The Great Irish Adventure, Part 1

(Excellent taste in sweepstakes!!!)

I was in a bookstore today (not unlike every other day of my life) and saw rhyme that described Thursday's child (who traditionally "has far to go") as a natural-born wanderer, and that, to me, seemed highly appropriate. So when my student loans provided me with a few more weeks of wandering, I took them happily and rapidly booked a flight to Belfast. The plan is 3 days in Belfast, 2.5 days in Dundalk and 3.75 days in Dublin, and with my indestructible back-pack and Cedric, my erstwhile gnomey companion, I was off!

Belfast was....interesting. The good stuff first:

I was there mainly to go to the St. George's Market, where my favorite t-shirts are sold on Saturdays from Tee and Toast. Cedric has much to say about this, so I'll leave off for now, but I fell in love with the market as soon as I saw it. Fresh fish sat glaring up from beds of crushed ice, next to wheels of cheese bigger than my armspan, across from some of the most delicious-looking bread I ever saw, and around the corner were cupcakes. A whole table of cupcakes with whipped, marshmallow frosting.

As if this wasn't enough, I had tea and toast, of the edible variety, at the Linen Hall Library--the oldest library in Belfast and the last subscription library in Ireland. It's gorgeous on the inside, with dark wood shelves and old leather couches and standing-writing tables scattered around. And the toast is marvelous.

Speaking of books (again, not all that surprising here), I also found a mystery bookstore near the pub above, that was run by the greatest guy in Belfast. He was a bibliophile, he offered me tea, and he also spoke arguably the greatest greeting I have ever heard. A Queen's College professor came in to check on his reading list, and I, who was crouched on the floor behind a bookcase, my arms laden, heard:

"Stephen! How in hell are you? Sit your weary soul in that chair and tell me your tale."

I am ruthlessly stealing this line for a story one day. And thus Mr. Bookman has found immortality.

The Botanic Gardens are lovely, as well. Coming from a land where the sight of roses in late September are few and exceptionally far between, to be assailed by the smell of a whole rose garden in bloom was a rare treat.

It is also next to the oldest graveyard in Belfast that has ties to Druidical practices and ancient Celtic carvings...and is only open by appointment. Unspeakably unfair.

Also, the First World War happened.

Basically, there aren't a great number of First World War memorials in Ireland because of the awkward overlap of Ireland fighting with the British Empire while at the same time fighting the Empire for Home Rule. Which in itself is an incredibly interesting conflict, but I'm getting ahead of myself.

HOWEVER.

Belfast is weird.

Seriously. I've never been in a city that was so intensely defined by its geography. I was staying on Great Victoria Street, one of the major streets in the city. However,two streets west (while trying to find Belfast City Cemetery, a perfectly high-minded endeavor), I hit this:

Needless to say, I never made it to the cemetery. I was busy running very quickly in the other direction.

There is a persistent anger that lives just below the surface in so many parts of the city--not just an historical resentment, or a resentment of memory, but a truly ugly feeling that is as alive and as real as those murals. Maybe it's because the history is so recent and, in a sense, ongoing. But it still made me feel a guest at the Borden Family dinner table.

Also, everything closes at 6:00pm. Everything.

Except the pubs and bars.

I'm not exactly an Anthropophobic, but I don't have any need whatsoever to make friends. Especially friends who smell as if they have just drunk their own weight in cheap whiskey.

And on Sundays, nothing opens 'til one. There is no one out or about, save for the hooligans loitering near the City Hall. It's a ghost town.

It's not, though. I don't think ghosts like Belfast much, either:

And, being a devout admirer of memorials of all kinds, I was... perturbed, let's say, to see this:

It's the Belfast Titanic Memorial. Inside a Ferris Wheel. You can't see the bottom, because it's covered by a giant motor. You can barely make out the figures because of the constant swoop of cars. I was trying to get this picture when I heard a conversation over my shoulder:

"What is that girl takin' a picture of, Larry?"

"Don't know...is it the wheel then?"

"No...it's the statue inside. What is it, then?"

"Don't know. Looks old, though. Not really one for old things, me."

Like I say...Belfast and I...didn't quite see eye to eye.