Rugby and Literature

We were supposed to go to Galway this weekend, but it was too windy.  Yes, the weather turned even uglier than usual (I felt like I was walking at a sixty degree tilt with rain pelting my face), but that really wouldn't stop me.  It would, however, stop my roommate. 

It would seem that we have a difference in personality.  I really love her, she has been an amazingly fabulous roommate---even better than I could have hoped for---however, she is more the stay-at-home type.  Whenever I come up with suggestions for things to do, she can think of a reason why we shouldn't do it. 

However, the Six Nations rugby tournament starts this weekend, and if we weren't leaving Dublin, then I definitely wanted to watch the game.  I convinced Betta that we should get the true atmosphere of the game. I wanted to smell the sweat, hear the grumbles and protests against the ref, and watch the guys get in each other's faces.  Would I do this at the stadium?  No.  I mean that I would go to a pub to watch the game.

Why?  Because -

At first we went to Old Gogarty's and the place seemed lively.  There were Irish jerseys everywhere (and some full grown men dressed as Hogwarts characters---it looked like a frat dare).  Ireland was playing Italy so Betta whispered her cheers so as not to start a riot.  There weren't any open seats and Betta didn't want to stand at the bar so we moved on.

We wound up going to the Old Storehouse.  The crowd was more subdued here but still riveted to the game.  We sat in a corner, literally a wall separated us partially from the rest of the bar.  I was hoping that the game would be a great way to meet people, but it looks like I'll have to do that on my own.  It was a very pleasant afternoon, and I enjoyed hanging out, but it wasn't quite what I had in mind. 

I still have no idea how rugby is played.  I gathered that you must pass the ball backward and you can score by running past the end of the field or kicking the ball through the post.  The rest, however, is beyond me.  Particularly confusing is when all the guys get into the scrum (what they call a giant bone-crunching huddle) and then kick the rugby ball around on the floor until it comes out one side.  Are they doing a sort of tug of war?  A hot potatoe dance?  A group hug?  Then, they lift a guy high into the air and throw the ball to him...and then they all proceed to tackle each other again.   I really really need someone to explain the rules to me. 

In the end, it was quite a close game - 11-10.  Ireland won, so there was slight disappointment back at the apartment, but nevertheless, a good time had by all.

Later that evening, there was nothing going on.  I didn't come all the way to Dublin to sit in my room staring at the walls - I wanted to do something new!  From various sources, I heard that Dublin's Literary Pub Crawl was amazing, so I decided to check it out.  I asked Betta if she would like to join me, but she declined, so I ventured out alone. 

The crawl is a tour delivered by two storytellers/actors.  The duo takes you around to some of the most famous pubs in Dublin where some of the great writers gathered ideas and characters for the stories.  James Joyce, Oscar Wilde, W.B. Yeats, Samuel Becket, George Bernard Shaw, and Jonathan Swift (just to name a few) all frequented the same places.  Although the facades of the buildings have changed, the nature of them has not. 

I know what you are thinking - dork!  Learning about literature at pubs?  Rubbish!  Why would you do that?  But the tour is actually rated one of the best in the city.  And, since Dublin has the title of one of the world's Cities of Literature designated by UNESCO, I figured that I might as well take it all in.  One author, Brendan Behan, is quoted as saying, "I am a drinker with a writing problem," and I suppose that sums up the tour.  Only in Dublin, I think, can you learn about literature through a tour of its pubs.

The tour started at the Duke, a quaint establishment you'll find it nestled on a small street off of Grafton. I got there a little early, so I watched the end of the Manchester United soccer game.  The match played on every television, and I was excited to watch with a crowd who cheered (at home, crowds usually snore instead).

We travelled around town and stopped at four pubs altogether.  At each spot, the tour guides would explain a bit of the history about the pub and about an author.  They would also often act out a scene from whatever piece of literature they were discussing.  I got a taste of Ireland's legendary storytelling ability, the gift of the gab.  The duo weaved stories together linking the past and the present and the entirely make-believe. 

In one bit, they enacted a scene where they played two beggars from the 1750s.  As the play goes, the two decide that, to get some money, they will sing tunes for Protestants or Catholics.  The trouble is that they often choose the wrong song and are left without a dime in their cap.  What makes the bit more interesting is that this whole scene is taking place on the steps outside in the middle of the public!  So when they flip off a passerby for not giving them any change, it happens both as part of the play and for real!

I was lucky enough on the tour to be adopted for the night by a family.  Three of the group were similar in age to me (they were taking their dad on the tour for his birthday).  I started talking to them as the tour wore on and we hung out together at each of the pubs.  Thankfully, they didn't mind me tagging along even though they were there as a family event. 

At the end of the night, we all stayed at the last pub and shared a drink.  Despite my worry that I would overstay my welcome, the family pulled up a chair for me and Emer (the girl with whom I had chatted most of the night) even bought me a cider.  No one else on the tour stayed, but then again, no one else on the tour was Irish.  The family seemed quite surprised that the everyone else had gone home straightaway - why wouldn't they have stayed for a drink and a laugh? 

I'm trying to learn to appreciate these chances, to use these times to get out there and meet new people.  You have these brief moments with people, times when total strangers have the chance to come together for one night.  It is still awkward for me (often like a bad first date where you chat for awhile and then eat something quickly so your mouth is occupied while you think of something to say), but every day offers a new opportunity.

  Chillin with James Joyce

Hanging with Oscar Wilde