On Bloomsday, the day that honors James Joyce’s fictional character Leopold Bloom, a few of us decided to take the day slow. So, we rested up, washed some clothes, and headed out around lunchtime. We had little plans—some miscellaneous gift-buying and partaking in something that at least vaguely relates to Ulysses. Joyce wrote his Ulysses as a story that comprises one day—a long account of what could otherwise be a much shorter story. Others in our group spent the day trying to remap the steps of Harold Bloom’s epic journey. Call me under-ambitious, but my only goal for the day was to find a nice hard-copy edition of Ulysses, purchase it, and commemorate the moment by writing “Purchased on Bloomsday in Dublin, Ireland, 16 June 2016.” Then I, of course, would signed my name. Lorcan Collins, from the 1916 walking tour, implanted this idea in my head earlier in the week. I couldn’t shake the sentiment. I found the exact edition he recommended and did just as planned.

Later, we had lunch then made our way to the square at temple bar, hoping to see people dressed up in period clothing and acting out moments from the novel. Instead, we stumbled upon a band—four-piece, set up with a minimal sound system, playing a free show in the middle of the street. It all might sound gimmicky, except they were really talented. Based out of Dublin, they played all originals. Between songs, the singer would tell parts of the band’s story—how they pursued record labels, how they were consistently rejected, and how they eventually decided to take control of their music. During the last song, someone dressed up for Bloomsday joins the show, dancing along the front of the band in the empty space separating the crowd.