Why Coney Island? Well, the urge to smell the sea breeze struck me rather late in the day on Friday, and Montauk – which is most definitely on my to do list – and other Long Island destinations would require a bit too much planning and possibly an overnight stay. Coney Island, on the other hand, is just a subway ride away. I also had this vague notion that there was something of a faded glory about Coney Island; an echo of its heyday. The only images I had in my mind were of the Wonderwheel, which has appeared in the background of several films, and that scene from the Tom Hank’s movie ‘Big’ where he goes looking for the fortune teller machine. As it turns out, that scene was filmed in Playland in Westchester County, so my imagined Coney Island was well off the mark.

I hopped on the N train at 9am on Saturday morning. The subway car was almost empty. There was a mother and her toddler halfway down the car, and a guy in his forties clad in varying shades of murky brown sitting across the way. He drained his mondo-sized can of beer, opened the connecting doors to the moving subway car, tossed the empty can out onto the tracks and set the tone for the day. He then reached into his murky brown backpack and pulled out a brown paper bag, took a swig and hurriedly stuffed it away, throwing a glance around to see if anyone had seen. I gazed off into the distance, feigning ignorance, as the fumes of cheap liquor filled the air.

At each subway stop, the brown paper bag came out of the backpack for a quick swig with the regularity of a Pavlovian response. I put on my sunglasses at some point, tired of pretending to stare vacantly into space. Somewhere around Bay Parkway, the brown paper bag and its contents followed the mondo beer can out the connecting doors onto the tracks, and was replaced by another brown paper bag that had been lurking in the depths of the murky brown backpack. I breathed a sigh of relief as the train pulled into the Coney Island station and Mr. Brown (for so I had christened him, with more than a nod to Tarantino’s Reservoir Dogs) staggered down the platform.

Right, I thought, in a terribly chipper, upbeat kind of way, let’s get this adventure started. Following signs for the boardwalk, I followed the street from the station through the deserted amusement parks. There was a very strong wind blustering through the empty fairgrounds, creating an extremely loud and decidedly eerie howling sound. The howling seemed to emanate from the ghost ride, although perhaps it was just my imagination.

I climbed the steps to the boardwalk. To the right, it was almost empty. To the left I spotted Mr. Brown weaving his way towards a pagoda. I turned right and wandered along the boardwalk for a short while, past the Wonderwheel, the parachute jump and metal palm trees sprouting out of the sand, stopping to take in a billboard featuring black and white photos of Coney Island in the good old days. The boardwalk itself was actually quite lovely.

The boardwalk

Iconic Wonderwheel

The parachute jump

Metal palm tree

Heyday

Venturing off the boardwalk across the sands, I ambled along the shoreline, watching gulls crest the rolling waves and paused to take a few photos under the pier.

Under the boardwalk, down by the sea

The wind was piercingly cold. I had thankfully worn layers of fleecy clothing, but had neglected to bring a scarf that I could wrap around me, so had to stop periodically to warm my face with my hands. I was glad I had remembered my sunglasses, as the wind was getting stronger and began whipping up a sandstorm, creating almost whiteout conditions at times.

Shifting sands

When I started along the shoreline again, Mr. Brown was lolling at a nearby rocky jetty, throwing his empty liquor bottle into the crashing waves. It was barely noon. My first thought was ‘his poor liver’. My second thought was ‘how on earth did he manage to stagger that far after two litres of paint stripper and a gallon of beer?’

Waves crash against the rocks. Mr Brown's bottle too, probably.

Further along, I spotted a hint of the faded glory I had been looking for. Hurrah, I thought, this is what I came to see.

A suggestion of a bygone era

The boardwalk ended abruptly far too quickly. Rather than walk back the way I came, I cut across to the north to check out Coney Island Creek Park. There was no shore access along the way, as the left hand side of the road was a gated community. The right side was high-rise low income housing. I’ll be honest, the high-rises looked marginally more appealing, as the gated community was more of a meshed community, encircled with prison-like high mesh fencing; big boards of timber leaning up against the mesh. It was not the most attractive street.

At the end of the street there were sand dunes and tantalising glimpses of the creek beyond. I pushed onward to reach the park but what a sight greeted me when I arrived. Litter covered the shores and banks of this forlorn little creek. There was an abundance of wildlife doing their utmost to avoid bobbing bottles in the water, plastic bags wrapped around trees, cans embedded in the sand and discarded car seats tossed onto the shore. This wasn’t fresh litter, this had been there long enough to embed itself into the landscape. Spilled paint stained tree roots and a feral cat stalked waterfowl along the banks, settling instead for a half-eaten Big Mac still in its wrapper. It really was one of the most distressing sights I have seen in a long time.

Sandy shores filled with wildlife...and litter

Birds drift by a littered bank

Plastic, plastic and more plastic

Feral cat looking for lunch as a gull navigates a litter-strewn shoreline

Swan preening by a discarded car seat

A little old couple smiled as they walked hand in hand past me on the pathway and I was struck with the overwhelming sadness of the place. Didn’t that little old couple deserve somewhere beautiful to walk hand in hand? Didn’t the wildlife deserve somewhere clean to live? What has happened here? Why does nobody do anything about it? Easy questions to ask, I know. Not so easy to answer. Believe me, I thought long and hard about writing this post, but felt I would be somehow complicit if I didn’t.

I hastened away from this tragic little park and took the nearest street towards the boardwalk. As I looked along the street I saw the bare branches of the trees aflutter with what looked like Halloween decorations. It took a few seconds to realise that what was fluttering were plastic bags. Hundreds of them, caught in the branches of every single tree along the street.

I didn’t take any more photographs. I walked, hands in pockets, head down against the wind, back to the boardwalk, through the deserted fairgrounds and back onto the next N train out of there.

It has taken me over a week, plus two wonderfully reaffirming encounters with peacocks and parrots, to find it within myself to write about how last weekend made me feel. I went to Coney Island in search of a little piece of Americana from a bygone era. What I found in its place was a big slice of Americana from our current era. And it made me sad.

Inside, it retains its modest demeanour. It is ornate, but not too ornate. There’s lots of wood, which lends an inviting warmth to it, when compared to the cold stone floors of the churches, chapels and cathedrals I have visited in Europe.

The ceilings are vaulted, but there are places where the roof is lowered – almost Frank Lloyd Wright-esque in its design. There are little alcoves with ceilings of the darkest blue peppered with white stars, which put you in mind of the theatrical heavens of Shakespeare’s day .

Starry heavens

The proportions create an entirely human space, which to me is quite unusual, and wonderfully refreshing, in a place of worship. All too often, places of worship are built, purposefully, on a scale that inspires awe and diminishes the human. How wonderfully appropriate that The Actor’s Chapel should instead be housed in a space that encourages and embraces humanity. Here are a few more pictures of this lovely space.

The  saints featured in the chapel cater to all walks of the arts.

St. Vitus - for dancers

St Cecilia - for musicians

Fra Angelico - for artists

Blessed Dina - do musicians need extra help?

St Genesius - for actors

And last, but not least:

St Jude Thaddeus, Patron Saint of Lost Causes - for X Factor contestants

I pondered the conundrum as I stood in front of the subway ticketing machine, poised to purchase my monthly commuter card. Wait a minute, I thought, in a moment of blinding inspiration, what if I didn’t purchase a monthly commuter card (if I allow myself extra time and bundle up against the elements I can walk most places I need to get to in NYC), but instead used my travel allowance for the month to…. travel? How far could I get on a transit check card? With a little bit of help from good old Google, I discovered you can get all the way to Philadelphia. Hop the NJ Transit from Penn Station to Trenton, and then switch to SEPTA Transit which will take you right into Philadelphia’s 30th Street Station. So that’s exactly what I did.

I rose at the crack of dawn – earlier, actually, dawn was yet to crack – so I could make the 2.5 hour journey and still have a good chunk of day to explore Philly. My plans were thwarted by the unexpected closure of my local subway station – so I went with the flow and decided I wasn’t going to make the early train, and ambled leisurely along 9th avenue all the way down to Penn Station on foot. I was rewarded with views of the sun rising behind the city’s skyscrapers. There’s always a silver lining – or in this instance – a blazing orange one.

The journey itself was relatively uneventful but the time passed remarkably quickly as I pushed my nose up against the window and watched the New Jersey landscape whizzing by. Things got a lot more picturesque after New Brunswick, and the frosty morning made everything sparkle. A quick change in Trenton and I was in Philadelphia. The 30th Street Station is lovely; the main concourse is vast with cathedral-like windows and art deco features.

Ceiling and soaring windows of the main concourse

Neo-classical columns and a stunning ceiling adorn the exterior of the station

Gorgeous ceiling over the platform

Off I set along John F Kennedy Boulevard to explore Philly. I wasn’t sure what I was expecting, but I was surprised and a little deflated to see the way flanked by great glassy skyscrapers. I had skyscrapers galore in NY, I’d come here to escape them. My disappointment dissolved, however, when I spotted City Hall looming at the end of the boulevard. This was more like it.

I confess right now, I hadn’t done any research on what Philadelphia has to offer, preferring instead to happen upon things and discover my own version of the city, rather than follow some prescribed route of must-see things. It usually makes for a more personal experience. The first thing that leapt out at me was the abundance and beauty of the sculptures dotted around the city in the most unexpected of places.

Love

Amity - with a ubiquitous Starbucks sign in the background

Government of the People

Burst of Joy - yes it most certainly is!

Milkweed Pod

I loved this one so much I'm giving it a second photo

The other aspect of this city that I adored were the murals scattered around, turning unremarkable buildings into something extraordinary. There’s actually a ‘Mural Mile‘ here, and a route you can follow to take in all the murals on offer, but I a) didn’t have a map and b) as mentioned earlier, was in the mood to just let things happen upon me. If I visit again, I shall probably explore the Mural Mile more, but for now, here are some of the wonderful murals I found.

Now I was leaving the shiny new part of Philadelphia behind and moving into the older quarters. Looking back it was interesting to see the clash of the eras jostling with each other for attention.

Old and New

Dwarfed by modern giants

It was so much brighter now that there were no skyscrapers blocking out the sun. I started to feel like I was really on holiday. Straight down Market Street and to the right, there was a long line to see the Liberty Bell – now I’m not much of a stand in line person, but it seemed to be moving fairly quickly, so I joined in and pretty soon stood in front of the famously cracked bell.

I took a quick peek in Independence Hall too while I was there – it’s nicely staged to represent how things might have looked back in the day but I’m not big on staged history, so I didn’t dally too long.

History, staged. Some of the books are originals, though - I wouldn't mind leafing through those tomes.

Important people sat here and signed important things

And now I was off exploring the cobbled walkways of Independence Park. I wandered past the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, Carpenters’ Hall and Merchants’ Exchange, taking a quick detour to the 18th Century Garden, which is lovely, but goodness, it’s tiny. I’ve been spoiled by my European upbringing, where you practically trip over the most spectacular 18th century gardens on your way to the shops. OK I’m exaggerating. A little.

Cobbled walkways

Tomb of the Unknown Soldier

Carpenters' Hall

Merchants' Exchange

Teeny tiny 18th century garden

Under the pergola

One of the more interesting structures in the park was the City Tavern. It’s still a functional tavern and restaurant, and although the period-dressed staff lends a rather Disney-esque air to the whole enterprise, there are some lovely details and the tavern itself was filled with the rich aroma of ales and lagers – the smell of the beer alone was enough to get you a little squiffy. It was a delicious change from the sterile, bleach-scented bars so prevalent in today’s world of hand sanitizer devotees.

City Tavern

Period-clad serving wench climbs the stairs at the city tavern

A shelf full of ye olde knick-knacks

Pitchers

Beer-scented tavern

Onward I pushed towards the waterfront, passing a crazily popular ice cream parlour by the name of Franklin Fountain. The huge line of people outside was enough to a) intrigue me and b) deter me. I did glance at the list of flavours, though, and have got to try the Teaberry Gum ice cream next time I’m in town.

When I reached the waterfront by way of Penn’s Landing, there was a strangely empty ice rink on the banks of the river – although the edges of the rink were filled to capacity with trendy teens looking… trendy. Perhaps the rink was getting ready to open, it looked terribly lonely on the empty ice. Apart from a lone yacht the Delaware river was quiet and not at all picturesque as I had imagined it to be, so I left the banks and headed northward. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, but I think perhaps I was still searching for that one experience or encounter that would define Philadelphia for me.

And then I found it. On 2nd Street, just north of the freeway entrance, Christ Church is a sweet little church known as ‘The Nation’s Church’; Benjamin Franklin is buried here, George Washington and John Adams attended services here. The church itself is lovely, and the church historian, Neil Ronk, is a wealth of information and an absolute pleasure to talk to. He regaled me with tales of the Irish in Philadelphia, the history of the church, and when I told him I’d seen the Liberty Bell his eyes lit up. He pointed to a rusty old bell hung on a wooden construction in the corner of the church and said ‘Let me tell you how we do things in Philadelphia.’ He went on to explain that this bell was Christ Church’s original bell, crafted in London in 1702. In 1845 it was loaned to the chapel at Christ Church hospital. They got it back last June. As they hadn’t figured out what they were going to do with the bell, it was still hanging from a wooden frame in the church. ‘Would you like to ring it?’ Neil asked, eyes glinting mischieviously. A chance to ring a bell that had pealed to mark the signing of the Declaration of Independence? How could a girl refuse?

Christ Church

Slowly and carefully I struck the bell and the ensuing bong, deep and rich and deliciously melodic, reverberated along the walls and over the ceiling. I looked around this beautiful little church and breathed in the atmosphere. I had found my little piece of Philadelphia.

The bell. My bell.

As I wandered back towards the station I let images wash over me. Doors hiding untold stories caught my eye – who knows why, perhaps I was still on a high from ringing the bell, perhaps the beer fumes from the city tavern were having an effect.

No, the photo isn't distorted, the door actually is that wide and that squat

Streets opened up before me, begging to be explored, but the day was drawing to a close and I had a train to catch. Onward, past alleys and Chinatown and skyscrapers and English phone boxes.

A quick detour to Rittenhouse Square, a lovely little park which packs a lot of punch into a tiny little space, peppered with whimsical statues and follies guaranteed to bring out your inner child. It was filled to capacity with the oddest ensemble of disparate groups – disaffected youth, lone musicians, elderly gents playing chess, families out for an evening constitutional, toddlers tearing around at breakneck speed chuckling uproariously, dogs taking their owners for a walk. I loved it.

Pagoda in Rittenhouse Square

Trolley waiting by Rittenhouse Square

Crossing the bridge to the station, I caught the sunset over Shuylkill river and a stately eagle adorning the bridge.

But as I sat on the platform, flicking through the shots I’d taken that day, there was one image I kept coming back to over and over. I saved it for last, because it is my favourite. A dog staring out the window, perhaps waiting for his owners to take him for a walk in Rittenhouse Square.

Back in New York, I still had some money left on my transit check card to do pay-as you-go for longer trips, and have spent January walking the shorter distances. My month without a monthly commuter card is drawing to a close, but despite the plummeting temperatures and the extra time it takes for me to get anywhere, all I can say is this – totally worth it!

Poet, playwright, novelist and borstal boy Brendan Behan sits quietly on the banks of the Royal Canal chatting to a pigeon.

The Royal Canal

Locks on the Royal Canal

Brendan and the pigeon

“I respect kindness in human beings first of all, and kindness to animals. I don’t respect the law; I have a total irreverence for anything connected with society except that which makes the roads safer, the beer stronger, the food cheaper and the old men and old women warmer in the winter and happier in the summer.”- Brendan Behan

On the southside, poet Patrick Kavanagh sits, hat by his side, pondering the waters of the Grand Canal that he loved so dearly.

The Grand Canal

Patrick and his hat

O commemorate me where there is water,
Canal water, preferably, so stilly
Greeny at the heart of summer. Brother
Commemorate me thus beautifully
Where by a lock niagarously roars
The falls for those who sit in the tremendous silence
Of mid-July. No one will speak in prose
Who finds his way to these Parnassian islands.
A swan goes by head low with many apologies,
Fantastic light looks through the eyes of bridges -
And look! a barge comes bringing from Athy
And other far-flung towns mythologies.
O commemorate me with no hero-courageous
Tomb – just a canal-bank seat for the passer-by.

Lines Written on a Seat on the Grand Canal, Dublin – Patrick Kavanagh

Ha'penny Bridge bustling with pedestrians

Things have changed a lot along the Quays; now there are wide boardwalks flanking the river and tons of trendy cafes and taverns with their patio tables spilling out optimistically onto the pavements the minute the sun dares to show its face. Some things are unchanged, however, like Christ Church cathedral looming large upon the hill overlooking Wood Quay.

As a kid, I was fascinated by the synod bridge of the cathedral, which spans Winetavern Street. I vaguely remember a school art project where I did a charcoal sketch of the cathedral but spent most of my time perfecting the arching bridge with its stained glass windows and oval peepholes.

On the other side of the Liffey, the Four Courts stands proudly, reflecting in the river, and just around the corner, the watering hole of choice for parched legal eagles.

Not too much further now. I take a quick diversion away from the Liffey to check out a huge market hall near Smithfield, and happen across an unexpected sight.

Seriously? I didn’t venture in, as the prices were … touristy, at €10 a pop, and anyway, I grew up here, and am well versed in the lore of the Leprechaun, the Tuatha Dé Danann and the Fianna. I spent childhood summers trying to pass the Fianna test of running through the forest without breaking any twigs underfoot.

Back out onto the Liffey for the final stretch to the Phoenix Park. It was much closer than I expected. From the Ha’penny Bridge to the top of Chesterfield Avenue with its imposing entrance into the park, it is a little under a mile and a half. Into the park I went, veering to the right to wander through the People’s Park rather than stick to the main drag.

Even in winter, with most of the beds bare, it is lovely. I miss the parks in Europe; the vast, manicured expanses of lawn, the carefully coiffed beds and the strategically placed park benches, where you can sit and rest and take in the surrounding loveliness. I haven’t found anything that compares in the US.

Past the Wellington Monument and the Papal Cross, which was built for a visit by Pope John Paul II back in the late seventies, when he celebrated a mass in the park which was attended by over a million people. At a time when glam rock was being crushed by punk rock, disco fever was going the way of the dodo and Michael Jackson fever was going into overdrive, Ireland succumbed to Pope fever.

Wellington monument

The Pope was here

I turned off to the left before reaching Áras an Uachtaráin, the president’s residence, because I was looking for something in particular – the fallow deer that roam the park. Along the leafless pathways I wandered until I met a bloke who said he’d just seen two herds of deer wandering around the playing fields. A quick trot through a bare and frosty woodland and I was there.

Along the leafless pathway

Have I got something in my teeth? Or antlers?

It was getting dark now, so I hitched a ride back into town to see the sun go down over the Liffey. I parked myself on O’Connell Street Bridge between the street vendors to watch the Liffey changing colour with the setting sun.

Simply beautiful. Now the light was gone, it was time for a pick-me-up cup of coffee, so I headed towards Bewley’s in Grafton Street. Along the way… more leprechauns!

Again, seriously? I’ve always maintained that we Irish are a proud nation, but it would appear if there’s a chance of making a quick euro, pride can go by the wayside. And off up Grafton Street, which was alive and kicking with buskers. Now busking (as opposed to standing in a leprechaun suit looking for euros) is a noble profession in Ireland; U2 cut their teeth busking on Grafton Street. The passersby take the buskers seriously, if they’re putting on a good show. In other parts of the world busking is viewed as less than noble, but here, it is a time-honoured rite of passage. There was even a buskathon in aid of the charity Solas taking place at the top of Grafton Street.

Buskathon

But the stars of the show on Grafton Street that night were The Riptide Movement who were rocking up a storm, surrounded by a massive crowd that would give the Pope’s mass a run for its money. Seriously good music; I bought their latest CD TRM, and am now on the lookout for their first release, What About The Tip Jars?  Check them out in action on Grafton Street:

During my recent Christmas trip to Dublin, I seemed to end up in the vicinity of the Spire on most days whilst on my way somewhere else. It is hard to avoid, that massive structure looms large over almost everything else around it. It can even be seen clear across town, competing with the Wellington Monument in the Phoenix Park.

The Spire makes a cheeky appearance all the way across town at the Phoenix Park

I quite like the base of the monument, highly polished with eye-catching patterns, and from some angles – especially looking south along O’Connell Street, it is quite lovely in its entirety, although I could do without the naff illumination at the top.

The polished base of the Spire of Dublin

The Spire looking south along O'Connell Street

However, it does seem to be like the playground bully, overpowering just about everything in its wake. Poor Jim Larkin appears to have been positively skewered by it.

Jim Larkin skewered

No wonder the poor man has thrown his arms up in despair.

Despair

Sir John Gray has fared better, avoiding the skewering, but sporting a rather painful looking electric needle from the crown of his head.

Sir John Gray undergoing electric cranial acupuncture

There was apparently quite a hullaballoo made when this monument first showed its face on O’Connell Street in early 2003. I have yet to find a Dubliner who cares for it, and many of them refer to it as The Spike, a rather more utilitarian name than the lofty ‘Spire’ that it is officially named. Here are some other names I have heard for it.

The Rod to God

The Stiffy at the Liffey

The Erection at the Intersection (my favourite)

The Nail in the Pale

The Stiletto in the Ghetto

The Pin in the Bin

The Binge Syringe

I can imagine it is now the übercool place to meet, replacing the Eason’s clock and Clery’s clock meeting places of a bygone era – both of which presumably replaced the long since blown up Nelson’s Pillar as the place to meet. I have a premise that you can divide most Dubliners up into three groups, those who met under the Clery’s clock, those who met under the Eason’s clock and those who met at Nelson’s Pillar. I was an Eason’s clock girl. My dad was a Nelson’s Pillar guy. I suppose I shall have to add the Spire as a fourth group.

Meet me at the Spire

Meet me under the Eason's clock

Mind you, more often than not, my meeting spot of choice was Bewley’s on Grafton Street. It is still there, and I ventured in to have a look around and have a coffee, despite the milling crowds. It has been reborn, like a phoenix from the ashes, albeit without some of the old favourites, like the Mary cake, a request for which drew puzzled looks from the staff. I was sad to discover that the downstairs cafe, which was one of my favourite places with all its nooks and crannies, is no more. Bewley’s is, however, still a lovely, atmospheric refuge from the bustle of Grafton Street and the coffee is still delicious.

Grafton Street facade

The main dining room

Looking down from the mezzanine over the chandelier to where they grind the coffee

One last meeting place of note from my years in Dublin was Toner’s pub on Baggot Street. I spent many an evening, night and early morning in this age-old pub, which used to be frequented by literary greats such as Kavanagh and Yeats, but that is a story for another time.

Toner's of Baggot Street

Calvin and Hobbes sound off about resolutions

In 2012 I am distilling my New Year’s Resolutions into one single, actionable (ooh, corporate buzzword alert) item. It is as follows:

See the Northern Lights.

There, I’ve said it. And written it. And published it. So now all I need to do is figure out how to achieve it sometime in 2012. How much fun is that? And when was the last time you were truly excited about trying to keep your New Year’s resolutions?

Aurora borealis over Norway. Photo by Ole Christian Salomonsen, runner-up in National Geographic astronomy photos of 2011.

They were watching me as much as I was watching them

…I got a lift back into Dublin city centre by a man whose parents had christened him Stephen Dedalus; his sister Anna Livia. As we drove along Ellis Quay, we passed the James Joyce Bridge which spans the Liffey at the house on Usher’s Quay where ‘The Dead’ took place…

James Joyce Bridge

…and I suddenly remembered that Joyce’s major works, Ulysses, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, Dubliners and Finnegans Wake are scheduled to enter the public domain at 12:01am on January 1st 2012. I can’t wait to see what Joycean delights the coming year brings. To celebrate, I’m publishing this post as close to midnight Dublin time as I can, before cracking open my well-worn copy of Finnegans Wake. Happy New Year.

riverrun