Two sublime, silent days resting in Dublin. Euro-less, I have not left the hotel (except for the show), but awoken late, taken breakfast at the end of the allotted time or in my room, and shuffled everywhere in my slippers at one-third speed. I have been reading Thomas Mann, drinking honey and lemon, barely existing in a kind of limp reverie, quite at odds with the spirit of this vibrant, rowdy city, whose inhabitants pass by on the other side of the hotel windows with the augmented velocity of characters in a silent movie.
As Ash Wednesday lingers over us, we are forced to take an impossibly early ferry tomorrow morning in order to get to Cardiff to build the show. Last night’s Dublin audience was delightful: surprisingly less rowdy than Thursday’s, although I imagine that tonight’s will prove a force with which to be reckoned.
Rested to the the point of inconsequence, I must dig deep to summon the necessary energy for tonight. Perhaps a quiet little stroll.