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.
24 October, 2007
23 October, 2007
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:
And lastly, something I worked on in England that just went live.
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:
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.
But I'm still cycling to salsa tomorrow.
10 October, 2007
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.
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.
08 October, 2007
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.
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.
05 October, 2007
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.
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.
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