Walking in Europe, Vol. II
What would James Joyce think about my trek through Dublin?
'Walking in Europe’ is a continuation of the ‘Walking in America’ series that documents what it’s like to walk in America. You can view previous volumes here.
Hungover from a wedding in Ireland and with time to kill before my flight back to Paris, I committed myself to the most literary of transportation methods: I walked the 6.8 miles (or 11 kilometers) from St. Stephen’s Green in central Dublin to the city’s airport.
I’ve just finished reading James Joyce’s Ulysses, which, at its core, is about two pedestrians who don’t want to return to their respective homes. Stephen Dedalus and Leopold Bloom would not recognize Dublin today. The city that Joyce had them experience on June 16, 1904, was devoid of motor vehicles and commercial airliners. (The Wright brothers would have taken flight at Kitty Hawk just six months earlier.)
And thank God. It is an urban hellscape out there. I documented my walk to show my fellow Americans how lucky we have it. Why walk and burn calories and experience the city when we can sit in vehicles and turn off our brains? Why exist in public when we can recess to the semi-private space of our cars? And why even have sidewalks? They just get in the way of more traffic lanes.
Consider the pictures and commentary below as your reminder that driving in expensive and dangerous privately-owned vehicles is the highest form of humanity.
Fusiliers’ Arch at St. Stephen’s Green is my starting point. I’m confused why the archway is so narrow. They couldn’t fit an SUV through it.
Trinity College, whose campus’ western entrance is pictured above, is beautiful and all, but the parking situation must be a nightmare. Even worse: where can Postmates/Uber Eats delivery workers park? If all else fails, they can put on their hazard lights and park on the trolley tracks. In the U.S., no one is ever inconvenienced or put in danger when a driver invents their own parking space and traffic laws.
Ulysses crosses the River Liffey several times, though I do it just once, thankfully.
Charles Stewart Parnell, commemorated here, is something of an Irish hero, though not a perfect one. He was a leader in the nationalist movement against the United Kingdom, and he was a powerbroker in British Parliament in the 1880s. But in 1889 Parnell was party to a rare divorce proceeding, which resulted in a national crisis—the Church was not happy, nor were many of his partisans. Ultimately, his movement collapsed. Parnell’s shadow looms over Ulysses, which holds a mirror up to Irish nationalism, and his legacy spices up the thoughts and dialogue of Joyce’s characters. It’s all very complex. Like this intersection. Ban bus lanes, amirite?
Far in the background lies Croke Park, one of Ireland’s large-capacity venues. How anyone gets there—or would want to get there—without surrounding surface parking lots the size of Andorra is beyond my comprehension.
I usually insert commentary after a photo, but the next one warrants a trigger warning: A street with bike lanes, a bus lane, and a tree canopy.
Did you even go to Dublin if you didn’t get a mid-walk spice bag from Abra Kebabra in the Drumcondra neighborhood?
More horror scenes.
Finally, some culture.
At one point, I come across the Santry Demesne, a 72-acre public park that was once palatial grounds. Perhaps it could become the satellite parking for Croke Park.
As Joyce wrote, I’m almosting.
The End.
Again, dispatch from the land of $6.50/gallon (California): we’ll just keep driving, thanks!
Incredible, as always.
Also, should I read Ulysses?