#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.