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.
10 October, 2007
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.
25 September, 2007
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.
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.
14 September, 2007
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.
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.
08 September, 2007
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.
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.
04 September, 2007
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.
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.
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