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.
25 September, 2007
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.
30 August, 2007
Ouch
My arse was thoroughly pulverised on the way home from work today. I'm the proud borrower of a newly-repaired bicycle and helmet, and I tried the evening commute with it for the first time. I've been walking to work and back all week (just under an hour each way) to avoid the damp despair of the bus. I've been told that the 18 is the worst bus in Dublin, and I absolutely believe it. I can walk the entire way to work in the time it takes me to walk from home to the bus stop, wait for the bus, ride the bus and walk from the bus stop to my work.
Since walking was an improvement from riding the bus, I expected cycling to be better yet. This was my first time commuting by bicycle in any city, and it was a bewildering experience. One major factor contributing to my confusion was riding on the left side of the road instead of the right. Each turn required that I devote special attention to winding up on the correct side of the street without causing an accident or being involved in one myself. Do I ride as far to the left as I can when I pull up to a stoplight? What if the cars turning left don't see me and hit me when I'm going straight? This method of going to work is fraught with much more peril than walking.
It is also fraught with more pain. I don't know if the roads are bumpier, my suspension is worse or my bum is just less...calloused than in Minnesota. But regardless, the frequent jolting impacts drove me to whimpers. This was mingled with muttered instructions to myself on how not to get killed.
But the speed and convenience of this new commuting method may just be enough to override its drawbacks. I somehow made a wrong turn when attempting to follow my usual walking route home, and I found myself significantly further north than I'd needed to travel. Despite taking a long, looping detour, I made it home in half the time it's been taking me to bus or walk. This means I'll be able to sleep later in the morning, and I'm quite happy to endure my rear being pummeled (by a bicycle) for that.
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.
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.
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