Home of the Brogue

June 22-23

The trip back home included a bonus day in Dublin. I was eager for that.

I’ve read “Ulysses” a few times. I’ve even plowed through “Finnegans Wake.” I’ve seen Hollywood movies about the Irish Republican Army. 

But for no reason I can fathom, I’d never been to Dublin, or to Ireland at all, before. 

Changing planes on the way to Amsterdam two weeks ago doesn’t count. I spent most of that time standing in lines.

The trip was fun, except for Aer Lingus. It started with a bizarre check-in at Schiphol.

The check-in counter was closed, with a small line waiting, when I got there, about two hours before flight time. 

Aer Lingus people started showing up a few minutes later. One came running in a little while after that. She was late and looked rattled. 

She was probably brand new to the job, so that’s why they let her be the only one checking customers in. Two other employees were there for bag drop only.

When this sort of thing happens, I always suspect the company is trying to punish customers for refusing to be steered to an automated process.

This young woman was clearly having trouble. She spent 15 or 20 minutes with one family. She was looking into a notebook. She was on the phone, more than once. Neither of the other two women offered to help. And there was nobody else around from the airline.

She never did resolve the problem, whatever it was, while I was there, but instead asked the group to wait at one side. 

When she was working on my arrangement, she had to figure out how to get the computer to book my bag to Dublin and not route it all the way through to Newark. 

That’s because I’d be staying over night at Dublin, and I didn’t want my bag getting to Newark ahead of me and possibly disappearing. 

That meant more looking into the notebook. And that wouldn’t have been so bad if she could stay at it. She kept looking up and commenting on a conversation at the next deck. 

I can hear them making plans for the day: Okay. Who’s got ADHD? All right, you check the customers in.

I got past that, finally, and the plane left only a half-hour late.

The Google instructions for using public transportation looked easy enough to follow. So I bought a ticket for the 747 bus outside the airport. 

As it happened, this was an easier jaunt than I’d expected. Shortly before my stop, we passed the hotel, “North Star” clearly printed on its red awnings.

I walked back to the corner of Talbot and Amiens Streets and waited for the light. It never came. When people crossing the other way got the light a second time, I decided to jaywalk.

I saw a car marked “Garda” waiting at the light. That’s a police cruiser. He probably won’t mind.

I was maybe three steps from the curb when the siren went off. I thought he was swinging left into my lane. Another, civilian car actually did turn my way at the time. 

I moved quicker than I have in a while, swinging self and luggage back out of the way. The Garda car, with siren and lights in fine working order, was off in another direction.

The hotel put me up in the historic part of the North Star. Because it’s a landmark, preservation rules won’t let them put in an elevator. It would require too much demolition.

The desk clerk helped me get the bags upstairs. I would have had a hell of a job getting up two flights with both bags in tow.

I didn’t have much time in Dublin, so I couldn’t see much. Given the hour and the day, the best place to go was Davy Byrne’s Pub.

The No. 27 bus stops almost directly across Amiens Street from the hotel. It’s four stops to College Green.

You walk a few steps and get onto Suffolk Street. You can’t miss Suffolk. It’s where the Molly Malone statue is.

A left by Molly Malone takes you to Grafton Street, which has been blocked off as a pedestrian mall. Davy Byrne’s is on Duke Street, the first side street off Grafton.

The Cyclops episode of “Ulysses” takes place there. 

Leopold Bloom, who sells ad space for a city paper, stops in for a glass of wine and a Gorgonzola sandwich. He gets into an argument with a man wearing an eyepatch. I think at one point Bloom gestures for emphasis with a lit cigar in his hand.

The place has classic pub architecture, with a dark wood-paneled front (https://davybyrnes.com/). The bar extends through two rooms, and the most prominent pumps are Guinness.

I didn’t have a cigar. What’s more, I wasn’t about to go to a bar in Dublin and ask for wine. And lamb stew sounded a lot better right then than Gorgonzola.

The stew, served with brown bread, was a delight. So was the Guinness, the original home-town brew. 

I also sampled Sullivan’s red ale and Smithwicks, which is brewed by Guinness. They were weaker than I expected. 

I hadn’t tasted Smithwicks in a while. There was a time it was one of my go-to taps.

Now the best red ales I know are made not in Ireland but in the States. They have a mouthful of malt flavor balanced by sharp, dry hops. These were too thin for me.

It was a busy time on Saturday night, so I didn’t get to talk to anybody. I didn’t see any one-eyed men. There could have been some ad reps, but I’m pretty sure none was Leopold Bloom. 

One thing I forgot to do was ask Google how to get back to the North Star. I couldn’t find a stop for the 27 in the opposite direction. Maybe it doesn’t return by way of College Green.

So I took a cab instead.

I stopped at the hotel to phone Joanna so she’d know I was all right and having fun. Then I went out to J.J. Grainger’s Cafe & Bar at 52 Amiens St.

It was even more fun than having Irish stew at Davy Byrne’s.

I asked the bartender about the ales. I had noticed a tap for Sunburnt Red and asked for a half pint of that. It too did not have what I’d call a strong flavor, but it was the best of the three reds.

Next I tried Elevation Irish pale ale. It had a good, though not powerful, flavor and was dry enough. It was better than any of the red ales.

When he brought the Elevation, he also came with a small glass of another, Hop Hash summer seasonal made by a brewery called Hope. He said the Hop Hash had just come in that day.

Hop Hash was full of flavor. When I first tasted the sample, it seemed almost burnt, but in a good way. When the half pint came and I started getting into it, I realized that was wrong. This was almost sour with a hint of sweet—grapefruit. 

It was like an over-the-top Lagunitas IPA, probably loaded with those citrus-tasting citra hops.

It was still early, so I took home a couple of bottles, including an unfiltered Carlsberg. It is a lager, not generally my favorite, but the haze gave it a little extra interest.

Sunday morning I managed to get almost lost in the hotel. 

The breakfast room is under the new wing. 

After my Irish breakfast, I tried the elevator to see where it went. Even if it meant dragging my bags, across the second floor, it would avoid those stairs. 

But when I reached the second floor, it wasn’t very encouraging. No signs about the original wing. Maybe there was no getting to my room from here.

I went back down and after a little concentration remembered that I had come down a long hall and opened a door. (Sort of like what you do in a bad dream, but this wasn’t as sinister.) 

Yes, there was a door. And on the other side of it, the long hall.

I asked the desk to call for a cab, and when I checked out a little after 10 a driver was waiting for me.The cab ride cost more than the bus, but it was far quicker. I also didn’t have to stand and wait for it.

The wait came at the airport. Aer Lingus was back in rare form.

You’re supposed to go somewhere and scan your passport at a kiosk to get a boarding pass. Then you go to another kiosk, scan your boarding pass to get a luggage tag. 

The kiosks were packed and most of them were surrounded by confused people, just like me. I hate automated check-in even more than automated check-out.

I tried the luggage tag machine first by mistake. It immediately asked for my booking reference number. I had no clue what that was.

An attendant came to my rescue. She took my passport to another kiosk somewhere. She came back a few minutes later. The machine couldn’t scan my passport. 

I’ve had that happen before, with Joanna already on the other side of the barrier waiting while I stood in line to show my passport to a real person.

Anyhow, this morning I got to stand in line along with dozens, maybe thousands, of other travelers. It looked like passport control at Newark Liberty. The line did move faster than Newark ever could, but it still took a while.

I was damned glad I was more than two hours early.

Security check was more efficient. So that only took a few minutes.

My boarding pass didn’t have a gate number, just an abbreviation, “USP.”

I checked the departures board, which was equally helpful. It directed me and anyone like me to “U.S. CBP.” A dozen of us were standing under the board asking each other to guess what that meant.

I think now that “CBP” stands for Customs and Border Protection. “USP” is United States Preclearance.

All the gates for U.S. flights are in one area of the airport. To get there you have to take your shoes off again, empty your pockets, put all your stuff in bins. But there is no body search, just the X-ray machines. 

What’s this? The U.S. doesn’t trust the Irish to X-ray carry-ons?

Even after all that, there was no rush because this plane too was late.

We left the gate 20 minutes or more behind time. Then we sat in the plane.

The word from the cockpit was that “two passengers had been removed from the aircraft.” Wow, I wonder what they did wrong. We had to wait while the luggage was taken off the plane.

I had eaten a big Irish breakfast—eggs, beans, ham, etc.—but that was about 7 in the morning. By the time they served food on the plane, I took it.

It wasn’t the worst airplane food I’ve had, but it certainly wasn’t anything I’d really call rigatoni Bolognese. But I was so hungry that it was delicious.

The flight was bumpy in spots, but otherwise uneventful.

Although we had left almost an hour late, we still arrived at Newark around 3:30 local time. The pilot may have taken a shortcut.

But once we were out of the plane, things seemed a little unusual. We weren’t all plowing down that claustrophobic hallway to the entry hall. 

We were in the actual airport and heading straight to baggage check.

That final hurdle at Dublin was indeed preclearance. 

That’s why the guy had asked my if I was carrying any alcohol. Only what’s in my system.

Aer Lingus had to have its final joke, though. I avoided the backup at immigration only to wait almost an hour for my bag to show up on the carousel. 

And I was one of the lucky ones. Most of the crowd was still waiting and watching while I was on my way to find a cab.

May all our troubles be as small as these.

Love to all. Stay well, everyone.

And remember: The more time we spend in airports, the less time we’ll spend in hell when we die.

Harry

So Long, Amsterdam

June 18-21

Wednesday it was back to the Rijksmuseum, this time to focus on the Dutch Masters.

Like everybody else, I go to see the Vermeers and Rembrandts. And on the way, like everybody else, I see others whose names aren’t familiar. 

Pieter de Hooch, I read, was noted for a compositional convention called a through-views. The scene—a mother delousing her child, or a man handing a letter to a woman—takes place in an interior room; there will be an open door or window in the background that opens to another room, which may have a window to a garden outside. 

It’s almost like a comical aside: There’s more than meets the eye. And it adds to a sense of space.  

Ferdinand Bol, who studied under Rembrandt, is another of those portrait painters whose subjects come alive. After you look into the detailed and focused expressions of these merchants, bankers, guild officers, and their wives and mothers, you come away with the feeling that you know these people.

I met Larry for a beer at the Ooievar and we went up the street to a bistro called Quartier Latin for escargot and wild boar, with a carafe of merlot. 

Thursday was another of those comedies of errors. We were going to Haarlem.

And I was running late.

I expected Larry not to try to find me in Amsterdam, but to go to Haarlem and wait at the station there, where there would be fewer people. 

He expected to wait on platform 2, where many trains to Haarlem leave Amsterdam, till I showed up.

His was the better plan, but I remembered the other one.

I got to Haarlem and waited at the station for an hour and a half.

Then I took a stroll through downtown Haarlem. 

It’s a short walk from the station to the central town square of the old city. City hall and one of the main churches are still there. It is known as the Great Market.

I managed to get a coffee and a sandwich at a place on the market square that was preoccupied with serving coffee and sandwiches to tour groups.

I had a view of the street, as a truck trimmed with ribbons and flowers just barely managed a corner next to the town hall. A man in a powder blue suit and a lady in a white gown and crewcut were about to be married.

They had a small crowd of supporters who followed them into the building.

The church, one the opposite end of the square from the town hall, was the cathedral of the city until the Reformation in the 16th century. Now it is called the Great Church of St. Bavo.

They charge two and a half euros, which goes to the upkeep of the church, to get in.

It has a huge organ with several hundred, or maybe thousand, pipes. Mozart pulled out all the stops here, they say.

Many old carvings survive, including one of a monk (judging by his brown robe and beads) biting a pillar.

I tried to find Jopenkerk, but the time grew late and I grew tired. 

Jopenkerk is one of the top entries on the Haarlem guidebook’s list of things to see. It’s a brewery of very good ales that operates in an old church building.

I got back to Amsterdam to find that Larry had been looking for me. He was wondering which hospital I was in.

He was understandably pissed off. I hadn’t gone to a hospital at all. 

We went to De Pijp, not far from the Cuyp Market, for an assortment of South Indian food.

I had a crepe filled with potatoes and onion, with a masala gravy. It had three or four names, but I know it from Little India in New York, where it is known as masala dosai.

We also had curries with vegetables and the cheese cubes called paneer.

There was some heat in everything, but only a little.

We stopped for a beer or two at Ooievar before I headed to the hotel.

Friday was a moving day. I checked out but left the bags at the hotel. I booked the room through Expedia, so the rent was paid in advance. All I had on the bill was a charge for a few cans of Heineken.

I was running short of underwear and so went to the Uni-Qlo store in the Rokin neighborhood, near the Dam, to buy some. Then I came back to the hotel to wait for Larry.

I was using the computer to stay in touch. He was running late, delayed, as I learned later, by a misbehaving washer-dryer. 

I was feeling a little peckish, but after yesterday’s farce in Haarlem, I wasn’t going anywhere, so I stayed put.

We went around the corner to a Japanese shop for a bite of lunch. I ordered a plate of gyoza dumplings, which were fried crisp. They were very good, but I’m used to having them steamed, which leaves the wrappers soft.

I also had what might qualify as Japanese deviled eggs. The yolk was seasoned with herbs and the plate came with a leafy green, maybe watercress or something else I don’t readily recognize. They were OK, but I don’t see myself asking for them again.

Larry had ramen noodle soup. 

We had everything, appropriately enough, with bottles of Sapporo.

Larry’s friend Ryan, who lives in Singapore, was coming to town that afternoon. 

Larry and I were sitting outside the Bush Docter, the coffee shop near the Herengracht, when Larry got a phone call from Ryan saying he was going to be joining us in a couple of minutes.

Larry was on his way to the head and told Ryan to look for me, the guy in the straw fedora. 

This meeting happened as planned. Larry was on his way back when Ryan, whom I hadn’t met and wouldn’t know by sight, showed up with his bike.

We chatted a bit in the shade, and the breeze, and the relaxed ambience of smoldering vegetable matter. Then we decamped to Cafe Krom on Utrechtsestraat.

That Sapporo was a while ago. After a nice strong La Chouffe at the Krom, I was feeling pretty good.

Ryan hadn’t taken anything at Bush Docter. Neither had I. So we moved to Katsu in De Pijp.

While I took the tram, Ryan and Larry retrieved their bikes. We got there just about the same time.

I ate half a muffin, and it wasn’t long before we were all feeling ready to eat. Time, exercise, and also certain medications can do that to you.

By now we were feeling the effects of all three influences.

We went farther down into De Pijp to Leeman Kebab, a Turkish shop that serves varieties of sandwiches, mostly variations of the gyro.

Mine, for instance, was lamb shaved off one of those rotisseries rolls. It was served with hot sauce and a garlic-laden creamy dressing, all wrapped in a flour tortilla.

We sat outside the store on benches to eat the sandwiches. I don’t know how Turkish it was, but can verify that it was delicious.

If I remember right—and seeing how I was in Amsterdam, this might not be accurate—we said our so-longs outside the kebab shop, and I took the tram back to Prinsengracht. 

I picked up my bags at the hotel and walked to Rembrandtplein. It is a longer walk than going to the No. 4 stop on Utrechtsestraat, but you can catch the 4 or 14 at Rembrandtplein to go to Central Station.

As it turned out, I got the 4 anyhow. I think it was my fifth tram ride of the day, and my card was still good.

I bought a ticket to Schiphol and may have saved a euro on the fare because I had it put on the travel card instead of getting a paper ticket. The train ride still wasn’t cheap—about 20 euros—but cost less than a cab.

I got to the airport hotel, the CitizenM, with little trouble.

The CitizenM has some distinction among airport hotels. It is one of the few that I have reached by walking from the terminal. The only other times I remember doing that were at the Pullman Roissy at Charles de Gaulle, and the Regal Airport at Hong Kong. 

It is also the first hotel where I entered the room by walking through the bathroom. Literally. The toilet is sitting out on the floor on the left as you go in. The shower stall is a few steps farther on the right.

Each has a wrap-around glass screen. The shower stall is transparent; the toilet, frosted.

Doesn’t matter when you’re traveling alone. So I enjoyed a few more beers and then sacked out. 

Another adventure Saturday. I’m stopping in Dublin.

Stay well, everyone, and may all your adventures be happy ones.

Harry

Flights of Eagles

June 16-17

Sunday we had arranged to meet at the Arends Nest, a popular spot on the northwestern end of the Herengracht.

Amsterdam Centrum, the old city, is largely defined by several concentric canals, sort of like those concentric ridges in the earth works at Poverty Point. Maybe the Dutch of the Golden Age were descended from the mound builders.

These concentric canals are crossed by several others, so the old city is a warren of canals, alleys, narrow streets, drugs, sex, beer, museums, and cheap souvenirs. In other words, it’s the kind of place that everybody wants to visit.

My hotel is on one of the canals, the Prinsengracht, but some distance away from the Dam and the wilder part of the old town. I’m near the eastern end of the canal, but it’s a short walk to the Prinsengracht station for the No. 12 tram. I took that five stops to Nieuwezijds Kolk. 

I looked that up. It means something like “New Side’s Eddy” or maybe “Pond.”

The street it’s on is Nieuwezijds Voorburgwaal, which Wikipedia translates as “New Side Front Bastion Wall.” It’s the site of an old defensive wall of the city. 

The street is home to the royal palace and the New Church. My last time in Amsterdam, there was a coronation in those buildings. 

Old Sides is the east side of old town. There’s an Oudezijdz Voorburgwaal, which runs through the Red Light District.

I had been to the bar, Arends Nest, before, but long enough ago that I have forgotten how to get there. I had copied Google instructions into my notebook and was able to follow them right to the place.

I came early to give me time to stroll around the neighborhood. 

Amsterdam is one of the most photogenic cities in the world. Riding a bike or walking, you look in any direction and see graceful proportions. The buildings, some of them 400 or 500 years old, are all made to complement each other.

Arends (or in English, Eagle’s) Nest is a bar specializing in Dutch craft beer. It has 52 on tap.

I couldn’t get through all 52, but did try a few. 

The bartender said one of the selections was a red IPA called If Glitter Was a Hop, brewed by Dutch Bargain in Groede. Red IPA? Say no more.

Stupid name, though.

It was a competent red IPA, which is to say it was very good. It had plenty of strong malt flavor, which is a result of the red part of the mix, and lots of hops, which is the IPA part.

It ran around 8 percent ABV. It not only had a stupid name, but also a stupid feature that I was lucky enough to avoid.

The brewer puts actual glitter into the beer. The bartender says it settles out, but when they put in a new keg, they turn it upside down and get cascades of glitter with the first pulls. 

The keg had been sitting for enough time to let the particles settle. I couldn’t see any junk in my drink.

I can’t imagine anything I want to do less than drink clutter in my beer. Natural sediment in unfiltered ale is fine. But please don’t feed me Mylar.

Another interesting take was a black IPA called Hedgehogs on the Horizon, from a brewery called Het Uiltje in Haarlem.

It was stout hopped like an IPA. Not unlike Guinness, there was a hint of unsweetened chocolate in the malt. The flavor was definitely dry, like Guinness. But not like Guinness it was fragrant and sharp from lots of bitter flowers.

It had an alcohol content of 5.5 percent and wasn’t a bad drink at all. The flavor is very distinct, though. I might try it again, but one in an evening’s enough.

We tried a couple of promising places for food, but the wait was an hour at one spot and unknown at the other, which was essentially a takeout place with a few seats. There was no waiting list. You had to compete for a seat.

We wound up at an undistinguished bar, where we had some nachos. That stood in as dinner for me.

Later, after strolling the Red Light District and the Dam, I made my way home on the No. 4 tram.

I stopped for a beer at Bouwman, on my corner. I saw someone who looked familiar and began to compliment her on her work ethic. 

Oops. This isn’t the lady who quite literally ran the whole operation Saturday night.

No, Harry. You were trying to be gracious. You weren’t really sure, were you? Why didn’t you ask?  You fuck-up. 

Lucky for me, it wasn’t too bad, after all. She said she was the lady’s sister and that people mistake them all the time. True? Fuck do I know, but I’ll accept it this time.

Monday I had no place special to go, so I took a tram ride, the No. 4 from Utrechtsestraat to the end of the line at AmstelStation. There’s not much out there, but that’s all right. 

I waited till the trolley started back the other way.

This is a great ride. It passes the Cuyp Market, Utrechsestraat, Rembrandtplein, the Flower Market.

There was nothing to interest me in the Central Station, so I got off before the end of the line, at the Rokin stop, not far from Dam Square

I walked through more of these beautiful streets and alleys before I took the tram back to Utrechtsestraat. 

I met Larry at Ooievaar around 5. We had a quick beer and then went to Cuyp Market.

We stopped at the coffeeshop, Katsu, in the market area, where I had a little cake and coffee. 

We reached De Pizzabakkers at a good time. It was fairly empty. This is the place we tried on Sunday. What a difference a day makes.

I opted for a pizza they call Da Noi. It’s a cheesy Margherita with sausage. Fantastic.

Pizzabakers even had Montepulciano d’Abruzzo on the menu. Of all the different types of wine, that may be my favorite variety in all the world. Power of suggestion or not—I don’t care—but this was up there with the best Abruzzos I’ve had.

When we walked back through Cuyp Market Street the stalls were closed, and loose trash covered the street waiting for cleanup.

Some of the birds had already volunteered to help.

We also stopped at some point during our wandering in an upscale coffee shop on Utrechtsestraat. This is the boutique street, remember, so with this kind of business you want to prove that you can be a good neighbor.

No loud music here. The men at the counter wear bowties. The store keeps a man outside who dresses like a butler. He chats with people and keeps the sidewalk clean.

I bought a boxed spacecake, which came in a nifty little shopping bag that read “Happiness From Amsterdam.”

After a few beers more and that spacecake, I slept the sleep of the lost.

We had planned to take the train to Haarlem the next morning, but when I woke up around 7 on Tuesday, I knew I wasn’t going anywhere. Except back to bed.

It took a while, but I managed to get an e-mail off to Larry. I didn’t want him to get onto the 11 o’clock train thinking I was there too.

I stayed in bed till 11, then went up the street for some eggs and toast, and most important, coffee.

I stayed in till five or so and then walked carefully down to the Cuyp Market to meet Larry for dinner. He had recommended Bazar, a Turkish restaurant in a former synagogue on the Cuyp Market Street.

The menu is long and varied. Larry pointed out the veal spare-ribs, so—knowing that you follow Larry to a restaurant anywhere—I chose to have that.

They were reasonably meaty, and came with pickled vegetable salad, which was marginal, and some fries, which were OK.

The meat, though, was superb—tender and moist, savory and rich. I had a couple of glasses of a pretty good sauvignon blanc. I tried a merlot too but that was disappointing.

We went around the corner to Katsu for dessert, a little cake and espresso.

I capped that with a couple of beers at Ooievaar and Bouwman before I came back to call it a night.

I’m having another great time, gang.

Here’s to great times, and good dreams.

Harry