In the spirit of reconnecting with friends, I extended my resolution to include those long-lost souls from high school. I was driving with my parents to a historical Civil War town, which is just south of where we live, to meet up with some friends/colleagues.
Incidentally, these same friends visited me in Dublin where we proceeded to have the most expensive Thai food in history ($250 for 4 entreés...and you had to pay for the rice!) I know, you're thinking why the hell did you go eat Thai in Ireland? What did you expect? I expected better cuisine options than Abakebabra, a fast-food kebab joint, or chips 'n fish.
Back to the main story:
On our way to the restaurant, we passed by my good friend D's house, at least the house he lived in while we were in college. I wondered aloud if he still lived in TN and then quickly remembered that I had his cell phone number saved. So, I sent him a text message (called him? Puh-leeze, this is 2007). He promptly replied, hey! -whoa! From the surprised, but familiar response, I deduced that I was also programmed into his phone.
i'm @ my dad's christmas party in f____. you should come!
I texted him that I was on my way to dinner, but I would call him later tonight.
***
The phone rang a handful of times before D answered, loud music blaring, voices digitized in the background.
"Senator! [a nickname from high school] What the hell have you been up to?"
We exchanged updates on the usual topics: work, family, career.
D recently got married to a girl he once dated in high school, has a fancy shmancy medical sales job, and recently bought a condo in a brand-new development.
I informed him that I finished graduate school and am now making a "career shift" i.e., I'm working at a coffee shop and am fucking broke. This resulting blow to my ego challenged Resolution #4. The outcome has not been determined.
Then comes the good part, the meat of today's title:
I reminded him that I went to school in Portland and no, that's not in Washington.
He follows up with, "Oh I get those two hippie states confused. You all are the same to me."
I beg your pardon?!?
D: "You aren't a hippie now, Senator, are you?"
Me: "Well, no, but maybe I should ask you what your definition of a hippie is first. I ride my bike and recycle. Does that make me a hippie?"
D: "Awww, I'm just teasin' you!"
Me: "Okaay, anyway, I would like to move into public/community science edu--"
D: "So this career change you're talking 'bout...you growing pot now? Har har har" ... "You come back to buy some shoes, Senator?" ... "What do you do in Or-ee-gone? Smoke pot all day?" ... "Wait, you still eat meat, right? Cuz we were meant to survive off cattle" ...
He proceeds to expound on every hippie remark with i'm just yanking your chain or i'm just poking fun at you.
This 19 min 38 sec conversation bluntly reminded me why I didn't care to keep in touch with friends from high school (save for one!) and reassured me that those little feelings of I don't fit in here and One of these things is not like the other that followed me throughout schooling were sound sentiments.
Saturday, December 22, 2007
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Christmas. Christmas. Christmas.
6 dogs
2 cats
3 horses
15 humans
14 sheep
23 cows
1 little human
Program stalled. Restart now.
2 cats
3 horses
15 humans
14 sheep
23 cows
1 little human
Sing with me! "Tennessee...(tennessee)..."
You are right. I haven't written in a while. I guess I didn't think I had anything of great importance to tell. I didn't want to gripe and complain about this and that, boring my audience to death (or annoying them to death), so I opted not to write at all. I apologize for the absence, but I have to say, it is nice to know that I've been missed!
Updates:
1. I'm in TN visiting the fam for about two weeks over the holidays. The one thing I'm looking forward to the most? Meeting my 4-month old niece, Lorelei, for the very first time. Ha, you thought I was going to say stalking Nicole Kidman. WRONG! That comes second.
I don't even know what she (my niece, not Nicole) sounds like. Or feels like. It is a strange existence to share one-eighth genetic material with another being (if based on random segregation, but let's not get distracted), yet fail to hold any basic knowledge about that person. I don't particularly like this separation from my sister or her daughter. Therefore, the little time I allotted myself to be in Tennessee, most of it will be spent with my sister and her family.
2. After two months of unemployment (and spending 90% of my savings), I found a job in Portland! More accurately, I was offered a job by both parties with which I interviewed. 2/2 = 100%. By my calculations, I went from zero to hero. WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOSH...I flew by you so fast you barely noticed.
Anyway, starting in the New Year (2008!?!? WTF?) I will be working mainly at one coffee shop and picking up shifts as needed at the other coffee shop. In the free time, I hope to volunteer at some (read: any) science-related organization hoping to get a foot in the door. Career Onward!
3. I have surpassed a personal goal of riding my bike each day: rain, sun or sleet. And I got the legs of steel to prove it. You know it! Wha-psssh!
4. I sold two articles of clothing that I knitted, a "nifty" scarf and "groovy" leg warmers. I mean, I am the greatest knitter alive as evidenced by my naming of Neurotrans-knitters (a spin on "neurotransmitters"...that's the resident science nerd within me stroking my ego) knitting group, so I don't see why people wouldn't want to buy my wool/cashmere/silk/cotton/alpaca masterpieces. This small taste of prosperity planted visions of grandiose wealth. At the rate I'm going, I could finish 5 projects a year. That's $20 a pop...so let's see, five multiplied by...um, 20...equals = KAJILLIONARE!
Resolutions?
1. Get a job. Oh wait...score!
2. Reconnect with friends. Christina & Bridget--I'm looking at you.
3. Stop interrupting people.
4. Be content with where I am in my life.
5. Be less judgmental.
Updates:
1. I'm in TN visiting the fam for about two weeks over the holidays. The one thing I'm looking forward to the most? Meeting my 4-month old niece, Lorelei, for the very first time. Ha, you thought I was going to say stalking Nicole Kidman. WRONG! That comes second.
I don't even know what she (my niece, not Nicole) sounds like. Or feels like. It is a strange existence to share one-eighth genetic material with another being (if based on random segregation, but let's not get distracted), yet fail to hold any basic knowledge about that person. I don't particularly like this separation from my sister or her daughter. Therefore, the little time I allotted myself to be in Tennessee, most of it will be spent with my sister and her family.
2. After two months of unemployment (and spending 90% of my savings), I found a job in Portland! More accurately, I was offered a job by both parties with which I interviewed. 2/2 = 100%. By my calculations, I went from zero to hero. WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOSH...I flew by you so fast you barely noticed.
Anyway, starting in the New Year (2008!?!? WTF?) I will be working mainly at one coffee shop and picking up shifts as needed at the other coffee shop. In the free time, I hope to volunteer at some (read: any) science-related organization hoping to get a foot in the door. Career Onward!
3. I have surpassed a personal goal of riding my bike each day: rain, sun or sleet. And I got the legs of steel to prove it. You know it! Wha-psssh!
4. I sold two articles of clothing that I knitted, a "nifty" scarf and "groovy" leg warmers. I mean, I am the greatest knitter alive as evidenced by my naming of Neurotrans-knitters (a spin on "neurotransmitters"...that's the resident science nerd within me stroking my ego) knitting group, so I don't see why people wouldn't want to buy my wool/cashmere/silk/cotton/alpaca masterpieces. This small taste of prosperity planted visions of grandiose wealth. At the rate I'm going, I could finish 5 projects a year. That's $20 a pop...so let's see, five multiplied by...um, 20...equals = KAJILLIONARE!
Resolutions?
1. Get a job. Oh wait...score!
2. Reconnect with friends. Christina & Bridget--I'm looking at you.
3. Stop interrupting people.
4. Be content with where I am in my life.
5. Be less judgmental.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
i·ro·ny |ˈī-rə-nē; ˈī(-ə)r-nē|
2 [def]:a state of affairs or an event that seems deliberately contrary to what one expects and is often amusing as a result.
In Dublin, I spent 3 months dodging traffic, weaving in and out of belligerent pedestrians, racing double-decker buses, and ignoring traffic laws not because it was fun (ok, it was a little fun), but because it was necessary. If I didn't do what I did, then I probably would have been hit. As a cyclist (especially one that rides a road bike and wears a messenger bag), you have been targeted by the likes of yellow taxis, green buses, and anyone that has some excess aggression. The Dublin drivers are used to bicycles NOT following traffic laws and therefore come to expect a bike passing you on the right or left, ignoring one-way signs, and splitting traffic. Irish cars and bicycles have evolved and coexisted by the unspoken motto: To each his own. A possible explanation of this riding etiquette is the paucity of cycle lanes or the lack of clear bicycle street permissions despite Dublin's rich history of bicycles. Therefore, our bipedal allies have adapted to riding on crowded streets and, in turn, the city has accepted the fact that bicycles are not "vehicles," and thus general traffic laws do not apply to them.
You probably think I am exaggerating. You probably think I am being extreme. That's fine. We'll talk again after you ride your bike in Dublin. Just beware of Night of the Living Dead reruns playing at your front door...every night of the week. Except these zombies have a more colorful vocabulary than just aaarrrgggh and zzzmmmmaaaahhh.
Enter Portland, Oregon, the Utopia of Bikes; one of the bike-friendliest and bike-progressive cities in the world alongside Amsterdam, Berlin, Copenhagen and Helsinki.
Tuesday I was pulled over by a cop while riding my bike. He wrote me a $250 ticket for rolling through a stop sign where the only other cars involved were the ones in front and behind me.
Now that's fucking irony.
In Dublin, I spent 3 months dodging traffic, weaving in and out of belligerent pedestrians, racing double-decker buses, and ignoring traffic laws not because it was fun (ok, it was a little fun), but because it was necessary. If I didn't do what I did, then I probably would have been hit. As a cyclist (especially one that rides a road bike and wears a messenger bag), you have been targeted by the likes of yellow taxis, green buses, and anyone that has some excess aggression. The Dublin drivers are used to bicycles NOT following traffic laws and therefore come to expect a bike passing you on the right or left, ignoring one-way signs, and splitting traffic. Irish cars and bicycles have evolved and coexisted by the unspoken motto: To each his own. A possible explanation of this riding etiquette is the paucity of cycle lanes or the lack of clear bicycle street permissions despite Dublin's rich history of bicycles. Therefore, our bipedal allies have adapted to riding on crowded streets and, in turn, the city has accepted the fact that bicycles are not "vehicles," and thus general traffic laws do not apply to them.
You probably think I am exaggerating. You probably think I am being extreme. That's fine. We'll talk again after you ride your bike in Dublin. Just beware of Night of the Living Dead reruns playing at your front door...every night of the week. Except these zombies have a more colorful vocabulary than just aaarrrgggh and zzzmmmmaaaahhh.
Enter Portland, Oregon, the Utopia of Bikes; one of the bike-friendliest and bike-progressive cities in the world alongside Amsterdam, Berlin, Copenhagen and Helsinki.
Tuesday I was pulled over by a cop while riding my bike. He wrote me a $250 ticket for rolling through a stop sign where the only other cars involved were the ones in front and behind me.
Now that's fucking irony.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
...baby's got a brand new 'do.
My friend Tessa takes pretty pictures.
Drank spiced apple cider and carved pumpkin of (what other than) the Portland cityscape? Check.
The soon-to-be demolished historic Virginia Cafe (est. 1922) on SW Park. Because we need more "mixed use buildings".
I heart thee.
Drank spiced apple cider and carved pumpkin of (what other than) the Portland cityscape? Check.
The soon-to-be demolished historic Virginia Cafe (est. 1922) on SW Park. Because we need more "mixed use buildings".
I heart thee.
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
Berlin: Zum Vierten Mal
Click on photos for larger view.
Brandenburger Tor. This gate marks the beginning of the famous street Unter den Linden (Under the Linden Trees).
Hackescher Markt. The disco is alive and well in Berlin (as is the punk scene-YAY!).
Staats Charlottenburg Bibliotek (Library)
The best mode of transportation featuring Schloß (Castle) Charlottenburg in the distance. During my last day in Berlin, I rented this bike and had the most fun in 3 hrs re-discovering the city than I've had in 2 months living in Dublin.
***
"Some things are best seen from the seat of a bicycle."
Brandenburger Tor. This gate marks the beginning of the famous street Unter den Linden (Under the Linden Trees).
Hackescher Markt. The disco is alive and well in Berlin (as is the punk scene-YAY!).
Staats Charlottenburg Bibliotek (Library)
The best mode of transportation featuring Schloß (Castle) Charlottenburg in the distance. During my last day in Berlin, I rented this bike and had the most fun in 3 hrs re-discovering the city than I've had in 2 months living in Dublin.
***
"Some things are best seen from the seat of a bicycle."
Berlin: Zum Dritten Mal
Schloß Sanssouci, Mausoleum
Former East Berlin. I had the chance to stay in West Berlin with my cousin and also near here with a friend whom I met at CMWC.
East Berlin Propaganda
Waiting for the S-Bahn, Alexanderplatz, 8:30am
Alexanderplatz, 8:31am
Holocaust Memorial with the famous Hotel Adlon in the background (pale green roof). My great grandmother spent her honeymoon in this hotel. It's been said that the current rate for a grand suite costs €18,000.
Lone Remnants of the Wall
The famous (and infamous) Potsdamer Platz
***
Fitting that today's randomly chosen Wikipedia article dealt with the Third Reich and Nacht der langen Messer.
Former East Berlin. I had the chance to stay in West Berlin with my cousin and also near here with a friend whom I met at CMWC.
East Berlin Propaganda
Waiting for the S-Bahn, Alexanderplatz, 8:30am
Alexanderplatz, 8:31am
Holocaust Memorial with the famous Hotel Adlon in the background (pale green roof). My great grandmother spent her honeymoon in this hotel. It's been said that the current rate for a grand suite costs €18,000.
Lone Remnants of the Wall
The famous (and infamous) Potsdamer Platz
***
Fitting that today's randomly chosen Wikipedia article dealt with the Third Reich and Nacht der langen Messer.
Berlin: Zum Zweiten Mal
Berlin Hauptbahnhof (Main Train Station)
The Reichstag, Seat of German Parliament. It was located directly next to the Berlin Wall.
Permanent Reminder of the Berlin Wall. This narrow strip of bricks bisects the city irrespective of erected buildings, recreation parks, major intersections, or foot paths. It is unsettling to watch cars zoom over this deathly landmark without a second glimpse, yet enlightening to see that people can adapt, times can change, and a city can move forward, but always with its history just at its feet.
Fredericks Straße, Statte Mitte (City Center)
Gendarmenmarkt, Französischer Dom (French Cathedral). Its counterpart, the Deutsches Dom, is located opposite the grand plaza.
Bundesplatz at Sunset. My cousin lives just off this station.
Staats Bibliothek am Unter den Linden (Berlin City Library)
Deutsches Dom on the Spree River (German Cathedral)
Drinnen Der Holocaust-Turm von des Jüdischen Museums Berlin/ Inside the Holocaust Tower of the Jewish Museum. An artist's interpretation of being trapped in the Holocaust; erected as a remembrance to the Holocaust survivors. This picture was taken from a far corner or the irregularly-shaped tower and looking up 50 feet toward the only source of light. It's dark, cold, and barren.
Leerstelle des Gedenkens "Gefallenes Laub"/ Memory Void "Fallen Leaves" exhibit. An artist's interpretation of the victims of the Holocaust. You actually walk on top of the metal faces which form an unsteady foundation across the grey concrete. As you walk, the faces hit one another making a desolate clinking sound and eerily echoing up through the narrow chamber.
East Berlin
Schloß Sanssouci (1745-47), former summer palace of Frederick the Great, King of Prussia, at Potsdam.
The Reichstag, Seat of German Parliament. It was located directly next to the Berlin Wall.
Permanent Reminder of the Berlin Wall. This narrow strip of bricks bisects the city irrespective of erected buildings, recreation parks, major intersections, or foot paths. It is unsettling to watch cars zoom over this deathly landmark without a second glimpse, yet enlightening to see that people can adapt, times can change, and a city can move forward, but always with its history just at its feet.
Fredericks Straße, Statte Mitte (City Center)
Gendarmenmarkt, Französischer Dom (French Cathedral). Its counterpart, the Deutsches Dom, is located opposite the grand plaza.
Bundesplatz at Sunset. My cousin lives just off this station.
Staats Bibliothek am Unter den Linden (Berlin City Library)
Deutsches Dom on the Spree River (German Cathedral)
Drinnen Der Holocaust-Turm von des Jüdischen Museums Berlin/ Inside the Holocaust Tower of the Jewish Museum. An artist's interpretation of being trapped in the Holocaust; erected as a remembrance to the Holocaust survivors. This picture was taken from a far corner or the irregularly-shaped tower and looking up 50 feet toward the only source of light. It's dark, cold, and barren.
Leerstelle des Gedenkens "Gefallenes Laub"/ Memory Void "Fallen Leaves" exhibit. An artist's interpretation of the victims of the Holocaust. You actually walk on top of the metal faces which form an unsteady foundation across the grey concrete. As you walk, the faces hit one another making a desolate clinking sound and eerily echoing up through the narrow chamber.
East Berlin
Schloß Sanssouci (1745-47), former summer palace of Frederick the Great, King of Prussia, at Potsdam.
Saturday, October 06, 2007
Guten Abend, Berlin!
This time I have a good excuse for the dearth of posts: I've been visiting my mother's side of the family in Berlin.
The last time I was in my Vaterland, I was wearing bright white keds with mis-matching brightly colored socks, tight-rolled jeans, a fake silk green windbreaker and a side ponytail (with scrunchi). I was...stylin'.
I just returned from a half-day trip to Potsdam to visit Schloß Sanssouci, the favorite home of Frederick the Great (the II). The castle is situated on top of a hill overlooking Potsdam with a grand fountain and rotunda at its feet and sweeping staircase leading up to the main entrance. The color of the castle alone is remarkable-sunshine yellow with gold accents. It was built true to the Baroque architecture of the 18th century; gods and goddesses caress every corner of the exterior and stand at attention on castle walls. It is quite impressive for a castle that is only one story high.
Ok, I really wish I could continue writing about my adventures in Berlin. Differences between Former east vs. New Age West Berlin, Brandenburger Tor, the remains of the wall, and the stunning architecture (and the Apfelstrüdel, Kirschstrüdel, Döner Kabobs and Milchreis!), but I must go and meet my family für eines echtes Deutsches Abendessen!
Viele Grüße
Tschüß!
The last time I was in my Vaterland, I was wearing bright white keds with mis-matching brightly colored socks, tight-rolled jeans, a fake silk green windbreaker and a side ponytail (with scrunchi). I was...stylin'.
I just returned from a half-day trip to Potsdam to visit Schloß Sanssouci, the favorite home of Frederick the Great (the II). The castle is situated on top of a hill overlooking Potsdam with a grand fountain and rotunda at its feet and sweeping staircase leading up to the main entrance. The color of the castle alone is remarkable-sunshine yellow with gold accents. It was built true to the Baroque architecture of the 18th century; gods and goddesses caress every corner of the exterior and stand at attention on castle walls. It is quite impressive for a castle that is only one story high.
Ok, I really wish I could continue writing about my adventures in Berlin. Differences between Former east vs. New Age West Berlin, Brandenburger Tor, the remains of the wall, and the stunning architecture (and the Apfelstrüdel, Kirschstrüdel, Döner Kabobs and Milchreis!), but I must go and meet my family für eines echtes Deutsches Abendessen!
Viele Grüße
Tschüß!
Monday, September 24, 2007
One more week.
Things That Make Me Feel All Warm and Fuzzy Inside
I have six days left of work.
Autumn, my favorite season, is beginning.
I arrive in Portland the night of the Midnight Mystery Ride.
I have two weeks in Ireland before my departure date to travel as I please--my hit list: castles, N. Ireland, castles, Sligo, and more castles as seen from the seat of my bicycle.
I will soon be able to spend less than E50 for two on dinner.
I will not having to answer the following 5 questions posed by complete strangers at work:
"Are you American?"
"Where are you from?"
"Why are you here?"
"Do you like Dublin?"
"How long are you staying?"
Vegan french toast at the Laurelthirst.
Cream Stout on Nitro on the back patio of the Lompoc.
YOGA (& the burn of sore muscles).
I hope to hear back from a science outreach position I applied for within Portland State.
and most importantly,
SMOOTH, WELL-PAVED STREETS THAT MAKE WEARING BIKE SHORTS PRACTICALLY OBSOLETE.
I have six days left of work.
Autumn, my favorite season, is beginning.
I arrive in Portland the night of the Midnight Mystery Ride.
I have two weeks in Ireland before my departure date to travel as I please--my hit list: castles, N. Ireland, castles, Sligo, and more castles as seen from the seat of my bicycle.
I will soon be able to spend less than E50 for two on dinner.
I will not having to answer the following 5 questions posed by complete strangers at work:
"Are you American?"
"Where are you from?"
"Why are you here?"
"Do you like Dublin?"
"How long are you staying?"
Vegan french toast at the Laurelthirst.
Cream Stout on Nitro on the back patio of the Lompoc.
YOGA (& the burn of sore muscles).
I hope to hear back from a science outreach position I applied for within Portland State.
and most importantly,
SMOOTH, WELL-PAVED STREETS THAT MAKE WEARING BIKE SHORTS PRACTICALLY OBSOLETE.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
...I went to Galway.
I went to Galway for 2 nights and 1 full day last week. This was the first time I have left Dublin city limits. Galway is the doting, effervescent and younger sister of the ignored, unloved, and disposable Dublin.
It was a short, but sweet holiday. We biked around the city and the quaint, untainted bayside town of Menlough, ate some good vegetarian fare. Discovered the local bakery and torte shop (I almost fainted staring at the delectable fruit and chocolate tortes--still not as tasty as Pix Patissiere in Portland), bought some Killarney Wool from the local yarn shop and complained about how a one-way bus ticket to Cliffs of Moher were E13.30 and the bike fee was E11 extra. No thank you. So much for touring the cliffs on the seat of a bicycle.
Short and sweet. Until I came down with the worst UTI in history. Maybe too much information there, but either way, I have never experienced such excruciating pain in my life. I started feeling something amuck on the train ride back to Galway on Friday afternoon. By the time the train arrived, 3 hours later, I could barely walk. I was scheduled to work at 5:30, and by the time I arrived at work, I was in tears, legs crossed at the knees, hunched over, and I couldn't be more than 10 ft away from a restroom.
Bad news bears.
Now it's 7PM and the pharmacies were closed (pharmacies are located on every corner, sometimes two right next to each other, and highlighted by a tacky flashing neon green cross). I found a late-night pharmacy across the street from the first pharmacy I went to (think: Starbuck's), walked in, told them my symptoms while doing the pee-pee dance. I may have mentioned I was passing blood (sorry, TMI) and she said she's calling an ambulance.
Now, to clarify, I wasn't in any deathly danger. In Ireland, with public hospitals, one has two options:
1) Be in a state of real (or in my case apparent danger), call ambulance and the ambulance ride is free, plus you get seen by a doctor at the hospital immediately upon arrival.
or
2) Get a cab to the nearest hospital, fill out paperwork, wait in waiting room anywhere from 4-12 hrs, and experience immense pain.
Pharmacy woman recommended option #1 and to keep the tear ducts flowing. Ambulance arrived. I almost peed in my pants because it had been 12 whole minutes since I went last time, was seen by a nurse within 15 min of arriving at the hospital. They loaded me up with painkillers and I spent the next 4 hrs waiting for the same nurse to write me a prescription for a bladder infection. After peeing in a cup, of course.
My first (and I believe only bill) arrived: 60 Euros. Not too shabby. I mean, they did check my blood pressure 3 times.
Two hospital visits both in Dublin. Coincidence or sign? I'm getting the f--- out while I can.
It was a short, but sweet holiday. We biked around the city and the quaint, untainted bayside town of Menlough, ate some good vegetarian fare. Discovered the local bakery and torte shop (I almost fainted staring at the delectable fruit and chocolate tortes--still not as tasty as Pix Patissiere in Portland), bought some Killarney Wool from the local yarn shop and complained about how a one-way bus ticket to Cliffs of Moher were E13.30 and the bike fee was E11 extra. No thank you. So much for touring the cliffs on the seat of a bicycle.
Short and sweet. Until I came down with the worst UTI in history. Maybe too much information there, but either way, I have never experienced such excruciating pain in my life. I started feeling something amuck on the train ride back to Galway on Friday afternoon. By the time the train arrived, 3 hours later, I could barely walk. I was scheduled to work at 5:30, and by the time I arrived at work, I was in tears, legs crossed at the knees, hunched over, and I couldn't be more than 10 ft away from a restroom.
Bad news bears.
Now it's 7PM and the pharmacies were closed (pharmacies are located on every corner, sometimes two right next to each other, and highlighted by a tacky flashing neon green cross). I found a late-night pharmacy across the street from the first pharmacy I went to (think: Starbuck's), walked in, told them my symptoms while doing the pee-pee dance. I may have mentioned I was passing blood (sorry, TMI) and she said she's calling an ambulance.
Now, to clarify, I wasn't in any deathly danger. In Ireland, with public hospitals, one has two options:
1) Be in a state of real (or in my case apparent danger), call ambulance and the ambulance ride is free, plus you get seen by a doctor at the hospital immediately upon arrival.
or
2) Get a cab to the nearest hospital, fill out paperwork, wait in waiting room anywhere from 4-12 hrs, and experience immense pain.
Pharmacy woman recommended option #1 and to keep the tear ducts flowing. Ambulance arrived. I almost peed in my pants because it had been 12 whole minutes since I went last time, was seen by a nurse within 15 min of arriving at the hospital. They loaded me up with painkillers and I spent the next 4 hrs waiting for the same nurse to write me a prescription for a bladder infection. After peeing in a cup, of course.
My first (and I believe only bill) arrived: 60 Euros. Not too shabby. I mean, they did check my blood pressure 3 times.
Two hospital visits both in Dublin. Coincidence or sign? I'm getting the f--- out while I can.
Monday, September 10, 2007
...I found Me.
I am moving home.
Home.
I cannot wait to see you, friends and Portland, October 12.
Every thing you have ever heard people say is true.
"Home is where the heart is."
"You never know until you try."
"Have no regrets."
"Shit happens."
"You never know what you had until you left."
"Sometimes you need to leave in order to find yourself."
***
I bid farewell to the lost Dublin; the rich and lively culture of the capital city has been replaced by grandiose capitalism and debauchery. Rapid increase in economy, markedly visible by enumerable cranes dotting the Dublin skyline, has pushed culture to the brink of extinction and opened the floodgates for vast exploitation of cheap Eastern European labor. This is not the Dublin I remember. This is not the Dublin I have read about in history books and watched in documentaries. That Dublin is gone. I may have caught a glimpse of it in 2002, but even in five short years Dublin has expanded, fresh railway tracks have been lain, and the population has expanded past capacity.
I miss you, Old Dublin, but at least I have my Seamus Heaney's, James Joyce's and Patrick Kavanagh's to remind me of your bronze-stained allure and the mystery shrouded in early morning fog just around the alley bend.
Home.
I cannot wait to see you, friends and Portland, October 12.
Every thing you have ever heard people say is true.
"Home is where the heart is."
"You never know until you try."
"Have no regrets."
"Shit happens."
"You never know what you had until you left."
"Sometimes you need to leave in order to find yourself."
***
I bid farewell to the lost Dublin; the rich and lively culture of the capital city has been replaced by grandiose capitalism and debauchery. Rapid increase in economy, markedly visible by enumerable cranes dotting the Dublin skyline, has pushed culture to the brink of extinction and opened the floodgates for vast exploitation of cheap Eastern European labor. This is not the Dublin I remember. This is not the Dublin I have read about in history books and watched in documentaries. That Dublin is gone. I may have caught a glimpse of it in 2002, but even in five short years Dublin has expanded, fresh railway tracks have been lain, and the population has expanded past capacity.
I miss you, Old Dublin, but at least I have my Seamus Heaney's, James Joyce's and Patrick Kavanagh's to remind me of your bronze-stained allure and the mystery shrouded in early morning fog just around the alley bend.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Just pictures.
Carickmacross countryside is beautiful...
...wouldn't you agree, Jaguar Paw (Purebed Blue Merle Great Dane)?
However, the Irish language can be a bit superfluous...
...and tends to cause some confusion.
But, in the end there is always Guinness...
...or the Oyster Stout from The Porter House microbrewery if you prefer, to remind you to...
...rock on...
...and enjoy the fleeting sun.
...wouldn't you agree, Jaguar Paw (Purebed Blue Merle Great Dane)?
However, the Irish language can be a bit superfluous...
...and tends to cause some confusion.
But, in the end there is always Guinness...
...or the Oyster Stout from The Porter House microbrewery if you prefer, to remind you to...
...rock on...
...and enjoy the fleeting sun.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
...I write music reviews.
OK, I admit, that was a prescient statement. I haven't actually written a music review yet, but let's just say that the meeting with Mr. Journalist Man was quite fruitful.
M: So, if you're interested, I could send you up to Belfast this Saturday to see LCD Soundsystem (read: extremely influential and well-known musicians put together own two-piece band) play live, all expensives paid including train and hotel. In return, you could write a 100-word review for me and I'll publish it. What do you think?
kmac: YES I'm interested! Only one thing...I have to work Saturday.
M: Hmmm, and you don't feel sick at all? Maybe a little cough, a bit of headache? *cough cough*
kmac: Now that you mention it, I do feel a little sick.
I talked to the coolest manager at the restaurant and she said that she would absolutely give me the day off (I told her the truth) and that she would even take my shift, but that she was going to the all-weekend music festival Electric Picnic in County Laios ("Leesh"), where Bjork and Beastie Boys were headlining. If she didn't go, her boyfriend would kill her. Let's just say tickets were hard to come by and the price of absence is death.
Oh well. M. said that if there was ever any show I wanted to go to, I would just need to let him know in advance and he'd get tickets. To return to the favor, I'd help him out and write the gig review.
Step 1: Get foot in door.
Step 2. Get other food in door.
Step 3: Secure door tightly behind you so that no other free-loader can piggyback on your good fortune.
Step 4: Laugh maniacally and rub palms together.
M: So, if you're interested, I could send you up to Belfast this Saturday to see LCD Soundsystem (read: extremely influential and well-known musicians put together own two-piece band) play live, all expensives paid including train and hotel. In return, you could write a 100-word review for me and I'll publish it. What do you think?
kmac: YES I'm interested! Only one thing...I have to work Saturday.
M: Hmmm, and you don't feel sick at all? Maybe a little cough, a bit of headache? *cough cough*
kmac: Now that you mention it, I do feel a little sick.
I talked to the coolest manager at the restaurant and she said that she would absolutely give me the day off (I told her the truth) and that she would even take my shift, but that she was going to the all-weekend music festival Electric Picnic in County Laios ("Leesh"), where Bjork and Beastie Boys were headlining. If she didn't go, her boyfriend would kill her. Let's just say tickets were hard to come by and the price of absence is death.
Oh well. M. said that if there was ever any show I wanted to go to, I would just need to let him know in advance and he'd get tickets. To return to the favor, I'd help him out and write the gig review.
Step 1: Get foot in door.
Step 2. Get other food in door.
Step 3: Secure door tightly behind you so that no other free-loader can piggyback on your good fortune.
Step 4: Laugh maniacally and rub palms together.
Saturday, August 25, 2007
...I listened to live (but not really good) music.
I went into work today and it was empty, which is pretty atypical for a Saturday brunch/lunch. So, I left work after 3 hours of prep and decided to spend some time updating my blog, before I return to work for the dinner shift.
***
You never know who you are going to meet when you walk into a pub by yourself. Last night, I went to see "the band" play a gig at Eamon Doran's in Temple Bar. It was a fairly small gathering, much smaller than "the band" had hoped, but it is only their first time touring through Ireland and the UK. I sat down with my Bulmer's Light (the low-cal alternative to the Bulmer's Original cider...you can make fun of me later), eager and a bit nervous to hear the band play live.
I struck up a conversation (and by conversation I mean screaming over the blaring music) with the 40-something-year-old gentleman next to me.
"What's up with the milk?" as I gestured toward the lone and unopened 500 mL Avalon Full Milk canister sitting amidst discarded beer bottles and pint glasses.
"It probably goes along with the honey," as he gestures toward the recently purchased jar of Pure Irish honey standing but a foot away from the milk. "It is the land of milk and honey."
So it is.
"Hi, my name is Martin. That was a pretty good half-scream half-sign language conversation we just had. So, do you know these guys?" Points to the four dudes on stage.
"I just met them a week ago when they came into the restaurant where I work."
"What do you think of them?"
"Ehh, I think they have potential but it seems like they are still searching for the sound. What about you?"
"Well, I write a column covering indie rock and their manager approached me about writing a review. Where are you from anyway?"
"Portland, OR."
"OHHHHH! THE SHINS! DANDY WARHOLS! THE DECEMBERISTS! I love them!" Martin then began the do-you-know-[insert good yet unknown band name here]-routine, to which I had to regretfully shake my head.
"So, I have to ask...how did you get to write about indie rock bands? That sounds like a prime job."
"Well, I made it for myself. As a journalist, I used to cover politics for The Times (London-based, not NYT), but after so many years one gets bored. So I joined a smaller label and told them that they need a music section and that I'd write it for them. I said I'd do it for free at first and if he liked it, then they could pay me later. It gave me the freedom to do what I want and I didn't have much to lose. The editor said yes and that was that."
"That's wonderful. I was interested in writing about recent discoveries in science, with the aim of making science more accessible to the general public, but it's a cut-throat world out there for science writers and I wasn't sure how to get started."
"Wellllll, I know this guy who writes for the science section in London...why don't you write up a story, send it to me, I'll send it to him, and if he accepts it, you'll get 250 quid. Fair enough?"
Emphatic yes.
You just never know who you are going to meet in the land of milk and honey.
***
You never know who you are going to meet when you walk into a pub by yourself. Last night, I went to see "the band" play a gig at Eamon Doran's in Temple Bar. It was a fairly small gathering, much smaller than "the band" had hoped, but it is only their first time touring through Ireland and the UK. I sat down with my Bulmer's Light (the low-cal alternative to the Bulmer's Original cider...you can make fun of me later), eager and a bit nervous to hear the band play live.
I struck up a conversation (and by conversation I mean screaming over the blaring music) with the 40-something-year-old gentleman next to me.
"What's up with the milk?" as I gestured toward the lone and unopened 500 mL Avalon Full Milk canister sitting amidst discarded beer bottles and pint glasses.
"It probably goes along with the honey," as he gestures toward the recently purchased jar of Pure Irish honey standing but a foot away from the milk. "It is the land of milk and honey."
So it is.
"Hi, my name is Martin. That was a pretty good half-scream half-sign language conversation we just had. So, do you know these guys?" Points to the four dudes on stage.
"I just met them a week ago when they came into the restaurant where I work."
"What do you think of them?"
"Ehh, I think they have potential but it seems like they are still searching for the sound. What about you?"
"Well, I write a column covering indie rock and their manager approached me about writing a review. Where are you from anyway?"
"Portland, OR."
"OHHHHH! THE SHINS! DANDY WARHOLS! THE DECEMBERISTS! I love them!" Martin then began the do-you-know-[insert good yet unknown band name here]-routine, to which I had to regretfully shake my head.
"So, I have to ask...how did you get to write about indie rock bands? That sounds like a prime job."
"Well, I made it for myself. As a journalist, I used to cover politics for The Times (London-based, not NYT), but after so many years one gets bored. So I joined a smaller label and told them that they need a music section and that I'd write it for them. I said I'd do it for free at first and if he liked it, then they could pay me later. It gave me the freedom to do what I want and I didn't have much to lose. The editor said yes and that was that."
"That's wonderful. I was interested in writing about recent discoveries in science, with the aim of making science more accessible to the general public, but it's a cut-throat world out there for science writers and I wasn't sure how to get started."
"Wellllll, I know this guy who writes for the science section in London...why don't you write up a story, send it to me, I'll send it to him, and if he accepts it, you'll get 250 quid. Fair enough?"
Emphatic yes.
You just never know who you are going to meet in the land of milk and honey.
I'M AN AUNT!
Lorelei Ann was born at 1:15am on August 24th weighing in at 6 lbs and 15 oz.
She's just a lil' guy!
I received an email from my sister on August 23th talking about how she went skeet shooting in a remote location in North Carolina, joking that it may prompt the baby to come. Then, I wake up the next morning to a text from my Mom saying that Lorelei has arrived.
That baby don't mess around.
Both Mom and Baby are doing fine. Lorelei is nursing already, so the first hurdle has been surpassed.
**CONGRATULATIONS MO AND GEORGE!!!**
...I fell flat on my face.
...in front of the entire restaurant. Twice.
When you combine slick floors with wet food and rubber soles in a high-stress situation, it was only a matter of time before I ate shit. And I did.
And the food went everywhere.
And it was embarrassing.
And I burned my hand.
On the fillet steak cooked medium-rare with a side of mashed potatoes.
And (no surprise here) I started to cry.
And then I burned my hand again and cursed the gods for not providing me with harder callouses. And then I cried some more.
And then I got over it because when you trip in front of a party of 25 celebrating a gentleman's retirement party, you may acquire the party's sympathy. Sympathy, in restaurant-speak, means money.
And then I retracted my curse of the gods because if you're gonna make a fool of yourself, at least do it in front of 25 drunk men who want to help you up.
When you combine slick floors with wet food and rubber soles in a high-stress situation, it was only a matter of time before I ate shit. And I did.
And the food went everywhere.
And it was embarrassing.
And I burned my hand.
On the fillet steak cooked medium-rare with a side of mashed potatoes.
And (no surprise here) I started to cry.
And then I burned my hand again and cursed the gods for not providing me with harder callouses. And then I cried some more.
And then I got over it because when you trip in front of a party of 25 celebrating a gentleman's retirement party, you may acquire the party's sympathy. Sympathy, in restaurant-speak, means money.
And then I retracted my curse of the gods because if you're gonna make a fool of yourself, at least do it in front of 25 drunk men who want to help you up.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
...I serve gourmet food.
Well, I got the job.
And, this is what I've learned so far:
1. When someone says, "Excuse me, miss, do you have any cocktail sticks?" You should not misunderstand them thinking they were asking for cocktails.
"No, I'm sorry. We don't have hard liquor."
[Bemused expression on Business Man #1's face.]
"Yes, I know. Sometimes I feel the same way when you just need a cocktail! Hey, I don't care what you do on your lunch hour, youknowwhatI'msayin'?"
[Bemusement spreads to Business Man #2, #3, and #4's faces.]
"Hell, I'm from America. Anything goes! Woo!"
BM #2, "No no no, not cocktails. Cocktail sticks. You know, for teeth."
"Oh! Ohhhh...you mean toothpicks. Yes, I'll get them."
2. I'm supposed to have the preexisting knowledge of what a typical Irish breakfast entails. I have no f-ing clue.
3. When you order the side vegetable of the day with your "bangers and mash", you may get a side of potato with your mashed potatoes. True story.
4. The Irish have a funny way of pronouncing words.
Fillet = "Fill- et" versus "Fill- ay"
You try not laughing when a distinguished gentlemen with a rogue accent orders the baked salmon fill-et. It's like the President of the United States ordering the flaming yam instead of the filet mignon. Oh wait, that's another true story.
***
I enjoy waitressing. Working in a restaurant feeds off of my attention to detail and perfectionism. Knife and fork must be aligned...bottom edge of napkin must hit 1/8 mark of silverware..yes, yes...so perrrrrfect and shiny.
It also enables me to rejoice in the state of Immediate Gratification.
Polish bin of silverware. How many spoons/forks/knives can I polish at once? Goal identified. Goal reached. Bar raised. Bin empty.
Satisfaction.
Working in a restaurant is also a welcome distraction from the incessant diatribe occuring between my ears. My emotions oscillate hour to hour about what I should do. Stay in Dublin or move back to Portland.
Some say, stop thinking and start living. You overanalyze. (Guilty. Clearly.)
Others say, just stick it out. It will be worth it. Trust me.
Then there are those that say, well if you are that unhappy then just come home.
And my favorite because I think it's closest to the truth, sometimes it's the journey that provides the greatest lessons, not the destination itself.
My current (and by current I mean my thought at 17:05:43) plan of action is to ignore your advice and do what I want. Hence, the break from blogging. I wanted to spare my beloved audience the pain and suffering of listening to my inner dialogue. Day after day after day...God, Kmac, get a life!
And, this is what I've learned so far:
1. When someone says, "Excuse me, miss, do you have any cocktail sticks?" You should not misunderstand them thinking they were asking for cocktails.
"No, I'm sorry. We don't have hard liquor."
[Bemused expression on Business Man #1's face.]
"Yes, I know. Sometimes I feel the same way when you just need a cocktail! Hey, I don't care what you do on your lunch hour, youknowwhatI'msayin'?"
[Bemusement spreads to Business Man #2, #3, and #4's faces.]
"Hell, I'm from America. Anything goes! Woo!"
BM #2, "No no no, not cocktails. Cocktail sticks. You know, for teeth."
"Oh! Ohhhh...you mean toothpicks. Yes, I'll get them."
2. I'm supposed to have the preexisting knowledge of what a typical Irish breakfast entails. I have no f-ing clue.
3. When you order the side vegetable of the day with your "bangers and mash", you may get a side of potato with your mashed potatoes. True story.
4. The Irish have a funny way of pronouncing words.
Fillet = "Fill- et" versus "Fill- ay"
You try not laughing when a distinguished gentlemen with a rogue accent orders the baked salmon fill-et. It's like the President of the United States ordering the flaming yam instead of the filet mignon. Oh wait, that's another true story.
***
I enjoy waitressing. Working in a restaurant feeds off of my attention to detail and perfectionism. Knife and fork must be aligned...bottom edge of napkin must hit 1/8 mark of silverware..yes, yes...so perrrrrfect and shiny.
It also enables me to rejoice in the state of Immediate Gratification.
Polish bin of silverware. How many spoons/forks/knives can I polish at once? Goal identified. Goal reached. Bar raised. Bin empty.
Satisfaction.
Working in a restaurant is also a welcome distraction from the incessant diatribe occuring between my ears. My emotions oscillate hour to hour about what I should do. Stay in Dublin or move back to Portland.
Some say, stop thinking and start living. You overanalyze. (Guilty. Clearly.)
Others say, just stick it out. It will be worth it. Trust me.
Then there are those that say, well if you are that unhappy then just come home.
And my favorite because I think it's closest to the truth, sometimes it's the journey that provides the greatest lessons, not the destination itself.
My current (and by current I mean my thought at 17:05:43) plan of action is to ignore your advice and do what I want. Hence, the break from blogging. I wanted to spare my beloved audience the pain and suffering of listening to my inner dialogue. Day after day after day...God, Kmac, get a life!
Saturday, August 11, 2007
...I made up a resume.
I didn't actually "make up" my resume as in putting false data on a sheet of paper, but I did stretch the truth a little bit.
Hey, don't look at me, I'm just following the advice of every other foreigner trying to find a job in this city. From what I was told, if you are foreign, smarter than a monkey, approachable, confident and have at least once worked in a restuarant, then you should get a job.
Foreign? Yes.
Smarter than a monkey? I'd like to think so.
Confident? 91% of the time.
Previous restaurant experience? Technically.
In any case, my previous restaurant experience some 10 years ago where I worked as a hostess for 3 months might have been enough to get me a job (that's where my 91% confidence comes in) as a server in a fancy shmancy place on Dame Street in the heart of City Centre. That's great news.
Irish accent: Hello, very nice to meet...er...Kris-teeeeeen, is it? Yes, right. Very impressive schooling...I see you worked at an O'Charley's Restaurant? That's grand, that's grand. Could you tell me more about that?
Me: Sure, I worked as a hostess where my duties included greeting customers and showing them their table, getting drink orders [not really] and prepping the tables [sometimes]. We used the computerized system [not true. It was more like a crayon and wax paper often times covered with doodles] to figure out which tables were open. Then, I would seat the table in a section that wouldn't overload the current server.
Irish accent: Oh, right right. So you are familiar with computers and touchscreens?
Me: Yes.
Definitely smarter than a monkey.
I go in tomorrow at noon for a practice/training shift. Afterward, I assume I am either offered or declined the position. If I do get the position, then I would be making decent money including tips averaging 80-100 Euros a night. Don't ask me where the tips come in (no, it is not that kind of establishment) because I didn't think one tipped in Ireland. But, whatever, I'm not arguing with the manager. I'll put on my smile and chat with the business lunch crowd regulars if in the end I am rewarded with cold hard traveling money...and paying-off-student-loan money. But we do not mention such unspeakables, my precious.
Hey, don't look at me, I'm just following the advice of every other foreigner trying to find a job in this city. From what I was told, if you are foreign, smarter than a monkey, approachable, confident and have at least once worked in a restuarant, then you should get a job.
Foreign? Yes.
Smarter than a monkey? I'd like to think so.
Confident? 91% of the time.
Previous restaurant experience? Technically.
In any case, my previous restaurant experience some 10 years ago where I worked as a hostess for 3 months might have been enough to get me a job (that's where my 91% confidence comes in) as a server in a fancy shmancy place on Dame Street in the heart of City Centre. That's great news.
Irish accent: Hello, very nice to meet...er...Kris-teeeeeen, is it? Yes, right. Very impressive schooling...I see you worked at an O'Charley's Restaurant? That's grand, that's grand. Could you tell me more about that?
Me: Sure, I worked as a hostess where my duties included greeting customers and showing them their table, getting drink orders [not really] and prepping the tables [sometimes]. We used the computerized system [not true. It was more like a crayon and wax paper often times covered with doodles] to figure out which tables were open. Then, I would seat the table in a section that wouldn't overload the current server.
Irish accent: Oh, right right. So you are familiar with computers and touchscreens?
Me: Yes.
Definitely smarter than a monkey.
I go in tomorrow at noon for a practice/training shift. Afterward, I assume I am either offered or declined the position. If I do get the position, then I would be making decent money including tips averaging 80-100 Euros a night. Don't ask me where the tips come in (no, it is not that kind of establishment) because I didn't think one tipped in Ireland. But, whatever, I'm not arguing with the manager. I'll put on my smile and chat with the business lunch crowd regulars if in the end I am rewarded with cold hard traveling money...and paying-off-student-loan money. But we do not mention such unspeakables, my precious.
Friday, August 10, 2007
nth degree
I read the digital clock on my laptop. 3:18.
3:18 AM PST. Portland time.
No, I have not changed my laptop timezone yet because, frankly, I don't want to. It still makes me feel connected to home. Home.
I am sure many of you must be sick of my bitching and moaning about being homesick. If I were you, I might be sick of me, too, so no hard feelings. In my defense, when I started this blog I never placed any parameters on what topics I could or could not pontificate to the nth degree. That is the righteous beauty of an online journal: I get to spew out random thoughts on cyberspace and you have the luxury of reading it. Or not. I, however, maintain the benefit of clearing my head, knowing that at least one person (thanks Mom) sympathizes with me.
So here it continues:
The goal of today is to enter one coffeeshop and ask for a job. Once I've completed my goal, it will be easier to repeat the action again in a second or third coffeeshop. Much like how Parkinson's Disease afflicts the ability to initiate movement, given a reason to move (like stepping over an obstacle to avoid tripping) and patients can continue walking on their own accord. Given a reason to find a job (i.e., no money), but secretly scared of rejection (because seriously, how have I gone THIS long without knowing how to make a cup of coffee), once movement has been initiated, it should be easier to continue the task of job-hunting.
In conjunction with seeking a "time-filler" job, I have also submitted my CV and cover letter to the Science Gallery, an interactive museum dedicated to presenting the world of science in an engaging and comprehensive format for all ages.
www.sciencegallery.org
Perfect, I know. There is also a similar position open at OMSI in Portland. Stay away you job-snatching scientists!
Now the burning question:
Do I work some menial job just to get cash, then go travel for 5 weeks with a special someone before returning home and starting the job search on familar and well-suited soil...
or...
do I start the job search in an unfamiliar, less-suiting city, but with the added challenge and glory of self-education?
3:18 AM PST. Portland time.
No, I have not changed my laptop timezone yet because, frankly, I don't want to. It still makes me feel connected to home. Home.
I am sure many of you must be sick of my bitching and moaning about being homesick. If I were you, I might be sick of me, too, so no hard feelings. In my defense, when I started this blog I never placed any parameters on what topics I could or could not pontificate to the nth degree. That is the righteous beauty of an online journal: I get to spew out random thoughts on cyberspace and you have the luxury of reading it. Or not. I, however, maintain the benefit of clearing my head, knowing that at least one person (thanks Mom) sympathizes with me.
So here it continues:
The goal of today is to enter one coffeeshop and ask for a job. Once I've completed my goal, it will be easier to repeat the action again in a second or third coffeeshop. Much like how Parkinson's Disease afflicts the ability to initiate movement, given a reason to move (like stepping over an obstacle to avoid tripping) and patients can continue walking on their own accord. Given a reason to find a job (i.e., no money), but secretly scared of rejection (because seriously, how have I gone THIS long without knowing how to make a cup of coffee), once movement has been initiated, it should be easier to continue the task of job-hunting.
In conjunction with seeking a "time-filler" job, I have also submitted my CV and cover letter to the Science Gallery, an interactive museum dedicated to presenting the world of science in an engaging and comprehensive format for all ages.
www.sciencegallery.org
Perfect, I know. There is also a similar position open at OMSI in Portland. Stay away you job-snatching scientists!
Now the burning question:
Do I work some menial job just to get cash, then go travel for 5 weeks with a special someone before returning home and starting the job search on familar and well-suited soil...
or...
do I start the job search in an unfamiliar, less-suiting city, but with the added challenge and glory of self-education?
Thursday, August 09, 2007
...I have an O.S.M.
O.S.M. stands for “Oh Shit” Moment. I have provided two examples:
OSM #1
Dear audience, I haven’t been completely honest with you. I left out some juicy gossip that happened to me during my first day in Dublin. Gossip sells and so does humiliation at the author’s expense, so here it is.
I arrived in Dublin by bus from Carickmacross. Plan: seek out cycle messengers. I don’t know where I’m going, but I know that if I ride my bike to the junction of St. Stephen’s Green and Grafton Street, I should be met by cycle messengers on the lookout for lost souls. So, I take off heading south on O’Connell Street, repeatedly telling myself to, “Stay left, left, left, left, right—NO! I mean left! Dammit!” It is a war zone on the streets of Dublin. Lesson #1: Buses aim for bikes. Lesson #2: Taxis aim for bikes. Lesson #3: Pedestrians don’t follow Walk/Don’t Walk instructions. Lessons 1-3 were learned within the first three suspenseful minutes.
I make it to Grafton Street, one of the few pedestrian only streets in Dublin, unharmed and blood pounding. I maneuvered my way down Grafton Street on bike narrowly missing street performers, baby carriages, flower stands, and cell phone texters. Bonus points if I didn’t have to take my foot of the pedals. As promised, a messenger tells us where to go: “We’re all hanging out by the southeast entrance to the park. You can’t miss us.”
I arrive to this:
Moments after taking this picture, I had my first OSM of the trip.
In the midst of eating an overripe banana, who do I see walking toward my general direction to greet a fellow messenger?
My ex-fiance.
Whom I haven’t spoken to in two years.
“Oh shit, I don’t believe this.” The banana falls to the concrete.
The symbolism of the nature of our encounter is not lost on me. I see him standing before me in the city where I first ended our relationship five years ago after only 1 ½ months of dating because I wanted to be independent and free to experience Dublin during my study abroad program. One week after we broke up, I had a near-death accident, the physiological and psychological stress and fright of which brought me to seek comfort in his strength, comfort, and shelter. We remained together for the rest of college, got engaged, and then moved to Portland so that I could begin graduate school. Not a year after we moved, our relationship faltered. Ultimately, I believe that it had simply run its course and our lives were diverging. I was on track with my career (or so I thought. See Blog entry #1 for history), he was struggling (or so it seemed at the time). Normally, dedicated couples can work through this but for one reason or another we didn’t. The breakup was messy. I admit that I was awful at times and there were things that I would have done differently. But, in the moment, I felt it was necessary for me to be direct and unabashedly honest. Now, after all the reasons I gave why we should break up (You don’t know what you want to do with your life. I can’t solve all your problems for you. We are going separate ways.), we meet again only to discover that we share similar passions. However, now the tables are reversed. He is happy, confident, and secure with his life choices. I am alone, unsure and insecure.
I walk up to him in disbelief. He sees me, his jaw falls to the floor. He puts his hands on his face à la “Home Alone” and says, “Oh. Shit. I don’t believe this.”
We hug. We chat. We make small talk. We check out each other’s bikes. We show off our tattoos. I explain to him exactly what I’m doing in Dublin. I already know why he is there. He works as a bike messenger in LA and is thus competing in the world championships. Then we go our separate ways. I speak to him a few more times, and each time I couldn’t help but imagine him silently laughing at the irony of our chance encounter.
OSM #2
I wake up. Stare at the ceiling.
Look out the window without rising from bed.
I have no idea what time it is. I never replaced my broken watch and therefore live in a state of perpetual timelessness.
I guess the time to be 9:30. I don’t bother checking if I’m right. What do to, what to do. I have no job, no home. I don’t know how long my money will last. I keep adding more items on my To Do list without crossing any off. I miss my friends, family, and Portland. I question my reasons for coming to Ireland.
What am I seeking? What do I want to discover? Why did I leave Portland, the only city with which I’ve felt such a strong connection? I could have found another job, a cheaper apartment in Portland. I had my friends, my local hangouts, my yoga studio, my knitting group, my hobbies, & my creature comforts. Perhaps I didn’t have to leave it all behind.
Oh shit. What. Am. I. Doing. Here?
I knew this OSM would come. Hell, you knew this moment would come. It was unavoidable. The challenge now is to acknowledge its presence and move on. This is where your inner strength comes into play. This is where you learn about yourself, your limitations, your expectations, and your goals.
Acknowledge. Move on.
This is why you came here.
OSM #1
Dear audience, I haven’t been completely honest with you. I left out some juicy gossip that happened to me during my first day in Dublin. Gossip sells and so does humiliation at the author’s expense, so here it is.
I arrived in Dublin by bus from Carickmacross. Plan: seek out cycle messengers. I don’t know where I’m going, but I know that if I ride my bike to the junction of St. Stephen’s Green and Grafton Street, I should be met by cycle messengers on the lookout for lost souls. So, I take off heading south on O’Connell Street, repeatedly telling myself to, “Stay left, left, left, left, right—NO! I mean left! Dammit!” It is a war zone on the streets of Dublin. Lesson #1: Buses aim for bikes. Lesson #2: Taxis aim for bikes. Lesson #3: Pedestrians don’t follow Walk/Don’t Walk instructions. Lessons 1-3 were learned within the first three suspenseful minutes.
I make it to Grafton Street, one of the few pedestrian only streets in Dublin, unharmed and blood pounding. I maneuvered my way down Grafton Street on bike narrowly missing street performers, baby carriages, flower stands, and cell phone texters. Bonus points if I didn’t have to take my foot of the pedals. As promised, a messenger tells us where to go: “We’re all hanging out by the southeast entrance to the park. You can’t miss us.”
I arrive to this:
Moments after taking this picture, I had my first OSM of the trip.
In the midst of eating an overripe banana, who do I see walking toward my general direction to greet a fellow messenger?
My ex-fiance.
Whom I haven’t spoken to in two years.
“Oh shit, I don’t believe this.” The banana falls to the concrete.
The symbolism of the nature of our encounter is not lost on me. I see him standing before me in the city where I first ended our relationship five years ago after only 1 ½ months of dating because I wanted to be independent and free to experience Dublin during my study abroad program. One week after we broke up, I had a near-death accident, the physiological and psychological stress and fright of which brought me to seek comfort in his strength, comfort, and shelter. We remained together for the rest of college, got engaged, and then moved to Portland so that I could begin graduate school. Not a year after we moved, our relationship faltered. Ultimately, I believe that it had simply run its course and our lives were diverging. I was on track with my career (or so I thought. See Blog entry #1 for history), he was struggling (or so it seemed at the time). Normally, dedicated couples can work through this but for one reason or another we didn’t. The breakup was messy. I admit that I was awful at times and there were things that I would have done differently. But, in the moment, I felt it was necessary for me to be direct and unabashedly honest. Now, after all the reasons I gave why we should break up (You don’t know what you want to do with your life. I can’t solve all your problems for you. We are going separate ways.), we meet again only to discover that we share similar passions. However, now the tables are reversed. He is happy, confident, and secure with his life choices. I am alone, unsure and insecure.
I walk up to him in disbelief. He sees me, his jaw falls to the floor. He puts his hands on his face à la “Home Alone” and says, “Oh. Shit. I don’t believe this.”
We hug. We chat. We make small talk. We check out each other’s bikes. We show off our tattoos. I explain to him exactly what I’m doing in Dublin. I already know why he is there. He works as a bike messenger in LA and is thus competing in the world championships. Then we go our separate ways. I speak to him a few more times, and each time I couldn’t help but imagine him silently laughing at the irony of our chance encounter.
OSM #2
I wake up. Stare at the ceiling.
Look out the window without rising from bed.
I have no idea what time it is. I never replaced my broken watch and therefore live in a state of perpetual timelessness.
I guess the time to be 9:30. I don’t bother checking if I’m right. What do to, what to do. I have no job, no home. I don’t know how long my money will last. I keep adding more items on my To Do list without crossing any off. I miss my friends, family, and Portland. I question my reasons for coming to Ireland.
What am I seeking? What do I want to discover? Why did I leave Portland, the only city with which I’ve felt such a strong connection? I could have found another job, a cheaper apartment in Portland. I had my friends, my local hangouts, my yoga studio, my knitting group, my hobbies, & my creature comforts. Perhaps I didn’t have to leave it all behind.
Oh shit. What. Am. I. Doing. Here?
I knew this OSM would come. Hell, you knew this moment would come. It was unavoidable. The challenge now is to acknowledge its presence and move on. This is where your inner strength comes into play. This is where you learn about yourself, your limitations, your expectations, and your goals.
Acknowledge. Move on.
This is why you came here.
Monday, August 06, 2007
Bikes Galore
An amazing thing just happened: I walked into my usual internet cafe and they were no longer playing Pink's latest (horrible) album. Dublin has redeemed itself regarding their choice of American music. There is still hope.
I have decided to retreat from the world of Cycle Messengers and head back to Carickmacross, a town of 0.2 people in the middle of the country. The address of the guesthouse/pub I first stayed in doesn't even have a house number. It's just the name of the pub, town, county, Ireland. When I first asked my friend what his address was he gave me that one and I was like, "Ok, so---
I apologize, but I have to interrupt my own story to tell you all that the internet cafe just turned off the radio and put Pink back on the speaker system. I clearly have done something horrible in a past life to deserve such musical punishment. I am sorry. DO YOU HEAR ME? I. AM. SORRY.
Back to the story:
I was like, "Ok, and the house number is...?"
"What do you mean house number?"
"What do you mean by 'what do you mean house number'? Don't you have a house number?"
"This is the Irish countryside. There is only one pub in Carickmacross called The Riverbank."
"Oh. Right."
Me: 0. Ireland: 1.
Before I stray to far from whatever point I first had, back to the CMWC. The finals were yesterday. There was a terrential downpour the night before so the race course was a muddy mess. Instead of road racing it was more like cyclocross. Lots of dirty bikes, dirty faces, and dirty legs. Translation: one helluva good time. The final races lasted approximately 2 hours. A messenger from NYC won first place. First, second and third places finished within minutes of each other making for a very thrilling race. Third place Swiss guy took "losing" a little hard. He performed a wonderful act of bike-throwing and expletive-bombarding. His final act comprised of grabbing a wooden stick used for marking off the course and breaking it over his head. Very dramatic. I applauded.
Pictures from Saturday's Qualifiers
Messengers take their mark...
...head off joyfully bounding toward their bikes...
...read their manifestos and determine the shortest route of pick up/drop offs.
Pictures from Sunday's Finals
Overall, I have met some very wonderful and hospitable people. If needed, I have places to crash in Cardiff, Montreal, Berlin, and Sydney. You know what this means...Kmac is going travelling. After she earns some cash.
OK, my bus leaves in 20 min. Gotta run.
Until next time...keep those cycles spinning.
I have decided to retreat from the world of Cycle Messengers and head back to Carickmacross, a town of 0.2 people in the middle of the country. The address of the guesthouse/pub I first stayed in doesn't even have a house number. It's just the name of the pub, town, county, Ireland. When I first asked my friend what his address was he gave me that one and I was like, "Ok, so---
I apologize, but I have to interrupt my own story to tell you all that the internet cafe just turned off the radio and put Pink back on the speaker system. I clearly have done something horrible in a past life to deserve such musical punishment. I am sorry. DO YOU HEAR ME? I. AM. SORRY.
Back to the story:
I was like, "Ok, and the house number is...?"
"What do you mean house number?"
"What do you mean by 'what do you mean house number'? Don't you have a house number?"
"This is the Irish countryside. There is only one pub in Carickmacross called The Riverbank."
"Oh. Right."
Me: 0. Ireland: 1.
Before I stray to far from whatever point I first had, back to the CMWC. The finals were yesterday. There was a terrential downpour the night before so the race course was a muddy mess. Instead of road racing it was more like cyclocross. Lots of dirty bikes, dirty faces, and dirty legs. Translation: one helluva good time. The final races lasted approximately 2 hours. A messenger from NYC won first place. First, second and third places finished within minutes of each other making for a very thrilling race. Third place Swiss guy took "losing" a little hard. He performed a wonderful act of bike-throwing and expletive-bombarding. His final act comprised of grabbing a wooden stick used for marking off the course and breaking it over his head. Very dramatic. I applauded.
Pictures from Saturday's Qualifiers
Messengers take their mark...
...head off joyfully bounding toward their bikes...
...read their manifestos and determine the shortest route of pick up/drop offs.
Pictures from Sunday's Finals
Overall, I have met some very wonderful and hospitable people. If needed, I have places to crash in Cardiff, Montreal, Berlin, and Sydney. You know what this means...Kmac is going travelling. After she earns some cash.
OK, my bus leaves in 20 min. Gotta run.
Until next time...keep those cycles spinning.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
