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.