Day Thirteen and Fourteen: Belfast

I have delayed this entry about my trip.  I guess I might be willing to say it was one of the favorites.  I really enjoyed my week in Connemara.   Partly because it was so god damned beautiful.  Partly because I was with a group of friends who were willing to take each day with a zealous attitude of living the moment.  Partly because it was a place where I could see myself living… for a while at least.

But Belfast… made my head spin.   And I was only there for a day and a half.

Day Thirteen: Belfast Part One

I left Ballycastle after breakfast.  I indulged in a few pieces of the typical Ulster fry – eggs, a tomato, a black pudding… maybe bacon (which if you don’t understand the British Isles is more like a thinly sliced fried piece of ham than our American bacon).  I was without a car and took a taxi to Ballymena (there are so many towns and neighborhoods that start with “Bally”).  I had another conversation about the weather.  Normally I hate such topics… but discussing the difference of seasons and way of life is actually fascinating.  Ballycastle gets some snow on a rare occasion (think Florida) and shuts down if the roads freeze.  And yet they were extremely apologetic about the summer being so cold.  I wonder if they realize the varied climates of our country.  Obviously some do… but one taxi driver (and I confess as I write this I can’t remember which commute) asked if it was summer or winter where I lived.  I don’t render that ignorance.  I rendered that a, oh yeah, not everyone knows the details of the USA daily life. 

Anyway… I got a ticket and on the train pretty quickly.  It was rather like the commuter rail and already rather crowded when I got on with my suitcase and backpack and bag.  I had to stand near the door and felt badly for taking up all that space with my baggage.  I suppose that was a good thing that it was so full at 10 o’clock on a Thursday morning.  People wanted to get into the big city of Northern Ireland.  

Then the train stopped.  It didn’t seem too much out of the ordinary having commuted on subways in Boston and London.  Shit happens.  I wasn’t in too huge a rush, as I had a checkin time that was later than the arrival time of my ticket anyway.  But then we were on the last stop before the city proper and the train stalled again.  Then an announcement came on apologizing for an operational delay.  People muttered, but were relatively chill – except for two little girls.  But they were two little girls, so obviously.  I don’t know exactly how much time before a conductor came into our car and announced that the delay was due to the fact there was a person on the tracks.  They weren’t going to let anyone off at that point.  People were still calm – even as there was the observation of police rushing onto the tracks.  We waited some more until the conductor came back and opened up the doors at the back of the car.  The train was being evacuated.  I still don’t know what happened.  I searched the news later in the day.  I saw an ambulance when we got to the car park.   Maybe it was a suicide.  Maybe it was something more.  But people were so… surprisingly unalarmed.

We were given a free pass on the bus.  I had no idea really where to get off.   I got on the bus and got off on the first stop, which was a major downtown spot, where I figured I could track down another taxi.  I still had time to burn.  I stopped for a cup of tea and a chance to check the internet.  The café was a bit crowded.  It was the lunch hour, so I felt weird hogging a whole table with my luggage.  I finished my tea and picked up my luggage to search for a place where taxis lived.  It wasn’t that obvious, so I stopped for another cup of tea where I could sit outside and look at the architecture and watch the cars drive by and the people walk down the sidewalk.  I sat across the street from an abandoned Bank of Ireland building – a sign of the times or a sign of politics, I don’t know.  A few buildings away was a library.  The detail of the buildings was exquisite, even if forlorn.  I didn’t mind spending some more minutes savoring the tea before the time was right to head to the b&b and the café called me a cab.

This driver I remember.  He took me on a slight detour to point out some spectacular buildings and made sure to tell me what streets he knew were safe to walk.  He encouraged a visit to the Ulster Museum (which was already on my itinerary, but I appreciated his endorsement).  The bed and breakfast was in the nicer(est) part of the city.  Less than a mile from the Museum and Queens University.  I already knew from my booking research that it was once a men’s club, now converted to a ‘boutique’ tea house and bed and breakfast.  I was totally swayed by the bright lighting of their photos.  I anticipated some of a letdown when confronted with reality, but the room was comfortable and bright.  The only downside to it (if even that) was the fact I returned to the city and its sounds.  I didn’t mind the rattle of a train nearby.  I rather relished it.  I didn’t care so much that it was above the kitchen exit, where some staff member would hang out for a cigarette break.   But whatever.  I wasn’t in Belfast to hang out in my room all the time.

So even with a morning of travel behind me, I decided to make something productive of my afternoon.  I figured out the Museum was less than a mile from my location, so it was a worthy walk and opportunity to see the neighborhood.  The main street along which I walked had that collegiate town feel.  A lot of diverse restaurants and book shops and funky businesses that one would be more likely to find in a university town.  I turned off the main drag and found a street of terraced houses, most of which were to let as of September.  Definitely college territory.

I found my way to the gates of the Botanic Garden.  I remembered a reference to the garden from the play I did in 2013 about Northern Ireland.  It was something to see the sign in golden letters against cast iron. But I didn’t linger too long about it, as I wanted to get inside the Museum before it closed. 

Today (and before today) my life is about tracking numbers in a museum.  I marvel at the fact that a number of the museums I visited were free and didn’t even require a ticket.  How on earth do you measure the number of visitors?  More than that, what about security?  I mean… I was in Belfast.

I was in Belfast to debunk that prejudice of a city that was in not so distant memory a war zone.  

The Ulster Museum has a floor devoted to art, a floor devoted to natural history, and a floor devoted to history.  I only had an hour (and a half – but time has to be left for the shop).  I went straight to the history floor.

On my way off the landing, I walked passed a giant Celtic cross.  It brought me to the exhibit on the 19^th century.  If I went up a level, I could go back to the 18^th and 17^th, but I was mostly interested in the 20^th.  I did a quick reading of the 19^th century, which talked about the linen industry (must get Mom some linen) and the fact it employed so many women.  The 20^th century had some detail about WWI, a popular topic in Europe.  And then, of course, the Easter Rebellion.  There was a giant copy of the Irish declaration of independence.  It was interesting stuff… but not where my mind was at.

I wrote about this the day after.  The exhibit on the Troubles was so moving.  It was pretty stark.  There were some media images.  But it was mostly narrative of major events from the 60’s through 2007.  2007.  Think about that.  I thought theater drama was a political battle then.  Um… yeah.

There were things I had heard or read about in periphery – from Ourselves Alone or a U2 song.  I read it in silence and with an eerie resonance of what has been happening in Baltimore or Ferguson or in schools and movie theaters and churches across the US.  Some of it made sense.  It came from a civil rights movement and a strong desire to empower the poor.  Some of it was just crazy.  People who took the battle and used it as an excuse to commit violence.  Massive violence.  Terrorism.  And yet… as I walked through it, I got it.  I saw both sides.  I understood the nonsense. I didn’t understand it why it got to that point.  It made me sad.  It moved me.  It filled me with awe.  For those who made peace happen.  For those who lived through it just because what other choice did they have?  For those I passed on the street with the shadow of that still so present in their lives.

And I know I only scratched the surface of understanding.  The exhibit was a summary.  An attempt to be unbiased.  I’m certain in that narrative a lot was edited out.  Perspective is pretty neutral but it remains heartbreaking.  Indeed, they had a walled off area with private desks for people to offer feedback… and memories.

I did head to the shop.  I picked a book that the cashier said was the best to get a good understanding of what happened.  I also got a book about a magic salmon for my nieces (don’t tell them because they haven’t gotten it yet).  

I left not too soon before the museum closed, but there was still enough daylight to justify prolonging my return to the hotel.  I walked into the botanic garden, which was full of people.  I imagine quite a few were just passing through as a shortcut.  But I also saw a number of cameras out taking photos of the brilliant patches of blooms.  I had already visited a couple gardens … and I have to say this was the best.  The most impressive part of that was the fact there was no admission price.  

There is a palm house.  I remember going to the Kew Gardens in London many years ago and loving the white iron structure of the buildings there.  This was similar in design (maybe even the same designer?).  A little smaller than Kew, but still pretty impressive with its giant tropical and funky plants.  One of the wings urged not to eat the decorative peppers.  The other wing had some rather phallic, albeit beautiful pink blossoms.  It was very much a sauna, so I appreciated that cool Irish air all the more when I stepped outside.

I continued around the main path and found my way into the rose garden.  So many varieties and colors.  Some of the petals had fallen, but not in a way that deprived them of their beauty.  There was a pagan throne of some sort at the edge of the garden.  I remember seeing a used condom on the grass there.  I can’t say that surprised me all that much.  A park in the city.  Near a college.  Really.  Not shocking.

The walk through the garden wearied my feet after a long day.  I imagine the emotional drain of the exhibit weighed on me as well.  I summoned my remaining energy to head back to the b&b.  In typical fashion for the trip, I got turned around a bit.  But as I walked down a hill looking at all the terraced houses, I could see the green hills of Ireland in the not so distant beyond.  It was a striking and yet perfectly normal juxtaposition.

I welcomed the collapse onto my Victorian-esque bed and the indulgence of the shortbread cookies left with the tea and water in my room.  Best bed and breakfast ever.

Day Fourteen: Belfast Part Two

I made the decision to take a bus tour.  If you haven’t figured this out from my posts already, I don’t like being amongst tourists.  I also don’t like summary glances of places.  Only… I had just this one day.  Also, I wanted to see the Peace Wall and the murals and Falls Road.  And yes, I am an American.  I was scared to go do that on my own.

I had to take a bus into the city proper.  I called and found out I could get tickets and on the bus at the Opera House.  I waited for the bus and then felt like an idiot when it pulled up and I remembered I was on the wrong side of the road.  So rather than show how dumb I was, I just walked an extra block to the next bus stop where I could cross the street.

That was at the police station.  I passed the police station on my way to and from the museum the night before.  I’ve driven Rte.2 through Concord many times.  The prison there was a benchmark on the journeys to college my first very homesick year at college.  The walls and gate around the police station reminded me more of that complex than the little office at the top of my street.  Our local police has the excess of a Hummer.  But I could stop in any day and not have to pass a high wall with barbed wire.  It was one of those invisible and yet right there in front of me things that said, well… yes, war is over.  But not quite.

The tour bus was a hop on hop off deal.  And apparently when you hop on at the opera house, you have already missed two thirds of the tour.  Fortunately, the remaining third was the part of Belfast I wanted to see.

It was fun.  The tour guide had the prerequisite Irish gift of the gab and cheeky sense of humor.  He also had a not so subtle political streak, as he pointed out the ugliest building in Belfast (the hospital) and wasn’t hesitant about making remarks about Prince Charles and his wife.  Then we were on the street known as the golden mile.  There is a pub there that is known for the significant amount of Guinness they pour each day.  This tour guide explained that this stretch of road was where locals would go to drink when the heart of Belfast was shut down each evening during the Troubles.  Can you imagine that?  Maybe.  I know a lot of people who are scared of the city.  Because.  City.  But even so, to have that fear validated by gates locking you out when you leave work.  

Not all the gates are gone.  

After we left the pub infested street, the bus drove through the part of the city I knew (Queens University) and had to make a remark about the restaurant in the neighborhood that exploited the popular ship built there and called itself Thai Tanic. I didn’t take a picture because my eyes were too busy rolling. 

This guide also wanted to make sure we knew the property values of the house in this part of the city.  I don’t think he was a huge fan of Queens faculty.  Or the division of classes.

Then we came to Falls Road.

The guide pointed out all the Union Jacks flying high.  I had already noticed them when I first drove into Northern Ireland.  Apparently there was a holiday in July that celebrated the victory of William of Orange over the Catholics.  So the British flag was a display of jingoism.  Or two fingers making a V.  Depending on how you look at it.

Then we turned a corner and the Union Jacks were gone.

This part of the city is very clearly divided.  You can see it in the shops.  The flags.  And the murals on the buildings.  There are amazing murals throughout the neighborhood.  Celebrating heroes (or criminals).  Honoring the dead.  The dead are not forgotten.  Both sides have dead.  Both sides grieve.  It’s an amazing observation of their commonality and division all at once.

Someday I need to go back and walk these streets to get an unobstructed view.  And talk to those who remember.

Then the bus turned onto another road with more murals.  The art.  The political statements.  David Cameron is clearly not a hero there.  But Martin Luther King, Jr. and Nelson Mandela are.  Peace is a desire.  Remembering is mandatory.

And then… there was the wall.  Tall.  Green.  Barbed wire.  Gates that still lock every night and through the weekend.  Every night.  Every weekend.  The guide said to us, if you aren’t from here it probably doesn’t make sense to you.  To anyone who has lived there or was born since the 60’s/70s (my generation), that’s just how it has always been.  Always been.  A gate to separate you from your neighbor.  I think my neighbor is an idiot for having a Confederate flag.  But a gate to keep him from stepping into my circle?  And yet… how far away are we from that?  Maybe we don’t have physical gates, but don’t we barricade ourselves with the information we get through cable news and social media?  Segregating ourselves from opposite points of view.

Right.  So the tour then went on to the Crumlin Road Jail, now a major tourist attraction.  I am curious to go there.  Not enough to get off the bus.  I am curious… but I also think it’s weird to go to prison ‘for fun.’  I guess that’s not any weirder than going to a war museum.

Across the street was the Crumlin Road Courthouse.  It is abandoned (though supposedly purchased or funded or whatever) to become some sort of art or learning center.  There was something poetic about the broken windows and greenery growing on the roof.  How much injustice (justice) was served there?

The bus tour ended shortly after that.  But like I said, I missed the first half.  I decided to caffeine up and get back on again an hour later.  To catch up… and as it turns out, get a completely different take on the city.  I got the sense the first guide was more of a republican/nationalist while the second was somewhat more sympathetic to the loyalists.  She didn’t talk about how the Golden Mile was a place to escape the locked city gates or make a snide comment about the incomes of the university faculty.  

I appreciated the contrast, though, as we went back down Falls Road and passed the Peace Wall.  Before that, the bus went down towards the old ship building yard.  There are giant cranes in the water.  They are pretty difficult to miss.  But that’s not the reason the bus goes there.  It’s because that was where the Titanic was built.  Yeah, the Titanic is a pretty massive deal in Belfast.  I can’t say that it interested me tons.  Maybe next time.  The ship has fascinated me since I was ten and they found it on the bottom of the ocean floor (not just because of the movie).  But… that was 100 years ago… and its major history is on the bottom of the ocean floor.

There is a film studio on those docks.  That’s where they film a lot of interiors for Game of Thrones.  That’s another thing that might have intrigued me in another time.  I was more interested in politics.

The bus does bring you to Parliament.  It’s up on a hill.  The bus goes through a security pass where someone comes on to check out for suspicious persons.  I was too late in the day to get a tour, which is ideal to do in the summer when they aren’t in session.  The grounds are impressive though.  Very removed from the city and removed from the people in it.  I wonder about that.

When I got off the bus, I decided to do some gift shopping.  I put off buying a couple gifts when I was in Connemara but wish I hadn’t.  The Irishness of Belfast is cheesy tourist stuff, not the real deal.  But I was able to find some authentic linen for my mom.

I got back to the b&b ready to collapse and ready myself for the next day’s journey.  My head was so full of observation that I am still digesting.  About the city in the past.  In the present.  About where I live.  About our country and the ways we are the same.  Or not the same.  What I don’t see.  And can’t know.

My room was near to the stairs and the manager’s desk on the first (technically second because they use British language where the first is ground) floor.  I made some initially pleasant conversation with the manager on duty, telling her about the bus.  I think she made the apology about the weather.  Asked where I was from.  I can’t remember the segues, but we got into politics.  Wow.  Wow.  Talk about perspective.  She was roughly my age, which means she grew up in that city – was born into that city – in the middle of all that shit.  She was (her own words) cynical about government.  She knew, though, that we had some weird politics. (That Republican debate I didn’t want to acknowledge was the night before.)  Her daughter studied American politics at university, but was going into the arts.  From that she knew that we just improved our healthcare.  I said something about yes, but people want to undo that because they don’t like our president.  She looked at me like I had three heads.  We talked about patronage in government.  We talked about how divisiveness escalates as a mask to the real problems of class.  That it really is about the rich being too rich and the poor not having a chance (I’m paraphrasing), but holy wow.  It was better than the bus tour or the museum.  If I wasn’t dying of thirst and fatigued feet, I could have talked with her all night.  

That is the best thing about going to another country.  Seeing your own country through the eyes of someone who doesn’t live there.  Especially someone who has lived in Belfast through the Troubles.

That is a perspective I find myself clinging to as I settle back into the annoying daily grind of sitting at a computer in a city that has some serious issues, but not war zone serious.  When I see emails about stupid theater drama bs.  When I see Facebook posts complaining about the Donald or a phony football scandal or using any language that divides and diminishes opposite beliefs.

Because the thing I loved about Belfast, that I enjoyed about that manager and the staff that worked with her, the taxi drivers, the Starbucks barista, the tour guides… they were all so kind.  Maybe this is just me projecting my own conclusions on them.  But the kindness had an authenticity – a real desire for the outcome of good – that I haven’t seen any place else.  Because they knew the severity of the alternative.

Even if that is my imagination, I want to remember it.  The value of seeking the commonality.  The strength of getting beyond conflict.  The beauty of a rebirth.

I want to go back.