RETURNING TO DUBLIN

I had expressed some anxiety about making the changes between the train station and getting to the hotel we had booked near the Dublin Airport. I'd mentioned taking the bus (saving money of course). When Andrew came down for breakfast Friday morning, he was quite solemn and gently warned me I might not like what he had to say. This was out of character, and I awaited his concerns with an open heart. He said he was worried about our transfer from train to hotel, and had decided to ride with us to Dublin to help us, and then he'd return on the train later in the day. "I'll have to insist." We were incredibly touched at his protectiveness, and I instantly said we would get a taxi, that we did have the money to do so, and he mustn't worry.

We had a leisurely breakfast since our bags were ready, and enjoyed the bright dining room and variety of choices. Again I had a boxty, vowing to make some for our freezer so I can pop them into the griddle for a breakfast treat. The coffee was excellent. We ate well, then walked over to the grocery store for sandwiches to take with us. Walking down to the canal that crosses under the main street, I wondered about the history of our Erie Canal, which crossed under Main Street in Fairport, NY, one of my home towns. I promised myself to look it up.

Robert arrived to say good bye. Home care was at the house with Sarah, who sent her apologies to us that she was sleeping when we left. We talked to her briefly by phone. I so treasure her strength in a  harsh farm life, getting water from the neighbors every day for several years, withstanding some harsh winters, doing endless laundry, and keeping the family fed on potatoes, eggs, beef, pork, chicken, and her brown soda bread which she sold in the village, and what vegetables would grow in the poor Leitrim soil. The family went to Northern Ireland to shop on Sundays, surely an adventure well earned. Rural electricity came to Ireland in the 60's, and to Leitrim in the 70's.

A common greeting in Irish is "God to you." The response is "God and Mary to you." The farewell is "Sloan leat," which translates "Goodbye and be safe." These were the words we carried in our hearts bidding goodbye to Andrew. Our consolation was the amazing communication systems available now, and his pledge to get Skype!

We made the transition to the hotel easily, settled, and went to the dining room for supper. We toasted each other and all our friends for the grand adventure it had been, sitting in a transition point between leaving and going. We had left the U.S. during New Moon, and now the full moon hung over Dublin outside our window.

We set our alarms (and the "wake up call" from the hotel) for 2 AM, and slept quickly and soundly.

3000 EGG CUPS

All credit to dear Andrew who had an activity lined up every day. On our last full day I gazed down the roads and village trying to imprint them firmly in my mind. Amazingly, the weather continued to be mild, very little rain, and very comfortable. We walked to the phone store after breakfast to change my SIM card back to Montana, in case Delta, or Expedia needed to contact me with flight changes. Learned how to do it myself! No charge!

A short drive led to a privately-owned museum, with astounding collections of "vanishing Ireland." Set up in small alcoves, we enjoyed the pub, the pharmacy (complete with a pharmacist mannikan), the blacksmith shop, the shoe shop, the grocers, and hundreds of other items. Our guide had a wonderful sense of humor, and a wide range of information. I loved the old herbal medicines of course, many I have used. The surgical tools might have come from an auto shop, and the number of liniments approached thirty! In the shoeshop, the best tool was a scissor-like device with a circle on one "blade" and a ball on the other that fit neatly into each other. The cobbler would get the shoe leather soaked with water, place the ring on one side, and the ball on the other, squeeze them together and leave them for the night. Viola! The next morning the customer's bunion was accommodated! We spent two hours there, standing on concrete listening and gazing, resonating with an old world now gone.

But before leaving, la piece de resistance! The largest eggcup collection in the world! A small room off the main museum lined with glass cases displayed unimaginable egg cups from zebras to flowers, to houses, to vehicles...on and on. Apparently a woman had collected them her whole lifetime (2000) and then her brother started collecting them (1000). When they died the family searched for a placement, no longer interested in housing them. And this museum owner was delighted, even building the extra room just for them.

After a lunch with the world's most cheerful waitress, we drove out to the farm. Sarah had invited us for dinner, but we ate late to avoid Robert or her making a dinner. Understand the house is quite small. In fact, only three could eat at the table at one time, the other two watching carefully, and awaiting their turn.

I could not resist Bonnie, who made the whole world happy and carefree! We romped around, and she thoroughly covered my crocks with Irish soil, which remains on them even now, two weeks later. I refuse to wash them. Robert is training her to settle (!), talking to her in an undertone. She sits behind him in the cab of the tractor with her paws on his shoulders, eager for whatever adventure awaits. She is very fortunate to have him in her life, and his life of work, and caretaking, is blessed by her companionship.

"Dinner" was a must, Sarah insisted, and we dined again on ham, potato salad and the delicious brown Irish soda bread that was sliceable and hearty. Smeared in butter and graced with Andrew's banana lemon jam, we indulged while sipping our tea. I imagined the dinners with Har, Sarah and the three children, and Robert confirmed that even the holidays found just three at the table at a time.

That night Robert brought out the Jameson Whiskey, although Sarah had a little glass of Baileys. It was too hot for me straight up, but a splash of 7-up did the trick. We stayed late, sang songs from the Dances until Robert asked for Country Western. We did an abysmal job of coming up with them, although Brian has a good repertoire with his guitar. (We'd tried several guitars, but they were too out of tune, or missing strings.) If we'd stayed for Saturday night's event at the pub, we could have heard Ciaran Rosney's tribute to Glen Campbell, a fellow Robert supports in his up and coming career. But no, the flights were set. We said our goodbyes to Sarah, who was sleeping soundly in her chair.

BALLINAMORE

Awakening in Ballinamore, the ears reach out to the crows fussing at each other in the tall trees. We were 1/2 block from the main street, where cars are precariously parked randomly on both sides. Brian never remembered that he could sit on the left side of the car in the front passenger seat, and I had to remember frequently that Andrew was in the proper place on the right side. Most of the cars are smaller than U.S., but the trucks, and even logging trucks share the road. Sometimes I just closed my eyes when approached by a huge vehicle! Andrew figured out in U.S. $, Irish gas is currently about $7/gallon, although they buy liters. But their cars get far better mileage than ours.

At breakfast I had my first boxty. This is a very flat pancake (no leavening), made with mashed potatoes, grated raw potato, and flour. There are various brands apparently, some dumpling style, which I didn't get to try. Potatoes were present at all meals in restaurants, and you're likely to get fries and mashed potatoes with an entrée. Boxty's were tasty, so Andrew will send the recipe. Earlier in his life he worked on the industrial side of the food industry in quality control and safety. I spent 12 years as a cook and sous chef, so we had a lot in common.

We had a good walk checking out the town, and hearing stories from Andrew about its history. He and Robert grew up here. We stopped at one store, a "must see" Andrew said, that was absolutely packed with household items in no order whatsoever. But when customers came and asked, the owners knew right where things were. Then came the conversation about Andrew's family, and their family, and various others we didn't know, including where they live now, and who's healthy and who isn't. They were knitting the undergarment of community all over again. This ritual was repeated at every meeting of Andrew with the townspeople. It was a belonging reminder, and also a way to check on what one had heard from other sources.

We met Robert and Sarah for dinner, then drove to the church where Sarah and Har (Brian's birth father) were married, and where Har is buried. Sarah had had Robert come into town earlier in the day to buy plants to plant on the grave. They were cyclamen, which is a houseplant at home, but along with azaleas, can live year round outside here. The little church was very sweet, a refuge for hundreds through the years; it has an active congregation to this day. The basement housed the local school at one time, both Andrew and Robert remembered.

Back at the farm, we took a leisurely walk down the lanes in our Wellington boots (ditch boots) Andrew purchased for us, noting how dandelion looks slightly different, and excited to see lots of nettle. (It was used like rennet is now in past times, and for early mild greens.) Robert's dog, Bonnie, and I romped and chased while he did chores. He is the local inseminator for the small cattle herds that grace the pastures. So when he gets called, he goes for an hour or two in his Wellies! Another quiet evening with Sarah at the stove. She made a gift of a scarf for me, and we talked a bit. Then she began nodding off, then smoking, or drinking tea or coffee. Just as we were to leave, Robert offered Sarah and I some Baileys, and Brian a Guinness. This lead to some jokes about the U.S. political situation, and about the condition (or lack thereof) of Brexit. We all noted how Boris Johnson and D. Trump looked similar, and wondered at alien influences!

Welcomed by the fire, offered sweets and tea, joking, sharing, the weaving of family stories and passing of information, all of this brought a peacefulness to the evening as we started back to the BnB. My enchantment with our journey was deepening, and sleep came easily to us both.

OLD AND NEW

Sept 11, 2019: We travelled north yesterday from Roscrea to Ballinamore, a drive between the endless hedges and bushes, broken by a sudden field in the enchanting green we all associate with Ireland. I've decided it's the shade of green that is achieved in Montana when the pastures are fully alive after winter, for that brief time before they are to their fruition and begin to dry. It's not a new shade to me, but absorbing it every day, everywhere I look builds my red blood cells, and I hope I'm storing it up for our winter!

On the way we stopped at the Rock of Cashel, an imposing structure overlooking the town of Cashel and miles of surrounding land, rolling green in uneven shapes bounded by bushes and rock walls. As a center of power it dates back to the 4th and 5th centuries, and it was visited by St. Patrick. In 1101 the then King of Cashel gave the fortress to the Church, for solid political reasons, so the main building forms a cross, constructed in the 13th century. The roof is gone now, and I found my mind again mulling over the perseverance of the church, and it's parishioners (workmen) to dig and shape rock, build walls thirty feet high, and achieve balance and protection, with tools made by hand. That was the sacred awareness that flowed over me as we moved through the space, and walked among the graves outside.

After settling into Hamill's BnB, built to be a BnB by a family that had previously owned the shoe store where Andrew and his siblings bought their shoes once a year or so. Unlike BnB's in the U.S., the ones we stayed in were spotless with multiple rooms (up to twenty), towels were changed daily, and the morning meal was huge, generally with the owner being the cook.

Finally it was time to drive to the farm, to meet Brian's other half brother, Robert, and Andrew and Robert's mother, Sarah, who had just celebrated her 91st birthday. The  farmhouse is not unlike many we've seen, except for the flowers Robert has planted which were a cheerful greeting: hydrangea bushes in full pink bloom, rocket, a wild rose...I'll share the pictures as soon as I can. This is the land that Brian's father, Har, came to from Roscrea, a farm that was in Sarah's family. It was tough going because the soil holds water, you can't dig in it to plant, and it took a few years, lean years I'm sure, for them to manage that. Now there are cattle, blackberries, fireweed, tall trees, and an energetic 9-month old brown border collie named Bonnie (of course).

Sarah's eyes still sparkle between dozing sessions in her chair by the cook stove fueled by peat bricks, and "sticks" (logs). She listens and understands what's going on, and very occasionally lights up a cigarette under her sons' watchful eyes. She had gone to sleep in her clothes, and become tangled up in her brassier the previous night. I waited a bit and took a risk: "Sarah, brassieres are the work of the devil!" She made resounding agreement, chuckling "I know!" We also agreed ironing boards are in the same category! It was a quiet visit, since Sarah doesn't hear well, and Robert is a man of few words. But it was a lovely start and we felt welcomed into the fold

. We all agreed to lunch the next day in town.

WANDERING AMONG THE ROOTS

Sept 9, 2019:  Yesterday was a traveling day and we bid goodbye to the folks at the hostel, to the lumpy bed, and the chaotic kitchen. They'd had a good run at an eco-conscious hostel in the old mill with beds for twenty, recycling, a garden, and the folks that arrived were mostly young and enthusiastic and unattached to a work world. But the manager told me it would close down in November; the owners want to make it into apartments (a HUGE and expensive remodeling project) to have steadier income and less wages to pay out,

Our next residence, in Roscrea, the Slidala Inn, where we are now, is incredibly clean. The owner, Marie, has maintained it for 23 years with sleeping for seven. She does the cooking, visits with everyone who wants to visit, and she and Andrew exchanged family/clan information for quite awhile. When older Irish come together they check in about who's related to whom, who's died, and where are the cousins. This can go on for quite awhile. I recorded two men today for a bit, a momento I will treasure. The cadence of the language is working in my brain; I can hear the soft vowels and the rhythms. I feel it creeping into my writing and I'm ok with it! Marie met us when we came in tonight to ask about our day, to let us know she'd turned the heat on in our rooms, and her voice was like a lullaby to me.

Brian sleeps with a huge sigh now and then. I wish I could post the picture I took of him at his birth mother's grave. She rests beside the church she was married in, and her daughter was married in with only a few dozen other graves overlooking the green fields. Some gravestones are so old there is little to be deciphered on them. Others had been re-etched and easily read. She is there in the family plot only a few yards from her parents' graves. The skies cleared, and the wind was crisp as we wandered around the church, which had been a mill until 1842. Brian was quiet, and a little tearful. The pictures will be incredibly helpful for both of us to remember this day.

The roads aren't straight, and there are no road signs. But we carried on, between the hedges, following a cousin who hadn't been back to this territory for forty years. At the end of a long lane we found an old farmer, and explored the abandoned house that Andrew's ancestors bought, built and lived in since the 1600's. There are a couple of poems about it in me, about impermanence, and the ever permanent land, but they'll have to age, like good cheese, before they're ready for writing.

This day would be the central germ of an Irish novel, but one that I can't write. I don't know the families, or the hardships, or the history. But hearing the bits and pieces of two old men catching up, I treasured the sheer grit it took to live from day to day, to raise eleven children in a three room house, to face the sure knowledge that your older brother would inherit the land, and you were going to be homeless, and landless for the first time in your life, to nurse a man whose hip was broken through a storm too horrible to travel in, then carry him to the ambulance which won't come up the lane because it would surely get stuck. And though the stories were not about women, we know they were cooking, laundering nurturing, and praying as hard as their men folk for a good crop, for strong calves and for healthy children.

We stood at the swing gate to see a very long brown patch almost over the hill. Nothing grew on it. That was the bog the family had used for centuries to heat their home. Cut it, dry it all summer, burn it. It renews itself, and it burns clean. It's still used, though corporations have bought up some, and sell it now. The time's they are achangin'.

BLINDED BY THE SUN

In a new setting, white walls and bedspreads, sitting cross legged on the bed by the window, the sun breaks through and it feels like a spotlight! Brian shaves, and I hear little expletives coming from the bathroom because he has cut himself a tiny bit!

Yesterday was a travelling day, from Skibbereen back to Cork and north to Roscrea, which I've pronounced inaccurately so long that I truly need to double think before saying it now. All the roads have bushes on either side, allowing glimpses of the countryside only now and then. It is green everywhere, and remains so all winter. Begonias grow wild, little red blossoms hanging like grapes. The rose hips measure nearly an inch in diameter. Yesterday I saw gladiolas. They survive all year round as well. The cows are plentiful since family dairies are the source of milk and all its delicious by-products, and they eat grass year round, making for rich cream and yoghurt!

Saturday we spent the afternoon at Andrew and Fiona's, a day of relaxation, a delicious shepherd's pie, a little laundry taken care of, getting to know each other. We took a walk after supper down to the sea (I don't hear "ocean" at all), to a lovely inlet with a long island, and several smaller ones. Had we brought binoculars, we might have spotted the sea lions on another, larger island, but we heard them now and then. The Atlantic, strangely calm and inviting, lapped a beach of small flat rocks, maybe shale that has been tossed through the years. Of course there was skimming rocks, initiated by Brian, and later just sitting together on the soft, grass upon grass, hillside in the silence broken by seagulls. Sitting together, absorbing nature, we felt such gratitude for these two souls who love silence, and nature, and each other. Andrew's inquiry on Ancestry was a cause for this trip, but we also enjoyed that Fiona's advert in a "singles" column initiated their relationship, which needed to manifest before we could all be sitting by the sea.

The sun is blinding me again, after being obscured by ever-present clouds as I wrote. It is the love shining through that I am celebrating. Through the years, through generations, we humans love each other, and truly that is the cause of it all.

WAITING IS…

Stranger in a Strange Land, by Robert Heinline, brought this concept to light in the seventies. In my twenties, I read with fascination how Michael Valentine Smith “grokked” (or internalized new information) in the bottom of a swimming pool, and developed his life as a half-alien on the planet. Yesterday encapsulated that as Brian and I waited for a taxi, waited for a bus (standing outside the immigration office), waited to spot Brian’s half brother and his wife, and even before bed, waited to use the kitchen sink to wash recyclables!

We are in a very old building, Russagh Mill, roughly near the coast of West Cork. The silence prevails, broken by a few cars whizzing by now and then. The outer walls, thick with stone and mortor, and cool to the touch, feel protective. Last night we met folks from Italy, Switzerland, France, Equador (a yogini, insert clapping hands here), Belfast and England. We haven’t met the black Labrador that came in late with a woman from Germany. My first hostel, with a communal, well appointed kitchen, complete with the “king’s table” which seats 20, measures two inches thick, where the staff of five dined on a curry last night.  Their ages ranged from 22 to 76.

Brian “groks” beside me, sleeping soundly. We will spend the day with Andrew and Fiona, who had an equally tiring day yesterday finding us, and then driving through thick (like double cream, or curdled cream) traffic from Cork to our accommodations. The management happily changed the bedroom we were assigned, when I said the shared rest room that was down a little flight of stairs and in a sort of cubby, might be difficult for Brian. We are in the “Castle Room,” interesting especially because in Dublin we stayed in the Temple Cottages. The walls are white, and my reluctant-painter-self appreciates the difficulty of painting over rock as thoroughly as this.

Brian immediately went to the very out of tune piano and started playing when we arrived, in spite of being exhausted and a tad short on protein. I wonder if we’ll play ping pong on the new table, or pool, or explore the gardens? The point is that waiting isn’t a passive state, but one active with continual learning and appreciating. Waiting mindfully would be the current phrase. The journey brings endless opportunities to develop this skill!

THE SOUND OF GLASS

I just now heard what is a familiar sound here in the Dublin Lower Dominik neighborhood. Peering out the (3rd story) window I see a fellow kicking glass from his front stoop. It's all brick, cement, and cobblestones here. I could have told him how the glass ended up there, as I was watching off and on last night as two gents got drunker and drunker sitting on the stoop, ignoring a light rain that passed through, and arguing, talking and smoking into the wee hours of the night. I first saw them close to having an altercation outside the pub across the street, but then they settled down to do some serious drinking, and breaking bottles now and then. I've heard breaking glass every day so far, once some construction guys in a cherry picker must have broken a big window; it was an astonishing noise.

Speaking of glass, we saw incredible stained glass yesterday in St. Stephens, a short walk from here. Astonishing colors, and sacred atmosphere within the church, especially as a few parishoners (sp?) chanted raggedly in the pews. Another short walk brought us to the glaring mall (of the grocery store yesterday), and directions to find a 3-prong adapter for my laptop. We went from the lower working class neighborhood where we have lived, to the most posh department store I've seen in years in two blocks.

Another walk, this time along the crowded area of O'Connell Street, took us over theRiver Liffey (pictures to come) to Trinity College, home of the Book of Kells. The freshman were returning, so what is normally a busy tourist stop was really bustling with young people reuniting after a summer, or entering with their parents. Seventeen thousand students attend the school (commissioned in 1540, by a queen, for men only), with housing for 800. My father was an engineer, and Brian has an eye for buildings too of course, so we greedily gazed for an hour or so at the intricate hand work the old buildings display. Our very astute guide informed us that the first building wasn't completed until 1700-something, because the 1600's boasted pillaging, disease and famine, "and were sort of a wash out for civil improvements." The Book of Kells, it turns out, is incomplete (some pages ending in the middle of a sentence, so the new page could have an ornamental first letter), has numerous errors, and was executed primarily by teenaged boys, because their eye sight could withstand the long hours in low light.

On the way home I spotted the Oval Bar, in a building that of course was quite old, and in we went. Our table was on the second floor, served by a young woman from Ottawa, and blessedly we were the only ones in the small dining room, with a view of the throngs marching along O'Connell. Grand food! Prices cheaper than U.S., even with the exchange! Brian had Irish Stew, I had beef stroganoff, and salad, and we shared a Baileys Cheesecake (with a scoop of ice cream). We shared a Guinness, but it's hard to toast with one glass, so the clink of our water glasses toasted another amazing day among folks from so many countries living beside River Liffey, and the Irish Sea.

NATURE AND NURTURE

9/4/19:  Sounds of an awakening city, so peculiar to my Montana ears, seeped into my consciousness: a tram humming by every few minutes, pedestrians voices, construction sounds, and seagulls. "Our" neighborhood is packed with life. Brian slept 14 hours, and slowly roused to my gentle encouragement. After coffee here, and leftovers from the airline food, we finally wandered out for lunch at Jay's, a charming bistro a half block away where a "diversity" flag and lovely local art work graced the walls. We promised to return today too, since Colm, the only employee, took us under his wing with such good humor.

He makes rice crispy bars with candy bars instead of marshmallows, and fudge frosting. We didn't partake of that treat, but the soup, and hummus with avocado sandwich were full of rich tastes and so grounding! He then proceeded to help us figure out our next leg to Cork. I had imagined taking the train, but he suggested the bus, which saved us $50, and proceeded to help us with the digital reservation system, and locating the bus station we will need to be at tomorrow. His monologues through customers and our needs were hilarious, including how he got a hole in his glasses (from a dog who chewed them) and a fake heavy Irish brogue when he teased us about being from the U.S.

A lone customer had wandered in for coffee, an older gentleman who read his paper quietly in the corner. But as we shared with Colm, he became increasingly interested, and finally said he had worked at the orphanage Brian was born at, Bethany House! He said he was one of only three men who were allowed in: the plumber, the electrician (himself), and the handyman for repairs. He looked at Brian as if he was a miracle, having escaped the home, and now returning. He knew about the reparations being sought for Protestant children's homes, and when I said how fortunate Brian had been, he became very grave and said, "Oh yes, so fortunate," shaking his head slightly at the memories. Had I written a short story about our morning I never could have dreamed up this lovely fellow to connect Brian to his roots. We walked up to our bus stop full of the wonder of it.

We spent the afternoon at the Botanical Gardens, a free, large park with beds of plantings by flower family, so one can appreciate the diversity of the plant queendom even within it's clans. Most impressive, there were HUGE old greenhouses, tropical paradises of orchids, palm trees, cactus from Madagascar...an amazing collection of greenery! The peace of the gardens brought us into balance, and the last hour we spent on a bench watching children play and converse in Russian, the mothers close by with their trams and gossip.

A lovely woman from France whom we met at the bus stop confirmed that Ireland's inflation rate is similar to ours. She said the minimum wage wouldn't afford someone an apartment, so one always had roommates, and young people stayed on with their families. She helped us spot where we needed to get off the bus, instead of riding clear over to the Dublin harbor!

I have never eaten in a Burger King, but that was our venue last night, truth be told. It reminded me of ghetto fast food places, with uncleared tables, disobedient children and disinterested servers. Then on to our first grocery store, where I watched a homeless man stuff goods in his shirt before going to the cash register. His face had been bruised, and his furtive looks betrayed his fear, but he wasn't apprehended. The food prices were much cheaper than U.S., even taking in the exchange rate.

Of course it was raining as we walked about 8 blocks to our apartment, and of course the custard treat we'd purchased slipped through the paper sack and splattered on the sidewalk. So our garbage was left on the sidewalk, along with others'. We walked by a tenement that I didn't want to believe still housed families. I had convinced myself it was abandoned, but no, someone came out a door and glancing in, it was filthy and dark. Women smoked and talked on the "balconies" of the second and third floors.

Since I am the navigator on our adventures, and have already made a few mistakes, I do feel nurtured by these strangers that appear, and lovingly offer their guidance. Brian and I talked over what our options were, and both agreed the gardens sounded enchanted. Thanks to Colm, we didn't start walking there, which would have taken hours. Thanks to probably half a dozen strangers we got home safely with a memory of orchids and banana trees.

HUMBLED ON THE STREETS

9/3/19: Bursting from the airport onto the street my first sensation was the smell of the sea. The triumph of having made it, after so many months of planning, rose in my heart. We stood there taking it all in, busses, pedestrians, taxis, all the ecoutrements of airport life. Wearing our back packs, and steering our suitcases (1 each), we found the seller of bus passes. I thrust my stapled bundle of papers to her which showed our first BnB. She cheerfully identified how to go about finding it, circling the bus number and stop. Then, as we waited for the bus into Dublin, I looked for my bundle of info on the BnB, but it wasn't there. I returned to her twice, hoping I'd left it on her little desk, and searched every pocket and section of our luggage, but no, it was gone. No address for our first night's stay (and two more nights).

There began our dawning awareness that though we were apparently homeless, everyone wanted to help! On the bus a young man from Germany used his phone to look on line at booking.com, where I thought I'd made the reservation. No luck. (It was his first day in Dublin too, a student of tourism, he was headed to his new student housing.)We deboarded the bus at O'Connell Street, THE center of Dublin with more rivers of humanity teeming the sidewalk. Only after we charged up my phone, and purchased a new SIM card was I able to reach Autumn, to check-in, who innocently asked "would the address be on the itinerary you gave me?" I doubted that, but later found my copy, and there was the address!

I knew the owner of the apartment had emailed me about where the key was. I looked in the parking lot, remembering that had something to do with it, and an older gentleman, who was pulling up weeds, took on our plight. Of course by then it was raining, and he kindly let us wait in the lobby of the building while he went in search of the owner's phone number. In the lobby we met two young gentlemen who lived there, and one helped me locate on my phone that it was airbnb, not booking.com where I'd made the reservation. Eventually we found the email, the location and code of the key box, and FINALLY (6 hours later) we unlocked the door to our little apartment in Dublin!

Fortunately there is a little pub across the street. Neither of us had slept much, of course, but Brian appeared quite restless. So we walked the neighborhood for a bit, then had our first Guinness at the pub, which was populated by older men, arguing and laughing at the other end of the bar. That did the trick. Both of us slept so soundly, and Brian is still sleeping as I write, at 9:30 AM. The beer was delicious, and that's coming from someone who is just learning to like beer!

Our apartment is very thoughtfully furnished with art deco items. The trolleys go by every half-hour or so, with a polite little bell to warn pedestrians. The owner checked in and told me how to operate the water system, which is different. The shower was heaven.

Brian has done far better than expected, on the plane, and on the streets. The only tendency was getting distracted and marching off in the wrong direction a few times. Today is a new adventure with a few tasks to accomplish, and much to see, with a home to return to!

THE WAITING GAME

September 2, 2019: Beautiful humanity flows in front of us as we sit in the Minneapolis Airport, for six hours. The costumes are endless, manifestations of values, financial status, age, and race. I'm so glad Brian and I love humanity, and we agreed this is better than watching TV.

We've seen more Muslims in a few hours than in the last years in Montana. The women declare themselves in their headscarves and humility. I honor their courage to wear their values. I have yet to quietly say "Asalam aleikum" (Peace be upon you, in Arabic) but our eyes meet in a space of openness. Also this silent kindness extended to the mothers with too many children, and an encouraging word or two.

Brian takes such delight in the little ones. He chuckles, and sometimes we make up a child's monologue of delight as they break free from their elders and run ahead. Thousands of fascinating stories parade here, unique sagas of tragedy and comedy.

We watched excitedly as Ireland flowed under us as we flew across to land in Dublin. Tears welled up for both of us. Brian's homeland, at last. The next waiting was before immigration, where several hundred of us wove back and forth between ribboned lanes for two hours, catching glances from a person here and there we'd already, somehow, connected with. The immigration officer offered smiles and a chuckle, catching that Brian was born here. "Welcome Home, it's about time!"

Then on to the confusion, waiting over, to the streets of Dublin.