On the train to Sligo.

We're listening to the conductor say the names of the stops in their Gaelic pronunciations, before saying them in English, and reminding us not to put our feet on the seats.

 We had a long conversation with a man who's studying law at the university in Maynooth, taking up this enterprise at midlife after the economic downturn a few years ago. He advised us to go to Bundoran, a bit up the coast from Sligo. "Ireland is tiny," he said. "You can go anywhere in the country--leave at 8 in the morning, you're there by ten, spend the whole day, leave at eight at night and you're back where you started from by midnight."

Out the windows, I saw a cemetery bristling with headstones and monument. I saw a field of sheep. I saw blossoming trees. I saw a white cow.

Like train stations everywhere, the concrete and out of the stations are heavily tagged, gorgeous illuminations spraypainted in unreadable signatures. The further away from Dublin we get, the less of this is in evidence. Instead, thickets and brambles of tree and vine.

The fields outside the window are misty.

The conductor seems to be saying "This is the eight hundred hours train to Sligo." Can that be right? 

Nothing from the trolley, thank you. Although the fact of the trolley is lovely.

We're traveling across this tiny country by train. Across a whole country by train, and we'll be at the Atlantic, more or less, by eleven.

 poem

On the town and around the farm.

Friday afternoon, as I was mentally dusting my hands off from the hard work I'd done (textbook review), I dashed out of the house, took the A-train (okay, just the TRAX) and met the historian to see Vicky Cristina Barcelona. It was the kind of film--by which I mean, set in Spain and filled with Javier Bardem and Penelope Cruz--that made one want to live life to the fullest; this meant that we had a resplendent dinner at one of our old haunts, and a stirring, soulful conversation that lasted for hours.

The next morning we got up and went to the farmer's market. All sorts of doings downtown--Fiesta Days at Washington Square, the Italian Cultural Fair near the Rio Grande Depot, which contraverted our usual parking situation, but never mind. We got peaches, apricots, plums, tomatoes, basil, mint, potatoes, onions, carrots, squash, green and yellow beans, and a watermelon. Cucumbers. We came home, and the historian took Bruiser off for a morning visit to the dog park, while I got on my bike ("The Danger") and took a test ride out near the Bingham Creek Library, taking in less-traveled West Jordan.

After I got back, we got a phone call from the historian's daughter, saying they were going to take a little trip out to Kennecott ("World's Largest Open-Pit Copper Mine"). This seemed like a splendid idea--I had never been, and the historian hadn't been in so long he couldn't remember what it was like. Of course, I forgot my camera which means, on the one hand, that I didn't document any of this; on the other hand, I had a perfectly swell time, less mediated by technology than it would otherwise have been. It was great, and very exciting, because we were told to clear out for a blast at 3:15. On the one hand, we might have had the chance to observe tons of rock that contained about 1% copper, had we just gone to the far end of the parking lot for the duration of the blasting, as we were advised; on the other hand, going for ice cream seemed preferable, so we skedaddled on out of there and had ice cream at Arctic Circle. The boys played on the indoor playground in an entirely delightful way, including the baby clambering up the little slide and sliding back down, backwards and on his belly. And there were huckleberry sundaes to be had. And fries.

After that, the historian and I went home, showered, and set out again, downtown again to a little dinner and a movie. I had what I have come to think of as one of the perfect pizzas at Sicilia pizzeria, just down the street from the Broadway--whole wheat crust, artichokes and spinach and tomatoes and just a little cheese. The historian had spaghetti. The movie was The Edge of Heaven, a German film made by a German-Turkish filmmaker Fatih Akin. This film was truly marvelous. It had virtually no movie stars, with the exception being Hanna Schygulla, now in her 60s and looking it, giving an absolutely revelatory and very moving performance (the link takes you to a "then-and-now" pair of photos). She was a fixture of Fassbinder's films, and it was wonderful to see her again in such an excellent film.

Last night, I thought about writing about all of this, but I kind of didn't want to try to put it into words. I just wanted to enjoy it. And today? I spoke to the Scotlands, made pancakes for breakfast, took Bruiser for a walk, took a spin on my bike--and it's not even noon. Life is good.