III.viii. Dublinees

"Och, Dublin City, there is no doubtin’,
Bates every city upon the say;
‘Tis there you’ll see O’Connell spoutin’,
An’ Lady Morgan makin’ tay;
For ‘tis the capital of the finest nation,
Wid charmin’ pisintry on a fruitful sod,
Fightin’ like divils for conciliation
An’ hatin’ each other for the love of God."
- Charles James Lever

Diwali, the Hindu festival of lights, coupled with Guy Fawkes day, a dead Scotsman's wake, were erupting together fortuitously all over southern England as I looked out the window of the Aer Lingus jet. East Anglia was spread out before me like a sparkling jewel, with fireworks erupting in every town along the coast from Eastbourne to Dover, and in the Thames estuary from Canterbury to Colchester. The Indian families that add variety to a stodgy nation and give some hope for the future of English cuisine were celebrating their Victoria Day, while the Scots who weren't quite prepared to jump the Island but moved south all the same were enjoying theirs. London itself was a giant, glowing mass, with spectacular carnation shaped eruptions all along The Mall, clearly visible against the patchwork of parks scattered throughout the city. These lights, which to me were nothing more than distractions on a short haul flight, represent the pyre of the tartan poet on the one hand and the god Ram's return from on the other. Despite this grand significance, these exotic implantations onto Britton soil, from thirty thousand feet at ten thirty Greenwich Mean Time, it all looked so small. The whole south of England stood out like the shimmering gold brocade of a sitter in one of Titian's black-backgrounded portraits. There was so little pure darkness, except of course for the channel in the distance. There was so little dark nature or wilderness, only a surfeit of lights and erupting fireworks. This was the surface of England, looking as though it were painted onto the very curvature of the earth. It wasn't so much an island as a phosphorous flare drowning in the night sky.
    But I was heading towards another Island altogether that dark November night. I was going to Ireland, to Dublin, to wish my brother Alex well on his graduation from Trinity College. There I was to rendezvous with Alex and my mother, both of whom I hadn't seen in two months. Unfortunately, my father wasn't able to make it to Ireland this time, being caught up with work in Toronto.
    Less than an hour after getting off the plane I was in the warm, welcoming family home of one of my brother's closest Irish friends, enjoying a variety of home made puddings, cakes, and crumbles. I had never felt such an immediate embrace so soon after arriving in a country. The chaos of Bologna and the quiet of Pistoia from yesterday's excursion seemed a world away. I was on the other side of Europe now.
    The short three days I spent in Dublin were a wonderful escape, though they passed quickly. I had been to the city twice before, and knew it quite well, so I didn't feel the inadequacy and apprehensiveness that goes with setting foot in a large, bustling city for the first time. Alex's graduation was a monumental affair, conducted entirely in Latin in the heart of one of the English-speaking world's most storied universities. He had finished his first degree here June past, and was returning, cloaked in a black gown that reminded me of the rituals at my own Trinity College, to be awarded his degree.
    And so, as quickly as it had arrived, my last incursion into Ireland for the foreseeable future came to an end. Before I knew it, I was back in Bologna. I was alone again, but my brother would be coming to visit in just a few short days, and the whole family would be together for Christmas, barely one month away. With Dublin come and gone, the beginning of my year abroad was on the wane.


A nighttime view of London from the plane, illuminated by the lights of Diwali and Guy Fawkes day


Alex and I in Front Square of Trinity College, Dublin


Alex with his well-earned diploma


Alex and his friends Rossa, Trish, and Anthony along with me and mom, at Wagamama, a communist chic culinary hot spot in Dublin (one of many)