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.

...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.

...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.

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.

...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!

...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.

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?

...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.

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.

Day 1 - 3.5

Fáilte! Welcome!

Believe when I say that I wish I had a chance to update this blog earlier because SO much has happened since I left East TN for Philly, NYC, and ultimately, Dublin.

Briefly, I had an amazing time in NYC reconnecting with my former Dublin roommates from when I studied abroad in 2002. It was a very timely and poignant visit. The pictures, which I will eventually post once I have access to my laptop, will reveal just how mature and responsible we three have become. The only downside was when Emmy's car got towed. I mean, honestly, who would tow an out-of-state car from 34th and 3rd in downtown Manhattan? Oh right, the Dept of Transportatin in NYC would. Good thing they put clearly marked parking signs ALL OVER the freakin' city. Because convoluted and incomprehensible parking signs are really just cleverly desgined traps to lure in thousands of dollars a day on parking fines and towing fees for the city. Eviiiiiiiiiil.

The Flight
Are you ready for this? I flew US Airways and:\
1. It was on time. (I know. I'm not joking here.)
2. My luggage plus bike arrived safely and unharmed. (Jaw falls on floor).
3. I had an entire row to myself for the flight overseas. (Faints in disbelief).

Some people have good flights. Some people have crappy flights. Some people fly all the way from Denver to compete in the Cycle Messenger World Championship (CMWC) in Dublin only to arrive without luggage and missing a $3000 bicycle that was checked in a brand-spankin'-new hardcase bike box. Ouch (So sorry Juice!). Almost defeats the purpose of buying nice luggage when it gets shipped to Siberia in the end. I count myself lucky.

I arrived at 5am in Dublin, bleary-eyed, dehydrated, and hungry, but joyous and excited. Unfortunately, the excitement and lack of food left me with a weird knot in my stomach. Then I remembered how I left my peptobismol chewable tablets somewhere enroute to Philly. Then I cursed myself for adding ANOTHER item to the Lost & Found list. As of now, it's more like the Lost & Lost list.

Day 1
We drove about an hour to Lochlainn's pub and guesthouse The Riverbank, opened Fall 2006. It is setin the countryside of Carickmacross, north of Dublin, almost to the N. Ireland border. A quick 3 cheers for no more British forces in N. Ireland as of August 1st! The air does indeed smell like Irish Spring Fresh, however there is a bit of Irish Cow Fresh mixed in. Being the only guest at The Riverbank for the moment, I was greeted with fresh fruit and organic yogurt (woohoo organic!), toast with the creamist Irish butter I have ever tasted, and of course, Irish tea. I need to emphasize the texture and taste of Irish butter. It is not at all like the similarly labeled |real" Irish butter found in US grocery stores. This stuff came straight from the cow to the plate. As you can tell, I am very excited about butter, possibly the 7th food group in Ireland. (Tea being the 6th.)

After breakfast, I put my bike back together in the first day of sunshine Ireland has seen in 56 days. Then, I thought I should lie down for a bit since I didn't sleep at all on the plane. I woke up six hours later. Luckily, it stays light out until 10:30pm so it was if I had slept a whole night and then enjoyed an entire day of sunlight before going back to bed that night. The highlight of the day was when Lochlainn's older sister, Aisling, asked me if I liked peanut butter. I was about to respond with Yes, of course I like peanut butter before I remembered that PB is a novelty item in Ireland. Nobody eats PB. Americans are weird for eating jammed, mashed, and often-times processed peanuts. That is why Europeans invented Nutella because in the race of condiments, chocolate always beats peanuts. Then Aisling asked me what I eat PB with and I proceeded to present her with a meandering list of food that pairs well with PB. She just kinda nodded at me and turned away. I blame the jet lag.

Day 2
I did nothing. Played with the dog. Made moo-ing noises at the cows. Emailed people. Ate potatoes. Drank more tea with cream.

Day 3
After two nights enjoying the countryside in county Ulster, I loaded my bike on a charter bus and headed to Dublin on Thursday to take part in the CMWC festivities. Today is the first official day of the competition, qualifying races take place tomorrow (Saturday), finals on Sunday, varying mini competitions on Monday, awards on Tuesday. To brief you those unfamiliar with CMWC, bike messengers from most major cities in the US, Canada, and Europe (Dublin, London, Glasgow, Berlin, Zurich, Copenhagen, etc) compete in road and track races. The rules are simple: The fastest messenger wins and receives gloating rites for one full year. There are both male and female categories. No, I am not racing. Why? Because I prefer to gain some experience racing before I compete against the best of the best. Then again, it would be cool to say I raced again the best of the best...OK that is my Ego talking.

Day 3.5
In about 15 min, I'm going to head to Eamon Doran's in Temple Bar, the same location where I am writing to you all from an internet cafe, to help messengers register for the competition. Afterwards, there will be a group ride (est. 100 participants) to the Welcome Party. I have a feeling this involves my close associate Mr. Guinness. Anyway, unlike my friend Rich who is currently living in China, I do not have police staring over my shoulder. It might be because he is the self-proclaimed talled black man in China, then again, I could be wrong.

OK, Internet Explorer just experienced an error and had to close all programs. I almost lost my blog. I take this as my queue to sign off to you all...

Until next time. Ride safe. Wear a helmet. Drink a guinness, but make sure it is poured correctly for Christ's sake!

Irish phrase for the day: Baile átha Cliath (bal-lee a-ha clee-at) means Dublin. It is written on all the license plates.