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.
Monday, September 24, 2007
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.
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