that row C (where I sat) is not quite high enough to see above a fancy hairdo. Fortunately I moved at the intermission. The play was OK, it was making a story with Germany’s Willy Brandt, something that one would say is equivalent to Shakespeare: they’re not necessarily true, but they may use people that we have known. The result is puzzling, because we’re constantly wondering if it’s true or not. Otherwise the construction of the play was good, with narration happening on one side as a conversation, and sometimes matching words said on one side and the other. I was thinking about Continental Divide seen at Berkeley Rep, and how it would have benefited from something like that (the narration / flashback model I guess it could be called).

Day 10

A bit of bicycling around today. I went to Camden to see what the Market was like, and somehow hoping to see strange clothes. It turned out to be a huge market in different places, and the clothing had a lot to do with punk and what follows. I saw those pants I have and won’t wear much because they’re so different. On the street, punks were holding signs about the best dealer of Dr Martens boots. They had lots of them, all tempting but I knew it wouldn’t be very convenient to travel the next 6 weeks on a bike wearing or carrying calf-length boots! Plus, I already have boots and don’t wear them because my running shoes are more comfortable. Oh, well. I still find those clothes attractive, I think because of the difference. Yet, I would either look out of my age and/or out of my genre if I did dress like a punk. The thing is, traditional clothing just doesn’t do it for me, so I just wear t-shirts.

At the market, there was a stall with Venetian masks. The woman said she made them herself and that the prop master for a Stanley Kubrik movie used her masks in the movie. I indicated I didn’t know what movie she was talking about, but the masks were tempting. I explained that I once did attend a workshop in which I wore a mask and adopted the mask’s personality. I was tempted by the masks, either a simple commedia mask or a more elaborate Venetian carnival mask with real feathers that look very serene. I said I would return in June on my way back home, for I couldn’t really carry anything like that with me, but now I’m thinking I should just get it and ship it home.

Then I went to the British Library to access the Internet, and after to the British Museum to write a bit. I had in mind to go find the environmentalist march, so I rode my bike to Hyde Park and the general area where it might pass by. But that turned out to be an unpleasant ride anyway, because these tourist areas aren’t that interesting to me. Then I lost myself in Kensington and Chelsea, which I didn’t like because it looked like it was all rich people and those who want to be like them. In addition to it, the traffic had become unpleasant and I figured that since it was Saturday there were more car drivers. As a matter of fact I had previously found the London traffic to be OK, but that had to do with the taxi drivers and the bus drivers, who are a majority during the week due to the congestion charge. The week-end drivers don’t know about courtesy, they just want to get to their destination as fast as possible. It’s the same all over the world. But the London drivers are still the most skillful, and that’s because of their rigorous training and testing. I see the students going around on motorcycles with a list of streets and places to look at. They’re learning to become drivers.

Day 11 – Sunday May 16, 2004

It is warm and sunny in London. I walked to Russell Square and was struck by the quietness of the street at 10 o’clock on a Sunday morning. I tried my new juggling balls, I have not yet figured out how to keep two balls going, and three just feels impossible (the trick seems to be that two balls need to change hands while the third one is in the air). It’s probably not physics, though I keep thinking about how the timing should be for each hand to get rid of a ball and be ready for the next. It is all about keeping oneself busy, isn’t it? Is there any occupation that is more noble than another? Is the fact that I am writing this at this moment a useless occupation?

A woman is tearing papers and throwing them away in the small dustbin, the early version of a paper shredder. Because of the echo in the room (the dome reflecting the sound waves), one can hear the tearing quite distinctly and be attracted by the idea of going into the dustbin to see what was so important to destroy in that manner. A few minutes before, a strange bird-like noise came out from above, and I was occupied for a while to find out what it was, my head tilted upwards in search of a bird or some speaker device. I looked at the center of the room and saw that the librarian (are they librarians? what do they do all day, since this doesn’t look like a regular library?) wasn’t preoccupied to find out.

I saw with horror the other day that the royal parks use leaf blowers, just like in California! There were no leaves to blow, really, and the effect was less dramatic because there was not dust to blow in people’s eyes, so what was the purpose of having one here? I am expecting any moment now the replacement of street sweeping trucks by street blowing trucks. It will start in America where useless things are invented first and some use found later in the twisted mind of the inventor or the regular mind of his hired Marketing consultant in search of a solution to the problem of selling useless things. That reminds me of the Segway. I saw one once ridden by a policeman at the Vancouver airport (other airports just use regular mountain bikes). I also saw that someone had been refused access with it to the wheelchair ramp of a commuter train somewhere near Sacramento. His argument was that he could not lift the 80 pounds of it to climb the steps of the train. That is called “get a Brompton, for about one quarter of the price and the batteries never run out.” By the way, I have seen many in London, especially around office areas. I have also seen many with bags (panniers) that have a shoulder strap. And then I have seen a cyclist with USPS jersey getting out of his office with a nice bike with nice wheels, jumping down the sidewalk (I don’t know anybody who would want to do that to his nice bike).

It is nice outside, why am I here? A nice family outing in a park would be nice.

I took the bus to Camden, after eating yet another grocery store sandwich (tuna and cucumber). This time the crowds were very large, especially on the sidewalk. Here and there I would hear French or Italian spoken, meaning that the place had been discovered by others as well. I got in a very disorganized store in which one could not move. A man said “go upstairs, there’s more” and I was followed by one clerk and a customer who wanted a pair of club pants, the kind that has lots of zippers on (similar to those I have, except that black is now in fashion vs. the truly punkish tartan). The place was wall to wall shelves of folded pants, impressive but scary, in other words one could not browse. The guy who was buying the pants said “how much” and the clerk said “how much did you pay last time” and the customer said 40 pounds. I didn’t think it was much of a bargain. I went down the stairs as discreetly as one could in such a cramped space. In other words, not too good for browsing! Then on the street there was a man shouting “Hash cakes, get yourself stone cheap, 2 pounds” which surprised me, I didn’t know this was “legal” or let’s say tolerated. On my way back I even saw him shout it while two policemen were passing by. By the way, those policemen still do not carry a gun. I think it makes so much sense that since guns are practically not used, the police does not need to use one either. Maybe there are special police who have guns, but otherwise it gives everyone some peace of mind that they won’t be caught in the crossfire or something like that. Another bad point for the USA (and even Canada, where gun violence does exist and police carry guns).

Once I was tired of looking for bargains on strange clothes, I walked the walkway along the Regents Canal. There were barges carrying people on the water, a couple of guys fishing I don’t know how good a fish in such dirty waters. Finally I took a bus back and noticed that on a sunny day it is better to stay downstairs because of the heat (those modern buses also have large windows permitting the sun rays to heat the inside).

I returned to the hotel to do laundry and start reading the book I bought in Camden “Briefing for a Descent into Hell” by Doris Lessing. It is the story of a man who is found with amnesia but he tells (as the narrator) of a sea voyage very much like the Odyssey.

After finishing the laundry (which was a very convenient thing at the hotel), I went to the Italian restaurant I featured in my short story. It was more or less as I had imagined it, with the owner and the waitresses speaking Italian, and the local Italians coming in, one after the other, and gathering at the same small table. Not really to eat, but at least to drink wine. When it involves the owner, the conversation revolves around his desire to know what chicory is in Italian, because everyone agrees it is not “cicoria.” The waitress insists they call it “insalata belga” which makes me almost intervene because she probably means Belgian endives (someone indicates that eventually). My OED says an endive is a type of chicory. I think what they had at the restaurant was a red cabbage.

Day 12

Bloomsbury is back to its weekday morning activity. The hotel manager was in a good mood. Students walk on Malet street towards their college, it would seem in groups probably coinciding with a bus, subway, or green light crossing that synchronized them. Or is it that faster walkers catch up with others who block their way on the sidewalk? That is probably what is happening.

I spend a few minutes in Russell Square practicing my juggling abilities, which are not very good. I can master two balls. Three just get in the air and land on the ground almost all together: plop, plop, plop. Does that mean they all landed at the same time? I would gather that two of them should be passing by a hand while the third is in mid-air and that there shouldn’t be a pause when a hand gets a ball. My left shoulder hurts. I stretch. It would be nice to have a yoga mat right there in the park, while the noisy cars circle the square clockwise you would zone them out.

I think I got an idea for my man in the story, he’s going to forget everything as Friends comes up on the screen on the plane.

There’s a little laminated thing at the library that says “The Round Reading Room now enjoys the status of being a Grade A listed English Heritage site which includes all furniture and fittings.” The rest says not to have food or drinks other than a small bottle of water (not specifying sparkling or still).

Day 13 – Tuesday May 18, 2004

I knew this would happen: the OED software wants the CD which I didn’t want to carry with me. I now have 14 days of OED, after that it will have to wait until I’m back home. Since I couldn’t find any explanation anywhere, I wonder if I did the right thing by reinstalling it before leaving. Maybe it only checks once, a few days after installation? It doesn’t say. It could be random, saying “ah, ah!” and ignoring the fact that sometimes one could be away with the OED in a notebook computer. I suppose I can survive without le mot juste for a while.

This morning I rode the bike with computer on my back to the British Library, where one can use the WiFi for free until the end of June. I later realized that I was not alone. A man came, asking about it because his computer wouldn’t do it. Then going downstairs I realized every other table was occupied by a notebook computer. I think it means there would be much demand for free WiFi (or WiFi for a coffee purchase) as opposed to the subscription schemes that are proposed.

Back to the British Museum I needed coffee because it still felt like one of those mornings. It was hot last night, and I watched some silly movie until late and had a short night sleep. The sun showed up early in my window. There are new people at the hotel, none looking too interesting, a few bored tourists. I asked if they would have a room for the night before my departure, the 29^th of June, and they will be full that night. That’s why I wanted to see on the web if there would be alternatives, maybe that Holiday Inn in Camden, or that one directly at the airport. I suppose the one at the airport would be very convenient, giving me more time to figure out the bike check-in thing (I expect them to be better organized than at SFO).

Air France has a sale going on, it may be time to plunge and buy a ticket for Labor Day very extended week-end (note to self: isn’t school starting that week?).

So last night I went to the Albery theatre to see Suddenly Last Summer. As I was early I wanted to try a pub. There was a quiet one right across the theatre, so I could watch when people got in. I am starting to believe that by joining the EU, Britain has become very cosmopolitan: the woman at the bar was probably French, and she didn’t understand one word of what a man said in what must be one of those dialects that Prof. Higgins talked about in Pygmalion (or My Fair Lady). She was also shocked by the rude American woman who came almost screaming “where is the theater where they play Fame?” Nobody knew, and I vaguely remembered seeing groups of teenagers getting off a bus to see that show, but where was it? Now that I look at my map, it may have been the Aldwych, in which case she should have hailed a cab (the driver would have known the answer). The woman was out before I could volunteer any information, but she said something like “what’s wrong with this town? Nobody knows anything!” Which I think is the rudeness that causes French people to pretend they don’t understand English. The barmaid, who seemed very shaken by the event, said to me “she was so rude, and can’t she just buy a map?” Which I thought was very much à propos, in a way the woman seemed to expect London to be served on a silver plate as if she had paid admission to Disneyland. Another French expression (from a French to another, no need to feel singled out) is “I am not the Information Counter.” But once again I think the screaming woman in search of Fame blocked all possibilities of receiving help just by her approach.

The theatre was maybe half full and my meager Balcony ticket was upgraded to a seat in the Royal Circle (no guilt, I had bought the ticket at full price while they must have been available at the half price booth). A surprise to me is that ushers sell ice cream and will let you take your drinks from the bar inside the auditorium, I suppose that has always been done from the times of the Dyonisus (in Greece) and the Globe when people would take their lunch bag to the show. Back to this theatre, the set was rather impressive. At first it was a bizarre giant dustbin with holes inside which spotlights would give it a spooky aspect (smoke and sound was added for effect). The whole dustbin opened like Ali Baba’s cavern to reveal the garden with gigantic plants (what was the movie? Little Shop of Horrors?). At the end, of course, the two gigantic doors closed back, acting as curtain. It was interesting to hear English actors trying to speak with a southern accent. The blond doctor was American. Was it better than the one at Berkeley Rep? Difficult to say (on what basis should one compare anyway?). The set was definitely more impressive here, including sound effects (even birds).

For one reason or another, my creative side gets excited by a pint of ale at a bar, as it did before the show. After the show I went to another pub next to the hotel, but it failed to do anything for me.

Day 14 – Wednesday May 19, 2004

The last day in London. Now I’m thinking I may have been foolish not to do more tourist stuff, you know, since I am here? But no need to rush: this again was an experiment, an London had so much to offer that I was maybe idle on a Sunday but at the same time it was nice that the city was quieter then. It is still warm, the sun is out and the weather people said they had higher temperature than usual (24 instead of 17). Some of my clothes are too hot but I’ll wait to be on the west coast of Ireland before getting rid of anything. I think the experiment worked, that of “moving” temporarily to a place, trying to explore a limited amount.

Last night I went to a poetry reading which featured famous people like Seamus Heaney, Harold Pinter, Vanessa Redgrave, and two I should admit not knowing, Tony Harrison and Jill Balcon. What I didn’t know, and I admit not knowing him, was that the reading was in memory of the poet Stephen Spender. Expecting low attendance as would happen in America, I got to the ticket office more than an hour in advance to find out it was sold out, but that I could stand in the two-people line for the availability of cancelled reservations. It only took five minutes. This auditorium is rather large (my guess would be around 1500 seats) and only has two doors, which means that it takes well over 15 minutes to fill up and empty (you can use the escape stairs at the end). Add to this the apathy of the public in the lobby while the bell is calling them back, there was a lot of overhead. I couldn’t spot too many tourists in the audience, most people looked like teachers and professors. A Japanese woman arrived during a reading (why would they allow that?), seemingly interested more in reading the program than the reading itself. She also had a book written in Japanese. She was not a tourist, or at least she had a cell phone, so I wonder why she attended? Back to the reading, they had set up the program in different themes, each reader taking a theme and reading from their own selection. Seamus Heaney and Harold Pinter also read some of their own. Harold Pinter isn’t the greatest reader when compared to the others. Seamus Heaney added scholarly comments.

I’m getting pretty good with bus routes! It took a good level of observation (reading the list of destinations from passing buses), because maps give you a bunch of numbers and you try to match the numbers near your departure and destination. In practice you look a bit at the list of destinations on the pole, figure there will be some going where you want to (e.g. Russell Sq), try to remember the numbers. Then the bus that comes has another number, but in its list of places is yours, so you take it. I was going to say that I had not seen a woman bus driver yet, but today I saw a woman taxi driver. I also saw a blurb in the paper that an increasing number of women choose to go to college whereas men are worried about quick money. There was a job faire for young South Africans and Australians, apparently a great source. The hotel owner and the manager (from South Africa) were interviewing women whom I guessed were from South Africa, because I heard the owner talk about her English. It is funny (unexpected?) to see white people coming from the African continent.

“Sandwiches made by hand, not by machines” says the writing on the delivery truck. Machine? I imagined it would be possible: the bread slicing machine sends the slices (minus the ends) on a conveyor belt going through the various stations merging ingredients (a cheese slicing machine dropping its slices on the bread, the tuna salad machine squirting, etc.). All this finally meeting another slice of bread, a tapping machine that also slice the sandwich and finally getting everything into a plastic container sealed with a label. I also imagined that most of the food processing is already automatized, so that cutting the neck of chickens and plucking the feathers could be done by a machine. It would probably be more humane for the human workers anyway, not to have to kill thousands of chickens every day by twisting thousands of necks by hand. I would gather there’s still someone preparing the birds (maybe sucking the head into a suction cup going into the guillotine machine). Yuck. Why do we eat animals? It’s even more morbid to think that we industrially reproduce them, like the massive agriculture business growing massive amounts of corn or soy beans. Time to set a vegetable garden?

I’ll go back to the hotel to get the photo of the red bus as my last message from London.

Day 15, Thursday May 20, 2004

Here I am, too early for the Eurostar to Paris. This was a very short transfer, compared to taking an airplane: I must have left the hotel shortly after nine and got into the boarding area (past security, past the French police) half an hour later. So I was about an hour early.

Last night I went to see a play by David Mamet, Oleanna, finding out in the process that discount tickets were available for many of the shows. Go to Leicester Sq where there is a small stone building that says something like “tkts” on it. They list the shows of the evening and the price they give you. Basically you pay half the price of the most expensive ticket, which is about the price of the balcony ticket. I noticed that people in the queue were choosing almost at random from the list (it said this one is a drama, this one a musical). You could say that that was almost what I did, as when looking for a movie. Still, it showed inside the theatre that most were (1) American tourists, and (2) not theatergoers. Somehow like the woman who was looking for Fame the other night at the pub. Yet two cell phones rang during the show, both with the most annoying ring tones, so wouldn’t they be locals? I liked the barman who only had Coors Light or Carling (which I took). It’s the same Carling black label as in Canada.

I had found that the audience was different for Henry IV, in a much smaller venue unlikely to have half-price tickets, and my American neighbor obviously suffering from jet lag sounded like a colleague of another business-like English guy with his wife. Maybe he had asked at the office if there would be a play (he had been told to go see one) and like a good host the colleague had suggested this.

The play once again treated of a hot social subject (sexual harassment) and so it became difficult to appreciate the text (which is to my opinion a strength of Mamet’s).

(finished the following the day after) An Australian woman came to sit next to me and I stopped writing. It was almost boarding time anyway. The train filled up. I noticed that the London side of the railroad wasn’t electric, so I supposed those locomotives are hybrid (they were electric after a while). There’s a TGV section on the English side now, and the crossing of the tunnel was very quick. In fact there were two women behind me who had not noticed and kept saying that we were still in England while French cows could be seen outside.

Day 16, Friday May 21, 2004

When I arrived in Paris I didn’t have any feeling for the city. I think that I had adopted my Bloomsbury routine quite well, and now I just couldn’t feel like there was an area of Paris in which I would like to establish a new routine (e.g. have a place to read and write, have a place to send and receive messages, have a place to juggle, etc.). Looking for the hotel (an “apartment-hotel” meaning you get a mini-kitchen and a sofa-bed but no daily service) I found the place practically deserted. I concluded, rightly, that it was “Ascension” because it was a Thursday. I walked and walked to find mostly French people playing tourists in the streets of the Marais, ironically toning it down (e.g. men get into shops with their wives where usually gay men go). The Marais not being like the Castro, its inhabitants seemed to have deserted it due to the invasion. I got tired, with no particular desire to play tourist myself, ended up in my room watching TV. The book I’m trying to read doesn’t keep me motivated (Doris Lessing’s Briefing for a Descent into Hell). The story of the man sounds like fantasy and doesn’t keep me wanting to know what comes next, only when is it going to be finished (it parallels his being in the hospital in the non-fantasy world). Maybe I should just recognize that I don’t like fantasy writing (e.g. science fiction doesn’t turn me on).

So today I went to the Cluny museum of the middle ages, saw in reality what I had reported about seeing on the web site. A lot of tombstones and the lady and her unicorn tapestries. Those tapestries do look a lot better than on a computer screen. The rest of my time was spent in walking and a little clothes shopping leading nowhere. Tonight I went to see a movie from Quebec. I think that my London nights were better filled with so much theatre and poetry readings. Although I have the schedule of all that is going on in Paris, I can’t seem to have my mind to it. It is as if I were more of a stranger here: if I want to avoid being a tourist here, what do I do? Why do I feel that bars here are more formal than London pubs? Is it just my idea of the French protocol that is ingrained in my head, always afraid of failing the test? Why do I feel that there is always a test going on when I’m in a French-speaking place?

Orangina is very sweet. I have seen they had a new version without sugar (it remains to be seen if that means with some weird sweetener or what).

Day 20, Tuesday May 25, 2004

I seem to have skipped the journaling while in transit through London, then Swansea last night, and right now I am writing this on board the Swansea-Cork ferry. Two floors of cars and trucks, and several restaurants, a pub and lounges. This was a Greek boat before, the Aegis, and it is funny to see that the top restaurant is called Apollo (or was it Acropolis, and Apollo is the cocktail lounge?), which has the same menu as the Killarney below, but is much nicer. The chef is Margaret O’Shea. I wanted to go once the boat had started, but maybe I should just go now. I have a 2-berth cabin to myself, with its own bathroom (larger than the English hotel bathrooms). Now it is 20 minutes before the 9 o’clock departure, and they have started the engines, which make the whole room shake… More to report on that later, this could be interesting. Perhaps it was a good idea that I kept the ear plugs from the plane. Anyway, as I type this I have a view on Swansea, which is not particularly pretty (its pretty part was destroyed during world war II), but has a huge beach and the Dylan Thomas Center, which has exhibits worth seeing if you care about poetry. He makes a good show, and apparently his play for voices Under Milk Wood (there’s no acting, just reciting) is very funny with a lot of play on words. I decided not to buy the CD but regretted afterwards, it would have been worth sending to my blind friends.

The ship actually departed before 9. I went upstairs to the nicest restaurant and had a lot of salmon and enough vegetables. I asked the waiter where they all were from. I had guessed Poland, and indeed they were. He said either Polish or Slovenian. He said probably the officers running the boat were Irish (his English conversation wasn’t yet comfortable, he even had trouble understanding my simple questions). He said that he works every day for a few months, and then takes a couple of months off. He is a waiter in the evening, and then steward in the morning (making beds). Always sleeps on the ship, at this time he has no roommate, but in other times he has to share the cabin. Apparently, and confirmed by how the availability changed from today to Thursday, there were fewer passengers today than usual. Perhaps it is the ripple effect of that holiday we just had. On my way back downstairs I noticed that two have found their spot under the stairs to set up their sleeping bags. I will do a tour later after writing this.

There is still a lot of tremor, but one could say it is quite regular.

I saw a framed marine map of part of the coast, and some areas of the water said things like “firing range” and “explosive disposal.” Nice, the fish must like it.

I have to confess that in Paris I bought at very low price the top half of a sailor’s uniform. Basically a white shirt that has a rectangular neck collar with three blue stripes around the collar and two at the end of the short sleeves. I remembered seeing it on a young enlisted man in Brest and finding it attractive. I also found (and this was hard, for all the sizes were extra small) the blue tunic with the typical sailor’s scarf that attaches to it. Today I wondered why I worried that I had such an unusual attraction for that, because after all there are lots of guys wearing jerseys and caps of football teams, or even just the fact that some people will not hesitate to wear a designer’s name in huge letters. Yet I don’t think my sailor thing is to be public, even though it is a lot cooler than those basket-ball uniforms that we see everyday. This is just fun for myself. In fact, I wrote a story with it, one that involves cultural misunderstanding between American teenager girls and French boys who end up doing compulsory service in the navy (no longer up to date, because the French no longer do).

Day 21, Wednesday May 26, 2004

The announcement that cabin keys should be given back immediately (or so I understood) caused me to rush out unnecessarily. Even as the boat touched the dock, they were still announcing the winning cabin numbers of those who had not returned the key yet. Everyone went down to their cars, then after everybody was ready but waiting, a couple showed up calmly to their motorcycle. One should know about these things. Then if your car was on the second floor, it gets out at the very end. A bike is flexible enough that you just have to make sure you’re not getting squeezed. Then following the cars, there was a policeman checking IDs, I showed up to the left of the cars with my passport, he asked “what nationality are you” and mine meant he needed to get into the terminal to get it stamped. He was nice and I was nice, he could bring it in while the second floor was still up, and I just had to go get it from the other man.

The ferry terminal is something like 13 miles from the city. I easily found the local road, but I’m not sure it was any better as it went through the suburbs, and the suburbanites rush out in their nice cars to drive the kids to school and to go to work. All the same it took several miles before I got to a place where there was an ATM (I was out of Euros) and … a shopping mall! Although it was of tremendous help to get something in my stomach, it was just like any small town indoor shopping mall like they have them all over the world, and I found that to be sad. After that it took only a few miles to get to Cork, find what turns out to be the only park in it and rest a bit. Playing with the juggling balls, which I could not get going, a young French guy showed up and said I should throw them up higher. I gave him the balls and he did a bit of a demo. After he left (he didn’t seem to want to talk more, not even getting the message that I also spoke French), I tried and I almost had it for one turn. Then the Information / Reservation place was nearby and I got an inexpensive B&B. Cork is a small city, but the B&B is on the hilly side, giving me additional exercise I guess. From a “What’s on” flyer that the information guy gave me I found out there was a series of Beckett short plays being shown at what turned out to be the University’s theatre. So I got a ticket for both sections, the second one being available only on Friday, which defined the length of my stay in Cork! To fill the Thursday gap, I saw there was the opening of a play at the Cork Opera, and bought a ticket for that too. The Beckett plays were a fine production part of a project started in the 1990’s. In fact, I believe it could be the same actors as those on the DVD they have at the Menlo Park library. I was pleased by that and reassured that Friday would be good as well.

Everybody in this town (and before that, in the suburbs) is white! Very white. I saw a couple of black guys and an Asian couple. Among the white people, I saw a lot of Rupel look-alikes. Then at a theatre I saw a poster for who seems to be an Irish Frank Sinatra called Christie Hennessy, and he could pass for my cousin. Here we have all the specimen of unaltered Irish genes showing that a lot of Canadians and Americans came from here. I had noticed something similar once in Arras, the north of France, where I had seen a girl looking very much like my niece Marie-Noelle.

Funny things:

• There’s a street called Dyke Parade.
• Lots of tattoo parlors, and lots of barber shops advertising head shaves or crew cuts. Put the two together and ask yourself if this could have been a town of pirates once... It probably has to do with football or rugby. Anyway, it makes for a lively town. I have seen naked backs with full-size tattoos.
• Naked male mannequins in a shop window: they don’t have a penis!
• I had never realized that zip-lock bags could disintegrate: one of my overused ones in which I had tissues has actually opened on the fold opposite the zip.
• Names: Con Murphy, Br. Ignatius Connolly.
• I entered the bathroom at the hotel and a bell rang. I looked and maybe I had accidentally pulled what maybe an alarm bell. But then I heard the hotel lady answer the door. As I sat on the toilet, the bell rang again, as if my sitting had triggered it!

The weather has been very nice for the past 3 weeks. In fact the coldest was Paris (and on the boat). I’m thinking about making a parcel with clothes that I am not going to use and just make my bags bigger. The days are longer here: it is 22h00 and just about twilight. I’m sleepy and need to recover from two short nights.

The notebook computer isn’t going to be useful with e-mail for a while I think. No signs of WiFi here, quite a few stores/Internet cafes though, I’ll try to see if I could connect with their networks.

Day 22 – May 27, 2004

At an Internet shop they say I can connect my computer to their network, which will be convenient. I will compose e-mails off-line with my addresses ready and then it will just be a matter of calling the right software.

Buying a train ticket to Tralee I found the employee a bit on the rough side. As the machine reading my credit card said “call for approval” she considered it as denied. Also if you don’t mind the bus ride, the bus seems to be a lot cheaper than the train. For the sake of time, I will inquire about bus service from Tralee to Dingle, or other portion of the trip to Galway.

Today I wanted to see the University, which was on the quiet and didn’t seem to have too many bike-friendly paths (much like the rest of Cork anyway). I ended up finding the way to Cork Gaol at the top of a set of steep hills, and entered it. They give you a tape player for your visit through a wing of the 19^th century prison which was closed as soon as the Republic was founded. Apparently the very poor volunteered to go to jail by committing petty crimes instead of starving. I found it an interesting and intriguing visit inside cells and in that high area with stairs and galleries which one can imagine going through as a prisoner. There are life-size figures here and there to give you a bit of a realistic story, even in the exercise courtyard where they show two prisoners on a circular path watched by a guard. I wanted to see the treadmill, but it was only mentioned and illustrated at the end. I suppose most of the building is not in a usable state, and it is not a highly popular attraction anyway (only weird people like me and groups that have nothing better to do come here). Someone like me would rather have this as a reenactment park in which the visitor could play prisoner (even overnight) rather than going to major attractions like Disneyland. I could imagine making it some kind of hotel in which the guest gets a uniform and locked in a cell like that with bare accommodations (there would be a panic button for the door). Not your modern-day as seen on TV thing with tough guys who rape you, that belongs yet to another category!

A fine evening it was at the theatre! As I sat in the first row, there was a woman alone in the next seat and we broke the ice very easily. She was French, had taught American Literature at the University in Ottawa, lived near Cork, was a specialist of Jack London and was trying to write a biography of him. She said there’s a National Monument of Jack London’s house or something in Glen Ellen near Sonoma. It was a fun evening because the play was a true comedy and then we just kept company (we spoke English). The play was by John Keane, “dramatist, novelist, poet and raconteur” who seems to specialize in the hilarity of the made marriage. This play, “The Matchmaker,” has two actors who impersonate people as they write letters to (and from) the matchmaker, a farmer in a little village. It develops as a woman writes complaining of a husband who doesn’t perform in bed, and she wants her money back. Men wanting the services of the matchmaker, with all their peculiarities. The matchmaker’s own sister in Philadelphia with her Americanized point of view, and her wish to find a match for an Irish-American who idealizes the red hair girl in a green dress. The account of a failed encounter at a pub, and the account of a very successful encounter and marriage (the third of the initial complainer, who had written to the bishop and wreaked havoc). Marital aid recipes exchanged. The two actors have to change character as they read different letters or when they narrate an event such as when the parish priest comes to warn the matchmaker of his possible excommunication if he continues the practice. My understanding of Irish accent and expressions isn’t quite up to speed, but this play was a lot of fun. I noticed I and my neighbor would laugh at different times, meaning the text was loaded with puns that tickled different sensibilities.

I was glad I stayed in Cork and found out about this.

First significant rain started this afternoon, one of those heavy mists that get everything wet with innumerable small drops. My rain jacket works. People here go around in the rain with no protection and don’t seem to mind.

Day 23, Friday, May 28, 2004

Went to the Internet place and hooked up my computer: no problem… No phone messages at home, so everything must be just fine. Want to start a story, but the public library is too small, and my room is too small… There’s the café at the Opera House, let’s try that.

Day 25, Sunday, May 30, 2004

Punctured! A flat tire, just before the end of today’s long journey from Dingle to Listowel. An old bent nail attacked my rear tire savagely. I walked the 2 km that were left, not having taken any tire changing implements with me (I naively believed it wouldn’t happen). Went into the first hotel there, the Listowel Arms and took a shower. This is a nice quiet hotel, and I got a room overlooking a horse race track. Listowel has a writers’ museum in honor of local writers such as John B. Keane whose play The Matchmaker I saw in Cork.

The trip from Dingle, which I had reached by bus to see how the road was (it was clear I needed an alternate route), started by Connor Pass, which was a long ascent and a very pleasant descent. My computer makes all the weight in the luggage and that’s too bad. I may look for something smaller and lighter one day. I stopped at a bar on the way and sat on a picnic table in the back (I’ve had unexpectedly nice sunny weather) to eat a grilled cheese sandwich. An old man with no front teeth came with his Guinness in hand and started telling me his story (and eventually repeating it) almost as if he wanted to be hired. He had done mechanical repairs and stuff. He was in a motorcycle accident in 1959 and broke a lot of his head (should I risk to say that it still showed, and immediately remembered Spalding Gray’s story of breaking his frontal bone and not being tended to by the Irish doctors who kept saying his head was fine).

That part of the road was nice, up to Tralee, which is more of a small town and has semi-suburbs, and shows nothing of interest to me. The farmland from Tralee to Listowel was a lot more modern too. In fact, at the entrance to Listowel is an enormous agribusiness complex with trucks and tractors entering and exiting with tanks full of something. It was in great contrast with the earlier half of the trip with a lot of sheep.

I walked with the bike to the Esso station they told me repaired bike tires. They were open, but, says the young attendant, the patches are in the shop which is closed. He wasn’t sure at what time the shop opened in the morning. Keep a positive attitude, it’s my fault not to have a patch kit with me. Why? I remember thinking I had not had a flat in so many years on this bike that I must have put Mr. Tuffy liners in the tires. Well, the old rusted bent mail passed through it.

So far the towns are pretty, but they are just what they are: small towns. Not even a movie theatre in this one, or at least none in the center. There’s a Carnegie Free Library, and there’s the writers’ museum. The hotel bar is the writer’s bar. There’s something outside a pub, is it a wake, a wedding, a first communion? Just a lot of pints and you can hear the glasses being struck on the sidewalk.

Day 26, May 31, 2004

Day 27, June 1, 2004

Today started as a beautiful sunny day. The B&B woman reminded me of women of my mother’s generation, a bit like my mother had she started a B&B. That may be why later on the bike I had an old song in mind from my childhood days of listening to the radio at home. The program was one of musicians visiting the radio hosts. They would start the program by knocking at a door and announce themselves as “Les Joyeux Troubadours” and start with the theme song “c’est comme ça qu’on est heureux” (it’s that way we’re happy).

Once again I’ve been asked for directions by a tourist. At the B&B in Kilkee I noticed the other guests were driving rental cars. There was the couple from Indiana whose only story was about their experience driving around and seeing things from the car. Then as I went north, a whole bunch of similar cars passed me. But one stopped a little further, waiting for me and asking if this was the direction for Kilrush. Maybe it was a test, because I responded by giving the directions to Kilrush, but all he wanted to make sure of was that he was not driving back to Kilrush.

Then there was the amusing episode of riding through a farm road. They had blocked the road with a big tractor and hay trailer, and the man had said to go that way (the road to the right) and then left. I found this road to the left, in a diagonal, a single lane road with grass growing in the middle, and assumed it would be OK because in any case it would cross whatever other main road cars were expected to take. It was a great road, going closer to the cows. “Good morning, Ladies,” I said to some (aren’t they all females?). Sometimes I would startle them. One even let go (I assume she said “shit” in her mind). I like riding in these farm areas because the people always salute you on the road, even the drivers coming the other way. That makes for a very pleasant journey. The farm road ended at a main road and I probably saved some mileage.

Uh, oh. A German tour bus just passed by. That announced more tourist-driven cars too. I got to Lahinch and the place sounded too scary to be true. They even had a “Seaworld” to make sure the tourists would stick around. At that point I wrongly decided to go inland towards the Burren, where we’re supposed to see dolmens. More hills to climb, then a descent to a village where they had the Burren Visitor Centre, which is basically a gift shop and a movie show. There were no accommodations available there, which meant there wouldn’t be any further. I ended up going back to the coast to Doolin, already tired of riding before riding 10 more miles with hills, a headwind, and luggage. Arrived in Doolin, it also looks like major tourist attraction because it’s a music capital of some sort. I’m so tired that having too many B&B’s to choose from becomes a problem. This one works just fine, again a double bed, no TV, reasonable walking distance from town. I’m tempted to stay tomorrow and walk the cliffs of Moher. Then maybe I could be Thursday and Friday on one of the Arran Islands. I’ll figure that out tomorrow. I get the feeling that today was too much loaded riding for me, and I look forward to not riding.

The most difficult to obtain food. A bowl of chowder and a Guinness at the pub where everybody seems to be having a good time. The more I sit in places like those, the more isolated I feel, the more urgent the need to get out. An attempt at breaking the ice with the couple next to me failed. I got out as soon as I could finish the Guinness. Now I’m back in the room, my legs so tired they ache, wondering where the hell is that music supposed to be? Am I supposed to wait until late, when I can’t keep an eye open? I look outside the window in search of clues. People talking, kids riding bikes, people returning to their RV. I remember seeing a picture in a tourist guide of a music place that looked like a converted garage: where would that be? At the pub, there were mothers with children that seemed to be waiting for something.

I’m tired. I’m especially tired of trying to be a good tourist and do what I am supposed to do. Or to try the elusive social encounter. Oh, wait, didn’t I want to spend a lot of time reading and writing? Why don’t I go on one of the islands and do that?

So I went to the pub after sunset, searching for the music. It was there, the musicians were there. Then they played. People talked so loudly around that it didn’t make sense to stay in. It was a bar scene. Maybe it clears up after a while, maybe the loud people run out of things to talk about, maybe the bouncers I have seen at the door throw the loud people out. But I was not willing to stay. I think I got really tired today. What did I learn from today’s experience? Stop riding even if the place you’re stopping at isn’t that great. Tomorrow? Move to a place where food can be found a bit more easily. Don’t ride any long distance. I figured today’s distance was about 45 miles. That’s too much.

On to reading.

Day 28, Wednesday June 2, 2004

Stayed one more day in Doolin: a beautiful sunny day. In fact I saw that my whole head had turned red or tanned. So did my hands, the result of cycling all day in the sun. Then I went on the boat tour of the Cliffs of Moher, and although it wasn’t really sunny at the time, I am sure it added to the tan (which is a bit sunburnt).

The tourists gathered at the pier, competing with the tourists thinking the Moher Princess would be one of the Doolin Ferries. The old women having climbed down the stairs in the anticipation of getting one of the obviously prime seats on the boat were sent back up to wait for the real, larger boat. The tourists who had bought tickets to see the cliffs from the water, as if they had not had enough of a view from above, boarded and quickly reserved a seat as if they played musical chair. Some were uncertain of the floatability of the boat and looked for the life jackets. The men who could only show their bravery stood and took pictures of the cliffs from afar (one wonders why, as it was obvious the boat was going to be closer in a few minutes). One man dropped his glasses in the water, having let them go while fumbling around with a camera. Everyone who saw him hoped these were not necessary for him to drive his rental car (they also wanted to make sure to stay away from his path). As any good man would, he pretended there was no issue, continuing to look around at the horizon. What was he thinking, while his glasses slowly moved to join the mussels at the bottom of the sea? Did he wonder how to replace the glasses in a short time? Where would he look for an optician? How could he get to the town where the optician was available, if he couldn’t drive? How long would it take to get new glasses? Meanwhile he tried to look like nothing had happened. Oopse, ha, ha, ha, ladida, I am just having a good time like everyone else on this boat.

The cameras clicked at a higher frequency as the boat approached the cliffs. Then the boat made some kind of U-Turn, or 3-point turn, stopping its engine once it was close to the towering rock isolated from the rest. More clicks. Please take my photo with the cliffs in the background. When the captain (or his second, who had toured the passengers to see if they were understanding that there were birds nesting on the rock) saw that the frequency of the clicking had lowered, he started moving the boat again. Those who claimed to be experienced sailors stayed up, the rest finding a seat in a different place than at the beginning, people having shuffled and found new friendships. Then the video camera was pointed towards birds floating on the water, the same birds that flew away as soon as the boat roared towards them. The boat went back to the port, the cameras still clicking with their last desperate attempt at recording the trip to its fullest.

Day 29, Thursday June 3, 2004

And so I arrived on the island of Innishmore, the largest of the three Arran islands, after a rough crossing. In the bottom of that little boat are set the seats for the passengers, four on each side of maybe 8 rows. Those who rushed to the window seats probably had the roughest time, and some got sick. A crew member showed up as soon as it got rough, sitting in the middle front, waiting for the first to ask for a bag. I just went for the ride, letting it do its moves and moving along. It was especially impressive when one looked through the windows and saw only water on one side, or when the boat would take a wave in front and be up in the air for a while before crashing into the wave. The boat arrived after almost an hour, most of us wanting to rush out when they announced that this was only the first island, Innisheer. But the rest of the trip was OK, probably because the waves are broken by the islands. Once on the island I could feel it in my head much more than in my stomach. I took the road to the south side of the island, dropped my bike at the end of the road where a trail seemed to continue. I walked to the end of the island and it was beautiful. The grass resembled that of golf putting greens, but I hope nobody ever gets the idea of putting one here. There were even patches of sand just like the sand traps of designed golf courses. Despite the absence of bushes and trees, if you look carefully you find all sorts of pretty flowers, sometimes so small that you won’t notice them if you just walk by. I should learn their names, as that would make a better description. There are tiny marguerites, and those yellow flowers we had when I was a kid that we called mustard flowers. There were clovers (as far as I remember it from honey), and violets, or at least wild flowers of that color. I was also amazed at the wide variety of snails that I encountered. Each one was of a different color and pattern; I saw amber, gray, light green, spiral lines in red black on beige, yellow-green, black stripes on beige, yellow stripes on reddish black. They were all worth a photo if on a better background (and maybe a better camera). I was sorry whenever I would inadvertently walk on one and crack it. The snails and I were in a similar situation, carrying their load which was their whole life at the moment. I wondered if I would do more of those trips. Obviously other countries would require a more adventurous approach, as here there are so many resources for tourists that it just feels like riding around home. I baptized this trail the “snail trail.”

I like the seashore. In fact I even preferred riding the farm roads along the shore than those inland. The farmers salute you as you pass, and that makes you feel more connected with the land you are passing through. You can stop at the bakery in a village and talk about the weather. But here at the end of the island I felt like it was the end of the world, and it felt like a place I wanted to be in. Those chiseled flat rocks ended the island into the water. Once I had walked to the right, either the fog had masked any view of the neighboring island, or there was nothing, only water down below the cliff. It was silent, if not for the sound of the sea and of the wind. A seagull flew to the right, and then to the left, as if inspecting the cliff. Beyond one of the stone walls, it became a desert of those flat stones that you can climb up to a point where someone started a tower. Around it, others have made their own little altars and miniature dolmens. This kind of place is magic, and I wondered if one could live here, what would it be, would there be issues with neighbors? After all, the woman at the B&B in Kilkee I think said that they spent the winter at a place they own in Florida.

Back at the port, my feet wet from walking in wet grass, I stopped at a restaurant for grilled fish and chips. The place looked very new and seemed to be frequented by the locals speaking Irish (I have seen it called Irish, although we from abroad would call it Celtic; I suppose a linguist would call it Irish if it has its own variations – which it probably has). Beyond the “tour bus” and the old horse carriage for the tourists, this place is nice because it can’t be reached by car. I can’t imagine getting off the boat and into a mini-bus for a quick tour. “Here’s a prehistoric site of stones in a circle, and there is what’s left of the castle after Cromwell’s army took the stones to fix their fort.” I wonder if in a few years this place will be even more genteel and become even more tourist-oriented. That reminds me it’s been a while since I’ve seen a Starbucks. Actually I don’t think I’ve seen one in Ireland yet. In the suburb of Cork there was a hint that this would be the next thing, after the multi-car family. Cars are showing up also here on this island, where they obviously can’t go further than the end of the island, which would be at most 7 miles.

Day 31, Saturday June 5, 2004

This morning I left the island of Inismore on the 8:30 boat. I like to stay on an island, where what one can do is limited. On this island, the landscape of rock walls, cows, goats, snails, and cliffs is really nice. Yesterday I went to the north side of the island where they take tourists to this prehistoric site of a semi-circle of stone walls overlooking the ocean from the highest cliff on the island. I had assumed since it was looking south that it was some kind of solar temple, but the archaeologists call it a fort with features similar to those found in Spain and also in Scotland. Then I went all the way to the end of the island and back. Then I read, and after that I went to have dinner at a nice restaurant where I had fish (and an appetizer of spring rolls).

But today only featured things that I don’t like: nasty Saturday traffic of people in a hurry to go shopping; finding that my dwelling for the week is on the other side of town, beyond American-size shopping malls, although advertised as a 15-minute walk to the city center; shopping for food at the supermarket; not being able to orient myself in the city. But the good side of it is that I found Ulysses, which I have set as a goal to read this week in preparation for next week’s conference. After asking at 4 Internet places, the fifth unexpectedly said I could try to plug my notebook to their network.

Now I am trying to run the washing machine for a much-needed renewal of my clothes.

My bike got rusty from being in the rain but especially from being on the deck of the small boat from Doolin when the seas were rough. I’ll need to find a bike shop that will oil it for me. I am glad the biking portion of the trip is over. Although I went through beautiful places and experienced what only people on bikes or walking experience, my impression is that in recent years more cars and more car drivers have been introduced to unchanged roads. The book I consulted dated from maybe 10 years ago when the economy had not yet grown so dramatically. Now I wonder if there’s any place left in the world that has not been spoiled in that way. It is even ridiculous that people are shuttled to the island for a few hours. The island in fact was at its best after the afternoon ferry had taken them back.

Enough ranting…

There’s a TV in the apartment and of course I turned it on to keep me company. D-day anniversary celebrations. I noticed the commentator used the Bushism “axis of evil” instead of just “the axis” (and in this case, he just needed to say Germany). I learned the British had those enormous gliders to come down quietly to secure this bridge (named the Pegasus bridge, with a café at one end where the woman serves champagne to the veterans every year). Then I engaged in channel flipping to find myself watching the horrible movie “Hannibal” (I just looked away when it was gruesome, and was glad that I was not watching it on a big screen). Most interesting of all was that they announced the death of Ronald Reagan, and I thought nobody would care, but instead they had a long report about him (which means they had it ready for a while).

Day 32, Sunday June 6, 2004

It’s quiet in my own apartment. No need to get up to make breakfast hours. At home, my routine is to turn the radio on, to make some kind of noise, to talk to me. I’m not turning the TV on. I had planned this week to be the reading of Ulysses and I continue reading the introduction. Then I proceed to the text itself. It’s good, I like it.

To make a break, I bring the computer to the Internet place and get the 70 e-mails (half of them junk) that came while I was out of reach. Then in the evening I try the “15-minute walk to the center” to hear the music that is supposed to be at 8:30 instead of 10:00. Let’s say that in 20 minutes you have reached “the center.” I got my pint of Guinness and stood by, watching the people who were there: most of them actually seem to be from here. There were a few tourists, like me, who seemed to have come for the traditional music and were not getting it. In fact the four musicians were there at 10:00. I was interested in studying the physiognomy of the locals. There were slanted eyes. The tall barman had dark hair and slanted eyes, and that slight bow that I have seen to be a characteristic of some young Irishmen. I saw again the quick left-right turn of the head salute, so it must not be only for touring cyclists. The mouth of the bass player followed his moustache. They played that song that I had heard oh, maybe 30 years ago in the 360 degree movie about Canada, a fisherman’s song I think that goes “farewell, farewell,…” I should try to get some of these songs to bring home.

I’m getting the rhythm of the 3-ball juggling. The only thing is that my left arm doesn’t throw very well. But it’s fun when I get all three balls in one cycle.

Day 33, Monday June 7, 2004

Got up later than usual, the advantage of not being at a B&B. It is quiet, very quiet, so quiet all I hear is myself, thinking. No, I will not turn the TV on. Breakfast of Weetabix and toast. Oopse, forgot to get jam at the store, I must get some today. How about rearranging the furniture here? The table would work very well closer to the kitchen, and the sofa and the armchair wouldn’t be in the way as they seem to be now. I’ve seen that before in short-term rentals, something to do with the fact that people don’t eat in, they just lounge in front of the TV. Now it is much better, I have an armchair with its back on the window, an ideal position for reading Ulysses.

The third chapter was difficult to read, much more of the internal dialogue they were talking about, and so many allusions to things I don’t know. I get out to bring the bike to the bike shop nearby, as its chain is rusted due to having been washed in sea water. At the same time, I will get jam at that gigantic supermarket that I don’t like. I ride through the roundabout instead of doing the sidewalk thing that I saw others do (i.e. there is space between the sidewalk and the road, so you can ride against traffic to your destination otherwise it’s very difficult to get where you want to get). Traffic is lighter, so it’s not a problem, although you can tell drivers have problems with roundabouts due to the unclear intentions of the cars in it. Once at my road I can jump on the wide sidewalk to the shopping mall. The bike shop (bikes and lawnmowers) is closed, but their hours aren’t displayed anywhere. So I go on to Dunne’s supermarket. At the door is one explanation for the quieter Monday and the closed bike shop: it’s a bank holiday. Inside there’s a CD store and I look at the Irish music section. There’s a group called the Dubliners that has a lot of CDs, many discounted, it looks like they’ve been around a long time because now they have grey or white beards. I wonder, hesitate, take one, put it back, think again, look at alternatives, take another CD, consider it, pause, put it back. What will I do with my limited bag space? I have left books on my way in order to make space for new ones. So I don’t buy anything and go on to the hassle of finding the aisle where jam is at Dunne’s. Of course, I find more than I came to get, and I forget to get milk. Finally! I found some 70% chocolate. In Ireland, one must pay attention to the ingredients of “fruit juices” because they’re often sweetened with aspartame and stuff, especially if the front says “no sugar added.” I get another bottle of Irish Spring Water (the sparkling one) because I find it funny to get the name of a soap bar on a bottle of water (soapy water? Soapstone Spring?).

There are no cars in the parking lot of the apartment complex. But later, I see someone climbing the stairs.

I try juggling with three balls again, and I find that I have improved a bit. At some point I am able to make 2 cycles (I think) before one hand forgets to pitch a ball or doesn’t pitch it high enough, causing a collision. There’s hope. But my shoulders are sore: I need to resume having yoga sessions, which is very hard when I’m away.

The chocolate bar reminds me of Country Sun, where I first saw that brand. I miss my neighborhood.

There was a big fly that got in through the open windows. It’s funny that I went to the door, opened it, and the fly just went out, as if invited to do so.

Must write more e-mails, especially to friends I have not sent anything to.

Who knows what day, Thursday June 10, 2004

Trying to read Ulysses this week. I have not reached half of it. It was a good idea to stop here for a week in order to be able to read this. I got to a chapter that was very incomprehensible, looked at the notes and found that he had written it in all different styles (one looked like Chaucerian for example) and morphed his character to adapt the chapter from the Odyssey to the birth of the child in the hospital. This is a very difficult book indeed.

Tonight I returned to Al Pucan, the pub/bar where they have musicians who start playing from 10 o’clock. Their stage against the wall is half a boat. Tonight when I arrived they were playing country western (Johnny Cash), and the rest were the usual songs for a party. I noticed there were people in wheelchairs, in fact quite a few of them. Others looked like they were from here, and I was probably one of very few tourists. I was used to a younger crowd in local bars at home. I should admit that I am probably in the low part of the age range there. There were couples dancing, women dancing together probably because their husbands didn’t want to. It looked like a party in which my mother would be, in fact here’s her last name on that bottle there. I wondered if my father had been the Hennessy would I have been different?

People line up drinks on their table so they won’t have to get up to get another. Or maybe it’s because they don’t like their beer cold.

The women in charge of the people in wheelchairs take their hands and shake them with the rhythm of the music: they are dancing. One of the women takes orders and gets them from the bar, transferring one of the drinks to a kid bottle, one with a spout. You don’t see any of that at home. Old people don’t go to pubs, people in wheelchairs from a nursing home don’t go to pubs. I never went to a bar at home, and there were no places for socialization if they were not church-related or school-related. The difference is that here you see the people (it was like that in Italy, especially in towns where people would get out on the street in the evening). They are not the perfectly beautiful people one sees in California, in fact there’s who’s fat and who’s thin, there’s who has a limp, who has half his shirt out of his pants. They’re probably not preoccupied by what kind of car they drive, if they drive at all. There’s the man who has not moved, his right elbow on the bar, except to order a second pint of Guinness. There’s the big man who waves his arms high at his favorite songs, particularly those that speak of Galway.

At midnight they played a last song and everybody stood up, as if it were the national anthem. For a while I did wonder if it was, because the moment looked solemn. I was standing too. The place was closing.

Imagine if I had decided to watch TV instead, or if all those people had decided to watch TV instead.

Going back to my place, a half-hour walk featuring shopping malls, I wonder what my Hennessy family looks like.

Friday June 11, 2004

Groups in buses come to this complex to spend one or two nights. There’s one that just arrived, a group of maybe 18-year olds and their teachers (maybe?). Usually the groups are American and this one is no exception. One girl has difficulty getting her suitcases up the stairs (what is she carrying? I suppose that if you’re to share bedrooms and bathrooms, you’d need a robe, which would fill one suitcase). It was funny to hear their reactions to the apartments. First a young man comes out in the courtyard yelling that this place is the best, as it has a kitchen, and a microwave. Then women’s exclamations are heard about a washer and dryer.

Actually a trip abroad must be a big deal for young Americans who are 18: they can drink! Not only that, but they don’t drive here, so this is the best of both worlds. I think so too. When I’m out and drinking, I like to know that I won’t have to drive later on.

On the TV news, the mayoral elections in London, but then all about Ronald Reagan, who apparently made Americans feel good about themselves. I’m concerned that American values are almost opposite to mine. The least compassionate and charitable people are liked the most in America and make Americans feel good. Cries of war and especially victory, I suppose, are what they like to hear. That was the slogan of the FLQ: “nous vaincrons,” we will win. They didn’t win, but then I think they changed the public’s views and opened the doors to nationalism (which, to me is as problematic as American nationalism or any other type of feel-good about being one of them thing). Back to Washington, as they say on TV: I confirm once more that if the USA got rid of British monarchy, they instituted one in the presidency. And while the British and other countries put their monarchs aside in a symbolic position, the USA kept theirs. For example, the president will get a slap on the wrist from Congress if he declares war, but a big deal of trouble if he’s not a model of virtue. Still, Bush looked like a chimpanzee in that suit he wore on his visit to the queen of England. I wonder how he could manage the small talk. “Gee, Liz, that palace is almost as big as my ranch, but I’ll tell you what, I’m just like you, I like staying at the White House and have all those people around me so I don’t have anything to do. Laura doesn’t even have to cook! You want coffee or anything, you know, er, pretzels, you get it at the snap of your fingers. That’s what I call respect for the president, that’s me, the guy who tells the whole world what to do, like telling your guys at your ranch to go get a cow for dinner. You know what I mean? Maybe you don’t because you’re in a city here, gosh, it’s almost as big as New York! I’ll tell you what, you can come visit me any time you want and I’ll give you a ride in my pick up truck, right Laura? We’ll have a barbecue like you never had before, and you won’t have to wear a dress or anything like that. Who? Johnson? Oh yeah, he was from Texas too. He had barbecues? I’ll be darn. So you get to have that kind of life all the time, uh? I’ll tell you, it’s hard work back in the US. You have to get elected, you have to watch your back all the time, I mean figure, figure speaking, you know it’s not that someone wants to stab you, you got those secret service agents to cover you for that. It’s the politicians who will make all sorts of stories so you don’t get elected next time, because they’re jealous, that’s all there is to it, and I don’t blame them because I like that position. Back when I was running a business, I had a good life too, but it was kind of boring, there was no action around you, you had to make some up. And Laura had to hire the servants herself, not that they were expensive or anything like that, it’s just that you can’t find good ones. Here and at the White House, you got top notch people, right Liz? Do you think I could get ketchup with that? I like this wine, what is it, English wine I’m sure. You don’t have to know, even I don’t know at the White House someone takes care of that.”

OK, I’ll stop here…

At least at night I tried to walk to town, to combine a bit of exercise and going to a bar where they have “traditional” music. Let’s say that it would be like traditional music for the Italians in Montreal, in other words it attracted the older part of the population. I suppose I’m comfortable with that, I don’t feel at all connected with the younger bar population. Tonight, on account of wanting to be home earlier to be ready to leave, I walked to town but came back to the hotel bar where some music was going on. There were 3 guys at a table playing accordion, guitar, and banjo. They didn’t seem to be sure what to play, as the guy with the guitar tried to explain a song he wanted to do. So, no, they weren’t as good as those downtown. One of the older guys with his wife in that corner of people listening to the musicians looked like Doug Engelbart. I was also surprised to see so many people apparently from the neighborhood, as this seems to me to be a hotel lost near a shopping mall. When I ordered my Guinness, there was this guy at the bar, about my size or even thinner, who was almost done with his first Guinness and had a new one waiting. He was very quiet. Later there was a row with a big dude, someone about double my weight with whom I wouldn’t want to be in a disagreement with. He was raising his voice with the thin man, saying a lot of the F word. Another guy got between them to act as some kind of shield I suppose. The thin man just went out. When I went out he was still venting with someone else in the smoking arch. There are bullies at any age, I guess: they don’t cease to exist after you’re out of high school.

What’s with limping in this country? Why do I see so many people limping? It was even in Ulysses today when Bloom is attracted to a girl and then says something like “too bad, she has a limp.” At the bar tonight, one woman came in with a limp, then there was an older man with it too. At the other one in town I also saw it. I also noticed that people were much less “perfect” than in the US where the only imperfection you commonly see is excessive fat. Here people have misalignments with the mouth, the eyes, the nose, the feet, etc. Is it an effect of a closed society, of accidental pregnancies, of smoking, of too little health care? Perhaps the latter is true, as in the US mothers take their kids to pediatricians and have them tell them how different from “normal” their kid is and how to “correct” the situation. Just the obsession with braces in the mouth is rampant.