I headed into the city centre for the Pride parade early yesterday, as I arrive to everything early, especially when I’ve got nothing else to do. I was planning to hang around the route before the parade started in the hopes of meeting people to march with and take pictures of each other. For those not in the know, Toronto’s Pride Parade is perhaps one of the biggest in the world with the whole area around downtown Yonge Street being closed to traffic and people gathering early in the morning for a good spectator spot. Therefore, it was bizarre for me wandering up O’Connell Street that there was no evidence that a parade was about to commence. I saw the odd group of young men, boys really (now that sixteen year olds are starting to come out of the closet, I am beginning to view myself as a veteran) who, with their fluorescent t-shirts and Lady GaGa shades, I assumed were going to the parade, but there was not gathering place for them so they all dispersed. There was such an absence of any expectation in the air, the sidewalks filled with your average-Saturday Dubliners, that I worried I had the wrong day.
I decided I should buy a bottle of water and eat something, so crossing Ha’Penny bridge I bought a huge dish of chicken fried rice and sat in Temple Bar square in the shade. I forgot to mention that it was furiously sunny yesterday, the Celtic Gods smiling down on Ireland’s queers. Anyway, I had barely begun to eat when a man missing teeth starting bugging me for change. I had to tell him ‘sorry, no’ several times before he wandered away. Then these two guys next to be with gruff, working-class accents began talking to me. “Wasn’t he bothering ya?” one barked. “No, it’s fine.” “Ah.” Then he said something completely unintelligible to me. “I’m sorry; I’m Canadian, and I didn’t understand.” “Canadian, are ya? What’s that you’re eating? Chicken friend rice? Nice!” Then a woman with a baby approached and the Irish guy immediately said loudly, “She’s a gyp! She’s a gyp! Don’t give her any money!” And to the woman herself, “Fuck off, will ya!” Then muttering to his friend, “Filth of humanity, if you ask me...”
Thankfully, they left not much longer after that and I finished my chicken fried rice in peace. I walked up to Dame street and sat in the Starbucks waiting for the parade to start. After another forty minutes or so, I came out just in time to gather with some Brazilian women as we could see the front of the parade peek out from the corner of the Irish National Bank building. Although some more spectators joined us, it was very odd to me to see more people marching in the parade than watching it. But I have a theory about gay people; we’d rather be seen than see, rather be watched than watch. It explains the spectacle of the parade, as well as the music favoured by gay clubs. I’ll return to this idea in a bit.
One of the first groups I saw was a queer theatre group headed by a guy in a Canadian flag t-shirt. I kind of wanted to chase after him and ask him where he was from, but also wanted to watch the rest of the parade. What can I say about it? They love their costumes here. Some of them make sense (many riffs on Oscar Wilde, who grew up in Dublin, and his green carnation, a Victorian symbol of homosexuality. As well, a plethora of faeries; what is more gay and more Irish than faeries?) but others were just bizarre. Super man? Sally from Nightmare Before Christmas? Borat? Michael Jackson? Other people looked like they had wandered out of stag parties, still drunk from the night before, and just found themselves marching down Dame street. The thing is, the fact that there were so fewer spectators than I was used to encouraged me to cheer more and wave back at the drag queens. This, combined with the greater number of young people, helped it really feel like a movement and reminded me of what was missing from Toronto’s Pride.
[Not for a second to suggest Dublin’s Pride is benefiter/victim of the same sort of commercialization that occurs in North American Prides. Youtube and Google were inexplicably seemingly two of biggest sponsors, supporting events in which prizes, like Youtube t-shirts and Google snap-bracelets, were given away.]
When I could tell the parade was winding down I decided to jump into it, mostly to see where it was leading to. This marked the first time I had ever ‘marched’ in a parade. We went past my old hostel (*shudder*) and turned down a side street by Christ Church. Then we came to a standstill, with no one really knowing why. Luckily, I found the lad in the Canadian t-shirt and made friends with him (he’s from Manitoba and is named Bruce). We edged our way to the front of the bottleneck to discover that everyone was suppose to gather in a commercial park for performances and speakers, but the security was worried it was getting overcrowded so they had shut the gate on us. A woman in a fluorescent yellow vest told us essentially to go home. We didn’t. People shouted sassy things instead. “Let’s start a riot,” somebody joked. Eventually, they allowed trickles in, and Bruce and I slid through the gate. On the other side, where there was still PLENTY OF ROOM, we found our way to a big grassy area where a drag queen (I think she is famous here, but I keep forgetting her name) was in the middle of a speech.
So I have learned that the Irish government has just been presented with a bill which would allow for “civil partnerships”, which is expected to pass into law this fall. Unfortunately, this ‘separate but equal’ message falls short of giving full equality to same-sex couples, and so has angered activists and apparently divided the community over whether this is a step in the right direction or not. Later, activists dressed as brides and grooms would rip up copies of the bill. The drag queen recognized the divisions felt in the community, and began to sound like Obama; “We are a community, but that doesn’t mean we agree on everything. What it does mean is that more unites us than divides us, and we will be there for each other fighting the same battles!”
Then there were some queer singers who performed their own songs, but honestly the crowd was way more into the drag-like performers (there’s a new sort of drag performance wherein women still dress like women, but in an over the top way, or boys dress like flamboyant gay men, but still men. Call hetero-drag, or something) sing/lip-synch to Kylie or the theme from Slumdog Millionaire or Single Ladies. Gay men especially would much rather use a performance as an excuse to dance and sing along themselves rather than just stand around listening.
I stayed for a remarkably long time and when I finally headed home it was nearing five. Everyone staggered through the downtown, exhausted and sunburnt and dehydrated but happy, like kids returning from a day at the zoo. Except there was this one young guy who was crying and I presume drunk, and I would’ve approached him had I not first see him brush off somebody else for trying to ask if he wanted help. Then somewhere on George street (my walk home was a sunny blur) there was a little group with religious signs (they may have had a Jesus statue), kids handing out pamphlets with icons on them and a very elderly man speaking into a microphone. It was unclear whether this was a Pride-related counter-demonstration or not. Even so, I slipped off the bright yellow cross I had worn all day because I didn’t want to be seen as either being with them or mocking their beliefs. Still, it was a very small group and when I passed the old man was saying something about animal food.
I rested for two hours at home in my thankfully-shady room, watched the end of ‘Tron’ and ate two yogurts for dinner, which is all I felt like. I also drank three cups of water, which I needed, but in hindsight was probably a mistake, as I will explain. I got myself all prettied up to go to Tripod’s official gay pride dance. Tripod is at Harcourt street which is very close to my house, but the tickets sold out early at the parade so I was advised to show up early at the door. I wandered down with a copy of The Irish Independent (so I could catch up on Irish current events), Hello! Magazine (so I could look at pictures of British women in funny hats), and a big ol’ bottle of Pepsi (for energy, you see). This also was a mistake. As I sat beside the door, I began to have to pee. Then people started lining up behind me, and the pressure got worse. There wasn’t enough time to get out of the line to find some pub to run into (plus, I didn’t want to, cause I got there first!) so I just stood there, trying to cross my legs, and think of other things as they slowly, so slowly, set up. At sometime I really thought I may have peed my pants. At 9.05, FIVE MINUTES LATE MIND YOU, they let me go and buy a (ridiculously expensive) ticket and enter the club, and I sprinted to the loo.
That was the most interesting part of the night. Tripod, which is a concert venue, looks like a school auditorium and this combined with the valentine’s day-ish decorations they put up made it feel a bit like a school dance. They played some fun music early on (including ‘You’ve Got The Love’, one of my favourite songs because of its use in the last episode of Sex and the City) but after the performances the DJ settled on repetitive unremarkable techno, and I just didn’t feel like dancing. I was on the look-out for the skizz-bag from Base Bar and had a Joan Crawford-type reaction in the back of my mind (it may have included a threat of “If you ever come near me again, I shall scream/slap you” and the throwing of a cocktail in his face) but as I got drunker (very quickly, due to my miniscule dinner) I stopped worrying. I eventually found my Canadian friend, but he wasn’t really into the music either, and finding myself alone again at some point with no prospects, I headed out. The best part of the evening was probably buying a falafel for the walk home: when you are tired and hungry and drunk, it is heaven. By the time I got a text message from Bruce saying he was heading home, I was already in bed with my sleeping mask on.
Happy Pride!
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Friday, June 26, 2009
Debasement at Base Bar
I arrived at Base Bar’s student night really early, cause that’s what I do. My little Pride Guide told me doors opened at nine, but at twenty-past nine they were still locked. So I wandered around the Liffey river instead as the light was fading from the day. The place eventually opened at 10.30. A girl and two guys were taking pictures of each other in front of the Louis Vuitton store across the street, and when I offered to take a picture of the three of them we fast became friends. The girl, whose name was Niamh (as far as I could tell, it’s pronounced like ‘Neeve’) especially took a shine to me as she told me how they all knew each other and how they were friendly because they’re from the country (said almost like ‘CUUN-tree’). Instead the chicly-designed bar I bought Niamh a vodka and coke (my Europe drink was last year!) and they broke out some glow sticks they had bought and we all wore them as bracelets. I was glad to have made fast friends, as everyone at the place was quite young and trendy. Like my queer friends at home, they were all about their digital cameras, so now I think I appear in several photos with people whose names I don’t remember.
I went and danced a bit, and came back and Niamh bought me a drink and at some point when coming back from the washroom she said, “Michael Jackson’s dead.” The loud music combined with her ‘CUUN-tree’ accent made me have to ask her to repeat. “What?!” “Michael Jackson! He’s dead!” “Seriously?” “All the girl’s are talking about it in the loo.” I still couldn’t really believe it, so Niamh looked it up on the internet on her cell phone and confirmed it. “Apparently, it was a massive heart attack.” “But he wasn’t even that old,” I said. Even now, I still don’t really believe it because I was always expecting him to die in a blaze of bizarre glory, a fitting climatic end for a fallen prince. I didn’t expect him to just randomly and out of nowhere (I hadn’t heard anything about him for months!) to just die. How weird. Also weird was the DJ’s tribute to him by playing ‘Billy Jean’ and especially ‘Thriller’ later that night. Like, I get that it was in honour of him, but were we supposed to dance like we normally would? What is appropriate.
But Michael’s death was overshadowed by what happened next that night. At some point when I was making my way back to my new friends a young fellow, skinny and cute with a buzz cut, approached me. “What’s your name?” he asked out of nowhere. His name was Daire (pronounced ‘Dar-ah’, as far as I could make out). “Why did you start chatting with me?” I asked part way through our conversation. “Cause I thought you were really hot,” he said. Then he asked me to dance. “But first,” he added, “Can I get a kiss?” So you can imagine what happened next; plenty of making out. My first Irish snogging. When we eventually went to dance, he had this weird form of dancing where he linked our fingers and then moved our arms around, in constant danger of accidently punching other people, so I had to keep him in check. He was also distracted by a guy he had “snogged” last time he was here but now was acting “snobby” towards him. “I don’t understand. Why can’t we at least be friends? Would you be snobby towards me?” “I don’t think so,” I said. He wanted more to drink (I did not, having to go to work for the first time the next day) and throughout the whole night he kept me very close, dragging me everywhere he went, and asking me to wait for him when he went to the loo.
At some point, I asked him if he wanted to come home with me, and he said yes, but he wanted to dance more. Mostly, we just made out more on the dance floor, and caused quite the spectacle. Some time after 2 am I really wanted to head back, so I started to encourage him. Then, oh, I don’t even know how it started, but the next thing I knew this tall guy was sidling up to Daire. At first I thought they must know each other, but then I saw them introducing themselves. Next thing I knew, they were dancing together. I tapped him on the shoulder and screamed (over the music), “Whatcha doing?!” He shrugged, or mumbled something, basically brushed me off. Then they started making out... right in front of me. I tapped him on the shoulder again, “Okay, I’m leaving!” “Wait, what?...Why...?” And then I believe Daire said, and I actually wish I hadn’t heard him, something to the effect of “...You’ll find someone else.”
I suddenly understood why his other snogging partner may have been snobby to him.
I stormed off the dance floor, with red face, leaving the two together. Luckily, I found Niamh and I went out with her for a spoke. She became a classic fag hag shoulder to cry on, and I will always love her for that. “Y’know, don’t worry yourself about it!” she said. “I am aware of one night stands. I don’t understand one HOUR stands!” “That’s Irish blokes for ya.” (Oh God, I hope this isn’t universally true!) Then she got all protective of me “You going to be okay getting home? I want you to text me when you arrive safe. Text me! Next time I come down to Dublin, I’ll stay with you!”
I walked home still in shock. I just couldn’t comprehend what had happened. Maybe the old me would’ve cried, but I just found the whole experience bewildering... and in a way, a relief. Well, I thought, at least I didn’t take such a skeez home with me. And also, at least I am not like him. Every time I thought of it I just had to keep shaking my head.
At home, I checked the internet to see if Michael Jackson had actually died, and I checked my text messages. Niamh sent one asking if I was alright, and Daire sent one asking where I had gone. I considered sending back simply ‘FUCK YOU’ but decided instead to take the high road. Knowing that his new friend probably hadn’t worked out (why else would he look for me?) was conciliation enough. Well, almost. This morning, I got another text from him: “I’m sorry I was an asshole last night. You are a nice guy and hot.”
Yes, Daire, I am nice and hot. And while I appreciate your apology as it indicates what a phenomenally un-classy thing you did to me was, I am still not going to write back. You, alas, will not get to know exactly how nice and hot I am.
I will probably avoid Base Bar for the time being so as to not have to act snobby.
I went and danced a bit, and came back and Niamh bought me a drink and at some point when coming back from the washroom she said, “Michael Jackson’s dead.” The loud music combined with her ‘CUUN-tree’ accent made me have to ask her to repeat. “What?!” “Michael Jackson! He’s dead!” “Seriously?” “All the girl’s are talking about it in the loo.” I still couldn’t really believe it, so Niamh looked it up on the internet on her cell phone and confirmed it. “Apparently, it was a massive heart attack.” “But he wasn’t even that old,” I said. Even now, I still don’t really believe it because I was always expecting him to die in a blaze of bizarre glory, a fitting climatic end for a fallen prince. I didn’t expect him to just randomly and out of nowhere (I hadn’t heard anything about him for months!) to just die. How weird. Also weird was the DJ’s tribute to him by playing ‘Billy Jean’ and especially ‘Thriller’ later that night. Like, I get that it was in honour of him, but were we supposed to dance like we normally would? What is appropriate.
But Michael’s death was overshadowed by what happened next that night. At some point when I was making my way back to my new friends a young fellow, skinny and cute with a buzz cut, approached me. “What’s your name?” he asked out of nowhere. His name was Daire (pronounced ‘Dar-ah’, as far as I could make out). “Why did you start chatting with me?” I asked part way through our conversation. “Cause I thought you were really hot,” he said. Then he asked me to dance. “But first,” he added, “Can I get a kiss?” So you can imagine what happened next; plenty of making out. My first Irish snogging. When we eventually went to dance, he had this weird form of dancing where he linked our fingers and then moved our arms around, in constant danger of accidently punching other people, so I had to keep him in check. He was also distracted by a guy he had “snogged” last time he was here but now was acting “snobby” towards him. “I don’t understand. Why can’t we at least be friends? Would you be snobby towards me?” “I don’t think so,” I said. He wanted more to drink (I did not, having to go to work for the first time the next day) and throughout the whole night he kept me very close, dragging me everywhere he went, and asking me to wait for him when he went to the loo.
At some point, I asked him if he wanted to come home with me, and he said yes, but he wanted to dance more. Mostly, we just made out more on the dance floor, and caused quite the spectacle. Some time after 2 am I really wanted to head back, so I started to encourage him. Then, oh, I don’t even know how it started, but the next thing I knew this tall guy was sidling up to Daire. At first I thought they must know each other, but then I saw them introducing themselves. Next thing I knew, they were dancing together. I tapped him on the shoulder and screamed (over the music), “Whatcha doing?!” He shrugged, or mumbled something, basically brushed me off. Then they started making out... right in front of me. I tapped him on the shoulder again, “Okay, I’m leaving!” “Wait, what?...Why...?” And then I believe Daire said, and I actually wish I hadn’t heard him, something to the effect of “...You’ll find someone else.”
I suddenly understood why his other snogging partner may have been snobby to him.
I stormed off the dance floor, with red face, leaving the two together. Luckily, I found Niamh and I went out with her for a spoke. She became a classic fag hag shoulder to cry on, and I will always love her for that. “Y’know, don’t worry yourself about it!” she said. “I am aware of one night stands. I don’t understand one HOUR stands!” “That’s Irish blokes for ya.” (Oh God, I hope this isn’t universally true!) Then she got all protective of me “You going to be okay getting home? I want you to text me when you arrive safe. Text me! Next time I come down to Dublin, I’ll stay with you!”
I walked home still in shock. I just couldn’t comprehend what had happened. Maybe the old me would’ve cried, but I just found the whole experience bewildering... and in a way, a relief. Well, I thought, at least I didn’t take such a skeez home with me. And also, at least I am not like him. Every time I thought of it I just had to keep shaking my head.
At home, I checked the internet to see if Michael Jackson had actually died, and I checked my text messages. Niamh sent one asking if I was alright, and Daire sent one asking where I had gone. I considered sending back simply ‘FUCK YOU’ but decided instead to take the high road. Knowing that his new friend probably hadn’t worked out (why else would he look for me?) was conciliation enough. Well, almost. This morning, I got another text from him: “I’m sorry I was an asshole last night. You are a nice guy and hot.”
Yes, Daire, I am nice and hot. And while I appreciate your apology as it indicates what a phenomenally un-classy thing you did to me was, I am still not going to write back. You, alas, will not get to know exactly how nice and hot I am.
I will probably avoid Base Bar for the time being so as to not have to act snobby.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
George and the Dragon
(It can’t be a coincidence that the two rival gay bars here have those names, recalling the mythic slaying of the latter by the former, can it?)
I’m a pretty happy person, I think. So it’s ironic that when my face is neutral, when I’m feeling a bit bored, I look sad. That’s just the way my face is. But I’m beginning to see that this has advantages. I was having an uneventful night at The George on Friday (drank a bit, danced a bit, watched some drag queens) and was taking a breather outside in the smoking section. I know this sounds paradoxical, but I actually like standing with the smokers because that’s where conversations seem to happen. With nothing happening I was about to go home when a lad turned to me and said, “Don’t look so sad!” I explained that I wasn’t sad, just tired, and we struck up a conversation. I told him about who I was (tried to explain yet again why I was in Ireland) and I learned in fits and starts about him. He was not from Dublin; he was in town with a group of friends who were seeing Britney Spears, who he hates, so he took a bath instead; and I believe he started to compare himself to the South Park character Cartman, but goodness knows why. Eventually his friends came back outside and I had my first encounters with flamboyantly-harsh Irish-gay bitchiness. I wish I could remember everything they yelled at each other, but only one comes to mind; a new friend gets upset at one of his group and yells (cigarette in one hand, drink in the other) “Shut up, ya big-eared cunt!” I thought that was the funniest thing I had ever heard.
I was somewhat invited into the group, but I am glad I was warned that they warm up to you by being initially cruel. Fortunately, all they picked at me about was being Canadian and since most people here know barely any Canadian stereotypes, I was safe. At some point, my new friend started yelling slurs at this pretty blonde girl, who started yelling things back (it sounded something like this: “Oh faggots!” “Oh dykes!” “I’m a bisexual!” “Oh bisexuals then!”) and of course they became friends. The girl, whose name is Rachel, began bonding with us and at some point ended up telling me personally all about her new Brazilian girlfriend who wanted her to visit her. “Want to come with me?” she asked. “What?! We just met!” “I like you, though.” Then there was lots of running around. Rachel wanted to buy me a drink, which all new Irish friends always want to do, and unfortunately my Canadian politeness forces me to always decline the first one (not that they accept that). It was after last call, and I had to chase after her as you briskly ran around to every bar to see if they were still serving (this girl is determined, as I witnessed her later doing the exact same thing when they told her the smoking area was closed and she ran around looking for an alternate exit). Oh, and then my favourite part, which I forgot until now. DETERMINED for a drink, she said down at a table with three half-drunk pint glasses of (presumably) beer and POURED THEM ALL TOGETHER. “Have some. Have some!” I got her cell number and I hope I get to see her before she goes off to Brazil.
Last night, at the Dragon. It was supposed to be another Pride event, but I got there very early, as I always do, and no one was there (the bartender didn’t even know if there was a special event) so I sat down with a coke next to a scruffy guy in khaki shorts. From experience now I knew it wasn’t that difficult to start a conversation so I did when he asked me if I wanted a coaster. I asked him where he was from and he requested that I guess. I couldn’t; he was from Brazil. And the longer I talked with him the more I thought he was beautiful. Not that anyone else at that bar would notice, as they are all clean-shaved, hair-gelled, tight-Abercrombie-tee-shirt-wearing gays, and here he was with a beard and his khaki shorts, but I felt like I had found a diamond in the rough. His name was Bruno.
He had the most adorable ESL-isms. He was pretty goofy and would go on and on about the most random things. At one point he interrupted himself and said, “Why I am talking about that? I’m supposed to be seducing you.” And I was like, “say what now!” And he said, “Oh, never mind. I’m drunk.” So I said, “It’s still early.”
Eventually the girlfriend he was staying with showed up and she joined us for beers, and rolled a spliff on the upstairs smoking patio in full view of the scary security guys. (Security people are intimidating here; they are all big and bald and Russian and, especially at The George, race around picking up glasses as soon as you’re finished, telling you to not be on the dance floor with your drink, telling you not to leave your bag on the floor, telling you not to crowd the hallways by the bath room... must be how Soviet Russia felt). When his friend went on a bathroom break I decided to take the risk (what’s the point of travelling if you’re not going to take at least some risks?) and leaned in to Bruno. “Okay, this is awkward, but I have to ask: do you want to come home with me tonight?” “Oh... no, I don’t think I can... wait, are you inviting me?” “...yes.” “Okay, well, no, I shouldn’t leave my friend. Like, she’s here because of me. It’d be rude.” “I understand.” But I did invite him to watch a documentary about politically active centurions at the Irish Film Institute today.
We arranged to meet at Temple Bar square in the spitting rain and he was fifteen minutes late, so we had to run to get into the movie in time. It was very interesting and tear-jerking. One of the ladies profiled, an 104 year-old anti-war activist, says at a rally, “If after a century of experience I’m not hopeless than you have no excuse!” Anyways, made me miss my grandma a bit (so I talked with her on skype tonight). Afterwards I half-purposefully, half-accidentally (nothing is open on Sundays) led Bruno to a diner half way to my house. I had some grainy coffee and he had a milk shake (he’s not THAT much younger, 21) and we talked about our lives. Finally, as he had the night before, he interrupted himself when saying something about dating and said, “Is this dating?” I said the only thing I thought of to say, while leaving open the possibility while saving face; “I don’t know.” We both laughed. Then it was awkward.
Afterwards, I wanted to head home and he wanted to head back to the North side so we said our goodbyes.
I may see him before he goes, but I may not. Either way, I should put the effort into meeting more Dubliners.
I’m a pretty happy person, I think. So it’s ironic that when my face is neutral, when I’m feeling a bit bored, I look sad. That’s just the way my face is. But I’m beginning to see that this has advantages. I was having an uneventful night at The George on Friday (drank a bit, danced a bit, watched some drag queens) and was taking a breather outside in the smoking section. I know this sounds paradoxical, but I actually like standing with the smokers because that’s where conversations seem to happen. With nothing happening I was about to go home when a lad turned to me and said, “Don’t look so sad!” I explained that I wasn’t sad, just tired, and we struck up a conversation. I told him about who I was (tried to explain yet again why I was in Ireland) and I learned in fits and starts about him. He was not from Dublin; he was in town with a group of friends who were seeing Britney Spears, who he hates, so he took a bath instead; and I believe he started to compare himself to the South Park character Cartman, but goodness knows why. Eventually his friends came back outside and I had my first encounters with flamboyantly-harsh Irish-gay bitchiness. I wish I could remember everything they yelled at each other, but only one comes to mind; a new friend gets upset at one of his group and yells (cigarette in one hand, drink in the other) “Shut up, ya big-eared cunt!” I thought that was the funniest thing I had ever heard.
I was somewhat invited into the group, but I am glad I was warned that they warm up to you by being initially cruel. Fortunately, all they picked at me about was being Canadian and since most people here know barely any Canadian stereotypes, I was safe. At some point, my new friend started yelling slurs at this pretty blonde girl, who started yelling things back (it sounded something like this: “Oh faggots!” “Oh dykes!” “I’m a bisexual!” “Oh bisexuals then!”) and of course they became friends. The girl, whose name is Rachel, began bonding with us and at some point ended up telling me personally all about her new Brazilian girlfriend who wanted her to visit her. “Want to come with me?” she asked. “What?! We just met!” “I like you, though.” Then there was lots of running around. Rachel wanted to buy me a drink, which all new Irish friends always want to do, and unfortunately my Canadian politeness forces me to always decline the first one (not that they accept that). It was after last call, and I had to chase after her as you briskly ran around to every bar to see if they were still serving (this girl is determined, as I witnessed her later doing the exact same thing when they told her the smoking area was closed and she ran around looking for an alternate exit). Oh, and then my favourite part, which I forgot until now. DETERMINED for a drink, she said down at a table with three half-drunk pint glasses of (presumably) beer and POURED THEM ALL TOGETHER. “Have some. Have some!” I got her cell number and I hope I get to see her before she goes off to Brazil.
Last night, at the Dragon. It was supposed to be another Pride event, but I got there very early, as I always do, and no one was there (the bartender didn’t even know if there was a special event) so I sat down with a coke next to a scruffy guy in khaki shorts. From experience now I knew it wasn’t that difficult to start a conversation so I did when he asked me if I wanted a coaster. I asked him where he was from and he requested that I guess. I couldn’t; he was from Brazil. And the longer I talked with him the more I thought he was beautiful. Not that anyone else at that bar would notice, as they are all clean-shaved, hair-gelled, tight-Abercrombie-tee-shirt-wearing gays, and here he was with a beard and his khaki shorts, but I felt like I had found a diamond in the rough. His name was Bruno.
He had the most adorable ESL-isms. He was pretty goofy and would go on and on about the most random things. At one point he interrupted himself and said, “Why I am talking about that? I’m supposed to be seducing you.” And I was like, “say what now!” And he said, “Oh, never mind. I’m drunk.” So I said, “It’s still early.”
Eventually the girlfriend he was staying with showed up and she joined us for beers, and rolled a spliff on the upstairs smoking patio in full view of the scary security guys. (Security people are intimidating here; they are all big and bald and Russian and, especially at The George, race around picking up glasses as soon as you’re finished, telling you to not be on the dance floor with your drink, telling you not to leave your bag on the floor, telling you not to crowd the hallways by the bath room... must be how Soviet Russia felt). When his friend went on a bathroom break I decided to take the risk (what’s the point of travelling if you’re not going to take at least some risks?) and leaned in to Bruno. “Okay, this is awkward, but I have to ask: do you want to come home with me tonight?” “Oh... no, I don’t think I can... wait, are you inviting me?” “...yes.” “Okay, well, no, I shouldn’t leave my friend. Like, she’s here because of me. It’d be rude.” “I understand.” But I did invite him to watch a documentary about politically active centurions at the Irish Film Institute today.
We arranged to meet at Temple Bar square in the spitting rain and he was fifteen minutes late, so we had to run to get into the movie in time. It was very interesting and tear-jerking. One of the ladies profiled, an 104 year-old anti-war activist, says at a rally, “If after a century of experience I’m not hopeless than you have no excuse!” Anyways, made me miss my grandma a bit (so I talked with her on skype tonight). Afterwards I half-purposefully, half-accidentally (nothing is open on Sundays) led Bruno to a diner half way to my house. I had some grainy coffee and he had a milk shake (he’s not THAT much younger, 21) and we talked about our lives. Finally, as he had the night before, he interrupted himself when saying something about dating and said, “Is this dating?” I said the only thing I thought of to say, while leaving open the possibility while saving face; “I don’t know.” We both laughed. Then it was awkward.
Afterwards, I wanted to head home and he wanted to head back to the North side so we said our goodbyes.
I may see him before he goes, but I may not. Either way, I should put the effort into meeting more Dubliners.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Day of Random Weather
My first week here was misleadingly sunny, so I didn’t need to purchase an umbrella until early this week. Yesterday was sunny when I got out of bed, so I didn’t put it in my bag. Never again. It starting spitting almost as soon as I had left my house, then got worse. Of course, I didn’t want to buy another umbrella, so I just dealt with it. I walked all the way to city centre to go to the welfare office to order a PPS number, which I need to have in able to get a bank account, which is needed to pay my bills, etc etc. The welfare office is on Pearse Street right by Trinity College. I sat with the other immigrants (‘I’m an immigrant,’ it dawned on me slowly) and read James Baldwin’s ‘Another Country’. I really am trying to save money, but I was running out of groceries and I was downtown anyways, so I decided to go out for lunch. I crossed the Liffey to this bookstore slash restaurant called The Winding Stair. The bookstore down aforementioned winding stair is marvellous: tall bookshelves, cool new releases, art books, used classics and even copies of Butt magazine (if I wanted at some point to shell out the seven euros!). The restaurant upstairs, one big room with grand windows looking out on Ha’Penny Bridge and the Liffey, was empty with about five female wait staff standing around. “Could I have a table by the window?” I asked. “Do you have a reservation?” “Uh, no...” “It’s just one, is it?” “...Yes.” She then sat me at a little table looking right down on the river. Then the sun came out and bathed the room in a warm glow. It turns out I got there right on time: not five minutes after I had arrived almost the entire restaurant was filled up with business men in purple dress shirts and middle-aged women splitting salads and desserts. I ordered the seafood chowder, which was my favourite thing to order last time I was in Ireland but I had not come across it yet. Rich and creamy, with bits of salmon, scallops, mussels and salty bacon, with a side of dense brown bread and a cup of tea; the ideal thing to warm you up on a chilly day. I must admit though, I wished I was sharing the experience with someone else, and I just kept imagining showing visitors to Dublin this spot.
When I finally left The Winding Stair it began raining again. So as quickly as I could I dashed off to the National Museum of Ireland. I’m trying to do one touristy thing a day, to remind myself why I’m here and distract from my worry about finding a job. The Museum is held in a grand neoclassical dome with pillared arcades, but I just wasn’t feeling their collections of ancient and bronze-age knick knacks that day. I was on the second floor looking at intricate Celtic book covers when my cell phone rang. When I saw it wasn’t Tim I got really excited. “Hello there, is this Maximilian?” Professionally-polite tone and full name: now really excited. A security guard came over and told me to turn off my phone. I mouthed an apology to him and began running towards the stairs. “I wasn’t wondering if you were still looking to work for Starbucks...” “Yes, absolutely yes! But, um, could I phone you back in two minutes. I’m in a museum right now and I don’t want them to yell at me again. I will phone you RIGHT BACK.”
The manager sounded nice (her name is Irish and I can neither spell it nor pronounce it). She got my resume from the manager of another store who faxed it around the city. I have always relied on the kindness of strangers. I have an interview on Monday, and if I get the job I most certainly need to go back to that store and thank the woman in person. The catch, there always is one: the Starbucks is in a shopping centre in the suburbs. The city bus goes there but it might take awhile. Right now, I don’t care. It’s a foot in. It’s an invitation back into the club, after which it’s much easier to move around. Best of all, it gives me hope that I can actually settle down a little, relax and not worry about having to pack up in a few weeks and retreat with defeat.
In a relieved haze, I went and sat in St. Stephen’s Green and read James Baldwin for awhile in the sunlight. That is until, of course, a giant wind blew up, scattering the fountain’s water all over some teenage girls, and then the rain came back. Some people huddled under gazebos, others went back to their offices. I decided to walk home. Halfway back, the sun came out again.
I had been planning to go back to The George last night for the first of many Pride Week celebrations, but it turned out that I got the night wrong. I didn’t want to sit in my room all night so I decided to go to another movie (having just had microwavable rice for dinner, I decided I was allowed to). I looked up Irish cinemas on google maps and decided to check out the Irish Film Institute, which is in the middle of Temple Bar. I walked all the way there. The wind was now so blustery that crossing the street at one point I leaf landed on my face and actually hurt. The sun was low in the sky when I got to Dame Street. Across the street I saw a group of drunken young people, a somewhat unusual sight in daylight even in Temple Bar. They were in two groups and a girl from one starting screaming at a girl from the other one. The girl’s friends tried to hold her back, and the other girl ignored her, until she grappled free, stomped over and punched the girl in the side of the head. Now that is a beef. The punching girl’s friends pulled her away screaming obscenities, and the punched girl and her friends wisely walked in the other direction quickly. What was funniest was watching the reaction of all the people waiting for the light to change to cross the street; ‘Did that just happened?’ they seemed to be thinking, some with embarrassed smiles.
The Irish Film Institute is awesome. It will become my main movie theatre. Their brick-walled glass-ceilinged courtyard makes one film like an indie film intellectual and their movie screen is surprisingly full-scale and epic-feeling. I saw ‘Looking for Eric’ a British film about a working-class father who imagines the great footballer Eric Cantona to give him advice and inspiration. I got chatting with a group of Irish ladies on the way in (“Why Ireland?” they asked) who wondered if I even knew who Eric Cantona was (“I do now!”) On the way back I bought a falafel and marvelled at how many stores and restaurants stay open really late for the drunken hobblers home. Basically, a really good day in which I start to imagine actually being able to live here.
When I finally left The Winding Stair it began raining again. So as quickly as I could I dashed off to the National Museum of Ireland. I’m trying to do one touristy thing a day, to remind myself why I’m here and distract from my worry about finding a job. The Museum is held in a grand neoclassical dome with pillared arcades, but I just wasn’t feeling their collections of ancient and bronze-age knick knacks that day. I was on the second floor looking at intricate Celtic book covers when my cell phone rang. When I saw it wasn’t Tim I got really excited. “Hello there, is this Maximilian?” Professionally-polite tone and full name: now really excited. A security guard came over and told me to turn off my phone. I mouthed an apology to him and began running towards the stairs. “I wasn’t wondering if you were still looking to work for Starbucks...” “Yes, absolutely yes! But, um, could I phone you back in two minutes. I’m in a museum right now and I don’t want them to yell at me again. I will phone you RIGHT BACK.”
The manager sounded nice (her name is Irish and I can neither spell it nor pronounce it). She got my resume from the manager of another store who faxed it around the city. I have always relied on the kindness of strangers. I have an interview on Monday, and if I get the job I most certainly need to go back to that store and thank the woman in person. The catch, there always is one: the Starbucks is in a shopping centre in the suburbs. The city bus goes there but it might take awhile. Right now, I don’t care. It’s a foot in. It’s an invitation back into the club, after which it’s much easier to move around. Best of all, it gives me hope that I can actually settle down a little, relax and not worry about having to pack up in a few weeks and retreat with defeat.
In a relieved haze, I went and sat in St. Stephen’s Green and read James Baldwin for awhile in the sunlight. That is until, of course, a giant wind blew up, scattering the fountain’s water all over some teenage girls, and then the rain came back. Some people huddled under gazebos, others went back to their offices. I decided to walk home. Halfway back, the sun came out again.
I had been planning to go back to The George last night for the first of many Pride Week celebrations, but it turned out that I got the night wrong. I didn’t want to sit in my room all night so I decided to go to another movie (having just had microwavable rice for dinner, I decided I was allowed to). I looked up Irish cinemas on google maps and decided to check out the Irish Film Institute, which is in the middle of Temple Bar. I walked all the way there. The wind was now so blustery that crossing the street at one point I leaf landed on my face and actually hurt. The sun was low in the sky when I got to Dame Street. Across the street I saw a group of drunken young people, a somewhat unusual sight in daylight even in Temple Bar. They were in two groups and a girl from one starting screaming at a girl from the other one. The girl’s friends tried to hold her back, and the other girl ignored her, until she grappled free, stomped over and punched the girl in the side of the head. Now that is a beef. The punching girl’s friends pulled her away screaming obscenities, and the punched girl and her friends wisely walked in the other direction quickly. What was funniest was watching the reaction of all the people waiting for the light to change to cross the street; ‘Did that just happened?’ they seemed to be thinking, some with embarrassed smiles.
The Irish Film Institute is awesome. It will become my main movie theatre. Their brick-walled glass-ceilinged courtyard makes one film like an indie film intellectual and their movie screen is surprisingly full-scale and epic-feeling. I saw ‘Looking for Eric’ a British film about a working-class father who imagines the great footballer Eric Cantona to give him advice and inspiration. I got chatting with a group of Irish ladies on the way in (“Why Ireland?” they asked) who wondered if I even knew who Eric Cantona was (“I do now!”) On the way back I bought a falafel and marvelled at how many stores and restaurants stay open really late for the drunken hobblers home. Basically, a really good day in which I start to imagine actually being able to live here.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Three Tim Stories
On the heels of that Tim story, I thought I would add three more of the last three days to really flesh out his character. He is after all the first Irish person I have at least somewhat gotten to know. And he’s a riot.
The night I moved in Megan and Mel came to visit me and ‘Christen’ the new apartment. Of course, coming back from city centre for the first time after dark, I got us lost and we didn’t even make it to my place until way past one am. Then we drank two bottles of the cheapest white wine imaginable which tasted like apple juice. Eventually my eyes started to close, despite Megan telling a hilarious story about how her cat died. But I wasn’t about to let two drunk, disoriented girls wander all the way back to the North side of the Liffey that late at night, so I insisted we’d call them a cab. Mel suggested that they just sleep on the bed in the empty apartment next to mine, which I allowed, as long as they left early so I wouldn’t get in trouble. I heard them talking and giggling for awhile and thought back to Artz Haus. After having drifted off I am awoken at some point by both of them standing over my bed. “It’s really cold in the other room with no blankets. Can we jump in with you?” “Of course,” I mutter. “Just let me put some pants on.” So the three of us piled into my double bed, and I ended up almost pushed right off.
All of that was to explain that I didn’t get a lot of sleep that night. The girls left early, and I went back to bed. Then I got on Tim about getting me an internet connection, which he had promised. He came down from his office (I saw him in a suit for the first time! It’s like seeing your parents unexpectedly at work!) and ended up kidnapping my computer for almost an hour trying to hook it up to the office’s internet. Eventually, he said it was connected, but it didn’t work. But he told me about how I could maybe get a broadband thingy, if I couldn’t wait the week it would take them to set up the internet in the basement (I couldn’t). So I promptly went downtown to see about a broadband thingy cause I really wanted to talk to my parents on skype, and feel connected to all my friends on facebook.
The woman at the vodofone explained everything about the broadband thingy to me (even how expensive it would be, which I didn’t care about, so much was my need for connectivity) but saved the little fact that I needed a bank account to get one till the end. Not having one yet, I wandered away broadbandless. Then I bought a coffee at a cafe wanting to use their connection, but it didn’t work. Then I wandered into St. Stephen’s park and had a little cry sitting under a tree (this is what I do in Dublin apparently; go into parks for public cries) and Megan called my cell about a book she may have left in my room and told me to not upset myself with such silly things. Then I went back to Ranelagh and went into ANOTHER coffee shop where again my laptop didn’t want to be compatible with their wifi. So I gave up and shelled out the two euros at the internet cafe across the street and wrote an angry email to my parents.
When I buzzed back to my room after that I discovered an orange wire dangling through my window: Tim had lowered it from the upstairs window so I would be able to hook it up to my computer and have internet access until we got everything worked out. I almost jumped for joy.
Okay, the other two are quick. I left the house after dinner last night to go to the local pub and hopefully chat with people about the neighbourhood (that was a bust! Not even the bartender struck up a conversation with me!). But as I went to let myself out I discovered I was locked in. See, the Zimbabwean guy who rents the office in the front of basement had locked the door on his way out and there’s something wrong with my key which makes it jam when trying to unlock the door from the inside. I tried several times until I tried to go out the back. Turns out the close the big black gates in the back parking lot when everyone goes home, so I was actually trapped in my house.
Naturally, I phoned Tim, quite humiliated. “Hey Tim, are you still upstairs? I seem to be locked in the basement.” “Now how did you manage that, Max?” he asked. There’s no way in writing to really portray his exact tone of voice. “I’ll be right down.” Then I got it working myself and phoned him back and apologized.
Then today I was having my dinner of microwavable Uncle Ben’s and watching ‘The Golden Girls’ when Tim calls me. “Hey Max, listen; would you do me a large favour. There’s a fellow who’s shown up to look at the other apartment. He’s come early, and I’m still with a client. Would you mind letting him in and showing him around? He’s French, his name’s Cyril.” “Sure Tim...”
So I showed Cyril the apartment. Explained how the water heater works. Told him about how I just figured out how to use the clothes washer. Informed him that it was quite quiet here as both our windows only looked out the back. He works long hours and needs lots of sleep so he likes he’s quiet. (If he does take the apartment, let’s hope he doesn’t need too much quiet). But he cooks, which is always useful. Then Cyril and I stood around awkwardly making conversation until Tim rushed in an eternity later. “So sorry I’m late!” I went back to my ‘Golden Girls’ as Tim explained some other stuff about the apartment, until it came time for Cyril to leave. As they were about to go I heard Tim say from the hall, “Oh no, the lock’s stuck!”
The night I moved in Megan and Mel came to visit me and ‘Christen’ the new apartment. Of course, coming back from city centre for the first time after dark, I got us lost and we didn’t even make it to my place until way past one am. Then we drank two bottles of the cheapest white wine imaginable which tasted like apple juice. Eventually my eyes started to close, despite Megan telling a hilarious story about how her cat died. But I wasn’t about to let two drunk, disoriented girls wander all the way back to the North side of the Liffey that late at night, so I insisted we’d call them a cab. Mel suggested that they just sleep on the bed in the empty apartment next to mine, which I allowed, as long as they left early so I wouldn’t get in trouble. I heard them talking and giggling for awhile and thought back to Artz Haus. After having drifted off I am awoken at some point by both of them standing over my bed. “It’s really cold in the other room with no blankets. Can we jump in with you?” “Of course,” I mutter. “Just let me put some pants on.” So the three of us piled into my double bed, and I ended up almost pushed right off.
All of that was to explain that I didn’t get a lot of sleep that night. The girls left early, and I went back to bed. Then I got on Tim about getting me an internet connection, which he had promised. He came down from his office (I saw him in a suit for the first time! It’s like seeing your parents unexpectedly at work!) and ended up kidnapping my computer for almost an hour trying to hook it up to the office’s internet. Eventually, he said it was connected, but it didn’t work. But he told me about how I could maybe get a broadband thingy, if I couldn’t wait the week it would take them to set up the internet in the basement (I couldn’t). So I promptly went downtown to see about a broadband thingy cause I really wanted to talk to my parents on skype, and feel connected to all my friends on facebook.
The woman at the vodofone explained everything about the broadband thingy to me (even how expensive it would be, which I didn’t care about, so much was my need for connectivity) but saved the little fact that I needed a bank account to get one till the end. Not having one yet, I wandered away broadbandless. Then I bought a coffee at a cafe wanting to use their connection, but it didn’t work. Then I wandered into St. Stephen’s park and had a little cry sitting under a tree (this is what I do in Dublin apparently; go into parks for public cries) and Megan called my cell about a book she may have left in my room and told me to not upset myself with such silly things. Then I went back to Ranelagh and went into ANOTHER coffee shop where again my laptop didn’t want to be compatible with their wifi. So I gave up and shelled out the two euros at the internet cafe across the street and wrote an angry email to my parents.
When I buzzed back to my room after that I discovered an orange wire dangling through my window: Tim had lowered it from the upstairs window so I would be able to hook it up to my computer and have internet access until we got everything worked out. I almost jumped for joy.
Okay, the other two are quick. I left the house after dinner last night to go to the local pub and hopefully chat with people about the neighbourhood (that was a bust! Not even the bartender struck up a conversation with me!). But as I went to let myself out I discovered I was locked in. See, the Zimbabwean guy who rents the office in the front of basement had locked the door on his way out and there’s something wrong with my key which makes it jam when trying to unlock the door from the inside. I tried several times until I tried to go out the back. Turns out the close the big black gates in the back parking lot when everyone goes home, so I was actually trapped in my house.
Naturally, I phoned Tim, quite humiliated. “Hey Tim, are you still upstairs? I seem to be locked in the basement.” “Now how did you manage that, Max?” he asked. There’s no way in writing to really portray his exact tone of voice. “I’ll be right down.” Then I got it working myself and phoned him back and apologized.
Then today I was having my dinner of microwavable Uncle Ben’s and watching ‘The Golden Girls’ when Tim calls me. “Hey Max, listen; would you do me a large favour. There’s a fellow who’s shown up to look at the other apartment. He’s come early, and I’m still with a client. Would you mind letting him in and showing him around? He’s French, his name’s Cyril.” “Sure Tim...”
So I showed Cyril the apartment. Explained how the water heater works. Told him about how I just figured out how to use the clothes washer. Informed him that it was quite quiet here as both our windows only looked out the back. He works long hours and needs lots of sleep so he likes he’s quiet. (If he does take the apartment, let’s hope he doesn’t need too much quiet). But he cooks, which is always useful. Then Cyril and I stood around awkwardly making conversation until Tim rushed in an eternity later. “So sorry I’m late!” I went back to my ‘Golden Girls’ as Tim explained some other stuff about the apartment, until it came time for Cyril to leave. As they were about to go I heard Tim say from the hall, “Oh no, the lock’s stuck!”
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Ranelagh
I am sitting here, trapped, in my new apartment. While I may not be trapped literally (I can exit the building whenever I wish), I have not been given the keys to house yet, and Tim, my liaison with the accounting firm that owns the building, has gone out, saying he will be back in five minutes. I knew not to believe him, because before that he went out to find out about internet access for my first couple days saying he would be back in twenty minutes, and it was an hour and a half (and then we still couldn’t get it working). I have been told that the Irish have a different sense of time, but that might be unfair. I think it may just be Tim. Introducing Tim Standard Time (TST).
I am annoyed as a) the room is cold because the renovators keep leaving the back door of the house open, and it is grey and raining, b) I need to go out and buy sheets and blankets and pillows so I am able to sleep tonight (I have a double bed, which I am pretty excited about) and c) I haven’t eaten anything today. Before you start at me, it’s not my fault! I left the hostel at ten a.m. Now it is one-thirty. Did not expect to be trapped.
Ranelagh Village is just outside what I would call downtown Dublin but have been instructed not to say ‘downtown’ (they say ‘city centre’ here, or just specific names of streets) just past the Grand Canal (which despite its name is wee). Despite being a twenty minute walk from city centre all the buildings are small here and you could imagine yourself much farther out in the country. Ranelagh is the main street and has all sorts of Annex-y things; restaurants, coffee shops, florists. There are many families and children and dogs around. There’s only one downside: remember in my previous post when I got mad at the Starbucks that wouldn’t take my resume at all, and said I wouldn’t want to work in that neighbourhood anyways? That’s my new neighbourhood. So obviously a stealth operation is required in which my resume ends up at that Starbucks without the knowledge of the French barista who was mean to me. SOMEBODY should want to hire me!
Okay, I am worrying about that tomorrow. Today is about my new apartment, which I decorated with Team Macho postcards, prints of 1910’s fashion plates and my Judy Garland record. It didn’t occur to me before today, but many years in residence taught me how to make one’s imprint on a room in a fast and effective manner. Megan and Mel, my visitors this past weekend, are supposed to visit my neighbourhood tonight after having gone on a day trip to “the sea” and other than that my plans were going to consist of watching several hours of Golden Girls (can’t though, without internet...) and reading my Nixon book and sleeping for 11 hours.
I am annoyed as a) the room is cold because the renovators keep leaving the back door of the house open, and it is grey and raining, b) I need to go out and buy sheets and blankets and pillows so I am able to sleep tonight (I have a double bed, which I am pretty excited about) and c) I haven’t eaten anything today. Before you start at me, it’s not my fault! I left the hostel at ten a.m. Now it is one-thirty. Did not expect to be trapped.
Ranelagh Village is just outside what I would call downtown Dublin but have been instructed not to say ‘downtown’ (they say ‘city centre’ here, or just specific names of streets) just past the Grand Canal (which despite its name is wee). Despite being a twenty minute walk from city centre all the buildings are small here and you could imagine yourself much farther out in the country. Ranelagh is the main street and has all sorts of Annex-y things; restaurants, coffee shops, florists. There are many families and children and dogs around. There’s only one downside: remember in my previous post when I got mad at the Starbucks that wouldn’t take my resume at all, and said I wouldn’t want to work in that neighbourhood anyways? That’s my new neighbourhood. So obviously a stealth operation is required in which my resume ends up at that Starbucks without the knowledge of the French barista who was mean to me. SOMEBODY should want to hire me!
Okay, I am worrying about that tomorrow. Today is about my new apartment, which I decorated with Team Macho postcards, prints of 1910’s fashion plates and my Judy Garland record. It didn’t occur to me before today, but many years in residence taught me how to make one’s imprint on a room in a fast and effective manner. Megan and Mel, my visitors this past weekend, are supposed to visit my neighbourhood tonight after having gone on a day trip to “the sea” and other than that my plans were going to consist of watching several hours of Golden Girls (can’t though, without internet...) and reading my Nixon book and sleeping for 11 hours.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Some days are like that, even in Ireland
This day really kicked my ass. It’s fitting that I’m writing this kneeing in the kitchen, escaping the rowdy noise of drunken...
...okay, got kicked out of the kitchen cause they were closing it. So now I’m upstairs in my bedroom, as my two Canadian guys-guy room mates pack up their stuff. No privacy whatsoever in this place.
So, yeah, this day kicked my ass. Handing out resumes in the rain this morning sucked. The three other major coffee chains here (Costa Coffee, West Coast and Insomnia) were all pretty hostile to me even leaving my resume with them. Ultimately, it just comes down to bad customer service, cause I’m a lot less likely to go in there no to spend money. The nicest have been the Starbucks people (maybe because I’m part of the club) and one manager told me she would phone around to see if anyone needed a trained barista or would-be shift supervisor.
Then I heard back from this girl whose house I wanted to leave at that they had one more person to meet at noon and then she’d get back to me sometime in the afternoon. Pretty nerve-racking stuff. So I took a nap. Then treated myself to a large Indian lunch (was the only one at the restaurant and the waiter warned me twice that the dish I ordered was very spicy, cause, y’know, I’m white) which my body really needed. I’ll never forget how good the piping hot spicy sauces tasted on such a cold, grey day.
I had been wanting to see the Natural History Museum since back in Toronto because my Lonely Planet book described it as Victorian and whimsical and fun. So after lunch I walked all the way over there (which, although on the other side of downtown, was in truth not that far, as nothing is that far in Dublin) only to find out the museum was closed... forever. When the nice police officer told me that, I asked “Seriously? Or is that just Irish black humour?” to which he laughed out loud. Turns out the old staircase collapsed last year and they shut down the whole place.
When you’re in a foreign city, and already tired and emotional, it’s hilarious what news upsets you. Not getting to see the stuffed extinct animals irrationally upset me. So I wandered around the old Georgian section of the South side (for those who haven’t been, all the houses are attached, brick, four-stories with long windows and imposing, brightly-coloured doors. The aristocrats of Dublin wanted to out-Georgian London, and in their shining moment in the early 19th century they succeeded), discovered one park I couldn’t go into as it was only for the use of the street’s residents (as a New Democrat, I resented this), and another, Iveagh gardens, in which I sat in the rose garden.
I went home and had another nap. Then I got up and checked my emails, but the girl still hadn’t replied, so fearing the worse, I started to email other houses. On a different website (www.draft.ie) I discovered a lot of Georgian apartments actually in my price range, which shocked me. Then my phone rang, which I believe was only the second time it ever had. I didn’t get the room in the house that gave me such warm feelings. Evidently, all the housemates were present to meet the other applicant and therefore all knew that they would gel together, or something. She was really nice about it and apologetic, but I had to stop looking at house ads then. It was all too much.
I ran outside with my cell phone, desperate for some privacy anywhere. I walked down to the Liffey (past a young couple having a very awkward row in public) and hid behind the cement walls of a government buildings wheel chair ramp. Even there I wasn’t completed alone as a little 8 year old boy keep racing up and down the ramp. I didn’t care. I phoned my parents, and had a good cry. I was expecting to. The whole day was leading up to it. Better to get it out then than let it slip out randomly at some point to a shocked Irish bartender, or something. So I cried. That probably freaked out the little boy a bit, but he continued playing anyways.
My parents confirmed for me what I already knew; that it had been only three days; that there are ups and downs; that nobody else worries that I’m wasting my time here. I wiped my eyes and picked myself up. That’s what it’s all about, right?
It’s not just the disappoint though. It’s now the worrying. My reservation at the hostel is only until Monday, and although I could probably extend that if I didn’t mind changing rooms, I need my own place soon. I need to make a little nest if I’m going to start believing this city is my city. But I’m running out of time.
But rather than worrying, I went to see a movie, ‘Night at the Museum 2’. Seeing a movie is actually the best way to momentarily lose yourself when you’re traveling. And I wandered around O’Connell street, which is too wide, horribly tacky and run-down, but was kind of exciting to walk home along after dark.
When you hit a rough patch, you think about giving up. You think about going home. And it’s a good thing you indulge yourself in those thoughts for a moment because then you can sharply realize that no, in fact you do not want to quit. You want to continue, even if you’re not sleeping enough, not eating enough, tired of carrying around your camera, passport and three different keys at all times. You paradoxically want more privacy and solitude at your home space while desperately wanting to run into a friend in the street somewhere to talk and spend the afternoon together. That’s what hurt the most actually about not getting that apartment; I could see those people as my friends, and now I feel alone again.
But if you want the exciting experiences of travel, you need to take the sad times as well.
Things will look better in the morning.
...okay, got kicked out of the kitchen cause they were closing it. So now I’m upstairs in my bedroom, as my two Canadian guys-guy room mates pack up their stuff. No privacy whatsoever in this place.
So, yeah, this day kicked my ass. Handing out resumes in the rain this morning sucked. The three other major coffee chains here (Costa Coffee, West Coast and Insomnia) were all pretty hostile to me even leaving my resume with them. Ultimately, it just comes down to bad customer service, cause I’m a lot less likely to go in there no to spend money. The nicest have been the Starbucks people (maybe because I’m part of the club) and one manager told me she would phone around to see if anyone needed a trained barista or would-be shift supervisor.
Then I heard back from this girl whose house I wanted to leave at that they had one more person to meet at noon and then she’d get back to me sometime in the afternoon. Pretty nerve-racking stuff. So I took a nap. Then treated myself to a large Indian lunch (was the only one at the restaurant and the waiter warned me twice that the dish I ordered was very spicy, cause, y’know, I’m white) which my body really needed. I’ll never forget how good the piping hot spicy sauces tasted on such a cold, grey day.
I had been wanting to see the Natural History Museum since back in Toronto because my Lonely Planet book described it as Victorian and whimsical and fun. So after lunch I walked all the way over there (which, although on the other side of downtown, was in truth not that far, as nothing is that far in Dublin) only to find out the museum was closed... forever. When the nice police officer told me that, I asked “Seriously? Or is that just Irish black humour?” to which he laughed out loud. Turns out the old staircase collapsed last year and they shut down the whole place.
When you’re in a foreign city, and already tired and emotional, it’s hilarious what news upsets you. Not getting to see the stuffed extinct animals irrationally upset me. So I wandered around the old Georgian section of the South side (for those who haven’t been, all the houses are attached, brick, four-stories with long windows and imposing, brightly-coloured doors. The aristocrats of Dublin wanted to out-Georgian London, and in their shining moment in the early 19th century they succeeded), discovered one park I couldn’t go into as it was only for the use of the street’s residents (as a New Democrat, I resented this), and another, Iveagh gardens, in which I sat in the rose garden.
I went home and had another nap. Then I got up and checked my emails, but the girl still hadn’t replied, so fearing the worse, I started to email other houses. On a different website (www.draft.ie) I discovered a lot of Georgian apartments actually in my price range, which shocked me. Then my phone rang, which I believe was only the second time it ever had. I didn’t get the room in the house that gave me such warm feelings. Evidently, all the housemates were present to meet the other applicant and therefore all knew that they would gel together, or something. She was really nice about it and apologetic, but I had to stop looking at house ads then. It was all too much.
I ran outside with my cell phone, desperate for some privacy anywhere. I walked down to the Liffey (past a young couple having a very awkward row in public) and hid behind the cement walls of a government buildings wheel chair ramp. Even there I wasn’t completed alone as a little 8 year old boy keep racing up and down the ramp. I didn’t care. I phoned my parents, and had a good cry. I was expecting to. The whole day was leading up to it. Better to get it out then than let it slip out randomly at some point to a shocked Irish bartender, or something. So I cried. That probably freaked out the little boy a bit, but he continued playing anyways.
My parents confirmed for me what I already knew; that it had been only three days; that there are ups and downs; that nobody else worries that I’m wasting my time here. I wiped my eyes and picked myself up. That’s what it’s all about, right?
It’s not just the disappoint though. It’s now the worrying. My reservation at the hostel is only until Monday, and although I could probably extend that if I didn’t mind changing rooms, I need my own place soon. I need to make a little nest if I’m going to start believing this city is my city. But I’m running out of time.
But rather than worrying, I went to see a movie, ‘Night at the Museum 2’. Seeing a movie is actually the best way to momentarily lose yourself when you’re traveling. And I wandered around O’Connell street, which is too wide, horribly tacky and run-down, but was kind of exciting to walk home along after dark.
When you hit a rough patch, you think about giving up. You think about going home. And it’s a good thing you indulge yourself in those thoughts for a moment because then you can sharply realize that no, in fact you do not want to quit. You want to continue, even if you’re not sleeping enough, not eating enough, tired of carrying around your camera, passport and three different keys at all times. You paradoxically want more privacy and solitude at your home space while desperately wanting to run into a friend in the street somewhere to talk and spend the afternoon together. That’s what hurt the most actually about not getting that apartment; I could see those people as my friends, and now I feel alone again.
But if you want the exciting experiences of travel, you need to take the sad times as well.
Things will look better in the morning.
The George
When I eventually felt ready to test the gay scene waters here in Dublin I was a little surprised to find The George, the oldest and most famous gay bar here, at a very prime location just up from Dame Street and Great George. There doesn’t appear to be any ‘neighbourhood’ here, no ‘gay ghetto’ of bars, bath houses, speciality coffee shops and underwear stores catering to homosexual mans which exist in practically every urban centre in North America. Nope, here the George and the Dragon sit alongside curry restaurants and traditional pubs on one of the busier commercial streets right down town.
So I walk into the bar and am surprised how small it is. It’s decorated with old-fashioned red lamps and there cliental is, how shall I say... in general older. I order a cider (at least in a gay bar I assume my masculinity will not get questioned for ordering a cider) and sit by myself for ten minutes or so. Echoes of my experiences in Barcelona start waving over me. Then an older Irish gentleman approaches me (I’m guessing he was about 55) and just starts talking. I couldn’t really hear or understand everything he said, but here’s the gist of it (do the accent yourself): “Hello there! Are you havin’ a good evening? I’m not trying to chat you up at all. I’m really not. If I bore you, tell me to go away. I just thought I oughta tell you that this section of the bar is for older gentlemen like myself. On the other side of the doors, that’s for younger men like yourself. You’re not from around here, so I thought someone should tell you. Just in case you were wondering why people were staring at you. I’m not bothered at all. And I’m not trying to chat you up, but if I can’t give a young lad like you advice, now who can I?”
Some rational of this speech continued for quite some time. Oh, and he also wanted me to know that the gay scene was all about sex (isn’t that what they always say?) and that there is more to life than being gay. I nodded along, answered the few questions he asked and smiled genuinely; in my years of going to Canadian gay bars an older fellow had never taken me under his wing like that, and I was glad for the information and his welcoming nature. I did eventually have to lose him, because I could tell the same conversation would just continue along the same lines, not that he was trying to chat me up or anything, so I made my way to the other side of the bar.
Through the doors it looked more like a modern gay bar: dance floor (which my friend actually called a “disco”), leather couches, homoerotic vaguely-Greek statues. I got another drink, then another older gentleman began talking to me. Then a guy who worked at the bar came over to get me to fill out a questionnaire for a Family Feud-ish game show they do. I tried to write naughty, snarky answers for all of them, and my funniest line I believe (I can’t remember all of them now) was answering the question “Name a wild creature which is native to Ireland” with the only honest answer that came to my head: “Sinead O’Connor.”
So already I was thinking: this is 300% more people talking to me than the last time I was at Woody’s (in Toronto). Maybe the friendly, talkative character of the Irish offsets the often-times cold and clique-ness of the gay community? Best of all, it encouraged me to be more outgoing. Inspired by my conversations already, I turned to a cute, tall, bespectacled guy next to me and asked him how his night was going. It turned out he was an American visiting from France at the moment, and we spent the rest of the night talking. It seemed we had almost everything in common, and what we didn’t led to interesting conversations. We were fast friends, instant mates in a mutually foreign land. Of course, he is leaving this weekend and of course he has a boyfriend back in the States, but it’s the potential of that first night at the George that excites me.
So I walk into the bar and am surprised how small it is. It’s decorated with old-fashioned red lamps and there cliental is, how shall I say... in general older. I order a cider (at least in a gay bar I assume my masculinity will not get questioned for ordering a cider) and sit by myself for ten minutes or so. Echoes of my experiences in Barcelona start waving over me. Then an older Irish gentleman approaches me (I’m guessing he was about 55) and just starts talking. I couldn’t really hear or understand everything he said, but here’s the gist of it (do the accent yourself): “Hello there! Are you havin’ a good evening? I’m not trying to chat you up at all. I’m really not. If I bore you, tell me to go away. I just thought I oughta tell you that this section of the bar is for older gentlemen like myself. On the other side of the doors, that’s for younger men like yourself. You’re not from around here, so I thought someone should tell you. Just in case you were wondering why people were staring at you. I’m not bothered at all. And I’m not trying to chat you up, but if I can’t give a young lad like you advice, now who can I?”
Some rational of this speech continued for quite some time. Oh, and he also wanted me to know that the gay scene was all about sex (isn’t that what they always say?) and that there is more to life than being gay. I nodded along, answered the few questions he asked and smiled genuinely; in my years of going to Canadian gay bars an older fellow had never taken me under his wing like that, and I was glad for the information and his welcoming nature. I did eventually have to lose him, because I could tell the same conversation would just continue along the same lines, not that he was trying to chat me up or anything, so I made my way to the other side of the bar.
Through the doors it looked more like a modern gay bar: dance floor (which my friend actually called a “disco”), leather couches, homoerotic vaguely-Greek statues. I got another drink, then another older gentleman began talking to me. Then a guy who worked at the bar came over to get me to fill out a questionnaire for a Family Feud-ish game show they do. I tried to write naughty, snarky answers for all of them, and my funniest line I believe (I can’t remember all of them now) was answering the question “Name a wild creature which is native to Ireland” with the only honest answer that came to my head: “Sinead O’Connor.”
So already I was thinking: this is 300% more people talking to me than the last time I was at Woody’s (in Toronto). Maybe the friendly, talkative character of the Irish offsets the often-times cold and clique-ness of the gay community? Best of all, it encouraged me to be more outgoing. Inspired by my conversations already, I turned to a cute, tall, bespectacled guy next to me and asked him how his night was going. It turned out he was an American visiting from France at the moment, and we spent the rest of the night talking. It seemed we had almost everything in common, and what we didn’t led to interesting conversations. We were fast friends, instant mates in a mutually foreign land. Of course, he is leaving this weekend and of course he has a boyfriend back in the States, but it’s the potential of that first night at the George that excites me.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Brother, can you spare a job?
Got job searching today in earnest. Shaved and put on a crisp white shirt. I had to go to the USIT office first to print off my resume (now with a phone number) and even though I got there before the computer room opened, I got talking to a French Canadian girl and we missed the opening, and when we got in there five minutes later all the computers were taken. As I was anxious to get started (and was kind of bitchy without my morning coffee) I started glaring at these three girls (who I think were Canadian as well) who wear reading facebook profiles and comments out loud to each other. There’s something about being given computers that makes our generation think they then OWN IT until they are literally forced to give it up. This one girl in particular was lame, as I sat there and watched her sit at the computer stapling twenty copies of her resume but without giving up the desk. Then, when her time ran up, she asked if she could get more (presumably, so she could highlight things, or read a book, or something else that didn’t need a computer at all but she wanted to sit in front of one!)
[For the record, I am lugging my lap top around, so I don’t need to wait for public computers, mostly, and am not wasting other peoples’ time by updating blogs and looking at figurines of Judy Garland or learning about how 30 Rock is a rip-off of the Muppet Show]
Then it was off to the downtown Starbuckses. The people at the ones on Dame Street, Grafton Street (which is the upstairs of a clothing store) and Dawson Street (which I think I would like best, as it is much slower and it’s the street with used bookstores) were all really friendly, although most said they weren’t looking for anyone (that they were aware of, which is the key). Also, they were almost all non-Irish, so at least I they don’t discriminate against non-citizens.
Then I walked way past St. Stephen’s Green because legend told of another Starbucks way up there, but I didn’t know exactly where. I finally found it in a little commercial-park type street, and in some ways it was most helpful, not because I think they’ll hire me, but because the woman there (from California) told me to apply as a shift-supervisor (and only say in your interview that you’ll have to train for it) and she also told me to check out Costa Coffee, an expanding company. A Starbucks barista suggesting a rival cafe?! It’s like a Massey’s Santa Claus telling you to go to Gimbles!
Then I checked out another house which was almost in the suburbs, but I walked the whole way, as I am still scared of the buses here [explanation: they are double-decker and yellow, they whip by the little curvet streets almost running down people, tickets cost different amounts depending on where you’re going, and who the heck knows where they’re going to go anyway?! Also, you supposedly have to flag them down, like a cab. How uppity and Irish is that?] I almost gave up on the house, as there was absolutely no marker for the street from the direction I was coming so I missed it the first time, but then on my way back I found it. Turns out this nice older man rents out to students in this large, very clean house (in fact, too clean. And I suspect he would’ve disapproved of aspects of my lifestyle, but who knows). Mostly, he just wanted to talk. I suspect that’s why he rents out his house actually. Even though he had spent some time in Ontario, he kept saying things like “Kitchen’s not as big as an American one...” or “In America, do you do such and such...” Until I corrected him that I was Canadian, to which he gave (the only) response, chuckles, “No big difference.” I wanted to say, “Yeah, similar to how all you are English...” but I would never actually say that.
Anyways, on the walk home I stopped in yet another Starbucks and the French guy who worked there told me they weren’t hiring anyone. He then said no Starbuckses were hiring anyone (“not in the city centre”) and then wouldn’t even take my resume, as it would just “end up in the bin”, which pissed me off. I’m pretty sure he’s not supposed to say that, and I was like “Listen, bitch-rista, how do you know what all the stores in Dublin are doing? You actually expect to believe that all the foreign, 21-year old employees are never going LEAVE and open up a new stop?! Please!” But I didn’t, I just said ‘thank you’ in a dismissive way. Wouldn’t want to work in that neighbourhood anyways!
Tomorrow, it’s off to the North side of the Liffey for the first time to see what the shops are like over there. Send me good, luckfilled thoughts!
[For the record, I am lugging my lap top around, so I don’t need to wait for public computers, mostly, and am not wasting other peoples’ time by updating blogs and looking at figurines of Judy Garland or learning about how 30 Rock is a rip-off of the Muppet Show]
Then it was off to the downtown Starbuckses. The people at the ones on Dame Street, Grafton Street (which is the upstairs of a clothing store) and Dawson Street (which I think I would like best, as it is much slower and it’s the street with used bookstores) were all really friendly, although most said they weren’t looking for anyone (that they were aware of, which is the key). Also, they were almost all non-Irish, so at least I they don’t discriminate against non-citizens.
Then I walked way past St. Stephen’s Green because legend told of another Starbucks way up there, but I didn’t know exactly where. I finally found it in a little commercial-park type street, and in some ways it was most helpful, not because I think they’ll hire me, but because the woman there (from California) told me to apply as a shift-supervisor (and only say in your interview that you’ll have to train for it) and she also told me to check out Costa Coffee, an expanding company. A Starbucks barista suggesting a rival cafe?! It’s like a Massey’s Santa Claus telling you to go to Gimbles!
Then I checked out another house which was almost in the suburbs, but I walked the whole way, as I am still scared of the buses here [explanation: they are double-decker and yellow, they whip by the little curvet streets almost running down people, tickets cost different amounts depending on where you’re going, and who the heck knows where they’re going to go anyway?! Also, you supposedly have to flag them down, like a cab. How uppity and Irish is that?] I almost gave up on the house, as there was absolutely no marker for the street from the direction I was coming so I missed it the first time, but then on my way back I found it. Turns out this nice older man rents out to students in this large, very clean house (in fact, too clean. And I suspect he would’ve disapproved of aspects of my lifestyle, but who knows). Mostly, he just wanted to talk. I suspect that’s why he rents out his house actually. Even though he had spent some time in Ontario, he kept saying things like “Kitchen’s not as big as an American one...” or “In America, do you do such and such...” Until I corrected him that I was Canadian, to which he gave (the only) response, chuckles, “No big difference.” I wanted to say, “Yeah, similar to how all you are English...” but I would never actually say that.
Anyways, on the walk home I stopped in yet another Starbucks and the French guy who worked there told me they weren’t hiring anyone. He then said no Starbuckses were hiring anyone (“not in the city centre”) and then wouldn’t even take my resume, as it would just “end up in the bin”, which pissed me off. I’m pretty sure he’s not supposed to say that, and I was like “Listen, bitch-rista, how do you know what all the stores in Dublin are doing? You actually expect to believe that all the foreign, 21-year old employees are never going LEAVE and open up a new stop?! Please!” But I didn’t, I just said ‘thank you’ in a dismissive way. Wouldn’t want to work in that neighbourhood anyways!
Tomorrow, it’s off to the North side of the Liffey for the first time to see what the shops are like over there. Send me good, luckfilled thoughts!
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
More sunlight
Second day: woke up super early to have a shower. My hostel does not have any outlets in any bathrooms, so I bought an old-fashioned razor blade and some shaving cream (need to look pretty for job interviews!). Another sunny day. The Celtic gods are smiling at me! Took some pictures this morning and tried to find some shops of interest to me (used book stores, a vintage shop named ‘A Store is Born’) but apparently, I was the only one up that early!
Went to the orientation session and took down many notes about stuff they want me to do. Many a form to fill out and numbers to receive. Evidently, I am going to be taxed 40% of my income until I go to them and tell them I’m not a permanent resident, and that thankfully I only have to do once. The orientation session had a Bulgarian, an Australian, a couple of Americans (one from Memphis!), and four Canadians. We’re just everywhere.
Which reminds me: the best experience of yesterday, besides the JRM-sighting, natch, was when I forced myself to go to a pub after dinner. I was tired and cranky and scared, but needed to go to be reminded of where I was (it’s easy to get caught up in the world of airports, trains, hostels and restaurants, but this world can seem the same everywhere!) I went to a pub on Great George Street called Long Hall, and it had glass chandeliers and old prints and felt very turn of the century. For the first time on this trip I was surrounded by Irish accents, and I was happy to just curl up with my Nixon book and a glass of Guinness and just listen.
Anyways, back to today. After the meeting, I went out and got a cell phone. The guy at the Vodafone shop was very busy and I had to keep asking (to him) silly questions, like ‘How does pay as you go work, exactly?’ Then, sitting in the yard of Christ Church, despite the aid of an instruction manual, I had great difficulty putting it together.
I was able to use it to call a girl whose house I’m looking at tonight (which I can thankfully walk to) although it cut out half way through the call. Evidently, I need to buy more minutes. Another day, another drama.
Went to the orientation session and took down many notes about stuff they want me to do. Many a form to fill out and numbers to receive. Evidently, I am going to be taxed 40% of my income until I go to them and tell them I’m not a permanent resident, and that thankfully I only have to do once. The orientation session had a Bulgarian, an Australian, a couple of Americans (one from Memphis!), and four Canadians. We’re just everywhere.
Which reminds me: the best experience of yesterday, besides the JRM-sighting, natch, was when I forced myself to go to a pub after dinner. I was tired and cranky and scared, but needed to go to be reminded of where I was (it’s easy to get caught up in the world of airports, trains, hostels and restaurants, but this world can seem the same everywhere!) I went to a pub on Great George Street called Long Hall, and it had glass chandeliers and old prints and felt very turn of the century. For the first time on this trip I was surrounded by Irish accents, and I was happy to just curl up with my Nixon book and a glass of Guinness and just listen.
Anyways, back to today. After the meeting, I went out and got a cell phone. The guy at the Vodafone shop was very busy and I had to keep asking (to him) silly questions, like ‘How does pay as you go work, exactly?’ Then, sitting in the yard of Christ Church, despite the aid of an instruction manual, I had great difficulty putting it together.
I was able to use it to call a girl whose house I’m looking at tonight (which I can thankfully walk to) although it cut out half way through the call. Evidently, I need to buy more minutes. Another day, another drama.
Another first day memory
So I’m wandering around the neighbourhood, bought some soup for dinner and am making my way back to the hostel in the warm late-afternoon light when I see a man walking towards me who looks remarkably similar to Jonathan Rhys Meyers. So much so because he is indeed Jonathan Rhys Meyers. I glanced around to see if any of the other pedestrians were staring at him, and even though they weren’t I swear on my life it was him. Did not expect to see hottie Irish celebrity on very first day. Expect tomorrow to see Cillian Murphy and then eventually, when we’re ready, Le Farrell.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Sunlight in Dublin (and why NOT to go to the Philadelphia Airport)
Young travellers will go to crazy lengths for cheap plane tickets. Having to switch planes in Philadelphia didn’t seem that nuts to me. I forgot that airports exist in their own universe, where sometimes everything that could go wrong ALWAYS DOES.
So my flight was late taking off in Toronto. Not so surprising. I didn’t mind resting with my thoughts for awhile. I was still flustered from the American security check, in which sassy officials stood around talking to each other rather than explaining when to take off your shoes, when to put your lap top in a bin, etc. So I wasn’t too worried about the airplane.
Then I realized how close the estimated time of arrival of my Toronto plane was to the estimated time of take off for my Philadelphia one. Even though the flight was short and nondescript, we arrive just as my plane to Dublin was supposed to be taking off (8.00pm). Worse still, we were at Gate F-something and I had to get to Gate A-22, which required taking a shuttle bus. Not impressed. Then the stupid Philly airport needs to be so giant that the A Gates aren’t even that close together, and they start at A-1! So I’d run for a bit, then have to walk for a bit, then run for a bit, all the while telling myself that my airplane will of course be late too.
Finally, I see A-22 in the distance, but just as I see it an echoing voices comes over the overhead; “Attention for a gate change—Flight 270 to Dublin will now be leaving from Gate A-26. Gate A-26.” Are you fucking kidding me?! It turns out A-26 is at the very end of the building. I am sweaty and tired and stressed by the time I get there.
Of course, the plane is late. But I get less and less thankful for that as it becomes increasingly apparent that something horrible has gone wrong: the plane is an hour late... an hour and a half... two hours... with very little explanation, and no staff person there to offer help. Finally, the overhead guy apologizes and says that the plane is stuck in essentially a traffic jam on the run way, to which some of us just had to laugh.
There was no mutiny, we boarded and took off around 10.30, two hours late. I actually slept on the plane a bit (despite having a restless teenage boy beside me who would startle every time he woke up), but I am still jet lagged and just got up from a very deep nap.
Yeah, sunshine in Dublin; as I pictured it. Still, wandering around, getting worried about finding a job. The city is very similar to how I remembered it: either streets are large busy boulevards with all sorts of overpriced stores and restaurants, or don’t appear to have anything on them. I’m feeling a little like I won’t fit in so far, but first days are always surreal, and it’d be like judging Toronto if you had only been on the trashy stretch of Yonge street. I need to find my own hang out places, my own neighbourhoods, my own community.
So my flight was late taking off in Toronto. Not so surprising. I didn’t mind resting with my thoughts for awhile. I was still flustered from the American security check, in which sassy officials stood around talking to each other rather than explaining when to take off your shoes, when to put your lap top in a bin, etc. So I wasn’t too worried about the airplane.
Then I realized how close the estimated time of arrival of my Toronto plane was to the estimated time of take off for my Philadelphia one. Even though the flight was short and nondescript, we arrive just as my plane to Dublin was supposed to be taking off (8.00pm). Worse still, we were at Gate F-something and I had to get to Gate A-22, which required taking a shuttle bus. Not impressed. Then the stupid Philly airport needs to be so giant that the A Gates aren’t even that close together, and they start at A-1! So I’d run for a bit, then have to walk for a bit, then run for a bit, all the while telling myself that my airplane will of course be late too.
Finally, I see A-22 in the distance, but just as I see it an echoing voices comes over the overhead; “Attention for a gate change—Flight 270 to Dublin will now be leaving from Gate A-26. Gate A-26.” Are you fucking kidding me?! It turns out A-26 is at the very end of the building. I am sweaty and tired and stressed by the time I get there.
Of course, the plane is late. But I get less and less thankful for that as it becomes increasingly apparent that something horrible has gone wrong: the plane is an hour late... an hour and a half... two hours... with very little explanation, and no staff person there to offer help. Finally, the overhead guy apologizes and says that the plane is stuck in essentially a traffic jam on the run way, to which some of us just had to laugh.
There was no mutiny, we boarded and took off around 10.30, two hours late. I actually slept on the plane a bit (despite having a restless teenage boy beside me who would startle every time he woke up), but I am still jet lagged and just got up from a very deep nap.
Yeah, sunshine in Dublin; as I pictured it. Still, wandering around, getting worried about finding a job. The city is very similar to how I remembered it: either streets are large busy boulevards with all sorts of overpriced stores and restaurants, or don’t appear to have anything on them. I’m feeling a little like I won’t fit in so far, but first days are always surreal, and it’d be like judging Toronto if you had only been on the trashy stretch of Yonge street. I need to find my own hang out places, my own neighbourhoods, my own community.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Why Ireland?
It’s a fair question, but one for which I didn’t always have a ready answer.
Well, I’ve been there, for starters. My family and I travelled around the whole country two summers ago, spending three days in Dublin at the very end of our trip. Compared to the rest of the island, Dublin seemed busy, cosmopolitan, European. Now, having travelled to London, Istanbul, Florence, Barcelona and Paris (among other bustling cities) last year, I’m sure I will have a different take on Ireland’s capital.
Then there’s the language thing. I have not mastered a second tongue. And I love the Irish accent.
But mostly, I just need to get away. I need to get away for the same reasons that James Baldwin had to escape America as his writing gained him fame, “to be a human being again.” After a disappointing year working on my Masters in History, I feel much older than my 24 years. I am tired of living my life through books. I feel as though the most fun times in my life are now years ago, and that is a scary thought. I need to do something to shake things up, to get out of my comfort zone, to meet people who will change my life again. I hope that those experiences await me in Dublin. You can’t know for sure, which is what makes it an adventure in the first place.
Although I’m on schedule for all the official things I need to do (work visas, etc.) finishing up all my school work for my degree, I haven’t had much time to think about the trip. Which is probably best. I won’t fully believe it until I’m on the plane Monday night. If there are any developments before I get going I will update, but otherwise will write again when I’m on the other side of the Atlantic!
Well, I’ve been there, for starters. My family and I travelled around the whole country two summers ago, spending three days in Dublin at the very end of our trip. Compared to the rest of the island, Dublin seemed busy, cosmopolitan, European. Now, having travelled to London, Istanbul, Florence, Barcelona and Paris (among other bustling cities) last year, I’m sure I will have a different take on Ireland’s capital.
Then there’s the language thing. I have not mastered a second tongue. And I love the Irish accent.
But mostly, I just need to get away. I need to get away for the same reasons that James Baldwin had to escape America as his writing gained him fame, “to be a human being again.” After a disappointing year working on my Masters in History, I feel much older than my 24 years. I am tired of living my life through books. I feel as though the most fun times in my life are now years ago, and that is a scary thought. I need to do something to shake things up, to get out of my comfort zone, to meet people who will change my life again. I hope that those experiences await me in Dublin. You can’t know for sure, which is what makes it an adventure in the first place.
Although I’m on schedule for all the official things I need to do (work visas, etc.) finishing up all my school work for my degree, I haven’t had much time to think about the trip. Which is probably best. I won’t fully believe it until I’m on the plane Monday night. If there are any developments before I get going I will update, but otherwise will write again when I’m on the other side of the Atlantic!
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