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."

Movin' On Up

The new furniture finally arrived yesterday, and it feels like a new apartment. The sofa has some lumbar support (and enough room for two people to sit), and the chairs don't throw out your lower back by slanting your hips ten degrees to the right. Remarkable stuff. The new couch goes with with our jerry-rigged accent lighting, seen hanging on the picture frame. That's our Christmas tree boxed up in the corner...not quite sure what to do with it.

Oh, and our bed-of-nails mattress––which was so old I'm pretty sure it was partly stuffed with horse hair––is gone too.

The stack of travel literature you can see in the fore has occupied my time in recent days. Katherine and I are trying to plot trips to the Continent for the spring and early summer. Funding for our coming travels was mysterious––even to us––until this morning. We met with the owners of the Katherine's golf shop [see previous entry] and they offered me temporary full-time hours in their warehouse. It's a sweet gig; although I would prefer part-time work, they're very accommodating to our holiday-riddled schedule.

***

And so it is in Ireland, as it is in the United States: who you know trumps what you know. After thinking back on my work experience, I can say that Guineys (of all places) was the first and only job of mine that I landed the "traditional" way. In all of my other searches going to temp agencies, looking for ads in the paper, and cold calling has failed.

Every job I've had started with an informal connection––i.e., I knew someone on the inside. And don't get the wrong idea....these weren't special places to work. At all. To work at a plant nursery, mow grass on a horse farm, work as a construction laborer, and even do freelance research has all required that special "in." When I don't have the "in" the results have been depressing: even the bagel restaurant down the street won't respond to my application.

***

Some sad news: the legendary Waterford Crystal factory has closed down. A US-based consortium, in true US consortium style, is moving the production of the crystal to locations "across the globe." This is an obvious euphemism for Poland and China. Or just China.

Why? Why would anyone buy Waterford Crystal if it's made in Slovenia? The whole point, I thought, was the famous and unparalleled Irish skill at crystal carving. They apparently think that the Waterford brand name is strong enough that ignorant customers will continue to buy it regardless of where it's made. They might be right. I'm sure people with MBA's are making these decisions. But I'm not going to be fooled, and my readers shouldn't be either. Spread the word!

Instead, check out Kinsale Crystal. This stuff is made in a small independently owned shop by a former Waterford craftsman, and it is extremely impressive. Check out some of the pictures on the website. His prices aren't that different from what Waterford was recently charging, and you get a much better product.

Op-Ed

Hi everyone! Katherine here. I’ve been asked to write a “guest entry” for Éire Apparent.

My “accent” is quite a topic of discussion in the golf store where I work. Most of the time customers wait until they are paying for their items at the till: “Where are you from?” they ask curiously. I used to respond, “From the United States” but most of the time the reaction was, “Well, I guessed that! Where in the U.S. are you from?”

Where it all happens.

In my defense, I thought I could have been mistaken as a Canadian, as I once was in London. I stopped at the Ritz to ask for directions three years ago, at the end of my study abroad experience. “Are you from Canada?” the Ritz Carlton doorman asked me. “No, I’m actually from northern New Jersey." ("Right outside of New York City,” I hastily added as I saw a confused look coming over his face.) “Oh righttt!," he recovered, "I figured you must have been a Canadian, because, well, you don’t have a Boston accent or a New York accent.” I didn’t mention to this poor chap that I also don’t have a Southern accent, a Midwestern accent, or any of the numerous other accents can be heard in United States.

Since most of the Irish seem to guess that I’m from the United States, I’ve modified the way I respond: “I’m originally from northern New Jersey, about twenty miles outside of New York City.”

In the two months or so that I’ve been working at the golf shop, I have gotten several amusing reactions to this. Most of the people make a friendly, though vain, effort to relate to my nationality.

“Oh! I have family in San Francisco,” one woman told me just a few weeks ago. “I get out there at least twice a year.” Luckily I have been to San Francisco and could respond, “Yes, San Francisco is beautiful.” “It is,” she responded with vigor, “I love it there.”

This past week, all of the customers I had seemed to have family in Chicago. “New Jersey, huh? My brother-in-law / sister / son / best friend’s cousin live in Chicago!,” to which I smile politely. I’ve never been to Chicago, but I’ve been in the airport.

Never mind the fact that these places are hundreds or thousands of miles from my hometown, and many are completely different from the area I grew up in. European’s have a much different sense of a country's size. The Irish, for example, can drive from the island's northern tip its southern extent in about eight hours. That’s it. (That time would be a lot shorter if they had Interstate-style highways running the length of the country).

Many of the customers make an effort to relate to the fact that I’m from New Jersey. One woman recently told me she had family in the Garden State. “Oh, where about?” I asked. “Hmmm,” she responded, “Shirley Hill?” “Do you mean Cherry Hill?” I ask. “Yes! That’s it! Cherry Hill!” she says with a smile. “That’s about two hours from where I grew up. I passed it every time I drove to college, though.” I said. “Oh goodness, two hours! Why, New Jersey is huge! It must be roughly the size of Munster!” (Munster is one of the four provinces of Ireland. The other three are Leinster, Connaught, and Ulster).

One customer confidently told me that she used to have a son who lived there, and whom she had visited every year for many years. “Do you know the name of the town?” I ask. “Oh, no, I couldn’t tell you. Somewhere near the Hudson River.”

Another time a customer said she knew northern New Jersey well. Her sister lives there, as a matter of fact. And what town did her sister live in? “Something that ends with –field.” So I named a few of them off the top of my head: Springfield, Bergenfield, Westfield, Bloomfield, Plainfield? None of them rang a bell.

As for my personal favorite, the caretaker of the “Winthrop Arcade” shops where I work stopped me one night as I was closing up for the evening. “Where are you from, love?” he said in a thick Cork accent. He laughed when I told him I was from outside of New York City. “New York? I’ve never been.” “You’ll have to try to get there someday,” I replied. “Oh no, I don’t think so,” he said. “I’m rather used to the tallest building in Cork City being about six stories high,” he said as he walked away with a chuckle.

And I Forgot to Add....

I just wanted everyone to know that Subway's official name for the people who assemble your hoagie is––seriously––"sandwich artist." I learned this because a Subway in County Cork is looking for a full-time "sandwich artist" (previous experience required, of course).

An Opportunity

The 2010 job market has been completely flat. I still make the effort of checking the job banks each day, and each day I am reminded that if I was fluent in Danish, Italian, or even Swahili, I would probably be able to land work. I also take regular walking tours around the city hunting for "help wanted" signs about twice a week––the problem with this method is there seems to be fewer and fewer businesses each time. Really, I notice newly boarded-up storefronts each time I go out. Some brief research proves that it's not just my imagination, and businesses are closing at a high clip these days.

And as predicted, the gig at the baby clothing/toy store was not meant to be. The owner found a predictably feminine person to fill the spot.

Luckily, yesterday I ran into one of the owners of the golf shop where Katherine works. He told me there is a temporary "data entry" job at their warehouse, which is also within walking distance from our flat. It would only be for a couple of months, but it could lead to other things. He also told me he would keep an eye out for other opportunities at the warehouse. When he asked me what type of work I am looking for, I said "anything." This was apparently hard to believe, because when we were parting ways he said, "You really mean you'll do anything?" I was, and am, worried about what he might have been implying, but I nonetheless replied yes. Hey, times are tough.

New Digs?

The time has finally come for Katherine and I to decide what to do about our lease. To extend or not to extend? We're supposed to notify our landlord about our decision twenty-eight days before the contract expires. That would mean today.

Leading up to this moment––when we were not dilly-dallying in London––Katherine and I have been researching other potential flats in the city. We have learned a couple of lessons: the good apartments are listed for about 3.7 seconds until someone snatches them up; rent prices, inexplicably, seem to have gone up since we arrived two months ago; and finding a landlord willing to do short (three-month) leases is about as easy as finding a warm sandy beach in Ulster. We did find an apartment in Shandon, a neighborhood in the North Side, that was reasonably priced and has no minimum lease, so yesterday we went and had a look.

Let me tell you, it's not an easy sell when you find this about a block from the apartment:


Burnt-out cars aside, this place wasn't for us. It's in an old house, has old paint and old windows, and the only source of heat are portable electric-oil heaters. We tried all of that in Williamsburg and, frankly, it sucked.

Shandon also has a reputation, at least among the Irish. It's an "ethnic" neighborhood, and the Irish folks I have talked to are convinced it is the bastion of Cork crime. Keep in mind that Cork's definition of a "crime problem" is a little different than an American definition. According to an article I found, 2007 saw a record high in Irish violent crime. How many? Seventy murders in the entire country. Since that high- (or low-)water mark, violent crime has dropped off by two-thirds. In short, by an American definition violent crime is nearly non-existent in the Republic of Ireland.

Regardless of these facts, no matter how safe a country is many of the residents are going to be convinced that crime is a problem. And so it is with Ireland. What is striking about the murder statistics is that a disproportionate number of the victims and murderers are not Irish: a "vast majority [are] natives of Russian or former Russian states." The same is true of the population as a whole of Shandon and other "ethnic" enclaves in Cork and in Ireland overall.

In the minds of the Irish––even though they would deny it––large numbers of Eastern Europeans equals crime. It's similar to the common (white) American perception of places that are majority African-American or Hispanic. The current population distribution of Cork even follows what we would call "white flight" in the States. The City Centre and the North Side is where you find most of the Eastern Europeans; most of the tenants in our building (including us) are not Irish. And most of the middle-class Irish people we know live in the South Side suburbs, where you find recently built housing developments and shopping centers.

But since everyone we're talking about is white, we'll have to call it Gaelic Flight.

Putting such analysis behind us, the good news is I talked to our current landlord, and he has agreed to buy new furniture for our current place. New mattress, couch, and chairs. This development has it looking like we will be staying put.

As for work, I'm still on the prowl. There is a small store that sells baby clothes and toys that is looking for part-time help next door to Katherine's golf shop, and Katherine even knows the manager. Sounds promising but, as you could probably predict, the owner prefers to hire women. 'Tis a shame, because a young handsome male employee would probably help sales at such a store.

Back from Britain

Our flight back from London was the first time I have had a clear view of Ireland from the air. I got a few photos of County Cork when we were landing, and what you see above is the best shot I took. That's essentially what the whole country looks like from an airplane.

London was "grand," as they say in these parts. Grand to walk around in and take in the sights, but not grand for the wallet. We stayed with some distant relatives outside of the city; before heading in for the first time, our host referred to the city as "Rip-Me-Off London." This is an appropriate epithet. Westminster Abbey was £15 per person, the Tower of London a whopping £17.50. It hurts even more when you convert it to dollars. Needless to say, we didn't go into most of these places. Luckily the Natural History Museum, the Victoria and Albert Museum, and the National Gallery are free!

Here are some other places we visited:

If you don't know what this is, just Google it.

For all of you Pink Floyd fans, Battersea Power Station.


One of the more famous front doors in London (sorry, couldn't find Madonna's).

Our host, Tony, is a police officer and he was able to get us into some neat places with relative ease. That's how we got to pose at No. 10 Downing Street. He also set us up with a private tour of Westminster Palace, also known as the Houses of Parliament:


Unfortunately, photography was not allowed inside. Too bad, because the interior is fantastic. The Queen's Robing Room and the House of Lords are the more opulent places, the House of Commons is more austere, or common. Among the highlights was a beautiful clock in the Queen's Robing Room that originally belonged to Marie Antoinette. Our guide told us that the French want it back, but the Greeks also want back the Elgin Marbles from the Parthenon. If the British have taught us anything, it's finders keepers.

Since I was in London I was looking forward to some English pub food. My quest for bar cuisine turned out to be disappointing: about 80% of the "traditional" English pubs in London are owned by the same company, and they all have the exact same menu. This unfortunate situation holds true for much of Britain, I'm afraid. The independent English pub is nearly extinct, I have heard that they're closing at a rate of thirteen a day. Anyway, by a mild stroke of luck I found a pub owned by a smaller pub conglomerate in which to sample some fish and chips.

Tony's wife, Jackie, treated us to some excellent dinners, including a wonderful "curry." "Going to get a curry" (i.e. Indian food) is ingrained in British culture––every menu of 'traditional British food' I saw included at least one Indian entrée. You could say curry is the Mexican food of Britain (Mexican restaurants, on the other hand, were nowhere to be seen. Business opportunity?).

Katherine and I took obligatory pictures with the famous red London phone boxes. Ever wonder what they look like inside?:


Most of the boxes I saw had similar advertisements. If that isn't charming enough, this one also seems to be used as a urinal on a regular basis.

These minor problems aside, I recommend visiting London. It's not as jaw-droppingly beautiful as Paris or Rome, and has more of a business-like feel. Like New York. As a result, the amount of wealth in London is incredible. You can't walk far in the city without coming across rows of imposing mansions, and I saw so many Bentleys and Aston Martins I actually lost count. In the Mayfair neighborhood Katherine and I counted seven Bentleys, two Rolls-Royces, and two Aston Martins parked along the street on one block. That's impressive.

The Blizzard

Cork's biggest snowfall in years came down yesterday––as divined by my previous entry––burying the region in about one inch. The weather actually persuaded an across-the-board school closure for the entire country, an unpopular decision in some circles. Cork International Airport closed down entirely at 7:00 p.m. last night, and only reopened midday today.

It was surreal, seeing the city struggle with the snow this morning. Many City Centre businesses opened late, and most closed early since there were hardly any shoppers willing to brave the roads into town. A lot of storefronts were closed the entire day. I was scheduled to meet with our realtor, but she wasn't able to get to her office. Buses were no alternative because many of the routes were out of service.

Katherine and I are lucky enough to have seen once-in-a-generation floods, and now once-in-a-generation winter weather. Anyway, here's my photographic proof that it has snowed in Cork:

And even more impressive, proof that it has been cold enough for the "Lough" (pronounced like "loch"), a lake in southern Cork City, to freeze over:

Photos courtesy of Sam O Reilly

That's right, there are even people walking on it! Or playing ice hockey, more specifically. The last time that it was cold enough for people to walk on the Lough: 1964.

Well, my readers, Katherine and I are off to London tomorrow. That is, if the airport is indeed open and our flight isn't cancelled. I will be back Saturday evening, continuing my online magazining shortly thereafter. Caveat: we will be back on Saturday if our flight out of London isn't affected, although that's very possible. England has experienced heavy snowfall, and it is likely to continue this week.

No Subject

After a week into the new year I have had a taste of the 2010 Irish job market, and it needs some sugar. There are fewer positions open than before Christmas. I have found a couple of potentials, but they're all in food service. Needless to say, I have dropped off CVs and haven't received any phone calls. The retail experience I recently earned isn't going to be much help, I think. Retail has fallen off hard since Christmas.

But it's all good. I've been doing some shopping. Check out this sweet wool "jumper" I got for €20:


As you can see, we are still celebrating Christmas. That tree is lit every evening. This is partly because we are waiting on some packages of gifts that were sent from the States. It just doesn't seem right to un-decorate until we receive them. Also notice that I have removed one of the eye-splitting rose pictures and replaced it with a calendar––and not just any calendar: this one has a pictures of "wild and scenic Maryland." Whoever assembled it was inexcusably lazy, because most of the photos are from only two counties: Garrett and Worcester (!).

You can also see in the photo our very rigid and uncomfortable sofa, the only "social" piece of furniture we have. This along with our mattress––about as thick and comfortable as a graham cracker––have persuaded us to seek a new residence. There are several one-bedroom apartments open in the city with much nicer furniture. Our backs need it.

***

Ireland continues to be paralyzed by the mysterious weather phenomenon known as "cold." It has been below freezing (just barely) for about a week now: schools are closed, commerce has ground to a halt, and terrifying rumors abound of the yet-to-be-witnessed "freezing fog." Check out the some of the press coverage:

Yes, that says two centimeters. In all fairness, it has been probably thirty years since Cork has seen an inch of snow. And few municipalities have the equipment to salt the roads. It could be worse: in parts of England there are eighteen inches of the white stuff, which has thrown the once mighty empire back into the fourteenth century. Katherine and I are scheduled to fly to London on Tuesday, but there is a good chance we'll be facing long delays or cancellations.

Speak of the devil! As I write this the Cork sky has broken into flurries:

I swear there's snow in these pictures. Click on them for a zoom view.

The Irish are dealing with the adverse weather mainly through lots of moaning. The cold is a surefire way to start a conversation with a stranger, a good icebreaker (pun intended). My Irish friend, Steve, and I sometimes get into slightly academic conversations over glasses of Jameson about Irish and American cultures. During a pub crawl the other night, he came up with a good synopsis of Irish society: Unlike America, which tends to be a society of extremes, Ireland is very "middle of the road." [i.e., culturally homogeneous]. The problems that the Irish complain about are actually quite tame––there is the mild weather that they complain about, there is a mild flow of immigration that they complain about. Pretty mild budget cuts by the government have people really bent out of shape, and folks gripe about traffic that really isn't that bad. But I can't pass judgment, I am guilty of complaining about traffic backups in Elkton, Md.

Katherine and I continue to write articles for the Chestertown Spy, so I encourage you all to check out that publication on a regular basis.

Operation Decycle

As you know, my search for a solution to our growing recycling problem ended in failure. I should say, my search for a simple solution. After going through the proper channels of City Hall and our agent (who, I have a feeling, never really contacted the landlord about this), Katherine and I were forced to consider other options. We settled on a covert nighttime mission.

Adopting the plan for its simplicity and sheer cunning, we headed out into the darkness with our recyclables packed into spare shopping bags (which wouldn't arouse suspicion, you see). The idea was to either distribute the items into various city litter bins, or find a dumpster. Heading into the north side, we came across a large blue container labeled "recyclables only" sitting by the curb in front of a business. We decided to take advantage of this unexpectedly easy solution, and, as casually as possible, threw four large bags of recycling into the bin and walked away.

For a few minutes we were simply content with being rid of the garbage. But after walking a few hundred yards Katherine asked me, "There wasn't anything in that with our names and addresses, right?" Oh shit, I thought. After talking it over, we decided yes, there is actually a ton of junk mail with our names and addresses all through those bags. And all the disgruntled business owner would have to do is pick through our recyclables, contact the authorities with the address, and we would be fined for illegal dumping.

If it was difficult to act naturally when leaving the recycling in a bin on a busy street corner, imagine how hard it was to retrieve it. Thankfully, we were spared questioning. On the way back to our apartment we scoped out a large dumpster only a block from our building: we agreed this would be a much better dump site.

After eating dinner we headed back out with the shopping bags of contraband in tow. This time, however, the dumpster was gated and locked. Foiled again and desperate, we resorted to distributing what we had into several of the city-centre trash cans. Thankfully this worked, more or less, without a hitch. There was the awkward moment when I was frantically cramming old cereal boxes into a bin, only to look up and notice a Garda (police) officer sitting in his car watching me. He didn't do anything. I like to think it was the civil authorities' way of finally cutting me a break.

And so the recycling subplot has concluded. A commenter suggested that I take a picture of the pile, but did so after we had already disposed of it. I'm sorry, I should have thought of it myself!

Hello 2010!

New Year's was more intense than I was expecting––we went to a party that ended at around 4:30 a.m.––thus the delay for the greatly anticipated First Entry of 2010. Cork and Ireland are finally back to "normal business hours" after a relaxing break that started on December 23, with the one change that many businesses are no longer open on Sundays. It seems that seven-days-a-week retail only exists in the weeks leading up to Christmas.

As I have previously mentioned, our kitchen is slowly starting to resemble a landfill because we are accumulating recyclables. We haven't been able to dispose of them for two reasons: You need to have a special recycling bag approved by the City Council; and if you try to throw out recycling with regular garbage and are caught, you are subject to massive fines. Finally, after much patient waiting and careful stacking of empty milk jugs, the first post-holiday business arrives. I headed to City Hall.

Seen here amid rare blue sky and sunshine, the Temple of Red Tape (City Hall).

My quest for the elusive official bags started smoothly, there were no long lines that are usually found at government offices. I was first helped by a nice young lady with a tongue stud:

I attempted to subtly emphasize how small my request is with the greeting, "Hello, I just need some of the clear plastic recycling bags."

"What's the account number?" she replied.

"Um, I don't know. I can give you the address," I said, and did so.

"Do you know if it's a residential or commercial property?"

"I have no idea. I live there, so I assume residential."

(Tapping and clicking away on her computer) "Well it's not coming up as a residential listing. Hold on a minute." The young lady then proceeded to call two or three different extensions, trying to find out the property's 'classification.' You see (I was informed), the recycling bags are different for commercial and residential properties.

After a few minutes of phone play, she tracked down some information. "Your building is classified as commercial"––she writes down the account number on a Post-It––"Do you have your lease agreement on you?"

I was taken aback by this...in my naïveté, I didn't think such documentation would be necessary for picking up some plastic bags. I confessed, "No, I don't."

"Well just bring back your lease agreement and a form of identification, and we'll see if we can get you the recycling bags."

Fifteen minutes later, after running back to our apartment, I returned to City Hall with the requested documentation. To my dismay, there was no tongue-studded lady behind the counter; after glancing at my watch, I realized she must have gone to lunch. Now I have a bald-headed man to plead my case to.

"Hello, I just need some plastic recycling bags. I have the account number here," pointing to the Post-It, "the property is classified as commercial. I also have my lease and identification." I was confident at this point that I would make progress, that I would finally have the bags in my hand after thirty minutes.

The bald man scratched his head, and said, "Residential or commercial?"

Trying to remain calm, I replied, "Commerical."

He squints at the lease agreement, looking confused, then dials an extension. The same exact extension the tongue-studded lady had dialed. "Ah, you know what, the extension I need is busy, could you go sit over there and I will give you a shout when I get through."

A surreal feeling, the feeling that sometimes accompanies an encounter with incomprehensible bureaucracy, crept over me at this point. I just want some clear bags, man. But I remained quiet and had a seat. After a few minutes of dealing with the other people in the queue, the bald man was able to get through to the extension he needed. He waves me over.

"....yeah, I'm just trying to figure out if this property is residential or commercial and what we are supposed to do if it's commercial...." I'm sure my blood pressure was rising when I heard this. "...okay, well why don't you look into it and call me back, I have a queue forming here." He hangs up. "He's just going to call me back, you can have a seat again and I'll give you a shout soon." As this transpired, my eyes wandered to the wall behind my bald receptionist. There they were. In small cardboard box, only three feet behind him, the recycling bags. For the love of God, man, just hand me a couple bags. But I kept my mouth shut; obviously, what ails this whole process is bigger than any one city employee. At this juncture I was intrigued to see how far it would go.

A few more minutes passed, and finally the magic phone call came in. I didn't bother to get up, but I saw the bald-man shake his head, squint some more at the lease, then scribble something else down on the Post-It. After this he walked up to me with his explanation: "You see, the problem here is the property where you live is classified as 'commercial'"––I hear screaming in my head––"you need to call your landlord and have him call this number." He pointed to what he had written on the Post-It, "Your landlord has to call this to order commercial recycling bags, they cost €150 for fifty bags [emphasis mine]."

Somehow managing to initially ignore the price of the bags, I said, "Look, I don't know the landlord and I don't know how to get in contact with him. He lives in Dublin. The property is managed for him by a company in town."

"Oh, well walk over to them, they might be able to help." And with this I left City Hall empty-handed, after about an hour of wrangling.

A few minutes later I was in our realtor's office, talking to my agent. I gave her the same sob story about needing to get rid of recyclables. "Oh, I don't know how the recycling works for that property, I'll have to call the landlord," was her response. Sometimes I can be a little thick, because upon this I finally realized that no one is recycling. The tenants in our building are obviously not going through this on a regular basis, they are obviously not running around like fools every so often looking for recycling bags. They're just throwing out the recycling with the regular garbage and hoping to not get caught. Can I blame them?

After all of this, I still have the pile of milk jugs and tin cans in my corner. I guess that's our prize for trying to do things the right way.