Steve has gotten sick, just as he did when we went to Lisbon in December — a hacking cough, constant sneezing and sore throat, fever in the afternoon and evening yesterday. So we slept as long as we could this morning and when we got up with plans to go to the chapel at Dublin Castle so that I could see and photograph the carving of Brian Boru at the chapel entrance, he insisted we take a taxi.
And that we did, having a pleasant conversation with the voluble cab driver who struck me as just a bit on the political right — “Ah, Dublin’s changed so much and we’re losing its character” (read: immigrants); and, “Our taoiseachs now are corrupt.” At one point, we mentioned Trump, and though he agrees that Trump is a crazy man and dangerous, he said that he encounters lots of Americans coming to Ireland who say the same and then say, “I’m sorry I voted for him.”
What kind of human being voted for Donald Trump to begin with — and only now regrets it? And only now discovers who the man is? I didn’t say any of this to the taxi driver because I thought his own sympathies might well lie to the right of where my own lie.
At Dublin Castle, we weren’t sure how to find the chapel, so Steve asked a guard, who told us exactly how to get there and then said that the chapel is closed. I told him I didn’t really want to go inside, just to see and photograph the sculpture of Brian Boru outside the chapel. He then told me exactly where to find it, and so we walked right to it, photographed it, and then decided that Steve felt up to walking back to the hotel, and we did just that.
On the way, we stopped in at Dunnes again. I had bought a set of four eggcups on our previous visit to bring back as a gift and had decided I should buy an additional set, since I want to give these to the family of my nephew, which has seven people in it. We then decided to stop at Butlers Chocolate Café as we walked in the direction of our hotel, and we shared a cup of cappuccino with a pecan tart as we sat outside in the cool air and watched shoppers and tourists go by.
As we got to The Mont, we stepped into the Merrion Square park that's catty-cornered from the hotel and paid our tributes to Oscar Wilde, who’s memorialized in a monument — he’s reclining on stone as if lying on a mountain — in the park. In front of him are two plinths, one with the torso of a naked man, the other with a naked woman, that have pithy, zingy statements of Wilde written on all sides.
There was a surprising number of other tourists visiting Oscar when we stopped there this morning, people from all over the place taking photos as we were. We passed a large (in every sense of the word: the people themselves were almost all very overweight) group who sounded as if they were from someplace like Queens or the Bronx. One of them, a roly-poly young man, was going on about haricots verts au beurre, of all things, as we walked past him. Whether their tour — they had a tour guide who had the same New York City accent they had — included Oscar, I didn’t know.
After Oscar, we stopped in at a little place I’ve been admiring near the hotel, a garden place called Howbert & Mays. What catches my eye there is a row of beautiful, artistically chosen (for the color combination) plants and flowers and bouquets sitting against the wall of the shop outside We stepped inside, and it was a nice little place, self-consciously retro-quaint. I bought a number of tchotchkes to bring back as gifts, lavender sachets, little carved and painted wooden birds from France, a bar of Clarkes soap made in Ireland and scented with chamomile and geranium.
Back to our room for a bit of rest, and then we walked back to Kilkenny Design Centre for a hot meal about 1:15. The place was just as crowded and hectic as it was when we ate there previously, and the wait staff just as rude. When we arrived, we picked up trays and walked to the hot food section of the café offerings.
One person was there, a man who appeared to be an immigrant from Asia (every worker we've encountered at the café there is an immigrant — and I say that only as a matter of observation and not to suggest any kind of correlation: I think immigrants are vastly enriching Irish society). He studiously avoided looking at us or addressing us and continued pouring seafood chowder from a big pot into the serving bin on the steam table. Steve finally asked if anyone was serving customers in that part of the serving line and he became testy. After he’d finished with his chowder task and then gone to get a rag to wipe up spills, he at last pretended to notice we were there and took our orders, chicken and ham pie for me and roast beef for Steve. With mine, there were mashed potatoes, boiled carrots and broccoli. Steve had the same accompaniments but chose new potatoes cut in half and sautéed in butter.
The food was passable, but nothing to write home about. It was at least a hot meal and one with vegetables, something we haven’t eaten much of, lamentably, as we stay in hotel rooms.
We then returned to our room and have been lazing here the rest of the afternoon. I’m not inclined to walk out again, and Steve really needs to rest. What we’ll do tomorrow, we haven’t yet planned. Whatever it is, it needs to be leisurely, so that Steve can nurse his cold and we can try to be fresh for the long journey back home on Friday, the day after tomorrow.
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