Day 15

It’s been difficult to sit in one place today. Wandering legs led to a wandering mind, and sometimes I find that I am not in Dublin, but rather a whimsy old town in the middle of a glen. Or in the middle of my mind. And everyone there is quite bizarre and inspired and gifted at the art of baking bread. A wandering mind manifested into wandering eyes. Curious eyes that scrounged the corners and dark windows of the shops this morning that were out of power. Eyes that darted to the passerby’s own darting eyes then back to the cobblestone wobbles. My fingers drumming my hip as I turn off Grafton onto Wicklow and follow the indent in the sidewalk to stand before the small teal door of my prized French café. I won’t be eating bread today. It’s not like I’ve forgotten this inopportune detail.

I can’t remember why it is I’ve wandered this far.

Maybe this is what it feels like to be an addict.

I start breathing heavier, because the sweet woman behind the counter recognizes me and assumes my normal behavior to ensue, and for her to get her fix of crazy American banter this morning, but I think in a way she knows it’s not happening. She can see my eyes. “Ahs yeah, she’s a goner,” she’s thinking. I nod my steam-filled head on my way past the window, “It’s still early in the game.”

I think it’s fair to say that a thing can be observed clearer when it’s not in front of your face. You don’t know a good thing till it’s gone. Hindsight’s twenty-twenty. Love is a battlefield. You get it. As my weeks go by with only one out of seven days being bread-furnished, I start to see where my multi-daily regimen would have fallen into position, almost unconsciously. Filling up idle hands, silences, mumbled words, and most importantly, bellies.

There are times of day, places in the city, and conversations with people, which have become a sort of Pavlov conditioned response trigger that sends off a vibe that says, nay, screams bread. But alas, I am above a trained animal, and shall continue my attempt to prove so.

I met a lovely Dublin man who works for Trinity today, and his wife is taking bread baking lessons in town. He explained to me how she goes every Thursday, unaware of what the lesson will be on for that week; pizza? Focaccia bread? Bauernbrot? Either way, she takes home to him at least 5 or 6 baked attempts. They have so much by the weekend, he said he might need a bit of help putting it to use. He thinks I’m a crazy and a little eccentric (and who’s to really argue with that), but he might bundle some up and bring it to campus for me some Sunday. What a guy.

I tell him, I’m doing this to prove a point.
What point is that?
That even though it’s splendid to surprise all the skeptics, the sliest one to shock is yourself. That’s a lot of ‘s’s.

I’ll be in Granada this Sunday. And I do believe I’ll be in a skirt, wandering the coast with a trusted baguette.