You’ll all be pleased to know, in reference to that popular Sean Kingston song from this summer, that over here he’s not “suicidal, suicidal,” when she says it’s over, (because she’s too beautiful girl, that’s why it’ll never work) but rather “in denial, in denial.”
Oh what can you do with a catholic country, what can you do with a catholic country, what can you do with a catholic country early in the mornin’….
Well, I caught a cold last week, which was as good an excuse as any to get some work done. It is not easy to further these so far embryonic social relations when you’re the kid with the plague, but with good cheer I’m hoping to succeed still. At least, they’ll have to admire my attitude, as well as my nasal voice, my bright, shining red eyes, and the charming way I interrupt our rather small classes to cough up several internal organs.
My one unpleasant task of the previous week was to go to the police station and register as a foreign national. My roommates’ horror stories involved 8 hour waits, and 7 hour waits…these reports were greatly exaggerated of course. It only took me 6 hours.
I went on a Saturday, which is student day at the ol’ Garda (police station), so at least I got to talk to people of my own social class (i.e. penniless, but in good humor). I began in line four walls from where I was supposed to end up so I knew it was going to be a nice day. But considering, as everyone knows, that they get on best, who have something in common to start with, sharing abject misery was a great way to make new friends. “Hey this sucks,” you might say (in slightly different words perhaps, although maybe not), “Hey, I think it sucks too!” Says someone further down the line, “we should totally hang out.” And we did. For many hours……
(We’ve decided to collectively elope together)
After you get your number (I got mine 3 hours after I got in line, lucky number 237) you enter the building, where 10 or so booths are receiving people to variously intimidate, extort, or let through easily, depending on how they’re feeling on a given day. Then each person is called down to lucky number 13 where they receive a laminated card (American National Bruce Wayne, come to booth number 13 please….American National Bat Man please come to booth number 13 please….where is Bat Man? Has anyone seen… (from the bathroom: wait! Wait, just one second!)). In that room, I sat for only a couple hours, thinking continually to myself, the booth number 13 guy is probably going to kill himself if he has to pronounce another Chinese name…
Anyhow (forgive the long batman joke, I can’t be sure how it worked. We’re operating without a net here. Feel free to report back.)
My roommates continue to make me feel young. Dmitri (who is actually 20) has never had any kind of alcohol, which as my other roommate Holger points out, means you just can’t trust ‘im, and they all seem a little uncomfortable in discussion about the fairer sex (the American male pastime de rigeur). This is not, of course, the first time in my life I’ve been an unsavory character, but probably the only time other people have thought so too. Still, they’re good chaps. We go out to dinner together maybe twice a week, and spend the rest of the days foraging through the garbage due to what the world economy is doing to our pocketbooks (similar to what Mike Tyson did to Evander Holyfield’s ear, only with more blood). They’re great though! They really are. I complain for humorous effect, they are quiet and polite and kind.
Just a vaguely serious aside: I was sitting in class today, daydreaming about cultural identity (as we all so often do) when it occurred to me how complicated a thing it is. Americans, I think, are sort of like Cadbury eggs (for those scoring at home, this is how the notion of the indwelling of god in the corporeal body of jesus was explained to me by a TA in Susan Ashbrook Harvey’s Christianity in Late Antiquity class). We carry on our outside the knowledge that we are Americans, and on the inside, often enough an intact racial identity. I, for example, am one of them Jews. Someone else may be (and often is; over a billion in the club, so the odds are quite good, although I wouldn’t look in West Texas if I were you) Asian, for example. Here I am in Ireland, at a very international college and I think to myself, there that person is Asian (I am deeply observant). And then I think to myself, but are they Asian, Asian, or perhaps Asian-American, or Asian-British? So there are suddenly several Asians (I should see East Asian. Forgive the parenthetic frenzy. I don’t know why any mention of race, of any kind—that is, noticing that other people have them, sometimes-- makes me feel like a racist, but it does, so I’ll get out quickly and without ado) But is it not curious to think about, oh reader, how though we may multiply our identities on paper (say, the Asian American), or seem to keep them simple (the Asian Asian) yet at the same time each of those tells us very little about the specific person, while perhaps telling us something about where they came from…I don’t get much anywhere with this thought process, but I find myself fascinated by these layers of identity; how do I see them differently, how do they see each other differently… And their similarities (I promise, I would use Jewish, the only thing I am, if I could safely consider it a race without exposition), that is that their ancestry is Asian, is perhaps due to cultural shift destroyed which makes them different, but since they’re different anyway, cause each one is a person, and since no person should ever be judged in any aspect of their personality by something not deliberately chosen, even, perhaps, if embraced… is not all this speculation the sheerest bunk?
Yet bunk, as I imagine Oscar Wilde, whose birthday it is today, might put it, is the only thing worth speculating about.
On Friday I went to Newgrange, and the Hill of Tara, two places of importance to the history of Ireland. Newgrange is a Neolithic passage tomb (it looks fantastic, although it has been reconstructed), circa 3000 BCE, a great mound of green earth: it is on the Boyne river and better known to some as Brugh NaBoyne, the fort on the river Boyne, home of the sun god Oengus, the immortally young. The Hill of Tara was the seat of the ancient high kings of Ireland and the sacred center, or omphalos, of the island. Unfortunately our tour guide has a curious disease. He can neither stop talking nor say anything interesting. Also, he seems oblivious to the fact that perhaps all-purpose information is not what is wanted at our respective destinations; for example, at Tara, some of us (perhaps a minority) might like to hear about Tara and not, say, an apocryphal theory for the significance of the Celtic Cross. And I might like to have heard about Newgrange rather than the limestone deposits in the southern mountains. I know, bizarre. There’s no accounting for taste.
He also wasn’t entirely sure about anything. Two excellently good-natured girls I met on the trip—American undergraduates studying in Derry for the year-- and I began a drinking game based on how many times he used approximations when describing a date or a figure (I think it might be…1690, or maybe 1670). By the time we are halfway to Tara, we were deceased.
The most bizarre manifestation of his curious compulsion comes on the ride back where he allows himself to become entranced in talking about wood, to the tune of 20 minutes. Yes, a 20 minute dissertation, apropos of nothing but wood, on wood. At the conclusion of this peroration he passes out pieces of wood for us to feel. They are wood-y.
This leads, somehow, into a one-man discussion on Dublin’s traffic problems (during which the phrase “articulated lorry” whatever the hell that means is used about 90 times) which segues nicely into a discussion of the Dublin housing market. Just so everyone else knows too: Dubliners evidently just can’t get their heads around the concept of a lease. Please play your stocks accordingly.
I might have complained about him to his face except that he occasionally let slip in his unending barrage of talk (literally unending. If ever there was silence, I just assumed he was dead.) that he might actually be entirely insane. For example, in a discussion of prisons on the way up (why? I DON’T KNOW WHY. HE’S A MACHINE! HE CAN’T BE STOPPED! (to all my former housemates out there: MACHINE! MACHINE! Thanks, that was my first private joke)) he let slip that Dublin jails were very nasty. How did he know? A) Because he once worked with a guy who was interned in them every weekend (Doing what?.…) B) because his previous job was teaching boxing to Swedish prison inmates (yes, that’s what we need. Our criminals to become more specially trained). Evidently he then tried to do that in Dublin, but the jails were too nasty. (You’d think that’d be the end of the story, right? I would. BUT THERE IS NO END TO THE STORY. EVER.)
Instead of teaching them boxing, he evidently taught them to perform the musical West Side Story. That’s right. The Dublin jails were too harsh for boxing to be taught, but just right for Stephen Sondheim and a sweet, hip, Romeo and Juliet in the Bronx.
And most of his clientele, in this case, were hooked on heroin. “But that’s the way it goes lads. Now you see those two spiky mountains over there? There where elves come from and steal the brains of the living, is anyone listening to me, I’m afraid if I stop talking I may cease to exist, oh no someone spilled water on me, danger danger malfunction…)
I end up going out that night, after watching the rugby world championship, and end up running into the girls from earlier who have met some other friends coming in on their way to various other parts of Europe. We part ways, and then it turns out that the hostel they were staying at is overbooked, leaving them with the daunting process of spending the night on the streets of Dublin where they are very likely to be mugged, or even get caught in the crossfire of two rival gangs involved in a snapping contest and synchronized dance (oh the horror). The girls end up sleeping on my floor. Nothing remotely untoward occurs, but my roommate Marcus is most surprised in the morning to enter the kitchen in his boxers to find three apparently unsupervised, largely pajama’d girls, chatting happily and eating oatmeal. “Marcus,” I explain calmly, returning from my room. “It’s not what you think. It’s just that my bizarre sexual passions in no way conform to the ordinary mores of our restrictive society. That’s all.”
Of course he completely understood.
The other problem for today is one of shopping. My fridge, for which I did grave battle for so long is approximately the size of a hamster cage (none have done so much for so little since, as a young boy, on the third hottest day in dallas history, my father, brother, and I visited five 7-11s just to find one that sold the coke flavor. Which would be the second silliest thing I’ve done for a slurpee, the first being when, on the first snow during my tenure at Brown, I walked/slid down into the main square, some 20 minutes away, to buy a slurpee because it struck me as an entirely absurd thing to do. Which it was. I was only mildly surprised to find out later that my father had done the exact same thing when he’d move to Boston. I tell you, DNA is a scary thing. Should our tour guide ever find someone to mate with, the kid will probably be severely pounded through grade school for his endless elocutions on the subject, for example, of erasers, or grass strands. End longest parenthesis ever.) This means that I can’t really do proper food shopping. Yesterday in an impulse buy I bought a bunch of chicken patties to grill up on my foreman, as I’ve so far been eating almost entirely red meat. It is with some grave disgust that I get home to discover the box of 10 I have bought expires in three days. I will now eat nothing but chicken patties, every meal for the next three days. So when you think of me, think of me eating chicken patties. And weeping. This will be too much chicken patty for a man to handle without emotion.
Last note: I can put it off no longer. Today I do my laundry. As God forbid they throw a washer or dryer into the basement of the sports complex next door, the only place to do laundry is to walk all the way across campus (a 12-15 minute walk, which is even longer carrying your dirty underwear, and longer still in a country that rains all the time.) In the words of T.S. Eliot: Pray for us sinners. Pray for us now, and at the hour of our spin cycle.
I’m sure he meant that metaphorically
Anyway, in conclusion, and returning to the initially introduced theme (very classical, I feel my symphonically minded friends will agree…if I have any…) let me just say that I have so much left to say, and if every simple email I wrote to you could make you feel this way, I’d write them all….
Ever more in love with me you’d fall
Andrew
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
#3
If this dispatch had a title, it would be, “Man can survive on cup-a-noodle alone (but it’s probably not a good idea.)”
I have been, for the last two weeks, engaged in a disputation with facilities services here. The subject of this disputation is the fridge in our room which does not work, never worked, and has now continued in that state for almost two weeks. It’s perseverant attitude to its own demise is to be admired, but then again, so is my own. The argument exists in this sense: they keep telling me it will be fixed within 24 hours, and I keep forgetting to ask WHICH 24 hours they mean, exactly.
Progress is being made.
The Irish system is amusingly different from the American system in this respect. American bureaucracy, as far as I’m concerned, was basically designed to remind you repeatedly that all failings of the equipment you’ve purchased or services you’ve paid for are entirely the fault of your almost inconceivable incompetence and will be fixed, fundamentally, whenever they get around to it. Because you should be ashamed, that’s why. “Try to be at your house between 9 am Wednesday and 5 pm whenever I give a crap. Somebody may show up then. Or not. You’re at our mercy, sucker!!! Ha ha ha ha.” Etc. One feels dirty merely touching this soulless, grotesque apparatus. It’s the American Hades, and to eat of its pomegranate seeds, to interact with it, is to become, too, stripped of your humanity. Wasting your precious, god-given light on this foulness is a sin. Wasting even more by the ensuing immense frustration is to wander, voiceless and grey, through the dessicated streets of the cultural wasteland which exists below the surface of our daily lives, and can be called by the sinister name “Dell Technical Support,” never to be spoken aloud (or risk summoning it. Trust me, it’ll take an hour to get rid of it. At the outside).
(My hatred of Dell tech support will, as you will see, be a constant theme of these broadcasts. That’s my revenge. One time, for example) they sent me the wrong battery and I still had to talk to them for an hour to get them to send me the right one. All I needed to tell them was “I need this battery. You sent me this one.” “Have you tried running windows troubleshooter?” “No, see the battery actually doesn’t fit into the computer…” “Have you checked to make sure your Norton Antivirus is working?” One time, they locked my family in a closet and tortured them just for fun. True story.)
The Irish on the other hand are very nice. They’re very smart, they’ve separated the people who actually fix your problems from the people who request that the problem is fixed, so you never get to talk to the actual people you’re mad at. And the front men, well, they want to make you as comfortable as possible. And they feel just awful. And the effect is exactly the same. So yes, for the last week and a half, I’ve been making daily pilgrimages to accommodations, to talk it over, and they know me quite well. “Hi Margie,” I’ll say, “Hi Kent. You guys must be tired of seeing me hey?” “Still not fixed, poor dear? I’ll ring them right away, you must be terribly frustrated.” “Well yes, I’m spending a fortune since I have to eat out every night, and…” “There, now, they’ll fix it in 24 hours for you love, no problems.” “There’s some kind of betting pool going on, isn’t there.” “Bye bye now.” “You hate me, don’t you.” “Good luck dear.”
It IS bloody expensive here, eating out, incidentally. More expensive, they tell me, even than London. And if the Euro, in Dublin, is Dom Perignon, the American dollar is currently RC Cola, to be found only in the least reputable places, at the least reputable rates. Even then, you wonder about its expiration date.
Three days ago I went in and the computer said the request was “in progress,” so there was nothing they could do. Two day ago, there was a note on the fridge, in terribly poor English, along the lines of, “please take your food out of the fridge, we want to replace it today.”
Lovely. Of course, there was no food in the fridge, nor never has been, for the simple reason that it HEY, GET THIS, DOES NOT WORK. Nor did they replace it today, meaning yesterday. Nor did they replace it today, meaning today. I went down to accommodations at 3:30 pm, holding the letter itself. Just for giggles. I walk in. “You again, hm? We’re awfully tired of seeing your face!” So I killed him. The next person took the letter from me. “It’s not very good English, is it? Haha.” So I killed her. A phone call is placed. “Yes? Oh. Okay. Yes.” She smiles at me. “Well love, they’ve all gone home for today. But I’ll check on it first thing tomorrow.” I slay her. “Yes!” Shouts someone in the back. “I won the pool!”
“Bravo, sir,” I say. “See you guys tomorrow.”
The rumor is that they were prohibited from installing the fridge two days ago due to a rainfall which, in this author’s recollection, lasted approximately 15 minutes. This does not, of course, explain why they were unable to install it the day after which was bright and sunny, of course…I can only guess then, that, on that first occasion they were suddenly (and quite unexpectedly) possessed by a profound spirit of energy, which, wilting instantly upon the first impediment, seems to have cast them into a dark depression spanning a second day. I begin to worry that they might be collectively manic-depressive. Or perhaps they have mono. I permit them a moment of compassionate sympathy, then return to heedless rage. The main problem is, again, I am forbidden talking to them directly. I tell accommodations that it hasn’t been done yet, accommodations sympathizes with me, makes another phone call, the maintenance staff laughs heartily that someone persists so in trying to make them do actual work, and returns to their Jacuzzis.
Or so I guess.
(Note written at later point: I go down to the accommodations office one more time at 11, noting that first thing in the morning, like the ides of march for certain much more efficient dictators, has come and passed. I am told it will be done first thing in the afternoon. To my great shock, it actually is. The message is even a broken clock is right twice a day, and even a broken bureaucracy will eventually get things done when they say they will, if you force them to say it enough times and are the recipient of a lucky accident. Our dinner, prominently involving refrigerated lunchmeats, tastes like triumph.)
I’ve been informed that this is par for the course of Irish bureaucracy, first by my sister, than by every single person in the city of Dublin. Nevertheless, I manage to hold out that it’s merely a local problem for several hours, at which time I go to basketball practice and find that, today, the hoops will, tragically, not be descending from the rafters. Evidently, they were fixing the wires which held them to the ceiling, so that they’ll be able to ascend when not in use. This endeavor, as they are now up there, can only be qualified as a great success. Descending again is, evidently, tomorrow’s problem. This is just what it’s like to be in Ireland, evidently, where getting anything done requires not only returning to the same place on average of 5 times, but potentially, as happened today, entering a reentering the same pair of lines to get one item from one to give to the other, for the receipt of a third item, to give to the first. This morning I wake up with the intention of putting 1000 euros in my so far empty bank account so that I can register as an alien with the police station and not get deported in two weeks and so that I will be permitted to set up a cell phone plan, but am derailed at the first gate when the ATM refuses to grant me more than half that sum, and all subsequent ATMs appear to have caught “wuss” from that one. Additionally, it develops that what I actually need from the banks for the phone service is a bank statement with my home address, which can’t be picked up or printed, but must be mailed; the bank assures me I’ll receive it by next Wednesday. Functionally, then, I have failed in all three of my objectives for the day by 1 pm. At the very least, this is quite punctual.
In lighter news, it turns out my English classes are going to be in the house where Oscar Wilde was born. Cool, yeah? Also, the Long Library evidently served as the Jedi School in the latest Star Wars movie. That’s right. Oscar Wilde AND Hayden Christiansen.
Honestly, though, I’m having a fine time. Ireland is a deeply genial country. I have a class meeting, where I meet those participating in my masters program, as well as in the creative writing program, and after, several of us who just met decide to go to a pub, where I regale them with fabulous lies in the hope that they’ll want to see me again. These sorts of things are common. I go on a “walking tour of Dublin” with the grad students union, some 20 people show up. Of that at least 15 decide to stay on after to hit a pub, and then, further, to go to lunch. I don’t know whether this attitude towards new acquaintances will continue throughout the year, but at the very least I plan to take a great deal of advantage of it now.
At one point on the tour, we’re assailed by a middle-aged Irishman who, it seems, has himself taken advantage of the early openings of certain pubs in the area. “What about us Irish Muslims,” he shouts to the poor tour guide (a woman who, if she topped five feet in heels, I’d be marginally surprised…and who is actually talking about St. Patrick’s church, one of the worst places in Dublin to be an Irish Muslims). She begins to talk about the Georgian architecture of a nearby building. He stumbles repeatedly over the word “Victorian.” “Hey buddy,” I say, as politely as possible, “she’s trying to give a tour.” “Have you got a smoke?” He says. I don’t.
Eventually we evade him by walking a straight line. He is utterly confounded.
It’s Sunday now, Monday we begin classes. Everyone seems a little bit confused about this, as the European system, for those who are not familiar, is much more focused on individual work outside the classroom then on class time. I for example, will only be in class about 9 hours a week. I’m less confused by this than my friend the Canadian Theater Arts masters student (she’s FROM Canada, it’s actually just theatre arts but I didn’t know how to punctuate that to make it clear) who seems to have 1 class per week. The question, “what am I supposed to be doing besides that,” is a common one. Other people are entirely unclear what the structure of their “electives” are going to be. They have to take a certain number each semester, but it seems to be fairly uncertain whether the math needs to be the same in both semesters or whether only the cumulative accounts. Remember, all of our information comes from a university which failed entirely to, for example, give anyone any kind of information as to who their roommates were going to be, or what to expect in the dorm rooms, and went through almost five hours of orientation without mentioning such salient topics as “where and how do you do laundry,” “what’s the deal with the dining hall,” or “where the heck is anything that will be remotely useful to me in any way.” So in short, I’m in good shape for someone who doesn’t have a clue.
I’ve met a lot of people, and they’ve all been very friendly. I’ve played basketball several times this week, and managed, at least, not to disgrace the family name (already suffering from several incidents of accidental boxer flashing). Next week, I’ll check out the tennis club, and, hopefully, strengthen ties with my fellow lit majors. It’s an admirable situation to be in, and as soon as I get settled, I’ll take off across the country too.
That’s all for now, I suppose. I’m going to hit the library, need to do some reading for my class “what about the Irish Muslims,” which, according to the booklet, will be taught by a rotating series of muttering Irishmen. The books, from what I could tell from the eminently helpful orientation, are probably vaguely that a way.
I have been, for the last two weeks, engaged in a disputation with facilities services here. The subject of this disputation is the fridge in our room which does not work, never worked, and has now continued in that state for almost two weeks. It’s perseverant attitude to its own demise is to be admired, but then again, so is my own. The argument exists in this sense: they keep telling me it will be fixed within 24 hours, and I keep forgetting to ask WHICH 24 hours they mean, exactly.
Progress is being made.
The Irish system is amusingly different from the American system in this respect. American bureaucracy, as far as I’m concerned, was basically designed to remind you repeatedly that all failings of the equipment you’ve purchased or services you’ve paid for are entirely the fault of your almost inconceivable incompetence and will be fixed, fundamentally, whenever they get around to it. Because you should be ashamed, that’s why. “Try to be at your house between 9 am Wednesday and 5 pm whenever I give a crap. Somebody may show up then. Or not. You’re at our mercy, sucker!!! Ha ha ha ha.” Etc. One feels dirty merely touching this soulless, grotesque apparatus. It’s the American Hades, and to eat of its pomegranate seeds, to interact with it, is to become, too, stripped of your humanity. Wasting your precious, god-given light on this foulness is a sin. Wasting even more by the ensuing immense frustration is to wander, voiceless and grey, through the dessicated streets of the cultural wasteland which exists below the surface of our daily lives, and can be called by the sinister name “Dell Technical Support,” never to be spoken aloud (or risk summoning it. Trust me, it’ll take an hour to get rid of it. At the outside).
(My hatred of Dell tech support will, as you will see, be a constant theme of these broadcasts. That’s my revenge. One time, for example) they sent me the wrong battery and I still had to talk to them for an hour to get them to send me the right one. All I needed to tell them was “I need this battery. You sent me this one.” “Have you tried running windows troubleshooter?” “No, see the battery actually doesn’t fit into the computer…” “Have you checked to make sure your Norton Antivirus is working?” One time, they locked my family in a closet and tortured them just for fun. True story.)
The Irish on the other hand are very nice. They’re very smart, they’ve separated the people who actually fix your problems from the people who request that the problem is fixed, so you never get to talk to the actual people you’re mad at. And the front men, well, they want to make you as comfortable as possible. And they feel just awful. And the effect is exactly the same. So yes, for the last week and a half, I’ve been making daily pilgrimages to accommodations, to talk it over, and they know me quite well. “Hi Margie,” I’ll say, “Hi Kent. You guys must be tired of seeing me hey?” “Still not fixed, poor dear? I’ll ring them right away, you must be terribly frustrated.” “Well yes, I’m spending a fortune since I have to eat out every night, and…” “There, now, they’ll fix it in 24 hours for you love, no problems.” “There’s some kind of betting pool going on, isn’t there.” “Bye bye now.” “You hate me, don’t you.” “Good luck dear.”
It IS bloody expensive here, eating out, incidentally. More expensive, they tell me, even than London. And if the Euro, in Dublin, is Dom Perignon, the American dollar is currently RC Cola, to be found only in the least reputable places, at the least reputable rates. Even then, you wonder about its expiration date.
Three days ago I went in and the computer said the request was “in progress,” so there was nothing they could do. Two day ago, there was a note on the fridge, in terribly poor English, along the lines of, “please take your food out of the fridge, we want to replace it today.”
Lovely. Of course, there was no food in the fridge, nor never has been, for the simple reason that it HEY, GET THIS, DOES NOT WORK. Nor did they replace it today, meaning yesterday. Nor did they replace it today, meaning today. I went down to accommodations at 3:30 pm, holding the letter itself. Just for giggles. I walk in. “You again, hm? We’re awfully tired of seeing your face!” So I killed him. The next person took the letter from me. “It’s not very good English, is it? Haha.” So I killed her. A phone call is placed. “Yes? Oh. Okay. Yes.” She smiles at me. “Well love, they’ve all gone home for today. But I’ll check on it first thing tomorrow.” I slay her. “Yes!” Shouts someone in the back. “I won the pool!”
“Bravo, sir,” I say. “See you guys tomorrow.”
The rumor is that they were prohibited from installing the fridge two days ago due to a rainfall which, in this author’s recollection, lasted approximately 15 minutes. This does not, of course, explain why they were unable to install it the day after which was bright and sunny, of course…I can only guess then, that, on that first occasion they were suddenly (and quite unexpectedly) possessed by a profound spirit of energy, which, wilting instantly upon the first impediment, seems to have cast them into a dark depression spanning a second day. I begin to worry that they might be collectively manic-depressive. Or perhaps they have mono. I permit them a moment of compassionate sympathy, then return to heedless rage. The main problem is, again, I am forbidden talking to them directly. I tell accommodations that it hasn’t been done yet, accommodations sympathizes with me, makes another phone call, the maintenance staff laughs heartily that someone persists so in trying to make them do actual work, and returns to their Jacuzzis.
Or so I guess.
(Note written at later point: I go down to the accommodations office one more time at 11, noting that first thing in the morning, like the ides of march for certain much more efficient dictators, has come and passed. I am told it will be done first thing in the afternoon. To my great shock, it actually is. The message is even a broken clock is right twice a day, and even a broken bureaucracy will eventually get things done when they say they will, if you force them to say it enough times and are the recipient of a lucky accident. Our dinner, prominently involving refrigerated lunchmeats, tastes like triumph.)
I’ve been informed that this is par for the course of Irish bureaucracy, first by my sister, than by every single person in the city of Dublin. Nevertheless, I manage to hold out that it’s merely a local problem for several hours, at which time I go to basketball practice and find that, today, the hoops will, tragically, not be descending from the rafters. Evidently, they were fixing the wires which held them to the ceiling, so that they’ll be able to ascend when not in use. This endeavor, as they are now up there, can only be qualified as a great success. Descending again is, evidently, tomorrow’s problem. This is just what it’s like to be in Ireland, evidently, where getting anything done requires not only returning to the same place on average of 5 times, but potentially, as happened today, entering a reentering the same pair of lines to get one item from one to give to the other, for the receipt of a third item, to give to the first. This morning I wake up with the intention of putting 1000 euros in my so far empty bank account so that I can register as an alien with the police station and not get deported in two weeks and so that I will be permitted to set up a cell phone plan, but am derailed at the first gate when the ATM refuses to grant me more than half that sum, and all subsequent ATMs appear to have caught “wuss” from that one. Additionally, it develops that what I actually need from the banks for the phone service is a bank statement with my home address, which can’t be picked up or printed, but must be mailed; the bank assures me I’ll receive it by next Wednesday. Functionally, then, I have failed in all three of my objectives for the day by 1 pm. At the very least, this is quite punctual.
In lighter news, it turns out my English classes are going to be in the house where Oscar Wilde was born. Cool, yeah? Also, the Long Library evidently served as the Jedi School in the latest Star Wars movie. That’s right. Oscar Wilde AND Hayden Christiansen.
Honestly, though, I’m having a fine time. Ireland is a deeply genial country. I have a class meeting, where I meet those participating in my masters program, as well as in the creative writing program, and after, several of us who just met decide to go to a pub, where I regale them with fabulous lies in the hope that they’ll want to see me again. These sorts of things are common. I go on a “walking tour of Dublin” with the grad students union, some 20 people show up. Of that at least 15 decide to stay on after to hit a pub, and then, further, to go to lunch. I don’t know whether this attitude towards new acquaintances will continue throughout the year, but at the very least I plan to take a great deal of advantage of it now.
At one point on the tour, we’re assailed by a middle-aged Irishman who, it seems, has himself taken advantage of the early openings of certain pubs in the area. “What about us Irish Muslims,” he shouts to the poor tour guide (a woman who, if she topped five feet in heels, I’d be marginally surprised…and who is actually talking about St. Patrick’s church, one of the worst places in Dublin to be an Irish Muslims). She begins to talk about the Georgian architecture of a nearby building. He stumbles repeatedly over the word “Victorian.” “Hey buddy,” I say, as politely as possible, “she’s trying to give a tour.” “Have you got a smoke?” He says. I don’t.
Eventually we evade him by walking a straight line. He is utterly confounded.
It’s Sunday now, Monday we begin classes. Everyone seems a little bit confused about this, as the European system, for those who are not familiar, is much more focused on individual work outside the classroom then on class time. I for example, will only be in class about 9 hours a week. I’m less confused by this than my friend the Canadian Theater Arts masters student (she’s FROM Canada, it’s actually just theatre arts but I didn’t know how to punctuate that to make it clear) who seems to have 1 class per week. The question, “what am I supposed to be doing besides that,” is a common one. Other people are entirely unclear what the structure of their “electives” are going to be. They have to take a certain number each semester, but it seems to be fairly uncertain whether the math needs to be the same in both semesters or whether only the cumulative accounts. Remember, all of our information comes from a university which failed entirely to, for example, give anyone any kind of information as to who their roommates were going to be, or what to expect in the dorm rooms, and went through almost five hours of orientation without mentioning such salient topics as “where and how do you do laundry,” “what’s the deal with the dining hall,” or “where the heck is anything that will be remotely useful to me in any way.” So in short, I’m in good shape for someone who doesn’t have a clue.
I’ve met a lot of people, and they’ve all been very friendly. I’ve played basketball several times this week, and managed, at least, not to disgrace the family name (already suffering from several incidents of accidental boxer flashing). Next week, I’ll check out the tennis club, and, hopefully, strengthen ties with my fellow lit majors. It’s an admirable situation to be in, and as soon as I get settled, I’ll take off across the country too.
That’s all for now, I suppose. I’m going to hit the library, need to do some reading for my class “what about the Irish Muslims,” which, according to the booklet, will be taught by a rotating series of muttering Irishmen. The books, from what I could tell from the eminently helpful orientation, are probably vaguely that a way.
#2
Do not fear, my friends, that you will hear from me as often as it appears you will thus far; I am so sensitive to my readers as to know quite well that were it to be so, your eyes would get as tired from reading not-quite-frivolous enough material, as your fingers would clicking “delete,” and your lips, from muttering “oh, that jerk again.” Nevertheless, as I have once announced the impending journey, it seemed appropriate, now, to narrate some of the particulars thereof...I’ve decided to write it in a sort of running diary style, I hope this suits.
I arrive at the airport in a not-very-good mood. I have, in my three months in Dallas formed, somewhat foolishly perhaps, an attachment if you understand my meaning. Being of the sort of who never allows his wisdom to dominate his emotion, I could not help but find much in this attachment to like, and much to find of the experience to miss. Although both parties knew the score all along, and constantly reminded each other of it, we faced the choice, fundamentally, of stagnating, or progressing until the too-punctual, and by then quite painful, end and both chose, again the latter. Nor did our knowledge of the end keep us from having quite a bit of fun.
Again, we knew the score. I am sure that I will feel better soon. But, as you will perhaps allow, it’s not the sort of thing to put one in the mood for trans-atlantic flight. The list of things to put one in the mood for trans-atlatntic flight are perhaps low (love of recirculated air, a need to maintain the same posture for a decade of hours , acid) but you can imagine, as I leave everything I know for nothing I do, how my awareness of this is currently heightened.
I arrive at the airport and check my luggage. “This is going through to Dubai?” says the woman at the desk. “Dublin,” I say. I begin to worry. They do have the same first three letters.
I am surprised by Lufthansa airlines. First of all, there’s an hour delay, something I had understood incorrectly, would be punishable in Germany by a quite timely execution. Secondly, the only thing the stewards and stewardesses are particularly “efficient” at is asking me, punctually every hour, whether or not I wanted tea. I don’t mean, of course, that I expected them to remember that I had refused tea, each time, the time previously, although towards the end my 7-8 refusals would be appreciably strong evidence of my desires where tea is concerned—they have many passengers to attend to—my point is more along the lines of the fact that on a flight which spans the night hours, it may be fair to say that in upwards of 80% of the cases, sleeping persons do not want tea, and it is unnecessary to be absolutely sure before moving on. One must, however, appreciate German joviality in the face of these hostilely dormant patrons. “Ho ho!” said the stewardess to me, as I tried, fitfully, to find a second groove to wear through the chair, “You are not sleeping sir, you are only pretending!” Yes, indeed fraulein. In the states we would call this “trying to fall asleep,” a state preceding the latter, which perhaps the punctual Germans are able to skip, but which is generally not aided by constant attention. “Good! Tea?” And so I killed her with my tray table.
No, not really.
It was actually a large book.
I am not, now that I consider on ‘t, a good airplane companion on the whole. Although generally I love to talk to strangers, and learn about other people’s lives, I fear conversations that there is no means of escape from. I once had a pretty young Grecian woman explain to me, on a two hour bus across Crete, how exactly the Zionists were going to leave this planet for one with more resources, taking with themselves the genetic code of all the ancient Greek monsters (Chimaera, Medusa, and so forth), to return eventually in evil triumph (My own Jewish leanings I kept quietly hidden, for fear of being slain in a way most undignified, on public transport in an island off the Greece mainland, by a 90 pound woman…but I wonder, too, if I’m so far being left out of this exodus party which sounds bitchin’). Taking my lesson, I have since not tried to engage my compatriots on conveyances in conversation, but in my defense, I have almost never been seated next to extremely beautiful women, with loose morals, who are heading to the same place I am. Indeed, the 70 year old Russian woman who is my companion on this flight is not only immune to my blandishments, but in fact, apparently unable to understand a single word of them. Although, of course, that might be a trick. And one I’ve seen before…
And she is given to gently caressing my shoulder, as I sleep, as indication, apparently, of the fact that she would like, once again, to urinate. Goddamn tea.
The Frankfurt airport is a maze of hallways. Streamlined, bare, and not in the least comforting. I feel somewhat better after being intimately patted down by a rather large German woman in a security uniform. After these tribulations, however minor, it’s just nice to be touched, you know what I mean? “Danke Schone,” I murmur softly, as I feel her strong hands cup my buttocks in search of tremendously concealed weapons. The look in her harsh, dark eyes could mean anything. It could mean desperation, a powerful soul, trapped in the unromantic body of a middle-aged customs official. It could mean love.
One thing here does strike me as strange. Although the security is, as I say, much friskier than in the United States, and at one point I am kicked out of a wing of the airport for what’s apparently a routine scan, at no point does anyone ask me for my passport. This makes sense to me. It does seem to be, in some ways, quaintly American to believing knowing a person’s identity protects you from them. That is, if my face matches my license, I am clearly Bill, and “Bill wouldn’t do anything like that. I know the man!” In Germany, evidently, they don’t care who you are. You’re just not going to get away with anything. I like their attitude.
I have still, however, now an hour from leaving, encountered very little bureaucracy. Anyone else think the Germans are, like Dell computers, just coasting on their reputation (or in the latter case, providing one of the largest inducements to random homicide ever mass-marketed…as anyone who has ever overheard me on the phone with dell technical support knows well)? Can countries (with the exception of Italy, where it is a way of life) just mail it in?
Oh well, I don’t care. I just received word by email, which I paid some 3 euros to check as the initial euro ran out while I tried with increasing desperation to get the mouse to work, that the residency office in Dublin will be open until midnight tonight so I will be sleeping in my dorm, and not in the street. A good thing, I say. What with all the zombies.
I arrive, finally, in Dublin, with my two large bags. They look sandy (no they don’t). The cab driver thinks I’m pretty smart, which is nice, because I’m still feeling down. He takes me to the college where I make it, eventually to my room. Which is nice! To all potential visitors: It’s small, but not too small. I could probably fit up to two sleeping bags on the floor, and the couch in the kitchen, although not a good place to sleep, is still a place to sleep. Our rooms are operated by key card, as is the front door. I hear that front door click and run out to meet the first of my roommates (who seem nice). I introduce myself, quickly, as the guy who just locked himself out of his room. I get security. Twenty minutes later I introduce more of myself. In the morning, I register. First sign that I’m playing with the big boys now: registration is in a large hall with giant oil paintings of such folks as Jonathan Swift and Queen Elizabeth. #2 the room is dominated by a large carved sepulcher. I don’t know who is in said sepulcher, but he is currently being used as a registration desk.
Here I be. With a couple hundred euro in my pocket, no means of contacting anyone I know(I’m writing this in a word document till I get my internet up and running), knowing no one anywhere here anyway, and about to get started. The next two days are registration, where I will have to confirm, presumably through a series of tricks, that I am in fact a person, and then the business of setting up a temporary foreign life.
It has been suggested that I move this whole thing to a blog, which I may do. I offer once again the option, to everyone out there, of getting off this train before it starts rolling in earnest—you may have changed your minds upon discovering that I’m not going to lose interest any time extremely soon. This is the last time I’ll ask.
And if not, join me next time where I’ll investigate (possibly) such questions as “who was the dead man I signed papers on”? and “children: why can’t they control the volume of their voices.”
From the Irish demi-monde, straight to your kitchen to whip you up a delicious meatloaf with all the trimmings,
Andrew MacTobolowsky
I arrive at the airport in a not-very-good mood. I have, in my three months in Dallas formed, somewhat foolishly perhaps, an attachment if you understand my meaning. Being of the sort of who never allows his wisdom to dominate his emotion, I could not help but find much in this attachment to like, and much to find of the experience to miss. Although both parties knew the score all along, and constantly reminded each other of it, we faced the choice, fundamentally, of stagnating, or progressing until the too-punctual, and by then quite painful, end and both chose, again the latter. Nor did our knowledge of the end keep us from having quite a bit of fun.
Again, we knew the score. I am sure that I will feel better soon. But, as you will perhaps allow, it’s not the sort of thing to put one in the mood for trans-atlantic flight. The list of things to put one in the mood for trans-atlatntic flight are perhaps low (love of recirculated air, a need to maintain the same posture for a decade of hours , acid) but you can imagine, as I leave everything I know for nothing I do, how my awareness of this is currently heightened.
I arrive at the airport and check my luggage. “This is going through to Dubai?” says the woman at the desk. “Dublin,” I say. I begin to worry. They do have the same first three letters.
I am surprised by Lufthansa airlines. First of all, there’s an hour delay, something I had understood incorrectly, would be punishable in Germany by a quite timely execution. Secondly, the only thing the stewards and stewardesses are particularly “efficient” at is asking me, punctually every hour, whether or not I wanted tea. I don’t mean, of course, that I expected them to remember that I had refused tea, each time, the time previously, although towards the end my 7-8 refusals would be appreciably strong evidence of my desires where tea is concerned—they have many passengers to attend to—my point is more along the lines of the fact that on a flight which spans the night hours, it may be fair to say that in upwards of 80% of the cases, sleeping persons do not want tea, and it is unnecessary to be absolutely sure before moving on. One must, however, appreciate German joviality in the face of these hostilely dormant patrons. “Ho ho!” said the stewardess to me, as I tried, fitfully, to find a second groove to wear through the chair, “You are not sleeping sir, you are only pretending!” Yes, indeed fraulein. In the states we would call this “trying to fall asleep,” a state preceding the latter, which perhaps the punctual Germans are able to skip, but which is generally not aided by constant attention. “Good! Tea?” And so I killed her with my tray table.
No, not really.
It was actually a large book.
I am not, now that I consider on ‘t, a good airplane companion on the whole. Although generally I love to talk to strangers, and learn about other people’s lives, I fear conversations that there is no means of escape from. I once had a pretty young Grecian woman explain to me, on a two hour bus across Crete, how exactly the Zionists were going to leave this planet for one with more resources, taking with themselves the genetic code of all the ancient Greek monsters (Chimaera, Medusa, and so forth), to return eventually in evil triumph (My own Jewish leanings I kept quietly hidden, for fear of being slain in a way most undignified, on public transport in an island off the Greece mainland, by a 90 pound woman…but I wonder, too, if I’m so far being left out of this exodus party which sounds bitchin’). Taking my lesson, I have since not tried to engage my compatriots on conveyances in conversation, but in my defense, I have almost never been seated next to extremely beautiful women, with loose morals, who are heading to the same place I am. Indeed, the 70 year old Russian woman who is my companion on this flight is not only immune to my blandishments, but in fact, apparently unable to understand a single word of them. Although, of course, that might be a trick. And one I’ve seen before…
And she is given to gently caressing my shoulder, as I sleep, as indication, apparently, of the fact that she would like, once again, to urinate. Goddamn tea.
The Frankfurt airport is a maze of hallways. Streamlined, bare, and not in the least comforting. I feel somewhat better after being intimately patted down by a rather large German woman in a security uniform. After these tribulations, however minor, it’s just nice to be touched, you know what I mean? “Danke Schone,” I murmur softly, as I feel her strong hands cup my buttocks in search of tremendously concealed weapons. The look in her harsh, dark eyes could mean anything. It could mean desperation, a powerful soul, trapped in the unromantic body of a middle-aged customs official. It could mean love.
One thing here does strike me as strange. Although the security is, as I say, much friskier than in the United States, and at one point I am kicked out of a wing of the airport for what’s apparently a routine scan, at no point does anyone ask me for my passport. This makes sense to me. It does seem to be, in some ways, quaintly American to believing knowing a person’s identity protects you from them. That is, if my face matches my license, I am clearly Bill, and “Bill wouldn’t do anything like that. I know the man!” In Germany, evidently, they don’t care who you are. You’re just not going to get away with anything. I like their attitude.
I have still, however, now an hour from leaving, encountered very little bureaucracy. Anyone else think the Germans are, like Dell computers, just coasting on their reputation (or in the latter case, providing one of the largest inducements to random homicide ever mass-marketed…as anyone who has ever overheard me on the phone with dell technical support knows well)? Can countries (with the exception of Italy, where it is a way of life) just mail it in?
Oh well, I don’t care. I just received word by email, which I paid some 3 euros to check as the initial euro ran out while I tried with increasing desperation to get the mouse to work, that the residency office in Dublin will be open until midnight tonight so I will be sleeping in my dorm, and not in the street. A good thing, I say. What with all the zombies.
I arrive, finally, in Dublin, with my two large bags. They look sandy (no they don’t). The cab driver thinks I’m pretty smart, which is nice, because I’m still feeling down. He takes me to the college where I make it, eventually to my room. Which is nice! To all potential visitors: It’s small, but not too small. I could probably fit up to two sleeping bags on the floor, and the couch in the kitchen, although not a good place to sleep, is still a place to sleep. Our rooms are operated by key card, as is the front door. I hear that front door click and run out to meet the first of my roommates (who seem nice). I introduce myself, quickly, as the guy who just locked himself out of his room. I get security. Twenty minutes later I introduce more of myself. In the morning, I register. First sign that I’m playing with the big boys now: registration is in a large hall with giant oil paintings of such folks as Jonathan Swift and Queen Elizabeth. #2 the room is dominated by a large carved sepulcher. I don’t know who is in said sepulcher, but he is currently being used as a registration desk.
Here I be. With a couple hundred euro in my pocket, no means of contacting anyone I know(I’m writing this in a word document till I get my internet up and running), knowing no one anywhere here anyway, and about to get started. The next two days are registration, where I will have to confirm, presumably through a series of tricks, that I am in fact a person, and then the business of setting up a temporary foreign life.
It has been suggested that I move this whole thing to a blog, which I may do. I offer once again the option, to everyone out there, of getting off this train before it starts rolling in earnest—you may have changed your minds upon discovering that I’m not going to lose interest any time extremely soon. This is the last time I’ll ask.
And if not, join me next time where I’ll investigate (possibly) such questions as “who was the dead man I signed papers on”? and “children: why can’t they control the volume of their voices.”
From the Irish demi-monde, straight to your kitchen to whip you up a delicious meatloaf with all the trimmings,
Andrew MacTobolowsky
#1
T-minus 5 days to blast off, and this'll be the first of what I hope will be at least periodic updates from the great land of Eire! Where, for those not quite in the know, or in the remember, if you'll permit orthography, I'll be attending school at Trinity College Dublin, from October 2007-October 2008, after which I'll be a master of philosophy in the area of Anglo-Irish literature and capable of quoting Samuel Beckett whilst I flip burgers.
I've determined that what I'd like to do, both as a way to stay connected and an enjoyable exercise, is send periodic updates about my experiences, thoughts, and bold-faced lies. Periodic I say, and while no man, and certainly not I, can, with any certainty dare pierce the hazy veil of the all too uncertain future, I dare to prognosticate that this term will ultimately be defined as once every two to three weeks, whenever I happen to remember, or fail to forget, or, finally, whenever I manage to find free time and a laptop perhaps during my rather punctual arrests for disorderly conduct and lewd speech against the king.
The idea, of course, is that these will become immensely popular, gradually a cult internet sensation, which one of you will tip off one of your influential publisher friends about, resulting in the ultimate collection of, and published by, a local vanity press under the collective title Ireland: Dispatches From a Strange Green Land, which, too, will enjoy a brief wave of popularity, quickly fading to nothing, but enough to garner me weak cash subsidies for the rest of my life, an occasional guest spot on the 21st millenium's version of hollywood squares, and, perhaps, a bit part as a commentator for VH1 in the new hit series "I love the 00s seven: What the heck do we call this decade?"
The last point of business: because I am nowhere near sophisticated enough to arrange an actual list serve, if you don't want to receive these emails you'll just have to personally tell me. I realize this presents the potential for some rather awkward interactions, but please rest assured I only want to send these emails to people who want to receive them, and have enough bounded good will to offer even those who spurn my current narcissistic frviolity... It's a strange kinda pride, but I got it. Some of you may be surprised to find yourself on this list; Know you were simply people who I thought would enjoy, even if we've never been particularly close...and I will NOT be surprised to find you want off it ;).
Nah then: The following are the true and unabridged thoughts of Andrew O'Tobolowsky, Irish in-patriate for the 2007-2008 school year, world adventurer sans clue
Initial concerns: Change, the terrible monster that is. As it turns out, everything I've ever known in my entire life is about to change...I came home each summer to play with my family, but at most odds, will come home somewhere else after I'm out of this program. Gumption? Currently fueled by strongly-willed obliviousness.
Friends, fun, etc. One of the primary ways I've had fun in the states is by playing sports. This will, presumably, present problems in Ireland. I played soccer for some 13 years; I am capable, I freely admit, but not all that good. In the United Kingdom, on the other hand, I understand that most mothers are presumed to be bearing twins until the point at which one or the other mass is identified as a soccerball....that is to say, these cats are pretty good...and with the additive of their youthful rugby training, presumably my participation in "futbol" matches will result in my being pummelled and bruised beyond all recognition (not, I recognize, oh cheering damosels, that this would be necessarily the worst thing that could happen to my humble features, nevertheless the degree of pain involved is, to me, a not inconsiderable obstacle.)
On the other hand, I have, over the years, gained some proficiency in the respective sports of tennis and, most notably, basketball, two sports which are I understand as foreign to the Irish as drinking Japanese beer... so, presumably athletic shadowboxing for me, although conversely, if I CAN somehow get a partner I stand in some likelihood of being the superior player, which may just be enough inducement not to return, considering my well-knwon love of glory...on the other hand, if any rumors do happen to filter over the pond, in the coming year, of the appearance of an Irish Michael Jordan, rest assured that he cannot dunk, but that his underwear of choice is old navy boxers, whatever the fruit of the loom people may have to say about it, and you should not believe the hype.
Classes? Well, I'm literate. This means I have the tools, if I have the wherewithal. If I don't, there's not much point in being ambitious anyhow, is there? Let's just assume I do and work on proving me right.
Actually what I'm most excited about is finally getting a chance to meet Sinead O'Connor. Perhaps we can burn a flag together, or knock over the statue of Molly Malone and blame it on the pope. And then share a milkshake. Romance on the River Liffey (bald). Bon Voyage indeed..
In any case, it has been said that the soul of wit is brevity...Therefore I would think that those of us partaking of neither should at least try to hedge our bets AND.
Don't cry for me Amarillo,
Andrew
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