On arriving, some of us head off to catch a French physical theater company at a space called The Black Box. The company is five people — a contortionist, a dancer, an acrobat, an opera singer/actress, and a dancer/actor.
The next morning I go for a jog along a path that parallels the railway heading south along the coast. I end up on a stony beach and head back across a cow field, hoping these are not bulls. But the beach turns into a military firing range - "enter at your own risk" - so I do, as I can see a road leading out...and who had ever been at war with Ireland ever since they became a republic and booted out the English?
In the afternoon I ride my bike out along the beach — an area called Salthill, heading west towards the Atlantic coast. I'm hoping to see cliffs, but as I forgot to procure a map I end up going through a lot of housing developments.
At one point I stop on the promenade by a beach — it's a blustery day but I can see small islands and the opposite side of Galway Bay. Lovely. I hear a noise and notice there is a man yelling and he's up to his chest in the icy water with his arms up in the air. I can't tell if it's a cry of joy or pain.
The venue is in the hotel! It's in their ballroom. It's a regular festival venue; we have not been tricked into being a hotel lounge act. In fact, the Galway Festival has been extended by an extra day to accommodate our show, but that means we overlap with Race Week, when 30,000 Irish horse racing fans, politicians, and business people chasing the politicians all converge on this town.
The show is fun. The audience shouts and dances, though one person tells me they shouldn't have left the bars open at the back of the room - too much temptation for an Irish audience... so there is lots of bar chatter rising from the rear.
Afterwards, I join some of the others in the hotel bar where a vigorous piano player is entertaining what must be a race-week audience. He's pounding away, singing at the top of his lungs and all 50 people have joined him — all singing, or rather shouting, "Total Eclipse Of The Heart" and other 80s favorites. It's deafening, the loudest wildest piano bar I've ever seen.
Malu refuses to join me. It's too frightening, but I see it is quieter on the outdoor terrace and some of the band is out there.
I chat with some folks who caught our show and over and over the subject of the upcoming U.S. election comes up. There is genuine fear that if W. is elected again, the world will be in great danger. I am asked over and over, "Do you think the American people realize what is going on? Do they still support this man?" There is a feeling of incredulity: "How could ANYONE in their right mind still support Bush?"
I reply that I am optimistic, but that the human capacity for denial is very large — and yes, a lot of people just plain don't want to hear things that rattle their world view.
When I mention that I cycled along the beach promenade, a man tells me about the time he walked along the beach and took stepped on a pig carcass. His foot got stuck in the ribs. I've heard enough.
People buy me drinks. At one point I have two glasses of Guinness in my hands. I decide it's time to get to bed.
