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The Poet

April 16, 2010 in dublin, Ex-Patriate Games

It’s Trinity Ball Night. That means Trinners students get to dust the cinders off their jeans and hop into a pumpkin for a memory-making night of music, drink, and elegant dress fun. Walking through College Green this evening, weaving through the six pack-clutching, tuxedo-clad Trinity Ball attendees, I stopped short when I saw this:

If you have the time, then please read my poem/To hear what it’s like to lose one’s home.

Poet: Are you finished with photo?

Me: Yes. I’m sorry. Here.

Poet: Is okay. And thank you for your help.

I walked on, but when I looked back, the poet was lashing a bottle of water over his work. And within minutes, both the words and the poet were gone.

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The Curse of Molly Malone

April 14, 2010 in dublin, Ex-Patriate Games, Oishii, spazarific, WanderFood

Classes finished last week, much to everyone’s chagrin. We’ve been paired with our portfolio advisors and still have 10,000 words to submit for two classes, but all anyone can talk about is What’s Next After the M.Phil? Good question. For most of us, it’s back to work. Some are heading back to school for MFAs. Others (ahem) are plotting the Next Big Thing. But until the answers are clear, it’s a whirlwind of most excellent class activities. Wine mixers at the Oscar Wilde Centre-turned-boozefests at Kennedy’s, where no one leaves sober. Boozy lunches with lecturers at The Porterhouse. Most recently, an extra special Class Night: drinks at Neary’s, a 3-course dinner, more drinks at Neary’s, the Glór open mic session at the International Bar, and then as an extra special treat, a run-by flashing from a pack of boys in track suits. Good night, Dublin.

But first, some snapshots of the delicious dinner we shared.

Mussels, alive, alive-o. Swimming in green curry, chili, and lime. Come to me, my white hot flames.

Trout over shrimp risotto. Spinach topped by a golden sunburst of butter.

Looks beautiful, doesn’t it? It was, and utterly delicious to boot. Too bad that, 36 hours later, I’m in the vicious grip of a violent bout of food poisoning. I’d unfairly blamed my slapdash dinner of carrots and chicken – anything, anything so as not to blame my beloved mussels – but another member of my course has come down with the cursed affliction as well. Suckling a bottle of Gatorade like an infant all day long, and if there was ever an excuse to avoid writing a 5000 word essay, this was it. Molly Malone, you couldn’t have hurt me more if you’d tried.

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Side Streets of Dublin

April 2, 2010 in dublin, Ex-Patriate Games, Looking

Now, look; I enjoy Dublin’s iconic images just as much as anyone.

Gorgeous. Lovely. But for me, it’s all about the side streets.

Peek inside; try to uncover the secrets.

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Ciotóg

March 13, 2010 in Ex-Patriate Games, Ireland, Looking

My family has rented a car – one big enough for the 5 of us and their suitcases. Roberto, my father, is frustrated when he can’t find the keyhole; it takes him a few minutes to realize that it will be on the right hand side, and so will the steering wheel. This is an Irish market car. They drive on the left here in Ireland. There are roundabouts and narrow winding streets, and thin, rectangular street signs nailed to buildings – blink and you’ll miss ‘em.

I’m wringing my hands in the lobby of their hotel when they arrive; my mother, my father, Diego and Joy; all of them in one piece. I’ve lived in left-hand traffic countries for the past three years and though I’m finally getting used to the system, you  couldn’t pay me to drive. But that’s me; I hate driving even when it’s on the right. For his part, my father seems remarkably calm – says the first 15 minutes were “interesting” but after that, it was a piece of cake. I ask Diego for the truth. He is grim.

They’ve rented a GPS to go with their left-side traffic car. They ask me where they should visit while I’m in class. I tell them: “Howth” and they punch “Hote” in the GPS. I tell them, “Malahide Castle,” and they say, “Mally-che?” Molly Malone is similarly dubbed, “Who?” then “Molly May” and, later, ”Molly O’Malley.” They pick me up one day after class and we head to Powerscourt, which my mother calls “Powerscribe” in her facebook status update. My father is particularly proud that he has typed, “Anuscarry” in the GPS.

Roberto helms the wheel for most of the trip. After he misunderstands a few commands and makes a few illegal U-turns, Diego switches the GPS language to my father’s native tongue: “Maybe this will get through to you.” 

Recalculating is recalculando in Spanish.

Sometimes, in Dublin City, we don’t need the GPS at all because I know where we are. This is very exciting to me. I  brag to my family that I’ve learned where to go from riding the bus: “brava,” they say. I stop bragging when I realize that my directions have led us into the bus lanes. Look left, look right; hope there are no Gardaí in sight.

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Whack For My Daddy-O

September 23, 2009 in dublin, Ex-Patriate Games, Ireland, My Funny Irish Friend

Sean has gone down home to Cork today which means I’m free – free! – for the next 24 hours to window shop and snap photos like a tourist. I can troll the Rimmel section at Boots, try on hats at Topshop, browse issues of Glamour UK at Waterstones, and pose next to Molly Malone all I like!! Yippee!! Sorry, Sean, but there are just some things you can’t do with a man around.

The drugstores sell Maybelline and L’Oreal, but not Cover Girl. There is a Boots brand of cosmetics.  Spray-on deodorants appear to be very popular for women as well as for men. I can’t afford any of the lovely clothes or shoes I’m seeing until I find a way to get paid in Euro and it is almost impossible to get a clear picture of Molly Malone since so many people pass by her on the street or plunk themselves at her feet. And all the poor girl wants to do is sell her cockles and mussles, alive alive-o. Give a working girl a chance! ‘Tis a busy life, sweet Molly Malone. Ah, that it is.

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We moved in to our new apartment last night. After Sean left for the train station, I began the day by coordinating maintenance men as they fixed and re-fixed the toilet, then plastered up a hole in the wall.

“Welcome to Ireland,” said Sean last night as we discovered the non-flushing toilet and the hole. “Typical Irish standards. Cowboys, the lot of them!”

Regardless, it is a lovely apartment in a lovely brick Victorian Dublin house with white spiral staircases – flooded with light, cozy, and beautifully furnished. A lovely apartment in a lovely house on a lovely street.
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Street signs are always written in both English and Irish.  Cars are always cute.

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There are trees lining the street and gardens inside the wire fences.

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After a day of trolling the college campus and searching for a Mac store – unless any of you know how to reset the password on my computer so I can install broadband – I’m in an internet cafe on Grafton Street. Grafton Street is lined with red bricks, forming a pedestrianized gallery of shops and restaurants stretching from the famous Molly Malone statue to the lush St. Stephen’s Green. When I first arrived in Dublin, the luxurious foliage in St. Stephen’s was all bright Irish green. It has become increasingly blanketed by yellow and red leaves as fall begins.

There is a busker playing Thin Lizzy’s “Whiskey in the Jar” down on the street as I type – a far more welcome companion to my money guzzling internet cafe hour than cigarette smoke and pervy teenage boys reading manga porn. It’s a song I’d never heard until a week ago, when Sean played it for me on his uncle’s stereo. He couldn’t believe I’d never heard it before and neither could I.

Hunched over, my shoulders hurt after a day of dragging my laptop in search of Dublin’s Mac store but I’m happy dreaming of dinner and Rimmel lipstick and the brick houses on the street where I live.

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