Our First "Walking" Experience

My walk to the warehouse in Blackpool has me trudging three miles each way, every day. It’s a nice way to start and end the work day (when it’s not raining), and the exercise is an added bonus. My journey leads me past Cork’s Heineken-owned brewery, the birthplace of Murphy’s and Beamish stouts (among other beers, I think). They understand how tempting all of the kegs can be to passers-by––the brewery is protected like the Fort Knox of stout:

Those are some nasty barbs above that entrance.

While we’re on the topic of walks: our weekend expedition with the Cork Backpackers Club was a success, thanks in part to miraculously clear weather. We hiked in the Boughils near the town of Kenmare, and I’m glad to report that the stories about County Kerry’s natural beauty are well-founded. Check out the visuals we were treated to:

We had lunch overlooking the Black Valley.

Kenmare Bay, feeding into the Atlantic at the far right.

They’re not the most difficult peaks one can summit, but the views are really unmatched thanks to the almost completely treeless terrain. I’ve never seen anything like it. The barren landscape is shocking if you’re used to hiking in the eastern United States: along the Appalachian Trail, for instance, a thick tree canopy is almost always over your head. Wide-open views that let you see for miles are the exception, and sometimes you can hike for hours (or days) between them. It was quite a treat to experience the opposite for a change.

Oh, and walking on peat (or "turf") is an interesting sensation. It's pretty much like walking on a giant soggy sponge: it gives a little with each step, and squirts water in every direction. It will take some getting used to.

This weekend Katherine and I are heading to the Burren, a rocky region in County Clare (for reasons too many to recount right now, our Galway trip is postponed. But I did hear a song called “Galway Girl,” it’s very good and I suggest looking it up). There’s snow in the forecast, but hopefully it won’t be a hindrance.

***

The Irish accept our immigration in stride. Joyfully, even. But when I tell other immigrants in Ireland where I'm from, shock is usually the response. During one of my first days at the warehouse I was paired up with a Polish co-worker––attempting some introductory small talk, he asked me in a thick accent, "Where are you from?" When I said "Maryland, in the States," he reacted with shrill laughter. I smiled politely and asked what was so funny. He never told me.

And earlier this week I was working in the loading bay, taking three pallets of goods off of a big-rig. The driver of the truck was an immigrant (when we asked him where he came from, he only said, "I come from the heart of Europe," where ever that is). Hearing my accent, he asked me if I was from the U.K. I said no, the States. With this he actually stopped working and turned to face me with his hands on his hips. He said what was perhaps on my Polish co-worker's mind: "America? Why are you here? Everyone wants to be in America. There is more work, more money, better weather, better scenery, better women, everything is more modern...." He finished ticking these things off on his fingers, trailed off and looked at me in amazement.

I didn't know what to say. His opinions being so strong it felt silly to try to defend living in Ireland on its merits, so all I could respond with was, "Well, we're not here permanently." It would have been futile to try to explain during this brief encounter that many Americans see Ireland as a mystical ancestral homeland, and that the "Emerald Isle" enchants many an imagination back in the USA. Nevermind the fact that Ireland is indeed a beautiful place, and offers things you can't find back home (see above photos). I guess they don't feel the same way in the "Heart of Europe."

SkyTV for the Masses

Hustling boxes at the warehouse has me off of the job market for the next few months, but the gig has put a dent in my store of Ireland anecdotes. Luckily there have been a few developments outside of jobs and the job-hunt theme: we have found a way to do some volunteer work and some hill walking (i.e., hiking).

As you may remember from earlier entries, our pre-Christmas efforts to volunteer in Cork were unsuccessful for the ironic reason that charities were so busy they didn't have time to train any new volunteers. Now that things have settled down for the winter doldrums, one outfit we were interested in––Society of St. Vincent de Paul (SVP)––is taking on new people. SVP works exclusively with the poor, and volunteers do home visits to try to figure out ways that the organization can help. Training is going well so far, it's a very good group of people. More on this to come.

Regarding hill walking, I stumbled upon the Cork Backpackers Club a few weeks ago. They do mountain excursions every two weeks, and the best part is the club organizes a car pool to get to the trail. This little detail has been the biggest hurdle for us, since Bus Éireann doesn't exactly have routes to the trail heads. I had a short to-do list for Ireland when this whole adventure started: (1) Find work; (2) Travel to the Continent a few times; (3) Hike the Irish countryside. With the help of the Backpackers Club maybe I can check off all of these.

***

The Irish––and this might be hard to understand for Americans––are addicted to television (spoiler: that comment about Americans was sarcastic). The reaction we get from people when they find out that we don't have a television has almost become a source of entertainment for Katherine and me. "What?! No telly? How do ye get on?" is a common response. And it's not just TV that we're missing: anybody who's anybody has something called SkyTV, which is, I guess, an analog of DirecTV or Dish Network. It gives you a few hundred channels and also cooks rashers and chips for you while you watch Celebrity Big Brother. We are intensely lame for not having SkyTV. Even in some of the poorer sections of the city you see this:


In fact, one of our trainers at St. Vincent de Paul warned the group about the ubiquity of SkyTV––she told us to not be surprised when you do home visits to the impoverished and find that they have a nice telly with a satellite connection (again, a regrettable phenomenon that you also see in the U.S.).

***

And to conclude, a couple of photos that Katherine has been bugging me to post:


Here you can see several examples of the Elderly Irish Man. Notice the obligatory uniform of tweed, khaki, and derby cap. Rarely are they seen in such a large group.

And here's a pic I forgot to post a couple of weeks back, in my entry about music (among other things). I took a covert shot of some of the trad musicians––trying too hard and too obviously to get a good photo would, of course, immediately have me labeled as a dumb tourist.

Car Trips and Cardboard

The view from my morning walk to work. Sunrise over Blackpool's industrial park.

Car trips and cardboard sum up my past two weeks, which have seen an inexcusable lack of activity on my blo––online magazine. Cardboard because that's what I handle all day at the warehouse––leading me to the little known fact (at least outside of the warehouse world) that corrugated can, in a very short time, make your skin chronically dry. I mean skin splitting open. Strange, eh? Anyway, I'm working full-time and editing a PhD thesis, leaving me few chances to stay up to date. But as Katherine has pointed out, the whole premise of Éire Apparent was to record the trials and tribulations of looking for work in Ireland during the Great Recession. Now that I have regular work for the time being I need to figure out another route for ÉA. But in a short two months I will be back on the job market, so the original function is not obsolete. Regardless of where that leads me, I hope to have entertaining stories along the way.

As a matter of fact, I do. Last Thursday Katherine's co-worker lent us her car for a day trip out to west Cork. Our destination was Lough Hyne, a beautiful area near the town of Skibbereen. She told us that she was confident I would be fine driving her car, but any damage that happened would have to be paid for. This warning made me nervous. Justifiably nervous, as I found out on the day of the trip.

You see, it's odd and disorienting driving on the right side of a vehicle and compensating for the width of the vehicle to your left. I managed to get out of Cork City in one piece, but the real difficulty turned out to be the extremely narrow roads of the countryside and its small towns. Going through one such place at around noon, I needed to squeeze in between a large van to my right, and a row of parked cars to my left. One of the parked cars (a BMW) jumped out and clipped my side-view mirror, shattering the glass. The Beamer was unhurt, so we fled the scene.

Instead of devoting the whole day to exploring, we had to find an Opel dealer to repair the damage. Luckily the housing for the mirror was intact and undamaged, they just needed to slap on a new glass surface (took them two minutes and cost me €62––dealers....they're all the same, regardless of what continent you're on). There wasn't much exploring to do anyway; it was rainy and miserable all day. Despite these hurdles, we did make it to Loch Hyne. Along the way we got some nice views in the small town of Glendore:

We couldn't do much more than hop out of the car for a quick photo here and there because of the rain.

In a couple of weeks we're going to try out Galway, in northwestern Ireland. (This time we'll travel by bus so I'm not doing the driving). Hopefully the weather cooperates.

When It Rains It Pours

Not only do I have full-time warehouse work, I also have a PhD thesis to edit for a UCC graduate student. This past week has been consumed by (mostly) those two things, but the craziness will pass. Next week I will be back on with some entertaining anecdotes and insights, including the disaster-riddled road trip we took to Skibbereen, in western Country Cork. Stay tuned, faithful readers...

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.