The weather today is raining and gloomy, a fitting backdrop for the mood of Ireland at the moment. There were a record of new COVID-19 cases over the weekend. On both Saturday and Sunday, there were +1,250 daily cases, which is significantly above the previous record of around 1,000 daily cases that Ireland experienced at the height of the first wave in April. Last night into this morning, there was talk of moving to the Level 4 restrictions, but now it sounds like the government may impose the maximum Level 5 restrictions for 6 weeks starting Wednesday/Thursday this week. This would mean people would be expected to stay home as much as possible (i.e., shelter-in-place), and limit travel for exercise etc. to no more than 5 km / 3 miles from home. All non-essential businesses would have to close, including retail, barbershops, gyms, etc. Outdoor dining would no longer be permitted, and restaurants would only be able to offer take-out / take-away. However, it is expected that schools would remain open. Although many might think my move to Dublin is poorly timed, I’m grateful that I’ve been able to settle in before the restrictions are tightened. I feel like I’ve managed to slip in through a closing door.
As if the impending COVID-19 restrictions weren’t bad enough news, Fungie the Dingle Dolphin has gone missing.
Fungie is (or was) a very friendly male common bottlenose dolphin who first appeared in Dingle Bay in 1983. That would mean he would be in his 40s by now, which is quite old for bottlenose dolphin. Dingle is a small town of ~2,000 in County Kerry located on the jagged southwest coast of Ireland, and became a popular tourist destination thanks in no small part to Fungie’s constant presence over the past 37 years.
Fungie was not just a friendly dolphin, he was known to actively seek out human contact and never left the Dingle Bay for more than a few hours over the years. Apparently he was last sighted on Thursday of the prior week, and after a three day search that uncovered no signs of him, people are fearing the worst. It was quite moving to hear interviews of Dingle locals on RTÉ Radio 1 (Ireland’s version of NPR), who feel as if they have lost a friend. In tribute, here’s a Fungie remix video I found from 2017 (complete with a techno soundtrack): https://youtu.be/jNFosE8p58Y. I’m sure there are videos out there that do him better justice.
My top priority for today is to get a haircut, given the imminent shutdown of barbershops. I have some breakfast, shower and get out the door around 10:30am. But before hunting for a haircut, there is one other errand I decide to get out of the way first, which is stop by a bank to deposit a check made out to my landlord. An envelope addressed to him had arrived in the mail the other week, and after I had sent him a photo of it, he said it contained a check asked if I wouldn’t mind depositing (“lodging”) it for him. It seemed like an odd request, but I suppose it saves him a trip into the city to pick up the check himself, and for me it’s an opportunity to gain some more insights into how banks work here. I wasn’t even sure that checks were still used in Ireland, but apparently they are. My landlord says all I need to make the deposit is to give the teller the check along with his account number (i.e., the same “IBAN” I use when transferring rent to him).
His bank, AIB (Allied Irish Banks) is one of the big four commercial banks here and was nationalised in 2010 in the wake of the 2008 global financial crisis. The Irish government initiated an IPO for AIB in 2017 to attract private investors, but apparently it still owns more than a 70% stake. There’s an AIB branch just a block away from my apartment. In fact, it’s probably one of the flagship locations, as it is located in a building dating back to 1877. A stock photo:
To enter, I have to push a button that unlocks an outer door leading to a small holding area that has another door. Once the outer door is closed, I push another button that signals for the second door to open and allow me into the main bank lobby. An interesting security precaution! The tall ornate ceiling of the lobby reminds me of Wells Fargo’s branch at Montgomery and Post in San Francisco’s Financial District, although the space is much smaller. It appears that only one teller window is open, and there are a couple of people in front of me who each seem to take an inordinate amount of time to finish their transaction; the person in front of me hands over bags of euro coins for deposit. There are plastic barriers set up between the tellers and customers, similar to what you see in grocery stores and other shops, but I notice that none of the bank employees behind the counter seem to be wearing facemasks. That’s surprising, as facemasks are definitely required for customers. When it’s my turn, the young 20-something female teller seems a little puzzled by my explanation of what I’m trying to do, and she says she has to double-check that it’s allowable. She returns with a blank deposit and says I need to fill in the account number, which is a subset of numbers included in the longer IBAN. Another person is waiting behind me, so I take the check and deposit slip back to the raised table top at the start of the line. The other customer is young and seems a bit off… he’s tall, casually dressed, with long hair cut in a sort of punk style, and some tattoos appearing at the edges of his shirt collar and sleeves. I don’t hear any details, but there is desperation in his voice when he converses with the teller, and he walks away looking very distraught after being told there is nothing they can do. Surely there is a story to be told there, but it’s none of my business. I step back up to the counter, and after a few questions confirming the address and phone number for my landlord, the teller deposits/lodges the check, tears off a stub from the deposit slip, stamps it, then and hands it to me as a receipt. This all took longer than expected, but hopefully worth the goodwill earned with my landlord by doing him a favor.
With that errand done, I’m back on the hunt for a haircut. There is a trendy looking place not far from the apartment called “Sugar Daddy” that I’ve passed many times, so I stop by there first, but they are all booked up for the day. They suggest Sam’s, a barber shop a block away that I just noticed recently. It’s located on a small alley directly across Dame Street from Crow Street, and is a nice short-cut from my apartment to an area of winding streets filled with shops and restaurants that eventually meander to Grafton Street, the well-known pedestrian shopping district I’ve mentioned before. Sam’s has the feel of an old school place with wood paneled walls, weathered-leather chairs, old books placed on shelves for no apparent reason, and white-coated barbers. They say they have an opening at 3:30pm for a haircut and beard trim, so I give them my name and feel relieved to have it scheduled.
My friend M with whom I had met up last week for coffee in The Liberties texts me an invite for lunch at his place, but I respond saying I’m going to stay in my part of town and get some errands done. My other pre-lockdown quest is to obtain a few more kitchen items, since shops selling them will also be required to close during the tighter restrictions. There’s a small shop called the “Kitchen Whisk” just down the street where I find a glass baking dish, a lemon juicer, a honing steel for sharpening knives, and some cocktail glasses. Unfortunately what that don’t have is a lidded baking dish, ideally a heavy cast iron dutch oven, that’s small enough to fit in the mini-oven I bought so that I can use its slow-cooker mode. I continue walking and peruse a few shops along Grafton Street and the St. Stephens Green Shopping Centre (a multiple-level mall opened in 1988 that was Ireland’s first “premium shopping center”), but no luck. While heading back in the direction of the apartment along some side streets, I spot a shop on the corner of a newer brick building with windows filled with kitchen stuff. It’s called “Stock Design” and has a similar feel to Sur La Table, only smaller. I navigate through its tightly packed walls, which are stocked with every gadget you could imagine, down and back up some short stairs, to arrive at the the cookware and bakeware section burrowed into a far corner. They carry some cast iron dutch ovens, but they’re too big, so I choose instead a round lidded pyrex dish that should fit. I also pick up some pyrex mixing bowls, a muffin tin, and a wooden spoon. These basics definitely put me in good shape for some real cooking. With arms full of shopping bags now, I return to the apartment to drop everything off, have some lunch, and even get a short nap in before my haircut.
It’s 3:15 when my alarm wakes me up from napping. The rain is still falling lightly, so I put my raincoat back on and head out. It takes all but 5 minutes to get to Sam’s, and I duck under an awning at the nearby shuttered Stag’s Head pub until it’s time for my appointment. Another pub directly across the lane is still open, with patrons sitting around barrels that function as bar tables. The place must serve food if it’s allowed to stay open, but I don’t see anyone with anything other than pints of beer. It seems like a boisterous, blue-collar local crowd based on their heavy accents, loud banter, and hearty laughter. When it’s time, I step into Sam’s wearing a disposal facemask instead of my usual cloth one, since hairs will probably get everywhere. My barber is young man in his 20s, slight of build, with tattooed arms and, if I recall correctly, some ear tunnel piercings. He says his name is Louis when I ask. His accent doesn’t sound native Irish, but it does have the same Irish intonations so it’s difficult to place. Trying to understand a foreigner speaking English with an Irish accent is a new twist to me, and some of my American phrasings cause him to ask me to repeat myself a few times, too, but our interaction is easy going. The experience is indistinguishable from other haircuts I’ve had, except when it comes time for him to wash and rinse my hair, he asks me to sit at the front of the chair and lean forward into the sink with my throat resting on its curved edge instead of leaning backwards as it’s done in the U.S. Next he trims my beard, which only needs some minor touching up and shaping. Then he wraps my face in a hot towel in preparation for a straight-edge razor shave finale. It’s the first time in years that someone other than my hairdresser in San Francisco has cut my hair, but I’m happy with the result (not that there’s much to cutting my short, thinning hair, but still). It costs €45, and I add a €5 tip (I’m not quite sure what’s customary here). It’s a little on the pricey side, but for the convenience and level of service, I’m not complaining.
Having accomplished the critical tasks for the day, I embark on a couple of non-essential errands since I’m already out and have nothing else planned. I’ve been wanting to find some books of poetry by Derek Mahon, a prominent Irish poet who passed away earlier this month as I had learned from listening to Irish news radio. There are two bookstores roughly equidistant from my apartment but in opposite directions; I decided to try the one slighter nearer to me first. On the way there, I pass by Crane Lane and notice a “Merry Christmas” decoration has already been hung:
It’s only after sharing this photo with an Irish friend that I come to realize the background shows a sign for the “Boiler Room” (one of Dublin’s two gay bathhouses, obviously closed during the pandemic). Who knew? I didn’t. Apparently, Crane Lane is known for being one of Dublin’s more seedier alleys, and come to think of it I do recall seeing another sign advertising lap dances….
On the way to the other bookstore, “Books Upstairs,” I remember that the map of Dublin that I had ordered online is supposed to be delivered to Mail Boxes Etc., which is in the same direction I’m heading but a little further on. I decide to call them, and to my amazement, they pick up for the first time without the call going to their answering machine. They say the package arrived earlier today, so good timing! I pass by Books Upstairs around 4:30pm, noting it closes at 5:00pm, but it only takes me 10 minutes to pick up the package and return so I still have 15-20 minutes to browse. There are three bookcases on the back wall dedicated to poetry here, a much better selection than the first place. I find a few volumes of Derek Mahon’s on the shelf, and I pull them out one-by-one for a quick inspection before deciding which to buy. It’s only when I turn back in the direction of the register that I notice a table to the left of the poetry section with all of his works laid out in display, which I should have anticipated given his recent death. I end up picking three of the collections I believe are his more recent ones. An elderly, tall man with almost cliche bookish glasses rings up my purchase. He looks familiar from the time I stopped in during a previous trip. I bring up the topic of the impending shutdown, to which he responds with a nonplussed “We’ll see… maybe Wednesday evening or Thursday?” giving me a reassuring impression that the shop’s survival is not much in doubt.
I head back towards the apartment along some smaller side streets. The outdoor tables set up by restaurants remain full, for now. The bus stops still have lines of workers from their offices, students from their classes, heading home for the day. Dublin has not yet fallen quiet.
