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.
30 August, 2007
26 August, 2007
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
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
22 August, 2007
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.
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.
21 August, 2007
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
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
11 August, 2007
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!
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!
06 August, 2007
Transferring
I'm battered and bruised, but I'm in Dublin. I look like I got into a fight with my luggage, and I did. It was three against one, so not exactly fair. I had three suitcases--one gigantic, one medium-sized, and one small. I hooked the medium and small ones together and hauled those in one hand with my gigantic suitcase in the other. I set out with a little trepidation at my ability to wrangle so much luggage and quickly learned that these fears were well-founded.
To my dismay, I'd discovered the day before that the Willesden Green Tube station two minutes from my house was shut down for refurbishment at the weekend. The replacement bus service they offered went to a station in the opposite direction of where I needed to go to catch my train to the airport. This made my trip longer and, more significantly, meant more lifting. Instead of bringing my luggage to Willesden Green and lugging it down the one flight of stairs at that station, I had to haul it onto the bus travelling to Dollis Hill, then off the bus, then down two piddly flights of stairs (with just enough steps to make me unhook my connected suitcases and lift them down) connected by long walkways, then make three trips up one huge flight of stairs. I'm fairly certain London hates travellers.
I needed to change Tube lines at Green Park, which involved more flights of stairs. In between these flights of stairs, my suitcases had the annoying habit of flipping over when I was going around corners or slipping out of my hands and biting me on the back of the leg. At the platform, I was in a frenzy trying to lift all three suitcases onto or off of the Tube before the doors closed and either took one of my pieces of luggage away without me or took me away without one of my pieces of luggage.
I finally made it onto the train at Victoria. When I reached Gatwick Airport, I discovered that the terminal I needed was another train ride away. The floor of this train, helpfully, was level with the ground, so boarding it required no lifting. I finally checked in at one of the electronic kiosks in the designated departure area and queued up at the bag drop-off counter. I'd prepaid for my second checked piece of luggage, and neither bag was overweight. I felt that was a small victory and happily took my carry-on bag over to the security check point. It was a relief to have only this single piece of luggage left in my possession.
As passengers leaving the UK are allowed only one piece of hand baggage, I'd initially packed my laptop bag in my suitcase. Early on in the journey, I'd taken it out and slung it over my shoulder to distribute the weight in a more manageable manner. I paused to repack the laptop just outside of security, pleased at how successfully I'd handled the luggage challenge. The security personnel visually sized up my bag and made me put it in a metal rack to determine whether it would actually fit in the overhead compartment. It was about an inch too large and sat suspended over the basket. I pushed it a bit, but it refused to slide in. All I could do was sigh wearily in response to the attendant's helpful observation of "It won't fit."
I unpacked my laptop again, went back to the bag drop and stared a bit mournfully at the long queues that would almost certainly make me miss my flight. I explained the situation to a staff member and he let me bypass the crowds by going to one of the VIP lines. There I checked in my third suitcase and was sent to the customer service counter to pay the money (30 pounds) to check that as well. I brought my laptop bag on with me, forgetting that my iPod and camera were in my carry-on bag until it was too late. In my rush, I'd forgotten that my iPod and camera were in my carry-on bag until it was too late. The story does have a happy ending, though, as all my luggage made its winding way back to me on the conveyor belt and nothing that I've yet discovered is broken.
Thankfully for me and my broken body, Mimi and her Scottish flatmate Stef picked me up from the airport in a car. Things immediately turned around from that point. They've both been absolutely lovely. Despite my knee literally being covered in bruises, I'm thrilled to be in a new city. And I'll be shipping some things home before leaving it.
To my dismay, I'd discovered the day before that the Willesden Green Tube station two minutes from my house was shut down for refurbishment at the weekend. The replacement bus service they offered went to a station in the opposite direction of where I needed to go to catch my train to the airport. This made my trip longer and, more significantly, meant more lifting. Instead of bringing my luggage to Willesden Green and lugging it down the one flight of stairs at that station, I had to haul it onto the bus travelling to Dollis Hill, then off the bus, then down two piddly flights of stairs (with just enough steps to make me unhook my connected suitcases and lift them down) connected by long walkways, then make three trips up one huge flight of stairs. I'm fairly certain London hates travellers.
I needed to change Tube lines at Green Park, which involved more flights of stairs. In between these flights of stairs, my suitcases had the annoying habit of flipping over when I was going around corners or slipping out of my hands and biting me on the back of the leg. At the platform, I was in a frenzy trying to lift all three suitcases onto or off of the Tube before the doors closed and either took one of my pieces of luggage away without me or took me away without one of my pieces of luggage.
I finally made it onto the train at Victoria. When I reached Gatwick Airport, I discovered that the terminal I needed was another train ride away. The floor of this train, helpfully, was level with the ground, so boarding it required no lifting. I finally checked in at one of the electronic kiosks in the designated departure area and queued up at the bag drop-off counter. I'd prepaid for my second checked piece of luggage, and neither bag was overweight. I felt that was a small victory and happily took my carry-on bag over to the security check point. It was a relief to have only this single piece of luggage left in my possession.
As passengers leaving the UK are allowed only one piece of hand baggage, I'd initially packed my laptop bag in my suitcase. Early on in the journey, I'd taken it out and slung it over my shoulder to distribute the weight in a more manageable manner. I paused to repack the laptop just outside of security, pleased at how successfully I'd handled the luggage challenge. The security personnel visually sized up my bag and made me put it in a metal rack to determine whether it would actually fit in the overhead compartment. It was about an inch too large and sat suspended over the basket. I pushed it a bit, but it refused to slide in. All I could do was sigh wearily in response to the attendant's helpful observation of "It won't fit."
I unpacked my laptop again, went back to the bag drop and stared a bit mournfully at the long queues that would almost certainly make me miss my flight. I explained the situation to a staff member and he let me bypass the crowds by going to one of the VIP lines. There I checked in my third suitcase and was sent to the customer service counter to pay the money (30 pounds) to check that as well. I brought my laptop bag on with me, forgetting that my iPod and camera were in my carry-on bag until it was too late. In my rush, I'd forgotten that my iPod and camera were in my carry-on bag until it was too late. The story does have a happy ending, though, as all my luggage made its winding way back to me on the conveyor belt and nothing that I've yet discovered is broken.
Thankfully for me and my broken body, Mimi and her Scottish flatmate Stef picked me up from the airport in a car. Things immediately turned around from that point. They've both been absolutely lovely. Despite my knee literally being covered in bruises, I'm thrilled to be in a new city. And I'll be shipping some things home before leaving it.
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