The Wrath of Eyjafjallajokull

I know it looks like I passed out and bashed my head against the keyboard, but "Eyjafjallajokull" happens to be the name of that pesky Icelandic volcano. Europe is absolutely crippled by the cloud of ash that has most airports closed until the eruption ends––and no one knows when that will be. Things are especially problematic in Ireland and Britain. Being islands, there are only a few other travel options: you can take a ferry, or the Chunnel. And from what I've been reading, all ferry and Chunnel crossings are sold out.

The eruption has been anticlimactic for us so far. All I see is a clear blue sky, no ominous cloud of ash! But that will change soon. According to the an article from the Washington Post, Scottish health authorities said that this weekend we'll see the ash "wafting to the ground...producing a dusty haze and a strong sulfuric smell akin to that of rotten eggs." Sweet! My first encounter with volcanic ash.

To recap, in Ireland we have seen the worst flooding in centuries, the coldest winter in a lifetime, and now a massive volcanic eruption. As far as natural phenomenon this trip hasn't been disappointing!

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Some of the cliffs at the entrance to the Old Head. Notice the ancient
fortification wall in the foreground.

Now for the promised report on my trip to Old Head. The work I was doing there, as predicted, was dull and I therefore won't talk about it. But the weather was perfect and the scenery beautiful.

The view from the clubhouse's patio. Not a shabby place to
play a €200 round of golf or have a €15 drink, is it?

I had to spend two work days at the Old Head Links. Not too long after I left on Monday a guy plunged to his death off of the cliffs––a very scenic suicide. This last photo was taken on Tuesday; apparently they were still looking for his body. The chopper was slowly working its way along the coastline. Anyway, it made for a neat shot with the lighthouse in view.

***

I had an interesting cab ride back from the airport on Tuesday (I had to take cabs from City Centre to the airport each day, because that's the only place where one can rent a car in Cork!). The driver and I engaged in the obligatory small talk at first--he told me that he drives a Harley, and did a two-month motorcycle trip across the United States. He also told me about the way Old Head used to be before it was colonized by the upper-bourgeois. "'Twas a very wild place, Old Head. I used to go out there with me shotgun and blast away at the sea gulls. 'Twas cruel of me, yes, but I like to think they would have done the same if they had shotguns."

This is where the conversation turned from harmless to serious. Referring to the recent bank bailouts (see previous entries), my driver made it clear he was disgusted by the €54 billion hole Ireland dug itself. "For a small country, for a country with only one million full-time employees, 'tis a grave." He then told me his big plans: "I think it's time for some assassinations, starting at the top and working down the line. Somebody needs to take out these politicians."

"Still have the old shotgun?" I asked.

"Oh yes, I have plenty of guns. But a shotgun would be too good for them. The person that takes them out will be a hero to the people. I'm an old man [he was about 70] that has nothing to lose, so it looks like it will have to be me. They don't hang people anymore, so what are they going to do? Throw me in jail for the rest of my life?" He laughed at the prospect.

We arrived at my apartment. "I'm a real Cork man, a true rebel, and I'll shoot them all," he concluded. By this point he was also referring to the "foreign" cab drivers who undercut Irish cabbies, robbing the latter of business. All I could think to say was "Well, good luck with that. Your secret is safe with me."

Beerfest

I hope everyone had a good Easter, even if it didn't mean a three-day weekend (which is what it always means here). Our visit to the Franciscan Well's Easter Beerfest was excellent. Their beer garden was lined with stalls representing different Irish microbreweries––my favorite was Molly's Chocolate Truffle Stout. I have seen Molly's beers in the States, you come across them once in a while. Keep an eye out for this particular brew!

I got my pay stub for the week of our trip to Edinburgh. I only worked two days that week, so the pay should have been a small one. But I was surprised to see that they gave me a full week's wage. My conscience (and Katherine) dictated that I talk to my boss about this overpayment. As it turns out, they didn't make a mistake: I was given vacation days. Talk about something that would never happen in the US! Work a temporary position––even a part-time one––in Ireland and you accumulate paid vacation based on the number of hours you put in. One vacation day for every hundred hours in my case.

Tomorrow I get to go on my first and probably last business trip for warehouse work. The company shipped a thousand or so embroidered shirts to Old Head Golf Club in Kinsale, only for the Old Head folks to complain that they weren't correctly tagged. Therefore I get to hire a car and drive to the club and fix the tags. Mindless work, maybe. But at least I'll get to see one of the most beautiful courses in the world. Check it out:

(Sorry, couldn't find a better picture that would fit. Just check out the link I posted above). The Old Head peninsula used to be open to the public until the Celtic Tiger days of the '90s. As the Irish describe it, that's when "rich people" bought up the land and made it one of the most exclusive private clubs in the country.

Stuff like the Old Head controversy doesn't help the average Irish person's view of golf as a solidly elitist activity. I'll put such scandal aside in my mind as I walk around to enjoy the view.

My Warehouse Twilight

Warehousing and––as of late––another PhD thesis to edit have been cramping Éire Apparent's style. Not to fear, for I will be out of work again soon. The third week of April is the swan song of my career as a stock counter. So be prepared for the return of Brandon the mega-blogger.

As I write, my employment prospects are as bleak as before the warehousing stint. There's still nothing on the horizon other than restauranting and bar tending, and I didn't have much luck in those industries (the whole lack of "experience" thing). If I can manage to procure a nice flow of PhD theses to edit I will be fine––professional editing pays pretty well as it turns out!

***

Happy Easter! to those who observe it. Katherine, always the good Catholic, had us go to Easter Mass this morning. Since we slept in we had to go to the noon mass, which turned out to be the traditional Latin Rite. Aye carumba! I now completely understand why Vatican II was necessary. I've never seen priests do so much kneeling and standing and incense (Katherine said maybe the traditional mass was thought up as an exercise routine for the clergy). And there was the slight problem of the incoherently mumbled Latin.

To celebrate Christ's Resurrection Katherine and I are going to an Easter beer festival at the Franciscan Well, something that would make Him proud I'm sure.

***

We have joined in with the British/Irish tradition of "Easter Eggs," which are large chocolate....eggs. This is their standard Easter morning treat. Our friend Gemma's family gave us ours: I had a hollow egg that came with some Maltesers, and Katherine had the Cadbury (Kraft) "Flake" version. Good stuff.

My boss as the warehouse, Laurence, had a Jedward Eastern Egg. If you want a vision of the Antichrist, run a Google search for "Jedward." They're a corporate pop duo, and thanks to them we are now being tortured by a resurrection of Vanilla Ice in Ireland. Didn't think bringing back Vanilla Ice was possible? Yeah, I didn't either. Can't wait for the Second Coming of Milli Vanilli!!

If you purchase a Jedward Easter Egg you have a chance at a "golden ticket," which wins you a chance to meet them in person. This is why Laurence chose this egg. Laurence and I are on the same page when it comes to the disaster that is Irish pop radio––he told me that if he had the pleasure to meet Jedward, maybe he would have a chance to take out at least one of them. "Maybe that would kill the magic," he mused. But he didn't get the ticket. And, alas, the problem we face with pop music in Ireland is bigger than Jedward, anyway.

***

Anyway, to close I will do my spot for the Scottish Ministry of Tourism. Go to Edinburgh! It's wonderful. And with sterling being weak at the moment, it's downright affordable.

Dancin' Days Are Here Again

We're back from Edinburgh as of last Sunday. Since then work has dominated our time, and so I can only leave a stop-gap entry for my devoted army of readers.

First, a quick word about Edinburgh: do yourself a favor and skip London. Just go right to the capital of Scotland. It is a gorgeous city––prettier than any we have seen thus far. It's a World Heritage Site, and it earns that honor easily.

Second, just when you thought the Irish economic situation looked bleak we get "Black Tuesday". The Irish government has decided to bail out a few (more) large banks, and folks are so angered by this and other revelations that some have accused the current government of treason. Pretty volatile stuff flying around right now. The government has taken on something like €50 billion in debt from bailouts––a tiny amount when compared to the trillions and bazillions the US government has been throwing around. But for a country of only four million that is some serious cash.

Patty's Day

The rain returned today with a vengeance––my trek to Blackpool left me soaked. Thankfully the weather had the decency to hold off until the day after St. Patrick's Day, a much-awaited milestone for our time in Ireland.

March 17 is indeed an important holiday for Ireland, but the nature of the celebration can be a little surprising to American expectations. My sweeping generalization would be that for Ireland, St. Patrick's Day is a day to have a little fun, take a day off of work (very important), and to celebrate the present. It's different than the American version, which tends to be an orgy of Irish traditionalism and stereotypes––St. Patrick's Day in the USA is the holiday of a diaspora remembering the "old country."

Sure, there were green wigs and Irish flags in Cork, but not much green beer or green rivers, trad music, or even traditional food. Believe it or not, Katherine and I had trouble finding corned beef; instead we made Irish soda bread as our paean to the country's cuisine.


(For some reason Katherine's gluten-free loaf––on the left––turned out looking more attractive and loaf-like). Embarrassing confession: until yesterday, I had never had Irish soda bread. I highly suggest it. As far as breads go it is very easy to make, and ours turned out quite well.

Anyway, what I'm trying to say is that on St. Patty's Day Ireland celebrates Ireland, and in this day and age that means more than fiddles, red beards, Guinness, and potatoes.

That said, parades are obligatory. We went to Cork's, which had some predictable elements:

Like martial displays, including the Irish Army and Navy (seen above). Don't bother making jokes about this being the Irish Navy's only vessel––I'm way ahead of you. I have a feeling it's trailered most of the time.

There were also some surprises, such as:

Transformers.

But surprisingly, most of the celebration was devoted to the many non-Irish cultures that now call Cork home.

There were the Filipino-Irish (seen here), as well as Latvians, Africans, Hungarians, and––of course––Poles.

After the parade the crowd moved to a part of the City Centre called the Grand Parade, where there was an outdoor market and concert. Some Irish trad music, maybe? No, just a jazz band fronted by an Englishman sporting a mohawk. They played Sinatra and the Stray Cats.

After the mid-day festivities, Katherine and I went to some pubs. This also seemed obligatory. Our first stop––the famous Franciscan Well––greeted me with the sought-after trad music and some stout. In another establishment we sat next to a warm coal fire, a comfortable spot to sip some Jameson. This satisfied the need for some good old Irish nostalgia.

***

When I got to work today, my boss asked if I went to the Patty's Day parade. "Yes, it was nice," I said.

"You must have gone to a different parade than me," he shot back. "Be honest, you weren't a little disappointed? That naval display was hilarious!"

So I guess it's a fortunate coincidence that Cork's was the first St. Patrick's Day parade I've ever seen.

The Sunny Day Blues

Alas, another extended break between entries. I am sorry, eager readers. It's just that this whole full-time work thing has greatly reduced my wandering around Cork. As for work itself, most of what I do is too mundane even for the blog format (not that this is a blog). So I'll spare you. Mostly.

Early morning Blackpool by Dennehy's Fish Shop and Healy's Baker. Oh, and
the Great Wall Chinese take-out place. This is the twenty-first century after all.

It's true in many cases that foreigners, either living or visiting a new land, experience more of a place than the locals ever have. Locals get tied down to work and other routines, and inherit preconceived notions about their community or country. And it can simply be tough to see what's special about a place when you're around it all of the time.

And so it is with the North Side of Cork, of which Blackpool is a part. I walk through this part of the city each day and––with each new nook of it I discover––I think it's the most interesting. Considering how vehemently Irish South Siders denounce the North Side as a crime-infested cesspool, it can be pretty surprising to find that many of the neighborhoods are warm and vibrant. The South Side has modern shopping centers and comfortably spaced houses (i.e., classic suburban sprawl), but the northern neighborhoods have a delightful traditional feel along with unique independent shops and eateries. It's all very rough around the edges in places, but Blackpool, Shandon, Sunday's Well (which can actually get quite swanky in parts) and others are the best place to see "Old Cork". If you're ever in town, take a long stroll north of the River Lee.

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There are only two days out of the year that pubs are required to close in Ireland, and Good Friday is one of them. But this year, many Irish have a big problem with this old tradition: there happens to be a rugby match scheduled for Good Friday. How on Earth can the nation enjoy a rugby match without a pint??? Seriously, this is a big issue and many want the old Good Friday rule thrown out, at least for 2010.

I think Americans would be happy to drink at home, watching the match on their own couches. Not to say that that is preferable; I find that watching rugby in a crowded pub is helpful. Not fully understanding the rules, I can gather from other patrons' groans or cheers what is happening.

***

The fabled Irish gift of gab can indeed be a good thing. If the gabber you're dealing with is cheerful and emotionally well-balanced. It's when you run into an Irish person that hates his life that you discover the dark side of the national propensity for chatting: a never-ending, bottomless pit of complaining.

Complaining is a national pastime in Ireland, and even the happiest people partake. (A doctor Katherine and I visited––he was English, to be fair––said, "the Irish are born pointing their fingers"). The best example is the weather––the past two weeks have been very sunny, clear, and even warm at times. Steve, a friend of ours and a Cork native, described this stretch of pleasantness as "fierce mild." On one particularly sunny day when I was at work, a driver for the warehouse's shipping contractor had an interesting take on things. When his box scanner wasn't working as well as he would have liked, he blamed "all of this bloody sunlight. The thing's just not used to it. None of us are." He continued on the topic: "F'ing weather. When I got up it was cold, so I put on a jacket. Now it's f'ing sunny and warm and I had to take off some layers. It's a pain!"

All of this is usually good natured. Not to be taken as a genuine complaint but as a conversation starter or ice-breaker. But other drivers for that shipping company I mentioned fall squarely in the unfortunate territory of chronic griping. Many of them are profoundly dissatisfied with coming to our warehouse and lifting dozens of boxes into their vans (prompting me to say things like, "Wow, it almost like you work for a shipping company or something").

One fellow was especially irritable the other day because we requested a pick-up when it was getting close to 5:00 p.m. He grumbled during his whole visit using language extremely foul even by Irish standards, and, when he found out we were preparing still more outgoing boxes, he marched into the warehouse itself and told the employees––again using the most indelicate language possible––that they had better stop.

It's the flavor of Irish charm they don't tell you about in tourism advertisements.

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A complaint of my own about airlines. Katherine and I bought round-trip tickets when we first came to Ireland last fall; the embassy made us do this, otherwise we would bought one-way fares. Well the other day we tried to move the date for the return ticket back to the USA to October, when we have to go to the States for a wedding. Total price for moving the tickets: $2100. On the other hand, we could simply not use our return tickets at all and buy a new set of round-trip fares for the wedding. Total price for the latter option is nearly $1000 less. How does this make sense?

***

At the warehouse I get a 50% discount off of the wholesale price on the golf clothing they sell. It's a great perk and I get pieces that would usually sell for over €100 for around €20.

But how much I save is dampened quite a bit by the value added tax, or VAT, which is European jargon for sales tax. The VAT is added onto every sale of every item; grocery, vehicle, or home. And in Ireland, the current VAT rate is 21%. You read that correctly. So next time you find yourself complaining about a 6 or 7% state sales tax rate, think how much worse it could be (Denmark has a VAT rate of 25%).

The Burren

It might have taken over four hours in a bus––to travel only about seventy miles––but the Burren weekend was worth every minute of Bus Éireann toil. On Friday we traveled first to Doolin, on County Clare's west coast, very near the Aran Islands and the Cliffs of Moher. From there we walked to Lisdoonvarna, a small town that dubs itself the "Gateway to the Burren."

The countryside between Doolin and Lisdoon.

Lisdoonvarna's other claim to fame is the Matchmaking Festival: the town employs and honest-to-god matchmaker (the family vocation for generations), and the festival brings in big crowds by rural Irish standards (ten thousand visitors to a town of nine hundred). We spent Friday night in Lisdoonvarna at the town's one hostel. There we met a South African, a Canadian, and an Oregonian. All were quite friendly––you never meet locals in hostels!

But the most important part of our visit was the walk from Lisdoonvarna to Ballyvaughan along the Burren Way trail. The Burren, I should explain, is a unique geological formation characterized mainly by tons of exposed limestone. And I mean tons. As an added bonus, it's on the Atlantic coast and offers some nice sea views too.

The countryside around Doolin. You can see the Cliffs of Moher in the distance.

Portions of the Burren Way was along a Green Road, or Famine Relief Road. As you can guess, this route was built to make it easier to get supplies into the countryside during the Potato Famine. Many famine-era farm ruins greet the hiker along this route:

Oh, and that limestone. The Burren is all about "clints" and "grykes." The clints are the large flat slabs of rock (the region was a tropical seabed millions of years ago), and the grykes are the large––and sometimes very deep––gaps in the limestone.


When you really get into the heart of the region, it's stone as far as the eye can see:


The Burren Way turned out to be longer than we calculated: the hike from Lisdoonvarna to Ballyvaughan was about eighteen miles. But all for the better, really. With the scenery as impressive as it was, we didn't want the journey to end. That said, we were a bit sore the next day...

Hiking adventures aside, not too much has changed in the Era of the Warehouse. Our training for volunteer work is nearly complete, and in the coming weeks we should be out in the field. We will be doing home visits with the impoverished for the Society of St. Vincent de Paul, the purpose being that home visits help the Society determine how much assistance a person or family needs.

We probably won't leave Cork again until our trip to Edinburgh, Scotland, at the end of this month. Until then, back to the boxes!