» Fringe Blog – Writing on Film, Culture, and Things on the Fringe

Raise a Pint To Ye

jelewis8 — Thu, 17 Mar 2005 10:31:18 +0000

Is there really anything else that needs to be said? Not really. Old guy here to the left pretty much does Ireland proud and St. Patrick’s here at O’Fringe’s is as much a celebration of age as it is the Irish in me. Here’s to the days of yore, to the sounds of cock and kettle, of kelp and the braying of the fine Irish hounds a’racin’ o’er the bogs in pursuit of a hare or a wild boar; when hustlers and docksmen teemed in Galway’s port, stacking barrels and itchin’ for some carousin’ at Fibber McGee’s; when William Butler Yeats looked o’er the sodden hills of Connemara and sighed, posting pen to paper and changin’ the world with his words; when James Joyce roamed the streets of Dublin and dreamed of Stephen Daedalus as Ulysses; when times were tough and folks were poor in health but rich in spirit; when the British left; when Tuatha de Danaan left the island to the Irish sayin’ “Now, tis yours, ya fools!”
Here’s to the history and age of Ireland, may it linger in our hearts like a pint on our tongues…
Here’s to you, Paddy. Beannachtaí na Féile Pádraig oraibh!

Fibber Magees Shuts Down

jelewis8 — Fri, 09 Jul 2004 16:22:26 +0000

Another pub has shut its doors because of the dreadful smoking ban in Ireland. Fibber Magees pub is owned by Ronan Lawless. Despite his name, he has decided to fight the ban within the law. I say “Good luck!” to him. He’ll definitely need it, for it looks like the law has pretty solid support in the government and in the public eye.

Bloomsday

jelewis8 — Wed, 16 Jun 2004 18:26:51 +0000

Today is ReJoyce Dublin day, AKA Bloomsday. This day in 1904 Stephen Daedalus and Leopold Bloom each journeyed through Dublin’s streets in James Joyce’s Ulysses, possibly the western world’s most highly acclaimed novel.
To celebrate, I extend a hearty Irish invitation to share in the reading of Ulysses and enjoy a pint of the Black Beauty with a Blonde Head while you’re at it!

The Ol’ Dream

jelewis8 — Tue, 25 May 2004 22:19:34 +0000

I’ve been, at times, desperate enough to consider forging paperwork to prove that one of my grandparents was Irish. Why would I even remotely consider doing something like that?
Gaining Irish citizenship, of course! Believe me, there’s more to life than being American. Being Irish would fulfill much of my dream quotient…I guess the only thing left for me to do is to marry a nice Irish lass.

The Counterfeit Monets

jelewis8 — Fri, 13 Jun 2003 09:06:46 +0000

I had been traveling the western coastline of Ireland for nearly a day; I grew hungry and my body craved some time off the road, so I made for Connemara. It was then nearly eight in the evening, but the land was still swathed with the light from the day. The town was shrouded ethereally in the perpetual mist that gathered in the lowlands, indeed right off the water’s edge, and seemed to glow in its embrace.
I had fortuitously parked two doors from a bistro; the name escapes me at the moment, but the sign sitting outside its window welcomed me with promises of a warm interior, blessed with warmer coffee and company. As I stepped inside, I realized I had somehow been granted access through the normally unused side door. I suddenly found myself the subject of eight staring eyes. I am unused to this sort of attention, and my blundering around, looking for a menu and a shadowy table but finding none, only exacerbated my discomfiture.
A young man arrived from the kitchen and silently handed a menu to me. I remember looking for my favourite coffee and upon the discovery that it was not on the menu, exhaling a disappointed breath. Yet this was forgotten in my astonishment as I peered around me on the walls.
I do not mind saying that at first glance, I thought myself the subject of some prank, for upon the walls of that golden interior, three paintings hung, the contents of which appeared to be the very “lost” paintings by Monet!
To those unfamiliar with art history or the paintings of which I speak, this would come as perhaps less astonishment than I found myself in upon seeing the works. Monet, of course, was a famous French Impressionist in the mid to late 1800′s, and his work is quite well known throughout the world. One of his most famous, you may have seen, is the one entitled “Water Lily Pond”, and is the very zenith of Impressionist work.
Monet’s work became recognized while he was yet alive, but it wasn’t until his death that his paintings became quite valued. A large portion of his collection was bought and placed in the Lourve; the pieces I now gazed at were three of his earlier attempts at Impressionism. Yet within five years, a burglar had made off with some of the exhibits, among them, I knew well, were these.
Of course, I thought, these were only copies. But how extraordinary! These looked like no replicas; upon touching one of them I realized it was canvas, and appeared quite old.
By now I was one of three people left in the coffee shop. I felt safe enough from prying eyes and ears to beckon the waiter to my table.
“You don’t, by any chance, know about these paintings, do you?” I asked. In my first seventy-two hours in the country I had already acquired a slight brogue; unnoticed by most, I think, but I knew it was there.
“Those, yes sir. They are Monets. See here,” he said, and pointed to the signature at the bottom right corner of the canvas. The painted scrawl indicated it had been painted by Claude Monet, 1889. Excitedly, I bent closer to look. By this time the waiter looked inquisitively at me, and I, noticing his stare, straightened.
“I’m sorry, it’s nothing. It’s just that these look extraordinarily like genuine Monets,” I said. “Whoever did these did quite a job.”
“Job?” he said, scrunching his brow and tilting his head.
“Yes, I’ve some familiarity with these paintings, and these are, by far, the most accurate, impressive examples of recreations I’ve ever laid eyes on. If I didn’t think it was simply impossible, I would have guessed these were…”
He continued to look at me, and I stuttered, “–were, well, the originals.” At this I stared down at the floor. “I’m sorry, I think I’m ready to order.”
I sat down and asked him for a cappuccino and Irish whisky cake.
He took the menu and came back, handing me my cup and plate. I could tell by his demeanor that he thought I was crazy, and I kept quiet the remainder of my short stop there.
I asked for the check and when I offered him a tip he motioned “No thanks,” and took my dishes without waiting for me to leave. I took one last look at the paintings, the paintings that were surely, had to be, recreations, and walked out into the dusky evening. The town outside was now awash with the light of the streetlamps, and the sidewalks were damp from the slight misting they had received while I was inside.
I had no reason to leave that evening, so I booked a room in one of the many unknowable Bed-and-Breakfasts that seemed to be everywhere. The morning of my departure, I stopped by the little shop. It was closed, but I peered inside, to catch a magical glimpse once again of those marvelous works of imitation.
To my surprise, the walls were bare of their previous occupants. Where the light touched the wall, the inverted shadow of the paintings’ frames stood out, and the spaces where they once hung were now as empty as the morning streets. I breathed against the glass, rubbed it with my sleeve, turned and walked away.

Colour and Place

jelewis8 — Sun, 01 Jun 2003 09:06:46 +0000

As I never got the chance to post this in Ireland, I’m doing so now. It is a reflection upon colour and how it gave me pause, which in turn led to speculation about what ‘place’ was. Here are my observances, recorded on the side of the road, somewhere between Galway and Doolin.
It finally hit me, as I was driving over just one of many hills?there are so many fences because there are so many rocks. I assume this is simply common knowledge, and therefore never stated, because in all my research and travel, I?ve never once come across for an explanation for the innumerable stone fences that makes this country the patchwork quilt that it is.
It?s not just the stonework that makes this land so varied, yet highly patterned and invested with so much natural regularity. At first glance, there seems to be but three colors here: blue, green, and grey. Look again. The sky, easily wider here than in most parts of the world, floats above the island in finely nuanced shades: nearly white just at the cloud line, hovering with an aerial jet fastness of the blue of the stratosphere, then met again with the solid and trustworthy heights of deep blue.
The land, dressed with the finery of nature?s clothing, ranges from a light, almost yellow flavour of green to the deepest shade of green shadow. Truly, Ireland is the land of a thousand greens.
As I sit here looking across a narrow valley (crossed by the usual network of fences and trees), I can see the wind?s movements across the grasses, a yellow unison of spectacular brilliance, despite its simplicity. Closer to me, the grass takes on a deeper shade, solemn and dignified.
Even more fascinating to me is the way the grass looks from one patch to the other. Here, the grass seems vibrant. And here, beside it, separated only by an invisible boundary, is a softer glowing green, and across from it, even deeper still, echoing through nature the layers of complexity which is built even into this small island.
Colours don?t seem to be on many people?s minds here. Perhaps they?re used to the daily helpings of grey stone and green hills set against a heavenly sky. Now that I think about it, most people that I?ve met were almost apologetic in one way or another. The night I stayed in Clifton, the woman who ran the hostel said she regretted the weather wasn?t better for me, and hoped it would clear up on the morrow. Other people just ignore the land about them, seemingly forgetful of where they are.
I suppose we all do this to some extent. We live in a place, become accustomed to its appeal, and soon come to forget that, remembering only the bad things about it. What gives a place its ?Placeness?? What makes Ireland ?Ireland?? I don?t ask to confuse, only to posit this suggestion.
A place is created through how we see it, how we remember it. As a place, Ireland is, for me, a land of colours. It is a palette of many varied hues and shades; simple colors that do nothing more than exist, yet in their simple arrangement, it reminds me to reflect on all my familiar haunts of knowing and remembering, even as pass? and, well, familiar they have come to be. Because of Ireland, I think I have a greater appreciation of their indelible mark upon my mind and heart. For you see, they?re places too.

The Final Two Days

jelewis8 — Fri, 23 May 2003 13:05:32 +0000

My stay in Galway was punctuated only by the short wait for the bus to Doolin, leaving at 10:30am. The ride looked to be about an hour, and then I could be off again in my car.
Almost as soon as we started off I knew I was in trouble. The driver was quite crazy, taking turns at magnificent speeds, causing the bus to sway and rumble with alacrity. I began feeling queasy, and I remember mumbling to myself that it was no different than being on the ocean. Ah me!
I spent the entire ride painfully holding my stomach and wishing it was over. The arrival in Doolin was more rapid than I had first thought. I got off the bus, grabbed my luggage, and began the 2 kilometer walk back to my car which was parked at the ferry harbour.
Allow me to explain Doolin weather. It is quite windy, quite cold, and quite wet. I was assaulted by all three, and by the time I returned to my car, I had wind-drawn tears running down my face. I practiced my “crying face” and thought I looked quite convincing. I’m ready to be in a soap opera now.
I wanted to go south, toward Killarney, and hoped to end up in Cork by the evening. The trip there was beyond brilliant. There are mountains in the southern “Ring of Kerry” that block winds from the ocean, and the result is balmy and sunny weather during the summer months. I had the good fortune of coming through on a rare nice day (people Ireland over complained and apologized for the weather which apparently is uncommonly poor this May).
Killarney is a wonderful town, full of shops and what’s better, a great Cathedral and National Park. I sketched part of the cathedral and then hiked along the river trail that leads to Ross castle – all in all about 8 kilometers there and back. The trail was peaceful, and I enjoyed the very relaxing walk I had that afternoon. I even spotted four deer and did a little “off-trail” exploring that led me to a swamp and a secluded section of the river that had deer tracks in the sandy bar. Oh yes, and reindeer are raised on a farm near there, and I managed to catch a quick glimpse of two of them far off.
I unfortunately could not stay there long, so after my hike I drove to Cork. Cork was big, confusing (as most cities are), and though I was impressed by Finnebar’s Cathedral (spires reaching so high), I did not feel comfortable there. I wasn’t far from Kinsale, and as I’d read Kinsale was nicer overall than Cork, I made my way south.
I arrived in Kinsale at 9pm or so, which was not ideal. I checked out the one hostel in town, but it was booked. Many of the B&B’s were as well, and I didn’t really feel like paying 60 or 70 Euro for a room anyway. After exploring the main part of the town on foot, incidentally meeting up with a funeral gathering in the streets (about hundred people whispering quietly, it’s eery), I went looking for a bank and a restaurant.
I hadn’t eaten, and so figuring I could sleep in my car at the very least, I found one restaurant that looked enticing (and not cheap, by the way!) and treated myself to the first big meal on the town since I’d been there. I called it a graduation celebration meal.
When I first walked in, the place was quite crowded. The waitress asked if I wanted to eat at the bar or ala carte. I’m not a fan of cigarette smoke, so I chose ala carte. Whoa. I walked in, and immediately felt way out of place. For one, I was one of only two singles there. For another, I was the youngest there, and a bit bedraggled from my travels. I suppose it didn’t show, because after I ordered my meal and wine, people ignored me. I suppose I ignored them, though at one point I thought about proposing a toast.
It was an expensive meal (for my tastes, 36 Euro), but good to my palate. I left the restaurant satisfied, full, and sleepy. At that point, I didn’t feel too badly about sleeping in my car–I thought it would add to the adventure of being in a harbour town. I found a secluded church parking lot, laid out my pack, and slept well (for car sleep).
I woke up the following morning and headed out for Kilkenny. At this point I’d like to remind everyone not to make a joke about South Park.
Kilkenny is an ancient town, the so-called medieval village of Ireland. Ancient monasteries, churches, and other remnants of life in the middle ages is evident. I stayed here and explored around, but it began raining, and I was still a couple hours away from Dublin. I headed back to Dublin (I had arranged to stay the night with Tony and Muriel) and arrived at about 8:30.
I had a lovely dinner with them, described my trip and all my travails and excellent adventures, and fell in at about 12. Now that is a trip!

Stranded!! Day 2

jelewis8 — Wed, 21 May 2003 15:05:20 +0000

I’m writing again from Dublin, a night before my departure back to the states. I’ll make a note now, that though I’m returning at this point, I am going to try desperately to come back, perhaps even as early as late summer. I do love it enough to stay (in fact, I found a lovely town that I would nearly kill to live in), and I am going to check into the legality of getting a job without a work permit. I have heard conflicting reports from various Irish folks I’ve talked to about this, so I am unsure about how that would work out. I would rather not risk getting deported or arrested, but if it is common for foreigners to do so, then I will certainly return. I do need to take care of some things at home that I was unable to do before I left. In all, this has been a good “beginner” course, one that has provided me with good leads, should I return.
Okay, to finish my Stranded story…
My second day on Inisheer proved to be accidental. I was to catch a 10:30 ferry to Inishmore, but the weather made passage impossible. I was stuck, but it was just as well, as I hadn’t yet explored the island. Inisheer is the second largest of the three Aran Isles, and in most people’s opinions, is the least touristy and most interesting. It boasts a very small population, three pubs, an airport, and a lighthouse.
I felt I could explore more judiciously on a bicycle, so I rented one for 8 Euro for the entire day. Good for me, too, because even though the island is small, it still has some very long roads, almost all uphill. I rode to the end of the island, near where the lighthouse is situated, and discovered an old wreck. The discarded and rusting hulk of a ship cast aground many years ago, abandoned to the mercies of the weather and sea, its size and loneliness frightened me, and I dared not explore inside through the twisted and broken hole in its hull. I contented myself to rest for a moment on the rocks below, desperately holding on to my hat and wishing I had brought some water. The air smelled of stale fish scents and tires; a very curious and disagreeable smell. It sat in my nostrils and I wanted to be away quickly from that place. After only a few minutes there, I mounted my bike and began the trek back.
There are a remarkable number of stone walls on the islands, just as there are on Ireland proper. Going back hundreds of years, these walls perform double duty, protecting their animals (cows, horses, sheep, and even the occasional goat) from weather and containing them. Additionally, the cleared land is now pasture which the animals graze.
I negotiated to the top of the hill, where simple stone houses and the barest of dwellings sat. The land here is mournful, and the yards and homes reflect this. They are sometimes decorated with flowers and herbs, small gardens under windows and next to walls, but other than that, they are quite bare. There is a homely feel there, a mixture of comfort and striving against the harshness of nature and the difficulty of island life.
Other than the two major “sights” on the island, it is unremarkable. Miles of stone walls, and a few hundred cattle and horses. But that was enough to keep me occupied, and I enjoyed my time exploring, sometimes simply riding and enjoying the view of the Atlantic Ocean from the very top of the island. An impressive sight.
I enquired about leaving in the morning, and being tired from the day’s exploration, turned in around 6:30 for a nap. This sadly turned into a 6 hour sleep, upon which I woke up and listened to the rain and began work on my second screenplay. I was strangely uninspired to write any on my Irish script, and I dare not wonder or question the Muse which directed me instead to write my serial killer story.
Day 3 follows.

Stranded!! Day 3

jelewis8 — Wed, 21 May 2003 15:05:07 +0000

My third and final day upon Inisheer was to be fairly uneventful. A group of us had been stranded there (I had been there the longest), and were now itching to move on. We all met down on the dock at 9:30am, when the ferry was reported to be leaving. We waited. The ferryman did not arrive, contrary to all the Greek myths, and finally a man came out saying the weather was too bad for sailing, but that he could try again in the afternoon. He predicted bad weather though, and made no promises. The prospect of being there for another night was not the most exciting, but I would make the most of it.
We all spent the day indoors. One German woman made tea for all of us, and bought apple tart and some almond bread that proved to be the perfect ingredient for that cold, windy, and rainy day on the island.
Around 4:00 one of the visitors came back to the hostel and announced that a different ferry company was heading to Galway at 4:30, and that was our only chance of getting off the island that day. By then I had decided that I would be unable to go to Inishmore, and so opted to go to Galway. From Galway I could catch a bus back to Doolin (where I had parked my car) and from there continue my journey south and then return to Dublin.
As you might recall, my trip over from Doolin was horrible. I am not a fan of boats, and I was not looking forward to this trip, which was to run 40 minutes. The ferry was a bit larger than the one I had arrived on, and I hoped that would make for smoother sailing.
That hope was to be dashed about 2 minutes in. The waves were larger, if possible, and I began feeling sick almost as soon as we set sail. The only thing I cared about at that point was getting off and back onto solid ground. Oh, it was bad!
Fast forward an hour, and we had finally arrived at Rossaveal, a small town 20 minutes from Galway. I had survived my journey across the sea without chunking, something I was grateful for, but was to suffer lingering nausea for the next five hours.
The trip into Galway was uneventful, as was my stay in the very nice hostel just beside the bus station. The lady I rode in with talked incessantly (she was from Hawaii, ironically) and I declined her invitation to the pub, on the pretext that I was still unwell. I was, but even more so, I was sick of her constant chatter. I did need some sustenance, and so found a hole in the wall, Abrakebabra, which was cheap and tasted like it. All I really wanted was sleep, and so I scurried back to the hostel, worked a bit on my script, and then turned in, grateful to be back on the mainland and looking forward to continuing my explorations.
Next up, my trip back to Doolin, and my journey to the warmer climes of Killarney.

Ireland the Great

jelewis8 — Tue, 20 May 2003 17:05:01 +0000

I got a lot of comments about my “negativity” over things here in Ireland. I suppose that my post, coming as it did, seemed to have a rather poor outlook, and unfortunately gave a wrong impression of my experiences here. I promised to write about what I love about Ireland, which I noted is a lot longer list.
First though, a note about my peeves: though I do find them annoying, they are no different than what I find in the States. As someone aptly pointed out, if I did eventually move here, things would even out and I would find prices more equitable. Additionally, being a tourist, I am subject to a lot of charges natives are not. Be that as it may, I still don’t truck with charging for bathroom usage, no matter where you are.
Ireland is the kindest place I have ever been. Talk about friendly. These people will go out of their way to help you. In a jam? Just ask someone on the street, or if you’re worried about appearances, check someone at a gas station or cafe. They love to talk, they’re happy to give help with directions or advice, and they don’t mind a bit! They’re also forgiving as well. I accidentally forgot to bring all my money to a cafe, and upon this discovery, the nice lady said, “I trust you’ll come back” and that was that.
The country is, well it is rainy and cold here. If you know me, you also know that’s my type of weather. It gets to you sometimes, if you let it, but for me, it’s only contributed to the atmosphere. It just feels Irish, you know? And sometimes it makes or breaks a location. Doolin wouldn’t have been Doolin without the constant wind, rain every ten minutes, and the horrible ocean waves crashing in. Kinsale wouldn’t be Kinsale without its warm and sunny atmosphere. I could go on, but you get me. Ireland’s weather and warmth is part of its charm.
The Euro: Since my last post on this subject, I confess to have gotten quite used to it. I no longer stumble over giving money to people for various charges. It all seems natural. The discovery I made was this: they only have three extra coins, so in that regard it’s no different than the US money system. All the bills seem to be the same. What’s bad is when you remember the exchange rate. My buoyancy over the currency tends to dip when I remember that a ?24 (pretend that’s a Euro symbol) dinner is actually about $32 in American. No biggie.
Media influence here is dominated by radio. Coming from the states, this seems a little strange. But think about it. The majority of people here are not exactly super-rich. They have houses and cars, usually, and appliances include a fridge, oven (usually gas), and a radio. No tv. I have only seen three tv’s since coming in country. Amazing. Ireland has rekindled my love of radio, and not just any radio. I’m talking radio that really has cool stuff on it, not like in the states. I was listening to RT One, one of the biggest stations here, and the program was all about movie and music reviews. What they do, is they have two or three people sit in studio, and usually they’ll have someone on the phone as well, and they’ll play the song, and then talk about it. It’s not like your top 40′s station in the states. The film reviewers were cool too, since they would play snippets from the movie, then give their thoughts on it. Great stuff.
The food here, while slightly expensive, has tended to be good. I’ve only eaten at one place that I didn’t like the food, but that was in Doolin, and it was one of two restaurants in town (the market had closed, or I would have bought my own food to cook). I have managed to live fairly simply here, mostly by buying food from small groceries, which is far cheaper. I can eat for two days on what I would normally pay for one large meal at a restaurant. Not bad at all.
Another thing I like is the varied places here. In this small island nation, the extremes are incredible. I rode the bus in from Galway to Doolin, and the entire trip was grey and rainy. I got to Doolin, and it was, as usual, very windy (so much so I was crying by the end of my trek back to my car from the bus station), and very cold. By the time I drove in to Killarney, it was sunny, balmy, and just slightly breezy. I think it’s about a 40 or 50 kilometer distance between.
My internet time is up, unfortunately. Being stranded on the Aran Isles for three days screwed up my writing schedule, since I have been unable to use my laptop for any of these posts (I have been getting some great research notes in, though, and I’ve started on my second sreenplay!). I suppose that I’ll get back to my writing my adventures for you when I get the chance. Until then…