Louvrers and France

Our last day in Paris, and we hadn't been to the Louvre yet. We had been to the Louvre on our last trip, but there is so much to see and absorb that we had to return. While at the museum, Josh and I had an ongoing debate about whether a particular room or the art it contained was more valuable, since the Louvre itself is a masterpiece. Although we wandered many familiar exhibits, we also had a chance to explore some of the new, temporary exhibits. One was in the Pavillon de l'Horloge. About 100 years ago, a Swedish man and his wife were assigned to visit Paris and report back on the latest artistic trends and techniques, so that Swedish artists didn't fall behind. He accomplished this task and in the process amassed an enormous personal art collection, one that left him in significant debt at the end of his life. To repay these debts, he had to sell his collection to the Swedish government, which kept the collection intact. The collection includes hundreds of paintings from Parisian artists; thousands of plans and drawings for buildings, sculptures, and paintings; and hundreds of designs for costumes and sets for the theater. Josh's favorite painting was of a dachshund who, despite having the body of a canine bodybuilder, still had sweet, pleading puppy eyes.

I think the most incredible thing about the Louvre is not that it is in such a beautiful building or that it houses some of the most famous pieces of art in the world, but that it displays only about 2% of the works in its collection. It has undergone such incredible transformations, from a fortress to a palace to the second-most visited museum in the world (I think it was #1 last time I visited, but a museum in China finally bumped it out of the lead). I'm just grateful that it's open to the public now, instead of being closely guarded by kings.

Some other fun facts about the Louvre:

• It is the largest museum in the world, with over 35,000 pieces on display.
• The Louvre was originally a fortress (1100s), then a palace for French kings (1500s), then got the cold shoulder when the royalty moved to Versailles but was later embraced as a royal art gallery.
• Napoleon once renamed the Louvre after himself (Napoleon Museum). He also added 5,000 pieces to the collection, but those pieces had to be returned to their original owners when Napoleon was overthrown. Napoleon was also the first person to hang the Mona Lisa, putting it in his bedroom.
• Over 2,000 employees work at the Louvre, directing visitors and otherwise keeping things running.

Looking for a place to have dinner, Josh and I headed out on foot.We headed the opposite direction from the Louvre and the other places that we had visited, and we discovered that a vibrant neighborhood (and restaurant scene) existed mere blocks from our apartment. It was hard to believe that so much life existed just around the corner, and we hadn't realized it until our final night. We ended up at La France, a little corner restaurant where the tented-in outdoor portion was filled with Parisian young adults drinking and smoking. We sat indoors, glad to be out of the cold, enjoying our beef bourguignon and a delicious salad with burrata. There was a bit of miming with the waiter, as nobody spoke much English beside "okay?" and "yes", but we were always able to figure out what the other wanted. That's how our entire trip has been, actually. A bit of good humor and an honest effort, and things end up working out.

Spotted 1: Orange hair. This seems to be the new craze for women who are naturally graying, as we have seen it several times on the street as well as on a fashionable older woman at Ledoyen.

Spotted 2: Dogs off leash. This trend amazes us, as Finn is far too curious to constantly stick by our sides. These dogs trot alongside their owners, oblivious to all of the dog-friendly smells and distractions that a city provides (this one - the exception - stopped to sniff; he belongs to the woman in the bright red pants).

Spotted 3: Tiny gas stations in the city.  Whether tucked into the corner of a building or along the sidewalk, these microstations get the job done, but they charge an arm and a leg for their services.

Railway to Beauty

After a very touristy run to the Eiffel Tower, we headed to the Musee de L’Orangerie, a museum at the far end of the Louvre Gardens. It looks like a slight building, and all we knew was that it housed beautiful rooms filled with Monet’s water lily paintings. In fact, though, the Musee de L’Orangerie is an iceberg of a museum, with extensive underground spaces. Still, we started with the water lilies: two elliptical rooms displaying four enormous canvases each of the water lilies Monet so fondly (and repeatedly) painted at Giverny. Monet donated the canvases to the city in the aftermath of the first World War, determined to create a space that felt tranquil, quiet, and safe amid the world’s turmoil. 

The canvases each display the “water garden” at a different time of day, and the effect truly is calming. If I recall correctly, the MoMA in NYC has created a similar room, and I remember how struck I was the first time that I saw it.

Next, we headed downstairs to see the Jean Walter and Paul Guillaume Collection, originally amassed by a Parisian art dealer who represented many famous artists in the city in the 1920s (Renoir, Cezanne, Rousseau, Modigliani, Matisse, Picasso, Derain, etc). It was interesting to see what a professional art dealer would personally collect, since I would have created a very different collection for myself. The exhibit included quotes of why he collected the work certain artists, from their disruptive nature to their unique representations of universal themes. I didn’t find all of them beautiful, but I was intrigued that someone did.

The final exhibit in the museum was a temporary one comprised of American art from the 1930s. The exhibit sought to display various facets of American culture and thought during that time, including the despair of the Great Depression, the rise of new forms of entertainment, and the consequences of increased industrialization. It also included American Gothic, the first time that painting was displayed in Europe. The exhibit included many familiar American names, from O’Keefe to Hopper, but also many artists with whose work I was unfamiliar. It was a good opportunity to broaden our knowledge of American painters.

After L’Orangerie, we wandered the holiday pop-up market in the nearby gardens. It was filled with American holiday music, expats, and tourists. There was mulled wine and cassoulet and an ice skating rink. Josh and I bought a handful of roasted chestnuts (the first time I’ve had them!) to snack on as we wandered to our next destination, the Musee d’Orsay.

Musee d’Orsay, a museum built in 1986 in the space of the former Orsay railway station (originally built 1898-1900). As a result of its former life, the space has a huge open layout in the center, which is perfect for showcasing the impressive statues and paintings inside. Though it is mere blocks from the Louvre, the Musee d’Orsay holds its own; it has the largest collection of Impressionist and post-Impressionist paintings in the world, including those by Manet, Degas, Monet, Renoir, and Cezanne. I had previously visited the Musee d’Orsay with the Glee Club in 2011, but Josh and I hadn’t made it there on our last trip (2013). While there are so many artistic masterpieces at the Musee d’Orsay, some of my favorites were by William Bouguereau. I remembered seeing his work, such as the Birth of Venus, on my last trip. It’s hard to find an image that does the paintings justice, but he captures the light, the expressions, and the mood so perfectly. Make sure to stop by his paintings if you’re ever at d’Orsay.

We had dinner with a friend at his uncle’s house just across the river. The uncle, American-born, had been a practicing lawyer in France for many years. Marrying a lovely French woman certainly had something to do with it, although they had also lived in San Francisco and Hong Kong. Over a home-cooked meal, Josh and I shared stories of our trip and were, in return, regaled with tales of international bridge tournament scandals, thoughts on the refugee mental health crisis, and impressions of various French Prime Ministers. My bewilderment at the 35-hour French work week was a source of constant amusement for my dining companions (the theme reprised frequently throughout the evening). Champagne was poured. Macarons were passed. Toward the end of the meal, we asked our friend’s uncle what he admired most about French culture. He said he had always appreciated how the French prioritized real meals and real conversations. Josh and I, it seems, had our French initiation tonight.

Spotted 1: Scooters. As in, the non-motorized ones that you may have used in middle school. They are a completely acceptable form of transportation here for children and senior citizens alike.

 Spotted 2: French bulldogs. There have been zero poodle sightings, but dozens of French bulldog sightings.  They're even on pillows, vases, and other household decorations.

A Crepeload of Crepes

We began our first full day of Parisian adventures with the Rodin Museum. I was surprised to learn that Rodin wasn’t famous until his 40s and that his fame was due to one piece that never actually got installed.  Basically, Rodin was commissioned to do an entryway for the Museum-to-be of Decorative Arts and (I believe) was given the theme “gates of hell”. He originally drew inspiration from Dante’s The Inferno, portraying scenes inspired by the various levels of hell and historic figures described in the text. He showed his working draft to some art critics and friends, who went WILD over it, and overnight Rodin became famous.  Of course, the Gates of Hell piece was still unfinished, and he continued to rework it, making the themes less and less representative of Dante’s text and more personal. The exhibit claims Rodin’s work took another turn when he became inspired by The Flowers of Evil by Baudelaire. So he worked and reworked and reworked on The Gates of Hell. But then the bottom fell out of the project – the Museum of Decorative Arts development was discontinued, leaving the gates with no future home. Instead, the gates sat in the back of Rodin’s studio for the rest of his life, a backdrop and an inspiration for his future work. Indeed, almost all of Rodin’s famous statues (The Thinker, The Kiss, etc) are actually enlarged elements of the Gates of Hell design.

A cast of The Gates of Hell, created after Rodin's death from the draft of the gates in his studio.

It’s pretty incredible, isn’t it? At 40, unknown. At 60, famous and sought-after, with a school of students, purchasing an old hotel (Hotel Biron) to become his personal museum. Rooms filled with artist friends’ work, including their portraits of Rodin. Beautiful gardens to showcase his sculptures, their anatomic detail stunning.  I guess it’s an inspiration to those whose passions don’t pan out the way they want them to… success could be just around the corner.

For a late lunch, we tried to return to the fondue place we discovered on our last Paris trip, but we were foiled! It was not open. Luckily, we found this tiny crepe and sandwich shop, where we were the only (very confused) patrons unable to speak French. But the paninis were hot and the crepes were delicious.  We stood on the pavement surrounded by our crepe-consuming comrades and devoured our Parisian fast food.

(The shop didn’t seem to have a unique name, but if you want to find it, it’s on Rue de la Harpe where it starts at the Seine.)

We had planned to have an adventurous afternoon, but we were fairly worn out and instead spent the afternoon wandering along the Seine and exploring the shops by our apartment. We needed to work up an appetite for the most anticipated part of the trip…

At 7:30 sharp, we arrived outside Pavillon Ledoyen, a three-Michellin Star restaurant in the Ledoyen Champs Elysees gardens. As we entered the main dining room, we noticed that the area was fairly hushed and that all of the chairs (when they didn’t surround the whole table) were angled for optimal viewing of the city lights through the window. A gold half-circle held a candle; suited waiters held out our chairs. Since we had tried a la carte dishes at Paul Bocuse, we decided to up the ante and ordered the seven course prix fixe menu this time. Of course, “seven courses” doesn’t really mean seven courses. That number doesn’t include the appetizer given to all the restaurant patrons, the optional cheese course, the tea/coffee course at the end of the meal (which came – SURPRISE! – with three additional desserts).

Our courses: (note: I don’t have the menu in front of me so I will not do it justice)

·       (Appetizer) We had a miso jelly soup and seaweed-flavored crème in a pastry shell, served on top of a smoked eel (including the head.  Yes, the whole eel was curled up on the plate, and no, we didn’t think we were supposed to eat it).

·       (Course 1) Delicious layers of avocado and celeriac with lemon and coconut extract, one of my favorite courses of the night.

·       (Course 2) Next came foix gras (which we barely touched, to the dismay of our waiter… I had seen the word “duck” and gotten excited, failing to read which part of the duck they were serving) accompanied by a smoked eel puree, topped with spaghetti squash and yeast flakes.

·       (Course 3) Scallops gently sliced in a delicious sauce that I don’t even know how to describe, but oh so melt-in-your-mouth wonderful.

·       (Course 4) Lobster on a bed of roasted pepper with ribs of kale and a turnip gel. Oh lobster, you are delicious steamed with butter but you are mighty fine when gussied up.

·       (Course 5) Wagyu beef with squid ink and star anise, topped with eggplant roasted into submission and tiny black orecchiette filled with something fascinating and tart.

·       (Optional – but really necessary – cheese course) How could we say no to cheese? We had passed over it at Paul Bocuse, but we had agreed to go all out tonight. We sampled 36-month-old Comte (amazing! Delicious! Undertones of caramelization like a good aged Gouda), an incredible goat cheese (selles sur cher, from Loire), and two other types. We were pleased with our selections (and the help of the Ledoyen Cheese Guru), but our clothes felt tighter than ever.

·       (Course 6) Apple pie without the dough; instead, it was a crunch bottom topped with a sort of apple sauce topped with roasted apple, with little crunch bits arranged around the edge like numbers on a clock. Tart Granny smith sorbet perched on top of this small apple tower. It was beautiful until the first bite, which required smooshing the entire thing, but it was delicious.

·       (Surprise course!) These strange half-circles, with tops spiked like hedgehogs, had been placed on our table at the beginning as a “surprise secret”, with no further details offered. They were now sliced open by our waiter, who explained that they were roasted passionfruit. After being roasted, they had been injected with cream, which was curdled by the natural acidity of the fruit to make a sort of creamcheese. The waiter then generously sprinkled brown sugar on top and brulee-ed it, for a fascinating twist on that singularly French dish, crème brulee. It was light and tart - far more tart than the normal cream in a crème brulee, which my taste buds enjoyed. My inner chemistry nerd was definitely impressed.

·       (Course 7) A light chocolate mousse that probably had some fancy twist that I am unable to remember.

·       (Birthday surprise!) Our waiters then placed more silverware down, a sign of more food to come. Our stomachs doth protest, we said, but still they brought a cake. It was a pear cake with crumbly cookie bottom layers, melty middle layers, and little meringues on top. Josh and I begged for small slices, but our waiter (that cruel, cruel man) served us generous portions that we could not resist.

·       (My own fault) The waiter then asked if we wanted tea or coffee. I asked for chamomile tea, thinking it would buy us time to relax before our walk home. And then the forks and knives were laid down, and I knew I was in for more food. Tea, as I previously mentioned, came with its own trio of desserts, ranging from tiny tidbits (little mint jellies with wisps of chocolate) to plate-sized monstrosities (Guinness cake that didn’t taste like Guinness and instead tasted like crème brulee pie). We barely made a dent.

Did we roll out of Ledoyen? Possibly. It was hard to remember anything clearly between my mad sugar rush and the resulting slump. But I do know that the lights were sparkling over the city and that the Louvre Gardens bordering our path home were beautiful. It was nearly 1 am on a Tuesday in Paris, but time didn’t seem to matter anymore.

Spotted: French museum bathrooms sometimes have a shoe shining machine. The Spanish tourists sitting near me were incredibly excited about this.

Golden Boy

Long before dawn, we left Lyon for the open road to Paris. Before we reached the City of Love, however, we had one important stop: Fontainebleau. 

This palatial residence is second only to Versailles in its opulence and was a relaxing getaway for French royals from Louis VII (1500s) to Napoleon III. It is also where Napoleon I abdicated his throne before being exiled to Elba.

It feels strange to call Fontainebleau a residence, because it is so different from any place I can imagine occupying. Every inch of the rooms is decorated, every detail luxurious, every life lived there of mythic proportions. It is hard to imagine ever being a child there; this is not the place for muddy footprints or streaks of crayon. Indeed, the toys of Napoleon’s only son were bedazzled dominos and pint-sized pistols, cannons, and sabers. But these details aside, Fontainebleau is a feast for the eyes and well worth a visit. Its rooms are a mishmash of the height of fashion in each century, with each ruler’s contribution emblazoned with monograms and catchy slogans. Everything is gilded or woven or inlaid with precious metals. The ceilings are three-dimensional masterpieces, each one unique. 

We wandered the rooms, swept away by the narrative of the audioguide and peering through glass at embroidered bees, royals depicted as goddesses, Murano glass game tables, and 20-foot cascades of cloth curtaining thrones and beds. When confronted with a lifestyle so foreign, we had to cling to the mundane details to make sense of what we were seeing. Josh felt a kinship with Napoleon over their shared love of baths. I was fascinated by the compact organization system used to transport Napoleon’s belongings during his travels. And yet even in these details there was luxury, as many everyday items were customized gifts from obsequious new subjects. It is hard to imagine such opulence today, although I guess there are still people who live in gold-plated apartments.

After touring the chateau, we took a lap around the gardens. 

They were quiet, with only one other tourist and a few swans to keep us company. Waterways and fountains stretched the length of the gardens, which brought out the inner rower in Josh.  

He quickly proposed the Fontainebleau Sprints Regatta, since he assessed one of the ponds as at least 1,000 meters in length. For those less interested in water sports, there are also carriage rides around the gardens, though I think they must only be offered in the summer.

Legs sufficiently stretched, we returned to the car for the end of our drive to Paris. Slowly but surely, monuments rose on the horizon, from the delicate outline of the Eiffel Tower to the sturdier stone of churches and museums. We settled into our new living quarters and headed out to satisfy my French onion soup craving. It was drizzling and dark, but the salty broth, caramelized onions, and oozing Gruyere did wonders for our spirits. It’s going to be a lovely week in Paris.

Spotted: Elaborate signs indicating which town you're passing (through).

Mist, Matisse, and Markets

In an effort to fully adjust to the time change, I arose early for a morning run. Since it was Sunday and not yet dawn, there were only two or three other runners on the paths along the river bank.  Mist rolled along the glassy surface of the water, infusing the air with a deep bone-chilling cold that lingered through the first mile of my run. The route reminded me of the paths along the Schuylkill River in Philadelphia, but wider and less trafficked. The colors of dawn spilled down the waterway, nature’s counter to the manmade lights festival of the night before. It was the kind of peaceful, beautiful morning that reminds you to be thankful.

We spent the rest of the morning at the Musee des Beaux Arts de Lyon, which had just opened a large Matisse exhibit. Similar to the Picasso museum in Barcelona (which I thoroughly enjoyed), this exhibit pulled together art from all stages of Matisse’s journey as an artist, including his early training in drawing and painting the human form. Some of his charcoals caught you off guard with the photograph-like level of detail and the honesty of the model’s expression. 

Josh noticed that many of the pieces were on loan from the Baltimore Museum of Art and Yale University Art Gallery (as well as the MoMA in NYC), which was a fun connection and made me wonder how many of the pieces I had seen before. We were surprised at how many were from the BMA because it is currently hosting an exhibit contrasting the work of Matisse with that of Diebenkorn, an artist who drew his inspiration from Matisse.

After the Matisse exhibit, we explored the rest of the museum’s collections, which includes an impressive array of Egyptian hieroglyphics, impressionist art from the collection of Jacqueline Delubac (a French actress), and an extensive coin collection. The majority of the other visitors seemed to be local, or at least from France. It was interesting to watch them admire and understand the art; many would assume the positions of the figures in a particular painting or sculpture to see what emotions it evoked.

Next, we walked to a large building that a marketplace of fish, bread, cheese, meat, candy/pastry, and other vendors. It reminded me of Boqueria Market on Las Ramblas in Barcelona, a place that was for chefs, residents, and tourists alike.  We were there around 2 pm and had to rush around before the market closed, so I suspect it opens early just like Boqueria. As we wandered between stalls, we had to squeeze through clusters of patrons hovering over platters of oysters and steamed crustaceans.

We made a beeline for the Mons cheese stall, where a lovely woman helped us to select cheeses, which she confided were aged to perfection in a special cave. We also bought some incredible fresh yogurt, crusty baguettes, and an enormous meringue from various other vendors. Everything you need for a well-rounded meal, right?

After a pit stop to unload our bounty, we went to work up an appetite. Climbing to the top of the nearby hill to see the Basilique Notre-Dame de Fourviere was no picnic; I went from shivering to shedding layers after only a few minutes. Up we went, climbing and winding to the jutting peak with views out over the city. However, the views inside the basilica were just as stunning. Every surface was beautiful, from the winding marble patterns on the floor to the carved columns and the blue-teal-aquamarine stained glass. The basilica is dedicated to the Virgin Mary for her salvation of the city of Lyon from the bubonic plague in the 1600s and a cholera epidemic in the 1800s. They were clearly VERY grateful. Josh and I wandered through the sanctuary and sat a while to listen to the evening service (possibly compline? Hard to tell with all the French).

Meandering back down, we stopped at the Saint Jean Baptiste Cathedral at the bottom of the hill.  While the outside is beautiful, the inside was underwhelming after the ornate basilica. We slipped out as quickly as we had come and hurried home to our hotel, ready to sample our seven different cheeses.

Spotted: Graffiti everywhere! A lot of buildings are simply tagged with names, but some is truly street art.  This one with penguins was my favorite, but I was also entertained by the audacity of a raunchier street artist who went by Ryan Gosling.

The Lights of Lyon

Oh, France. You’re even more beautiful than I remember.  Perhaps it is the winding country roads, the buildings that bear the gateways and stone facades of centuries past. Perhaps it is just being out of the city, at last.

From the airport, Josh and I drove about six hours to Lyon, which is in the south of France. Six hours was nearly twice as long as we thought it would take based on our previous internet map searches, but that was what our GPS indicated and we had no way of redirecting ourselves. We later learned that we had “Avoid tolls” checked; our GPS thought that saving a few euros was worth spending a few extra hours on the road. And while I was falling asleep mid-sentence as I tried to chat with Josh, we made it to Lyon safely and thoroughly in love with the pastoral beauty of rural France.

From a historical perspective, it is easy to see why Lyon flourished.  Two rivers (Rhone and Saone) converge, creating a pointy peninsula of land several miles long between them. 

If you look at one of the limited-view city maps, the central sliver of land almost looks like an island, a little Manhattan rubbing shoulders with two sturdier land masses. Bridges arch over the water every few blocks, injecting the central city with people, cars, and life. We arrived in the middle of joyful chaos on the last night of the annual lights festival. Our hotel was so close to the city – and festival – center that the nearby streets and parking garages were all closed overnight during the festivities.

Given the long drive and the early garage closure, we only had time for a quick nap before heading off to dinner.  That word – dinner – seems too ordinary to describe the experience, though. We had reserved a table at L’Auberge du Pont de Collonges – Paul Bocuse, a three Michelin star restaurant in Lyon.  This restaurant has had three stars since 1965 and the people of Lyon are quick to boast of it (although few seemed to have eaten there), yet it remains something of an open secret. Josh stumbled upon it while researching places to eat near our hotel.

We parked outside of the restaurant, a large building a few miles from the city center painted in bright colors, with a 20-foot mural of Paul Bocuse in a chef’s hat confidently smiling down on us. A man in a garish red and black uniform hustled to the door, determined that we would not open it for ourselves. The early arrivals were all seated together so that we would all be at the same stage of dinner throughout the night; many of the preparations were done in front of everyone. Josh and I confronted the menu, which had senior citizen-friendly font sizes, with determination. As we savored spoonfuls of our appetizer (pumpkin soup with ground star anise – incredible), we weighed our options. We decided that the prix fixe menu sounded like too much food for this particular evening and ordered entrees a la carte – rack of lamb for me and pigeon in a puff pastry for Josh. He figured it was his only chance to eat gussied-up rats with wings.

While we felt like we were “playing adult”, the patrons seated around us seemed much more at ease in their fancy surroundings. They sipped their wine with ease, ordered five courses, and munched happily through hours of conversation. Josh and I giggled, people-watched, and hummed throaty noises of delight with every bite. Salty crunchy skin, melting puff pastry, buttery vegetables yielding to the thrust of a fork - every bit was perfect. We sopped up the extra sauce (possibly the best part of the whole meal) with crusty bread that crackled when torn, showering our spotless table cloth with crumbs. After the bliss of the entrée came a sampler of tiny deserts, from a tart green apple macaron to a coconut-covered marshmallow and a tiny madeleine. Next, a table was pulled adjacent to ours and piled with platters of larger deserts. Ordering dessert meant ordering unlimited dessert, of which I took full advantage. I’m not sure they’d ever seen a small woman eat four dessert courses, but there’s a first time for everything. We ate apple upside down cake, soft meringue covered in spun sugar and doused in cream, a lemon and berry layered cake with fresh raspberries and sorbet, crème brulee, and then more sorbet to finish it off. I managed to cut myself off without trying the almond cake, “ambassadors”, chocolate mousse with gold flakes, rum-soaked cake, and a couple of others.

We drove back into the city center and walked to our hotel among the last gasps of the light festival revelry, halfway between a food coma and a sleepless euphoria. Thousands of people streamed around us, feasting on mulled wine and hot waffles with Nutella as the city continued to sparkle and glow. It was a perfect night to be young, in love, and in Lyon.

Spotted: Pollution. Josh and I had seen an article just before we left about the severe air pollution in France right now; it’s so bad that they are restricting who can drive on particular days and visibility is terrible along patches of the highway. Because of the pollution, our visibility was terrible on the drive to Lyon.  We did, however, see a nuclear plant at one point. Seeing all of the air pollution made it clear why they explored those other energy options.

A jail, a tale, a farewell - Ireland

This morning, Josh and I drove all the way across Ireland…. in a total of two hours.  The great part about driving this leg of the trip on a Sunday morning was that the only thing we had to slow down for was roundabouts.  Have I mentioned they have them everywhere?  They do.  By the hundreds.  They have every flavor of roundabout that I have yet seen across the world, from multi-lane ones a la Paris to ones with stop lights in the middle in the style of Washington D.C. (which defeats the purpose, right?).  Anyway, we arrived in Dublin with plenty of time to poke around.

We started our Dublin adventure at Kilmainham Gaol.  That last word is pronounced “jail” because, funnily enough, it was a jail for a century and a half.  

From 1799 until 1924, prisoners were housed in Kilmainham Gaol for a variety of offenses.  There were people who were deported via the jail (over 4,000 to Australia), people arrested for petty crimes, and a healthy dose of political prisoners (about 10% of the inmates most years).  

Interestingly, when it opened, the prison accepted both men and women, and women ended up in jail nearly as often as men did.  Until they stopped allowing women into the jail, over 40% of the inmates were women every year but one.  This has been attributed to the reduced economic opportunities for women, as well as the reduced marriage opportunities once all the healthy young lads fled Ireland after the Famine.  Ladies became ladies of the night because they couldn’t catch a break.  There was also a substantial rise in the number of inmates during the Famine, since the jail provided a shelter and at least a meager ration.  As George Bernard Shaw wrote, “If the prison does not underbid the slum in human misery, the slum will empty and the prison will fill.”  Guess what? He was right.  The final reason that occupancy increased was annual – the Donnybrook Fair, to be precise.  Drunken and disorderly behavior hit a peak each year during the horse fair and the jail got rowdy and full.  Ah, the Irish.  

Anyway, the Kilmainham Gaol is most famous for its political prisoners, most of whom were involved in Irish rebellions against the British Crown.  The tour of the jail focuses largely on these inmates and their stories.  In fact, after the jail was abandoned in the 1920s, it was a former inmate (he was actually imprisoned there twice) who officially commemorated the 50^th anniversary of its closure and reopened it to the public.  By that time, though, he had become the head of Ireland.  Definitely an interesting place to visit with a great tour.  Highly recommend!

Our next stop was another Dublin classic, Trinity College.

Though not as old as Dublin (founded 988 AD), Trinity College Dublin is still pretty darn old (founded 1592 AD).  Josh and I went on one of the student-led tours, which also included admission to the old library to see the Book of Kells.  Our student tour guide was HILARIOUS.  He described the boring naming of the squares, the numerous architectural mishaps over the years, the best and worst places to live on campus (only 800 of the 18,000 students can be housed on campus, but one of the buildings that you “luckily” get assigned requires running outside in your robe and queuing for the shower), and many other tidbits.  Josh and I were thrilled to see that they had a buttery, just like at Yale.

After the tour, we went to see the Book of Kells (no photography allowed) in the Old Library.

Fun fact: the books here are arranged not by author, title, or year of publication, but by size.  If you look at the shelves, you'll see they have different heights based on their contents.

Basically, the Book of Kells is a really, really old (approx. 9^th century) illuminated manuscript in Latin that covers the four gospels of the Bible.  Between the numerous typos and the gorgeous, detailed decorations, they’re pretty sure it was just for show and not for everyday use.  It is beautiful, though.  The lavish decorations are so detailed that scholars wonder if they used some sort of magnifying lens as they worked on it.  The book is named after its home at Kells, in the county Meath.  However, it has found its home in Dublin since 1653.  It was sent there for safekeeping, which was no surprise since the buildings of the monastery at Kells burned down every 5-10 years for several decades around the 1000s and were pillaged several times.  It’s a wonder they didn’t send it over sooner, although perhaps early Dublin was a rough town.  Regardless, the manuscript is beautiful and I’m glad that monks had seemingly endless patience in the 9^th century to do this kind of work.

Our plan was to head to the Christ Church Cathedral next, as it is just down the road from Trinity College.  

Alas, our arrival coincided with the 3:30 PM evensong and we were not allowed to enter. 

The final item on our agenda for the evening - and our trip to Ireland - was meeting up with two of my fellow students at a pub.  They have been traveling Ireland for two whole weeks and this was the one day that we overlapped.  Again, it was one of those evenings that stretched for hours until, at last, we had to head back to our hotel and grab some sleep.

(At least, that was the plan until we arrived at our hotel and found out that Sunday night is live music night at a spot right outside our window, so we will be up until at least midnight.  It's like the jetlag gods are trying to make us adjust.)

Until next time, Ireland.

Spotted:  Punny names!  Dublin establishments that have received the Jessica stamp of approval include Pitta Pan, Queen of Tarts, and Abra Kebabra.

Spotted #2: The 100th anniversary of the 1916 Easter Rising.  This was a major turning point in public opinion regarding the relationship of Ireland and Britain.  While the uprising didn't receive wide support, the perceived overreaction of the British in punishing those involved in the uprising helped the Irish people unite around independence.  We found out today that the Irish flag actually represents these dueling sentiments.  The green represents the revolutionaries who wanted to split from Britain, the orange represents those who wanted to stay loyal to the Crown, and the white represents the peaceful resolution of their differences.

Eyes on You

Although this hasn’t been a particularly museum-heavy trip, today Josh and I decided to get away from the cities and head out to Connemara National Park.  

The land for the park was gathered from a variety of initial owners, including the Kylemore Abbey (a very beautiful place we passed it on the way to the park) and the founder of the SPCA, Richard Martin.  The park apparently boasts some interesting history, including megalithic court tombs (4,000 years old), but we were just there for the hiking.  So, up and up we went.

Since I will not do the beauty of Connemara justice, here are some words from a more poetic author: “Then there are the grand bare mountains,… with caprices of sunlight playing about their solemn heads, and shinig into their purple depths; and below are waters untraceable and incalculable.” (Harriet Martineau, 1852)

 

A pair of local hikers who started just before us seemed to know all the best photo spots, so we just took their lead as to when to turn around and appreciate the view.  The rest of the time was spent watching our step on the slippery rock steps.  This was particularly true as we neared the top and the wind picked up.  At that point, the fog was so thick it was impossible to see anything beside the rock, anyway.  After summiting, we picked our way back down the slope with care, pausing to watch some sheep forge their own path up the mountain.

Speaking of sheep, they are EVERYWHERE in Ireland.  We haven’t seen a vegetable farm yet (though that may be a function of the season), but there are fields full of sheep, cattle, and horses everywhere we go.  Out by Connemara, the human population density is even lower than normal and the sheep apparently roam free.  It was not unusual to see one of them munching the ungrazed inch or two of grass alongside the edge of the road, which is a bit spooky on roads with no shoulder.  The Connemara sheep also had another distinct feature: they were painted.  They all had a slash of bright color on their shoulders or – most commonly – their fluffy butts.  

Blue and red were most common, but we also saw green and one rebel sheep rocking purple.  We weren’t sure whether these markers were for identification of one farmer’s sheep versus another’s, making them more visible to passing cars, or both, but the sheep looked rather ridiculous.

Morning hike complete, we drove to Ashford Castle, a five star hotel (probably would be a ten star hotel if that existed) with gorgeous grounds.  

While posh guests were led around on horses or ran their dogs along the river, we wandered through the gardens back to the School of Falconry.  There, we met our guide, Ed, and began the most interesting afternoon of our trip.  We had guessed that there would be four or five birds, but they actually had at least 20.  The majority were Harris Hawks, the only social birds of prey and therefore the only ones that will fly with strangers.  

While they looked big and puffy as they sat on their perches, they only weighed 1.5-2 pounds.  The school also had a Peruvian Harris Hawk (the others are North American) whose beautiful speckled pattern distinguished her.  There were also two falcons – one peregrine and one peregrine-saker hybrid (basically the labradoodle of birds, meant to combine the speed and bird hunting abilities of a peregrine with the ground hunting abilities of a saker).  Behind them sat a tiny little guy named Napoleon who is a Merlin.  And then for fun there were two owls, including one named Dingle (more about him later).  After we had learned about a million cool bird facts from Ed, we put on our gloves and took out two of the Harris Hawks, Sonora and one with a Gaelic name that sounded like Fomer.  The hawks would fly into the trees and then, when we raised our arms, back to our gloves.  

Harris hawks can maneuver incredibly well, so we would have them weave through tree branches and brush to get to us, and they had no trouble at all.  The birds had clear personalities, even after only an hour with them.  Sonora managed to find some mushrooms up in a tree, which apparently she finds delicious, and Ed had to produce increasingly exciting treats (beef chunk < chicken leg < chicken head < quail wing < whole quail) to bring her back.  Similarly, at the end, Fomer got full and made it clear that he would have to be bribed back down.  The negotiation was hilarious to watch.  Ed, with elaborate pageantry, would wave around a treat and ceremoniously put it in one of our gloved hands.  Fomer would waggle his tail, betraying his interest, then turn his head to the side to feign disinterest, the bird equivalent of walking away while haggling.  Eventually, the bribery proved too powerful and he swooped down to join us.  After the hawks, we had a chance to fly Dingle, the beautiful owl.  

He had these incredibly expressive eyebrows that were all the way down when he was focused and hungry and gradually raised up as he became full, like a natural content-o-meter.  We learned that having the owls was sort of just for fun, since they aren’t good hunting partners.  They won’t allow you to swap their catch for a treat, so you can’t take their prey and eat it yourself.  Still, flying Dingle was a definite highlight.  Because owl vision isn’t great (unlike the hawks, whose visual acuity is 8-10x that of humans), Ed had to wave a treat right in Dingle’s face, then wrap an arm around him and run away from us (which looked like kidnapping every time as Dingle’s enormous eyes stared back) to get far away from us before Dingle broke away.  

Dingle would fly low to the ground before swooping up to our gloves and gulping down his treat. 

Between flights, we would try to pet Dingle’s fluffy feet.  Because of his poor vision, though, he would try to strike everything on the off chance that it was food, so you had to be quick.

Tired after a long day, we made our way back to Galway to rest up for our final day in Ireland.

Spotted: Ewes!  We’re not sure why, but the ewes have appeared in the last couple of days.  We didn’t see any until today, but now they’re in nearly every field, wandering around on tiny fluffy legs next to their mothers.  They don’t look young enough to have just been born, so perhaps they were kept separately until the recent warm weather.

Spotted #2: Fire assembly points/disaster preparedness.  This seems to be a huge priority in Ireland for unclear reasons, but everywhere we go there are signs for assembly points. Probably a great idea, but not something that we’re used to.

A Wild Ride on the Happy Hooker

Today was the day when nothing seemed to go right.  First, poor Josh woke up in the middle of the night with apparent food poisoning, although we had shared every dish and I emerged unscathed.  Next, when we did a final email check before leaving for the day, we found out that the ferry company with whom we had booked a trip had decided not to start running ferries until next week, despite allowing us to make a reservation the night before.  As a result, we relaxed a bit before finally leaving for the Cliffs of Moher... only to arrive and find that all of the power to the surrounding region had been cut.  The one car park for several miles either direction could not let people out, and therefore they also would not let us in.  We were advised to visit a surrounding town or park in one of the towns and walk an hour and a half back to see the cliffs.  We proceeded on to Doolin, the next town over, to explore a bit.  (Note: We later found out that the power couldn’t be restored in a timely fashion, so they had to saw through the railing arm to let people out of the car park.)

Once in Doolin, a tiny town on the west coast of Ireland, we wound around admiring the beautiful coastline

 and found ourselves at the pier.  Our ferry – the one that was cancelled – had been scheduled to leave from Doolin, so we were surprised to find that another company was still running rides.  We hastily booked a trip leaving in 10 minutes and climbed aboard our ship, which was ridiculously named The Happy Hooker.  

The day was a bit overcast but otherwise warm and our boat was packed with excited American tourists.  Excited yelps filled the air as our boat began to pitch on the waves, with the craft rolling over 20 degrees in either direction.  Over the course of an hour, we made our way out to the first of the three Aran Islands, where we disembarked.  

The tiny island had a cluster of houses near the dock, ruins standing tall and regal on the hilltop, and stone walls everywhere.  The stone walls were a mystery.  

They were maybe 3 feet tall and were arranged illogically all over the island.  Every plot marked out was a different size, but usually no more than 15x20 feet.  There were no entrances to most of these plots, no breaks in the walls.  And there were no houses on over 80% of these plots.  The walls simply made an abstract checkerboard out of the island.  Puzzling over this, Josh and I wandered around the island, admiring the coastline views and the old ruins.  We tried to see sea lions, but apparently they agreed with the locals that March was no time to live on the island.  Houses, beaches, and everything else stood empty.  It seemed as though the half dozen tourists were nearly the only people on the island.  I can’t imagine how isolated this place must feel during the depths of winter and how it must have been a couple of hundred years ago.  On a cuter note, when we returned to the dock to catch our ferry back, we met another couple our age who had been followed around the entire island by a very cute, very friendly dog.  It was unclear if it was a stray or belonged to someone on the island (they let their dogs just roam), but it apparently toured the island with the couple.

Josh on his island throne.

Our ride back to the mainland was a bit less pleasant than the ride out.  It began to drizzle, so we went inside the ship to chat more with the other American couple.  Being in the center of the ship was a mistake – the lack of fresh air and the increasingly choppy water left Josh and I both terribly seasick.  As a result, we skipped the Cliffs of Moher cruise immediately afterward and instead waddled, a bit green, back to our car.  The roads to Galway were similarly unforgiving – one was called Corkscrew Way – and so we were both a bit relieved to reach our hotel and lie down.

Luckily, we fully recovered by dinner, when we met up with Josh’s coworker and his girlfriend.  We headed to The King’s Head, the oldest pub in Ireland, for dinner and hours of good conversation.  In fact, there was so much good conversation that after dinner we wandered the city and then continued the evening at a local pub.  Nearly five hours after we met up, we finally parted ways for bed.  Galway is that type of place, though – a place to linger and laugh.

Spotted: Josh has a techno remix of Phantom of the Opera on his phone that he unabashedly loves.  I might have to marry him if I ever stop laughing.