Transformed into a Weekend Warrior

Working full days is tough...I don't know how people do it. Getting up before the sun rises, lifting heavy things all day, and trudging home just as the evening falls––quite an adjustment for me. But it beats doing nothing at all, an existence I was flirting with before I got this warehouse work. In all seriousness, it's a good place to work with good, friendly co-workers. Compared with my stint at Michael Guineys it doesn't even seem like work at all.

My new job has coincided with Katherine also having more work, in the same warehouse. Our new existences as working stiffs has us valuing the weekend more than usual. The weather has been uncharacteristically sunny and clear lately, and today was no exception; to make the most of our Sunday, we took a stroll around town.

We came across this excellent band of street performers in the center of town. Great musicians all, and they were belting out fantastic bluesy rock jams. A good sense of humor too: the sign on their open guitar case read, "Please help us, our girlfriends want new clothes."

How beautiful their music was to my ears cannot be fully understood until I explain something. This has been on my mind for a while, and I just have to say it: pop music in Ireland––in Europe, generally––is dreadful. You might be thinking, "Oh wait a sec, Brandon. What about Britney Spears, Kanye, the Jonas Brothers, etc, in the USA? Surely that's dreadful too?" Indeed it is. But in Ireland, that's all you ever hear. There is no other genre, no relief. No jazz, no blues, no rock. No folk, no R&B. Nothing even approaching a poor caricature of these. It's all corporate electronica pop. And judging by the pop stations' playlists, there are only seven songs fit for radio at any given time. If you know me well you know I feel strongly about music, and I don't mean to offend anyone. But, for me, this is the stuff they play in Hell.

So maybe you can understand why upon hearing these brave pioneering young musicians on Patrick Street, I wanted to put a €50 note in their case and simply say––with a tear in my eye, no doubt––"Thank you."

Alas, I didn't have any cash on me.



















Later on in the day we made our way down the "quays," the streets that line the river. There are ample reminders of downtown Cork's former existence as an active port, such as these old platforms for docking and unloading vessels. There are also countless stone staircases that descend from street level down into the water. Much of this maritime infrastructure looks like it could be thrown back into use without much repair, but it will likely continue to rot away.

On Union Quay (pronounced "key") we encountered a pub with a traditional music session in full swing. I don't know how we missed this place for two and a half months––it's a two-minute walk from our apartment and it is wonderful. Small and cozy with a warm coal fire, the pub managed to fit a small army of "trad" players into one corner: I think there were five fiddles, two banjos, two accordions, plus some flutes and percussion. At one point a patron at the bar took the floor and sang a traditional tune without accompaniment. At the end of his fine performance he sat back down to his glass of Beamish and continued reading the newspaper where he had left off. They were all very talented, and were another blessed reminder that you can still find good music.

Like with the street performers, more of the Irish humor. During a break between songs an older man with wild hair––he seemed to be a "regular"––approached Katherine. "Is it legal?" he asked. "Is what legal?" she responded. "Is it legal for you to look so good?" He had a good laugh and shook her hand.

Then he turned to me: "Are you on holiday here?" "No," I said, "we live here, we're here on a work permit. We're Americans." He shook his head and said, "We all have our problems."