Irish News

Christmas is over, and today Katherine and I return to the work routine. Correction: Katherine does, since I was deemed by my former employer to be unfit to return after the holiday. The pain is still fresh.

I felt very foolish this morning. Having some errands that have been waiting since early in the month, I set out on the first post-Christmas, post-Bank Holiday weekday that has come around in quite some time. Our kitchen is being overtaken by a rapidly growing pile of recyclables––I can no longer ignore the need to go to city hall and get some 'official' recycling bags––and I have some letters to mail. I felt foolish because, you see, I was assuming that places like the post office, city hall, and banks would be open. I probably should have known that today is the traditional, um, Holiday Following the Bank Holiday That Comes After Christmas; or, St. Jimmy's Day; or, The Feast of the Holy Virgin of Whitsuntide Boxing Day...whatever, the point is nothing is open and I walked through 33º-farenheit horizontal rain for nothing.

In the wake of this snafu I decided to do something useful, so I surfed Irish news sites. I have provided the highlights of this cyber-adventure below complete with pictures, saving you, the reader, the time of slogging through mundane and confusing headlines such as, "Rise in Number of Calls to Embassies," "Jurys Inns Expects Profits to Fall by 30%," and "Cheika Chops and Changes" (a piece about 'sport,' I think Gaelic Football or some similarly primitive game).


This could easily be an allegorical representation of Ireland in 2009. Unusual weather leaving Irish folks upside-down in a ditch of debt, unemployment, and losing their World Cup qualifying match to a bunch of cheaters (the French). But in fact, it is the picture being carried by the Irish Independent for their lead article on the recent foul weather. The country has been ravaged by an rare winter bout with––yes––below-freezing temperatures. Couple this with the country's average of two inches of precipitation per day, and you get slick roads and even snow. I don't know the exact number, but I think Ireland has around three plowing/salt-spreading trucks for the entire country.

The dearth of snow equipment helps explain the coverage from the Independent: "Freezing fog and ice left many roads in Co Cork and Co Kerry treacherous yesterday..." Wait...freezing fog?! What the hell is that? I've heard many mentions of this apocalyptic weather condition, and I hope to God I never see it. Sounds like something from a bad horror movie.



The reader of the Independent is also confronted with this image today. Without an explanatory article accompanying it (this is part of the "Best Images of 2009" slideshow), I am forced to rely on educated guesses as to what is going on. My more cultured readers will recognize that the vegetable (fungus?) on the velvety pillow is a massive truffle. The truffle is either standing trial or being auctioned. I think the latter, as the best way to judge a truffle's value is to test its texture on the nose and face, which is obviously what this woman is engaged in.


In entertainment news, Ireland is closely following the Christmas domestic disturbance story that saw Charlie Sheen (seen above in a recent photograph) spending the day in jail. The conflicting accounts of the fight between the Sheens are intriguing. Consider the discrepancies:

According to the Independent, Mrs. Sheen reported that Charlie "straddled her on a bed with one hand grasping her neck and the other holding the knife. She said Sheen told her: 'You better be in fear. If you tell anybody, I'll kill you.' He also told her 'Your mother's money means nothing, I have ex-police I can hire who know how to get the job done and they won't leave any trace,' according to the affidavit."

Wow, serious stuff. But there must be some misunderstanding, because "Charlie Sheen, who is listed in the affidavit as Carlos Irwin Estevez, told police....they had slapped each other on the arms and that he had snapped two pairs of her glasses in front of her." Oh, Carlos.

Who do you believe? I believe that it's a slow news day.

***

As you can probably gather from what I wrote at the beginning of the entry, the country is still in Christmas Holiday mode. The job search was especially dry today, as no new listings have been posted since before Christmas. Next week will give me a better sense of where things stands.

For now, a disturbing development is that Ireland's Training and Employment Authority, FÁS (an acronym standing for some Irish words), had nearly four hundred jobs listed for Counties Cork and Kerry about a month ago, and now there are under three hundred. Many of the listings in that dwindling total are essentially reserved for Irish nationals as part of an employment scheme, wherein jobs are open only to those who have been out of work for six months or more. Aye, the job databases are dry at the moment. Hopefully January brings a spike (and not the trough many are predicting)!

Happy Christmas and Merry St. Stephen's Day

Merry Christmas! to everyone, a couple of days late. Ireland has taken full advantage of a Friday Christmas: Monday is one of the famous “bank holidays,” ensuring a four- to five-day break for everyone (unless you work retail). Christmas day and yesterday––the twenty-sixth, which is apparently called St. Stephen’s Day––produced a sight I didn’t think possible. I refer to Oliver Plunkett Street, the heart of Cork City and also where our apartment is situated, being completely deserted. Not a soul! No drunk revelers and road work crews at midnight. A miracle.

Well, maybe not too miraculous. All of the shops and watering holes closed early, naturally, for Christmas Eve. And as it turns out, Christmas day is one of two days out of the entire year when pubs are required by law to be closed (Good Friday is the other).

Christmas day we spent with the family of our friend, Gemma. We had many Irish Christmas specialties, including spiced beef (a Cork tradition), pork liver pâté (Katherine “forgot” to try this), potato-leek soup, and roasted potatoes (the secret is to baste the spuds with goose fat). We also had time to watch the 1994 remake of Miracle on 34th Street. While Richard Atterborough is jolly and entertaining in a hard-to-describe way, my advice is to stick with the original. The newer version doesn’t even have the Macy’s v. Gimball’s dimension!

Tomorrow is Katherine’s birthday, she joins me in the doldrums of the mid-twenties. Send her some birthday wishes to cheer her up. On Tuesday I begin anew my job search efforts, as well as my entry writing.

Les Parisiens

In response to the request for more Paris photos, I give you this picture. It conveniently sums up the whole city (or at least the heart of it) and its inhabitants:


Paris is basically lots of beautiful, perfectly proportioned people parading around under magnificently opulent architecture. The City of Lights, and of Gold Leaf too!

The End of an Era; and, Paris Afterthoughts

It became official today. After an epic tenure marked by stunning successes, bitter disappointments, volatile personality clashes and life-long friendships, my manager at Michael Guiney's informed me today that the store will no longer need my services after Christmas. The official explanation is that holiday sales have been weak and post-Christmas is going to be quite slow. He and I understood, however, the real reason: I am a threat to his job security.

My approaching departure from the world of bargain retail has led, of course, to nostalgia. Allow me to recount some of the more interesting memories. My first day on the job––my first day in retail––when I was instructed to organize the women's underwear. Or my big break: promotion to the "hardware department." There my humiliation subsided, as I was stocking Christmas decorations and scented candles instead of enormous women's briefs. Or my proudest accomplishment in hardware, the erection of a formidable rug display. There was the day that I was told to condense the contents of two shelving units of kitchen wares into the space of one shelving unit, a feat all thought to be impossible. I did it in one afternoon without breaking a sweat.

The shining moment of my time at Guiney's, without a doubt, involved the complicated relocation effort of a large bin full of brushes (or, as we would say in the US, a box full of brooms). Three employees including myself were tasked with moving the bin down one floor so it could be placed in front of the store as a clearance item. Weighing in at about two hundred pounds, and of awkward proportions, the bin was too much for us to get down the steps without serious injury to ourselves and/or customers. We stood around the bin, each man deep in thought. We furrowed our brows, scratched our heads. Then it came to me: take the brushes out of the container, and move them downstairs separately! My plan was a smashing success: the empty bin's weight was manageable, and I carried my head higher from that day forward.

There were countless other victories, large and small. Too many to describe. My final days at Guiney's have come full circle. I am back in the women's department, only this time I am pricing gloves and winter hats––a task reflective of my senior status, of how far I have come.

***

The rumors are true, it takes forever to get anything done in Ireland. Over two weeks ago we stopped into a bank to open up a joint account, as we had finally received our PPS numbers. We gave the bank all of the information they needed; they made copies of all of our documents, and put it all together in a package for Dublin (everything has to be done with the permission of some person in Dublin. Katherine's co-worker, Paula, says that her 'favorite' phrase is, "We just have to send this up to Dublin, it will only take a few days.").

"This will take five days, maximum," we were told, after which our account information would be mailed to us. Well, we came back from Paris and, two weeks after this bank visit, nothing had arrived. Katherine went back to the bank today to see what was behind the delay. What was behind the delay? The slight hiccup that they managed to lose all of our information. Gone! All of the photocopies, forms....they are "sure" they sent it to "Dublin," but "Dublin" never got it. That's okay, nevermind the fact that I need a bank account to get paid. Or that fact that it should take all of fifteen minutes to set up an account and deposit money.

While we're on the topic of things moving as slow as molasses in January, I should say that we just received out "welcome letter" from the electric company. We've been here for over a month, and we just got notification that our meter has been activated. Our lease is only for three months, I wonder if we'll ever see a bill?

***

As for Paris, my advice is to go. It's a wonderful experience. If you've any appreciation for art, architecture, or just enjoy looking at completely over-the-top opulence, then the city founded by the Celtic Parisii tribe is the place for you.

I thought I had seen fancy, I thought I had experienced luxury. I was wrong. Katherine aptly called Paris "The City that is Forever Competing with Itself." That's the key to the grandeur: many successive generations of megalomaniacs determined to leave an unrivaled mark. But I'm not down on it at all. On the contrary, I'm glad there are places where we can see what happens when individuals, when societies, really push the envelope. Sometimes the results are jaw-droppingly beautiful (as in experiencing the Louvre for the first time), or shockingly heinous (as in the Reign of Terror during the French Revolution, when over 1100 people were beheaded for, well, I can't really say what).

I could go on and on about our experience, but instead I will be briefly suggest some activities. First, go to (and in) all of the clichéd places: the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, Notre Dame, le Jardin du Luxembourg, Sacre Coeur, and so on. Second, admire––and consume––the wonderful food. There's nothing like it. And third, walk everywhere. At night. They don't call it the "City of Light" for nothing.

I highly suggest a winter visit, the crowds were very manageable and there's the chance of snow:

Between us, Katherine and I have over a hundred pictures. Conveniently, Katherine has posted all of them on her Facebook profile. If you're interested in more visuals, take a peek at her Paris photo album. If you don't have Facebook, then I can post more pictures here (if I'm asked nicely).

Hello from Paris

Katherine and I have the ability to bring unusual weather with us: we're in Paris just in time for some very early snowfall. Not that I'm complaining, it's absolutely beautiful. Take a look. Of course it would have been a good idea to bring the proper hardware to post my own personal pictures, but I will just have to rely on Le Monde.

I will keep this brief since I'm using a French keyboard, which is tougher to use than I ever would have imagined. I hope the photos above whet your appetites for the much better visuals I have recorded.

Chionn tSaile

Yesterday Katherine and I made our way to Kinsale, an ancient Atlantic port that had its heyday a few centuries ago, before Cork took over as the dominant city in the County. Now, kind of like our college town of Chestertown, Maryland, Kinsale relies not on ships and commerce but tourists. We were happy to oblige.

We have a busy couple of days until the departure for Paris––Katherine is working nine-hour days at the golf shop as the acting manager. I am doing full shifts as well, the stores are swelled with Christmas shoppers. Wednesday afternoon we leave for France: the apartment we're renting has a computer, so there's a chance I will update Éire Apparent from the Continent!


Katherine taking a photo of a disused portion of St. Multose Church in Kinsale. The church was built by Normans in the twelfth century, and most of it is still used to this day (but as an Anglican house of worship). This incarnation of St. Multose is actually the "new" building, as it replaced a previous church built in the sixth century.


Me beside the old French Prison. This miniscule window was too good to pass up.


James Fort, about two kilometers outside of Kinsale. This fortification was one of two that guarded the harbor. At the bottom right of the picture you can see the gate I had to jump to get inside.


The port of Kinsale (Chionn tSaile in Irish) from the James Fort peninsula.

Charles Fort, the other (much larger) fortification near Kinsale. This one was in use until 1921 when the British finally evacuated. They burnt and destroyed most of it in the process.

Ah, even the Irish are capable of hideous condominiums. This row of waterfront flats (seen through a gap in the James Fort wall) appear as a montrous scar on the landscape, a scar that someone unsuccessfully tried to stitch up. You can't escape mass-produced housing!

***

The jury is definitely still out on living in an apartment complex. Out flat is the first time I have lived in a proper city, and my first tenancy in a building devoted to apartments. My one firm conclusion is that I miss the quiet of the country. Call me a bumpkin, but I grew quite used to not hearing anything, and, in turn, being able to hear myself think. The bustle of a downtown area in addition to the racket tenants above, below, and beside you can make adds up to, at times, an unbearable din. If we're lucky enough to have quiet neighbors, there's a good chance there will be jackhammering outside (at night). If there's no road work, the folks below us play loud music (at night). And if that's not happening, there's a good chance our upstairs neighbors will be doing laundry (at 2 a.m.––I'm not kidding).

Of course you get what you pay for, and we're not paying much. If we were shelling out €1200 a month for a luxury apartment, things would be different. At the very least there wouldn't be leaky windows.

Correction

It was brought to my attention that the links I am posting do not work. I have fixed the problem, at least in the most recent entry. If older links have issues, just Google it! I'll make sure this doesn't happen again.

We're back from a day in Kinsale, I have some good photographs to post. Probably will happen tonight or tomorrow night. Keep checking in!

Living the Grind

All of the sudden, I have work every day. I've only had one full eight-hour day, but the usual six-hour stints are more than enough. We were out late last night at a very cool place called The Crane Lane (it also houses a burlesque theatre––last night's show was "Adult Panto-Mimes"), and I was again made aware of the reputation of my employer. Upon telling folks were I work during a normal conversation, the usual reaction is a hearty laugh. One fellow told me it's "[blanking] hilarious!" that I work at Guiney's, after which he told me to be careful to not get "beat up" while on the job. But he works for the Irish revenue authority, so I can at least be grateful that I'm not the dreaded tax man.

To be honest, Guiney's is not my ideal job, even as far as part-time gigs in a foreign country go. I have continued to look for work, but the market seems more desolate than ever. Over the past week the best source for job opportunities, the internet, has become completely barren. I might become much more concerned about this in a few weeks' time, as my job is still officially temporary for the Christmas season. Because of the Paris trip we have next week I have only five more work days before the holiday.

The harsh realities of the working world aside, we are still having fun. The other night Katherine and I went for a long walk through the city's north side, a journey that produced some photographs (as promised):



This picture features one of the minor threads in Éire Apparent: St. Finbarre's Cathedral. You can just see the twin spires in this photograph. The church absolutely dwarfs the rest of the city, and is easily the dominant landmark (especially at night).



Here is some of the blight that you see in certain sections, although this ancient doorway was pretty camera-friendly. My camera takes pretty grainy pictures in low-light situations, my apologies. I'm not willing to buy another one on Guiney's wages.

More blight. And how about a picture that speaks volumes! This is all that hardcore Irish Republicans can muster anymore, a bill posted on a run-down hovel. The free-state Irish population cares little for reunification these days. The issue is hardly on the minds of the younger population at all, from what I gather. But then again, maybe it is and they don't voice their opinions in the presence of mixed company. The Irish, self-admittedly, tend to be polite to a fault.

Lastly: I always keep an eye out for Maryland connections in Ireland. This is not a conscious effort, but just the basic instinct to notice the things that are familiar. I don't experience too many Maryland "hits"; probably 90 percent of the people I have met here have (a) never heard of Maryland, or (b) haven't the slightest idea where it is. The best I can do is say, "It's next to Washington, D.C."

But inexplicably, the Old Line State has made one indelible impression on the Irish culinary landscape. I'm talking about Chicken Maryland, of course. Or Maryland Fried Chicken, or whatever you want to call it. This stuff is a fixture at Cork's famous English Market:


Strange, since most Americans (most Marylanders?) have never had it, or even heard of it. Look it up. According to an old recipe I've seen, Maryland Fried Chicken should be served with a gravy topping. I presume this is so the deep-fried poultry easily slides down the esophagus, among other healthy bonuses. Alas, the Irish don't seem to have the gravy. Amateurs.

The Golfer and the Scobe

Katherine and I managed to find retail jobs catering to the opposite extremes of Cork society, which has made for interesting conversation and armchair sociology. Far more so than in the United States, playing golf in Ireland is a very class-conscious affair. Sure, there are snoody golfers on American courses, especially at the more expensive clubs. But there are also countless public links full of beer-guzzling Joes hacking divots the size of mortar impacts. Alas, I have witnessed the latter half much more so than the former.

In Ireland, if you golf it means that you're rich. Or, at the very least, you want people to think you're rich. During my visits to Katherine's workplace it isn't too hard to see what stratum of people she's dealing with: well-dressed, well-educated folks (it's easy to tell the education level by the accent, or lack thereof). And some of them are willing to shell out a few hundred euro for golf attire in the middle of a nasty recession. Katherine's customers are also all Irish...for the significance of this, read on.

My employer, Guiney's, is a different story. There we cater to the most modest of shoppers, who are desperately looking for deals. On my first day a woman asked me about winter coats, one of which she wanted to buy for her construction worker husband. Relying on my own knowledge of construction attire, I found her a good candidate for €29. Her response? "That's a bit expensive, don't you think?"

Guiney's customers are a good cross-section of the new immigration to Ireland, as are the employees. I work with Slovaks and Poles, and I have only met about 20 percent of the workers. Of the dozen or more customers who ask me for help during the day, probably three to four are Slavic, one or two are African, one is Indian, and the rest are Irish. And the Irish are sometimes the hardest to understand––this is where I run into the real Cork accent that everyone grumbles about. But it's fine because half of the time they don't understand me.

Why golf is so class-biased I'm not entirely certain. The easy answer is tempting: it's because of the English. They certainly exported a class system along with settlers. In a similar vein is hunting: here, and in Britain, hunting is a very elitist activity, dating back to when the forests and the game therein were property of the barons and the King. It's funny how utterly opposite the situation is in America. Please speak up if you disagree, but for the most part hunting is regarded as a poor rural activity.

Long story short: Katherine keeps track of seventy-euro golf jackets, and I arrange brooms that are worth €1.50 each. But we earn about the same, so I'm not complaining.

****

I'm painfully aware that I haven't been posting many photos recently. The fact that it has been raining constantly is partially to blame, as is the work schedule. We have tentative plans to journey out to Kinsale or somewhere this weekend, I'll be sure to have a full photographic record. But for now, I will add to the visual appeal of this entry with an older picture I took in Killarney––the interior of St. Mary's Cathedral, which took about seventy years to build:

Michael Guiney's

Well, the unlikely happened––I got a job. It's at a bargain retailer called Guiney's. And I mean bargain retailer. This place makes K-mart look like Nordstrom. But hey, I am finally gaining that valuable, and elusive, retail experience. The path before me is paved with gold.

Not too much rejoicing is in order. My employment is a "trial period," according to the manager, a trial period that ends with the Christmas season. Until that point I'm working around twenty hours a week. My first day's duties included reorganizing the clothing in the women's section. Picking up loose articles from the ground, putting articles back where they belong, etc. About an hour into this I had, I admit, a bit of a existential crisis. Five years of higher education and I'm arranging thermal underwear? Humiliation began to creep its way into my consciousness.

But that's all just pride, and I've put it behind me. Guiney's is not a career path for me, it's a little extra money before Christmas. And as a friend of ours said, having a Master's and working at Guiney's is better than having a Master's and not working at all. I'm getting to know some of my Polish co-workers who have very tough-to-pronounce names, and, thank goodness, they got me out of the women's section. It'll all be okay. Paris is only a week away.

Have You Ever Seen the Rain Coming Down on a Sunny Day?

As I am sure you all and the rest of the world wide web noticed, I took the weekend off to lick my wounds from another emasculating week of job searching. I also dried my socks, which takes at least forty-eight hours since Cork's atmosphere is at a constant 98 percent humidity. It reminds me of a section of Frank McCourt's Angela's Ashes, which rings truer than I ever expected:

From October to April the walls of Limerick [or Cork!] glistened with the damp. Clothes never dried: tweed and woolen coats housed living things, sometimes sprouted mysterious vegetations. In pubs, steam rose from damp bodies and garments.... (12)

Thank God Ireland now has electricity!

The weather is playing with me. I really feel this way. Every morning for the past week I wake up, throw aside the curtains and embrace a perfectly clear sky. "It's going to be a nice day!," I think to myself. I shower, eat, doddle around a little bit, and eventually leave my building to go conquer the day (which, admittedly, is usually around 11 a.m.). By this time it is usually dark, windy, and raining. All one can really do in these conditions is drink tea. Indeed, I will never make fun of the British and Irish tea habit again. The fact is the weather absolutely requires it. (I will continue to ridicule the "tea time," which is asking for it).

While I'm on the topic of perplexing phenomena, a few words on systems of measurement. The Irish have no idea which system they're on. For all intents and purposes, both English and Metric are official. One trend I have noticed, for example, is that most measurements of distance, area, or speed are expressed in metric. Speed limit signs are in km/h, apartments are advertised in square meters, and the nearest market is "oh, fifty or so meters up the hill." But most measurements of height and weight, especially when described verbally, are in English. So-and-so is six-foot-one, I went on a diet and lost forty-three pounds, etc. Most of the personal scales are in stones! (For the Americans: one stone equals fourteen pounds. I weigh twelve and one-quarter stones, how about you? Break out a calculator and have fun with it). And at open-air markets, about half of the prices you see are "per pound," the other half "per kilogram." At the very least, these circumstance can make one fluent in metric pretty quickly.

But every culture has some peculiarities. Walking around the city last night––Sunday night––I saw something that I think I admire: most of the pubs were not only open, there were full.

Oh, Tannenbaum; or, Maryland, My Maryland

I now have to adjust to Katherine going off to work every day. It's only for four or five hours at a time, but it's four or five hours when I have nothing to do and no one to talk to. As I write it is raining outside, so walking around and desperately looking for new "help wanted" signs is not too attractive.

The internet is, of course, the main way to apply for jobs these days, even in Ireland. Despite work being as rare as hen's teeth, folks try to give helpful advice. My personal favorite (and this has happened at least five times) is when an Irish person says, "You know, you should really have a look at IrishJobs.ie, they have a lot of work postings." This is like saying to anyone with a computer, "You're trying to search for something on the internet? You should try Google.com, they have a decent search engine." But it's the thought that counts.

My drill is to scan the new postings every day, with the hope that I'll find something that doesn't require fluency in Dutch or Swedish or extensive experience in the lady's fashion industry. Speaking of the lady's fashion industry, in our wanderings a few nights ago we came across a storefront with a help-wanted sign for part-time seasonal retail work. I figured "What the hell?, I'll go in tomorrow to see if they'll hire me." I entered the store the next day only to realize that they sell only women's knitwear, and that I was the only male out of about fifteen people in the room. I turned around and left. This pretty much sums up the reality of retail work in Cork. And it also might help explain why, in the middle of the workday, the pubs are busy serving an all-male crowd of patrons.

The job descriptions should include caveats such as "extensive retail [or serving, or bartending] experience required. Unless you're a cute little thing, in which case all training will be provided."

Good Brews

To celebrate Katherine's new job we went out and spent all of the money she earned on her first day. The first stop was the Bierhaus, which has the largest beer selection in the city. I had a bottle of "Chimay Blue," a dark Belgian porter that really packs a punch. Nine percent alcohol content...goes straight to your head and is very tasty. We then stumbled to the Franciscan Well, Cork's justly famous microbrewery.

Finally, we have decorated our Christmas tree. As you all know, the tree itself was criminally cheap. It definitely doesn't meet the State of California's flame retardant standards. And Katherine came up with another brilliant idea to keep costs down: decorate the trees with colorful paper gift tags, which come in packs of twenty for €1. Throw on a fifteen-meter string of lights (€6), and we're in business:

As you can see, the tree is accented by the exquisitely ugly rose picture. We are lucky enough to have a copy of that photography in every one of our rooms. And each copy is listed as inventory in our lease, so we can't even do future tenants a favor and destroy them.

Anyway, other than Éire Apparent being an obvious cure for my downtime, I have ideas for how to stay busy. I might do some volunteer work for the History Department at University College Cork. I might do what I do best and find some archives and see if there's anything interesting to write about. And, to be sure, I'll stay optimistic that something paid will turn up.

A Breakthrough

As you can surmise from my previous entries, Katherine and I have been a little pessimistic about finding work. But rather than being down about it, we think we should take advantage of all of the time on our hands and do some traveling. So two nights ago we booked five nights in Paris for December 16–21. Capitalizing on an idea I gained from the Frugal Traveler, we looked into vacant apartments on Craigslist.org. Worked like a charm: we will be staying in a fully furnished studio within a few minutes' walk from the Louvre for €50 a night––cheaper than most of the hostels.

What happens right after we finalize this journey? Katherine lands a retail job with a golf store. Very luckily, her new boss is willing to work around the trip. This position might be our saving grace, at least for our goal of staying in Europe for a year.

In other news, I bought the last €15 fake Christmas tree in Cork City today. Dunne's had them, six-foot, fairly realistic trees for only fifteen quid. I bought the floor model. I don't know how it was only €15, it's probably extremely flammable or gives off toxic fumes. Luckily our windows are as drafty as screen doors, shouldn't be too dangerous.

Last but not least, we found the best pan-handler in all of Ireland:


This guy––unlike the other street performers in the city––has real talent. I mean, look at those dancing figurines! Elvis actually hit the cymbal! The other accordion players of the city are endlessly annoying. In particular, the man who plays "Jingle Bells" in a constant loop for sixteen hours a day (I wish I was exaggerating). But not this fellow, with his band members Marilyn and Elvis. We walked past him a half-hour later, and he was rosining up a bow to play a fiddle. That's impressive!

The Heat, Revisited

Funny thing about the heater––it seems to work after all. There were a couple of problems: a type of heating and wiring set-up I have never seen before and would never have figured out on my own, and a lack of instruction.

It turns out that our main heater is something called a 'storage' heater. There are actually two electric meters for the apartment: one for the heater and one for the rest of the flat. At night, the electric––and meter––for the heater activate. The heater then "stores" the electricity for the coming day. When you wake up, and you're cold, you turn on the storage heater and heat will come out of it. The problem was when I flipped the switch the indicator light would not come on, giving the appearance that there is no power (which, technically, there wasn't). It is a very strange system. I hope it's more efficient this way. Because if it is not then all it accomplishes is being wildly over-complicated.

Today was one of the few clear, sunny days we have had (there have been three so far), perfect weather for some exploration. On the menu for this afternoon was the city's north side. The north side is less vibrant, less economically successful than the south, but also, I think, more authentic. There aren't chic all-glass building housing GAPs, Top Shops, H&Ms, and the like. Cork's ethnic population is also concentrated on the north side: most of the areas Poles (as well as Africans and Turks, judging from the ethnic food stores) live here. But it's mostly Irish, modest, realistic.

Possibly the best part about the north side is the view:
What I could see from St. Patrick's hill had me reflecting on urban centers of the US. What we're used to seeing in an America city––at least on the East Coast––is a large urban center ringed by miles of suburbia, followed by miles of exurbs. Escape all of that and you might, eventually, reach some countryside (which will inevitably be pock-marked by a few more odd subdivisions). In the second photograph you can just make out the green hills of the country, only a couple of miles from the foreground's City Centre. There are indeed suburbs where Cork's wealthier residents seek refuge, but they're tiny compared to what we have come to expect.

I'm not trying to make a value judgment about Irish or European urbanization vs. American. It's just an interesting land-use observation. Ireland has not experienced anything like the boom-and-bust cycle of the States; the island's only bull market economy was 1990–2007. Before that there was only poverty and emigration. In short, the Irish haven't had the money to alter their land in quite the same way we have.

Compared to my visit eighteen months ago, and to the semester Katherine spent at University College Cork in 2006, the city is absolutely covered in graffiti (especially the north side (Photo credit to Katherine!)). There are definitely more young people with a lot of time on their hands these days. Minor vandalism such as this is the artwork of the times. The growing number of boarded up businesses decorate the stage and the rapidly multiplying number panhandlers serve as the actors. Katherine has even noticed the difference in what you see on the sidewalk: three years ago, the ground was seemingly littered with one- and two-cent coins. Not any more!

I don't mean to be so dreary. It is still a vibrant place, especially around 10 p.m. on a Saturday. Not too many spirits have been defeated, except for the ones in glass bottles.

The Crucial Week Ahead

Among the many things I have learned in Ireland (other than that zucchinis are called courgettes) is that it is possible to get a satisfying caffeine fix from tea. If you drink seven cups of black tea in a short time, it does the trick. This will be shocking for some, but I haven't had a cup of coffee since I've been here. In most of the cafés a small coffee will run around €2, or over three bucks, and I'm not willing to buy a coffee maker. On the other hand, tea is so cheap it must be subsidized by the government.

Dilemmas

Our third week in Cork will be one of our most momentous, a little earlier than I expected for big decisions to be made. I'm talking about what to do in the face of no employment and no heat. As for the latter: our apartment––despite all of its cuteness––is quite cold. The main reason is that the biggest room doesn't have a heat source. There is an electric radiator mounted to the wall, but the power switch only works about 5 percent of the time. Even when it does turn on it only produces enough energy to warm a tiny closet.

According to Irish tenant law, landlords are required to provide a reliable heat source. We have reported the repairs that are needed (including some leaky windows) to the agency/landlord, but have been stonewalled by the Irish "mañana" tendency. One day a handyman did show up and had a look at the windows––he decided he knew what needed to be done, and promised he would return. Problem is, he never did. When I complained to the agency a second time they said they would have someone stop by "to look at the windows and heater." A whole lot of looking, and no fixing, has been the landlord's remedy. And tonight we were promised a repair of the heat, but it looks like we are to be stood up again.

We have a three-month lease but I believe we have grounds to break it. Absent a swift resolution to the heating problem I will have to resort to that. This isn't too big of a tragedy since we can't find work. Katherine's potential gig at the chocolate shop has died since they never called her back after the interview. She also had an interview at a golf equipment store, but for very limited hours. And no ring from them either.

Thus, we have decided that this week is an important one because if we don't hear from somebody, an important milestone will be reached: we will start to get bored. After you've applied to every open position that you're qualified for––and many more that you're barely qualified for––you run out of things to do. And our consensus is that if we start to get bored, then the whole experiment has gone defective. We can sit around and live dull existences in the States; it is a waste to do that here.

Sans employment, we will turn to the ultimate level of financial irresponsibility and travel. Willy-nilly, all over the Continent. Seriously, I'm making up an itinerary in my head right now. More on this to come...

Volunteer? What's the Rush?

Katherine's answer to long stretches of inactivity was to volunteer around the city. This is a good idea for a few reasons: we would get out and meet people, we would gain the satisfaction of "helping," and our networking could turn into employment opportunities. In the States, if you want to volunteer it takes about 37 seconds of waiting before you're sent to work in a soup kitchen or paint over graffiti. There is a fantastic infrastructure designed to get volunteers to the "front line" in a very short amount of time.

With so many people out of work it is logical to think that Irish non-profits would be desperate to mobilize volunteers. What we have encountered is more of a blasé attitude. The lady at the first volunteer agency we went to, associated with the Church, took our information and told us that they are so busy that they might not be able to contact us for a while. Ironic, no? We then stopped in Cork City's main volunteer network, where we were told, "Oh, take time to think it over. We have a volunteer fair here in a week's time, come by then and you might find something." What the hell? Is quickly and efficiently taking advantage of people's kindness only an American specialty?

On the Lighter Side

We watched the Ireland v. South Africa rugby match today in a pub, an exciting experience. Problem is, it might have ruined the NFL for me. For those who don't know (and that's pretty much everyone in the US), a rugby match is eighty (that's 80) minutes of playing time. How long from start to finish? Under two hours total, no commercial breaks. How long for sixty minutes of NFL action? Three hours, with 257 commercial breaks (which is, of course, why the games are three hours long).

Ireland won in a nail-biter, 15–10, to finish the season undefeated. (Photo credit to Katherine!)

As a final note in this long entry, I am impressed by the Christmas decorations the city has put up. There's no attempt at political correctness here! It's all 'bout Christmas, baby. The following photo is just a tiny sample of the lights around City Centre.

Online Article

Hello all! Check out Katherine's article in the online newspaper Chestertown Spy. A great piece of writing. Similar to what you've been reading here regarding lack of work, but then again that's what most twenty-somethings are obsessed with these days. Anyway, the article is on the home page and can also be found in the "Curiosities" section.

Jaunting to Cill Airne

After over a week of constant canvassing for work, Katherine and I took a break and headed to Killarney (known in Irish as Cill Airne). The downside to Killarney is that it is a tourist trap: all of the tours for the famous "Ring of Kerry" as well as trips to the Dingle peninsula start in Killarney. The upside is that the town is situated on a beautiful lake, surrounded by mountains, and that we went during the offseason.

So after buying bus tickets that were more expensive than RyanAir flights to London (I'm not joking), we arrived for a day of hill walking.Katherine is our great white hope for finding work: she has been contacted for another interview, this one in retail sales. The two months of experience she has from a sandwich shop in Williamsburg, Va., is really coming in handy. On the other hand––with my lack of retail/restaurant employment history––I have not heard from anyone. These complaints aside, we are determinedly celebrating Thanksgiving today. We have made: turkey with stuffing, creamy onions, green bean casserole, mashed sweet potatoes, regular mashed potatoes, apple pie, and zucchini bread (note: zucs are called "courgettes" here).

The Irish are in good spirits despite the doom and gloom and flooding. Perhaps it's in their genetic makeup at this point, to shrug off bad times. The other night a fellow told us that "this is the worst time since the famine" to be on the island, but even so it's still a good place to be. At a restaurant where I was dropping off a CV, the hostess told me that everyone eventually finds work, even these days. And that she would recommend me to her manager. I haven't heard from him.

The Strike

Underscoring the economic problems facing Ireland, many "public sector workers" staged walkouts today to protest a €1.3 billion wage cut.

Katherine and I learned––through hearsay, admittedly––that there would be picketers outside of Cork's City Hall, so we trudged over in the cold wind and spraying rain to take a look. If there were picketers they must have been discouraged by the crumby weather.In the photo you can see city hall, the Irish flag flailing in the wind, and, in the background, Ireland's tallest building (no joke). The "skyscraper" is new and houses luxury apartments and office space; nearly the entire building is vacant. The best flats go for around €2 million. We've heard that the owner is trying to buy out the four people who have taken up residence so he can just shut off the power to the entire complex.

On the job front, glimmers of hope. Katherine found some nannying positions online that she's very well qualified for, and actually has an interview this afternoon for a temporary Christmas position at a chocolate shop. I have come across a couple of restaurant/bar tending opportunities that could bear some fruit. A pub in town called Costigan's had a Bingo night yesterday with a jackpot of €575: we attended without luck.

A Slow Sunday

I know this article's connection with Ireland is tenuous at first glance, but chalk it up to mere geography: Going Home During the Recession.

It's one of the Post's main article from the Sunday paper, so many of you may have already seen it. The experience of Melissa Meyer neatly summarizes the collapse of the job market––specifically, the job market for professionals. 'Tis a reality we are grappling with in Europe as well. To be honest, if I had two solid years retail experience, or two solid years of restaurant work, I would have landed a job on one of our first days here. But unfortunately I have not only a BA, but a Master's. I am hopelessly overqualified for "till" positions, and somehow I managed to go all this time without experience as a waiter.

It's frustrating because 99 percent of the time these are positions that I am more than capable of doing. Pardon my lack of humility, but come on, serving food? How much training time am I going to knot up? And in return a restaurant would get a reliable, professional, punctual person that won't show up to work drunk. Problem is you can't explain these things on a CV. Instead, I have had my CV handed back to me when I admit that I don't have restaurant experience. For a minimum-wage serving position. Ouch.

C'est la vie. It's a buyer's market if you're hiring. You can afford to be picky. The truth is these pubs and restaurants will not fail at finding people with experience. If I get desperate I will simply invent past experience, so I feel no need to panic yet.

a quick story

I forgot to mention in my previous entry that I found an honest-to-God outdoor store in Cork. It's the perfect place for me to work. They have all of the things I know about, inside and out: fishing equipment, knives, archery equipment, billiards, and––yes––guns. Judging from their inventory all that the Irish are allowed to own are rimfire rifles and double-barrel shotguns, but that would make my job all the easier, wouldn't it?

Alas, they weren't hiring. For a brief moment I thought the planets were aligning. Not so...

The Floods

We have been "lucky" enough to witness the worst flooding in Ireland in living memory. Large portions of the city were impassable today, adding a little bit of difficulty to our job searching. To add to the mess, about half of the city is out of drinking water. But by the grace of another one of those little miracles, our apartment still has tasty water coming out of the tap.

In the above picture you will see many important things: a massive Beamish can (the Guinness of the south) part of the Beamish brewery, St. Finbarre Cathedral (one of the prettiest I've seen, but then again, I've never been to France or Italy), and a very rough River Lee. The river was about as fast and full as you can see it. Makes sense, since some of it was in the streets as well.















Another view of flooded street to the right, and (I couldn't help it), a nice beer I tried this evening. It's a cream ale, something you hardly ever see in the States. I was disheartened to learn it is owned by Guinness (do they own every Irish brewery?), but I couldn't help but enjoy it.

But I have been doing more than stare at floodwater and drink ale. Today was our first real push at finding work, a sobering experience. The first––and easiest––strategy was to go for the temp agencies. We have distributed our information to most of them in City Centre by now, but no hits. Quite the opposite: almost immediately after handing over your CV and cover letters, you tend to get an email saying they have nothing that suits your skill set at the moment. Not all of them have disappointed us yet, but it is not looking good.

We have also started what will likely be our only chance of success: working the pavement. Katherine and I each ducked into a few retail locations this afternoon, with not much luck. The handful (and when I say handful I mean two) positions we have seen are for the Christmas season only, not a good sign for the January job market. Of course, before it is all said and done, we will have to conduct a nearly door-to-door search of the city. My fingers are crossed that something comes up before that.

Building on a comment posted to one of my earlier entries about the bureaucratic illness that seems to infect much of Europe, I call attention to a piece of mail we received today. From the government, it is a notice that they do not have a television license on file for our apartment. So, it says, we should be prepared for an inspection so authorities can make sure we are not keeping an unlicensed boob tube. Apparently, in order to lawfully have a television, you need to pay 160 euros for a "television license." Go figure.

Digs

We went to the Office of Social Welfare today to apply for a PPS number (the explanation for which is in my previous entry). It also happened to be "dole day," Thursday being the day welfare checks are given out. It was also raining heavily with wind gusts around 30 miles per hour.

It seemed funny to me that we were waiting in a dole line to get permission to work, one of the many things I pondered in an effort to distract myself from the fact that I was completely soaked and cold. Once we got into the building and found the PPS Number window, my dripping wet hair nearly ruined my application form. But in the end we were successful thanks to the minor miracle that we had all of the proper paperwork on hand. (Another not-too-surprising observation from the social welfare office: many of the signs are in the usual Irish and English, accompanied by Polish). Now all that we have to do is sit on our hands until the application is processed and our numbers are mailed to us. (The photo of Katherine on our way back hardly does justice to how soggy it was).

We returned to cute little apartment, which deserves a few words. I like how efficient everything is: in particular, how the water heater stays off until one needs to shower or clean some dishes is very nice. I've had surprises in the past with boilers using a LOT of energy (and, thus, racking up high bills) to keep the hot water hot all of the time. The convenience factor of our current set-up is lower, but I don't mind.

Included in the kitchen are a fridge and a washing machine, both endearingly tiny. As you can see in the picture I have taken, the hatch of the washing machine is nearly the same size as a 20 euro-cent coin. An Irish friend of ours expressed dismay when we told her how large American washing machines are. This one is also a dryer, in the same unit! This is incredibly novel, but I guess things don't have to be too exotic to seem novel to me.

Of course, the point of all of this––the apartment, the PPS number––is to find work. With these two pieces in place we can start on that. More on that to come...

The First Day

I can't comment much on the journey to Ireland, other than we left Sunday evening and arrived in Dublin Monday morning. The plane ride was the typical traveling time warp that I have not yet figured out: we were en route for only five or six hours, but we somehow gained twelve. Anyway, I hadn't slept in twenty-nine hours or so, and I drifted in and out of consciousness on the bus down to Cork City (a five-hour journey).

I know that I had a good first day in Cork because I got to see a rainbow and got to dodge heavy rain showers. Our hosts for our first few days in the city told us that in a typical day, it will be hot and cold, sunny and rainy, and this proved to be true. We also got our first taste of Irish government bureaucracy. Arriving at the Garda (police) station to register as foreign nationals living in the country––something that has to be done within the first month––we were told that we can't register without proof of residence, i.e. a lease agreement. We also can't get work without a "PPS" number, basically a social security number, and you can't get a PPS number without, yes, proof of residence. So signs pointed to getting an apartment. The realtor we worked with told us you usually can’t rent an apartment without a PPS number, but thankfully she was willing to overlook that requirement.

As the economy is sluggish and immigration greatly slowed, there are ample rental properties with rents that have been "consistently dropping for the past eighteen months," or so I heard on the radio. We found very nice places for reasonable prices in the north side of the city, but the man very openly smoking a joint on the front step of the building clued us in to the nature of the neighborhood. Instead we have settled on a flat in the "City Centre." The apartment comes with a washing machine big enough to wash three whole pairs of socks at one time.

I also had my first dilemma with our common language with the Irish. Having forgotten mine in New Jersey, I was in a TESCO looking for a comb. I asked an employee where to find one, but the problem was my long Maryland "o". She had no idea what I was talking about, looking as though I had asked where to find the Molotov Cocktails. After I said "cohwmb" a few more times, she eventually understood. Later I was instructed on how to say comb, but I haven't yet been able to master it.

After moving in, we will follow the PPS-number-then-job progression of things, or at least try to. Our hosts gave us other bits of wisdom last night. On the job front, “All you need to know about the Irish economy is: we're screwed. We are borrowing 2 billion euro a month to keep the government afloat, and this for a population the size of greater Manchester.” It’s not anything unfamiliar to Americans––the talk here is dominated by the double-digit unemployment rate and stagnant/falling wages. The government is borrowing billions to stay afloat, but, of course, public servants have scheduled a nationwide strike to protest wage cuts.

Like in the States, economic hardship has created some political turmoil, or at least dissatisfaction with the folks currently running the country. There is an Obama-esque challenger to the current Taoiseach (pronounced TEE-shuck; the Irish Prime Minister) who has harnessed the “Yes We Can” attitude. But, we’ve been told, the more Irish way to state it is, “Well, Maybe, You Never Know.”

So it stands at the moment. I will continue to update the magazine and work on my Cork accent.

The Prelude

All of the nice things we were lucky enough to get for our wedding.... It's strange to be packing them up for storage in my grandmother-in-law's basement. We're approaching departure, and I have been hunting for jobs and places to live in Cork. I have blanketed the temp agencies with my CV, and have come up with a few housing leads.

One situation is a nice house five minutes' walk from Cork City Centre. The fellow I have corresponded with sounds very jolly, and the monthly rent is reasonable. Another possibility is sharing an apartment with a Frenchman and a––and I'm quoting––"very serious German guy." If that doesn't sound terrifying enough, they have a "strictly enforced" cleaning schedule. I'm pulling for the jolly house mate to work out.

Thanks to all that have become followers of my, um, online magazine. A gentleman very intimate with the ways of the press, who might be associated with Washington College, and who might have something to do with the Chestertown Spy, has advised me that "blog" is a word I should avoid. Everyone has a blog these days, but how many have online magazines? Did I call this a blog? My bad.

A few more things...

We are leaving in just a few days, so packing, planning, and final visits with relatives and friends are going to take up much of my time until then. Please be patient, I'll start blogging away once in Cork City (our destination on the Emerald Isle). And if I can't find work, I'll have enough time to blog more than any of you would ever want me to. I'm planning on fully embracing 21st-century voyeurism.

The Skinny

This 'blog is an experiment to see if I can make my international excursion––a 12-month work holiday in Ireland––sound interesting. The idea to broadcast my experience in a public forum first came to me about a year ago, when the Western economy was burning to the ground. Ireland was hit particularly hard, the "Celtic Tiger" actually having depended on a faulty housing boom even more than the US of A. I'm a news hound, and I was amazed at the amount of ink the Irish crash was getting in America. I knew that Americans almost consider Ireland to be the 52nd state, but the intense interest in the economic troubles of a nation of four million was more than I expected.

Therefore, I thought that perhaps my tale of moving to Éire ("Ireland" in Irish) and trying to find work could garner at least a handful of readers. Which is more readers than I'm used to having. My Master's thesis was read by five people, including my wife, Katherine, and me.

Since this is my first post and I'm rather enjoying talking about myself, a little more explanation about the Ireland trip: it's my wife's doing. A year ago I was in the first semester of a six-year Ph.D. program at The College of William and Mary, but it wasn't for me. It was a typical grad student crisis...I couldn't find a topic for my thesis/dissertation that at all interested me, my social life was non-existent, and the Williamsburg area was sucking the life out of me. My then-fiancée, Katherine simply could not find work. As fate would have it, the USA and Ireland struck up a deal last October to offer a new, one-year work holiday visa for "recent" college students. We weren't interested in staying in Hampton Roads for much longer, so we went for the visa. I say "it's my wife's doing" because it has been her dream to try to live in Ireland ever since she studied abroad there as an undergraduate. It was a opportunity we couldn't pass up.

We were married this past October 23rd, and now we're packing up our lives into two suitcases and heading to Europe. We're happily exchanging the financial ruin that might accompany this decision for the opportunity to see a little more of the world. Even Ireland, a white, English-speaking, very "westernized" country will pack more cultural diversity than I'm used to. I'm from Earleville, Md., folks.

My intention is to regularly update about our travels, with a loose focus on the Irish economy and job market. As someone said to me recently, "You're going to try to find work in Ireland? You know, even the Poles have been leaving." Thanks. It should be interesting.