In order to finance my exploration of the Twin Cities music scene, I've taken up more or less gainful employment with a temp agency. While I was originally looking and hoping for a job in advertising, I tried to stay positive about the situation. I decided that I would be like Ryan the Temp on The Office. I would be sent to a slightly bizarre and dysfunctional office, meet some interesting people, and create a stock of writing material that would last for years.
After exhausting me with math, spelling, filing, typing and computer software exams, the temp agency called back the same afternoon to offer me an assignment. I arrived at the Minnesota Green Expo at half 6 the next morning, bleary-eyed and dressed in my former Olive Garden uniform. My duties involved typing information into a Word document, printing name tags, affixing star or dot stickers to them when necessary, stuffing them into a plastic clip-on protector, and finally handing them to the registrants. Far from being the long, excruciating day I'd anticipated, the time flew by. The queues were huge, and we were kept quite busy.
Fortunately, my stint at the Green Expo was only three days. The work was perfectly acceptable, but I am desperately trying not to re-acquire the elongated vowels of my former Minnesota accent. The Green Expo, attended by a large number of outstate landscapers and nurserers, was definitely not the place for my mimic's ear if I wanted to continue to stave it off successfully. The proliferation of general ohhhhhh's and aaaaaaae's, and especially someone's comment about a "bohhh-t," demonstrated to me that there is at least a little truth in the stereotypical accent portrayed in Fargo.
The assignment I began the following week seemed to be an immediate improvement, if only because I would be starting at 8 instead of 6.30. I successfully navigated the buses and arrived at the building early. When I walked inside, eager to escape the cold, I found a slightly less frigid entryway that smelled of of canned fruit that had just gone off. After finding the doors to the main office locked, I happened upon a different office under the stairs. The receptionist buzzed me in, and we chatted for a bit. She informed me that the company was a potato processing plant. While that was interesting, the sentence from the conversation that really stands out in my mind is, "Did you know you'll be working out in a trailer?"
So I spent the last two weeks working in a trailer at a potato factory.
As you might imagine, it turned out to be rather entertaining. The job itself required fairly low brain-wattage: alphabetising, hole-punching, filing, filling out forms, stapling, entering data. But I liked my fellow HR trailer occupants. At regular intervals I would take a break from my clerical tasks and cover the receptionist while she went on breaks. The route to her office under the stairs took me through the maintenance area of the plant, where I was always greeted by the smell of potatoes. But not just normal potatoes. Potatoes that had been trodden upon and left on the ground to soak up some indeterminate liquid and spoil. I'm not sure what brought this image to my mind (perhaps the constantly wet door handle), but it seems to be the only sufficient way to describe the smell.
Generally not much was required of me when I was covering reception. Between phone calls, I usually had plenty of time to read or examine the numerous paper cuts I'd acquired. But that's not to say that strange things never happened. On one occasion, a man appeared outside the glass windows of the office and shouted that he needed a favour. Probably against my better judgment, I buzzed him in. He pointed out a dump truck near a line of semis and asked me if he could park it there overnight. Apparently the brakes had gone out and a mechanic wouldn't be available to service it until the next morning. His dump truck was not affiliated with the company in any way, so I called the plant manager to see if that was OK. He flatly refused, I relayed the information to the suddenly belligerent driver, and he stalked out.
During my second week on the assignment, I went on a tour of the plant. I felt a little guilty for going with the plant manager instead of the safety guy who had repeatedly offered me a private tour, but it was fascinating nonetheless. I was outfitted in a white coat, boots, a hairnet, a hard hat and earplugs. It was as though I was participating in one of the segments on Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood where they toured factories and taught the audience how things were made. Recalling it now, I can remember Mr. Rogers' exploration of a crayon factory down to a disconcerting level of detail. I'm not exactly sure if this is because I was really interested in crayons (I was) or had a previously unrevealed affinity for factories (apparently). Regardless, I was happy to discover that the odor coming from the plant itself was far more pleasing than that I regularly encountered in the maintenance room.
Despite my initial incredulity, I grew a little fond of the potato plant over the weeks. It was my last day there on Friday. And while leaving has not made me sad to the degree that I'm going to visit the grocery store and press my face against the freezers where they store our hash browns, I have to admit I enjoyed my time there. Maybe I already found my Dunder Mifflin.
29 January, 2008
27 January, 2008
The Twin Cities Music/Crazy Scene
My initial endeavors in re-exploring the Twin Cities have centred around the local music scene. I've already been to several concerts, which I've quite enjoyed. But while most of the bands have been entertaining, their performances pale in comparison with those given by some of the audience members.
Big V's in St. Paul had its share of interesting characters lurking among the stuffed gorilla decor. I went with Jackie to see her friend's band, Guerrilla Blue, play. We were leaning against a sort of counter and chatting when we noticed a short older woman who kept nodding knowingly at us. Occasionally she'd gesture or laugh as if she were trying to work her way into our conversation. When that failed, she took to waving at the captive audio tech manning a tiny sound board next to us.
Another unusual concert-goer made an appearance toward the end of Guerrilla Blue's set. With beer bottle in hand, he strode purposefully up to the edge of the stage. He then leaned over and put his ear directly up to the monitor sitting on the stage in front of the lead singer. This could hardly escape the attention of the singer, and he quipped, "Loud enough for you?" before the group launched into their last song.
As we were leaving, Jackie and I encountered one last member of the strange contingent. A man at the bar made the OK symbol at something when he saw us. I assumed he was making it at me, but he wasn't actually looking at me. He appeared to be focusing on something over my shoulder, so I turned around to see what was capturing his attention. Nothing. When I turned back he made the sign again, keeping his eyes trained on the same imaginary object in the distance. "What?" I asked. Then I noticed the woman who'd tried to cultivate us earlier standing nearby. I took that as an indication that he was her partner in crazy.
The Varsity has also proven to be a venue rich with in-audience entertainment. The first show I attended there after coming home was Mel Gibson and the Pants/Dance Band. Before that show even began, a person standing in front of us began to strip off his clothing. At first it seemed as though he was removing a layer because he was too warm. Then he started pulling off his pants. The outfit revealed when he'd finished peeling away layer after outer layer was a white wife-beater tank paired with orange, floral patterned swim trunks. Granted, the outfit seemed less strange when Dance Band appeared on stage in costume. But none of the Dance Band members stripped, so that bit still lacks justification in my mind.
The most interesting audience member I've had the pleasure to observe attended the Varsity show of a different costumed performer. Inara George, the lead singer of the Bird and the Bee, took the stage dressed in a polka dot dress seemingly sewn out of a pair of bedsheets I used to own. She'd accessorised with frilly bloomers, white tights, white Mary Janes, a white headband, and white gloves with the fingers cut off. The audience member had (knowingly?) borrowed an element from George's stage dress and was sporting red gloves with the fingers cut off. He completed the colour scheme with a red Harry Potter t-shirt and hair dyed a matching shade. He first attracted my attention with the video of the band he was capturing on his digital camera. To increase the artistic merit of his impromptu production, he had taken to rotating his arms and the camera in slow, circular pan/tilt combinations.
When he took a break from his filming, I discovered that he would likely use the recording as a reference for choreographing dance routines later. In addition to accomplishing some slightly spastic upper body swaying, he would occasionally break into highly polished moves that had clearly been painstakingly rehearsed before a mirror. The most stunning example of this was the step he executed each time he heard the lyric "Don't take my picture." He created an imaginary viewfinder with his fingers and jerkily rotated his elbows around as if composing the shot. This culminated with him creating a shutter click by rapidly closing his finger square.
His dance moves weren't the only thing he'd prepared in advance for the concert. The chorus of a song the group performed goes "Again and again and again and again/Do it again, do it again/Again and again." After the song was over, he waited for an acceptable level of silence to emerge as the applause died down. Finally a moment arrived that he felt would sufficiently showcase his cleverness. He seized it and yelled, "Do it again!" clearly chuffed at his wit (prefabricated though it was).
One woman near us seemed oblivious to this extraordinary personage. She was kept busy with a completely different occupation. The person I'd gone to the concert with was was standing over his jacket, which he'd laid on the ground. Inexplicably, the woman came over to us, reached down and felt Joe's jacket. Then she reached up and felt Joe's leg. He looked a little shocked at this minor molestation, and I burst out laughing. She heard me and looked over. Then she turned her palms up and shrugged her shoulders in a classic "Oh well, what can you do?" gesture, which I returned.
What can you do, really, besides attempt to enjoy the crazy as well as the concert.
Big V's in St. Paul had its share of interesting characters lurking among the stuffed gorilla decor. I went with Jackie to see her friend's band, Guerrilla Blue, play. We were leaning against a sort of counter and chatting when we noticed a short older woman who kept nodding knowingly at us. Occasionally she'd gesture or laugh as if she were trying to work her way into our conversation. When that failed, she took to waving at the captive audio tech manning a tiny sound board next to us.
Another unusual concert-goer made an appearance toward the end of Guerrilla Blue's set. With beer bottle in hand, he strode purposefully up to the edge of the stage. He then leaned over and put his ear directly up to the monitor sitting on the stage in front of the lead singer. This could hardly escape the attention of the singer, and he quipped, "Loud enough for you?" before the group launched into their last song.
As we were leaving, Jackie and I encountered one last member of the strange contingent. A man at the bar made the OK symbol at something when he saw us. I assumed he was making it at me, but he wasn't actually looking at me. He appeared to be focusing on something over my shoulder, so I turned around to see what was capturing his attention. Nothing. When I turned back he made the sign again, keeping his eyes trained on the same imaginary object in the distance. "What?" I asked. Then I noticed the woman who'd tried to cultivate us earlier standing nearby. I took that as an indication that he was her partner in crazy.
The Varsity has also proven to be a venue rich with in-audience entertainment. The first show I attended there after coming home was Mel Gibson and the Pants/Dance Band. Before that show even began, a person standing in front of us began to strip off his clothing. At first it seemed as though he was removing a layer because he was too warm. Then he started pulling off his pants. The outfit revealed when he'd finished peeling away layer after outer layer was a white wife-beater tank paired with orange, floral patterned swim trunks. Granted, the outfit seemed less strange when Dance Band appeared on stage in costume. But none of the Dance Band members stripped, so that bit still lacks justification in my mind.
The most interesting audience member I've had the pleasure to observe attended the Varsity show of a different costumed performer. Inara George, the lead singer of the Bird and the Bee, took the stage dressed in a polka dot dress seemingly sewn out of a pair of bedsheets I used to own. She'd accessorised with frilly bloomers, white tights, white Mary Janes, a white headband, and white gloves with the fingers cut off. The audience member had (knowingly?) borrowed an element from George's stage dress and was sporting red gloves with the fingers cut off. He completed the colour scheme with a red Harry Potter t-shirt and hair dyed a matching shade. He first attracted my attention with the video of the band he was capturing on his digital camera. To increase the artistic merit of his impromptu production, he had taken to rotating his arms and the camera in slow, circular pan/tilt combinations.
When he took a break from his filming, I discovered that he would likely use the recording as a reference for choreographing dance routines later. In addition to accomplishing some slightly spastic upper body swaying, he would occasionally break into highly polished moves that had clearly been painstakingly rehearsed before a mirror. The most stunning example of this was the step he executed each time he heard the lyric "Don't take my picture." He created an imaginary viewfinder with his fingers and jerkily rotated his elbows around as if composing the shot. This culminated with him creating a shutter click by rapidly closing his finger square.
His dance moves weren't the only thing he'd prepared in advance for the concert. The chorus of a song the group performed goes "Again and again and again and again/Do it again, do it again/Again and again." After the song was over, he waited for an acceptable level of silence to emerge as the applause died down. Finally a moment arrived that he felt would sufficiently showcase his cleverness. He seized it and yelled, "Do it again!" clearly chuffed at his wit (prefabricated though it was).
One woman near us seemed oblivious to this extraordinary personage. She was kept busy with a completely different occupation. The person I'd gone to the concert with was was standing over his jacket, which he'd laid on the ground. Inexplicably, the woman came over to us, reached down and felt Joe's jacket. Then she reached up and felt Joe's leg. He looked a little shocked at this minor molestation, and I burst out laughing. She heard me and looked over. Then she turned her palms up and shrugged her shoulders in a classic "Oh well, what can you do?" gesture, which I returned.
What can you do, really, besides attempt to enjoy the crazy as well as the concert.
21 December, 2007
Backtracking Holiday
As I neared the end of my expat adventure, I began to contemplate the return portion of the return Dublin to London ticket I'd already purchased. I decided not to use it. Instead I chose to wander my way back to London with my friend Jimmy. In just under three days, we took a train to Cork, a bus to Rosslare, a ferry to Wales, a train to Cardiff and a train to London. Considering all those transport links, the holiday went surprisingly smoothly. In fact, and perhaps because of this, much of the trip was disappointingly unremarkable. The closest thing to a mishap we experienced, and thus the most interesting bit, was our arrival in Rosslare.
Jimmy and I were spending the night there in anticipation of taking a ferry to Wales the next morning. The only address we could find for the B&B where we were staying was the very helpfully specific "Rosslare Harbour," but it appeared on Google maps to be remarkably close to the Europort. We'd decided to disembark there and walk up to the B&B. Suddenly we noticed a brown, clover-adorned sign pointing toward the Clifford House just as the bus pulled away from a different stop. As it was too late to get off there, we just rode down to the Europort stop as originally planned. How much further could it be?
The bus pulled into the Europort harbour, travelling a surprising distance from the point where we should have left the bus. "I wish it weren't driving so far in," Jimmy commented. I had to agree. We were supposed to check in to the B&B at 9 PM, and we had little chance of making it at that time. I'd rung the owner from the bus to tell her that we'd be 10 or 15 minutes late, and we both figured we'd easily be able to make that time. We're fast walkers.
Our driver wasn't so confident. We were the last two passengers on the bus, and he'd to come down to help me open the hatch on the side of the vehicle so I could retrieve my luggage. We chatted to him for a bit, and he asked us where we were staying. We told him, and he stood mulling it over. "Clifford House, Clifford House...I don't know it." He gave us general directions as to how to reach the area where most of Rosslare's B&Bs are situated. He apparently had very little faith in our ability to navigate, because he suggested, "There's a boat leaving tonight. You should probably just take that. You'll have to cancel the Clifford House." He looked at us regretfully and then boarded the bus.
Jimmy and I decided that was rubbish and went to find the B&B despite his counsel. We located and climbed up the lengthy set of stairs he'd described as part of our route to Rosslare's B&B enclave, then turned right as he'd directed. After walking past an ubiquitous chain hotel, we encountered a construction site and a torn-up sidewalk. We were not prepared for, nor enthusiastic about, fording a mud puddle, so we turned back the other direction. Directly we came upon and walked down a short gravel path, finding a paved road lined with B&Bs at its end.
We followed it, carefully searching for our accommodation. Eventually we arrived back at the intersection where we'd seen the sign for the Clifford House from the bus. It, of course, pointed accusingly in the direction from which we'd just come. We duly turned around and trekked back up the road, redoubling our efforts in scouring the signs along its sides. We failed and came once again upon a fast food restaurant we'd encountered at the outset of our journey. We went in to enquire if they could help us. Fortunately they were able to direct our poor, misguided selves a few metres beyond the gravel path from which we'd begun and from which we'd elected to turn the wrong direction.
Given this guidance, we finally found the Clifford House. We picked our way down the slightly dark gravel driveway and walked directly through a pair of glass doors. There was no-one about, and it felt very seriously as if we'd just broken into someone's private home. We'd poked our heads into a dining room, a sitting room, and a kitchen before one of the owners found us skulking about. "Oh," she said by way of explanation, "I didn't hear the doorbell." We hadn't seen, nor had we rung, the doorbell, and I'm certain she was perfectly aware of this. However, she was perfectly lovely and polite as she showed us to our room and directed us to a pub where we could still find food service at that time of night. She then left us with the key, which was attached to an enormous, lacquered cross-section of a tree branch, and headed out.
Jimmy and I slowly threaded our way up the now completely dark gravel drive and successfully navigated our way to the pub. To my delight, I discovered that SKY TV was airing a highlights reel of sorts from the Liverpool v Bolton match I'd missed the day before. I managed to avoid devoting all of my attention to the telly, and Jimmy and I launched into a discussion about our respective states (he is also an American expat). Suddenly he interjected, "I hate to say it because I'll probably jinx it, but I really like Rosslare!" I completely agreed. It probably had something to do with our only staying there for 12 hours, but Rosslare had exceeded all the expectations we hadn't dared to hold.
The only other incident particularly worth noting happened on the train from Cardiff to London. The service was slightly late in arriving at the platform, and the train manager soon made an overhead announcement explaining why in exacting detail. They had reached Swansea 45 minutes late after being held up on the English side of a specific tunnel by a broken-down train within the tunnel. They had to wait for that train to be removed before they could continue with their journey. But, they had managed to reduce their tardiness down to a mere 10 minutes by the time they reached Cardiff.
This is, I think, typical of UK public transport announcements. In the US, it would be sufficient to blame "technical difficulties." But in the UK, that is just not informative enough. I remember being taken aback the first time I heard a Tube announcement proclaiming that, "Due to a person under a train, there are severe delays on the _____ line." What?!? Are they OK?!? That was always slightly unsettling, but I encountered a far more morbid explanation when I once attempted to change to the Victoria Line. A Transport for London employee was working his way down the stairs from the platform, turning the crowd away as he went. "The Victoria Line's closed," he announced. "Why?" one of the more belligerent crowd members demanded. "Because someone just died on the platform." Oh.
Jimmy and I enjoyed several more entertaining announcements from the train manager throughout our journey back to London. Just before the train reached its final destination at Paddington station, he remarked, "We've had a good run" before launching once again into a full description of what had transpired earlier in the journey. That was one of the last announcements I heard before I repatriated. How apropos a summary it was.
Jimmy and I were spending the night there in anticipation of taking a ferry to Wales the next morning. The only address we could find for the B&B where we were staying was the very helpfully specific "Rosslare Harbour," but it appeared on Google maps to be remarkably close to the Europort. We'd decided to disembark there and walk up to the B&B. Suddenly we noticed a brown, clover-adorned sign pointing toward the Clifford House just as the bus pulled away from a different stop. As it was too late to get off there, we just rode down to the Europort stop as originally planned. How much further could it be?
The bus pulled into the Europort harbour, travelling a surprising distance from the point where we should have left the bus. "I wish it weren't driving so far in," Jimmy commented. I had to agree. We were supposed to check in to the B&B at 9 PM, and we had little chance of making it at that time. I'd rung the owner from the bus to tell her that we'd be 10 or 15 minutes late, and we both figured we'd easily be able to make that time. We're fast walkers.
Our driver wasn't so confident. We were the last two passengers on the bus, and he'd to come down to help me open the hatch on the side of the vehicle so I could retrieve my luggage. We chatted to him for a bit, and he asked us where we were staying. We told him, and he stood mulling it over. "Clifford House, Clifford House...I don't know it." He gave us general directions as to how to reach the area where most of Rosslare's B&Bs are situated. He apparently had very little faith in our ability to navigate, because he suggested, "There's a boat leaving tonight. You should probably just take that. You'll have to cancel the Clifford House." He looked at us regretfully and then boarded the bus.
Jimmy and I decided that was rubbish and went to find the B&B despite his counsel. We located and climbed up the lengthy set of stairs he'd described as part of our route to Rosslare's B&B enclave, then turned right as he'd directed. After walking past an ubiquitous chain hotel, we encountered a construction site and a torn-up sidewalk. We were not prepared for, nor enthusiastic about, fording a mud puddle, so we turned back the other direction. Directly we came upon and walked down a short gravel path, finding a paved road lined with B&Bs at its end.
We followed it, carefully searching for our accommodation. Eventually we arrived back at the intersection where we'd seen the sign for the Clifford House from the bus. It, of course, pointed accusingly in the direction from which we'd just come. We duly turned around and trekked back up the road, redoubling our efforts in scouring the signs along its sides. We failed and came once again upon a fast food restaurant we'd encountered at the outset of our journey. We went in to enquire if they could help us. Fortunately they were able to direct our poor, misguided selves a few metres beyond the gravel path from which we'd begun and from which we'd elected to turn the wrong direction.
Given this guidance, we finally found the Clifford House. We picked our way down the slightly dark gravel driveway and walked directly through a pair of glass doors. There was no-one about, and it felt very seriously as if we'd just broken into someone's private home. We'd poked our heads into a dining room, a sitting room, and a kitchen before one of the owners found us skulking about. "Oh," she said by way of explanation, "I didn't hear the doorbell." We hadn't seen, nor had we rung, the doorbell, and I'm certain she was perfectly aware of this. However, she was perfectly lovely and polite as she showed us to our room and directed us to a pub where we could still find food service at that time of night. She then left us with the key, which was attached to an enormous, lacquered cross-section of a tree branch, and headed out.
Jimmy and I slowly threaded our way up the now completely dark gravel drive and successfully navigated our way to the pub. To my delight, I discovered that SKY TV was airing a highlights reel of sorts from the Liverpool v Bolton match I'd missed the day before. I managed to avoid devoting all of my attention to the telly, and Jimmy and I launched into a discussion about our respective states (he is also an American expat). Suddenly he interjected, "I hate to say it because I'll probably jinx it, but I really like Rosslare!" I completely agreed. It probably had something to do with our only staying there for 12 hours, but Rosslare had exceeded all the expectations we hadn't dared to hold.
The only other incident particularly worth noting happened on the train from Cardiff to London. The service was slightly late in arriving at the platform, and the train manager soon made an overhead announcement explaining why in exacting detail. They had reached Swansea 45 minutes late after being held up on the English side of a specific tunnel by a broken-down train within the tunnel. They had to wait for that train to be removed before they could continue with their journey. But, they had managed to reduce their tardiness down to a mere 10 minutes by the time they reached Cardiff.
This is, I think, typical of UK public transport announcements. In the US, it would be sufficient to blame "technical difficulties." But in the UK, that is just not informative enough. I remember being taken aback the first time I heard a Tube announcement proclaiming that, "Due to a person under a train, there are severe delays on the _____ line." What?!? Are they OK?!? That was always slightly unsettling, but I encountered a far more morbid explanation when I once attempted to change to the Victoria Line. A Transport for London employee was working his way down the stairs from the platform, turning the crowd away as he went. "The Victoria Line's closed," he announced. "Why?" one of the more belligerent crowd members demanded. "Because someone just died on the platform." Oh.
Jimmy and I enjoyed several more entertaining announcements from the train manager throughout our journey back to London. Just before the train reached its final destination at Paddington station, he remarked, "We've had a good run" before launching once again into a full description of what had transpired earlier in the journey. That was one of the last announcements I heard before I repatriated. How apropos a summary it was.
18 December, 2007
Repatriating
My overseas adventure met its untimely end a few weeks ago. I slowly wound my way back to the US via Cork, Rosslare, Fishguard, Cardiff, London and Toronto, finally touching down in Minneapolis on 5 December. Now instead of being an expat, I'm a repat. This is the second time I've needed to switch the prefix of my label, and the experience is uniquely bewildering. But I'm finding it quite amusing as well, so I'll to try to describe it as best I can.
One source of bewilderment is the strange temporal shift that occurred when I arrived back home. Suddenly the period I spent away compressed so completely that it's impossible to believe I was gone for 10 months. And the time occupied by my adventures is capable of stretching and collapsing depending on how and where I think about it. When I was thinking about Minnesota before I left Ireland, I felt as though I'd been away forever. Recalling or recounting specific incidents also makes the time expand to forever proportions. But taken overall, and compared to the fairly constant continuity of home, my time abroad seems incomprehensibly brief. So brief that it's almost like I never left.
And yet the familiar also seems so alien. Streets that I used to be able to navigate automatically suddenly require a thorough scouring of my mental map. And that mental map now has blank spots. Both metaphorically, in not being able to remember how streets connect, and literally, in the case of the 35W bridge. Then once I've figured out where I'm going, I'm sometimes thrown off by my fellow vehicles and the direction in which they're moving. Single-decker buses drive with SUVs, trucks and vans that have increased wildly in size since I left (at least compared to the smart cars I'm accustomed to seeing). At stop signs, I find that I look right first, then glance left to find cars that I didn't think were there suddenly approaching from a different direction than I expected.
Everyday procedures, objects and surroundings can also be confounding. I'll have the correct change for a purchase counted out and waiting when I reach the cash register only to find that I've forgotten about sales tax and the price is actually higher than listed. There are dollar bills instead of pound/Euro coins. I need to flip light switches instead of pressing them. The accents, phrases, mild profanities and intonation of the people surrounding me are completely different than I've become accustomed to. They stand out to my brogue-acclimated ears in a way they never did when I used to live here. And rather than feeling at home in the place where I supposedly belong, I feel lost. Adrift. Alienated. I will never truly belong here again.
While this can be a bit disconcerting at times, it is also a source of pride for me. I like it when people remark on my trace of an accent, when they laugh at and correct my strange British/Irish idioms. It may seem stubborn, but I am going to keep using those idioms, and their British English spellings. Because I want so badly to retain something, some sort of evidence of an immensely meaningful part of my life. My warped sense of time already seems to have robbed it of part of its significance, and I don't want to lose any more. In a particularly desperate attempt at preservation, I've even caught myself exaggerating the bit of an Irish accent that I managed to pick up. I drop more h's when I tink certain tings tan I ever did before.
Clearly, there is a large degree of reentry shock to be dealt with. But I also take pleasure in rediscovering the luxuries I've grown accustomed to living without. While much around me may have taken on an unfamiliar familiarity, my bed will always be irrevocably mine. And it's perfect. At least compared to my London mattress, which had a deep trench in its middle, and my Dublin mattress, which featured springs that had lazily uncoiled and were given to poking me relentlessly. I've also found American water pressure amazing. It blasts shampoo out of hair rather than tentatively trickling it out. Sink faucets, too, are shining examples of ingenuity. Hot and cold water coexist in one faucet. No scalding my hands under one faucet and having to turn it off and ice the burn under the cold tap at the opposite corner of the sink.
While I'm gradually becoming more used to being home, it will take a while to re-acclimate to Minnesota and its ghastly winter climate. I don't think I ever will completely. I'll always be a repat to some extent. But I'm pleased with that. I've found that it's easier to create interesting adventures with an expat/repat/outsider mentality. I'm going to retain that, explore the Twin Cities as if I've never seen them before and wring everything I can from them. Because that's what I mean by repatriating.
One source of bewilderment is the strange temporal shift that occurred when I arrived back home. Suddenly the period I spent away compressed so completely that it's impossible to believe I was gone for 10 months. And the time occupied by my adventures is capable of stretching and collapsing depending on how and where I think about it. When I was thinking about Minnesota before I left Ireland, I felt as though I'd been away forever. Recalling or recounting specific incidents also makes the time expand to forever proportions. But taken overall, and compared to the fairly constant continuity of home, my time abroad seems incomprehensibly brief. So brief that it's almost like I never left.
And yet the familiar also seems so alien. Streets that I used to be able to navigate automatically suddenly require a thorough scouring of my mental map. And that mental map now has blank spots. Both metaphorically, in not being able to remember how streets connect, and literally, in the case of the 35W bridge. Then once I've figured out where I'm going, I'm sometimes thrown off by my fellow vehicles and the direction in which they're moving. Single-decker buses drive with SUVs, trucks and vans that have increased wildly in size since I left (at least compared to the smart cars I'm accustomed to seeing). At stop signs, I find that I look right first, then glance left to find cars that I didn't think were there suddenly approaching from a different direction than I expected.
Everyday procedures, objects and surroundings can also be confounding. I'll have the correct change for a purchase counted out and waiting when I reach the cash register only to find that I've forgotten about sales tax and the price is actually higher than listed. There are dollar bills instead of pound/Euro coins. I need to flip light switches instead of pressing them. The accents, phrases, mild profanities and intonation of the people surrounding me are completely different than I've become accustomed to. They stand out to my brogue-acclimated ears in a way they never did when I used to live here. And rather than feeling at home in the place where I supposedly belong, I feel lost. Adrift. Alienated. I will never truly belong here again.
While this can be a bit disconcerting at times, it is also a source of pride for me. I like it when people remark on my trace of an accent, when they laugh at and correct my strange British/Irish idioms. It may seem stubborn, but I am going to keep using those idioms, and their British English spellings. Because I want so badly to retain something, some sort of evidence of an immensely meaningful part of my life. My warped sense of time already seems to have robbed it of part of its significance, and I don't want to lose any more. In a particularly desperate attempt at preservation, I've even caught myself exaggerating the bit of an Irish accent that I managed to pick up. I drop more h's when I tink certain tings tan I ever did before.
Clearly, there is a large degree of reentry shock to be dealt with. But I also take pleasure in rediscovering the luxuries I've grown accustomed to living without. While much around me may have taken on an unfamiliar familiarity, my bed will always be irrevocably mine. And it's perfect. At least compared to my London mattress, which had a deep trench in its middle, and my Dublin mattress, which featured springs that had lazily uncoiled and were given to poking me relentlessly. I've also found American water pressure amazing. It blasts shampoo out of hair rather than tentatively trickling it out. Sink faucets, too, are shining examples of ingenuity. Hot and cold water coexist in one faucet. No scalding my hands under one faucet and having to turn it off and ice the burn under the cold tap at the opposite corner of the sink.
While I'm gradually becoming more used to being home, it will take a while to re-acclimate to Minnesota and its ghastly winter climate. I don't think I ever will completely. I'll always be a repat to some extent. But I'm pleased with that. I've found that it's easier to create interesting adventures with an expat/repat/outsider mentality. I'm going to retain that, explore the Twin Cities as if I've never seen them before and wring everything I can from them. Because that's what I mean by repatriating.
20 November, 2007
A Very Dear Tin of Ham
I came home on Thursday to find a very sad-looking pile of groceries on the counter in the kitchen. There was a loaf of bread, some spaghetti, a frozen enchilada dinner and two tins of chopped ham. The Marks & Spencer receipt next to the food showed that the total for all of it was less than €5, and it had been paid for with a gift certificate. I marvelled at the quantity of (admittedly not entirely appealing) food one could buy for so little money and then sat down to eat my own food.
One of my flatmates came into the kitchen just then and went over to the pile on the counter. He picked up one of the tins of chopped ham and attempted to open it. The pin that he tried to use to peel back the lid came off in his hand, and he had a small meltdown. "The pin came off my pudding" he exclaimed. He clicked his tongue in exasperation, then continued his tirade: "For f***'s sake! That was dear enough! It's from Marks & Spencer!" I had to try really hard at this point not to laugh. For one thing, all of his food had cost less than €5. The enchilada meal would have been most expensive by far, so the tinned ham couldn't have cost more than 70 or 80 cents. Plus, he hadn't even used his own money. He gets the M&S gift certificates from his work when he has to go in on Saturdays. This is in addition to being paid time-and-a-half or double time.
After the pin mechanism failed, he decided to try to open the container with a tin opener. Unfortunately for him (and the rest of us), he lost the tin opener. He also apparently forgot that he lost the tin opener and launched into a desperate, rummaging search of the kitchen drawers. He finally gave up and asked, "Do you think I can open this with a knife?" He managed to stab a small opening in the top of the tin without drawing blood, then commented on the disgusting smell that wafted from it. It's chopped ham, so I'm not exactly sure what he'd expected. In any event, all of this became too overwhelming for him and he aggressively chucked the tin into the bin. As a backup, he decided to eat the frozen enchilada. "How do you cook this, then? Oven? You can't microwave it, can you? Oh, for f***'s sake! 20-25 minutes!"
The story grew even funnier a few days later. My expat friends came over to my flat on Sunday for a take-away curry. I'd told them about the tin episode earlier, and they'd both found it hilarious. After we finished eating, one of them went to put her leftovers in the fridge until she went home. She found the second tin of ham inside and took it out to inspect it. We discovered then that the pin is supposed to come off. There's a slot on the side of the tin where you put the pin and then turn it to peel back the lid. This is very, very obvious if you spend any time looking at the packaging. I could see it from across the table.
We were all in hysterics about how my flatmate had gotten so angry over nothing. Then, right on cue, he came home. One of my friends had to leave the room after meeting him because she couldn't keep from laughing. I kept snickering periodically, hopefully at appropriate times to make it sound like I was laughing in response to whatever he and my other friend were saying. Luckily she was able to keep herself pulled together.
I continued to laugh every time I thought about this yesterday, which was the perfect antidote to walking to work in the dreary, rainy and windy Irish winter weather. It turns out that tin has become dear in a way my flatmate never would have imagined.
One of my flatmates came into the kitchen just then and went over to the pile on the counter. He picked up one of the tins of chopped ham and attempted to open it. The pin that he tried to use to peel back the lid came off in his hand, and he had a small meltdown. "The pin came off my pudding" he exclaimed. He clicked his tongue in exasperation, then continued his tirade: "For f***'s sake! That was dear enough! It's from Marks & Spencer!" I had to try really hard at this point not to laugh. For one thing, all of his food had cost less than €5. The enchilada meal would have been most expensive by far, so the tinned ham couldn't have cost more than 70 or 80 cents. Plus, he hadn't even used his own money. He gets the M&S gift certificates from his work when he has to go in on Saturdays. This is in addition to being paid time-and-a-half or double time.
After the pin mechanism failed, he decided to try to open the container with a tin opener. Unfortunately for him (and the rest of us), he lost the tin opener. He also apparently forgot that he lost the tin opener and launched into a desperate, rummaging search of the kitchen drawers. He finally gave up and asked, "Do you think I can open this with a knife?" He managed to stab a small opening in the top of the tin without drawing blood, then commented on the disgusting smell that wafted from it. It's chopped ham, so I'm not exactly sure what he'd expected. In any event, all of this became too overwhelming for him and he aggressively chucked the tin into the bin. As a backup, he decided to eat the frozen enchilada. "How do you cook this, then? Oven? You can't microwave it, can you? Oh, for f***'s sake! 20-25 minutes!"
The story grew even funnier a few days later. My expat friends came over to my flat on Sunday for a take-away curry. I'd told them about the tin episode earlier, and they'd both found it hilarious. After we finished eating, one of them went to put her leftovers in the fridge until she went home. She found the second tin of ham inside and took it out to inspect it. We discovered then that the pin is supposed to come off. There's a slot on the side of the tin where you put the pin and then turn it to peel back the lid. This is very, very obvious if you spend any time looking at the packaging. I could see it from across the table.
We were all in hysterics about how my flatmate had gotten so angry over nothing. Then, right on cue, he came home. One of my friends had to leave the room after meeting him because she couldn't keep from laughing. I kept snickering periodically, hopefully at appropriate times to make it sound like I was laughing in response to whatever he and my other friend were saying. Luckily she was able to keep herself pulled together.
I continued to laugh every time I thought about this yesterday, which was the perfect antidote to walking to work in the dreary, rainy and windy Irish winter weather. It turns out that tin has become dear in a way my flatmate never would have imagined.
15 November, 2007
The Long and Winding Road to Anfield, Part 3: The Cab
The match itself flew by so quickly that I'm left with precious few impressions of it. One moment that does stand out in my mind is when the stands stood to sing the team's anthem, "You'll Never Walk Alone," before the match began. That was amazing in a way I can't describe, but from there the event is a blur. There was much standing in anticipation as Liverpool advanced on the goal, followed by a collective groan of despair when they failed to score. Chants, curse words and shouts of encouragement resounded from all corners of the stands.
"Come on, Crouchie!"
"Go on, lads!"
"That was shite, Stevie! Do something with the ball!"
The first half ended with a nil-nil score, and the second half continued in much the same fashion. As the 80th minute approached, I started debating whether or not I should leave. I was resigned to abandoning the stands before the match was entirely over, but I wasn't sure how soon I would need to go in order to beat the crowd and find a cab. The thought of leaving that early after working so hard to find my ticket struck me as unbearable, so I chose to linger a little longer.
I was quite pleased with that decision when Torres scored the first goal of the match in the 81st minute. All of Anfield exploded. Those who hadn't done already jumped to their feet to celebrate. The noise of cheering, clapping and shouting was unbelievable and continued for ages. The exuberant crowd had just begun to settle down and take their seats when Crouch was fouled. Stevie G stood before the Fulham goal planning his penalty shot, and a tense hush fell over the stadium. After a few excruciatingly prolonged seconds, the crowed roared again as the ball sailed safely into the net past the Fulham keeper.
Once that celebration ended, it seemed to be the perfect time for me to make my exit. Now that the excitement of the match was over, the full anxiety and urgency of reaching the airport on time hit me. I thundered down the stairs to street level and literally ran from Anfield Road back around to the KOP end. I trotted after a few other people on the main road who were equally eager to clear the grounds before the deluge of Reds fans choked the streets. I scanned my surroundings for a cab constantly. This was difficult because the streetlamps caused all the passing cars to reflect a yellow light that looked frustratingly like the one on the top of available taxis. Unfortunately no actual cabs were anywhere in sight, and I was soon joined on the street by the emptying stadium.
I really had no idea where I was going, so turned and went against the crowd back toward the grounds. I found a policeman on the street, told him I couldn't find a cab and asked if there were any buses that went to the airport. He directed me toward the city centre (where the mob was headed), saying I'd be able to find one there. I wasn't too concerned yet because I still had more than two hours before my flight was due to leave. Plus I was making better time on foot than the cars alongside me. By now it had started to rain. I walked with the ever-thinning crowd for ages without seeing anything that resembled the city centre. Doubting myself, I asked some men walking near me if I was going the right way. They pointed out a stop where I'd be able to catch a bus to the city centre.
I walked to the stop they'd indicated, keeping a sharp lookout for cabs as I went. None passed except for those that were already carrying passengers. My initial impulse upon reaching the bus shelter was to stand under it and out of the rain. The uncertainty that I was actually waiting in the right place soon drove me outside again, and I went to check the route information posted on a nearby pole. As I was poring over it, I saw a cab draw up to the kerb just a few feet from me. I trained an attentive stare on it, and rushed over when I saw its passenger stepping out. No sooner had he cleared the open door than I poked my head in, asking the driver if he could take me to the airport.
I'm certain he thought I was a bit daft. I told him I wanted to make sure I had enough money for the fare first, adding, "I only have £40" (bear in mind a cab from London city centre to the airport costs £50). "Ach, you'll be fine, luv," he snorted. Gleefully, I slammed the door and settled back for the ride. The post-match coverage he'd tuned in on the radio confirmed that I hadn't missed anything after the 86th minute. Liverpool had won 2-0. The driver tried to avoid some of the traffic by taking a few back streets. This made me feel a bit unsettled because I was locked in a car with somebody I didn't know in an unfamiliar city. How do I know we're actually going to the airport? It didn't help that the roads we travelled were paved with mountainous speed bumps. We lurched over them, sending my stomach lurching as well.
I felt better once we'd returned to the main roads. The signs that appeared reassured me that we were, in fact, en route to the airport. I arrived at John Lennon with a mere £20 fare and more than an hour before the check-in desk closed. I killed my excess time and British mobile credit by calling friends and family and enthusing about my day. I really miss having a mobile plan that allows me to call the US for 5p a minute, so I took full advantage of having it back temporarily.
Somehow I misread the boarding gate screen and nearly missed my flight anyhow. But my luck continued to hold out. I made last call and stepped onto a plane full of people dressed in Liverpool kit. Aside from some stupendously drunk English girls begging the flight attendants for alcohol, the flight was short and uneventful. Back at the Dublin airport, I watched with envy as all the people with EU passports flashed them at the customs officers, barely breaking stride as they passed. I was left waiting in the queue for the "All other passports" desk. It wasn't long at that time of the night, and I soon found myself before the officer.
"Are you living here?" he asked when I slid my passport through the opening in the plexiglass. I flipped to the page that bore my work authorisation stamp and told him I also had my (huge 8.5" x 11" laminated) visa if he needed that. He didn't wish to see it, and instead asked, "Where are you coming from?"
"Liverpool," I responded, unconsciously drawing out the ending so it sounded a bit like "Liverpewl."
"Shopping?" he asked.
"No," I answered rather indignantly. "I was at the match."
"What do you know about the match," he snickered. What an ignorant arse. I was tempted to tell him off, but thought better of it. Though I'm still not entirely fond of this country, I'd rather not be ejected from it before my visa expires.
I consider my journey to Anfield quite successful. The extent to which I enjoyed the match experience more than outweighed the initial strife of finding a ticket. True to the team's anthem, I discovered that you'll never walk alone if you have hope in your heart...and an LFC steward who fancies you.
"Come on, Crouchie!"
"Go on, lads!"
"That was shite, Stevie! Do something with the ball!"
The first half ended with a nil-nil score, and the second half continued in much the same fashion. As the 80th minute approached, I started debating whether or not I should leave. I was resigned to abandoning the stands before the match was entirely over, but I wasn't sure how soon I would need to go in order to beat the crowd and find a cab. The thought of leaving that early after working so hard to find my ticket struck me as unbearable, so I chose to linger a little longer.
I was quite pleased with that decision when Torres scored the first goal of the match in the 81st minute. All of Anfield exploded. Those who hadn't done already jumped to their feet to celebrate. The noise of cheering, clapping and shouting was unbelievable and continued for ages. The exuberant crowd had just begun to settle down and take their seats when Crouch was fouled. Stevie G stood before the Fulham goal planning his penalty shot, and a tense hush fell over the stadium. After a few excruciatingly prolonged seconds, the crowed roared again as the ball sailed safely into the net past the Fulham keeper.
Once that celebration ended, it seemed to be the perfect time for me to make my exit. Now that the excitement of the match was over, the full anxiety and urgency of reaching the airport on time hit me. I thundered down the stairs to street level and literally ran from Anfield Road back around to the KOP end. I trotted after a few other people on the main road who were equally eager to clear the grounds before the deluge of Reds fans choked the streets. I scanned my surroundings for a cab constantly. This was difficult because the streetlamps caused all the passing cars to reflect a yellow light that looked frustratingly like the one on the top of available taxis. Unfortunately no actual cabs were anywhere in sight, and I was soon joined on the street by the emptying stadium.
I really had no idea where I was going, so turned and went against the crowd back toward the grounds. I found a policeman on the street, told him I couldn't find a cab and asked if there were any buses that went to the airport. He directed me toward the city centre (where the mob was headed), saying I'd be able to find one there. I wasn't too concerned yet because I still had more than two hours before my flight was due to leave. Plus I was making better time on foot than the cars alongside me. By now it had started to rain. I walked with the ever-thinning crowd for ages without seeing anything that resembled the city centre. Doubting myself, I asked some men walking near me if I was going the right way. They pointed out a stop where I'd be able to catch a bus to the city centre.
I walked to the stop they'd indicated, keeping a sharp lookout for cabs as I went. None passed except for those that were already carrying passengers. My initial impulse upon reaching the bus shelter was to stand under it and out of the rain. The uncertainty that I was actually waiting in the right place soon drove me outside again, and I went to check the route information posted on a nearby pole. As I was poring over it, I saw a cab draw up to the kerb just a few feet from me. I trained an attentive stare on it, and rushed over when I saw its passenger stepping out. No sooner had he cleared the open door than I poked my head in, asking the driver if he could take me to the airport.
I'm certain he thought I was a bit daft. I told him I wanted to make sure I had enough money for the fare first, adding, "I only have £40" (bear in mind a cab from London city centre to the airport costs £50). "Ach, you'll be fine, luv," he snorted. Gleefully, I slammed the door and settled back for the ride. The post-match coverage he'd tuned in on the radio confirmed that I hadn't missed anything after the 86th minute. Liverpool had won 2-0. The driver tried to avoid some of the traffic by taking a few back streets. This made me feel a bit unsettled because I was locked in a car with somebody I didn't know in an unfamiliar city. How do I know we're actually going to the airport? It didn't help that the roads we travelled were paved with mountainous speed bumps. We lurched over them, sending my stomach lurching as well.
I felt better once we'd returned to the main roads. The signs that appeared reassured me that we were, in fact, en route to the airport. I arrived at John Lennon with a mere £20 fare and more than an hour before the check-in desk closed. I killed my excess time and British mobile credit by calling friends and family and enthusing about my day. I really miss having a mobile plan that allows me to call the US for 5p a minute, so I took full advantage of having it back temporarily.
Somehow I misread the boarding gate screen and nearly missed my flight anyhow. But my luck continued to hold out. I made last call and stepped onto a plane full of people dressed in Liverpool kit. Aside from some stupendously drunk English girls begging the flight attendants for alcohol, the flight was short and uneventful. Back at the Dublin airport, I watched with envy as all the people with EU passports flashed them at the customs officers, barely breaking stride as they passed. I was left waiting in the queue for the "All other passports" desk. It wasn't long at that time of the night, and I soon found myself before the officer.
"Are you living here?" he asked when I slid my passport through the opening in the plexiglass. I flipped to the page that bore my work authorisation stamp and told him I also had my (huge 8.5" x 11" laminated) visa if he needed that. He didn't wish to see it, and instead asked, "Where are you coming from?"
"Liverpool," I responded, unconsciously drawing out the ending so it sounded a bit like "Liverpewl."
"Shopping?" he asked.
"No," I answered rather indignantly. "I was at the match."
"What do you know about the match," he snickered. What an ignorant arse. I was tempted to tell him off, but thought better of it. Though I'm still not entirely fond of this country, I'd rather not be ejected from it before my visa expires.
I consider my journey to Anfield quite successful. The extent to which I enjoyed the match experience more than outweighed the initial strife of finding a ticket. True to the team's anthem, I discovered that you'll never walk alone if you have hope in your heart...and an LFC steward who fancies you.
14 November, 2007
The Long and Winding Road to Anfield, Part 2: Sorted
When the long-anticipated match day finally arrived, I felt some trepidation about going to Liverpool. I knew I was likely to find myself so close but yet so far, at Anfield but without a ticket. Anticipating this possible disappointment made me reluctant to go all the way to Liverpool only to experience it. But I'd already booked my train and flight, so I had no choice but to try my luck.
I arrived at Anfield by noon and went straight to the ticket office to see if there had been any returns. I found a man wearing a bright orange reflective jacket near the sales windows and queried him about a ticket. He chuckled and shook his head. "I'd suggest you snuggle up with a pint and watch it on the telly. Sorry luv." With the legitimate option gone, I went back outside the grounds to see if any ticket touts were offering reasonable prices. They weren't; one asked for £100 and one wanted £80. After turning them both down, I realised that I didn't have any cash with which to pay them even if I'd wanted to.
I set off to find an ATM, which proved rather difficult. I didn't think to check at the newsagent shops right over the road and instead went looking for a hole-in-the-wall or bank. I plodded down a steep hill, lugging everything I'd packed for my four-day trip in my messenger bag. After searching for 20 or 25 minutes, I finally found a gas station that offered a cash machine. I was tempted to boycott it on the grounds of the fee it charged, but my options were slim. I took out some money and lugged myself and my bag back up the hill. This is not going well at all, I thought.
Things appeared to have grown even worse by the time I returned to the grounds. The few people selling extra tickets had been replaced by people wanting to buy tickets. Not knowing what else to do, I went to the official shop in an attempt to kill some of the four hours that remained before kick-off (and to buy some Liverpool kit, of course). When I was finished there, I went to check the tout situation on the Anfield Road side of the stadium. Nobody. Probably out of sheer desperation, I decided to make a last-ditch effort at the ticket office. Maybe someone had returned a ticket while I'd been away. Maybe it would make a difference if I specifically asked about single tickets.
I was waiting in the queue at one of the ticket windows when an LFC steward singled me out and approached me. "Are you looking for a ticket?" he asked. When I confirmed that I was, he also told me that the match was sold out. "Even singles?" I asked, most likely with a tinge of despair in my voice. "Yes," he said, "but if you wait here by this railing, sometimes people come up to us trying to get rid of a single because someone couldn't make it. All they want is face value, and at least then you know it's a real ticket. Just stand right there, and if anyone comes up to me I'll send them over to you."
That sounded like the only viable option still available to me, so I stood where he'd asked. I wasn't quite far enough inside the fence, though, so he came back and told me to move. "I just don't want a tout to see you," he explained. We chatted for a bit, and he asked me if I'd had anything to eat. When I said I hadn't, he told me, "There's a cafe just across the street. Go get yourself something to eat and a cup of tea. If anyone comes to me with a ticket, I'll bring them over to you."
I was duly hungry and happy enough to do as he suggested. I devoured a cheap-as-chips English breakfast, even eating about half of the black (AKA blood) pudding. Just as I was heading toward the door, my steward came in and motioned for me to follow him. He told me that a guy had come up to him with a single ticket, and he'd told him about me. Supposedly he'd gone to the toilet, so we went back to the grounds to meet him when he returned.
My steward and I chatted outside the box office, waiting for my contact to show up. After a while we had to move over to the door of the shop so my steward could fulfill his duties minding the queue. By this time, the shop was absolutely mad. When I'd gone there, it had been busy but not unduly packed. Now the line extended from the door of the shop to the gates of the grounds and beyond. My steward (who introduced himself then as Tony) was tasked with counting the number of people who entered the shop and stopping the queue when it reached capacity. While we were standing there, Tony asked me about the boyfriend I don't have. Oh, I thought, so that's why you're trying so hard to find me a ticket. If I were a bloke, there's no way you'd be doing this for me. I definitely should have sussed that one out sooner, but I'm dumb about things like that most of the time.
Tony kept an eye out for the man with my ticket while we chatted, but he never arrived. When it became evident he wasn't coming back, Tony found someone to cover the queue for him and took me back to the box office. He introduced me to the head steward, who he said would almost certainly be able to sort something out for me before kick-off. I stood waiting in my original spot by the fence for that eventuality. The wind had picked up considerably, so I was happy to be carrying an excess of clothing. I pulled on a jumper and my new red and white LFC scarf. I still had two hours to go before the match began, so I was confident that Tony or the head steward would work something out.
Tony kept an eye out for the man with my ticket while we chatted, but he never arrived. When it became evident he wasn't coming back, Tony found someone to cover the queue for him and took me back to the box office. He introduced me to the head steward, who he said would almost certainly be able to sort something out for me before kick-off. I stood waiting in my original spot by the fence for that eventuality. The wind had picked up considerably, so I was happy to be carrying an excess of clothing. I pulled on a jumper and my new red and white LFC scarf. I still had two hours to go before the match began, so I was confident that Tony or the head steward would work something out.
Tony came back over on other business and asked me whether I'd found a ticket. "Not yet," I answered. "If you get sorted," he said, "come find us. We'll be right over there." As he left to go back to the queue, I saw him pointing me out to a third steward. I stood there looking as cold and miserable as possible, trying to engender some sympathy (I didn't have to try too hard; it was bloody cold and miserable). The latest steward to whom Tony had pointed me out came over after a bit. "I'm looking for a ticket for you. You must be cold," he observed. "You should go stand over there by the door so you're out of the wind." The head steward saw me starting to move in that direction and called, "Oh, don't leave yet, luv!" The third steward and I explained where I was going. I took shelter near the designated door, thrilled because I now knew for certain that they'd sort me out eventually.
I happened to be standing right next to a refreshment stand, so I bought some hot chocolate to help me ward off the cold (the doorway wasn't that much warmer). I scalded my tongue and the back of my throat on the initial sip, so I took the lid off to make it cool faster. I was standing there debating whether or not it was too soon to take a second sip when the head steward found me. "Come with me," he said. "I've got you sorted." I eagerly followed him, spilling my hot chocolate all over my hands on the way. This seemed to amuse the third steward quite a bit, but I can't say I blame him.
I went through a doorway and stood in a stairwell behind the ticket office with the head steward. He asked me if I had £34 (the face value of the ticket). I did, but I had to make him find me a napkin before I could hand it to him. Once that small dilemma was rectified, he went into the box office and emerged with my shiny ticket. I couldn't believe my luck and thanked him profusely.
I still had about an hour before kick-off, so I went to tell Tony I'd been sorted. He said he was now trying to sort my cab. Earlier we'd discussed the logistics of making it to the airport in time. It was going to be tricky; the match wouldn't end until about 7.00 and I was due to fly out of John Lennon at 9.30 that night. A cab seemed to be the only option, and Tony had warned me that the fare might be quite dear. I now told him not to worry; they'd already done enough by finding a ticket for me. "Well, do you want to pay £30 or £40?" he countered. He said to come find him in the main stand after the match and he'd try to sort me. I explained that I'd most likely have to leave early, so I wouldn't be able to take him up on his offer.
After we'd chatted for a while longer, Tony again found someone to cover his post for him and walked me to my seat in the Anfield Road stand. "I'll be back in a couple of minutes," he told one of his fellow stewards. "I'm just going to show her where her seat is." "See you in a couple of minutes," the second steward replied with a warning, you'd-better-be-back-soon edge to his voice. Tony picked up on this and laughed. "Ahhh, I'll see you later tonight," he said, waving him off dismissively. Then he returned to business and mumbled, "Nah, I'll see you in a few minutes." He brought me up to my seat, said goodbye and then left me to enjoy the match.
The brilliant help I received that day definitely helped to make up for the slightly lacklustre assistance I'd experienced previously. I had arrived in Liverpool wishing that I already had a ticket, but that wouldn't have been nearly as fun as being adopted by Tony and the rest of the LFC stewards. And having to pursue a ticket made finally finding one all the more rewarding. I was completely thrilled with my Anfield experience already, and the match hadn't even begun.
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