I must beg your pardon, if you’re still here. I can’t even believe how long it has been since I’ve had a minute to breathe, let alone write and research. It turns out that the greedy landlord problem is growing on both sides of the puddle – and I have recently been a victim of it myself. I lived in the same place for nearly two decades until this month when I was forced out of what might have been the last affordable place in the Bay Area.
No matter where you are in Ireland, Dublin is not usually more than a few hours away. Yes, if you don’t have a car (and who can with those insurance rates?) it can be a hassle to get to, but nearly every region has some form of direct transportation in and out of Dublin. That’s important because I’m about to suggest that you take advantage of those routes and hightail it over to the city this weekend.
On June 30th, 1890 a horrible tragedy struck the O’Connor family in County Dublin. John O’Connor was a well-known journalist and Nationalist politician. He was the M.P. of West Wicklow and a family man who had a loving wife and five young children. This seemingly adoring family was torn apart when almost all of them were fatally poisoned. Only John O’Connor and one of his daughters survived.
I never get to quit talking about Moore Street. Hopefully one day that will change, but so far this has not been the case. These days backroom deals and crooked politicians are commonplace and a world-wide problem but one of the most egregious examples of that type of thing is the continuing battle over Moore Street in Dublin.
Well, you learn something new every day. Yesterday I attended a Bernie Sanders rally in Oakland, CA which was the very last place I thought I’d learn a new tidbit of Irish history but I was mistaken. One of the speakers had just returned from the North of Ireland. He butchered the pronunciation of Sinn Fein but he told the crowd that Bernie Sanders was one of the only politicians in the United States (and the world) who had taken the time to write an angry message directly to Margaret Thatcher in 1981.
I arrived in Derry during a downpour, even though the sun was still peeking through the gathering storm clouds. By the end of the trip, I felt like the weather was a perfect metaphor for the city itself. Derry is rare. It is dark, but light pierces through it. It is grey but full of color. It is gathering and ready, but still and waiting. It is tragic and beautiful. Derry is a very special place.
My trip to Derry can’t be put into one post. There’s just too much to the city to compress it into one little tale and it is too special to me. It started when I bought a ticket to ‘Derry’ and the bus driver said he didn’t know where that was, but that he’d be happy to drive me to ‘Londonderry.’ This city is a complicated place, full of pride and controversy. Unlike it’s neighbors in the north, it has no towering, man-made “peace” walls, but it remains segregated and even its name is still hotly contested, as I learned that day. Its Loyalist population feels like its culture is under attack and being stripped away, just as they do in other parts of the region. This post is about their side of the river Foyle, in the town that many of them still call Londonderry.