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W E Patterson's avatar

Bloomsday in Dublin, 2023: confronting failure on the banks of the Liffey

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“There are two motives for reading a book; one, that you enjoy it; the other, that you can boast about it.” –Bertrum Russell.

The above quote comes to mind whenever I think of James Joyce, and his classic work, Ulysses, and my inability to plow through it. My failure to do this was only highlighted by a recent trip to Ireland that my wife and I made in June, a trip that coincidentally coincided with Bloomsday, the annual June 16th celebration of Ulysses and everything James Joyce related.

I have tried to push my way through Ulysses for many years. It’s only 265,000 words, right! But thus far my efforts have been in vain. I have the same problem with War and Peace — a mighty tome that rings in at just over half a million words, nearly double that of Ulysses. But if I never make it through WAP, I don’t feel it will be a big deal. But I always wanted to finish Ulysses. Maybe I feel more of a kinship with Joyce than I do Tolstoy, I don’t know, but I surely thought a pending trip to Dublin, which would plop me in that city on June 16h, would be motivation to finish reading this book and I could boast about it later. But that didn’t happen. Even the most cordial, helpful, YouTube instructors couldn’t motivate me. I’m a lost cause.

But getting back to Bloomsday, it’s a blast if you can make it. Dublin is a wonderful city and June is a great time of year to walk along the banks of the river Liffey, shop, dine, drink, and consider all things literary.

My wife and I got up on the morning of June 16th at crack of dawn (ok, maybe not that early), ready for Bloomsday 2023.  Did I mention we have T-shirts – yes, we both have Bloomsday, Dublin T–shirts. Hey, nobody says you must finish Ulysses to buy the shirt!

After a quick breakfast at the hotel, we grabbed an Uber and headed up to the James Joyce center on the north side of the Liffey. Twenty minutes later, it was threatening rain as our driver dropped us off in front of an elegant 18th century townhouse at 35 North Great George’s Street – the James Joyce Center.  Already a crowd was beginning to gather, everyone in turn of the century attire.

The James Joyce Center is an incredible place to visit even if it’s not Bloomsday. Undeterred by my failure to complete Ulysses, we headed inside to enjoy this remarkably preserved home. In the gift shop, I peruse James Joyce books of all sizes and topics. Many are scholarly works for serious literary types – not me – I haven’t finished Ulysses (yet). To my right, a couple of university students from North Carolina discuss Ulysses esoterica with the shop clerk. I picked up a heavily annotated copy of Ulysses from the shelf. Footnotes abound. Hmm…maybe this is the copy I need. I’m obviously reading an incorrect version. Maybe more footnotes would help clarify the text. The book is 40 Euros and weighs about 80 pounds. I think of my already overflowing carry on bag and decide against the book, but I make a note of it for the future, should I tackle Ulysses again.

The courtyard of the James Joyce Center is my favorite part of the house. The painted murals that surround the courtyard depict the 18 episodes of Ulysses. All were painted by Paul Joyce, the great grandnephew of James.

Also on display in the courtyard is the original door from No. 7 Eccles Street. Even Ulysses ‘dropouts’ like me will recognize this as Leopold and Molly Bloom’s address. The original house that was attached to this door was razed in the 1980s to make way for expansion of a nearby hospital.

It started to rain harder as we left the James Joyce Center. We waited for a ride-share in the foyer of the  Center. There is a Ulysses reading taking place downtown and we want to find it.

“It’s sometimes hard to get a ride from here,” says a bespectacled gentleman in early 20th century attire. Well noted. We waited another half an hour for a ride. Eventually a red Nissan pulls up. Our driver is a  pleasant girl from China who has lived in Dublin for five years and hopes to go home next year to visit her family.

She drives us down to O’Connell Street with some vague directions about how to locate the reading. It’s not hard. Just look for lots of people dressed like it is 1901 in Dublin.

The reading takes place in an open courtyard. There is a covered stage set up along one side of the courtyard and many attendees are seated in metal folding chairs. Many are sitting with umbrellas. Others mill about under a canopy at the rear of the courtyard. We find a dry spot under a store awning within earshot of the speaker and try to stay dry.

A Joyce scholar is reading from Ulysses. Some in the crowd are so familiar with the book that they have committed passages to memory. Their lips move as they follow along with the speaker.

The rain picks up. I listen intently to the speaker, trying to determine which of the 18 Ulysses episodes he was reading when my wife taps me on the arm.

“Let’s go to Davy Byrnes,” she says. “I want to get out of the rain, and I am hungry.”

Davy Byrnes, at 21 Duke St, was Mr. Joyce’s favorite watering hole. It’s not far.  We weave our way down Duke Street through a throng of men in black suits and straw hats and women in floor length skirts.

But we find that Davy Byrnes is impossible to navigate. There is a band playing on the street and the crowd has spilled out into the rain. We inched our way inside – there is no chance of grabbing a quick drink at Davy Byrnes on Bloomsday. I stop long enough to snap a quick picture:

Hungry for lunch and weary of the crowds, we headed back across Duke Street to The Bailey Café and Bar. The place is packed but it’s not like Davy Byrnes, probably because there is no indication that James Joyce ever drank there. But is a warm and friendly place, like just about every pub in Dublin. We ordered beer and sandwiches.

After lunch, we headed back to the south side of the river Liffey and after a few stops on the way to pick up some Bloomsday souvenirs, we arrived back at our hotel a little tired from Bloomsday but glad we had the experience.

A couple of days later, we flew back to the U.S. The day after our return, one of the first things I did was take my copy of Ulysses down from the bookshelf. There was my bookmark, exactly where I left it when I had started my third or fourth attempt to read this book. The bookmark was still tucked into page 57, which is the beginning of Part II, in which protagonist Leopold Bloom sits down to dine upon the “inner organs of beasts and fowls”.

I closed the book and returned it to the shelf.

W E Patterson's avatar

Notes on Arizona

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Last week we went to Arizona. First, we went to Sedona, about two hours north of Phoenix, in the middle of some of the most scenic country in the United States. It’s red rock country — beautiful mountainous terrain. It’s cowboy country too, or at least movie cowboy country. Dozens of western movies have been filmed in the red-rock canyons that surround Sedona, and every wannabe cowboy from John Wayne to Elvis (yes, the King filmed westerns) has shot footage here.

It’s New Age country. Maybe it’s the fabled vortexes that exert some type of convergent energy field in select locations near the town, or maybe it’s the reports of UFOs over (or under) nearby Bell Rock, but you will find, in Uptown Sedona, a most eclectic collection of citizenry. Psychics are on every corner. You will find people who can read your aura – you can energize your chakras. You can convene to a drum circle. You can get clean and sober here – for a price – big price. But most of all, Sedona is a friendly town.20150512_082812

       A very nice Sedona gift shop lady tells us that in her spare time, she paints pictures of fairies. I ask her if she’s ever exhibited her paintings in her shop, but she tells me that she once tried, but that the fairies did not like it in the shop – so now she sells them elsewhere. She did not say where. She shows me how to press my hand into a Brazilian geode and she tells me to close my eyes and to describe how I feel. Presently, I tell her that I feel a tingling in my palm…I don’t tell her, but I feel that a lot, geode or no, but she says I’ve felt something unique. I am not so sure, but maybe I did. My wife tries the same exercise and doesn’t feel anything. She’s disappointed. She buys a postcard and an ankle bracelet. The lady explains that people come to Sedona for a reason. She says we are probably seeking something. I leave with an open mind.

After lunch, we find the trail to Devil’s Bridge just outside of town, and we hike the two mile trail up to the bridge. Something about clambering over 100 million year old rocks does it to me. I feel it. That energy that they are talking about. I feel it in my bones. I feel the ancient earth. Forget the UFOs and the fairies. Something has been going on here for a long time but I can’t explain it. Maybe it’s the Mother Earth thing, but I know that I am in awe of something bigger than myself.

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Forty miles north in Flagstaff, we stop for lunch at a brew pub on San Francisco Street. After we eat, we go into a crystal shop across the street from the train station. My wife picks out a half a dozen crystals. Two girls working the register are discussing energy fields when we walk in. My wife isn’t a believer but she’s hedging her bets. She’s buying crystals. They mean different things, the crystals. Some are good for one thing or another – prosperity – serenity – strength. Not sure if I’m buying into it.

My wife picks through the crystals, while I retreat to the book rack in the back of the store. There I find a deck of tarot cards and I consider buying them as a novelty, but I put them back. There is no need to mess with tarot cards right now. We pay for the crystals and leave town.

We take I-40 east out of Flagstaff. We drive 90 miles across the Colorado Plateau to Holbrook in the heart of Painted Desert country. We arrive in Holbrook at about four o clock in the afternoon. I like the town. No movie company cowboys in Holbrook. Real cowboys live here. Ranchers live here. They drive Silverado trucks and F-250s – everybody pulls a livestock trailer. They fuel up at the Maverik station on Navajo Boulevard on the north side of I-40. Ranchers wear dusty Stetsons and beat up boots. No star gazing astrologers or hundred dollar ‘per-reading’ psychics in Holbrook either. There are petrified wood shops, Native American crafts and Route 66 memorabilia here.

We stop at a Mexican restaurant on Hopi Drive. We order tacos and beers from a girl who my wife says looks too young to be working. I tell her that the girl is probably older than she looks. A few minutes later she returns with our tacos. Behind her, the manager follows with our beers. She’s too young to serve alcohol the manager explains.

The next day we drive through the Petrified Forest National Park. It’s unlike other parks we’ve visited, like Yellowstone, or Yosemite, or Rocky Mountain National Park. It’s empty – like the moon – in the Petrified Forest. Even the ranger in the welcome station looks petrified. Things change very slowly here, but it is a reminder that things do change. They sure as hell don’t change on our time though. Whoever is running this place has his/her own calendar. A million years is nothing. Next day it’s time to say goodbye to Holbrook and the ranchers and the desert and the petrified wood. On our way out of town we cross the Santa Fe tracks one last time. Just beyond the tracks, on the main highway out of town, a four foot rattlesnake lies dead in the road. Crushed perhaps under the weight of Silverado and F-250 trucks pulling livestock trailers. Glad I didn’t see that guy when we were climbing rocks I say to my wife…she doesn’t reply.

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We head southwest, toward Payson, Arizona, then on into Phoenix. We drive across the plateau, then back down into the desert. Big cactus in that desert. My wife wants a picture, but the road doesn’t offer a pull-off. Not like Colorado my wife notes. They know how to deal with scenery in Colorado. She wants a picture of a saguaro cactus but there is no place to pull over. Here in Arizona she can’t catch a photo-break.

By the time we reach our hotel in Phoenix it’s raining. Damned rain I say. I didn’t think it ever rained in Phoenix but it does. After a while it lets up and we go out to eat.

The next day we fly out at 6am. On the flight back to Florida, my wife sits in the aisle seat. I’m in the middle and beside me is a young man of 16 or 17 years of age. He calls me sir and my wife ma’am. He tells me he’s been through a lot. When I press him for details he tells me he’s on his way home to Miami after spending the past six months in military school. Apparently not his decision – military school that is. I did not ask what incident caused him to be sent to such an institution, but he tells me he hopes not to be sent back in the fall.

Once we reach cruising altitude, I pull out my Kindle. I’m reading “Cities of the Plain”, by Cormac McCarthy. The young man asks me about my Kindle and I tell him that I have had it for several years. He says that it looks really old. Not as old as a petrified log I think to myself.

My wife falls asleep. Her crystals are carefully packed in her carry-on bag. Texas passes under the plane and I wonder if there is something to it all. The crystals, I mean.