St. Paddy's Day – Dublin

On St. Patrick's Day Eve we came across a mass of people on O'Connell Bridge in downtown Dublin. Most were schoolboys, dressed in black and white striped shirts and chanting the school anthem and fired in a frenzy. Some climbed onto lampposts and leaned from the posts with one foot, and a hand clutching on. Some waved a half black, half white flag in the air. Other passerby's had stopped also, some like us, just to see what the rage was all about.

I had to pull a schoolboy aside and inquire what was going on. Their team, Belvedere College, had just won the prestigious Leinster Senior Cup in rugby over their cross-town rivals, St. Mary's College. Belvedere College is an all-male secondary school that is equivalent to high school in the United States. This private Jesuit school produced such greats as Liam O'Flaherty and James Joyce.

Tradition decrees that the cup be walked over O'Connell Bridge from the south side (where St. Mary's College is situated), to the north side (the location of Belvedere College). We were lucky enough to be at the right place at the right time. The Leinster Senior Cup finals are held every year close to St. Patrick's Day.

Quite a crowd had gathered by now and the Garda (Irish police) were attempting to block off traffic to the bridge. The team was conveyed by bus to one side of the bridge, then let out with the trophy. Crazy schoolboys began to cheer and onlookers held their cameras up high to reach over the heads of the horde. When the team began to make their way forward, with the large silver cup in hand, their classmates rushed forward and mobbed them in celebration.

The rugby team wore black sport jackets and ties, and the boy carrying the cup was carried on shoulders. Others high-fived the crowd, and every rugby player had a permanent smile on his face. I vied for a position, along with everyone else, trying to gain any glimpse I could of the boys and their trophy.

The celebration slowly passed us and worked its way up O'Connell Street, past the statue of Jim Larkin and the Dublin Spire. There wasn't a better way to begin our St. Patrick's Day Eve than with a little serendipity.

Our subsequent wanderings took us past a street preacher on a soapbox and for a brief visit to the grounds of Trinity College. Then we happened upon the amusement rides at Merrion Square.

Hundreds of tickets littered the ground and all the rides of pleasure seemed to scream at a hundred miles an hour, their lights blaring and flashing. Every ride made me sick to my stomach just from watching. Some spun around in circles at NASCAR speeds, while others jolted the riders up and down like a hammer. Fast-pitched music boomed out of speakers. Juxtaposed behind the amusement rides was the calmness of the red-bricked Georgian buildings, with smoke wafting from the chimney stacks.

One of the rides, that spun patrons in vertical circles while twirling them like a wheel, was called American Trip. A drawing of the Hollywood Hills covered the backdrop, along with pictures of Marilyn Monroe, a football player, and Elvis.

These rides were on a street adjacent to Merrion Square. While walking through the square itself, which is a grass-filled park, we came across a large orange and pink domed tent with traditional folk music coming from inside. A few people danced on the grass outside, but the real action was in the tent.

We opened the flap and peeked inside and found three men and a lady playing instruments in front of a small crowd. I saw an accordion, xylophone, drum, and violin in action. One of the men wore a long white-sleeved shirt with a fancy scarlet vest, and a black hat. They sounded very good, and we quickly learned that they were Polish and playing music from their home country. Unfortunately, this was their last song and soon they were done for the night.

From Merrion Square we walked to Grafton Street, a quaint pedestrian road known for its high-end shopping. The sun had set by now and street lamps illuminated the walkway. Hundreds of people moved in each direction, some slowing to gawk in windows, others hand-in-hand with a lover, and some just anxious to arrive at their destination.

A lady with a fleece coat and black gloves sat next to a shoe store window and played Celtic music on her harp. Down the street we watched an Asian man in nylon warmups bounce a soccer ball on his head, his feet, and his knee, while standing, kneeling, and even lying down, looping it through his leg, and never letting it touch the ground.

Three men were blowing up skinny balloons and tying them in shapes of dogs and flowers. They seemed very friendly. While my wife was filming, one asked, in a deep Irish brogue, where we were from. After she responded to his question, he approached her camera and breathed deeply onto the lens. “Everybody in Utah,” he announced, “welcome to foggy Dublin!”

That was our Sunday in Dublin, the precursor to the biggest festival of the year in Ireland, and a day that is celebrated world-wide. As we rode the tram back to our hotel room, while watching the city lights as we crossed the River Liffey, I couldn't help but to be excited for what we would experience the next day. If our St. Paddy's Day Eve was this good, then who knew what we'd find on the festival day itself.

St. Patrick's Day is a curiosity in Ireland. While Boston and New York City both began their parades in the 1700's, Dublin didn't celebrate the holiday like they do now until the mid-1990's. St. Patrick's Day was originally a religious holiday in Ireland. Citizens celebrated it by attending church and perhaps serving a special dinner in the home.

When Irish began immigrating across the Atlantic, they chose to celebrate on March 17th to remember the country they came from. From those roots, the festivities grew into what they are today in much of the United States.

As for Ireland, it was the very last of the twentieth century when the holiday morphed from religious to secular. The Irish government made the move in part to showcase their culture and promote tourism. I learned from reading the local newspaper that the St. Patrick Day holiday is still debated by the Irish. I will include excerpts from the two contrasting points of views:

Against St. Patrick's Day - “St. Patrick's Day shames me. It is the only day of the year where I wish I wasn't Irish. Each time March 17 comes around I have tried to overlook my disgust at the way our national holiday is 'celebrated.'  Each year I vow not to venture onto streets festooned with litter and people that act like they are auditioning for a part in the next Night Of The Living Dead movie. It usually starts positively enough with a mass turnout for the parade – a ritualistic procession that's improved in content over the years, particularly in Dublin where the organisation has injected some international glamour into the event. But once that's out of the way, Ireland turns ugly . . . . the vomit on the streets will attest to that come tomorrow.” - John Meagher

In favour of St. Patrick's Day - “Paddy's Day . . . manages to retain an ability to express the unique genius of the Irish people . . . . Despite all the corny corporatisation of the event, and the fact that the whole thing was foisted on us by Americans, Paddy's Day remains a place to conspire against wholesomeness and sobriety. Instead of screaming 'won't somebody please think of the children,' we should get over it and realise children are a lot more resilient than we give them credit for.” - Alan O'Riordan

In spite of the debate, Jenelle and I were all for St. Paddy's Day in Dublin. On the morning of March 17^th, we arose and ate the full Irish breakfast, buffet-style. For anyone that doesn't know about the full Irish breakfast, it consists of rashers, sausages, fried tomatoes, fried mushrooms, and a fried egg. Sometimes it is served with baked beans or blood sausage, known locally as white or black pudding. Brown soda bread and marmalade also come with the meal. It is very filling and satiates well into the afternoon.

To our surprise, eating with us in the hotel cafeteria, was a marching band from Youngstown, Pennsylvania. They would be marching in the parade. These kids were in high school, and I would imagine that this would be the experience of a lifetime.

We didn't know what to expect with the parade, so we took the tram into downtown Dublin and arrived two and a half hours early. We had staked out a spot right across the street from Christ Church Cathedral and decided it was the perfect place to watch.

Yes, we had arrived with plenty of time to spare. The barricades separating the the parade route from the spectators had been set up, but only a few people were loitering around to ensure a front-row spot. We watched the Garda mingled among themselves and engaged in lighthearted chat. A potato chip truck stopped nearby and handed out bags of “crisps.”

It didn't take long, however, for the crowds to began their way to the barricades. They dressed in long green ties, tall emerald hats, and long carrot-red beards. They waved Irish flags and painted shamrocks on their faces. The atmosphere of the festival was now beginning to emerge.

All we had to do now to secure our front-row spot was wait another hour or so in the cold. And when I say cold, I mean frigid. For the first time on our little trip, we saw patches of blue sky. But those blue skies were very misleading. The night before when we watched the weather report, they showed the jet stream moving directly from the north, and from the cold Atlantic waters west of Scandinavia. We wore our green stocking caps and knit gloves to mask the arctic chill.

At last the parade began. The mayor of Dublin led the parade, riding in a chariot that looked like it was made for Cinderella. What followed for the next hour and a half was the most amazing parade that I have ever seen!

All the music was fast-beat and catchy, and the pace of the parade never stopped. The costumes were bizarre and colorful, and most lack description of what they really were – something from another planet. The parade-goers danced, interacted with the crowd, walked on stilts, and juggled fire. They dressed as aliens and insects, fairies and acrobats.

A giant St. Patrick, with a long red beard and a faulty left eye, rode a large three-wheeled motorcycle, powered by several busy feet beneath the float, Flintstones style. We had seen this same float the night before in Merrion Square.

I was impressed with the large number of marching bands. With the exception of at least one, they were all from the United States. We even saw our breakfast buddies from Youngstown, Pennsylvania. I get the impression that the Irish are proud of their American cousins.

[As a side-note, I asked a local about the tradition we have in the States where we get to pinch somebody if they're not wearing green. They replied that they had never heard of this tradition, and I got the impression that they thought it was a little silly.]

A bagpipe band, dressed in kilts, played “The Final Countdown” by Europe. A girl's school from Hiroshima, Japan danced. Giant balloons in the shape of owls and dragons, floated and bobbed over the crowd, touching off screams when they hovered too close.

By the time the parade was over, we were thoroughly impressed and excited for the rest of the day. I will admit that we had no concrete plans. My only strategy was to roam around the streets, and surely something would come along.

Our first move was to find a bite to eat. I envisioned coming across a grassy park, much like I find in my own hometown, where booths would be set up, selling all the local Irish food: stew, shepherd's pie, coddle, and maybe even corned beef and cabbage (although I knew it was an American invention). We couldn't find anything. Only lots of people roaming the streets, acting like hooligan's.

Maybe we were in the wrong part of town, but we weren't even finding but a few pubs. And the pubs we did find looked either too crowded or too overpriced. I cringe to say where we ate lunch that day . . . at Quiznos. Yes, we traveled all the way across the Atlantic for St. Paddy's day to eat a sandwich at the Powerscourt shopping center in Dublin. It was the first time I had ever eaten at a Quiznos, despite the fact that there is one in my hometown!

The next five hours seem like a blur when I think back on them. Nothing very memorable happened. We returned to Grafton Street. No buskers this time. Only wall-to-wall people. We tried sneaking into Burger King to use the restroom, but were denied.

Someone referred us to side-street off O'Connell. By the time we walked there, the vendors were cleaning up. At this point, our St. Paddy's day had shifted from excellent, to very anticlimactic. Perhaps John Meagher was correct in his analysis of the holiday.

We had just passed the line of statues on O'Connell Street and the trees of Parnell Square. Dusk was setting in, and silhouetted against a dimming sky, an old church with a very tall steeple caught our attention. (We later learned that this was the Abbey Presbyterian Church, and it was nearly 150 years old.) It sat on the corner and we walked to get a closer look. Then Jenelle noticed the poster: St. Patrick's Day Ceili at Abbey Church. We stood there contemplating the sign, obviously stumped by the word ceili, trying to figure out what it meant, when a young lady passing by invited us in. “Would you like to come in and watch the dancing? It is free. You should come in!”

We passed through a wooden door and descended narrow steps to the basement of this old stone church. A very sweet old man and his wife were teaching a room-full of kids some traditional Irish dancing. A band played an accordion, guitar, fiddle, and flute. Balloons and streamers festooned the room. A table in the corner served refreshments.

Although we were the obvious intruders, the people there treated us very kindly and didn't mind our observing. The old man with silvered hair looked dignified in his tweed jacket and striped tie. He held the microphone close to his lips, and step by step taught the kids how to move around the floor.

“Ladies cross . . . now gents cross. Now in, two, three; in, two, three; back, two, three; back, two, three. Take your partner and swing them 'round.”

As he taught, his wife, dressed in black pants and a knit sweater, with a perfectly permed head of hair, watched studiously at the students and corrected any mistake they may have made.

After several minutes of instruction, the band began to play, and at once, the room became a festive dance hall. Dancers skipped and pranced around, taking their partners by the hand and hopping to the beat. All the kids grinned and laughed as they danced. Many knew the jig well and moved their feet with great skill. Others were just happy to be there and rolled with the flow.

We left the basement of that church, feeling satisfied that we had salvaged any disappointment that we had experienced on St. Patrick's Day. By the time we had returned to O'Connell Street, the night had completely set in.

We had one more stop that to make. I had to buy a t-shirt to prove that I was in Dublin on St. Paddy's Day. We found a gift shop that seemed to have all that I needed. We also bought a copy of the Irish Independent. On the cover was a large photo of a Belvedere rugby player raising the Leinster Cup.

Oughterard, Ireland

This is nuts! We are standing in the recess of a building, watching rain pound down onto the street. We have our umbrellas, but this downpour would still make any venture into the outside world miserable.

We stepped off the bus at 10:40 after a seventeen mile ride from Galway, in western Ireland. Things weren't looking good during the ride over. Wet drops continually pattered on the large glass of the bus, constantly wiped away by the rifle-sized wipers. Swish, shwash, shwish, shwash . . . And the houses and the fields that we watched pass by through the window were all bogged down with puddles and mud. What did we expect? This was, after all, the Emerald Isle, and there is no other way that it could reach such verdant colors without a lot of rain.

Once off the bus, we made a brisk getaway to the tourist office, our umbrellas over and in front of our heads, to the point that we could barely see. You see, Oughterard was not our first choice for a day-trip from Galway. No, our plan was to travel to Clifden, a quaint little village on the Atlantic Coast. That is the place that I researched. But once we arrived in the Galway and I got looking at the bus schedules, I learned that public transportation in Ireland wasn't quite as efficient as it was in other places in Europe. In short, we decided that a visit to the completely unknown village of Oughterard was the best use of our time. It was a roll of the dice. Either way, our objective was to experience an authentic Irish village.

“How may I help you?” asked the lady in the tourist office. She spoke in a contagious Irish accent and quickly gave us a rundown on what the little town of 2,000 people had to offer. She gave us a complimentary map and pointed out where a candle-making factory was located. West of town, along the main road there was a waterfall.

We couldn't help but notice the life-size cardboard cut-out of John Wayne in the room. In 1951, he starred in the locally filmed movie “The Quiet Man” with Maureen O'Hara. After nearly sixty years, the Duke is still an icon here.

We left the tourist office and passed some time inside a local grocery store, hoping the rain would end. Then we found this little shelter next to someone's doorway, which is where we stand now. We are right on Main Street - tiny, two lanes and laid back. A miniature car moves past and water spews from its tires. Like any Irish town, the buildings all connect together; some gray, yellow, lavender, or white. Smoke wafts from the smokestacks of the chimneys.

After ten minutes, the dial on the rain is turned down and we decide that this is our chance. With umbrellas over-head, we venture into the open. We walk west, not sure exactly where we are going.

Before long, we approach a church. It immediately captures my attention. The lady at the tourist office said nothing about this building, but I can see that it is the quintessential Parrish church in Ireland. To be exact, it is the Kilkummin Parrish Church. The exterior walls are made of gray stone and the arched windows are pointed with lattice motifs. The bright blue door matches my jacket.

Nobody is on the grounds and the door is locked. Suddenly we realize that the rain has stopped completely and we put away our umbrellas. The church itself is simplistically beautiful, but what catches my attention the most is the graveyard that is within the fence of the church. This is one aspect of Irish churches that fascinates me. It is as if the juxtaposition of the church and the graveyard create a more sacred atmosphere. We walk along the rain-soaked churchyard and admire the headstones. Some are block stones, others crosses. Yet, it is the Celtic Cross that I admire most - a large cross with a ring around the intersection, a truly iconic figure throughout Ireland.

After the church, we continue our stroll, walking west along Clifden Road. A bridge crosses the Owenriff River and soon we find that we are no longer in the center of town. The houses are no longer stacked side-by-side with virtually no room between them. Now they become further apart, with miniature manicured lawns in front. Giant green shrubbery grows along the road-side.

Along the road there is a modest, little park along-side the Owenriff River. A picnic table sits atop the grassy river-side, and a stone bridge crosses the swiftly-running river. The river is probably small by Irish standards, but good-sized compared with streams in Utah. The water appears clear and cold, with black sand beneath the current. Green comes from everywhere: thick blades of grass, leaf-laden branches, and moss growing up the trunk of the trees. A web of roots seem to protrude everywhere along the ground.

Jenelle and I walk along a skinny sidewalk until we arrive at a narrow alley-way on our left. The lady at the tourist office explained that this would lead to the waterfall. A five-foot high rock fence on both sides, just wide enough for me to touch each wall when I spread my arms, creates this path that leads directly between two houses. Even though the rock wall separates us from a neighboring back yard, I feel like I am trespassing. Making the walk a little more intriguing is that there are large, moss-covered, gnarled trees right in the middle of the path. The rock walls are covered with splashes of moss also.

The walk, however, is anti-climatic. We reach the waterfall and it is no Havasupai Falls, but rather a patch of quickly descending white-water. Oh, well. The adventure is in the journey.

We return the way we came. The streets are still wet. I notice a banner hangs from wires, spanning from one side of the street to the other, with large green letters reading, “St. Patrick's Day Parade Oughterard at 1 pm.” That is in just four more days. We will be in Dublin.

We return toward the center of town, coming to the bridge that crosses the river, but instead of crossing the bridge, we stay on the left bank and find a small path that follows the river, now with no other roads nearby. A gray-stone fence is on our left and the Owenriff River, as clear and clean as a river can be, is on our right.

The path meets up with Glann Road where we see a large field with a stone fence, and two horses feeding on grass. These horses appear to be shorter than a normal horse. I immediately wonder if they are Connemara Ponies. I have no way to tell, and have no                                                                           reason to speculate this other than the truth that we                                                                                 are in Connemara.

One of them breaks from feeding and steadily walks toward us, offering herself for us to pet. Jenelle strokes the gray forehead and cheeks. Her neck has a hint of brown and the mane looks like the hair of a fifty year old man, who once had beautiful dark hair, but is beginning to gray. We take turns with the animal, then let her return to feed.

We continue on our journey, not knowing exactly what to expect next, but knowing the general direction that we want to go. A narrow, unpaved lane turns off of Camp Street, and we follow it past fences crawling with vines and small pastures with cattle and a horse. We arrive again at the Owenriff River, although now it is not running swiftly and is much wider than it was before. The map identifies this place as the boathouse. Several small skiffs of multiple colors are docked at the shore. All are worn and many are half-filled with water, showing that it has rained several times since last used. Canvas tarps are wrapped around to protect some of the motors, and oars are strapped across the seat. Old tires are positioned between the boats to keep them from bumping each other.   

The reason for the river becoming wider at this point is because the Owenriff River is approaching Lough Corrib, or Corrib Lake as we Americans would say. We leave the boathouse and head in the direction of the lake. We turn onto another narrow road. They are all narrow here. Small enough for one vehicle. We are on Pier Road. We walk along, admiring the verdant pastures and green shrubbery that appear to grow everywhere. Daffodils are in bloom now. Occasionally we spot a country home with a narrow dirt drive leading to it, usually placed back, away from the road, nestled within a grove of trees. The lane we follow is very quiet, and there are no vehicles to drive by and molest us.

We travel the road as far as it will take us and arrive at the pier, a small cement walkway that creeps into the waters of the lake. Lough Corrib is the second largest lake in Ireland and supposedly is an anglers paradise, full of brown trout, salmon, pike and perch. It drains through the River Corrib to the sea near Galway, approximately twenty miles away.

We aren't here to fish, however. Only to swing our feet off the edge of the pier and perhaps dip our fingers into its frigid waters. The lake is large, and we are only able to see a few hills off in the distance.

We leave the lake and turn onto another narrow lane, this one gravel, with large trees creating a canopy over the road. The web of branches on our right and left block any view of what lies beyond. The graveled lane gives way to a two-track road with grass growing between the two ruts. Bog Road is the name of this passageway, and rightfully so as we our view now opens up to acres of bog-land, yellow and orange in color. We still catch glimpses of the lake and the little dirt lane that we walk on has caught puddles of rain water from the last several days.

We come along a pile of peat, surely that had been dug from the mire of the bogs, and stacked along the side of the road in rectangular-shaped bricks. I had heard of peat in Ireland and how they use it to burn in their stoves and heat their homes. The peat is dark in color and has the same appearance as steer manure, without the smell.

Not too far beyond the peat stacks, the land opens up and on our left is a modern cemetery. We don't have a whole lot of time before we need to catch the bus, but we use what time that we can afford to wander through its lanes. Names like O'Connor, Clancy, and Maloney abound throughout, on old headstones, new headstones, plain, and elaborate. Some inscriptions are in English and others in Irish. With particular interest to me are the Celtic Crosses. It is a symbol that has persisted through the centuries, existing on the most modern memorials.

We arrive at the main road that leads into town, having completely circumvented the entire northern half of the village. A narrow sidewalk next to Clifden Road is the pathway we walk on now, passing fields and empty pastures, and then arriving to the larger clusters of buildings, the white and lavender-colored houses connected together with sharply pointed roofs and chimney stacks coming out of each section. We also pass a traditionally thatched cottage.

We come to the bus stop and realize that we still have twenty minutes until the bus comes. Nearby there is a pastry shop that is almost vacant of people and pastries. We                                                                        both find something from the scarce selection and satiate                                                                            our tummy's while sitting at a table.

Not a bad day considering that we were worried that it wouldn't stop raining. We didn't even get a chance to explore all we wanted. A couple of miles east of town is Aughnanure Castle. As we travel toward Galway in the bus, we look for the castle, but can't find it. It must be positioned further off the road.

We watch the countryside and listen to the radio from within the bus. There is a major security breach at Heathrow Airport. A man with a rucksack walked onto the runway.

Saltair

It's Friday night, and a long line of punk kids snakes from the front door, fills the wide sidewalk, and extends well into the parking lot. Black seems to be the color du jour. Black pants, black shirts, and black hair. Some have pink hair and others purple. Here and there are clouds that bellow into the air. Some from cigarettes and others from vape pens.

We are at Saltair on the south shore of the Great Salt Lake. The kids are in line for a double concert: Pierce the Veil and Sleeping with Sirens. Until recently, I hadn't heard of either of them. I still don't care for their music. That is why my son and his friend are in line and I'm not. I conceived the idea that I could bring my camera and wander around taking pictures. I also threw a mattress and sleeping bag into the back of the vehicle for later. I brought a book and journal. Enough to keep me occupied for six hours on a cold January evening.

First of all, let me say that there is nothing else around here. No gas stations, no stores, no hotels. Nothing. Across the freeway is a refinery for the Kennecott Copper Mine. That's it. There aren't even bathrooms outside the building . . . which has me worried. Just a parking lot, the edifice of Saltair, and the Great Salt Lake, which at this corner of the lake doesn't exist. The nearest body of water is at least a couple hundred yards from shore. All that's here is mud.

The sky is overcast, the air is humid and cold, and light rain sprinkles from time to time. No beautiful sunset, no seagulls playing on the shore, and from where my car is parked, I am practically trapped inside the parking lot. This evening might be more of a challenge than I anticipated.

The original Saltair was completed in 1893. The pictures I see of the original building look nothing like Utah, but more like a scene from India. The palace stood on a platform in the midst of the lake, supported by 2,500 pilings. The pavilion was 100 feet high, and people could dance on what was advertized as the world's largest dance floor. The roof had several onion-shaped domes that gave the appearance of a mosque. Some photographs even offer a resemblance of a miniature St. Basil's Cathedral in Moscow.

The Mormon Church built Saltair. At this time they were trying to put polygamy behind them and bring the church more into the mainstream. One of the objectives with Saltair was to create a “Coney Island of the West” to demonstrate that Utah was not a strange place. Another objective was to create “a wholesome place of recreation” for its members. I don't think that they had Pierce the Veil and teenagers puffing with vape pens in mind when they made that goal.

During Saltair's golden years from 1893 to 1924, it saw mechanical rides, Ferris wheels, roller coasters, swimming, and dancing. During these years, Saltair saw more than a million visitors.

In April of 1925, a fire broke out and destroyed most of the building. The years that followed were up and down with more fires, flooding, low lake-levels, war-time non-use, and finally, abandonment. In 1970, the original structure burned down for good.

In 1982, Saltair III, which is the one where I now am, was built. Less than a year after it opened, this new palace was ¼ mile from the Great Salt Lake due to drought conditions and a receding shore line. The following year there was a bumper crop of water in Utah and the pavilion of Saltair III was under five feet of water!

Saltair III, I've decided, is no Saltair I. It is a bland, rectangular-shaped building with a few of the onion domes on top, but none as spectacular as the originals. It is built on the shore, instead of on pilings that reach into the distance of the lake. And worst of all, an ugly parking lot surrounds the building. I came with the idea that I would take photographs during the concert, but it is difficult to create a good angle without blacktop and cars in the background. That's alright. The lighting is poor anyway, and the lake level is incredibly low. Nothing is lining up for a good photograph.

I wander down at the shore of the lake where the bulrushes grow. There is a narrow strip of dry sand between the bulrushes and lake mud and I maneuver between the two to find an angle where the bulrushes block out the parking lot. Surprisingly, the lake-stink isn't present now. I notice other concert-goers wandering by the shore also.

Above the rocky south bank, there is a quiet road that runs from Saltair to the Great Salt Lake Marina, two miles away. Between that road and the freeway is a pond of water, surrounded by more bulrushes and a few small trees.  Beyond the pond and beyond the freeway are the Oquirrh mountains and the Kennecott smokestack.

I wander around for about forty-five minutes before I decide that it's time to take a break and retire to my vehicle and read a book. Like I stated, we more or less have a front-row parking spot, and now that all the kids are in the building and the concert has started, I'm not far from having a front-row concert seat also. The music is blaring beyond the walls, and I can see the strobe lights through the large glass windows. I am able to make out many of the words they sing. I can even hear the girls scream. It will be a fun six hours.

I read in my vehicle and watch the occasional pinprick of rain land on the windshield. Every drop of daylight has now vanished and I know that I want to get out one more time and take some night photos with my tripod. The slight, but constant mist from the sky makes me hesitant. Finally, I decide to man-up, and begin my second tour of the premises.

I commence by wandering around the muddy shore of the lake. I don't know if the lake level was recently higher, but all the earth within the basin of the lake is wet, and I don't dare walk there. Instead, I skirt around the edges, near the bulrushes, and try to work my way behind the Saltair building. The mud is becoming greater and there are large puddles of standing water. In addition to that, the rear lights of Saltair are not even illuminated. I decide that I have no picture worth taking.

Alternatively, I turn to the empty lake bed and see a possible photograph. The muddy wallow is full of divots and ruts, and the light coming from the parking lot accents the interesting texture. I set up my tripod and take a shot with the shutter open for ten seconds. I am pleasantly surprised with a result that looks like the landscape of the moon.

I return to the pavement of the parking lot and walk to the opposite side of the building in search of that quintessential night shot that I had conceived in my mind. I envisioned a photograph like the many I took of the monuments in southern Spain at night. But I can't find it. The first problem is the parking lot lights: too bright and too close to the subject. The second problem is the subject itself: Saltair III is certainly no Alhambra Palace. Half the dome lights are snuffed out, and the building is just . . . lackluster.

I find myself back on the quiet road that runs from Saltair to the Great Salt Lake Marina. The January air is taking its toll on my body. The tips of my ears and fingers are turning numb. A small drop of snot is at my nose and I am having to constantly wipe it away.

It is the smokestack that really draws my attention. On the other side of the freeway, placed in the foreground of the Oquirrh Mountains, the Garfield smokestack stands as majestically as the Washington Monument . . . only it's twice as tall! This very tall cement chimney stands 1,215 feet high. That makes it by far the highest man-made structure in Utah and the loftiest freestanding structure west of the Mississippi. It is just thirty-five feet lower than the Empire State Building and is the 31^st tallest freestanding structure in the world!

The smelter belongs to Kennecott Copper, who also owns the Bingham Canyon Mine, the largest man-made excavation in the world. Kennecott knows how to do things BIG.

The reflection of the lights shimmy on the little pond between the desolate road where I stand and the freeway. I watch the smoke or steam as it bellows from another location next to the Garfield smelter. I set up my tripod on the road and experiment with different shots. An orange hue projects onto the clouds that are closer to the Salt Lake Valley. The willows in front of the pond silhouette against the water.

My time outside, in the chill of night, is ready to end. A man can only stand such discomfort for a time. I wander back to my vehicle and crawl into my sleeping bag that I have rolled out on top of a thick foam mattress. I push plugs into my ears and pull a long stocking cap over my eyes. I can still hear the bass of the music thumping in the background, but it is now mellow enough that I can close my eyes and snooze for just a while longer.

References

Allen, C.D. "Saltair, a Unique Resort." UC Denver. 1993. Web. 25 Feb. 2015

Arave, Lynn. "Holy Smokes: Kennecott Smelter, Utah's Tallest Man-made Structure, to turn 35." Deseret            News. 16 Nov. 2006. Web. 25 Feb. 2015

McCormick, John S. "Saltair." Utah History to Go. 2014. Web. 25 Feb. 2015

Sevilla

First impressions are always interesting. When I first traveled to Sevilla, in southern Spain, I expected to find sunny skies and flowerpots on the balconies and terrace-filled streets with tables and chairs and waiters serving gazpacho.

I didn't expect to see the bikes. Bicycles everywhere! While walking down the street, it took a few dirty looks for me to realize that I was walking in their lane. We noticed that many of the bicycles were identical, painted in the same color and donning the same style of basket in front. Each bike wore the same large red fender, each with a white circle and the word “Sevici” inscribed in the middle.

We saw racks with at least a dozen of these bicycles latched onto them. Little by little we pieced together the puzzle, learning that these were bicycles made available to the public, by the city, to encourage public transportation.  “Bike stations” were scattered throughout the city where a person could retrieve a bike from one location and drop it off at another on the other side of town. I kind of liked the idea.

But it wasn't just the cycling that caught my attention. The people in Sevilla were very active. Runners jogged along the sidewalks, school girls on roller blades moved on the paseo, and kayakers streamed along the Guadalquivir River. There were all the pedestrians also, but that is a common occurrence in every Spanish city.

That was my first impression. Of course, there is much more to the capital of Andalusia than just bikers, runners, and kayakers. Seville, or Sevilla as it is known in Spanish, is arguably the most beautiful city in all of Spain. At one time, it was probably the most important city in Spain, also. After the discovery of the New World, every ship with goods from the Americas had to first stop at the river-port in Sevilla.

Giralda Tower

A mandatory destination while in Sevilla is the cathedral. This massive structure is the largest Gothic cathedral in the world. It was built on the site of a former mosque. From the exterior, the most impressive feature is the bell tower. The Giralda, as it is known locally, was originally a minaret of the mosque, and built to closely resemble the minaret of the Koutoubia Mosque in Marrakesh, Morocco. A man would travel up the 343 foot tower five times a day to call the Muslims of Moorish Sevilla to prayer. After the Reconquest, the minaret was converted to a bell tower.

A trip to the top is certainly an adventure. The passageway was choked with people when we went, the right-side traveling up, and the left-side traveling down. There are no stairs leading to the top, but rather a series of ramps. We were told that it was built wide enough that a horse could ride to the top.

Along the way are many peep holes, or windows to view outside. These points allow peeks into the courtyard of the cathedral, as well as views of the roof, and close-up glances of gargoyles.

The very top allows an excellent view below the bell, and also vistas of the city. We could see the bullring, the Alcazar, and some rooftop swimming pools. Far below us, a semi-circle of horse and carriages parked along-side the cathedral. We waited for the top-of-the-hour to hear the bell ring close-up. To my disappointment, it only rang once, even though it was twelve-noon. Perhaps that is in consideration of all the tourists.

A view from the Giralda tower of the cathedral.  The "Patio of Oranges" is visible in the foreground.

This view from the Giralda Tower includes the Alcazar (top left), Archive of the Indies (top right), and the Plaza del Triunfo (center).   The dome, with the blue and white cupola, is above the Royal Chapel of the cathedral.

The main sacristy of the cathedral.

Back down in the cathedral, we walked around the massive interior, admiring the detail and art of the building. The main sacristy contains a gallery of paintings, including some from Francisco de Zurbarán, an artist from Extremadura who was commissioned by the church to create several paintings for the cathedral.

I was also impressed with the main altarpiece, so ornate in gilded decoration that it is difficult to make sense of what it represents. The altarpiece depicts stories from the birth of Christ to his resurrection. One of the first thoughts that crossed my mind was whether any of this gold was brought over from the New World. That is unlikely since the piece was completed in 1480, well before the first voyage of Columbus.

Is this really the tomb of Christopher Columbus?

Speaking of Columbus, he is buried here, or at least that is the belief. In the transept, a statue of four pallbearers, each representing a medieval region that would become Spain, are carrying a sarcophagus containing the bones of Columbus.

The Italian navigator's body took quite a journey after his death in Valladolid in 1506. Three years later it was moved to a convent in Sevilla. In 1537, his remains were transported across the Atlantic to lay to rest in the cathedral at Santo Domingo in the Dominican Republic. In 1795, Spain ceded Hispanola, which included Santo Domingo, to France. Therefore, the remains of Columbus were moved to Havana, Cuba. A century later, it was decided to move the bones back to Spain, and that is where they rest now, in the cathedral of Sevilla.

There is a controversy. In 1877, workers in the cathedral at Santo Domingo found a heavy box of bones with the name of Christopher Columbus on the box. It is now speculated that transporters in 1795 may have intentionally, or accidentally, moved the wrong bones. Modern experts in Spain claim that the DNA of the bones in Sevilla are a close match to his brother's. In any case, two countries claim to hold the remains of Christopher Columbus, and since I was at cathedral in Sevilla, I choose to believe the claim of Spain.

A typical café  in the neighborhood of Santa Cruz.

Sevilla is a city full of atmosphere. Whether it is a flamenco dancer twisting and singing next to a café, or a lone guitarist strumming a tune from Segovia, there is always sound in this Andalusian town. Then come the clapping of horses hooves, consistent prancing combined with subtle jangling of bells and the neigh of a horse. These are the horse-drawn carriages that are all over the city.

Torre del Oro

Gypsies hover around the cathedral and other tourist destinations. At one time, theft was a major problem in Sevilla, and I believe that the Gypsies were a contributing factor. Times are better now, and tourism is safer. But they are still there, trying to capitalize on the weak. We found a group of Gypsy ladies near the cathedral trying to sell “aromatic plants” to unlucky pedestrians. We adamantly refused, having learned our lesson years ago. Later, we watched one of the ladies walk to the building next door, the Archive of the Indies, and gather some more “aromatic plants” from the shrubs near the fountain that the gardener had just trimmed. That was what they were selling!

Spanning across the Guadalquivir River is the Bridge of San Telmo. It stretches from near the Tower of Gold, or Torre del Oro, to the Triana District. The bridge provides great views of the tower and of the boaters on the river. It is also a location where peddlers set up their wares.

One of these peddlers caught our eye. He was a midget and he sold jewelry. Not just any jewelry, but hand-made rings, pendants, and earrings, using not much more than needle-nosed pliers and jewelers wire. He would twist the wire in elegant curls around a stone and form it into whatever the customer wanted. My wife, Jenelle, had seen a shop like this in Granada, but we were unable to buy anything there.

We talked to the midget on our first day in the city, and when we saw him again on the second day, he remembered who we were and was very friendly with us. For 20 € we bought a set of earrings, a pendant with an amber-colored stone set in the center, and a turquoise ring that the midget made personally for Jenelle. Then he threw in another set of earrings, just because we were friendly. What a nice guy!

One of my favorite places in all of Sevilla is the Museo de Bellas Artes. This art museum, housed in a former convent, provides a peaceful escape from the chaos of the city, as well as a look at some of Spain's best art. Some consider this museum the best collection of Spanish art after the Prado in Madrid.

That is saying a lot. Spain has produced some of the greatest painters of all time including El Greco, Goya, Picasso, Dalí, Miró and Velázquez. This museum focuses on many of the Baroque artists and highlights the works of two local painters: Bartolomé Murillo and Francisco de Zurbarán.

Many of the compositions focus on the birth, life, and death of Jesus Christ. It is common for the same scene to be depicted by several artists, each offering the artist's unique interpretation. For example, both Peter Van Lint and Murillo have a picture representing the “worshiping of the shepherds.” Both have common players: the shepherd holding his sheep, a proud mother looking at her baby, a chicken, baby angels hovering in the air, and of course, the baby Jesus. Murillo's tends to be more simplistic, while Van Lint's gives more detail, consisting of more onlookers, including a boy with his dog.

I found it interesting that many of the paintings included a human skull placed somewhere in the composition. This style of art comes from a type of symbolic work called vanitas, or vanity. Used in the 16^th and 17^th centuries, symbols such as rotten fruit represent decay, and bubbles exhibit the brevity of life. In the case of the skull, this represents the certainty of death.

One such depiction in this museum is the painting of “The Temptation of Saint Jerome,” by Juan de Valdés Leal. Saint Jerome is seen on his knees, using all his will-power to reject the temptation of the courtesans behind him who are luxuriously dressed. In front of Jerome is a copy of the bible and a crucifix. Next to the bible is a skull.

My favorite work in the Museo de Bellas Artes is a painting by Maestro de las Medias, an anonymous painter from the 16^th century. Piedad, or piety in English, is a portrayal of Mary Magdalene holding the deceased Christ in her arms. His lips are gray, and body limp. Cracks throughout the canvas offer testament to the age of the painting. The most dramatic detail, however, are the eyes of Mary. They are piercing, loving, and beautiful, all at the same time.

The Temptation of Saint Jerome by Juan de Valdés Leal.

Piedad by Maestro de las Medias.

Cristo Crucificado by Francisco de Zurbarán.

After our visit to the art museum, we strolled back toward the Guadalquivir River. The sun was inching closer to the horizon, casting longer shadows on walls and sidewalks. We passed the bullring, unique in its white-washed color and golden trim. A statue of Pepe Luis Vázquez stands outside. The interior of the ring was closed, so we just perused the outside.

Along the the banks of the river, the local youth were out in high numbers. Many roller-bladed on a bike-path, many of them still in school uniforms. Some relaxed at the bank's edge, dangling their feet over the river. On the water, kayakers were well at work, streaming along the surface.

Around the Torre del Oro, we found many school kids walking around with instruments in their hands. Some carried trumpets and others drums. Random bursts of the horn, or tinkering of the drums could be heard. We couldn't figure out what it was all about. Suddenly, one instrument began to play, and soon they were all playing together. It sounded like an old Spanish folk song, but I was not familiar with it. The music sounded a little discordant, but it was obvious that now they were all playing together. We sat back and listened, enjoying a moment of serendipity.

These teenage boys paint graffiti on a wall on the Triana side of the Guadalquivir River. 

During our previous stroll past the river, Jenelle had noticed paddle boats being rented for 10 € an hour. She suggested this to me, and I will admit, I was a little hesitant at first. I don't know why. Perhaps it is because I don't have a lot of spontaneity in my bloodstream. She nudged me until I finally gave in, and I am glad I did. Our paddle boat excursion on the Guadalquivir River was one of the highlights of our entire trip.

There wasn't a big rush of adrenalin associated with it, nor was there a history lesson to be learned. For one hour, Jenelle and I sat side-by-side and paddled the boat with our feet. I controlled a rudder that steered us. The only thing to be cautious of were the cruise boats and kayakers. But the river was wide, with plenty of room for all of us. The water on the river was very placid. (I'm not even sure if this is truly a river anymore. I think that the true Guadalquivir was diverted years ago, and where we were now was only a canal.)

We paddled toward the bridge of Isabel II. Clusters of people lounged around on the quay near the bridge. We passed beneath the bridge and the steel circular designs on the arch. Above the bridge, tiny-looking people walked across, completely oblivious to us, and going on their way.

After passing beneath the bridge, we made a large, u-shaped swoop in the water and returned in the direction we came from. Now we paddled closer to the Triana side of the river. We watched a group of boys spray graffiti on a cement wall. Vines and leafy shrubs hung down over the stone wall in some places. Above the wall, at street-level, a restaurant had its doors open for the evening. Now, its lights were coming on and customers sat outside on the patio, looking over the river.

We paddled all the way to the bridge of San Telmo before we turned around again, and returned to the place where we began. We carefully inched to the side and docked the boat.

As the sun disappeared deeper and deeper below the horizon, the lights of Sevilla began to emerge. We walked back onto the bridge and found the city magically lit up. The Torre del Oro illuminated splendidly and the Giralda Tower peeked just above the trees. The cruise boats appeared to be docked for the evening. Reflections of street lights shimmied in the river. An ambitious kayaker slithered by beneath the bridge.

Ornate decoration at the Plaza de España.

Next, we walked to the nearby Plaza de España. We didn't have a lot of time, as it was night already, but we couldn't leave Sevilla without visiting one of its major icons. This massive plaza was completed in 1928 for the Ibero-American Exposition World's Fair. It is a semi-circle of ornate buildings, tiles, a canal, bridges, and a large fountain. Attention to detail is given for every last space in the plaza.

Although it was night, the plaza was lit up well when we arrived. There weren't many people, so we roamed freely throughout. This was just another example of the many troves of treasure in Sevilla.

A statue of El Cid on his horse on the Avenida El Cid.  A tower at the Plaza de España is visible in the background.

After our visit to Plaza de España, we walked to another plaza, this one smaller and less conspicuous. Along the route, I marveled at the atmosphere that came alive at night. Horse-drawn carriages still clapped down the street, and the monuments of long-ago Spanish heroes now lit up. We soon arrived at the Plaza de Santa Cruz. On the the west-side of a small square of orange trees stood the Tablao Flamenco Los Gallos, a modest three-storied building with iron-railing balconies. This is where we would watch our Flamenco show. I don't think that a trip to Sevilla would be complete without experiencing good, authentic Flamenco.

We bought our tickets earlier in the day near the cathedral for 30 € a piece. This included the two-hour show and a drink. The show began at 10 pm. This is considered early in the evening by Spanish standards.

The auditorium was small, the stage smaller. There were a total of twelve performers during the evening, but usually only four on the stage at one time: two singers, one guitarist, and one dancer. The stage was lit by a red or white light, with two chairs, wooden beams on the ceiling, and a cast-iron stove for decoration. “Los Gallos” was painted on the wall, along with a picture of two roosters, as if about to engage in a cock fight.

The first dancer was much younger than I anticipated. She wore a polka dot dress with a long train that she always kept lifted as she danced and stamped on the stage. She used a fan, opening it, fluttering it, and waving it with her hands. Everything was done gracefully, and with emotion. When they sang, usually it was with their eyes closed, and almost a cry on their face.

Even when the men danced, they did so sumptuously. They grasped their coat sides, just as the women did their dresses, and waved them seductively back and forth. The men were so good at clicking their fingers that I had to look closely to be sure they were not using castanets. One man was dressed all in black with a bandanna around his neck.

Behind the dancer was the guitarist, his fingers going at incredible speeds. On both sides of him were the singers, one a fat gypsy with a low voice, and the other an awkward slim guy with glasses, singing at a high pitch. At the end of each song, the fat guy would say, “Olé!”

Each performance lasted about fifteen minutes. Between performances they would take a little break, then scramble up the performers and play again.

After two hours, I was completely awe-struck. Like many other things in life, Flamenco is something that has to be witnessed in person to gain the full experience.

It was well past midnight when we returned to our hotel. As we were headed in for the night, others were just beginning, walking in the opposite direction to join their friends. From the third-story balcony of our hotel, I looked down on the street and saw a large group of evening-goers sitting down at a long, rectangular table. They were eating an evening meal. Such late meals are typical here in Spain.

As for us, we were wiped. We had to catch a morning train to Madrid. It was time to close the doors, close the eyes, and try to get a little sleep. It would be a little more difficult to close the mind: the stomping, the clicking, and the castanets would play long into the night.