The Slow Flit

Ní labhraím Gaeilge

2010-02-08T18:12:00.004+00:00

One – two – three – four – five.

A haon – a dó – a trí – a ceathair – a cúig.

A pen.

Peann.

One pen – two pens – three pens – four pens – five pens.

Aon pheann amháin – dhá pheann – trí pheann – ceithre pheann – cúig pheann.

Six – seven – eight – nine – ten.

A sé – a seacht – a hocht – a naoi – a deich.

Six through ten pens.

Sé pheann – seacht bpeann – ocht bpeann – naoi bpeann – deich bpeann

A person.

Duine.

One through ten people

Aon duine amháin – beirt – triúr – ceathrar - cúigear – seisear – seachtar – ochtar – naonúr – deichniúr.

Are you kidding me? Really? You need four numbering systems? Cardinal, ordinal, and separate ones for people and objects? And for objects between one and six, you add an “h” after the first letter if it starts with one of nine letters when not followed by some particular other letter? And for seven through ten, seven letters require various letters to be placed before them? Really? You are kidding me, right? And what the hell does tá mean? Is it a verb? Is it a combination of a verb and a noun? I mean when translate it to English?

So yeah, Irish. Now that we’ve finished our class, I think it’s time to ruminate on the Irish language. Why did we take Irish? I’ve always wanted to study Gaelic. In LA, I was taking German with my friend Meg because she wanted to take it, I already had some German, and my dad’s native language is German. Well, Germanic at the very least, but that’s story for another day. I like German, almost as much as I like French, and I was by no means done with it, but what better place to take Gaelic than where it is the official first language? Scott thought it a brilliant idea, and if not brilliant, at least interesting. For our anniversary, I bought us a fifteen week course. The Irish, by the way, all reacted the same: “Why wouldja do t’at? Well, good on ya! You probably know more now t’an I do!” and then they would rattle off something melodious and charming that probably meant you’re a bloody idiot.

Irish is the fourth language I’ve studied in a classroom. Languages are my hobby. I was that nerd diagramming sentences during the summer because I thought it was fun. I also did long division, and languages tweak the same part of my brain. I’m good with grammar in English, and I’m good with grammar (for my level) in French, German, and Spanish (Admittedly, my Spanish is non-existent now, but I’m good, really good, on the non-existent level.). Verb conjugation? No problem. Genitive versus subject? No problem. Cases? Yup, I understand it.

But Irish. . . . I think that I can sum up my entire knowledge of the language:

1. The verb goes in the front.

2. They have no yes nor no (That’s right! All answers must be phrased in the form of a complete sentence. Except for one answer to one specific question. I don’t remember what it is.)

3. The above rules for numbers even if they seem overly complicated.

4. Ag before a verb makes it a gerund (Tá sé ag cur bastí: It’s raining.)

5. An with a hyphen before … well, definitely an adv/adj but maybe a noun, too… means very (Beag: small; An-bheag: very small)

6. An also means the. Sometimes. Na means the in the plural. Sometimes. Sometimes it signals the genitive case.

7. In the present tense, verb and first person pronouns can be combined into one word. In the past tense, only the verb and the first person plural pronouns.

8. Is before an adjective/adverb makes it a surplurative (Sine: old; Is sine: oldest).

9. Is also means and when paired with a numbered age (Tá sé aon bhliain is fiche d’aois: He is one and twenty. It’s the poetic form of augus.).

10. Is is also a conjugation of one of the words meaning to be (As tú Michelle?: Are you Michelle?; Is mé: I am).

11. Bh is pronounced like a v. It’s a rule. Except when it’s not. Then it’s pronounced like a w.

12. Mh is pronounced like a w. It’s a rule. Except when it’s not. Then it’s pronounced like a v.

13. I don’t really understand the word is. Or an. Or na. Or tá.

14. Rain and snow don’t fall but are instead put. Somewhere. Everywhere. Tá sé ag cur sneachta. There is putting snow. I guess.

I should really come up with one more learning, make it an even fifteen, but even thinking about it makes my brain hurt. All the Irish with whom I’ve mentioned Irish say the same thing (after the first same thing they say): They don’t really teach it right [sic] in schools; they cram it down our throats; and it’s a shame really. Some say the problem is that they teach it like a foreign language when really it should just be taught as a spoken language. There is some validity to that. The Irish use the English alphabet. When reciting the alphabet in Irish, all the letters sound just the same as the do in English, but the alphabet is the conqueror’s language, and I swear, someone must have said, we’ll show those bleeding English! Dun Laoghaire is dun leerie; Deireadh Fómhair is dare-a for; and aghaidh is I-ig (respectively: town south of Dublin; October literally meaning late autumn; and face). In truth, the diversity of vocabulary and pronunciation of both Irish and English during the times of invasion and the evolution of both languages probably caused the lack of symmetry.

Perhaps I really should ask why the standard Irish is not technically spoken anywhere except by officials. I picked up a grammar book because, well, that’s what I do. Nancy Stenson wrote:

It should be noted that, unlike standard English, the Official Standard does not represent a colloquial dialect actually spoken by native speakers. Rather, it combines elements of the three major regional varieties for the official use. It is worth knowing and recognizing the standard forms, which are encountered frequently in publications, but they should not be taken as in any way superior to or more correct than the colloquial usage found in the Gaeltacht regions. . . . Those interested in speaking the language are therefore advised to pick one regional variety and to aim for competence in that, while learning to recognize alternative forms as well.*

Personally, I believe the difficulty in Irish is that in truth, it’s not taught as a foreign language. Our instructor, a truly lovely individual, teaches in the secondary school. As often as not, perhaps more often than not, when I asked a grammar question such as whether nouns had gender and how they affected the sentence or when I asked a question using grammatical terms such as the infinitive version of some verb we were using, a brief explanation was typically necessary before she could answer, and as often as not, she didn’t know the answer on what I consider to be a basic language question. In her defense, most of her students have at least a smattering of Irish or were raised exposed to it, and we just inherently understand certain tenants of our native languages. We don’t question them until a foreign speaker asks.

However, Irish is not the first tongue of most of Ireland; English is, though sometimes they sound like they’re speaking it like a second tongue. The lilt of the Irish? That’s the lilt of Gaelic, and it’s lovely, isn’t it?

I’m glad we took Irish. I’m glad it’s done. As words and phrases start to fade into the pleasant fog (coemhar [key-ower]) that happens when one studies a language for just a short bit of time, I think of something an Irish friend said of traffic planning: It’s a very Irish solution to a very Irish problem. The Irish language is either the epitome of that or the cause. I have yet to decide.

*Stenson, Nancy. Basic Irish: A Grammar and Workbook. London and New York: Routeledge, 2008. viii.

We've Been Away....

2010-01-22T10:15:00.002+00:00

Ah, ye ole abandoned blog! So quiet in your solitude! So superb and magnificent while you wait, amongst the others who cry and wail in the forgotten wires of stretching across the vast valley and ridges of cyberspace! You remain, ever vigilant, ever hopeful.

Right then. Now that we’ve finished with that apology, on to your language fact of the day. No, we haven’t done a language fact of the day, and no, we’re not beginning a language fact of the day. I have decided not to let that concern me.

Ye. We see it often: Ye Ole Curiousity Shop (which is, or used to be, maybe ever will be, in Seattle and probably countless other cities); Ye Ole King’s Head (Santa Monica, CA. Lovely fish and chips); Ye Ole … Actually, I think I’ll let you fill in the blank at this point. The examples are, though not endless, endless. When I was small, I always thought that “ye” was just how people used to say “the” in the Middle Ages or at least eighteenth century pirates in the Caribbean (Ye be ye daughter of ye gov’nor, aye?). However, in truth, “ye” was never the way anyone said “the”. It was the way they wrote “the”. Yes indeed, our use of the word “ye” dates from the sixteenth century and is an alteration of the Old English þ, or “thorn” which was in fact pronounced something like “th”. Thus, “ye” is really the function of a misunderstanding of a font. My darling husband is utterly sick of me mentioning this little bit of linguistic history. Perhaps actually writing it down and posting it will remove some of the desire I have every time I see it.

Now back to topic. We’ve been away from the blog for awhile now, ahem, almost two months for some of us who shall remain unnamed. What can I say? It was the holiday season. When I look back on it, the last two months don’t strike me as that busy. However, something about the holidays makes everything more urgent, doesn’t it? “I have so many days to finish my holiday shopping which means if I ever want to sit down and read my book, I must do it right this minute. And the next minute, and the minute after that because who knows when I’ll have another chance? Now where did I put that port that so-and-so sent us. . . .” And so goes the evening, and the next, and the next.

To be brief in the recap, we had a lovely holiday. My dad came to town (photos to be posted), and we visited all the museums and cultural hot spots on my mental list. National museums in Dublin are free. Nice, yeah? I’ve decided to visit the National Gallery, conveniently located just a few blocks away, once a week or so. Of course, I haven’t been back since, but really, I’m going to start going! It has a lovely coffee area perfect for escaping the apartment for a change of writing scene! Any day now….

We wandered around the old English barracks, museums, bookstores, a castle, and a cemetery with our necks trying to scrunch deeper into our scarves, hands shoved in gloves and more gloves and pockets, and with a stiff gait to stay upright. Everyone here told us snow doesn’t happen in Dublin. Dublin is never really that cold. You won’t need more than a lining in a rain coat. Yeah, whatever. Not only did it snow, but it was windy. Tá sé gaofar! Tá sé an-gaofar! No one mentioned the freaking wind. One day, not long before New Years, Dad and I decided walk to the Luas, one of the light rails, to visit the National Museum of Decorative Arts and History. The Luas is only about a fifteen minute walk from my apartment. However, after the wind had trashed my umbrella, one of our good ones, and then caught my coat and pulled me a few good steps backwards, not just bringing me to a stop, but actually backwards, as the rain pelted me in the face, Dad said, “Are you sure you want to do this today?” I was already turned when I said, “I’ll meet you at home.” If you stood just right on the ice, the wind could sweep you along it with no effort on your part but for a little arm swinging to stay on your feet rather than your ass. Oh yeah! Dublin in the winter! And all of you in truly cold climates, stop laughing at me.

Really, though, we had a great holiday. I even bought Scott a live Christmas tree. I thought we would donate it to a park or something after the New Year. He’s adopted it and every time I mention donating it or that maybe, just maybe we can’t move it to London, his eyes go kind of big and he says, “But isn’t it going to be our Christmas tree in London?” Now, in addition to finding us an apartment as good as the one we have in Dublin, I apparently need to find one where we can take a small but growing evergreen. I think a dog might have been easier.

The LaPlante Holiday Letter

2010-01-01T10:11:00.000+00:00

Happy Holidays, Friends and Family!

Two Thousand Nine

This year, we decided we were going to do it. We were really and truly going to write a holiday letter. We’d talked about it for the last six years, each time, more and more determined that we would write said holiday letter. Next year. We would write it next year. It’s finally next year, and here we are, writing a holiday letter. It’s our first time so be gentle, and despite grave misgivings, we shall forge ahead.

Ireland. We are living in Ireland, to be specific, Dublin. Baile Átha Cliath [ballia aha clee-a]. All of you know that, right? We did tell everyone, didn’t we? Suppose we ruined the surprise if we didn’t. It’s our big news of the year.

2009 started quiet for us; Scott worked at Shopflick (right down the street from a lovely children’s books store, might we add), Michelle worked on her novel and volunteered at 826LA, a free writing center for youth. And LA was brilliant, warm, and sunny with lots of palm trees. At the end of January, Michelle started studying German with her friend Meg, and in February, Scott ran his first half marathon. We took a jaunt around the western Caribbean with thirty of Scott’s family members on a really big ship. Yes, truly, thirty, and it was fantastic. We visited turtle farms, played with sea creatures, wandered around Mayan ruins and Mayan caves (called Shibaba, Underworld, in Mayan and believed to be the site of human sacrifices as well as the favorite destination of the local runaways). And when we were somewhere in the Gulf of Mexico, Scott’s work called (Hooray for international roaming rates!), and we learned that the company was in dire financial straits.

The next two months, needless to say, were a bit fraught with worry and tension. However, a friend of Scott’s from years back had happened to call him in January, and he happened to work for this really great company called EWT, and they happened to be looking for developers for their LA and Dublin offices. Just in case, Scott started the application process. On May 31^st, Shopflick officially became part of another company and Scott’s job ended. On June 2^nd, Scott flew to Dublin for the second round of interviews. A few days after that, we flew to Seattle just in case they offered him a job. Part way through the trip, Madison Tyler Europe, the European branch of EWT, offered Scott a job. We had a month and a half before we were to move, we already had a trip to Syracuse planned (just in case), and so we did what anyone else would do: We went camping in central California with friends.

Scott started at EWT/Madison Tyler just after we returned from Syracuse and Michelle started preparing for the move. Her dad kindly drove to LA to help with lost and delayed mail, incorrect new glasses, missed flights, and missing immigration papers, and at the beginning of August, we said goodbye to our MINI Cooper and moved to Europe.

And just like LA but not at all like LA, Ireland is lovely, cool with rainy sunshine and indecisive temperatures. We found an apartment near Merrion Square in the heart of Dublin, and when people hear, they say, “OH. Merrion Square.” It’s worse than when we said we lived in Beverly Hills, and everyone said, “OH. Beverly Hills.”

In September (Meán Fómhair [mahn-four, literally middle Autumn], Michelle started tutoring at Fighting Words, a free writing center for youth based on 826National. We started Irish lessons because Gaelige is the first language of Ireland, and we began going to plays at the Abbey, the national theatre. We, in fact, transplanted our lives to Ireland with a rainbow-gray-sky hue instead of a blue-blue sky hue. In October (Deireadh Fómhair [dara-four, late autumn], we caught our first soccer (sorry, football) game in Europe, Ireland versus Italy. We bought their colors, a shirt for Scott, a scarf for Michelle. Welllll, she bought the rugby scarf because she liked the color of the green better. We caught the Cork Jazz Festival before the city flooded out (Did we mention that water is free in the Republic of Ireland?), and one night, we went to dinner:

[With a glass of wine just after ordering]

Madison Tyler Europe’s main headquarters are moving to London.

[Pause, deep breath] What are you saying about your job?

-It’s moving to London.

-Are we moving to London?

-If you’ll move with me.

So, yeah, though we said moving to Dublin was our big news of the year, perhaps we should amend it to say that moving to Dublin and then to London in less than a year’s time is our big news. For Scott’s birthday in November (Samhain [Saw-when]), we went to London to see a play, and we wandered in and out of rain and contemplated that which is the magnitude of London. We returned to Dublin mildly dazed about the bizarreness of it all, and continued with work, plays, tutoring, and our Irish course.

Now it’s December (Nollaig [no-log]), and cold weather has descended upon us, and have we mentioned that we used to live in LA? Where it’s warm? Meanwhile, Scott is doing well at his new job, and Michelle has expanded her novel twofold and has started sending work to literary magazines. We’re having a great time in Dublin, and the time has indeed become more precious because we’ll be here only another few months or so before we move to London. We have Michelle’s dad for three weeks and Scott’s sister for a week in the near future. Far too few of you have taken us up on Dublin. We expect to see many more of you our way in the next year.

Nollaig Shona Daoibh

agus

Athbhliain Faoi Mhaise Daoibh

[nollag hoe-na ye-ev agus Ah-vlee-in fwee vasha ye-ev]

Happy Christmas and Happy New Year

The newest to span the river

2009-12-11T23:23:00.000+00:00

Ever wondered what to do if you happen to have a surplus of witches
lying around?

Waiting for the bus

2009-12-08T20:08:00.003+00:00

Thought I'd forgotten ya, didn't you? Truth be told, it's been far too long since I posted, and even longer since I put up another in the growing series of bronze friends.

On Saturday, Michelle and I went a bit out of our way to go to this little Mexican restaurant called Taco Taco. See, the thing is it's a universal law that says you can't get good Mexican in Ireland. It's just, I'm unwilling to accept it as fact, so I keep banging my head against a wall that I know is there. And man we've had some ... well maybe not bad per se, but certainly weird Mexican food here. Like french fries with salsa on them (not that I've ordered them myself). Seriously. And I'm not even saying it's disgusting, for all I know, it might actually be pretty tasty. But one thing for sure it's not, is Mexican. At least not how I know it to be. What I think happened is someone who's never been to Mexico started a Mexican restaurant, and they had a customer come in who had been to Mexico (or at least LA which is basically the same thing, culinarily speaking), and Mr. Customer said "yeah, I can't believe you don't have chips and salsa... every Mexican restaurant should serve chips and salsa!".

You probably already see where this bit is going, right?

Anyway, on our little jaunt back from the rumored-to-have-good-Mexican place I ran into these two birds, sitting and waiting for the bus. Nice ladies, but they're kind of rude taking up the whole bench like that, right? And I kept telling the one that it was probably raining inside of her purse, but she didn't listen.

Anyway, there they sit, and there you go: another installment in Scott's Bronze Buddies.

I could stop right there, but...okay, for just one moment, just for a little bit, can we talk about the sheer and utter ridiculousness for a city to pay workers to build a bench, and then pay other workers to throw some art on it and make that bench useless by the very people who paid for the bench? Mrs and Mrs Whatsit don't actually need to be sitting on the bench, right? We could move the bench four feet to the right and except for the falling over bit, they probably wouldn't complain a peep. Geez. Next thing you know cities are going to start creating whole buildings just to have a place to put art! I know, crazy, eh?

Makes you want to eat good Mexican food, in protest.

Technology Woes Part II

2009-11-24T15:22:00.005+00:00

[In a jaunty little tune] I have new printer ink! I have new printer ink! Dooo, dah do, dah doooo.

[Insert new printer ink. No more jaunty little tune] Ah damn.

[Composing email] Dear Hewlett Packard. I have a printer-scanner-copier. It was bought in the US, but I now live in Europe. I was told, and the box says, that it needs HP338 instead of HP98. However, now, the printer is giving me an error code saying that HP338 cartridge is incompatible with my printer. What should I do? PS. I love my printer-scanner-copier. It's my friend.

[HP response] From your description, it sounds like the printer is giving you an error code saying that HP338 cartridge is incompatible with your printer. In 2004, HP started regionalizing things like ink to better suit the needs of their customers in different geographical regions. Press a bunch of buttons, it'll do a test, and then send the answers to the questions above.

[Talking to myself] You didn't ask any questions. Regionalizing ink? Are you kidding me?

[Pushing buttons, paper prints out] HOORAY!

[Printer makes unhappy noises and flashes not only on the printer but on the computer] HP338 cartridges are not compatible with this printer.

[Scan document. Start attaching it to email. Meanwhile, try to scan other documents for health insurance reimbursement. Printer hums.] An error is causing the program to shut down. Please make sure all cables are properly connected and all programs properly installed. Oh, and by the way, another error occurred while trying to attach the document. Try again?

[Doing one thing at a time, attach document, compose email to HP] Thank you for your quick response. Attached, please find the test. And while I have you, would all of this cause some kind of problem with the scanning function on my printer? Obviously I scanned the test, but now it won't scan anything else. PS, I love my printer. It's my friend. I don't want to replace my friend with a European model, and I think you're hinting that I may have to do that, and by the way,regionalizing ink? That is the most idiotic thing I've ever heard, and it's obviously that manufacturing printers that used either European or American voltage was more cost effective for you and this is just a way to eke just a little more money out of the relatively few people who move printers from continent to continent. You should be ashamed of your money grubbing ways. SHAME! PPS. I love my printer. It's my friend.

[To a jaunty big, long phrased tune] Replacing the new cartridge with the old cartridge to scan the receipts for the insurance company. Do dah, do dah.

[Printer]An error is causing the program to shut down. Please make sure all cables are properly connected and all programs properly installed.

[HP response] Yo, dumb ass, if you use European black ink, you have to use European color ink. DUH!

[Talking to myself] Oh, for fuck's sake!

Windy Flying

2009-11-16T19:01:00.004+00:00

What no one wants to hear when landing in winds after turbulence:

"We will be on the ground shortly. Please make one final check that your seat belts are fastened, and please take note of your closest exit."

Technology Woes

2009-11-06T16:19:00.005+00:00

World, this is my computer and printer. Computer and printer, this is the world.

-Say hello, boys.

Note that blank spot above my computer. Lovely, flat, black desk with a blank spot. We bought the desk just for my computer. Note that there is a lack of computer monitor on that lovely, flat, black desk. Everything on my computer could come to Ireland except for my speakers and monitor. Scott found new speakers before we left the US (You can see them just there on the window sill, swinging their cords.). Alas, the monitor was not to be. My monitor is now snug and warm in Washington with my dad, and I am in search of a new monitor. And we found one! And it’s perfect and lovely and housebroken. The web site promised. It only has one little problem: the web site cannot accept our American credit cards. We could order it and pick it up at the warehouse where we can use our laser cards or pay cash, but that warehouse is waaaay outside Dublin proper, and we’d have to take it on the bus, and what if it’s scared of people? Instead, because obtaining a credit card is a bit of a hassle here, we’re going to buy a prepaid credit card and use that. Honestly, it’s probably cheaper than the tax on credit cards anyway. Then they’ll deliver the little beauty to me. Sort of. Our buzzer doesn’t work. The postal worker will leave a note saying that I can pick it up at the postal distribution site for Dublin 2. At least it’s down the street.

In the meantime, we can hook the printer up to Scott's laptop, and today is a special day. I finished a notebook, and I'm starting a new one, and I have a few pages that I need to scan and save. Turns out, my printer is a bit old, and the software on my CD doesn't work with Vista. The laptop didn't tell me that. It told me that I didn't have administrative privileges. Then it told me that Scott didn't have administrative privileges. Then I called Scott, and I am at the moment, and the last sixty minutes worth of moments, downloading the drivers and software from HP. I have another 50 MB to go. Oooh! 40.

However, what you cannot see, world: My printer is almost out of black ink. No big deal, right? Go to an office supply store and buy ink.

Last Saturday:

-Hello, we’re not sure what ink we need, but the printer is an hp psc 2300 series we think.

-Are we sure about that? Maybe it’s the 2500. Definitely should have looked at that. What’s wrong with us? I think it might be hp 54. That sounds kind of right. Kind of.

Hours later at home

-Frack! It is in the 2300 series, and this is the wrong ink. We need 97 (or, it turns out later, 94. I think I was very close.)

Today, down to Reads I go, hi ho, hi ho.

–Hi! I bought the wrong ink. I need 97.

Very helpful sales associate from previous Saturday: It’s not the right ink? 97? We don’t have that. I can order that for you.

I stand there while he tells whomever on the phone that no, it’s an inkjet. Yes it’s an inkjet. No it’s not a laser jet; it’s an ink jet. PSC 2355xi. It’s a psc. No, it’s not a laser jet. It’s definitely an ink cartridge. No not toner. Hp 97. Yes, for the PSC 2355xi. It's an inkjet. Oh! It’s hp 11 here! Great!

HP 11 is more than twice as expensive as HP 54, but ya know what? When my dad comes to Ireland, I’ll have him or whoever else might be visiting bring ink at a reasonable price.

So I go home, a little unsure of the ink, but the man assured me I could bring it back. I look at it one more time before opening the box and it is… ta da! Not for the psc 2300 series but for the business inkjet 2300 series.

I called hp Ireland. I thought maybe, just maybe I really did want the 97, 94, 99 any of which I could buy in the US. Nah, they changed the numbers for Europe and it’s the 338 or something. Why would they use the same numbering system? Oh, by the way, Ma’am? You’re printer is very old.

The advantage of getting rained on

2009-10-31T16:12:00.000+00:00

Full half circle over Trinity College rooftops, intensely bright,
nothing found at the end (or sought, due to the being rained on bit)

How Things Work

2009-10-30T00:17:00.007+00:00

Alright, off the bat, let me say I love Ireland. It's cute, quaint, fun, compact, and cheerful. It's also exhausting and flabbergasting at times.

This will be a little ditty to give you an idea about how things work in Ireland.

Eircom is the main provider of broadband service in Ireland. Our landlords had service and were nice enough to leave it on while we got settled, with the idea that we would transfer the service into our names once we had a bank account set up.

(For the rest of the post, it will be helpful to know that our landlords only left this apartment because they moved to the states.)

So when we were ready, we called Eircom and said that we live here now and wouldn't they be so kind as to transfer the service into our names. They said that we can't do it, but the current subscribers could. So William (one of our two our awesomes landlords) calls Eircom from the states. Turns out that he can disconnect the service, but not transfer it unless he and we are in the same room and can hand the phone back and forth. Also, that setting up a conference call isn't good enough- we have to be physically in the same room.

So he and we decide it's best just to cancel and we'll start a new subscription. So on Monday, he cancels and Michelle then calls Eircom. They tell her that the service doesn't actually get disconnected for 24 hours, so please call back.

On Tuesday, she calls again and they say that while the service is indeed shut off, their system don't update for 48 hours, so please call back.

On Wednesday she calls again and gets the phone set up, but the broadband for some reason can't be set up, but that she will do it in the next two days and Michelle doesn't need to call back. (Short interlude here... as crazy messed up Ireland is policy-wise, the Irish do actually give a damn and it's such a small country anyway, so when the Eircom lady tells Michelle that she'll set up the broadband on Friday you can almost trust her. And indeed, this actually does happen like clockwork.)

So the deal is, Eircom sets up the broadband and then sends you out a wireless router that will work with your subscription. They put it in the Post on Friday.

I mean, you can't really expect it to arrive until Tuesday, right? But when it doesn't arrive by Thursday evening, Michelle calls Eircom, who are surprised that we haven't received it, and that it said it was supposed to be delivered on Tuesday.

PHEW. Glad that got straightened out.

Now on to the Post Office. So here's the deal: they did actually try to deliver it on Tuesday, but apparently Michelle wasn't home, or they didn't read the note saying our buzzer was out and please call X number, or whatever. In the US, they'd stick one of those little yellow "you weren't home" post-its, and deliver the next day.

In Ireland, they haven't invented this system yet. So what they do is they take the box back to the Post Office. Then they write you a letter telling you that you weren't home. Then they put the letter in the mail, stamp and all. A few days later, the letter arrives in the post, telling you that you missed the package and you should pick it up.

Crazy, eh? And don't even get Michelle started on where Bus 13's route starts. Save that one for another time.

Jazz Hands

2009-10-28T17:36:00.016+00:00

The Cork Guinness Jazz Festival. What can I say? It was a party. I thought about writing a long post, talking about this and that and blah, blah, blah, but I do that more often than not. And since our internet was inconveniently under Irish bureaucracy for the last few weeks, I’m already posting a couple of longer entries. Thus, some random thoughts, yeah?

We’re on the train, and because of the scenery, deep dark, plowed fields, white sheep with black faces, groves of thin tall evergreens mixed with deciduous, standing water, canals, I have the oddest feeling of vertigo as we travel south when I’m convinced we’re traveling north. The sun is rising on the left, proving that we are indeed going south, unless the world has reversed itself, and it could happen, but as we travel, I’m reminded of trains and drives going north to Mount Vernon, WA, Syracuse, NY. The world has reversed itself, right?

We’re waiting for the vegetarian restaurant to open on a winding continental street with brick, new modern construction, stone, slanted roofs and school boys passing in uniform blazers. I’m using the iPhone for what it is truly meant -- to find Heaven, a poem about fish by Rupert Brooke (http://www.poetry-archive.com/b/heaven.html), to show Scott that yes, some poems, which are very good poems, are funny.

Ok, great thing about Ireland: In a crowded bar? Want another Guinness? Stick your finger in the air, and another Guinness shall appear. A lovely couple from Cork who hate Dublin told us that at this fantastic show by Cat Scratch Fever.

On a busy, commercial street, with wide, wide sidewalks, wide enough to be streets themselves, a four piece group, guitar case opened in front of them, gather a crowd as they play. From down the street marches a marching band, all in uniform, led by a woman with a large gold umbrella. They part through the crowd, and the two bands, still playing their separate songs, stare at one another for a moment until on some unseen cue, the marching band switches songs to that of the four piece group, perfectly in time, and they jam together, ending on the exact same note, at the exact same time, as the crowd grows larger and larger with whistles and cheers.

You know how it rains? Just in general? Anywhere? It rains in Cork as well. However, in Cork water also just hangs out in the air. The sun will be bright and shiny, and the wind will come up, and this water which was there all along will start spritzing around your head, just playing, never hitting the ground. It’s the weirdest thing.

Saturday night, we saw Milk and Jade. They’re jazz meets urban, and they’re brilliant. I think Dana Leong may be able to play the cello while standing on his head. He can definitely play bent over double, afro brushing the floor.

This magnificent creation was made by me using bar coasters. I call it Jazz Hands.

Someone told us that late teens to early twenties Irish women’s evening fashion looks like Easter eggs. In truth, a lot of taffeta and satin in bright blues, greens, yellows, and reds do hop around the dance floor, but I think it’s more peacock-like. I’m making up a word, everyone: peacocking. Ah, damn. It’s already in the urban dictionary. Well, that’s disappointing.

Early events are filled with jazz enthusiasts, those who know the difference between New Orleans jazz, side-men quartets, boogie woogie, and big band. The late night crowd, though. . . . It’s midnight, and a very cool, very scat group just started playing. The lead singer wears a red bow tie and a cardigan. The crowd thunders, packed, body to body, a few facing the stage, a couple of girls dancing ,but everyone else drinking, shouting conversations blurring together, drowning out the band, and it’s like this everywhere, the jazz just a background to the party. There’s a desperation the way they drink, Guinness a constant flow from the bar, the way they laugh, head thrown back, mouth wide, faces red, the way they pretend not to notice who’s watching, who’s pushed as they tug and pull at one another in mock war and dance. I’ve seen it in Dublin too, and I sense an unspoken anger that weaves all of them together just below the forced, purposeful cheer and good nature.

Turns out that the difference between a castle like, oh say, the Blarney Castle (Actually the McCarthy Castle. Blarney was a word coined by Queen Elizabeth in exasperation at negotiations.) and jails of a certain era, like, just for the hell of it, Corcaigh Gaol, built in the 19^th century, closed in the 1920s after spending time as an all women’s jail, is very little. They’re a bit drafty, a bit dark, and both look like my concept of a castle, though the decorations vary just a bit and Blarney Castle, unlike the jail, is missing a roof. The jail has also been populated with life-sized figures, some of which are just freaky, but the castle is right by a Druid sacrificial alter, the Witches Stone, and Fairy Glenn. The castle is very difficult to breach because of the thickness of the walls and the presence of rock underneath said walls. When Cromwell first tried to take it, his troops relied on the guaranteed hospitality of the region which required anyone who asked to be given refreshments. The pretended to hunt a deer, knocked on the door, and discovered that hospitality was only given when the master was in residence. At the time he was in residence in the Cork jail. And thus, we spent Sunday peeking at the political, the destitute, and the pagan faces of Cork. I was wearing high heeled boots because they didn’t fit in my suitcase.

My feet still hurt.

My Lovely

2009-10-25T22:00:00.001+00:00

My beautiful wife, carefully planning out the next venue to hit.

Cork at night

2009-10-25T21:58:00.001+00:00

Pretty, no?

Co Cork, Ireland

2009-10-25T21:57:00.002+00:00

Been a while since I posted- turns out it's hard to cram events into a
busy life and then find time to write about them as well. Go figure.
It's not like our lives are any busier than normal, or busier than
yours.

Anyway, we're on a train back from Cork right now, and I found out I
can post to the blog by emailing it, so there you have it.

This weekend, on the advice of an Irish coworker of mine, Michelle and
I took a trip to Cork. This weekend was the Cork Jazz Festival, and
we had a wonderful time. Two days of, essentially, pub hopping,
listening to some great bands all for mostly free, and we cut a wide
swath of various jazz-ish genres.

Last night we saw Milk and Jade open for Imelda May. I highly highly
recommend Milk and Jade- they were the highlight of the weekend and
put on a great show. Awesome fused mix of hip hop and jazz, great
musicality and very skilled artists. I think they are from Brooklyn.

Today we went to the Cork City Gaol (Jail) in a "just visiting" sense. It has mostly been preserved as-is since it closed in 1923 and it was a historical, if a little kitschy at times, tour. Bleak is an understatement.

After that we took the bus out to Blarney Castle and had a wonderful time traipsing the grounds. They pretty much give you the run of the place, and I was glad it didn't rain today- not so much because the castle is roofless but because that stone would have been immensely more treacherous had it been wet. The American in me was both shocked and awed by the seeming lack of safety checks put in place. If the castle were in America they'd be so worried about lawsuit that the place would have been boarded up long ago. Here they just put up a sign, something to the effect of "we want the castle to remain authentic; therefore if you step beyond this point you absolve the castle of any fault for any injury or death whatsoever."

The lawyers over here haven't really gotten their game face on yet; clearly we Americans can teach them a thing or two.

Also, something I knew but love experiencing... Train travel is an incredibly convenient and peaceful way to travel, though I wouldn't want it to be very crowded. We're just about to hit Dublin... Jiggity jig.

It's the Little Things

2009-10-22T15:59:00.009+01:00

Ahh, daily life: Cute little children coming home from school;

Packing for the recycle center;

Building where rebels held out for awhile against the British during the Easter Rising;

Scott putting a pot on his head…..

Soundtrack: Mario Brother's Theme Song

2009-10-19T15:36:00.002+01:00

I love irony both in good times and in bad. It makes me smile, albeit occasionally with a great deal of bitterness. Today, the heavens opened and the waters literally poured down upon my head. Inside our apartment. I sat at the kitchen table and heard the shower in the main bathroom start. I thought it strange because Scott and I use the shower in our en-suite bathroom. We consider the other shower the guest shower. I was also home alone, and the last time I checked, we didn’t have a magic shower. But that’s the thing about magic, isn’t it? It starts and ends randomly.

I switched on the light and water poured from it – the light in the shower, not the shower. I turned off the light, seemed the prudent thing to do, and ran upstairs, but alas, I knocked to no avail. So I called the management company. Our manager was sick, but a nice woman urged calm, a task I felt well within my reach being that the leak was in the shower. She said they would take care of it. Not long later, she called back and asked if I had the number for the gentleman who managed the entire building. Not only did I have the number, I noticed, while beseeching my upstairs neighbor to open, that his door was open and he had workers.

I again ran upstairs. I called, “Hello?” and waited, knocked, called, “Hello?” and heard an echo back.

“Hello?”

Until finally a man, balding, jeaned, and pleasant appeared.

“Are you Michael?”

“No, I’m doing some work for him. You just missed him.”

“Do you know when he’ll be back?”

“I think he’s gone for the day. Is there something I can help you with?”

“Well, I live below that apartment, and water is pouring through my light fixtures. No one seems to be home.”

For all of you who wonder what Ireland is like, what the Irish are like, this is what the Irish are like:

“I’m a plumber. Would ye like me to take a look at it?”

I never really understood why the Mario brothers were plumbers rescuing the princess until now. I’m not a princess, but I don’t know shite about plumbing, particularly when water is coming out of embedded lighting fixtures.

When I turned on the light to show him, all the lights in the bathroom were crying cold, dirt tears. I ran to the pantry for a bucket while he called Michael to gain access above. The pantry wasn’t crying; it was weeping steady drops, like being high in the mountains inside a cave with crevices and cracks in the wall, perpetual mist outside, water oozing through soil, tree roots, and moss. Yeah, that was my pantry.

Michael didn’t answer, and the plumber ran upstairs to try the neighbor again while I called the management company, in more of a panic, to say that the situation was becoming dire. I could just see it, in a moment all the lights throughout my apartment would be raining water.

The plumber broke into the apartment above. Well, the balcony door was opened so I suppose he didn’t “break” per se. A valve under a sink had broken and water gushed forth. He said the rain would ease in ten. I put out more towels and called Scott from the house phone in the kitchen. As I we spoke, the light over the counter spewed water on my head. It eased quickly, and I put towels everywhere I could find a leak: the entire main bathroom with an inch of water on the floor; the pantry on the same wall as the refrigerator, washer, dryer, ovens, and microwave; by the phone; and one over the book shelves in the hallway.

I have the windows opened in each room in the hopes that the apartment will cease to smell a basement. The wallpaper in the bathroom is damaged where the water seeped through the walls. Yes, indeed, it is quite a mess. The wiring is only a year old, and the renovations two. Apparently, we’re separated from our upstairs neighbor by bedrock, and William, the lovely man who owns our apartment, happens to be in the country and is stopping by to assess the damage. Our goal is not to have to move while repairs are completed. I’m hoping, thinking, that it’s not as bad as it seems.

I walked away from it, and I’m sitting in my chair in my very first home office, and before sitting down to work, hours after I had intended, I played an anagram game on my phone. My first long word allowing me to move to the next level was ‘coping.’

The Celtic Tiger

2009-10-18T15:25:00.006+01:00

Ireland has been a very poor country, destitute at times. We all know that. Until recent years, its emigration levels have been astronomically high compared to its neighbors, and some statistic has the number of native born or first generation Irish higher in the US than in Ireland. However, the Celtic Tiger took hold and business boomed, construction began, and thousands flocked to Dublin. Dublin is alive and vibrant, proud to be Irish even as the recession deals blow after blow. Although not at the level of dire risk faced by countries like Iceland, experts whose names I don’t know expect the future of Ireland to be bleaker than in many parts of Europe, but the city continues, albeit with fewer tourists, shorter lines at immigrations, and dozens of cabs lined down the street from the Guinness Storehouse, hotels, and night clubs. Because of a relaxing of the laws, Dublin has more cabbies than Manhattan, but more and more people forsake cabs for the cheaper bus fare or walking. Dublin is a small city. I can walk from Trinity College in the city center to either of the large stadiums on the outer edges of the city in forty minutes, maybe less. However, despite financial setbacks, the city continues, determined to hold onto at least an echo of that Celtic roar.

But on the bus to Ikea, passing through lovely neighborhoods with trimmed hedges, fresh paint, large modern churches, one passes into Ballymun, a northern suburb of Dublin and the home of Europe’s Most Successful Neighborhood Rejuvenation Project. The sign that states it is spray painted over in green, black, and red. Just beyond it is a mall that looks to be abandoned but isn’t, and just beyond that, on a dead end street, is a grouping, three maybe, four, of concrete apartment buildings, slabs with cutouts in the shape of doors and windows. As the bus passes, one can see through the stairways opened to the sky, and trash piles of mattresses and cardboard camouflage where house-cement meets road cement.

Scott thought it looked like something from the Eastern cell bloc. Maybe. I can see in it movies from the 1980s depicting the USSR and East Germany. I imagine living there, and it isn’t the type of place you come for a viewing and say, “This feels like home.” You move into those gray walls, and you fight and claw to make it a home, and undoubtedly some people succeed though a great many fail. Where does it fall in the Celtic Tiger? It’s older than the recession, maybe older than the Tiger, and it is a part of the Tiger, left in the droppings and scraps amongst the small parasites all tigers must have. Though these truly bleak buildings may be unique in Western Europe to Ireland, a country that has been so destitute in moments in its history to send such great swaths of its population fleeing elsewhere, anywhere, the concept of these buildings are universal, large and crowded and ever present in the neighborhoods where we chose not to look.

Internet woes

2009-10-17T15:23:00.001+01:00

Today is the 28th, but I'm posting it to be dated the 17th because from the 9th to about the 22nd, we did not have internet service, and I have postings that predate the 22nd. For those of you who complain about broadband/satellite company bureaucracy, not to mention the post office, you have no idea.

The perils of expatriothood

2009-10-02T21:08:00.005+01:00

I was stupid just now. I mis-remembered the little numbers on the back of my xbox 360 power supply and didn't double check. And so when I plugged it in with just a little plug converter instead of a voltage transformer...

A loud click.

A oxide smell.

Blew the fuse labeled "bedrooms".

Probably killed the little plug converter.

Definitely killed my power brick.

.... hopefully didn't kill the box itself. Either way, it means a trip to the game store tomorrow to see if I can buy an EU power supply. And tomorrow we're having a little apartment warming party where I've all but promised Rock Banding.

Oh well. The worst that could come is that my xbox is totally fried and shucks, I need to buy a new one, with an HDMI output instead of the measly component outs that I've got.

Early adopters take all the knocks, I tell ya.

Sisyphus in Dublin

2009-09-21T20:15:00.004+01:00

It's been a while since I posted one of these. This guy is called The Linesman. He's on the bank of the River Liffey and is dutifully pulling the rope. I imagine that on the other end, there is a small merchant vessel with wares to offload, some of which are barrels of whiskey to send round to the local pubs.

Alas, unless my eyes deceive me there is no such boat. I don't really have the heart to tell him this, though. Frankly, in his job of pulling the rope in, he doesn't seem to have gained much ground since we arrived almost two months ago. Given his lack of progress, he should just tie his end of the rope to something and nip off to the pub for a quick pint. I doubt anyone would notice, or if they did, mind very much.

Clearly, his level of dedication far surpasses my expectations and I am glad that he is setting such an example for the youths of today. So today, I salute you, Mr. Line Pulling Linesman on the Bank of the River.

2009-09-14T19:46:00.010+01:00

This weekend was the annual Liffey swim. It's the final race of the summer Leinster swim calendar. We happened to stumble upon it on our way to a tour at the Guinness Storehouse. Unfortunately, the Storehouse was closed for a private event. They gave us free tour tickets.

2009-09-14T19:29:00.002+01:00

Best quote from the Dublin Writers Musuem: "The house [restored Georgian mansion off of Parnell Square], which remained the property of the VEC, stood empty for some years and suffered some decay, including the theft of some of the original fireplaces."

2009-09-14T19:16:00.006+01:00

I am wearing a wool sweater. It’s gray and just shy of scratchy. I bought it here at a United Color of Benetton, and every sweater in the store was wool. Every single one. Wool shops have less wool, and I find myself wondering about the coming months. However, I was perhaps a bit short-sighted when packing layers. For most occasions, I have an outfit. I have only one outfit for most occasions. I haven’t needed my shorts or sun dress yet, but you never know. Sundresses over tights and jeans are very popular – an urge, perhaps, to defy the gray, windy, rainy dog days of summer and wear the clothing much of the rest of the western world enjoys at this time of year.

And I am wearing a wool sweater. In August.

Meanwhile, many of you have asked what Dublin is like, and I have floundered to describe it. It’s a cross between Seattle, Paris, and New York. At times, especially near the canal and docks, near the new construction done in glass that mirroring sky to water and water to sky, the reflections look like Seattle around Lake Washington and Lake Union. The ponds of St. Stephen’s Green and the lawns of Merrion Square are like Central Park, surrounded by the city but not of the city, and the view from our window is like our Manhattan view with rooftops over brick, not quite sky-scrapers in the distance, the metro sliding between them, and continent sized drifting clouds. The sidewalks and streets of the older city, craggily, gray buildings, cobblestones are very Paris, and why wouldn’t they be? Both cities predate the Common Era. Our neighborhood is Dublin without shadows from other cities. We have brick, industrial looking buildings with Mary Poppins roofs and chimneys, and we’re up the street from a small part of the canal with a waterfall and ducks.

Front doors are bright reds, blues, and greens, an occasional yellow or dark brown, just like all the photos you’ve seen of Irish doors, and the Irish don’t use barbed wire. Instead, foot by foot sections of fence on pinwheels line walls. The shopkeepers don’t say “have a good day,” and they ask me to repeat it when I do. Then they brighten and chat about the weather. It’s August, and I’m wearing a wool sweater. Under a jacket, and it’s been raining all day.

They use laser cards instead of debit cards, and to withdraw money from a bank without a laser card, you visit with customer service who gives a form to the teller, and then the teller distributes the cash. You never hand over your laser card or credit card at any store or restaurant. They have hand held devices, and here, people actually know the pin to their credit cards. I haven’t the slightest idea of my American pin, and I always considered it an odd curio when it arrived in the mail.

The green revolution is well on its way in Dublin, though we’re still playing catch up, organic

is all the rage, and only loser wait for a green walk sign. And I’m wearing a sweater. And it’s wool. And it’s August.

Actually, it’s September with clear skies this morning AND this afternoon, and for the first time since arriving, I’m outside in short sleeves. I think my sweater misses me.

My Books and Clothes Need a Closet. Please Help.

2009-08-26T15:30:00.005+01:00

Have you ever considered what your home would be like without . . . medicine cabinets? Think about it a moment. What do you have in your medicine cabinet? Floss? Aspirin? Tweezers? The Muppets rinse cup you've had since you were five? Now where would put it if you had no medicine cabinet? And don't presume you would put it in the bathroom cabinets and/or drawers, because most likely, you have none. Maybe you have a small space under the sink about the size of a Triscuit box.

When you see the first apartment, and you think, ok, modern design. We've pared down space in the US as well. Naturally, in Europe where the apartments and homes have always been a bit smaller, they would pare down more. However, then you see the apartment built in '95, the one with the fraying couch above the owners' upholstery shop, and then the 1985 apartment that has a bedroom the size of a twin bed, literally, the size of a twin bed. You know they've never replaced that mattress because a wall would come down before the mattress came out of the room. Then you see William Butler Yeats's apartment, 96 St. Stephen's Green, a conglomeration of Victorian chandeliers and 1960s James Bond glam, and it has a bar fridge. Yeats did not have a refrigerator or maybe even an icebox, but I bet he would have agreed that renovation is a glorious idea and that mold, or damp as the estate agent said, is not.

The biggest apartment I saw had a fair amount of storage, one of the biggest kitchens I've ever seen in any private residence (full fridge with freezer, a bar fridge, a bar freezer, and cupboard and floor spaces bigger than the kitchens in full-sized houses), and royal purple glass lamps on lace doilies. The owner seems to have started collecting furniture in the fifties and satisfied the compulsion in the early eighties.

Our new apartment, renovated 2007, has medicine cabinets, two of them, an American fridge, freezer on one side, fridge on the other with water and ice dispensers, separate washer and dryer (a dryer, mind you, that uses conventional American dry heat rather than Irish steam heat), green insulation, and a master shower that comes with an instruction manual. Something about a radio and rain shower feature and steam feature and side jets and a foot massage. And a fan. In the shower itself. The bathroom has a separate fan. Two bedrooms, two baths, heated floors, and it's pretty. The owners, Michelle and William, have moved to the States with their three young children for at least the next year. They offered, as the five and half and two and a half year olds chased each other from room to room over a cookie, to throw in a child as a bonus. We regretfully and gleefully declined.

But, yeah, we're settled with one set of sheets, one set of towels, three flat screen TVs, and two orchids. We'll see how long they last. We're a fifteen minute walk to Scott's work, five to ten to the Irish classes we'll start in a few weeks, and we're having our vegetables delivered. And they drink tea here, lots and lots of lovely tea. As I drink my tea, lovely, lovely tea, I'm across from International Books, Trinity College, down the street from Modern Languages Books, and a skip from The Pen Corner. According to those who know, it is the only pen shop in Dublin, and we live near it. Scott is SO pleased.

Another Friend

2009-08-25T23:37:00.004+01:00

Here is another friend of mine. He lives about half a block from my work. His name is Admiral William Brown, and he founded the Argentine navy, and died in 1857.

That's how many bronze statues there are here: in 2006, when they felt they needed to put up another statue, they had to reach back 150 years (not to mention ~6700 miles) to find someone they hadn't yet cast in metal.

Since they clearly need more statue fodder, I'm going to let them know I'm available still.

Scott LaPlante. Born in 1977. He found many statues in Dublin.