Backtracking Holiday

As I neared the end of my expat adventure, I began to contemplate the return portion of the return Dublin to London ticket I'd already purchased. I decided not to use it. Instead I chose to wander my way back to London with my friend Jimmy. In just under three days, we took a train to Cork, a bus to Rosslare, a ferry to Wales, a train to Cardiff and a train to London. Considering all those transport links, the holiday went surprisingly smoothly. In fact, and perhaps because of this, much of the trip was disappointingly unremarkable. The closest thing to a mishap we experienced, and thus the most interesting bit, was our arrival in Rosslare.

Jimmy and I were spending the night there in anticipation of taking a ferry to Wales the next morning. The only address we could find for the B&B where we were staying was the very helpfully specific "Rosslare Harbour," but it appeared on Google maps to be remarkably close to the Europort. We'd decided to disembark there and walk up to the B&B. Suddenly we noticed a brown, clover-adorned sign pointing toward the Clifford House just as the bus pulled away from a different stop. As it was too late to get off there, we just rode down to the Europort stop as originally planned. How much further could it be?

The bus pulled into the Europort harbour, travelling a surprising distance from the point where we should have left the bus. "I wish it weren't driving so far in," Jimmy commented. I had to agree. We were supposed to check in to the B&B at 9 PM, and we had little chance of making it at that time. I'd rung the owner from the bus to tell her that we'd be 10 or 15 minutes late, and we both figured we'd easily be able to make that time. We're fast walkers.

Our driver wasn't so confident. We were the last two passengers on the bus, and he'd to come down to help me open the hatch on the side of the vehicle so I could retrieve my luggage. We chatted to him for a bit, and he asked us where we were staying. We told him, and he stood mulling it over. "Clifford House, Clifford House...I don't know it." He gave us general directions as to how to reach the area where most of Rosslare's B&Bs are situated. He apparently had very little faith in our ability to navigate, because he suggested, "There's a boat leaving tonight. You should probably just take that. You'll have to cancel the Clifford House." He looked at us regretfully and then boarded the bus.

Jimmy and I decided that was rubbish and went to find the B&B despite his counsel. We located and climbed up the lengthy set of stairs he'd described as part of our route to Rosslare's B&B enclave, then turned right as he'd directed. After walking past an ubiquitous chain hotel, we encountered a construction site and a torn-up sidewalk. We were not prepared for, nor enthusiastic about, fording a mud puddle, so we turned back the other direction. Directly we came upon and walked down a short gravel path, finding a paved road lined with B&Bs at its end.

We followed it, carefully searching for our accommodation. Eventually we arrived back at the intersection where we'd seen the sign for the Clifford House from the bus. It, of course, pointed accusingly in the direction from which we'd just come. We duly turned around and trekked back up the road, redoubling our efforts in scouring the signs along its sides. We failed and came once again upon a fast food restaurant we'd encountered at the outset of our journey. We went in to enquire if they could help us. Fortunately they were able to direct our poor, misguided selves a few metres beyond the gravel path from which we'd begun and from which we'd elected to turn the wrong direction.

Given this guidance, we finally found the Clifford House. We picked our way down the slightly dark gravel driveway and walked directly through a pair of glass doors. There was no-one about, and it felt very seriously as if we'd just broken into someone's private home. We'd poked our heads into a dining room, a sitting room, and a kitchen before one of the owners found us skulking about. "Oh," she said by way of explanation, "I didn't hear the doorbell." We hadn't seen, nor had we rung, the doorbell, and I'm certain she was perfectly aware of this. However, she was perfectly lovely and polite as she showed us to our room and directed us to a pub where we could still find food service at that time of night. She then left us with the key, which was attached to an enormous, lacquered cross-section of a tree branch, and headed out.

Jimmy and I slowly threaded our way up the now completely dark gravel drive and successfully navigated our way to the pub. To my delight, I discovered that SKY TV was airing a highlights reel of sorts from the Liverpool v Bolton match I'd missed the day before. I managed to avoid devoting all of my attention to the telly, and Jimmy and I launched into a discussion about our respective states (he is also an American expat). Suddenly he interjected, "I hate to say it because I'll probably jinx it, but I really like Rosslare!" I completely agreed. It probably had something to do with our only staying there for 12 hours, but Rosslare had exceeded all the expectations we hadn't dared to hold.

The only other incident particularly worth noting happened on the train from Cardiff to London. The service was slightly late in arriving at the platform, and the train manager soon made an overhead announcement explaining why in exacting detail. They had reached Swansea 45 minutes late after being held up on the English side of a specific tunnel by a broken-down train within the tunnel. They had to wait for that train to be removed before they could continue with their journey. But, they had managed to reduce their tardiness down to a mere 10 minutes by the time they reached Cardiff.

This is, I think, typical of UK public transport announcements. In the US, it would be sufficient to blame "technical difficulties." But in the UK, that is just not informative enough. I remember being taken aback the first time I heard a Tube announcement proclaiming that, "Due to a person under a train, there are severe delays on the _____ line." What?!? Are they OK?!? That was always slightly unsettling, but I encountered a far more morbid explanation when I once attempted to change to the Victoria Line. A Transport for London employee was working his way down the stairs from the platform, turning the crowd away as he went. "The Victoria Line's closed," he announced. "Why?" one of the more belligerent crowd members demanded. "Because someone just died on the platform." Oh.

Jimmy and I enjoyed several more entertaining announcements from the train manager throughout our journey back to London. Just before the train reached its final destination at Paddington station, he remarked, "We've had a good run" before launching once again into a full description of what had transpired earlier in the journey. That was one of the last announcements I heard before I repatriated. How apropos a summary it was.

Repatriating

My overseas adventure met its untimely end a few weeks ago. I slowly wound my way back to the US via Cork, Rosslare, Fishguard, Cardiff, London and Toronto, finally touching down in Minneapolis on 5 December. Now instead of being an expat, I'm a repat. This is the second time I've needed to switch the prefix of my label, and the experience is uniquely bewildering. But I'm finding it quite amusing as well, so I'll to try to describe it as best I can.

One source of bewilderment is the strange temporal shift that occurred when I arrived back home. Suddenly the period I spent away compressed so completely that it's impossible to believe I was gone for 10 months. And the time occupied by my adventures is capable of stretching and collapsing depending on how and where I think about it. When I was thinking about Minnesota before I left Ireland, I felt as though I'd been away forever. Recalling or recounting specific incidents also makes the time expand to forever proportions. But taken overall, and compared to the fairly constant continuity of home, my time abroad seems incomprehensibly brief. So brief that it's almost like I never left.

And yet the familiar also seems so alien. Streets that I used to be able to navigate automatically suddenly require a thorough scouring of my mental map. And that mental map now has blank spots. Both metaphorically, in not being able to remember how streets connect, and literally, in the case of the 35W bridge. Then once I've figured out where I'm going, I'm sometimes thrown off by my fellow vehicles and the direction in which they're moving. Single-decker buses drive with SUVs, trucks and vans that have increased wildly in size since I left (at least compared to the smart cars I'm accustomed to seeing). At stop signs, I find that I look right first, then glance left to find cars that I didn't think were there suddenly approaching from a different direction than I expected.

Everyday procedures, objects and surroundings can also be confounding. I'll have the correct change for a purchase counted out and waiting when I reach the cash register only to find that I've forgotten about sales tax and the price is actually higher than listed. There are dollar bills instead of pound/Euro coins. I need to flip light switches instead of pressing them. The accents, phrases, mild profanities and intonation of the people surrounding me are completely different than I've become accustomed to. They stand out to my brogue-acclimated ears in a way they never did when I used to live here. And rather than feeling at home in the place where I supposedly belong, I feel lost. Adrift. Alienated. I will never truly belong here again.

While this can be a bit disconcerting at times, it is also a source of pride for me. I like it when people remark on my trace of an accent, when they laugh at and correct my strange British/Irish idioms. It may seem stubborn, but I am going to keep using those idioms, and their British English spellings. Because I want so badly to retain something, some sort of evidence of an immensely meaningful part of my life. My warped sense of time already seems to have robbed it of part of its significance, and I don't want to lose any more. In a particularly desperate attempt at preservation, I've even caught myself exaggerating the bit of an Irish accent that I managed to pick up. I drop more h's when I tink certain tings tan I ever did before.

Clearly, there is a large degree of reentry shock to be dealt with. But I also take pleasure in rediscovering the luxuries I've grown accustomed to living without. While much around me may have taken on an unfamiliar familiarity, my bed will always be irrevocably mine. And it's perfect. At least compared to my London mattress, which had a deep trench in its middle, and my Dublin mattress, which featured springs that had lazily uncoiled and were given to poking me relentlessly. I've also found American water pressure amazing. It blasts shampoo out of hair rather than tentatively trickling it out. Sink faucets, too, are shining examples of ingenuity. Hot and cold water coexist in one faucet. No scalding my hands under one faucet and having to turn it off and ice the burn under the cold tap at the opposite corner of the sink.

While I'm gradually becoming more used to being home, it will take a while to re-acclimate to Minnesota and its ghastly winter climate. I don't think I ever will completely. I'll always be a repat to some extent. But I'm pleased with that. I've found that it's easier to create interesting adventures with an expat/repat/outsider mentality. I'm going to retain that, explore the Twin Cities as if I've never seen them before and wring everything I can from them. Because that's what I mean by repatriating.

A Very Dear Tin of Ham

I came home on Thursday to find a very sad-looking pile of groceries on the counter in the kitchen. There was a loaf of bread, some spaghetti, a frozen enchilada dinner and two tins of chopped ham. The Marks & Spencer receipt next to the food showed that the total for all of it was less than €5, and it had been paid for with a gift certificate. I marvelled at the quantity of (admittedly not entirely appealing) food one could buy for so little money and then sat down to eat my own food.

One of my flatmates came into the kitchen just then and went over to the pile on the counter. He picked up one of the tins of chopped ham and attempted to open it. The pin that he tried to use to peel back the lid came off in his hand, and he had a small meltdown. "The pin came off my pudding" he exclaimed. He clicked his tongue in exasperation, then continued his tirade: "For f***'s sake! That was dear enough! It's from Marks & Spencer!" I had to try really hard at this point not to laugh. For one thing, all of his food had cost less than €5. The enchilada meal would have been most expensive by far, so the tinned ham couldn't have cost more than 70 or 80 cents. Plus, he hadn't even used his own money. He gets the M&S gift certificates from his work when he has to go in on Saturdays. This is in addition to being paid time-and-a-half or double time.

After the pin mechanism failed, he decided to try to open the container with a tin opener. Unfortunately for him (and the rest of us), he lost the tin opener. He also apparently forgot that he lost the tin opener and launched into a desperate, rummaging search of the kitchen drawers. He finally gave up and asked, "Do you think I can open this with a knife?" He managed to stab a small opening in the top of the tin without drawing blood, then commented on the disgusting smell that wafted from it. It's chopped ham, so I'm not exactly sure what he'd expected. In any event, all of this became too overwhelming for him and he aggressively chucked the tin into the bin. As a backup, he decided to eat the frozen enchilada. "How do you cook this, then? Oven? You can't microwave it, can you? Oh, for f***'s sake! 20-25 minutes!"

The story grew even funnier a few days later. My expat friends came over to my flat on Sunday for a take-away curry. I'd told them about the tin episode earlier, and they'd both found it hilarious. After we finished eating, one of them went to put her leftovers in the fridge until she went home. She found the second tin of ham inside and took it out to inspect it. We discovered then that the pin is supposed to come off. There's a slot on the side of the tin where you put the pin and then turn it to peel back the lid. This is very, very obvious if you spend any time looking at the packaging. I could see it from across the table.

We were all in hysterics about how my flatmate had gotten so angry over nothing. Then, right on cue, he came home. One of my friends had to leave the room after meeting him because she couldn't keep from laughing. I kept snickering periodically, hopefully at appropriate times to make it sound like I was laughing in response to whatever he and my other friend were saying. Luckily she was able to keep herself pulled together.

I continued to laugh every time I thought about this yesterday, which was the perfect antidote to walking to work in the dreary, rainy and windy Irish winter weather. It turns out that tin has become dear in a way my flatmate never would have imagined.

The Long and Winding Road to Anfield, Part 3: The Cab

The match itself flew by so quickly that I'm left with precious few impressions of it. One moment that does stand out in my mind is when the stands stood to sing the team's anthem, "You'll Never Walk Alone," before the match began. That was amazing in a way I can't describe, but from there the event is a blur. There was much standing in anticipation as Liverpool advanced on the goal, followed by a collective groan of despair when they failed to score. Chants, curse words and shouts of encouragement resounded from all corners of the stands.
"Come on, Crouchie!"
"Go on, lads!"
"That was shite, Stevie! Do something with the ball!"

The first half ended with a nil-nil score, and the second half continued in much the same fashion. As the 80th minute approached, I started debating whether or not I should leave. I was resigned to abandoning the stands before the match was entirely over, but I wasn't sure how soon I would need to go in order to beat the crowd and find a cab. The thought of leaving that early after working so hard to find my ticket struck me as unbearable, so I chose to linger a little longer.

I was quite pleased with that decision when Torres scored the first goal of the match in the 81st minute. All of Anfield exploded. Those who hadn't done already jumped to their feet to celebrate. The noise of cheering, clapping and shouting was unbelievable and continued for ages. The exuberant crowd had just begun to settle down and take their seats when Crouch was fouled. Stevie G stood before the Fulham goal planning his penalty shot, and a tense hush fell over the stadium. After a few excruciatingly prolonged seconds, the crowed roared again as the ball sailed safely into the net past the Fulham keeper.

Once that celebration ended, it seemed to be the perfect time for me to make my exit. Now that the excitement of the match was over, the full anxiety and urgency of reaching the airport on time hit me. I thundered down the stairs to street level and literally ran from Anfield Road back around to the KOP end. I trotted after a few other people on the main road who were equally eager to clear the grounds before the deluge of Reds fans choked the streets. I scanned my surroundings for a cab constantly. This was difficult because the streetlamps caused all the passing cars to reflect a yellow light that looked frustratingly like the one on the top of available taxis. Unfortunately no actual cabs were anywhere in sight, and I was soon joined on the street by the emptying stadium.

I really had no idea where I was going, so turned and went against the crowd back toward the grounds. I found a policeman on the street, told him I couldn't find a cab and asked if there were any buses that went to the airport. He directed me toward the city centre (where the mob was headed), saying I'd be able to find one there. I wasn't too concerned yet because I still had more than two hours before my flight was due to leave. Plus I was making better time on foot than the cars alongside me. By now it had started to rain. I walked with the ever-thinning crowd for ages without seeing anything that resembled the city centre. Doubting myself, I asked some men walking near me if I was going the right way. They pointed out a stop where I'd be able to catch a bus to the city centre.

I walked to the stop they'd indicated, keeping a sharp lookout for cabs as I went. None passed except for those that were already carrying passengers. My initial impulse upon reaching the bus shelter was to stand under it and out of the rain. The uncertainty that I was actually waiting in the right place soon drove me outside again, and I went to check the route information posted on a nearby pole. As I was poring over it, I saw a cab draw up to the kerb just a few feet from me. I trained an attentive stare on it, and rushed over when I saw its passenger stepping out. No sooner had he cleared the open door than I poked my head in, asking the driver if he could take me to the airport.

I'm certain he thought I was a bit daft. I told him I wanted to make sure I had enough money for the fare first, adding, "I only have £40" (bear in mind a cab from London city centre to the airport costs £50). "Ach, you'll be fine, luv," he snorted. Gleefully, I slammed the door and settled back for the ride. The post-match coverage he'd tuned in on the radio confirmed that I hadn't missed anything after the 86th minute. Liverpool had won 2-0. The driver tried to avoid some of the traffic by taking a few back streets. This made me feel a bit unsettled because I was locked in a car with somebody I didn't know in an unfamiliar city. How do I know we're actually going to the airport? It didn't help that the roads we travelled were paved with mountainous speed bumps. We lurched over them, sending my stomach lurching as well.

I felt better once we'd returned to the main roads. The signs that appeared reassured me that we were, in fact, en route to the airport. I arrived at John Lennon with a mere £20 fare and more than an hour before the check-in desk closed. I killed my excess time and British mobile credit by calling friends and family and enthusing about my day. I really miss having a mobile plan that allows me to call the US for 5p a minute, so I took full advantage of having it back temporarily.

Somehow I misread the boarding gate screen and nearly missed my flight anyhow. But my luck continued to hold out. I made last call and stepped onto a plane full of people dressed in Liverpool kit. Aside from some stupendously drunk English girls begging the flight attendants for alcohol, the flight was short and uneventful. Back at the Dublin airport, I watched with envy as all the people with EU passports flashed them at the customs officers, barely breaking stride as they passed. I was left waiting in the queue for the "All other passports" desk. It wasn't long at that time of the night, and I soon found myself before the officer.

"Are you living here?" he asked when I slid my passport through the opening in the plexiglass. I flipped to the page that bore my work authorisation stamp and told him I also had my (huge 8.5" x 11" laminated) visa if he needed that. He didn't wish to see it, and instead asked, "Where are you coming from?"
"Liverpool," I responded, unconsciously drawing out the ending so it sounded a bit like "Liverpewl."
"Shopping?" he asked.
"No," I answered rather indignantly. "I was at the match."
"What do you know about the match," he snickered. What an ignorant arse. I was tempted to tell him off, but thought better of it. Though I'm still not entirely fond of this country, I'd rather not be ejected from it before my visa expires.

I consider my journey to Anfield quite successful. The extent to which I enjoyed the match experience more than outweighed the initial strife of finding a ticket. True to the team's anthem, I discovered that you'll never walk alone if you have hope in your heart...and an LFC steward who fancies you.

The Long and Winding Road to Anfield, Part 2: Sorted

When the long-anticipated match day finally arrived, I felt some trepidation about going to Liverpool. I knew I was likely to find myself so close but yet so far, at Anfield but without a ticket. Anticipating this possible disappointment made me reluctant to go all the way to Liverpool only to experience it. But I'd already booked my train and flight, so I had no choice but to try my luck.

I arrived at Anfield by noon and went straight to the ticket office to see if there had been any returns. I found a man wearing a bright orange reflective jacket near the sales windows and queried him about a ticket. He chuckled and shook his head. "I'd suggest you snuggle up with a pint and watch it on the telly. Sorry luv." With the legitimate option gone, I went back outside the grounds to see if any ticket touts were offering reasonable prices. They weren't; one asked for £100 and one wanted £80. After turning them both down, I realised that I didn't have any cash with which to pay them even if I'd wanted to.

I set off to find an ATM, which proved rather difficult. I didn't think to check at the newsagent shops right over the road and instead went looking for a hole-in-the-wall or bank. I plodded down a steep hill, lugging everything I'd packed for my four-day trip in my messenger bag. After searching for 20 or 25 minutes, I finally found a gas station that offered a cash machine. I was tempted to boycott it on the grounds of the fee it charged, but my options were slim. I took out some money and lugged myself and my bag back up the hill. This is not going well at all, I thought.

Things appeared to have grown even worse by the time I returned to the grounds. The few people selling extra tickets had been replaced by people wanting to buy tickets. Not knowing what else to do, I went to the official shop in an attempt to kill some of the four hours that remained before kick-off (and to buy some Liverpool kit, of course). When I was finished there, I went to check the tout situation on the Anfield Road side of the stadium. Nobody. Probably out of sheer desperation, I decided to make a last-ditch effort at the ticket office. Maybe someone had returned a ticket while I'd been away. Maybe it would make a difference if I specifically asked about single tickets.

I was waiting in the queue at one of the ticket windows when an LFC steward singled me out and approached me. "Are you looking for a ticket?" he asked. When I confirmed that I was, he also told me that the match was sold out. "Even singles?" I asked, most likely with a tinge of despair in my voice. "Yes," he said, "but if you wait here by this railing, sometimes people come up to us trying to get rid of a single because someone couldn't make it. All they want is face value, and at least then you know it's a real ticket. Just stand right there, and if anyone comes up to me I'll send them over to you."

That sounded like the only viable option still available to me, so I stood where he'd asked. I wasn't quite far enough inside the fence, though, so he came back and told me to move. "I just don't want a tout to see you," he explained. We chatted for a bit, and he asked me if I'd had anything to eat. When I said I hadn't, he told me, "There's a cafe just across the street. Go get yourself something to eat and a cup of tea. If anyone comes to me with a ticket, I'll bring them over to you."

I was duly hungry and happy enough to do as he suggested. I devoured a cheap-as-chips English breakfast, even eating about half of the black (AKA blood) pudding. Just as I was heading toward the door, my steward came in and motioned for me to follow him. He told me that a guy had come up to him with a single ticket, and he'd told him about me. Supposedly he'd gone to the toilet, so we went back to the grounds to meet him when he returned.

My steward and I chatted outside the box office, waiting for my contact to show up. After a while we had to move over to the door of the shop so my steward could fulfill his duties minding the queue. By this time, the shop was absolutely mad. When I'd gone there, it had been busy but not unduly packed. Now the line extended from the door of the shop to the gates of the grounds and beyond. My steward (who introduced himself then as Tony) was tasked with counting the number of people who entered the shop and stopping the queue when it reached capacity. While we were standing there, Tony asked me about the boyfriend I don't have. Oh, I thought, so that's why you're trying so hard to find me a ticket. If I were a bloke, there's no way you'd be doing this for me. I definitely should have sussed that one out sooner, but I'm dumb about things like that most of the time.

Tony kept an eye out for the man with my ticket while we chatted, but he never arrived. When it became evident he wasn't coming back, Tony found someone to cover the queue for him and took me back to the box office. He introduced me to the head steward, who he said would almost certainly be able to sort something out for me before kick-off. I stood waiting in my original spot by the fence for that eventuality. The wind had picked up considerably, so I was happy to be carrying an excess of clothing. I pulled on a jumper and my new red and white LFC scarf. I still had two hours to go before the match began, so I was confident that Tony or the head steward would work something out.

Tony came back over on other business and asked me whether I'd found a ticket. "Not yet," I answered. "If you get sorted," he said, "come find us. We'll be right over there." As he left to go back to the queue, I saw him pointing me out to a third steward. I stood there looking as cold and miserable as possible, trying to engender some sympathy (I didn't have to try too hard; it was bloody cold and miserable). The latest steward to whom Tony had pointed me out came over after a bit. "I'm looking for a ticket for you. You must be cold," he observed. "You should go stand over there by the door so you're out of the wind." The head steward saw me starting to move in that direction and called, "Oh, don't leave yet, luv!" The third steward and I explained where I was going. I took shelter near the designated door, thrilled because I now knew for certain that they'd sort me out eventually.

I happened to be standing right next to a refreshment stand, so I bought some hot chocolate to help me ward off the cold (the doorway wasn't that much warmer). I scalded my tongue and the back of my throat on the initial sip, so I took the lid off to make it cool faster. I was standing there debating whether or not it was too soon to take a second sip when the head steward found me. "Come with me," he said. "I've got you sorted." I eagerly followed him, spilling my hot chocolate all over my hands on the way. This seemed to amuse the third steward quite a bit, but I can't say I blame him.

I went through a doorway and stood in a stairwell behind the ticket office with the head steward. He asked me if I had £34 (the face value of the ticket). I did, but I had to make him find me a napkin before I could hand it to him. Once that small dilemma was rectified, he went into the box office and emerged with my shiny ticket. I couldn't believe my luck and thanked him profusely.

I still had about an hour before kick-off, so I went to tell Tony I'd been sorted. He said he was now trying to sort my cab. Earlier we'd discussed the logistics of making it to the airport in time. It was going to be tricky; the match wouldn't end until about 7.00 and I was due to fly out of John Lennon at 9.30 that night. A cab seemed to be the only option, and Tony had warned me that the fare might be quite dear. I now told him not to worry; they'd already done enough by finding a ticket for me. "Well, do you want to pay £30 or £40?" he countered. He said to come find him in the main stand after the match and he'd try to sort me. I explained that I'd most likely have to leave early, so I wouldn't be able to take him up on his offer.

After we'd chatted for a while longer, Tony again found someone to cover his post for him and walked me to my seat in the Anfield Road stand. "I'll be back in a couple of minutes," he told one of his fellow stewards. "I'm just going to show her where her seat is." "See you in a couple of minutes," the second steward replied with a warning, you'd-better-be-back-soon edge to his voice. Tony picked up on this and laughed. "Ahhh, I'll see you later tonight," he said, waving him off dismissively. Then he returned to business and mumbled, "Nah, I'll see you in a few minutes." He brought me up to my seat, said goodbye and then left me to enjoy the match.

The brilliant help I received that day definitely helped to make up for the slightly lacklustre assistance I'd experienced previously. I had arrived in Liverpool wishing that I already had a ticket, but that wouldn't have been nearly as fun as being adopted by Tony and the rest of the LFC stewards. And having to pursue a ticket made finally finding one all the more rewarding. I was completely thrilled with my Anfield experience already, and the match hadn't even begun.

The Long and Winding Road to Anfield: Part 1

I probably expended more effort in finding a ticket to this past weekend's Liverpool v Fulham match than was rational. But I've been a Liverpool supporter for about six months now, and there's no guarantee that I'll ever be in such close proximity to England again. I couldn't go back home without making a journey to Anfield. Earlier this fall, I chose a match to attend and started looking into how to acquire a ticket. According to the team's website, I'd need a Fan Card first. I posted off the necessary application and proof of address in September, allowing more than the required four weeks of processing time before the tickets I wanted went on sale.

Then the UK postal strike happened.

My plans were now in shambles. I thought the tickets were going on sale on 19 October. When I hadn't received my Fan Card by the 15th, I checked my British bank account to see if the fee had been processed. It had, so I knew my card was on its way, likely held up by the strike. I emailed LFC Customer Services to ask if they could give me the information I'd need off my card so I could order tickets without having the physical piece of plastic. I never received a response, so I tried to call customer services a few days later. That also proved fruitless, as I waited on hold for 15 minutes and succeeded only in burning all my mobile phone credit.

I eventually realised that the tickets going on sale on the 19th were only available to Priority Ticket Scheme members. I wouldn't be able to order tickets until 25 October. That bought me nearly an extra week before my Fan Card needed to arrive, so I held out hope for that. I eagerly and slightly desperately checked the post each night, sifting through the envelopes compulsively. I sorted through the pile with particular urgency the night before the tickets went on sale and felt a wave of disappointment when I realised my card hadn't arrived in time.

I checked the website again to see if I had any other recourse. It appeared that you didn't need to have a Fan Card if you purchased a ticket over the phone, so I decided to try that. The only barrier was the €0.50 per minute I'd be charged to ring England from my mobile, plus whatever fee the box office charged per minute. I asked if it would be OK for me to call from the land line at work over my lunch hour instead. The person who granted permission speculated that I'd have an easy time getting tickets since the Reds were playing so badly at the time.

I rang up and encountered a message stating that on a certain specified date, the box office had changed their number to XXXXXXXXXXX and I should ring XXXXXXXXXXX rather than XXXXXXXXXXX. Unless, of course, I was calling from overseas. Then I should continue to dial XXXXXXXXXXX (the number I'd just rung) until further notice. So essentially the message was not applicable to me at all. Next I was prompted to push 2 for Liverpool v Fulham, then 1 to confirm that I would accept a single ticket or restricted view. The hold music had just begun when a cold, clipped automated voice informed me, "We're sorry (she totally wasn't), all our operators are busy. Please try again later." Click. I stared at the receiver, which was now emitting only a dial tone. I couldn't even wait on hold? I had to keep calling back over and over and being charged to listen to the message that didn't apply to me? Yes. I did.

I kept phoning back with no success until the end of my lunch hour. Then I finally made it through...to a hold system. I stayed on the line until a different automated voice informed me that I was number 68 in the queue. It was my turn to hang up, distressed and disgusted. I decided to call back the moment the box office opened the following day, hopefully gaining a better position in the queue.

I rang up promptly at 8.30 the next morning while I was walking to work. After suffering through the long-winded number-change message, I listened for the Liverpool v Fulham option. It wasn't there. I hung up, suspecting and fearing that the tickets were gone. I pulled up the website as soon as I reached my desk to check. When I clicked through to the proper page, I saw bright red letters glaring out from under the Liverpool v Fulham heading: SOLD OUT.

But I was not giving up so easily. The boyfriend of one of my friends here earned himself tickets to the Liverpool v Arsenal match by calling to complain when his Fan Card didn't work. I decided to see if the same strategy would work for me. I explained the situation to the woman who answered, and she had absolutely no sympathy. She said that it wasn't their fault; there had been a postal strike. Besides, having a Fan Card wouldn't have given me any advantage. I think the key in such situations is to become so irrationally angry that the rep is willing to do anything to make you hang up, but I just couldn't muster it.

From there, I emailed one of my former coworkers whose grandfather has season tickets. Or used to. I learned then that he'd sold them off years ago. I also had a friend in London "put on his corporate pants," as Jackie described it, and see what he could find for me. He came up with a corporate ticket for £170, which I obviously had to turn down. Searches on Gumtree, ebay and Craigslist turned up nothing, and a connection at my work also failed to come through. To add insult to injury, I came home to find my Fan Card waiting for me five days after the match sold out.

I was out of ideas by then, but I'd already booked a flight out of Liverpool rather than London. All that was left for me to do was go to Anfield with hope in my heart that I could sort something out on match day.

Eating With Expats

My life as of late has begun to revolve around a few common themes: food and expatriatism. The two are more easily intertwined than it might initially seem. My explorations of culinary Dublin always occur in the company of two other expats. I have recently set up a weekly lunch or dinner date with my American and Australian friends, and we are determined to try a new type of cuisine every week.

This week we chose sushi. Mimi and Janice were quite experienced with it, while I am a complete neophyte philistine. But my induction was rapid and thorough, facilitated by the conveyor belt pumping the raw fish creations out of the kitchen and past our booth. We had 55 minutes to eat as much sushi as we possibly could. Mimi and Janice took up positions nearest the belt, and I entrusted them with my gastronomic well-being. I told them to pass me any dish they pleased, and I would try it.

While this left ample opportunity for palate abuse, they were gentle with my underdeveloped taste buds. I tried quite a variety of dishes and liked the majority of them. The tuna sashimi was a particularly pleasant surprise, being that it was simply a slab of raw fish. The three of us savaged the conveyor belt, leaving towering piles of empty plates scattered across the table. I think the dishes I didn't find so appealing were those that I ate later in the venture. I was so disgustingly full that no form of food was appetising. I quit a bit before Janice and Mimi, groaning meekly every so often.

I think my discomfort was a payback for the previous week, when we'd gone for Korean food. Janice and Mimi were the disgustingly stuffed and groaning duo on that occasion, while I escaped with a mere sufficient fullness. I did quite enjoy the cuisine then as well, but perhaps the missing element of a set time limit made the difference.

While our conversations during these meals centre on what's going into our mouths, we usually move on for coffee and bit of conversation afterwards. It's there that the expat element emerges.

Until this point in my journey, I didn't realise what a distinguishing characteristic being an expatriate could be. In London I always felt like a pseudo Brit, with few people remarking on the fact that I am American. This is most likely because London is a highly multicultural city. Hardly anyone seemed to give a second thought to interacting with someone from abroad.

Dublin, however, has only recently begun to attract foreigners. Conversations with people I've just met or don't know well tend to revolve around how I ended up in Ireland, what I'm doing here and how long I'm staying. While this topic did come up at some point when I spoke with people in London, it usually cropped up later in the conversation and didn't assume a primary role. I have the impression that I'm still a bit of an abnormality to the people here, which can sometimes make me feel like an outsider even though they're friendly about it.

I seek refuge in the dinners with my expat friends. Crossing and living in a different culture is a fairly unique situation, one that breeds seemingly endless conversational topics when we get together. There are small, very subtle cultural norms that are imperceptible to the people who have grown up with them, but can prove to be quite obvious to outsiders who are trying to fit in.
These differences can sometimes act as boundaries that are daunting and impenetrable, but they can also prove to be amusing or pleasant when compared with your native culture. This is one of the reasons that I genuinely love being an expat. As I've expressed in my previous posts, it can be maddening, frustrating and isolating. But at the same time it's fascinating to uncover the little nuances of a culture, adapt to them and perhaps even start appropriating them for yourself.

In facing the discord between cultures, it helps to have other outsiders with whom you can compare notes. You bring up the confusing and frustrating bits and realise you're not the only one finding them difficult. Or you point out the endearing aspects and come to appreciate them more. In general, I think expat discussions help you adjust, overcome and find a place in a different culture. This, for me, has been quite a fulfilling experience. And I've also enjoyed just being full.

Fuelling My Thoughts and Keeping Me Amused

Because I've devoted so much space to my cycling trauma, I felt the link about bicycle commuting deserved its own post. But there are several other things I've found interesting as well.

Culled from the New York Times:
Why Democracy?
Another War Between British and American...Squirrels
John Paul Stevens: Liberal by Comparison
Is 'Do Unto Others' Written Into Our Genes?

The collective feeling of the day:

It Only Tuesday

And lastly, something I worked on in England that just went live.

I Knew It!

Confirmation of my fears of bicycle commuting came from a study cited on the Freakonomics blog. I'm going to pretend the same statistics apply to Dublin. The "One Got Fat" video linked in the post is a bicycle safety education tool that I found simultaneously callous, disturbing and hilarious.

But I'm still cycling to salsa tomorrow.

Dublin Roads Win Again

I left salsa class tonight and walked out to the signpost where I'd locked my bike. I was initially pleased to see that both tyres were still intact, because my U-lock just hadn't been able to accommodate the pole, frame and tyre. I went with the frame and the pole, and hoped for the best. I think the fact that my tyres are balding helped to divert any would-be thief. I'm relatively certain they're not worth the effort stealing them would require. After strapping on my helmet and turning on my taillight, I took a moment to study my Dublin map and mentally prepare a route home. I took careful note of the one-ways, as those have wreaked havoc in my cycling plans previously.

Once I'd committed the path to memory, I cycled off. It didn't take long for my plans to go awry. My map hadn't shown that all traffic was diverted into a left-hand turn at an intersection where I'd hoped to go straight. Laughing to myself because any trip on my cycle of course, of course, had to be like this, I went with the flow. I wasn't quite sure where I was, but somehow I found my way back to St. Stephen's Green. From there I knew the way. Or I would have if I'd turned on the correct street.

Again, I blame Dublin's obscured and camouflaged street signs for the turn I made down a cobbled alley. Rather than speeding down a smoothly paved road (well, smoothly paved by Dublin road standards) to the street that would take me to Rathmines, I reached a winding, dusty, broken-up street that went past loads of parking ramps and dumpsters. After escaping that portion on foot, I found my way to the road on which I should have turned. Unfortunately the lanes were divided by a median, and I couldn't turn right as I needed to. I hauled my bike up onto the pavement and took to foot again.

I went back to the bike and the road at the intersection, confident that I could manage the straight road that would lead me the rest of the way home. Suddenly, however, I came upon another all-traffic-must-turn-left intersection that again was not marked on my map. This caused simple annoyance rather than confusion, however, because I was well aware of where I was now. I'd walked in the area many times. I had to make a square to go around the one-way section of the straight road from which I'd been diverted, and then I was finally able to maneuver into the cycle lane that took me the rest of the way home.

Wish me better luck next week. I planned a new route given what I now know about one-ways, and I'm hoping it will allow me to triumph over the labyrinthine Dublin road system at last.

Trading in the Trad

About a month ago I was eager to spend a Saturday night out in the Dublin city centre. I chose the Palace pub in Temple Bar, which my guidebook assured me was a good location for traditional Irish music sessions. Unable to induce anyone into accompanying me, I was planning to use the music as an acceptable guise for going to the pub alone and then start chatting to some random punters.

When I reached the second floor and slipped through the door, I was surprised to see someone performing a recitation at a banister. I made my way to a seat as quickly and unobtrusively as possible, sliding into a booth along the back wall. Glancing around the room, I noticed that there were no instruments anywhere. I was a bit disappointed to discover that I'd stumbled upon a poetry reading rather than a trad session, but I quickly began to change my mind.

Everyone in the room seemed to know each other by name and shouted insults or witty quips at whomever was commanding the makeshift staircase podium. When the reader began to recite, however, the room fell completely silent. Well, silent but for a completely sodden man who yelled slurred and indecipherable comments whenever the mood struck him. The others scolded, "Shurrup, Paddy!" when he was particularly obnoxious, and that usually quieted him.

The readers were all quite different. Some recited from pages, some spoke from memory. Some nearly shouted in a frantic, agitated performance, some lent rapper stylings and hand gestures to their words. Some spoke in a straightforward manner, some added dramatic pauses and discernible weight to certain words. Eyes closed, eyes open, quiet, animated. I savoured the accents, and it was quite interesting for me to hear how the words sounded when spoken aloud. It provided an entirely different dimension to the language, shifting the emphasis to the sounds of the words and their rhythm, cadence and relationship. I was held completely rapt.

My favourite ending to a poem came from a lad with long brown hair who was giving a passionate and emotional reading, fairly spitting his words at the room. Suddenly he turned up a new printed sheet of paper and bounded from the stairs, howling, "I've forgotten the last page!" The room erupted in good-natured laughter and consolatory applause. "I quite liked that ending," someone commented. It was a very supportive atmosphere overall, with enthusiastic clapping and shouts of "Good man!" or "Good girl!" greeting the end of each reading.

The night slowly began to wear down, and the host, a tall, lanky, white-haired man, took the stairs. He recited a poem about his children, then was compelled by repeated requests from the audience to read some Kavanaugh. This he did from memory, lending wonderful pause and emotion to the line, "I know nothing of women." His twinkling blue eyes lingered on each female in the room in turn as he repeated the line.

Then he sang, or attempted to sing in an off-key sort of way. He was upstaged by a boisterous blonde woman who applied a wonderful, resonant voice to some traditional Irish ballads and Gershwin's "Summertime." Eventually the ballads gave over to raucous limericks, with the whole room joining in. Finally the host called an end to the evening with a toast and a declaration of indebtedness to the bartender.

After the reading had ended, I struck up a conversation with one of the readers. "Does this happen every week, like?" He explained that this wasn't a regular event, but called the organiser (a man from outside Liverpool) over to tell me about other regularly occurring poetry readings. Eventually the host's brother came over and joined us. He accused the organiser of trying to chat me up, to which accusation the organiser responded with a comical show of exaggeratedly disgraceful chat-up lines and mannerisms.

The pub started to close soon after that, with the bartender blatantly encouraging us to leave ("Get out! I've a date tonight!"). I stood up to go, and the host's brother gripped my hand in an eternal handshake. "You're not leaving?" he asked. I told him I had to catch the Luas home before it stopped running (it already had). He initially insisted that the Luas doesn't run to Rathmines, but then conceded that he only rides the Red Line and not the Green. "Oh, where do you live?" I asked. "Why, are you coming home with me?" he chuckled. He was about 65, so we both knew that wasn't happening. Eventually he wished me luck in finding a way to stay out of Minnesota and "away from the ice," let go of my hand and told me I'd been a good sport.

I've managed to stumble upon some pretty entertaining events and people in Dublin. And as long as I embrace randomness and don't mind trading trad for poetry (or something else), I'm confident it will continue.

Winking and Waggling

It is a gorgeous day in the Dub. It was the perfect temperature for my walk to work this morning (I abandoned the bike after taking the usual bruising on it yesterday). It was chill enough to unleash a crisp fall smell and for me to amuse myself by forming breath clouds, but not uncomfortably cold. The sun actually made a rare appearance as I was going through Herbert Park and created visible criss-crossing patterns as its shafts of light fell through the leaves.

The beautiful morning only added to the elation that was still lingering after my salsa class last night. I had an absolutely brilliant time, and managed to make a new friend. The advanced class was just finishing up when I arrived. I was standing near a couple of guys waiting for the floor to clear, and I overheard one of them saying that the weather here now was like a nice Canadian fall. I asked him if he was Canadian, and said I was American. We chatted about Dublin and our expatriatism until class began and the instructor herded girls to one side of the dance floor and guys to the other.

After doing some basic steps in that segregated fashion, we came together in randomly-assigned partner pairs. The women stayed with each partner for a few minutes and then moved on to the next guy on the left. Unlike last week's class, the ratio of guys to girls was fairly proportionate. That meant I didn't have to assume the lead as I'd done previously.

Going down the line of guys was highly entertaining. One of my first partners picked up on my American accent after me just saying my name. Maybe my accent isn't quite as muddled as I'd like to think. Things got a little stranger as I moved down the line. You pick up on everyone's nervous tics very quickly in this setting. One of my partners winked at me repeatedly. Another waggled his eyebrows strangely frequently. Some studied their feet intensely. Some were sweating profusely. Some were afraid to touch me. Some pushed me across the floor quite enthusiastically when we were doing a cross body turn. A few didn't lead at all. Essentially, the entire experience is amazingly awkward. First there's a clumsy introduction, followed by even clumsier dancing and small talk. And this scenario is repeated over and over again throughout the night. Despite all this, it somehow manages to remain enjoyable.

My last partner of the night happened to be the Canadian guy. They transform the studio into a salsa club after class has ended on Thursday nights, and I stayed on to dance for a while with him and his regular salsa partner. They tried to teach me a more advanced move that I've not yet learnt, but they couldn't remember exactly how to execute it. One of the instructor's aides went by, and they asked him to remind them. After he'd shown them where they were going wrong, he danced with me for a while. I learned more then than I had the rest of the evening. It was much more instructive to dance with someone more advanced than me rather than having the blind leading (or not leading) the blind.

So the dance class is great fun and seems to present many exciting prospects. Like having the chance to observe more winks and waggles.

Cultivate! Why won't you cultivate?!?

I simply am not acclimating to Ireland very well. I like much of the atmosphere and many places in Dublin. But I am finding it excruciatingly difficult to make friends. Surprisingly, given Dublin's reputation for great night life, I just can't seem to lure people out of their houses. Literally, I'll extend invitations to people who respond to say they say they are staying home. Or they don't respond at all. I'm becoming a bit frustrated with trying to cultivate friends. It's extremely out of my comfort range to start conversations with strangers and extend invitations. Now I've done this time and again, and I still can't get anywhere with it. I know I've touched on this before, but the issue is still dogging me.

The latest escapade was particularly disappointing. I went to work on my portfolio at a coffee shop after work. On the way there, I saw on a sandwich board outside a pub that the France v. Ireland rugby match would be on later that night. I decided to go back to that pub after working for a bit. This place had a much better, more raucous atmosphere than the couple-y Toast pub where I'd watched the Georgia v. Ireland match, and I was quickly able to strike up conversation. An Irish lad standing near me told another guy, "Here, take this seat." Then he chuckled and said, "A bit of Irish hospitality. And that's about all the hospitality you're going to get." It turns out the lad now seated was French. I started talking to him, asking if he feared for his life cheering for France among Ireland supporters. Eventually I fell in with the rest of his group: two Americans, a Canadian, and the Irish guy. One of the Americans was quite an arse. At the encouragement of someone else, I took his seat while he was gone somewhere. When he came back, he was honestly (and, I think, overly) upset that I'd taken his seat. To the point that the French guy felt compelled to offer his own seat, which American Guy took (I offered to give the seat back, but Canadian Guy said no, I shouldn't). Plus he said American peanut butter was crap. Enough said.

Despite American Guy, the rest of the bunch was great fun. After the match, they invited me to move on to a different pub with them. I had the cab driver drop me off at the final destination, Tram Co, while the boys went to change. I paid my €5 cover and waited for nearly an hour, realising shortly after I'd arrived that I'd lost the inner fleece part of my winter jacket somewhere along the way. Eventually I saw the boys come up to the door, exchange a few words with the bouncers and walk away again. Likely they wouldn't have come in at all, and I would have been sitting there all night had I not spotted them. I went outside to meet them, and they said they were now going to a different pub in Harcourt with a €10 cover. Seeing as I was a bit miffed at already paying €5 to sit in Tram Co for an hour waiting for them to show up, I decided to just go home. The French guy hadn't come back, though I did think I saw him waiting for the train to Malahide on Saturday. In retrospect, I should have found out if indeed it was him, but my shyness got the better of me there.

I do enjoy just talking to people without necessarily seeing them again later. But I would like to have a group of friends here to accompany me on some of my adventures. So how do you convert acquaintances to friends that you invite out to do other things? Be bold and do it, I suppose is the answer. And I will work up to it. But at the moment I'm feeling a bit let down and increasingly isolated.

This is perhaps best demonstrated by my surprising affinity for a small kitty that snuck into the house with me last night. I generally don't like cats. They feel like they don't have any bones, they're aloof and they're sneaky. They tend to seek out places to hide (like under my bed) and then silently slink out, scaring me half to death when I see them out of the corner of my eye. But I really liked the little cat that darted in the door past me yesterday. It ran up the stairs to my flatmate Johnny's room, and I had to go retrieve it. Somehow despite its disconcertingly stretchy skeleton and sharp claws, I desperately wanted to keep it.

But life is full of small ups and downs, and there are islands of contentment and delight in my sea of moroseness. I found my coat when I called at Friday's pub again on Sunday. The kitty slipped in with me when I was returning from salsa class, which I thoroughly enjoyed. And I also received a special personal export of Jif peanut butter, which has been providing daily doses of contentment. Maybe I'll start carrying (and perhaps sharing) the wondrous American peanut butter with me at all times. It's sure to have good cultivating properties.

Light Wrangler

I returned home from the shop last night just after dark. After putting my groceries away, I went up to my room and tried to flip on the light that's given me so much trouble. I waited for a moment for it to sputter and flicker on. Then I remembered that this was not my London room, and my light should theoretically come on right away. Agh, bollocks! Not again! I futilely snapped the switch on and off a few more times. Grumbling, I climbed up onto the bed and twisted the light bulb out of the socket. I desperately hoped a burnt-out light bulb was all that was wrong. It couldn't possibly be that my handy keyring-screwdriver repairs had gone awry.

I went back out to the shop, tremendously annoyed that I'd just come from Tesco and could have bought a replacement bulb there if I'd known in advance that I'd come home to darkness. I bought the bulbs and walked back home to discover whether they'd solve the problem. They did indeed, and flipping the switch had the desired effect of actually producing light. This fixture has been much more work than it's worth. Perhaps this is my payback for the flawless functioning of the lights in my London room. One of the two fluorescent bulbs in my ceiling there was burned out when I moved in. I never replaced it, and I was fortunate enough to have the second bulb last the entire six months I was there.

In addition to once again restoring light to my life, I finally managed to cycle all the way to work without becoming lost. I was too daunted by last week's disastrous expedition to make another attempt before mid-week. In fact, I probably would have been too daunted to cycle at all this week were it not for my need to make it to work quickly on Wednesday. My intent was to arrive early so I could finish at 4.30. I was successful in this, which was a source of pride for me for the rest of the day. I even made it to the city centre from work without becoming snared in a navigational tangle. Though my fear of lorries was confirmed on the way. I gave my hand signal, started making my right turn and suddenly found myself inches from the front tyres of a lorry. "Jaysus, what the f***'s wrong with you?" the passenger shouted out the window. Luckily, nothing.

After that narrow escape, I managed to reach Temple Bar without further incident. I had an appointment to meet Mimi so we could both have piercings done--her ear and my nose. While I feel piercings have the potential to make highly entertaining stories, mine passed rather uneventfully. Mimi was waiting outside while they were puncturing my nose, and she remarked on how quiet the procedure was. She was shocked when I emerged, newly studded, without her having heard a whimper or wail. But after having sinus surgery, jaw surgery, and three adenoid removal surgeries, I'm quite used to people manipulating my face. So far I've managed to remember that the stud is there and not accidentally have a towel, clothing, or sheets catch it and rip it out.

I followed the piercing with another successful biking venture: riding home in the dark. I'll attribute my visibility and safe return home to my amazing new skills in light wrangling. I affixed a headlight and taillight before I took off.

Hopeless Cyclist

Despite generally having a fairly good sense of direction, I have found myself completely unable to cycle to and from work without becoming lost. One of my co-workers Google Mapped a cycle-friendly route for me, and I've been trying to follow that. I rode to work two mornings this week, and missed a necessary turn at the same place both days. I blame the half-hidden street signs and the distraction caused by my innate fear of being hit by a giant lorry. I thought that approaching this trouble spot from the opposite direction would help me piece the two halves of the route together. This was not as straightforward as I originally anticipated, however.

Coming from work proved to be an even bigger disaster than riding from home. Shortly after pedaling out of the parking lot, I went straight at a snarled intersection where I ought to have turned right. I turned round when I realised my mistake and, rather than correcting my course by taking a left, made two right turns at the same intersection. That put me on Donnybrook Road, which I followed for an inexcusable amount of time before sussing out that I was on the wrong street. I growled a bit, turned around, reached the notorious intersection for a third time, and finally navigated it correctly.

Everything went according to plan until I reached the place where I'd been missing a turn in the morning. "Ah," I thought. "So this is where I need to turn." I made a mental note and, quite pleased with myself, turned left into the cycle lane. This was an egregious error, as I should have continued going straight. I cycled for ages down Clonskeagh Road, which eventually turned into Roebuck Road, then Goatstown Road, then Kilmacud Road. I didn't recognise the road names, nor did the landmarks seem familiar. "I don't remember seeing that in the morning," I mused. But somehow I managed to convince myself that I had, in fact, come across the BMW dealership and the Goat's Tavern before.

What should have obviously given away my mistake was the steep incline of the route. As I was puffing up the never-ending hill, I wondered why I'd been cheated out of an equal and opposite downhill coast on the way to work in the mornings. Finally, panting and confused at the absurd amount of time it was taking me to reach home, I turned around and enjoyed a well-deserved downhill ride back to the increasingly ill-fated trouble point in my route. I followed my usual walking route the rest of the way home, which proved to be quite bumpy and painful. I arrived home after a 15-minute commute had turned into an hour of hapless navigation. I was a sweaty, red-faced, hungry and ill-humoured mess. I trudged up to my room and immediately looked up my route map to see where I'd gone wrong. It turns out I'd ridden 3.5 miles out of my way (7 round-trip) just on the last wrong turn. But now I think I've finally learned my way. I'll let you know on Monday.

Electric Maudlin'

I've completed my self-proclaimed last step in settling into Dublin: repairing my broken light fixture. I went into the garage on Saturday afternoon and stared up at the fuse box. The switches were labelled with blue ball-point pen scrawl, which I found a bit untrustworthy. Given that I was dealing with electricity and facing possible electrocution, I really wanted to see a sturdy, reliable, no-one-has-accidentally-mislabeled-these-switches serif font. But I needed to restore light to my room, so I forced myself to trust the handwriting and flipped the two switches that said "Lights." My trust was very limited, however, and it didn't prevent me from compulsively checking each and every light in the house to make sure the electricity was definitely off.

It became quite a makeshift endeavour from there. We don't seem to have any sort of ladder or elevating device, nor could I locate a screwdriver. My solution was to stand on my bed and use the thin metal ring connecting a set of keys. I successfully freed the red and blue wires from the screws pinning them down, wincing in anticipation of the electrocution that would surely follow. I was momentarily concerned by what appeared to be an extraneous piece in my replacement part, but I eventually decided it must not be important. I carefully recaptured the wires under the new screws, turning them as tightly as possible with my keyring. That done, I replaced the bulb and marvelled at how the non-broken fixture held it in place. After turning the switches in the garage back to "On," I returned to my room and hesitantly pressed the switch in the wall. Nothing popped, nothing exploded, nothing sizzled. It would be so much better here to say "Nothing happened at all," but it's not true. The room filled with light, just as it should have.

Despite my resounding success with simple electrical repairs, I still don't feel settled. I haven't yet been able to form a connection with the place or people. This a little disconcerting to me because I've already been here a month. I've made some promising starts, but certain things are so slow in coming. I tried to cultivate relationships with a few of my contacts here on Saturday, but I didn't receive a response. I felt a bit lonely, which led me to start pondering what makes a city welcoming. Is Dublin really as friendly as I initially thought?

On the surface it is. You can easily go up to nearly anyone and engage them in conversation. And it won't be the kind of conversation where the person you approached is focused on escaping from the situation as soon as possible. This is a wonderful thing. One of my co-workers has suggested that this is possible because Ireland has been uni-cultural for so long. You already have a sense of shared background and common culture, so it's easier to strike up conversation. But converting a casual connection into a something more enduring is what I'm finding difficult. While people are more open and warm up front than Londoners are, it has been just as hard for me to get past exteriors. They're friendly fronts, but they're still fronts, beyond which I haven't been able to reach. More time is inevitably what's needed. I will give it that, and will probably come away with brilliant friends. After all, I am a pretty handy electrician.

Ouch

My arse was thoroughly pulverised on the way home from work today. I'm the proud borrower of a newly-repaired bicycle and helmet, and I tried the evening commute with it for the first time. I've been walking to work and back all week (just under an hour each way) to avoid the damp despair of the bus. I've been told that the 18 is the worst bus in Dublin, and I absolutely believe it. I can walk the entire way to work in the time it takes me to walk from home to the bus stop, wait for the bus, ride the bus and walk from the bus stop to my work.

Since walking was an improvement from riding the bus, I expected cycling to be better yet. This was my first time commuting by bicycle in any city, and it was a bewildering experience. One major factor contributing to my confusion was riding on the left side of the road instead of the right. Each turn required that I devote special attention to winding up on the correct side of the street without causing an accident or being involved in one myself. Do I ride as far to the left as I can when I pull up to a stoplight? What if the cars turning left don't see me and hit me when I'm going straight? This method of going to work is fraught with much more peril than walking.

It is also fraught with more pain. I don't know if the roads are bumpier, my suspension is worse or my bum is just less...calloused than in Minnesota. But regardless, the frequent jolting impacts drove me to whimpers. This was mingled with muttered instructions to myself on how not to get killed.

But the speed and convenience of this new commuting method may just be enough to override its drawbacks. I somehow made a wrong turn when attempting to follow my usual walking route home, and I found myself significantly further north than I'd needed to travel. Despite taking a long, looping detour, I made it home in half the time it's been taking me to bus or walk. This means I'll be able to sleep later in the morning, and I'm quite happy to endure my rear being pummeled (by a bicycle) for that.

How to Fight Loneliness: Join a Stag Party

I left work on Friday absolutely determined to have a brilliant weekend in Dublin. The city has yet to win me over, and I've been feeling rather low and homesick for London. There are aspects of Dublin that I prefer to London, such as the friendliness of the people. But I just don't like the city as a place very much. I've found it restrictively small and comparatively quiet as far as entertainment outside the pubs. I was resolute in my desire to change this, so I spent the night wandering around the city on foot, trying to find something particularly endearing that I could fall for. I only succeeded in wearing myself out.

The next morning began in much the same way. I went to go buy a replacement part for the light fixture in my room that I broke. Well, it was already half broken, and I broke it the rest of the way while trying to make the lightbulb stay in despite it being half broken. I had intended to repair the light fixture that afternoon, but I couldn't access the fusebox. My key for the house didn't fit into the lock on the garage, and none of my flatmates were home to provide me with the proper key.

Instead I wandered into the city centre again. I moped around feeling lonely because the few people I know here were busy. I quickly became weary and incredibly hungry, and I had a strong urge to just head home. I was lucky I hadn't been able to restore light to my room, because the pervading darkness I would have encountered there finally persuaded me to stay out and make my own fun. My first priority was finding a decent cheap meal. This is close to impossible in the city centre after a certain time. My usual refuge is a sandwich shop, but most of them close fairly early. Eventually I ducked into a kebab shop. I must have been nearly starved, because my kebab tasted wonderful. Over the meal, I decided to go to Kehoe's to see if I could make a new friend. And I did. Several, in fact.

I'd squeezed through the hoardes of people outside and at the bar and had found a seat at a counter. I was sipping my lager and pondering my next move when an older guy approached me. "Your boyfriend's not here yet?" he asked. The last chat I had about being single ended with back-handed compliments about my "serial killer" eyes, but I decided to see where this conversation led. I told him that I had just moved to Dublin and didn't know many people yet. He invited me to join him and his gang of rugby team friends who were out for a stag do. I couldn't see why not, so I ventured outside and met the rest of the boys.

I found myself going through a few more repetitions of the standard conversation I have with everyone I meet in Dublin. I'm from Minnesota. It's on the border of Canada. Pretend my left hand is the US. New York is somewhere near the tip of my middle finger. California's at the heel of my palm. Minnesota's somewhere near where my index finger meets my palm (I need to start carrying a map of the US). I'm in Dublin for four months. I'm working in advertising. I live in Rathmines. I came here from London. Because my visa expired and I could either go home or come here. Rehashing my story has become a bit tiresome, but I still enjoyed telling it to new people.

I'd been chatting with a group of three or four guys when suddenly an adjoining group of guys turned in my direction and started singing, "I love you, baby, and if it's quite alright I need you, baby..." It turns out they were the rest of the stag do. And that this stag do was only the pre stag do. The husband-to-be is getting married in New York in October, and will be having at least one more party in Killarney before then.

Though I did receive a surprising number of comments about my teeth (by American standards my teeth are not particularly white, nor remarkably straight), no-one drew any comparisons between me and a serial killer. I enjoyed some drinks, was spoken to in Italian, watched hilarious drunken dancing and tried to determine when people were being serious and when they were taking the piss (most of the time it's the latter). Even if it was a little strange, it was good fun. And much better than moping around by myself in the dark.

Pubs revisited: Kehoe's

Pathetic Pool

When I say I'm bad at pool, I don't just mean I'm not good. I mean I'm astonishingly abysmal. As in I frequently miss making contact with the cue ball. Or send it straight into one of the pockets without it striking any other ball. That kind of bad. Somehow I found it necessary to demonstrate this to a large number of my coworkers at a pool tournament after work today. My boss recruited me to be his partner, and I'm certain he deeply regretted that decision. I did respond "Poorly" when he asked me whether I played pool, but I don't think he knew exactly how poorly.

Although my severe lack of hand-eye coordination promptly knocked Eoghan and myself out of the tournament, I quite enjoyed the rest of the evening. Shouts of "Jaysus!" mingled with friendly jabs and consolatory phrases like "Hard luck," and "Good effort" as we watched the final rounds. The friendly atmosphere made me feel less pathetic. But I think I'll sit out the next tournament. For the sake of everyone involved.

Big Red Switches

I think I have nearly sussed the mysterious workings of Dublin domestic life. I had many opportunities to research it when I moved into my new flat in Rathmines this weekend. I spent Saturday morning at Mimi's, packing up the quarter of my belongings that weren't still meticulously rolled and stuffed into my suitcases. I called a taxi when I'd finished, trying to avoid a repeat of my London luggage-on-public-transportation escapade. I successfully escaped without any new luggage bites. I was grateful for that because my particularly bad luggage bite had just vanished.

My new flatmate, Gerard (I thought he'd said Jared the other two times I met him), helped me haul my suitcases up the stairs and I eagerly took out all my stuff. It always feels a bit odd to finally unpack after spending two weeks gingerly fishing out necessities while trying to disturb as little of the suitcase infrastructure as possible. After my suitcases were empty and snugly nested inside each other, I went to go buy sheets and a duvet cover.

I'd been directed to Dunnes by several of my coworkers, so I walked over to the store near my house. They had no single duvet covers in stock, so I left with only sheets. I went to Pound Saver for my hangers, which wasn't such a save after all. I paid 2 Euros for sets of 8 hangers there and saw sets of 10 for 1 Euro 50 at Tesco the next day.

After finishing my domestic chores, I went to meet Mimi at Wagamama for some deliciously gingery udon noodles. The members of a rock band from California sitting next to us started chatting to us as just before leaving. They offered to give me and Mimi a shout out at their gig on Friday if we turned up. An enticing offer, but I'm still exploring my options.

It was a Saturday night and we live in Dublin, so we naturally ended up at a pub after dinner. Our path to the bar took us through a group of lads who were sitting on stools strewn across the walkway. "There's plenty of room if you want to sit here," they called. We took them up on their offer, and they all turned out to be lovely. I chatted with a doctor named Michael. He and another lad who Mimi had been chatting to left fairly shortly after we arrived. Mimi and I stayed on at the pub with the third lad, Enda. He was an absolute riot. He did an analysis of my personality based on my clothing and came pretty close.

We stayed at the first pub with Enda for a while, then went with him to join his mates who were celebrating someone's 30th birthday. I left very soon after we arrived. I was suffering through my normal settling-in period of feeling low, and I just wanted to be by myself. My departure was hastened slightly by someone who decided that telling me that he'd told Mimi about a show that had a helicopter named Mimi in it was a good conversation starter.

I spent the rest of my Saturday night desperately regretting that I didn't have a duvet. I'd gone to bed in a t-shirt and pyjama bottoms and woke up shivering. I pulled another long-sleeved t-shirt over the first and tried to wrap myself in a cocoon of sheets and the two thin, scratchy wool blankets that had been left on the bed. I was still freezing, so I dug a hoodie out of my closet and zipped that on as well. That worked as far as keeping me warm, but the pesky springs in my mattress kept poking me awake throughout the night.

I got up fairly early for a Sunday and went to run more errands. I owed Stef a half month's rent, which I wanted to pay by changing my pound notes into Euros. I was dead set against withdrawing any more money from an ATM after seeing the hefty fees my British bank charged. Unfortunately, no bureaux de change are open on Sunday. I was skint as far as cash, but I absolutely had to buy a duvet. I checked a second Dunnes location, which did have a single duvet in stock. I charged it with my debit card, fees be damned.

Before buying the duvet, I went for a coffee to battle the chilly weather. I spent some time reading in the cafe, then decided to explore the Powerscourt Centre next door. There was a rather brilliant jazz trio playing on the ground floor, so I skulked around the place and listened until they'd finished. At one point I was sitting on a bench on the second floor. Suddenly a man who was walking past me let out an enormous belch and shiftily slid his eyes in my direction. I was slightly appalled, a feeling that was greatly intensified when he walked past me again going the other direction and belched a second time. I'm still not sure entirely what to make of that.

When I got back to my house that evening I put a pot of water on the hob to cook some pasta. I didn't see any sign that the burner was working, despite my having turned the appropriate knob to the highest setting. I was baffled and started examining all the different knobs. I eventually expanded my search to the walls around the oven and spotted a big red switch. I have a natural aversion to flipping big, menacing-looking levers, so I hesitated for a moment before switching it to "on." That was indeed the solution to my problem, and the burner coil promptly started to glow.

I had a similar experience with the shower. It had worked flawlessly when I used it on Sunday, but nothing happened when I tried to turn it on Monday morning. I tried flipping a few switches I'd found in the closet, to no avail. Frustrated, I went back to my room to wait for someone else to get up and come to my aid. On the way there I noticed another of the threatening red switches on the wall above my head. I flipped that on and heard a reassuring humming come from inside the bathroom. Now if an Irish appliance fails, I know to look for a big red switch.

Despite nearly mastering appliances, I still haven't quite sussed the transportation system. I attempted to take the bus on Monday and was late. I tried a combination of the Luas light rail and DART commuter train this morning and was late again. I left an hour early both days, so it means an earlier start for me tomorrow. Inconceivable, really, since I lived farther away in Smithfield and made it to work faster. The DART and Luas are cleaner, but I really miss the Tube. The morning threw another disappointment at me when I tried to make a mocha out of the lattes that our coffee machine at work can churn out. The cocoa I added floated to the top in chunks and only succeeded in making the mixture more bitter. I'll try a different tactic tomorrow. Like looking for a big red switch.

New pubs explored: The South William, The Duke
Pubs revisited: Grogan's

New Country Requisites

Certain things are essential when you move to a new country. Finding a job, filing a load of paperwork, finding a place to live, and going exploring are all New Country Requisites. I've managed to square all of these away during my first week in Dublin, which leaves opening a bank account as the only task I've yet to complete. The first New Country Requisite to be checked off the list was securing a job. I'd set up an interview with Irish International BBDO back in July, and went to that on my third day in Dublin. Our discussion about my previous work experience, the rivalry between Minneapolis and St. Paul, differences between American, British and Irish English, and Irish authors ended with a job offer.

I was ecstatic about this new opportunity, and my excitement helped to carry me through the drudgery of the second New Country Requisite: filing my paperwork. There was a fair amount of it, and each thing was dependent upon something else. To open a bank account, I need a PPS number. To get a PPS number, I need a GNIB card. I took care of that first hurdle on Wednesday. I turned up at the GNIB Office early in the afternoon and tried to suss out the chaos. There were people waiting in chairs at the back of the room, people waiting in chairs at the front of the room, and a big random queue at the front. I didn't know where to start, so I decided to join the big random queue. They issued me a paper ticket with the number 280 on it. Below that in small letters it said, "You are number 67 in the queue." What? Really?

I went and sat down in one of the rows of prefabricated wooden chairs and finished up James Joyce's Dubliners. The numbers slowly increased and the time slowly passed. Over two hours later, my number finally appeared on the digital screen above one of the counters. I slid my passport and visa into the tray under the window, and the Irish lad on the other side got to work entering the data. It proved very difficult to understand his accent through the solid sheet of plexiglass, but we managed. After he'd processed the paperwork and taken my photo, I went and waited for the announcement of "American national Nicole Otten to counter one, please," that would end my GNIB experience. That call came relatively quickly, and I escaped three hours after entering the office.

Given the huge expenditure of time required to secure a GNIB card, I was not looking forward to going to the PPS office on Friday. That proved to be much less of an ordeal. I was there for a total of 15 minutes, and there was even a speaker device in the plexiglass window so I could hear the woman on the other side.

The PPS office was located close to Phoenix Park, so I decided to go exploring after I was through. I walked along the road that runs along the outside of the park for quite some time before I could find an entrance that wasn't gated and locked. I'm still using a pocket street atlas to navigate, and only one small corner of the park is included in the atlas. I wandered for a bit until I came upon a roundabout that was on my map. I started walking in the direction that would bring me to the exit, but nothing seemed to match the map. Monuments were missing, ponds were nowhere to be found, and entire cricket grounds had disappeared. All I could see was tall prairie grass and an unidentified road. I second-guessed myself and walked back toward the roundabout. On the way there, I noticed that the open-topped Dublin tour buses were pulling in, swinging around the roundabout and heading back out in the direction I'd just been walking. Feeling confident that a tour bus wouldn't lead me astray, I turned back around and followed their route. After walking for ages, I came upon a second roundabout--the one that was actually on the map. From there, everything was laid out as it should have been, and I found my way to the exit.

Friday night continued with some culinary exploration. I was missing London, and Mimi decided that raw seafood was just the thing to cheer me up. We joined her friend Kritika at Aya, where a conveyor belt of sushi wound past booths and countertops. Mimi and Kritika took part in Sushi 55, where they were allowed to eat as much sushi as they could handle for 55 minutes. I'd never had sushi before, and I was afraid to dive straight in with a 55 minute session. I had a delicious plate of chili beef udon noodles instead. But I couldn't let all that sushi pass me by without giving it a go, so I nabbed a piece off Mimi's plate when our strict waitress had wandered away somewhere that put us out of her line of vision. The bit I had was pretty tasty, so I'll likely experiment with it more in the future.

In addition to new food, Mimi has been giving me a thorough introduction to Dublin's pubs this week. My favourite so far is Cobblestone, a pub at the top of the square where we're living. There are incredible live traditional music sessions every night, and the place boasts a very laid-back, genuine atmosphere. People go simply to enjoy themselves and their pints.

After taking care of the first three New Country Requisites, I decided to focus in on the flat search. I went to see my first place on Sunday. I would have been living with two Polish guys in a basement flat. The person moving out, Peter, came up to let me in and show me around. When I walked in, his roommate stood up to shake my hand. His palm was discomfortingly moist, and he wouldn't let go until the greeting had extended well beyond awkward. I took a quick tour through the place and returned to the living room, where Peter began to explain how bills and the lease would work. He revealed that the rent was so astonishingly cheap because Handshake Guy slept permanently on the sofa. But I didn't have to worry because I could walk through the living room to the open kitchen and cook without disturbing him. Peter also explained that they smoked in the living room, "but not in your room."

I answered "OK" in response to each of these points, as people tend to do. Suddenly, Handshake Guy laughed and said, "You say OK to everything! OK! OK! OK!" In response to this, I started trying to reply with substitutes to OK, such as "Alright," "That sounds good," and "Sure." Finally Peter took down my name and number so they could let me know whether or not I'd been chosen to be the lucky new roommate. He remembered my name as Nicole instead of Nikki and wrote that down. As he did, Handshake Guy said suggestively, "Ahhh, Nicole!" and I felt my skin crawl a bit. I was absolutely relieved to make my way back outside.

My second viewing was a bit less shudder-inducing. An older Irishman named Walter showed me a small, slightly tattered room with its own kitchen and bathroom. The place wasn't bad, but the pervading stench of old woman perfume lingered in my nostrils a good distance down the street. I had another viewing that night in the same area, and I felt optimistic about it. I walked for ages down the street, eventually calling the person showing me to flat to make sure I wasn't headed in the completely wrong direction. When I finally arrived, I loved the house. The room was small but nice, there was a garden, the area seemed safe, no-one permanently occupied the sofa and neither of the people I met insisted on clasping my hand in a neverending damp handshake.

I went home and agonised a bit over the decision, as I generally do. A few hours of Google searches returned no dodgy results, and I determined that I could make it to work in a reasonable manner. I texted Johnny that night to say I'd take the room. I waited nervously though the next day to hear if they'd have me, and finally received good news as I arrived home after work. I'll be moving in with my four new Irish housemates on Saturday. I'm delighted to be settled in and able to focus my energy on only one New Country Requisite: exploring!