Views of Dublin

The Spire of Dublin, the world's tallest sculpture, was commissioned to celebrate the millenium, but wasn't unveiled until 2003. It is also known by local Dubliners as the 'Spike,' the 'Spire in the Mire' (referring to O'Connell Street's unsavoury reputation), the 'Stiffy by the Liffey' (it is within sight of the River Liffey), and the 'Nail in the Pale' (the 'English Pale' was a 20 mile area around Dublin that the English fortified to keep out Gael incursions), among many others.

This street performer is at it every day in Temple Bar, a trendy area of Dublin frequented mostly by European tourists and an absurd amount of people getting trashed in Dublin with their closest friends before they get married.

A footbridge over the River Liffey leading from Temple to the north side of the city. Even today the river demarcates the poorer districts of the city from the wealthier.


With the River Liffey in the foreground, we can see the monument to Daniel O'Connell at the head of O'Connell Street in central Dublin. O'Connell was an early 19th century nationalist who championed non-violent resistance to Engligh occupation. He is known as the 'Liberator' or the 'Emancipator'.

Goodbye Ireland

I wouldn't say I went out with a bang, but I did have a splendid day out in the Irish sun along the coast north of Dublin. The sweet smell of the Irish Sea gently embraced me as I walked around a few small towns in the area. I always forget how seducing the salt-water smell can be, until I find myself within its spell.

My time in Ireland is coming to an end. The conference on the weekend was a great experience, one I will no doubt remember fondly. The rest of my time has been relatively uneventful. My friends in London were right, I chose perhaps the only city in Europe that is more expensive than London. The verdict is out on whether this is true or not, but I have continuously been both amazed and dismayed by the Celtic Tiger. This is not exactly the Dublin I thought I was visiting. My Irish highlight was visiting the countryside last week, and again today. Interestingly, the crashing waves of the Irish Sea reminded me of the lilting green valleys out in County Meath. Seeing both shining in the sunlight was a treasure.

County Meath, north of Dublin

It was a lovely, sunny day today in Ireland. I took a trip to the County Meath, north of Dublin, to visit the NewGrange passage tomb, a 3,400 year old neolithic tomb in the countryside. It was a great day, I learned lots about the history of Ireland, from the Celts to the Vikings to the Anglo-Normans, all very richly embodied in this sweet little county.

The NewGrange Passage Tomb, a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Archealogists believe it took anywhere from 5-50 years to build. It housed the ashes of only the most important leaders of those people living in Ireland at the time. It was discovered by a local farmer in 1699, and restored from 1962-75. Just above the entrance there is a roofbox that lets the sun in on the winter solstice, the only time the passageway and inner tomb would ever see any light. It's a testament to the builders, engineers, designers and workers that the roof has never leaked, so that the inner tomb hasn't seen water for 3,400 years.

A view of some grave markers around the tomb.

A building just below the main tomb. Notice the stone fence in the background.

Kilmainham Gaol

Yesterday I went to Kilmainham Gaol in Dublin, an old jail that is now a historical museum. It was a phenomenal lesson in history, especially that of Irish resistance to British rule, and the terrible treatment of the Irish poor over the decades. I've decided to let the photos mostly speak for themselves (I couldn't resist short captions).

The view of the inside of a cell. At times of great social turmoil (e.g. the potato famine) and/or political unrest (e.g. the many Irish rebellions), prisoners were often 4-5 to a cell, 22-24 hours a day.

Behind this door 14 leaders of the Irish rebellion of 1916 were executed by the British. This turned public opinion around to the side of the rebels, paving the way for Irish independence 5 years later.

The courtyard beyond the doors was where child prisoners went out to spend their 1-2 hours of outdoor time a day in silence. Prisoners as young as 7 spent time at Kilmainhaim, often for petty theft.

Cheap Flights, Pack Light

I learned some valuable lessons this afternoon. There’s a reason those intra-Europe flights are so cheap. I thought I had it all figured out, I packed all my weighty stuff in my carry-on, wore my heaviest pair of boots and jacket, all with the expectation to smooth through the check-in. I even asked my pal John for his opinion on the weight of my bag back in Notting Hill before leaving. We both agreed, it was close to the 15 kilo limit, but still below.

When I checked my bag at the Ryanair check-in and it weighed 22 kilos, a full 7 kilos over the allotted limit, I was a tad surprised to say the least. Instead of paying $85 just for the privilege of checking in my bag, I proceeded to get rid of as much stuff as I could. Boxer shorts, an old pair of running shoes, socks, penned-up journal articles (I made sure to keep track of those I discarded), a couple tees and a sweater, an old bag, it all ended up in a pile along with other traveler gear. I swear, if you’re ever at Gatwick, come with empty bags, there’s bound to be a bunch of cool gear for the taking.

After my fourth attempt at bringing my weight down, I thought it might be kind to give the ticket agent a small gift. I presented her with a bar of soap my Mom made, and sure enough, she ignored the fact that I was nearly 2 kilos over weight, or the equivalent of $25. Lesson one: Ryanair is serious about their weight limitations, but the ticket agent does have some wiggle room.

Lesson two was a lot less eventful. The friendly voice that chimes in over the intercom at Gatwick every five minutes “There is a one bag limit on carry-on baggage. A woman’s handbag counts towards this limit” is also very serious. I thought I’d chance bringing my camera and my computer bags, but of course, I was nabbed at the security gate, where an army of fluorescent-dressed folks look you up and down to decide whether you have one bag or more. Somehow I managed to fit my camera bag into my computer bag, but not before I took out my laptop, which if carried on its own, doesn’t count as a bag. Where can I read the rulebook for all of this? It really is quite fascinating, if not a bit annoying.

Here I am now sitting at Gate 10 of Gatwick waiting for my flight to Dublin. Lots of suits, it must be a right fashionable flight with the business class. I’d really like to play guitar with my friends right now, right here, and just liven the place up a bit.

There’s the chime, the race has now begun. I guess if you purchase a pre-board, you get to go on first. There doesn’t seem to be any assigned seats. I’m just going to wait until the end to get on, I hate these seat battles, people jockeying for position is just so ‘high school’. But I guess we never really grow up, do we? Some of us just wear suits and ties, carry briefcases and walk with purpose.

"La Bouche du Roi" at the British Museum

This marks 200 years since the slave trade was abolished. In Britain, there’s lots of talk of William Wilberforce and other liberal abolitionists who campaigned to end it. This official version of history will have us all believe that progress is made through polite political lobbying of parliament, when in fact, freedom(s) are most often won through struggle. Nowhere is this clearer than in the case of the slave trade: from countless uprisings that wreaked havoc on the resolve of slaveowners to the victorious slave-led revolution in Haiti in 1791 that fought off the armies of the world’s superpowers (unfortunately, Haitians are still paying the price today), it was those who were enslaved who made the slave economy untenable.

Knowing the controversy over the question of abolition, it was with a bit of trepidation that I went down to the British Museum to check out their latest exhibit marking the bi-centenary. The British Museum hardly strikes me as a space for careful reflection on empire and racism. But there it was, Romuald Hazoumé poignant exhibit, entitled “La Bouche du Roi.”

This exhibit tells the story of the slave trade using innovative artwork, and links this history to present-day forms of bondage and resistance in an area of Benin that served as a jumping off point for the transfer of slaves to England in the 17th and 18th centuries.

The main part of the exhibit, and the most striking to me, was based on a 18th century woodcut of the slave ship Brookes, based in Liverpool. This woodcut was made for the abolitionist Thomas Clarke and is well-known in Britain. Hazoumé re-creates this woodcut using petrol canister masks to represent the bodies lined up in the original woodcut, 304 in all. There are small plastic cans representing children, cracked ones representing dead bodies, and at the head of the ship there are the goods, such as gin bottles and guns, representing the items used in trading for Africans. Why plastic petrol cans you might ask?

Hazoumé chose these because they are currently symbols of oppression in Benin, as young men heat these canisters to blow them up and transport petrol between Benin and Nigeria, often dying in the process due to the dangerous use of the over-extended plastic cans. As the exhibit tells us, “Like slaves, the plastic cans are worked to breaking point, and then discarded.”

However, Hazoumé doesn’t want to leave this image of victimhood germinate, and reminds us that transporting the petrol is also an act of resistance to the oppression that stalks this part of Benin. It is one of the few ways for these men to claw back some of Africa’s resources for their own benefit, having seen so much of the area’s wealth pilfered over the centuries, leaving the majority of the area’s residents mired in poverty.

And this is the true strength of the exhibit. Slavery is not simply historical, something that happened in the past, but its legacy is still ongoing, as is resistance to its many forms. I was left wondering: How am I implicated? How are we all implicated in this injustice?

Off to Dublin with Mixed Emotions

I’m leaving for Dublin later today, at 1730 to be exact. I’m not sure why this is, but I feel loneliness where I wish I felt only excitement. I suppose that’s the way with emotions, you never really get what you want, and it can be a struggle to want what you get.

I think I have the loneliness figured out though. I was talking with a friend back home earlier, and it came to me. Even before I left to come to London, I felt lonely, which seems odd, given my enthusiasm for the place. But there’s something about leaving that tugs at my heartstrings in a way I’d rather avoid. Is it leaving what I have come to know and appreciate behind? Is it the unknown of where I’m going? Is it not feeling completely settled in any one place?

Whatever it is, leaving one place for another is both exciting, e.g., I can’t wait to see the Irish countryside and to present my paper at the conference, and also a bit daunting, e.g., leaving places and people behind, so that any expectation I have of feeling just one set of emotions is unrealistic. Does anyone else ever feel like this?

The great thing about my time in London has been the hospitality I’ve felt at my hosts’ place, meeting a bunch of new Londoners (C., L., H., M., H., N., S., and crew), spending time with some people from back home, and wandering the city and digging my own company. Also not to be forgotten are the everyday Londoners who filled my days with meaningful exchanges. John at John’s Hair Fashions trimmed me Monday in Shepherd’s Bush and regaled me with stories of the English Premier League; Emre at Portobello Market asked me some pointed questions about Canada, and sold me a nice hoodie on Thursday; Anabella at Camden Market enlightened me on the Spanish art scene on Saturday; Adrian taught me a lot about the offshore diving industry on Friday; and many others came to shine a light on my London life, each in their own small way.

Overall, I feel like I unlocked a few doors that remained under key last time I was here. After 8 days, I’m under no illusions: London is a great world city, full of life and colour. It’s also a place where many people live and struggle to survive. No contradiction, just want to keep my sometimes-unbridled enthusiasm in check. Representing London otherwise feels like a disservice to the thousands, or more likely millions, who experience this place differently than I do. In this moment I’m reminded of the man who was violently thrown about right next to my friends and I on a sidewalk pub 5 nights ago for selling a newspaper. When my friend spoke with him afterwards, he said, pointedly: “This place, England, is shit. Get out of here as soon as possible.”

While I don’t feel quite as strongly as he did, nor am I suggesting that London/England is prone to violent acts, I do feel like it’s time to go. I’ve decided I could live in London, in fact, I might just want to one day, but I’d need a compelling job both to make an income that could sustain living here, and also to keep me occupied, because wandering a city can get old pretty quick. When I finally write a novel sometime in the future, I’ll come write part of it here in the spring, I’ll just expect a bit more rain than I got on this visit. Fifty drops yesterday equals fifty in a week. Thank you London for sharing.

Love Carrier, Heart Stealer

Part of my London mission has been to be what my dear friend called a “love carrier.” That is, someone who acts as a messenger, bringing gifts from afar to those in love. I’ve accomplished this in two capacities.

First, I brought a lovely wrapped gift from my friend back home to her new girlfriend in London, not coincidentally, the woman who brought me to Elephant & Castle. It was a near perfect synergistic moment. I handed the gift to her, and she handed me a part of London I never would’ve known, but will now forever remember, at least from my vantage point today. I like this gig, the returns are well worth it.

Second, I met up with my good friend’s old English pal here in London, and while I had nothing to offer, I am bringing something back with me for her, a little gift courtesy of my new London friend. Again, he brought me to the south end squat, the dancehall night and to see Malika Booker yesterday. Talk about unfair. I like being a love carrier, not only does it have a nice ring to it, it also has great benefits. Anybody want to sign me up?

On the other side of the spectrum, yesterday at the Sunday Up Market, I bought a little keychain affectionately called the heart stealer. It’s fabulous, as you can see above. If only all heart stealers could be so adorable, the world would be a much shinier place, don’t you think? Notice the bag full of multi-coloured hearts, it’s oh so cold, but I can’t help but smile. I wonder what the world would be like if breaking a heart, stealing it really, was nothing more than removing an organ that was replaceable. It’d probably be less painful in the end, as some of us know, a broken heart takes ages to heal, much more than any old physical ailment, or at least most of them.

The funny thing is my new green & white friend can be seen as either a love carrier, with a bag full of hearts to spread around, or a heart stealer, with the same bag full of hearts thiefed from those in love. It all depends on how the wind blows, and what side of the bed you wake up on. Yesterday he was a thief, today she is a carrier. What will tomorrow bring?

La ville que je ne connais pas

J’entends des murmures
Dans la salle à côté
Et les frissons
Me touchent partout.

Les voix mijotent
Comme dans une soupe bouillante
Trop chaude pour bouffer
Mais toujours assez pour me renconforter.

Qui peut être ici avec moi?
Ici, dans la noirceur d’une ville que je ne connais pas.
Que je connaîtra jamais,
Sauf dans mes rêves.

Favourite Photos from my Day in the East End

Kick-ass performance on Brick Lane, feat. a tap dancer doing some hip-hop stylings, a group of percussionists, and a stand-up bass player.


A trashy view of the Sunday Up Market, between Spitalfields Market and Brick Lane.


Clever political commentary, using some familiar symbols to pull us in. Haven't I seen that somewhere before?