July 21st – 25th, 2016

STRANGE SHORE: Dublin & Galway

SUNDRY LAND: The Republic of Ireland

WANDERING WAY: The Galway International Arts Festival

Has there been an aching hole in your life for the last five days? Have you been thinking, “Where oh where is Sharon? Wherever could she be?”

Galway!

That’s right. Partying in Galway turned into a full-time job the minute that I stepped into the best city by the most beautiful bay, and updating “Strange and Sundry” was quickly shunted to the side in favor of the fabulous conversation, delicious food, fantastic music, and excellent theatre of The Galway International Arts Festival.

I can tell that you’re still whining, “But couldn’t you have blogged about these Galway antics on the train back to Dublin? How could you keep me waiting so long?” Well, let me say this: When concluding the first month of a three-month+ journey abroad, it’s important to take a little rest. Don’t you agree? It would just be silly to overexert myself when I need to keep up my strength to lug, tug, and lift suitcases on the Continent in two days’ time. Think of my poor shoulders.

Happily, this morning I felt so refreshed after a week of Irish hospitality that I found the energy to do important things like brush my teeth, put on makeup, drop off drycleaning, and make my way to the Irish Film Institute (certainly the most pleasant place to write in Dublin - http://www.ifi.ie) to update this travelogue. In short, order has been restored to the universe, and you needn’t mourn my absence another minute.

Galway Doppelgängers (Part 1) – My American Mirror Image, Denise

Any train journey longer than two hours necessitates nourishment upon debarkation – my delayed train to Galway took three. There is a reason that the average play or concert will give its audience a break after (at most) two hours – a human must stretch, feed, and pee at regular intervals, and everyone knows it. Given this biological imperative, I found myself lurching around the picturesque streets of Galway moaning for food, much like Frankenstein’s Creature, and my typical hems and haws in deducing the precise latitude and longitude of any locale’s best trough were cut short in favor of proximity.

So, it was quite by happenstance when I fell into “Hooked”(http://thisisgalway.ie/eat-galway/hooked/) – too hungry to examine the menu in any detail, I bawled out, “FISH CHIPS,” giving a line delivery much like Boris Karloff’s immortal “ALONE BAD. FRIEND GOOD.” It was pure luck that I’d tripped upon on the best seafood joint in town.

By the time “yummy sounds” were floating up from my corner of the restaurant, I’d regained enough of my mental faculties to detect an American accent floating up from the only other occupied table in the small storefront to think, “Hey, that girl’s from the States.”

A curious truth arises when you’ve been traveling alone for a month – anyone from home is an automatic candidate to become your new best friend.

To repeat the invaluable insight of Mr. Karloff, “ALONE BAD. FRIEND GOOD.”

For example, two years ago when I was traveling alone in Paris, I found myself on a bench in Père Lachaise, wilting in the midday heat, and a middle-aged woman sat next to me on the same bench. When she asked for directions, my heart leapt when I heard her American accent. Over the course of forty-five minutes, I gave her precise directions to every sight she wanted to see in Père Lachaise, heard all about her son’s new baby, and learned everything there was to know about her little hometown in Minnesota; in return, she commented on my dissertation, friends in New York City, and the European itinerary. It was only the burning sun that caused us to part tearfully, wishing each other well in the vast foreign metropolis.

In “Hooked” that late afternoon in Galway, I actually discovered my Californian doppelgänger in the person of Denise. (As many of my readers will know, my beloved sister is also named Denise; meeting a second Denise so far away from home turned out to be quite a good omen.)

Why a doppelgänger?

1. Denise and I are both 35.

2. This spring, we both made the big decision to change careers – as Denise moves from marketing to entrepreneurship, I move from teaching full-time to writing full-time (when I’m not partying in Galway, of course).

3. In leaving our jobs this spring, we both found ourselves free for the summer, which prompted month(s)-long journeys through Europe.

4. Denise and I are both foodies who spend a considerable amount of time cooking, baking, and seeking out good grub.

5. Denise and I are both gregarious, talkative types.

These coincidences make me wonder how many other 35 year-old American women there are flitting around Europe this summer. Is it possible that the female chicks of 1981 have flown the proverbial coop to spread their wings, shake their tail feathers, and soar across the Atlantic’s briny blue? Only time and air miles will tell.

It took one late lunch to make me realize that I’ve always needed a friend from Santa Monica. Californian Denise’s aspiration to launch a line of bikinis, like the ones found in Brazil (whence her parents hail), to flatter full-figured ladies may not sound much like my New Yorker ambition to write a novel. Once you consider that I’m writing a satirical “beach read” however, it’s perfectly clear that the women wearing Denise’s bikinis in a year or two will be reading my novel at the same time. Yo world, get ready for Summer 2018!

Without further ado, we planned to have a late dinner. Lo and behold, Denise offered to make a reservation at Kai (http://kaicaferestaurant.com), the very restaurant that had been recommended by my chef friend Tom. Would the coincidences ever stop? Apparently not!

Later as we strolled into the artfully decorated Kai, Denise commented, “Hey, I didn’t know this place was Michelin rated?!” If only every dinner could begin with a similar realization. The gin apéritif, crab, the wine, the halibut, and the pavlova –a delicate balance of flavors danced as Denise and I chatted about food, men, Europe, and the inevitability of our future success. It’s laughably easy to be optimistic when toasting over divine victuals at the most delicious meal of the trip so far. In classic Californian style, Denise suggested that I’d find a bigger market if I pitched my story as a television pilot rather than a novel. She may have a point, but I’ll stick to my fusty old-timey New York ways for the present.

With starry eyes, Denise told me all about her beau back in California, and she became convinced that we must visit a nearby pub to find me an Irishman. (A charming trait of the starry-eyed is to see auspicious stars on every street corner.) During the Galway International Arts Festival (http://www.giaf.ie), every pub in Galway burst its seams with music, and the celebratory clamor ratcheted up to a particularly high pitch since Galway had been designated the “European Capital of Culture 2020” that very week (https://www.theguardian.com/stage/2016/jul/20/galway-festival-international-arts-festival-2016-ideas-innovation). It’s quite a big deal because the EU will be pouring €39 million into Galway in preparation for 2020. (To put it another way, visiting Galway as it celebrated its European inclusion was the opposite of visiting a depressed, befuddled post-BREXIT London: https://www.facebook.com/GalwayInternationalArtsFest/videos/10157130842200082/). 

Denise, energized by vino, soon declared us to be the “best looking girls in this place” as she chatted up the tech guys on my behalf. 

In recent years, Dublin and Galway have been doing their upmost to foster tech start-ups with amenable economic and tax policies, and Europeans from all over the Continent have been flocking to Ireland. As it became obvious that almost everyone in the pub worked in tech, Galway reminded me of a Celtic version of San Francisco. When the late-night summer light finally seeped out of the sky, I asked the crowd , “Don’t you guys have to go to work tomorrow morning?”

A loud, laughing, “Ya! Where’s the next round?” resounded around the room.

Tech guys, worldwide, appear to indulge in strikingly similar behavior. (Wink to the techie contingents back home.)

As I waddled home full of fancy food and Irish cider, I felt happy that I’d met a friend if not the ideal Irish lad. With stars rising over Galway Bay, it’s difficult to feel anything but grateful.

Galway Doppelgängers (Part 2) – “Waiting for Godot,” produced by the Druid Theatre Company (with Marty Rea, Aaron Monaghan, Rory Nolan, and Garrett Lombard, directed by Garry Hynes)

The brilliant Druid Theatre Company (http://druid.ie) was co-founded by Garry Hynes (the first woman to ever win a Tony Award for Direction of a Play, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Garry_Hynes), and I first became acquainted with Druid when it mounted with the three-play cycle DruidMurphy (http://www.nytimes.com/2012/07/10/theater/reviews/druidmurphy-plays-by-tom-murphy-at-lincoln-center.html?_r=0) and four-play cycle DruidShakespeare (http://www.nytimes.com/2015/07/14/theater/review-druidshakespeare-the-history-plays-is-complete-with-a-crown-fit-for-many-kings.html) at the Lincoln Center Festival. Seeing seven superb plays performed by the same company is enough to prompt any theatre devotee to fly straight to Galway for the latest offering.

Sometimes there are good decisions, and then some decisions are so flippin’ excellent that you pat yourself on the back for several days in a row, congratulating your own manifest brilliance and perspicacity.

It’s fairly rare for a play to garner a five star review, and Druid’s “Waiting for Godot” has not only garnered multiple five-star reviews, but it’s prompted the (admittedly fawning) Irish Times to hail the production as “the best production [of the Beckett classic] in twenty-five years”: http://www.irishtimes.com/culture/stage/waiting-for-godot-review-the-best-production-for-25-years-1.2720505. I concur.

A lucky alchemy snaps, crackles, and pops when a company of actors performs repertory over a four-year period, and Garry Hynes consented to mount “Godot” when “some of her ensemble told her they would like to do it”(http://www.independent.ie/entertainment/festivals/stage-waiting-for-meaning-and-godot-knows-what-else-34865889.html). Hear, hear for actors’ choice!

What makes this production special? I’ve seen several different performances of this play, and I was most struck with the way Marty Rea and Aaron Monaghan inflected each of Didi’s and Gogo’s repetitive lines with multivalent meaning – a play that often feels like a broken record felt more like a concerto with fine-tuned variations on a plaintive leitmotif. This double-act managed to convey comic and tragic emotion (often simultaneously) like two old friends who bicker over an in-joke that’s always and never funny. 

In addition to this inspired interplay, Rory Nolan’s Pozzo struck such a desolate chord in his last speech that the whole play descended into the twilight with which Hynes lighted the finale of each act, and I felt wrung out with the realization that these characters’ desperation might never fade to black.  

Afterwards, Druid had stationed a camera crew outside the theatre to interview departing audience members, asking for their reactions to the performance. I shudder to a standstill whenever called on to perform (particularly on camera), and I fell on myself in the attempt to say something intelligible without stammering. If memory serves, I might’ve uttered something stupid about the performance being an “existential Olympiad” – if this recording ever comes to light, I beg nobody to watch it. Thalia and Melpomene do not grace us all.

But off the theatre I go again -- tonight it's Tom Murphy's "The Wake" at The Abbey Theatre, founded in 1904 by W.B. Yeats and Lady Augusta Gregory. Tah for now!

July 19th- 20th, 2016

STRANGE SHORE: London, England & Dublin, Ireland 

SUNDRY LAND: United Kingdom & The Republic of Ireland

WANDERING WAY: The Wallace Collection, Goodbye to London, and a Hearty Welcome from the Irish people, the heartiest and most welcoming people.

Yesterday was the most difficult travel day by far. Now don’t get me wrong – I love traveling – but even for the most enthusiastic traveler, there are bad days. On this particular occasion, the day started when I woke up with a terrible sinus headache, which might’ve been caused by the clouds of dust billowing off the street and through the windows of my cramped, stuffy, overheated, dirty AirBnB apartment in London. (Rest assured, I had loads of fun writing my negative review this morning.) It was the sort of sinus headache where you get sick to your stomach because a little gremlin’s taken up residence in your forehead with the intention of driving a nail through your left nasal cavity, doubtlessly in a flurry of skull redecoration. Right now, it still feels as if Mr. Gremlin’s successfully hung a particularly gaudy felt painting on the interior wall of my left temple. 

That’s how the day started. Soon after, I had the pleasure working my way through airport security in Heathrow, where they ripped out every item in my carry-on and exposed my magenta underwear to the world. Then a plane ride with a throbbing left sinus. Ouch. 

Before I describe the lifesavers on this horrible, terrible, very bad day –namely the Irish people and my friends back home –there’s more. On my way to dinner, my sister texted me a portrait she’d been working on – a portrait of me; at that point, I was already feeling pretty downtrodden, and so my reaction to her post-contemporary/realistic depiction of the circles under my eyes and forehead wrinkles was what one might expect from a person who’d been sweating from sinus pain all day, i.e. not positive. (Sorry, Denise. You caught me at a bad time.) She promptly wiped it away into oblivion because her normally supportive and convivial sister had a little meltdown.

After that, I sat down to a much needed dinner and drink, and I soon managed to log onto WiFi only to find an e-mail from my NYC superintendent waiting in my inbox, “There is a leak coming from your apartment. I will need to come by and check out your bathroom to try and find the source.” I don’t need to tell you that this is precisely the e-mail that you DO NOT WANT TO RECEIVE as you sit down to drink your gin fizz after a painful day of travel.

For the next two hours, I had playful visions of my apartment flooding, walls crumbling, and books disintegrating as I repeatedly called my super, ignoring the international call fees and begging for updates. To make a long story of eleven e-mails much shorter, it suffices to say that I eventually directed my super to the set of keys that I’d left with my nice next-door neighbors, and he searched the entire apartment to discover THAT NOTHING WAS WRONG.

For those in the know, you already understand what I think of my evil downstairs neighbors in 3B, who have already caused my concerned mother to hire an attorney to draft a letter warning them “not to continue harassing his client unless they want to incur legal consequences.” These evil neighbors, of course, were the ones who complained about “the leak,” causing this red-code alarm. There is not a curse in the English language strong enough to encapsulate my feelings about these so-called “people” in 3B. I am trying to evolve as a person, and so I’ve decided to forget that they exist.

Now, as promised, the LIFESAVERS:

1.The Irish: When you’ve experienced twelve days in London as the whole English population suffers a post-BREXIT nervous breakdown, there’s no greater balm than catching a flight to Dublin. There were so many instances of Irish people being kind, generous, and funny in a single evening that I might’ve forgotten a few. Here are some examples:

- THE SWEET IRISH TAXI DRIVER: “You’re certainly a big, strong girl to lift those suitcases by yourself.” When we arrived, she (a woman in her late fifties) redoubled her efforts to help me with my bags. She also provided a mini-tour of everywhere it might be nice to visit near the location of my lovely AirBnB cottage.

-THE SWEET IRISH AirBNB HOST: “Oh, you teach literature? I’m a philosopher, and I’m going to a reading tonight. I’d be happy to introduce you to my friends. They’re really nice guys.” He also recommended restaurants and local, non-touristy places to see “real Irish music.” Moreover, he offered me water and fresh bread on my arrival. It felt like a return to Cumbria.

-THE SWEET IRISH DRYCLEANER: “Oh lass, if you bring those dresses by 9am, we’ll be sure to have them done by 2. My pleasure.”

-THE SWEET IRISH HANDYMAN: When I had trouble opening the front door to the otherwise wonderful cottage, the handyman noticed from across the street and offered to help me and oil the lock so it wouldn’t give me any more difficulty.

-THE SWEET IRISH WAITER: When I explained why I’d been so distracted during dinner (a leak in my apartment back home): “Are you okay? That super should’ve fixed the problem and called you after it was already taken care of.” I nearly wept in thanks for his kind understanding. He had a point.

-THE SWEET IRISH NEIGHBOR: When I had more difficulty with the lock of the cottage, he left his friends who were barbequing and listening to Nina Simone across the street to help me, saying, “I’ve had a lot of experience with these locks, Miss. Let me help.” (As a general note, I’ve found that the quality of the music everywhere in Dublin is much higher than the musical selections anywhere in England.)

-THE SWEET IRISH PHARMICIST: “Ah, sinus medicine! If you’re having pressure, this one’s best. Feel better.”

2.My NYC friends, Amanda and Alyssa: During the “leak” non-crisis, my spectacular friends kept offering help and support. Here is small sampling of their texts as I was totally freaking out; needless to say, I am so lucky to have such wonderful, delightful, caring ladies in my life.

-“So sorry you are dealing with this!” (A. Meyers)

-“If there is a leak, would you like me to call a plumber?”(A. Meyers)

-“It did rain here yesterday and your neighbors are crazy and the building just did some work. It might not even be you!”(A. Johnson)

-“It is honor and a privilege! Seriously. We said we would be here for you and we are. Alyssa and I now only go as “we.” Sorry, capital ‘WE.’”(A. Johnson)

-“Sorry you have to worry about this. WE are on it!”(A. Meyers)

3.My beautiful sister Denise, who acted quite gracefully even though I was mercilessly honest and crabby in reaction to her portrait. Yikes! Sorry!

4.My mom who listened with kind, encouraging patience as I wept out my woes in a sad little phone call home.

Now before I leave London, here are some greatest hits from the tail end of my visit:

Most Impressive Private Art Collection, possibly ever – The Wallace Collection

I happened to be passing through Marylebone one day when I noticed a sign advertising free entry into The Wallace Collection, and I thought to myself, “Hey, free art. Why not?” So, not knowing exactly what to expect, I stumbled upon one of the most impressive private art collections in the known world – as its brochure explains, “its French eighteenth-century art, princely arms and armour and Old Master paintings are among the very best,” and boy, they aren’t kidding. The collection’s holdings are every bit as impressive as Metropolitan Museum of Art’s eighteenth-century, armor, and Old Master collections (if not more impressive), and The Wallace Collection is displayed in “a (emphasis mine) former town house of the Hertford family”, which is an architectural masterwork of Rococo splendor. Please see this self-portrait with a chandelier and astronomical clock as evidence:

As mere mortals without titles, we should all feel grateful that Lady Wallace, “the widow of the last descendent in this branch of the family” gave the Collection to the nation in 1897. Whoever said that a family line dying out was a bad thing?

It’s particularly appropriate to comment upon The Wallace Collection from the cheery city of Dublin since the Collection was amassed with proceeds from the 1^st, 2^nd, 3^rd, and 4^th Marquesses of Hertford’s estates, which were inherited by an illegitimate son of the 4^th Marquess (Richard Wallace) in 1870. These inherited properties were located in England, France, and Ireland, and so we can safely assume that the funds for The Wallace Collection were partially gained from the back-breaking labor of Irish workers. Thanks Ireland! Did England ever thank you properly for its colonial exploitation?

(As a side note, I believe that every museum on earth should hang placards explaining exactly how its donors and patrons made enough bank to pay the oodles of sums to amass its collections and rip masterworks from other nations. It would add much-needed historical dimension to museum-going.)

Once again, it’s difficult to pick my favorite piece, but I think it would have to be this one…

“The Persian Sibyl, 1620s” by Domenico Zampieri, called Domenichino: 

The catalogue tells us that “Pictures of Sibyls enjoyed enormous favour in Italian baroque art since they provided artists with a legitimate excuse to depict beautiful young women in exotic dress.” I’m not sure if it was the harmonious interplay of color, the extraordinary detailing, the perfect hands, or the soft light flowing from her thoughtful face, but I stood in front of this painting gawking in appreciation. For any painters attempting to capture my own radiant beauty in the future, I would like to be depicted thus, as a sibyl with a creamy complexion, no wrinkles, and an enraptured gaze into the middle-distance, dazzled by the power of my own perceptions. Because who are we kidding? That’s me. The piece’s exoticism and orientalism are disturbing however, and so no need for the headscarves and robes in my portrait. Thanks. (Wink, wink; nudge, nudge Denise ;) )

Ah, London Theatre: nothing like it – Platonov (@ The National Theatre) and Funny Girl (@ The Savoy Theatre)

Tonight in Dublin, I’ll be going to one of my favorite restaurants (“The Winding Stair”) and The Gate Theatre to see “The Constant Wife” by W. Somerset Maugham, one of the most undervalued writers in our current day and age. (Seriously, everyone: read “The Moon and Sixpence,” okay?) However, I would be a churl not to mention some of my sublime theatre-going experiences in London before signing off for the day. Despite its BREXIT freak-out, I still love London, and I’m happy that I’ll be returning in August. I just hope that the English people can pull themselves together in the intervening weeks.

Platonov

Currently, the National Theatre is staging three plays in its “Young Chekhov” repertory (imported from the Chichester Festival), and I’m seeing all three over the next couple months. In fact, Platonov convinced me that seeing all three was an absolute necessity. It’s true that I’m a total Chekhov junkie, which sounds pretentious, but I’ll explain why. During my almost interminable days as a grad student, the works of Anton Chekhov provided a necessary palliative – he, more than any other writer in my reckoning, understood and dramatized the plight of the terminal grad student, who was (and still is) disrespected, mocked, and scorned by all…even as this same student works for peanuts at thankless research that will probably go nowhere. As soon as I realized the Chekhov had sympathy for this poor, benighted creature, I made it my business to see all of his plays, whenever and wherever they were staged. The National’s current production of Platonov is, in a word, glorious. It understands Chekhov’s humor, Chekhov’s sadness, and Chekhov’s gimlet-eyed appraisal of the restless and extraneous members of a decadent society on the verge of collapse. Thank you, National, for getting Chekhov so very right. I can’t wait for Ivanov and The Seagull. I just hope England isn't on the verge of a total collapse, too!

Funny Girl

Those who know me will be shocked to discover that before this week, I had never seen “Funny Girl.” You may wonder, “How can this be?!” There was no particular reason except for my penchant for Chekhov, perhaps. (Ha.) In the current London revival, Sheridan Smith plays Fanny Brice, and it must be said that the English actress has recovered nicely from her recent nervous breakdown…although the tabloids assure us that it was only “stress and exhaustion.” Ms. Smith plays Fanny Brice with game humor: she’s a short, stocky tap dancer, and she is indeed quite funny. She only has serviceable vocal chops, however.

But I know what you’re all thinking: “How does she compare to Barbra Streisand?” Well, I went home that same evening and watched the musical again, but this time I watched Streisand’s Oscar-winning performance on Netflix. So yeah, Sheridan Smith is no Barbra Streisand, who’s really quite astounding as Fanny Brice. But it must be said, Ms. Smith might be closer to the real-life Fanny Brice while Barbra Streisand is astonishing as “Barbra Streisand as Fanny Brice,” if that makes sense. Moreover, Omar Sharif is totally wonderful in movie version as well, and apparently, he had an affair with Streisand on set. It shows. They have crackling chemistry on screen, which was sadly lacking in the current London version. In short, I’d still recommend the current theatrical iteration, but you could also save some money by staying home and watching Netflix. That said, there’s nothing like live theatre is there? My only wish is that I could go back to 1964 to see Streisand perform the role on Broadway – it must’ve been quite something.

More about Ireland soon!