A Year in Dublin

Sights, Smells and Sounds

2010-07-27T23:13:00.002+01:00

I was riding home from a friend's tonight after a rather commendable session of acro-yoga (commendable because all three of us were 'wrecked', which is Irish for the Canadian 'bagged' or simply put: tired and creaky), and suddenly the city was on fire with sights and smells. The moon was full, and so I howled, honoring the hunky new werewolf guy on True Blood, who my friend Paul and I were lasciviously ogling on IMDB this morning as we Skyped. And when I reached the Liffey I could smell - I think for the first time -- the scent of the sea coming off the river. I forget that I live right by the sea - it's only a 30-minute walk from my front door - but the industry around the centre of the bay makes it less appealing. Sure, I see and smell the sea when I go to Howth or Dun Laoghaire or Greystones, but it is absent on my daily strolls about town.

But tonight, with the balmy breeze blowing, the stars just beginning to come out, and moon full, that gorgeous salty air was all around me. As I pulled into my courtyard, I saw a wee wee mouse scuttle under the gate. This surprised me, because I think it's the first rodent I've seen in Dublin - no kidding! The gulls are building some kind of uber-colony on the roof of my building, I am sure of it from the cacophony of wails that wake me up in the wee hours, but the four-legged wanderers are less in view.

Last weekend I biked to Dun Laoghaire, and was amazed at all the cute pubs and shops and parkettes along the way. I spend a lot of time in very few areas of Dublin. It's under 12km from my door to the DL pier, which is about the distance it took me to travel from the Berkeley St. Theatre to my home the last year I lived in Toronto. Peanuts. But in Dublin terms, it's a hike, and it hadn't occurred to me to do it until my friend suggested it. The purpose of the trip was to do yoga on the pier as part of the Dun Laoghaire Festival of World Cultures, but it was raining, so the yoga teacher took the lot of us back to her studio, and ran a lovely gentle hatha class that contained a fair degree of challenge. I chatted to her afterwards, trying to place the accent, and found out she is a New Yorker who has been living in Ireland for 7 years. It's funny, because some people, like my friend Aoife, pick up the accent very lightly and evenly, with all words being inflected just slightly. Others, like this yoga teacher, have some words that sound very clearly Irish in pronunciation (usually 'but' is one of them), and others that still sound quite North American... Anyway, her studio was lovely, and she says that she does authentic hot yoga - not the lukewarm kind that I encountered way back when I arrived in the fall. I'll be biking back to Dun Laoghaire for fresh sea air and hot yoga sometime in the next couple of weeks...

PS I know I haven't written a single entry in 3 months. Oh well.

I live on an island

2010-04-18T21:45:00.002+01:00

Eyjafjallajökull, erupting. Image source: Reuters

Many people forget that Ireland is an island. Much to the chagrin of many 20th century nationalists, I think that many people who have never lived in Ireland picture it somewhere in northern Europe, attached to the UK. But there is a big, wide sea between Ireland and the continent, and this becomes very evident when, say, a volcano erupts and sends ash into the atmosphere, grounding all air travel to a halt for days (and maybe weeks) on end. I missed a scheduled trip, and when I was still thinking I could work it out, a friend said "can't you take a train?"

Image source: Lonely Planet

I was supposed to attend a conference in Manchester this past Thursday. I was looking forward to meeting some of the people involved in the loose research network that is linked to the project I'm working on. I dutifully packed the night before (packing, even for a few days, kind of stresses me out), and was up around 6am to get ready for the airport bus, and I looked at my phone, only to see a whack of text messages. This is a very odd thing for six in the morning. The first message to greet me was from Aer Lingus: "Due to the closure of UK airspace as a result of volcanic activity, we have no option but to cancel your flight." By now the whole world knows what is going on with old puffy over in Iceland, but I'll tell ya: this was a very odd message for my dazed and sleepy head to receive at 6am. I thought it was a joke, but then I thought - how did someone hack Aer Lingus's texting system? Too much to process at that early hour. Onto the next message: there were a few from Elisabetta, who was already at the airport en route to Italy: Check your flight before coming to the airport because a volcano exploded somewhere and the majority of the flights are cancelled...like mine." I immediately called Lisa, who was planning to be on the same flight as me, and then thought of Aoife, who I was expecting to run into on the airport bus, because she was off to a theatre conference in Berlin that morning, also on a 9:30am flight. I rebooked for later that day, but it was cancelled. And then all flights were cancelled on Friday. And Saturday. And today. And tomorrow...

In the last few days, Facebook has been plastered with people talking about not being able to go places, and more recently, not being able to come home. Now, if you live in London and are off in Paris for a holiday, you could take a train home instead. Yes, the trains are being booked up by stranded travellers across Europe, but eventually, they will be able to move everyone around. And there are buses, and cars for hire. And frankly, when it comes down to it, if you REALLY had to, you could get all dressed up like the characters in The Road, and walk home! But if I am not on the island of Ireland, I cannot walk home! It's not even possible. And I know that if I am suggesting that one could walk from Paris to London, then I should consider that one could swim from Holyhead to Dublin, but really, we both know that is too far to swim, unless you are Martin Strel. This is why it's a blessing in disguise that I didn't make it to that conference in Manchester - I would still be there, maybe for all of next week, I'm am so over living in a city where I don't know a single person. That was so Autumn 2009.

Anyhoo, I am getting off topic (wait, there was a topic)? What I have realised is that people here fly A LOT. I know at least 10 people whose travel plans have been affected by Eyjafjallajokull. I wondered (aloud on Facebook) if the carbon produced by the Icelandic eruption would outweigh the carbon saved by the cancellation of flights, and two friends sent me this link within minutes. The rise of Ryanair and Easyjet, and the concomitant competition this has created with other regional airlines, like Aer Lingus, has radically altered the way we travel, and we're really not disaster-proof in this area. I wonder how many fewer train trips and ferry crossings occur now, compared to the mid 1990s, when Ryanair really started to take off? It's not just a pain to catch a train instead of a flight (in terms of the time it takes, and the unexpected nature of it), but apparently, it's not even possible: stranded travellers are reporting that they can't get train tickets, because, well, everyone else thought of that as well. But if we all just considered taking the train more often - for its convenience (no full body pat-downs and invasive security scans; you only have to arrive 15 minutes early), and for its relatively small level of emissions, then we wouldn't be so f*cked when mother nature decided we all needed to be just a bit more grounded...

Much to my amazement, both Ryanair and Aer Lingus have announced that they will be refunding or rebooking all tickets without charge. This is shocking, because when other disruptions occur because of mother nature, they are not always so willing to bear the financial burden. Perhaps they realise that their clients might just start thinking about other options...

As for the volcano, it keeps erupting. My friend Angela Rawlings is keeping a blog with frequent updates and interesting tidbits. Check out No Slumber for Volcanologists. And I found this time-lapse video of today's eruptions really beautiful:

Crystal Swing

2010-04-17T01:31:00.020+01:00

For those of you who do not know them, Crystal Swing is a band from Cork, consisting of Mary, the mother, and Dervla and Derek, her daughter and son. Mary plays the keyboards, and her clothing and gestures are right out of 50s America. Dervla fancies herself a purer, more Irish Shania Twain, and Derek is.... well, a cross between Elvis, Buddy Holly, and Gumby.

Recently, Crystal Swing made it onto Ellen DeGeneres's show. It was a boon to Irish people all around, but Irish people in Dublin, if I can generalise for over a million individuals, think that Crystal Swing are funny. As in, silly funny.

When I first saw Crystal Swing, I thought that they had to be kidding. I thought for sure that they were ironic -- pretending to be all innocent and country bumpkinish, but really, this was all a ploy to differentiate themselves from other bands, and their performance was faux-innocent. But my friends in Ireland assured me that they were serious. Very serious. I couldn't understand -- I mean, check out Mary, and her little head bops, and her hair style and dress and makeup, and facial expressions...it's so June Cleaver from Leave it to Beaver! She can't be serious! And the kids -- siblings -- singing about sex to each other, all the while looking at the camera with faces of pure innocence! Is this a joke? I was really confused.

Things only got worse (for my comprehension) when Panti -- a famous drag queen here in the Dub -- did a parody of "He Drinks Tequila" in her weekly show, referring to her band as Cryshtal Shwing. I thought that Crystal Swing were already parodying something else, so how could Panti parody a parody? Is there a word for this? Linda Hutcheon, where are you when I need you?

But recently, after watching way too many YouTube videos of these folks, I figured it out. Crystal Swing are popular because they tap into what we all want, but are afraid to admit we want. They stand for hope in a world of cynicism. They make us want to believe that life could be so simple and clean. They are ... pure and innocent, and we all want to taste just a little bit of that. I heard them interviewed on Irish radio a few days ago, when they were in Los Angeles for Ellen's show. At the end of the interview, the host said that they were "genuine, warm people," and that they were good people, "and that's the truth." The fact that he felt the need to mention that last part -- to clarify that he was talking truthfully -- is telling, because it's hard to know if anyone (the performers or hosts or cheering audience members) are taking the piss. Audiences are made defensive by their earnestness. Watching Ellen DeGeneres watch Crystal Swing while they perform on her show is telling: she dances around a bit, but every few seconds, she looks over at one of her crew. The look is small and discrete, but it is clear. She is asking: are these folks for real? Do you actually LIKE this? Because, uh, I think I actually like this, but I'm not sure I'm supposed to, because I think maybe they can't really be serious. And then I would be the silly one.

And the truth is this: people like Crystal Swing, but more importantly, they want to like Crystal Swing, but they fear they will look like fools for doing so. So the telling looks appear, and the under-the-breath guffaws break the surface. I understand, because I do it as well. How could I enter into pure enjoyment while watching them, without feeling like other people might think I am naive and have bad taste? It's only possible to like them if... well... if you pretend not to. This whole discussion reminds me of what Carl Wilson writes about in his book about Celine Dion. He hates her music -- he finds it mewling and appalling -- but still, he is driven to understand why so many people are moved by it. He meditates on the nature of taste, and the elements of ego and aesthetic judgment that constitute taste.

I could say a lot more about Crystal Swing and how they provide a way to measure our perspective on contemporary life, but instead, I'll leave you with Derek, and his mouth full of adolescent teeth, doing the Hucklebuck on Ireland's Late Late Show:

Shifting perspectives

2010-03-25T11:40:00.002Z

As you may have noticed, the blog entries have slowed down considerably. I'm aware of this, but because I promised myself that this blog would not be about work or anything resembling work, I needed to keep it purely in the land of inclination. And I guess I haven't been so inclined, for various reasons.

But one reason is simply this: Dublin just isn't as weird to me anymore. When I first got here, my eyes were peeled in a newbie kind of way - I noticed the odd phrasings on street signs, and the way people walked, and the different foods on offer in the shops. But now that I've been here for seven months (today), the quirky has started to shift into the mundane, and it isn't captured by my consciousness in quite the same way. I have to intentionally create Brecht's verfremdungseffekt , in my mind's eye, to see the cultural peculiarities.

The fact that life here is becoming familiar is very interesting to me, because acculturation happens on many different levels, and at many different paces. Plenty of things still appear unusual or alien to me, but the things I notice now are harder to articulate, because they are about the fundamental ways that people interact with the world and others in it. When I have a better grasp on these more intuitive aspects, I will write about them.

My shift in perspective has been highlighted recently by a couple of factors. I have a new friend who is originally from Italy, and immediately I found her compelling; she is so different from the Irish. It's not that I am tired of the Irish, but more that, maybe, her particular cultural distinctiveness is refreshing, and it puts Irish customs and practices in relief. It helps me to see Dubliners, and myself, in a new light. My Italian friend, Elisabetta, is animated, and quick to engage passionately in conversation, and verbally free - she says things directly. She told me that in order to get along with colleagues in Ireland, she had to learn to be less direct; she's had to figure out how to come at things a bit sideways, because her regular approach - which she would use with colleagues at home - would be considered too forthright.

The international stereotype of the Irish is that they are friendly, and quick to bring outsiders into a chat, and great conversationalists, etc. Just look at the first 5 minutes of The Quiet Man, when the American is greeted with glee and offered directions by half a dozen animated little 'ole wans'. Or all the shenanigans that go on in films like The Matchmaker and Waking Ned. I choose the Hollywood Irish films because they have been instrumental in fabricating Irishness for lands beyond Ireland. And these representations are not complete fabrications - the people I have met are friendly, and they do love a great conversation and opportunities for good craic, but I am also finding that there is often a barrier or wall to real social intimacy. My friend Paul pointed out to me that Torontonians are not quite so different - we, too, can be friendly and welcoming to the outsider on one level, but then slightly closed when it comes to really letting people into our inner circles. I like to think that I have thrown away that barrier as I crossed the Atlantic and allowed myself to become vulnerable in so many ways. But it's hard to tell, of course, because how does one use the V-effect on oneself? I know that, in this blog in general, I have been approaching people entirely as products of their culture and society, and that this leaves out a whole realm of other factors that shape identity and behaviour, and that such an approach is reductive and potentially stereotyping, but... oh, well, I said this wasn't work :)

The second recent thing that has shifted my perspective is the arrival of my sister Amber, who in fewer than 12 hours has shown me how accustomed I have come to this place. She is finding so many things interesting that I now take for granted. She giggled at the sign for 'Irish Ferries' that was pointing in the direction of the harbour, and seemed genuinely concerned that our bus was going to crash into other vehicles on the way back from the airport. She isolated the combination of the short buildings and narrow streets as the distinct architectural feature of Temple Bar that creates the character of the space, and she noted the oddity of having one's washing machine in the kitchen. These are all things I noticed when I arrived, but that do not cross my radar any more. They seem like simple differences, but I think they are fundamental differences - radical differences, in fact. What I mean by this is that objects and the layout of objects in space affect our movement patterns in daily life. The narrowness of the streets means that bodies interact in a closer proximity than they do in places that have more space, like Canada. The height restrictions create a different aspect relationship between the human body and the world it inhabits - we are not dwarfed in the streets of Dublin. Amber said that the smaller scale made her focus more on the people and how they were interacting (she also had her ear opened outward, trying to soak up all the Irish accents). The placement of the laundry machine means that certain household tasks become related to one another in particular ways. It might sound like I am grasping at straws here, but I really do think that the shift in spatial relationships can have a concomitant effect on social relationships and customs. But this is starting to sound a bit like work, so perhaps I will switch gears, and leave you with two pictures of my lovely sister Amber, excited by the cobblestones of Temple Bar, and the Liffey and the beauty of its bridges, on her first night in Dublin (and her first night in Europe).

St. Patrick's Day Parade in Dublin

2010-03-17T15:19:00.002Z

Just came back from the parade - I was able to watch it about 200 metres from my apartment, which reminds me how glad I am that I chose such a central location. It makes finding a bite to eat (at home) and changing clothes for the next adventure (at home) quite convenient.

This was my first Patrick's Day parade in Ireland, and I was quite excited, because it has to be the largest and most public way that Ireland performs her identity for herself, for the tourists, and to the world. I wasn't sure what to expect, but I did think it would be big.

I was right, but it was not big in some of the ways I expected. For one, there seemed to be a real emphasis on bicycle or people-powered floats. There were lots of huge puppets operated by groundlings, and usually one person cycling, while others helped to push the float from behind. In some of my pics, you can see them struggling to get up the hill on Dame St. at Parliament. Only a few floats were gasoline-powered, and this was a nice surprise. I mean, I barely made it through all the cigarette smoke that surrounded me on Dame Street - burning fuel would not have been very pleasant. Most of the large spectacle items were animal figures, which I guess fits with the whole pagan thing, and the colours were bright and lively. There was an artisanal feel to many of the large puppets, which was a nice contrast with, say, all the plastic used in the Pride parade in Toronto.

There was hardly a nationalist inkling in site - in fact, there seemed to be an absence of demonstrably "Irish" elements. A few Irish cities/counties had contingents - Donegal, Waterford, Belfast, and there was an international presence as well - I saw Madrid, something from Italy, a group that looked like they were in traditional Indian garb, and a couple of African-themed groups. The most random one had the be the North Carolina State Marching Band. I was like, WTF? Overall, I would say that the multiculturalism of the parade - the presence of different ethnicities - outweighed the visibility of different ethnicities that I encounter on my wanderings around Dublin. But I don't really wander all that far around Dublin, so whaddoIknow?

The crowds were upbeat, but as far as I could tell, not really drunk yet, so that was a relief. Someone told me to wear wellies because it can get that messy outside. But right now, in my very central apartment, it's once again quiet outside, and the barriers on the street were coming down as the last group of cyclists passed by.

Anyway, off I go to other Patrick's Day adventures. Just needed to dump the SD card, recharge the camera battery, and fuel myself.

The pics below show my wanderings around Temple Bar and O'Connell/the Quays before the parade began, the parade itself, and then my street afterward. I had an ok position on the street, but there are lots of heads in the shots, so please skim through quickly!

Bray to Greystones in Images

2010-02-27T00:59:00.000Z

Last weekend I decided to shake up my regular trek around Howth, and instead take the DART south to Bray. There is a walk that goes from Bray, which is small seaside town, around Bray head and to Greystones, which is a slightly bigger seaside town, but one that seems to be growing. The pics below start at Bray's promenade with Bray head in the distance, and then they follow the 6km walk to Greystones. I love train tracks - always have, so they feature fairly prominently. I also have video of a train coming out of tunnel, but I haven't looked into uploading video yet. Greystones is a hip little place, with lots of fairtrade this and eco that for sale. The last pic is from my (alone at coffee shop, armed with camera) still-life study of a cappuccino and my gloves at The Happy Pear. What comes to mind most when I look at this pic is: I wish they washed their windows. I was punch-drunk on sea air and sunshine by this point, so the angle's a bit canted.

Uncool pubs and off-nights

2010-02-27T00:21:00.000Z

It's become clear that I really like pubs that aren't cool. The cool ones are busy, and this suggests that lots of people like to go to them, and get packed in like sardines. But that's just not my scene - I need more personal space than your average Dublin venue offers (and this includes sidewalks, shopping centres, pedestrian walkways, and queues, where people stand really close behind you, even if they have several feet of space available behind them).

So, I've been steadily cultivating a list of uncool pubs. Of course, they are cool by virtue of being uncool, but it's all about taste.

For quiet drinks in a cosey old-school atmosphere, there is the Library Bar in the Central Hotel on Exchequer St. It looks like it sounds - bookshelves, old worn-velvet arm chairs, open (gas) fireplaces, and a little bar tucked in the corner. I've seen people reading here on a Saturday night, or opening presents at a little party of six, and generally just chatting. The sandwiches are great, and the academic in me feels at home. The lights are a bit bright, but there is no music, and this means that voices aren't competing for aural space. It's all about the space. Incidentally, the Central just opened a 'gastropub' next door recently, called Gastropub. The food is good, but it's a sardine kind of place.

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Library Bar, Central Hotel, Exchequer St.

A similar venue is the Lord Edward Pub, near Christchurch, above a fish and chip shop. Again, lots of red velvet benches and little wood tables, slightly bright lights. I had one of the oddest conversations I've experienced in Dublin with the bartender that night. My companion and I had picked up some fish and chips from the takeaway below, and brought them up to the pub to see if they were ok with us eating them there (while sipping a pint of course). The bartender quite firmly (but kindly) said he was very sorry, and wished that he could say yes, but he just could not. I asked whether it was because they also served food (we were unaware of this), and he said "Oh no, that's not it at all. It's just that, if you take your dinner over there (pointing to a far corner), and start eating it, sure enough the head on this pint of Guinness will just disappear. It's the oil they use - takes the head clear off the Guinness." Naturally, we were kinda confused. I thought he meant that the oil would travel through the air and attack the poor defenseless Guinness, and my friend thought that he meant the oil from our mouths would remain on the glasses, and affect the next user. We talked to him for quite a bit, practically falling into hysterics, and really, I'm not sure we ever figured out what he really meant. The oddity of that conversation endeared the place to me for good, I think.

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The Lord Edward Pub, Christchurch

The other uncool thing to do is go to an otherwise cool pub on an off night. I find Mondays-Wednesday are good for this, and my favourite place to go is the Front Lounge. It does happen to be right around the corner from my apartment, and it's a queer friendly pub, but at weekends, it's terribly packed. On a Monday night, it's the perfect place to sit with a pint and your laptop and write on your blog about sitting with a pint and your laptop in Dublin...

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The Front Lounge, Parliament St.

In terms of fun factor, however, uncool pubs can also really give it up. Take last night, which had to be just about the most fun I've had in ages. After yoga, I joined a few people at the Mercantile on Dame Street to hear this wacky band called The Sick and Indigent Song Club. (Yes, I did say that I went to a pub after yoga - this was a shocking thing to me the first time I did it, because post-yoga usually screams 'green goddess smoothie' to me more than 'pint,' but I got over this ridiculous Canadian confusion shortly thereafter). The band is great - the lead singer is Scottish, and she plays the banjo, wearing a flower in her hair, and looking very proper, but her expression is fantastically ironic, so you know she is much cheekier than she appears. Their sound is really hard to describe - lots of instruments, and a mix between gypsy, celtic, and chanson. They remind me, in mood, of Les Singes Bleues, who used to play at The Press Club on Dundas West in Toronto, before one of the band members moved back to France and killed our favourite weekly gig. So we were dancing around a bit to the band, but they are too fun to watch, so the real cutting loose didn't happen until the band retired and the DJ pulled out the chart tunes. We tore it up! And this was only possible because...the pub didn't have many people in it, so we could spread out over the dance floor, jump off the stage, and swing around the railings. You know, regular dancing-to-pop in your 30s kind of behaviour.

Love the uncool pubs of the Dubs.

Yooooo! Gaaaa!

2010-02-22T22:58:00.001Z

I committed myself to a personal 30-day yoga challenge recently, and I figured it’s about time to update the blog on all things yoga, ‘cause I’ve been doing a lot of it in The Dub, and I don’t think the blog quite reflects this.

The 30-day thing is all over Facebook – different groups imploring you to join their challenge – and several studios back at home have created courses around it. I am not sure why one month is the key amount of time (other than Gaia’s womanly cycles), but it seems like a long enough commitment to feel substantial, but short enough to … not cramp my lifestyle too much. My dear sister Amber (who currently can’t actually do yoga due to a shoulder injury) and dear friend Paul (who lives on my kitchen table via Skype) have committed to join me in this journey. Amber is going to do some sort of physical practice every day that accommodates her injury, and Paul is going to keep up with the yoga. For myself, I decided that anything counts. Committing to 30 days is substantial, so I decided that I would not put other restrictions or limitations on myself. If I can only do 10 minutes of pigeon and cat-cow, then that counts.

I’m not sure about you, cyberspaceanonymous reader, but I have this thing: I don’t do very well with fitting important things into small spaces of time. If there is something that matters to me, I feel like it needs a big amount of time. An example might help to illuminate what I am saying: say that it is 6 pm, and I have tickets for a theatre performance at 8pm. And I haven’t had dinner yet. And I haven’t practiced yoga that day. In this scenario, I would not unfurl the mat on my laminate faux-wood flooring, because yoga takes an hour. If I do yoga for an hour, it is 7pm. And then I need to eat and change and get to the theatre, and there is just not enough time. So, I don’t do the yoga. BUT ... why don’t I just do 20 minutes of yoga, and call it a day? I am not sure ... I think I have issues around personal achievement. I think I have high-achiever syndrome. I once told my partner that I was a ‘competitive yoga player,’ but that was a long time ago, and I am so glad that I am older and wiser now. Time and space. These are things I am working on, during this sabbatical year ... during my personal sabbath – my year of rest and restoration.

So, enough soul-searching blather, and onto the yoga. There is a lot of yoga going on in Dublin. Kinda suddenly, things seem to have exploded. I would like to account for it based on my own great enthusiasm for the practice, but, it’s probably just a kind of Yoga Zeitgeist. A couple of months ago, the Open Minds Project opened their doors on Pearse Street, with donation-based yoga classes seven days a week. They have multiple classes with different teachers and different styles everyday, and the donation system makes it affordable to go frequently. This is important because -- I’m not sure if I’ve mentioned this – established studios in Dublin charge 18 Euro per class, which is, frankly, astronomical. I mean, take your salary (if you are lucky enough to have one) and divide it by 356 days and subtract your required living expenses and ... can you afford to spend 18 Euro per class on a regular basis? I can’t. Anyway, I digress...

So, the Open Minds is pretty cool. Apparently it is run by a Dublin businessman who owns a bunch of properties, and wants to invest (morally?) in a not-for-profit space.

The other place I frequent is Yoga Dublin at Ranelagh (they have a studio now at Dundrum as well), but the reason I go there is because I LOVE the Thursday evening class with Deirdre. Yoga in Dublin is generally kinda relaxed and gentle. But Deirdre, with her Ashtanga background, really pumps it up. Last week I actually felt a bit out of breath, and I fell on my butt several times trying to achieve tittibhasana (this is an improvement - I usually fall on my head). I cherish the almost-bruises. I like to think that I do yoga primarily as a spiritual practice – as a way to balance myself in the universe – but let’s face it, I want to rock it out and do all the cool arm balances and inversions and REALLY DIFFICULT AND TOTALLY GORGEOUS STUFF. I’m not a competitive person by nature, except when it comes to athletic things. I used to play squash, and frequently I felt like I would rather beat my squash partner with my racquet than lose the game. I used to go a bit John McEnroe, but only in sports! I blame all of this on my Dad, who got me involved in sports, and never let me beat him. Well, blame is really the wrong term, because in fact I thank him. He kept saying “one day you will beat me, and you’ll have really earned it”. It’s funny, because this makes him sound like a drill sergeant, when really he’s a big teddy bear. He never pulls this crap in any other area, but I think he does it in sports because he is competitive with himself, and that is an important part of his identity, and he wanted to pass it on to me. To go all Irish on ya, ‘tanks Da!’

Where were we? Oh ya, at Yoga Dublin @ Ranelagh. I like the class, but I also really like the space. There are usually only a few of us, and the room is intimate, and the light is low, and it feels like ... community. I just wish that Deirdre would crank up the iPod and maybe play a little Florence and the Machine. I want my practice, sometimes, to just ROCK IT OUT.

In a previous post I mentioned that I joined this LGBTQ women’s group. I decided that I wanted to contribute something to the group, so I am in the process of organising a 6-week restorative yoga course. I do a lot of strength-building yoga by choice, but this has led to frequent muscle-cramping (don’t point your toes!), so I decided I needed a restorative course. I took a 2-hour restorative workshop several months ago at Samadhi, but I think I need the deep stretching and yin-calmness on a more regular basis. We’re in the process of working out the space and time (ah, back to space and time!), but my new friend Luna, who teaches at Yoga Dublin and Open Minds, is game to teach it. I feel good about organizing this course, because it means that I am creating something, as opposed to just availing myself of what is already out there. We’re all creators, but when we’re tired we can forget this. I am so glad I am not so tired anymore. Namaste, anonymousblogreaders.

A New Season, A Familiar Hike

2010-01-31T23:50:00.001Z

Yesterday on the radio (I've been streaming newstalk.ie in an effort to see if it's any less morning-showey than RTE 1), someone mentioned that February 1 is the first day of Spring. And the ole guy I was chatting to at the reception desk of a building the other day assured me that "oh sure, once February first has passed, the worst of it is over, ya know. It's all just a bit better from there." So, in honour of the last day of winter, I went for a hike at Howth. I haven't been there since the late fall, and I missed it. I was taking pictures and thinking to myself "how may pictures can I take of the same place??!" But then I reassured myself that, after all, it is a new season. The pictures will surely be different, no? In the interest of keeping this posting short, which I am not exactly known to do, I will stop now, and include a photo essay. It was a crisp but beautifully sunny day, with stunning light. My walk revealed that Howth has a Sunday Farmer's market (I bought a brownie that tasted like fudge), that sometime since my last walk, a car drove over one cliff and landed on a lower one, that far too many people leave their dogs' poop on the sidewalk (not pictured), and that the gorse still has yellow flowers in the winter. The soundtrack for this hike was Moth stories from the past couple of months, and several Savage podcast episodes. The last pics are of the Halfpenny bridge just moments ago.

How to Meet People in Dublin

2010-01-27T23:32:00.005Z

I've been thinking a lot about the act of meeting people, because my first months here have been pretty focused on this pursuit. Life is pretty crap without other people in it, so naturally, I wanted to avoid having a crappy year. My experience has been about Dublin, but I bet this applies to lots of decently-sized cities that have things going on. If you live in the suburbs or a really small town, I can't help you. I sure someone can, but I haven't been both a)in a small town and b)available to meet new people since I was doing my undergrad. And back then, the town didn't matter, because we were all so navel-gazing about the campus-as-world.

Just recently, I discovered a site called Meetup.com. It is AMAZING! Basically, the site acts as a hub for social groups. Kind of like Facebook, only the main organizing factor is the group, as opposed to the individual. A Marxian Facebook, if you will.

Anyone can start up a group on Meetup, and a quick perusal of the Dublin nexus shows that all sorts of different people have done so; there are groups for cinema-going, naturism a.k.a. nekkidism, restaurant-going, ex-pats of all origins, queers, meditation, spirituality, business networking, and so on. I joined a few groups, and have somehow (twist me rubber arm) been drawn into helping out with one group's organisation. I went to events this past weekend with two different groups; first, an afternoon tea party with the brand new Dublin LGBTQ Women's Social Networking group, and second, an exhibit of New York photography with the New and Not So New in Dublin group, which seems to be one of the most active Dublin groups. Both events were relaxed and the people were delightful. I didn't really know what to expect, because usually I meet like-minded people by going to things I like, and therefore, finding myself amongst other people who like the same thing (ya, I guess I just defined 'like-minded'). But in this case, the group descriptions were quite open, so I had no idea what to expect. Maybe only weirdos attend these events, hahahaha... The art event in particular was good for easy socialising, because if you're shy about jumping into extended conversations, then the activity facilitates a kind of casualness. "Oooh, that's an interesting angle on the Chrysler building; "Wow, that Cindy Sherman is such a chameleon;" "I wonder how they captured that panorama?"

As I said, I only came upon this Meetup thingy last week, but I've been here for months, and thankfully this weekend wasn't the first time I met people. Here are some other ways:

1. Talk to people in airports. I've picked up four people this way! One of them, Carla, has become my go-to gal for all kinds of emotional blubbering here in The Dub. I met her at the gate in Toronto before I actually immigrated. Met some cool folks watching other people's luggage endlessly circle on the belt... Met one more person on the way to the airport - at a bus stop. So it seems that anything to do with air travel works. Perhaps this is because it's so frigging boring, that people are desperate to socialise!

2. Have lunch with your colleagues. Everyone needs to eat. If you don't have any colleagues, get a job so you can have some.

3. Join a yoga class that meets regularly. Often, these classes have the same people attending them every week, so you can chat while rolling up your mat, or unpacking your stretchy clothes. Or, like me, you could follow your yoga teacher from a class in one studio to a class in another studio, joke that you're her yoga stalker, and then hope she wants to become your friend. Now, I suppose you could join other classes if you don't like yoginis, but yoginis are known for being calm, open-minded, and present. What more could you ask for in a friend?

4. Take a workshop on something that extends over a few days. If you do this, you will see the same people everyday! It works.

5. Look like you know where you are going. For some reason, I get asked for directions no matter what city I am in. I don't necessarily know where I am going, but I must look like I know where I am going. And no, I don't carry a map anymore.

6. Do some things by yourself. Now I know that this can suck, and once you've made one friend, you may be tempted to do everything with that friend. But then you talk only to that friend, and miss opportunities for meeting new people.

7. Squeeze every potential contact out of your friends and family at home. I've met some of the most special peeps here in Dublin because someone at home knew someone who knew this person in Dublin... The common connection, no matter how tenuous, somehow breaks down the initial meeting barrier a bit.

And finally, say Yes to everything. Talk to strangers. Ask people out for coffee, even if it feels too soon. Push your own level of discomfort as far as you can - what do you have to lose?

Me and Carla checking out Dun Laoghaire

Locked doors and other totally irritating things

2010-01-25T14:53:00.004Z

Dublin is not all romance, let me tell you. There are plenty of irritating things about being here - I've just been holding back. But seeing I am currently experiencing a yoga deficit (I have had less today than I require), and I have realised that my particular brand of politeness that is Canadian is part of the problem, I'll just let it rip. Here are some irritating things I've noticed in Dublin:

1. Doors to public and semi-public buildings are locked, and you have to buzz to get in.

This can make for awkward situations, such as when you decide to 'drop in' to a place that, well, welcomes you on their website to drop in. I went to this institute for work-related purposes a while back, and when I arrived, I had to buzz to be let in. Of course when you buzz, they ask who you are and what you want. My response was something like "My name is Natalie, but you don't know me, and I'm just dropping in to visit your place, with no particular agenda." Talk about feeling like a weirdo. It's as if that kind of free communication is not welcomed, which is odd, considering how well people do talk to each other here at pubs and cafes.

But the incident that prompted this posting happened earlier today, and caused the yoga deficit, which means I haven't breathed yet today, which means I am off-kilter and I might swear soon. In the blog. Anyhow, I had a few things to do this morning so I was rushing around, but I was all packed up for a class that is not too far away. It's farther than I budgeted for, clearly, but not too far. Off I go. I can see the time is going to be tight, so I start running a bit. But I have to keep stopping for traffic (see irritation #2 below). I finally get there, out of breath and flustered (which feels wrong, heading into yoga), but it is two minutes after the hour. Now, if this were in another city without such freaking weirdness about locking every door, I could have calmly slipped in without disturbing the class. In fact, that class probably hadn't started, but I didn't KNOW, because the only way to find out would be to hit the buzzer, and that would definitely disturb the class. The teacher would have to get up and buzz me in, which I know means crossing the entire room, and stepping over people in downward dog. I deliberated for a bit, and decided that I just couldn't do it. See, there's that useless Canadian politeness coming in. I would have been mortified to interrupt the class, because I knew that it was my own fault for being late, so I chose to trade mortification for irritation, grumpiness, and stomping home.

2. Stupid useless walk signs that never say walk even though no cars are crossing in front of you.

It's true! There are walk signs - with little red, yellow and green man options - at most every corner, but they make you wait forever, even when all traffic seems to be going in the same direction as you intend to go. People ignore the red men all the time and just cross, and I try to do the same thing, but I still find myself looking both ways, never sure which way the traffic is actually coming from. I am not sure I will ever get over the instinct to look to my left first. Sometimes, when I am not feeling bold, I decide to wait for the green man to actually appear. It can take a really long time, no matter how many times you hit the "please let me cross" button. It makes you later for yoga.

3. People wearing big bags standing sideways who don't move in the aisle of stores even though they see you coming.

Ok, I grant the fact that this can happen in any city, but it is WAY worse here in Dublin. Stores and sidewalks are really narrow here, and there are lots of people, so one is always doing the two-step to try to get around. But people just don't seem to move! I swear I carry a field of energy around me that tells me someone is coming, so that I can make myself smaller, or hug in closer to the edge. Well, apparently that field does not exist here. People just stand in the middle of an aisle, slowly contemplating their purchases, and making no effort whatsoever to share the space. Do they not see me coming, I wonder? Is there something in the Dublin water that has wiped out peripheral vision? Or is space always at such a premium that if you can grab a little bit of it, you hold onto it for dear life? Of course, I could say 'excuse me,' but the phrase would soon become way too frequent in my vocabulary, and that peculiar brand of Canadian politeness prefers to use body language before verbal language. Oh ya, no one moves over on the sidewalks, either, but I found that at home as well. WTF is wrong with people?

4. You have to buy the mixer separately from your booze.

Ok, I know this one is on a different topic, but I was sitting here thinking about what else irritates me (aren't I a productive little bunny), and I remembered this one. If you order a whiskey-soda in a bar, you have to pay for the whiskey and then the soda. This is just dumb. And expensive. And the bottle of soda is usually really tiny, which sucks. At least they call hard alcohol "spirits," which sounds uplifting. Oh, and while I am on the subject of soda water, it's frustrating that I can't buy it in cans. I swore off buying plastic-bottled water at home, but I love the bubbly, and I can only find it in plastic.

5. No one drinks ale.

While I'm on the subject of drinking, it's super irritating that no one drinks ale. I mean, we're in Ireland, folks - - what's up with the ubiquity of Carlsberg and Stella Artois, and, egads -- Budweiser -- on tap?! Smithwicks is a damn fine beer, and yes, you can find it on tap in almost every pub. But hardly anyone drinks it, so it means that I have to drink stale crappy stuff that has been sitting around for a long time. I mean, I love the Guinness, but you can't drink that stuff all the time. Like, for instance, when you're thirsty.

6. The bus drivers don't give change.

I hardly take the bus, but this one is a pain. Now, you need exact change in Toronto as well, but in Toronto, the fare is the same no matter how far you are going. I'm not saying this is superior to charging based on how far you go, but I think if it's a mystery what you are going to have to pay each time you get on the bus, then the driver should provide change. Oh, they give you a little slip that you can redeem at this office on Merrion Square, but who wants to show up and say "Gimme my 10 cents"?! I've decided to walk everywhere, no matter how far. But then there's the little problem of nos. 2 and 3 above.

Ok, I got it out of my system. Oh, I know that I've forgotten many irritations, but I feel much better now, and will get back to work. I have to leave time to do yoga at home this evening, after all...

Of travel and things lost and found (and how to get from Toronto to Dublin in only 53 hours)

2010-01-17T22:47:00.002Z

I've been thinking a lot lately about the concept of 'coming home,' because I currently feel that I have two homes. I've never quite felt this way before, and perhaps it is because I am living, eating, and traveling alone so much of the time... In some ways, I've started to build a life here in Dublin, with friends, and a job, and bits and bobs of schedule and ritual. But it feels like an additional life. It is not a parallel one, nor simply a new one, but it feels like a life in addition to the one that I have in Canada. I have a collection of things that constitute a life in two different places, and oddly, these two lives feel almost mutually exclusive.

I've always associated the idea of 'home' (as distinct from 'house') with the people or person who lives there in that home, and when I go away and return, it is with that person, or to that person. Yet I return to no one in the house that is my home in Dublin. Still, the place is starting to collect the attributes of home. Four of my five livingroom plants survived my three-week absence. Or more accurately, they survived the indoor drought, and the coldest weather Ireland has seen in 40 years. It snowed more here than it did in Toronto over Christmas, and that is a real anomaly. One plant -- I suppose the most tropical of the lot, a once bushy and abundant deiffenbachia -- did not survive, and weeped at me as I stepped into my chilly living room:

I watered it well, but after a week it still looked pretty much the same, so I tossed it, and replaced it with a gorgeous flowering plant with blood-red leaves. I think I miss True Blood. Go big or go home: when something of great beauty leaves, try to fill the space with something even more beautiful. It's what the heart wants (and it matches my occasional chair, which sits right below the ledge).

I'm not sure that I am making any sense here, but my senses are all askew anyway, so what the hell...

I had quite the time returning to my new home -- my additional home -- here in Dublin. I left Toronto on Friday night, after having only slept for 4 hours the night before. I made a last minute visit to some friends in Toronto, got back to Oakville late, and then really couldn't get to sleep. Change is very difficult for me, but it's hilarious, really: here I am living change every day, but knowing I had to fly from one place to the next - from one home to another - did my head in, and no number of Kalil Gilbrain poems could lull me to lala land. My Dad and sister and I arrived at the airport fairly early, only to find that the lineup to the security area was pretty short. We hung out for a while in the cafe. Isn't it funny how airports create little cafe and restaurant spaces, like in the real world, when we all know that airports are just mirages where we touch down and depart for other places?

I include these pics as proof that I was already super tired before the whole transatlantic travel began, so that I can gain silent blog-reader sympathy for the ordeal that was to follow.

So... the flight was lovely, but I did feel a pang of jealousy at all those folks angle-parked in their little pods in Business class. I've never seen that kind of seating before -- Jetson-like seats which no doubt recline all of the way, providing the traveler with a restful red-eye experience. My communist side really rears up in these moments, as I ask why these particular people deserve such comfort, while the rest of us head-bob our way across the Atlantic, with pasty mouths and flaking skin. But then I clear my throat, and remind myself of all the jetfuel, and well, something like the situation in Haiti. Comparisons under capitalism are really useless.

We arrive in Heathrow, and I hear something about Dublin over the PA, but can't quite make it out. I go through eighteen levels of security, and then go to check into my BMI flight, only to find out that the Dublin airport is closed. I have to pick up my bags, and then come back to the counter to figure out what to do next. Off through the maze that is Heathrow, I feel thankful that, really, it's not going to be a big deal if I am delayed for a bit. I had the good sense to plan my travel for the weekend, so that I could get myself sorted before Monday. Not that I had anything in particular planned for Monday, but I was feeling the urge to get back to work. Too much free, unstructured time can be a bit difficult.

Retrieving the bags took only, oh, TWO HOURS, but I managed to meet some great folks who were in the same situation. In fact, in some cases, they were in a worse situation. Noel and Padraig, who had met on a plane back from Sydney, for example, had already been traveling for 36 hours. In the baggage room, standing by the belts that kept revolving and promising luggage, we bonded, and decided to face BMI together.

At the counter, we were told that the Dublin airport was closed because of weather conditions, but while they were saying this, Aer Lingus was making its final boarding call for a flight to Dublin. Hmmm, something fishy. As it turns out, the airport was now open, but BMI had no de-icers, so they had canceled all flights. What were we to do? Noel asked about flights to Cork and Shannon, but they were no-goes. I finally suggested Belfast, which I think is closer than either of those places, and, woo-hoo, there were flights available! The friendly staff at BMI booked us on a 6pm flight to Belfast, and off the six of us went to have some lunch, and figure out the best route from Dublin to Belfast. In the airport pub (another mirage...), we ate sandwiches, unwisely drank pints, and decided we'd try the train, but if it was too late, we'd split a cab. Noel was starting to look a little delirious from lack of sleep, and unknowingly, we were getting carried away with our North to South travel plans. Because when we left the pub and went to check in for our flight, we found out that it was canceled as well. Hmmm, back to the BMI counter.

No more flights for Saturday anywhere to the island, and not surprisingly, everything to Dublin for Sunday was full. Note to self: living on an island is trouble. While we were in the pub, dutifully waiting for our Belfast flight, other wayward travelers were arriving at Heathrow only to find that they couldn't get out that day. They filled up the Sunday flights. NOW what do we do? Lots of discussion and text messages. News that a huge storm was expected for Sunday. Shall we take a bus to the train to Wales to the ferry? I decided to cut my losses, and book a Dublin flight for Monday. Back to pick up the luggage that I had recently checked to Belfast. We had to undergo a full body frisk, and as the woman patted me down, I said something like "woo, this is the most fun I've had all day!"| She responded with something about how it would have been better if she were a tall, dark, and handsome guy, and really, I didn't want to break her bubble. How nice of her to have been playful in her response, when airport security folks can be so damn serious!

Steve, Joe, Noel and Padraig near the BMI counter, after finding out our Belfast flight was canceled.

It was easy for me to decide that I would just stay over in London and not pursue the god-awful-sounding ferry option, because my dear friend Sophie lives in London, and would be happy to put me up. No matter that she already had an Australian house guest. I figured we'd make a nice little mini-Commonwealth.

So on this trip, I lost a few days in Dublin, but I gained a few days in London. I lost a lot of sleep, but I gained the experience of meeting these other travelers, and maybe I'll even meet up with some of them back here in the Dub. I lost some money, but I gained a most magical weekend in London. I used to make fun of places that shut down after only a centimetre of snow, but I've backed off. I mean, they just do not have the infrastructure to deal with it. No ploughs. No grit. No shovels! No idea. I read that Dublin is importing a boat-load of salt to replenish its supplies. But, I think that they use this lack of infrastructure to their great advantage. Close all the schools! Shut down work! Relax and just be snowed-in! I've mentioned before in the blog how Dubliners seem to make the act of socialising an unequivocal part of their day, but it goes further: if there is an honest opportunity to turn it down a notch and enjoy family time, then take it! I realise I am conflating Dubliners with Londoners and that I could be lynched for this in certain circles, but ah well, the real comparison point is to North Americans...

When I arrived at Sophie's on Saturday night, I was kind of delirious from being awake, but I think I sat at the table and used language. The next day, we (including the lovely Australian traveler Josh) put on our woolies, and ventured to the market as soon as we got up (that was 1pm for me, holycrap).

Some very hearty vendors were outside, offering all sorts of delights: flatwhite espressos, organic fruits, pies and apples... I got a great espresso, and a delicious cheese toastie:

SF took some ghostly Polaroids, and headed home to scan them before the colour faded: he's not only using old cameras - he buys vintage film. Sophie, Josh and I decided to roam around Alexander Park and watch the tobogganers. Walking down the hill, we had to dodge a few. Not very experienced, you see.

The snow-travel was indeed a delight, but the real magic came back at the cosey flat, with blankets piled high, beautiful chili-chocolates passed around from bed to couch to settee, and great books at every turn. I devoured two of SF's novels in the afternoon, with great music playing in the background. We napped, we read, we spent silent time together...

All told, my little unexpected sojourn in London was the best possible thing I could have done to transition back to my additional life in Dublin, and I could never have planned it. It was a little moment out of time, filled only by time...

Dublin Made Me Gay!!

2009-12-17T23:07:00.000Z

Well, of course this is not entirely true, but I can say that living here has made me gay-ER in my daily activities.

As a recovering-Catholic Republic that only decriminalized homosexuality in 1993 (and still criminalizes abortion), Dublin is not the first place that pops to mind when one thinks of gay-friendly cities. But there is something still kind of sparkly and new about the out gay scene here. Toronto's scene has been around for such a long time, and there is a whole street dedicated to everything LGBTQ. If you miss an event, no worries - there will be another one coming along soon. I suppose the same is true of Dublin, based on the small but growing body of knowledge I have about lesbian/queer activities in the city, but it hasn't been this way for as long, so there is still a kind of buzz around events.

Take, for example, the Gay and Lesbian choir I went to the other night. My friends Shannon and Debs asked me out, and we were joined by a couple of their friends; on my way out the door, another friend, Florry, called to see what I was up to that night - did I want to join him at Gloria, the Gay and Lesbian choir? Well yes indeed, see you there. When I posted the pics on Facebook, another friend of mine tagged a friend of hers in the pic of the choir. Do all the queers know each other in this city? The venue was packed - I would say there were easily 600-800 people in the church, and not a spare seat to be found. I think this is a pretty fantastic turnout for any kind of event, let alone an amateur (in the not-paid sense) choir from a slim slice of the overall Dublin demographic. (A note on the venue - we weren't sure at first if St. Anne's was Catholic or Church of Ireland, and while it would have been more deliciously transgressive if it had been the former, the fact that it is Anglican still scores one point for the good side of the schism).

Come to think of it, maybe it's not a gay thing at all. I've been amazed by how tightly knit many communities are in this city. For example, in the theatre world, the people who write about theatre (critics and academics) seem to know the people who make theatre (directors and writers and actors etc) well. I mean, they give each other little hugs and hellos when they see each other. It's not that there is no overlap at home, but most real interaction between academics and practitioners seems to be about the work. People here seem to know each other socially. I am living in an entirely different culture than my home culture, and I am continually amazed by the little Eureka moments I have that remind me of this.

In the beginning, I noticed cultural differences, and was hit with a short but intense dose of culture shock. At one point, I thought "I am an ALIEN! Who are these people??" That seems to have passed as I return to a more moderate view of our differences, but now I am starting to see the subtle differences a bit better. To come back to the gay thing -- I need to tune my gaydar to a new wavelength. I thought I was getting pretty good at quickly noting who was likely playing for the team at home, but here, forget it. The public appearance of being gay/lesbian is different than it is at home. I am sure this observation does little to help those who argue that being gay is biological (and therefore more politically defensible, somehow), but it's true! I can't even identify, yet, why my gaydar is so off, but it's been very interesting. It kind of means everyone can be gay, in my imagination. Talk about queering the world around you...

Well, I am off home for the holidays tomorrow morning, which means I will be missing at least five queer holiday events in Dublin. But I figure I can just pick up where I left off when I return - there is so much going on! I never thought I would say this four months ago, but I think I might actually miss my wacky new Dublin life...a wee bit...over the holidays.

Christmas Lights about town

2009-12-14T22:03:00.002Z

They sure do know how to do Christmas lights in Dublin. Here are a few pics I snapped when I happened to have my camera in tow. I will try to take more this week - Grafton street, for example, is just beautiful. The first few pics are of my street. Dec 16 Update: Ok- the last three are from Grafton St. area. Took them last night.

Corn Exchange workshop

2009-12-14T21:39:00.008Z

Last week, I took part in an introductory commedia intensive, offered by the super cool Dublin theatre company Corn Exchange. Annie Ryan, the company's AD, led the workshop along with the Janet Moran, a busy actor who has been in several of the company's productions. Both were involved in Freefall, which was definitely the stand-out production at this year's Dublin Theatre Festival. I haven't been on stage (although the lecture hall is a kind of stage...) in about a decade, so it was quite the experience to be thrown in with a group of professional actors, but they were gentle with me :) The workshop was excellent - Annie is an excellent teacher who has a great ability to improvise her direction depending on the moment - she is in tune with the performers' energy, and really pushes participants while always maintaining a safe and playful atmosphere. She runs workshops once or twice a year, and I would go back in a second (although I'm not sure they would want me back, LOL).

What amazed me most about the actors was there great willingness to play, and to play big and small depending on the moment. I've hosted and participated in a number of theatre workshops for undergraduates in the past few years, and I have always found the students really hungry and willing, but not always entirely able to play. But of course, this is the difference between professionals, and professionals-in-training (not that we aren't all amateurs and professionals at the same time, on some level, in our chosen work).

I feel drawn to Corn Exchange because of their philosophy, their commitment to theatricality (and not naturalism), and their process: for the last while, Annie has been starting rehearsals with a group yoga practice, and as you know from previous posts, I am seriously hearting yoga right now. But Corn Exchange has also been on my radar for a long time - a couple of years ago, I assigned my students a group project: to build an entire website dedicated to Dublin By Lamplight, which Corn Exchange premiered at the Project Arts Centre in 2004, and then toured around Ireland, the UK, and Australia until 2007. It's odd how life operates in circles or spirals; many moons ago I was offered a PhD position at Trinity College, but I turned it down to attend the University of Toronto. I feel a bit like the character in John Mighton's play Possible Worlds, continually cycling back around multiple possibilities for existence.

Anyhoo, this blog posting is mostly an excuse to post a bunch of pictures from the workshop. The company draws on commedia traditions, but also updates the traditions, and infuses them with elements of story theatre. Physical postures are informed by LeCoq and several other physical theatre practices, so, for example, Pantalone types don't need to stoop over, and Capitanos can appear both in and out of uniform. The company has distilled the essence of the types, and uses these stock 'essences' as inspiration for character-building. It's a completely unique form; characters and text can be contemporary, and they discard the plastic masks in favour of fantastic makeup. You'll see what I mean in the slideshow below. Enjoy!

Corn Exchange Commedia Workshop, Dec 7-10 2009

Leinster Cricket Club, Rathmines

Meta Blog

2009-12-14T09:16:00.003Z

Loyal readers (if indeed there are any out there), I know I've been away for a while. It's just that...I got kinda...distracted (bonus points for anyone who knows that is a quote, and can name the source). I've been trying to figure out why I haven't felt as compelled to write about my experiences lately as I did in the beginning, so here is my opportunity to work that out. Meta-blog: the blog posting about the process of blog postings. Here are some possible explanations:

1. First and foremost, I've been busy during the social hours. I usually write blog postings at night and on weekends, but I've been rather busy at night and on weekends. My friend Andrew even wrote me an email saying "Are you ok? Because you haven't blogged in a while!" Blogging: proof of life.

2. Related to the first: my social life has kind of taken off. Whopppppeeee! I was dreadfully lonely in the beginning, but I forced my way into several people's lives. Just picture a sad clown wearing a Canadian flag, holding a light saber, and grinning madly - that's how I likely came off. Several of those people magically adopted me! Some of them even drop me texts when they haven't heard from me in a few days! I am always delighted and just a bit amazed when someone wants to be my friend, because for a long time, I was so freakin' busy that I had no room for adopting new people, and I lost perspective. I thought everyone felt that way.

3. Cultural Life: I have been going to the theatre and other traditional cultural events since the beginning, but, partly through my very cool dancer friend Deirdre, I've been introduced to a burgeoning indie/arty/dance/performance scene. There are lots of exciting smaller-scale/one-off things happening in Dublin, and I've taken the opportunity to attend what I can. In terms of artistic tastes, I am really moving towards the visual and kinesthetic. I mean, I've always preferred theatre that verges on performance art, demonstration, or 'happening', but lately I want to soak up anything with great movement, preferably if it has few words. Blame it on the Irish dramatic tendency towards monologue theatre: I need a break from all the blarney.

Last night I went to The Back Loft for Mamuska, which bills itself as a 'cross-media arts salon'. There were a series of short performances - dance pieces, performance art, experimental films, soundscapes, clown -- and the audience was encouraged to wander around the space. At this particular event, they had the chairs (a great collection of armchairs, kitchen chairs, and office chairs!) arranged in a traditional forward-facing, aisle-in-centre fashion, so the wandering didn't happen too much, but I did manage to meet a few new people. One of the performance artists - Hilary Williams - was sitting beside me, and struck up a great chat. She told me that she had returned to do an MA in Performance Art at age 55, without having much knowledge of the field at the time. She was just bursting with energy, and wanted to chat about every performance as soon as (or before, LOL) it ended. And as I made my way to buy a raffle ticket, I saw a woman who had been in the restorative workshop I had taken earlier in the day. I keep forgetting that Dublin is not very big - there have been several instances where I have bumped into someone in one place early in the day, and in another entirely different place later in the day. I am glad she singled me out and said hi, because I was so blissed out at the workshop that I'm not sure I really saw anyone else there. Think of it as perma-dristy.

I was at another event at the Back Loft of La Catedral Studios last weekend - this one was called 'Zero Gravity', and it was hosted by a newish collective who have dubbed themselves 'Art Freckles' (at first I thought Art Freckles was some philanthropist guy with a wicked name). The event was also an eclectic mix of short performances, but I got a bit weirded out hanging around by myself because everyone seemed to know each other, so I didn't stay much past Deirdre's performance.

4. Back to the reasons why I haven't been blogging so much. I think the fourth reason - and final for now, gotta get to work - is that I am not finding Dublin as weird as I did in the beginning. I'm probably not noticing the cultural particularities so much. This could be a really big loss, but I see it as a good sign: I am integrating. My dear dear friend Paul (who visits me via the Skype gods daily) even caught me saying "em" instead of "um". My unconscious verbal tics are turning Irish! Jaysus!!

Finally, to my Canuck friends out there: I am home on Friday. Looking forward to seeing everyone!

Thoughts on the Civil Partnership Bill

2009-12-02T16:00:00.003Z

Ok, so it’s time that I sat down and understood the real issues with the Civil Partnership Bill, because I hadn’t been following it prior to my arrival in Ireland, and I am thinking about joining the protest organized by LGBTNoise, taking place tomorrow at 6pm, outside the Dail. I wanted to make sure I agreed with the reasons for the protest, because in some ways the government is taking a huge step in introducing this legislation, and I want to make sure I agree that it is right to, er, throw the baby out with the bathwater.On major rights issues, you never know when the first shot might be the only shot...

I thought I would learn the main contents and elisions of the bill last week when The George hosted the first session of The G-Spot – a new live biweekly ‘talk show’ dedicated to issues of interest to the LGBTQ community -- but I just learned what GLEN and LGBTNoise do and do not have in common. And then they invited a reality tv star to the stage, and given my aversion to regular tv (i.e. not Mad Men or True Blood, no, no) and general dearth of knowledge about Irish superpopculture, I had no idea what anyone was talking about. But I digress...

So, I just skimmed through the entire 118-page long Civil Partnership Bill, and I can say that it is a real snore... You may say that all legislation is that way, but just read the preamble to Canada’s Bill C-38, which was put into law in July 2005:

WHEREAS the Parliament of Canada is committed to upholding the Constitution of Canada, and section 15 of the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms guarantees that every individual is equal before and under the law and has the right to equal protection and equal benefit of the law without discrimination;

WHEREAS the courts in a majority of the provinces and in one territory have recognized that the right to equality without discrimination requires that couples of the same sex and couples of the opposite sex have equal access to marriage for civil purposes;

WHEREAS the Supreme Court of Canada has recognized that many Canadian couples of the same sex have married in reliance on those court decisions;

WHEREAS only equal access to marriage for civil purposes would respect the right of couples of the same sex to equality without discrimination, and civil union, as an institution other than marriage, would not offer them that equal access and would violate their human dignity, in breach of the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms;

WHEREAS the Supreme Court of Canada has determined that the Parliament of Canada has legislative jurisdiction over marriage but does not have the jurisdiction to establish an institution other than marriage for couples of the same sex;

WHEREAS everyone has the freedom of conscience and religion under section 2 of the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms;

WHEREAS nothing in this Act affects the guarantee of freedom of conscience and religion and, in particular, the freedom of members of religious groups to hold and declare their religious beliefs and the freedom of officials of religious groups to refuse to perform marriages that are not in accordance with their religious beliefs;

WHEREAS, in light of those considerations, the Parliament of Canada’s commitment to uphold the right to equality without discrimination precludes the use of section 33 of the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms to deny the right of couples of the same sex to equal access to marriage for civil purposes;

WHEREAS marriage is a fundamental institution in Canadian society and the Parliament of Canada has a responsibility to support that institution because it strengthens commitment in relationships and represents the foundation of family life for many Canadians;

AND WHEREAS, in order to reflect values of tolerance, respect and equality consistent with the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms, access to marriage for civil purposes should be extended by legislation to couples of the same sex;

It makes me tear up everytime I read it.

Ireland’s bill, by comparison, is devoid of any sense of joy about actually contributing to the growth of human rights. I don’t mean to toot the Canadian horn too much because we have our own share of embarrassments and bigotry, nor to enter an Ireland vs. Canada debate, but to show that there are other ways to approach this issue. The Irish bill is mostly a long list of amendments to current legislation in order to add references to ‘civil partner’ or ‘civil partnership.’

The Civil Partnership Bill is meant to provide for the legal registration of same-sex partnerships. The praise is that it finally allows same-sex partners a version of marriage, complete with some economic rights, legal recognition, and some degree of social recognition. The criticism is that it provides same-sex partners with some degree of marriage, but not marriage itself, and importantly, there is no mention of children in the bill: no extension of adoption or custody rights. This is a biggie.

The first thing that struck me about the bill is that it is an entirely separate piece of legislation, just for same-sex partners. In other words, you can’t choose to have a heterosexual civil partnership. This might seem obvious, but it is significant, because it means that the only rights granted to civil partners (read: same-sex) are the ones included in the bill. The bill does attempt some degree of comprehensiveness, referencing everything from the Abattoirs Act 1988 to the Vocational Education Act 1930 (to take an alphabetical approach to comprehensiveness), but, again, make no mistake, it’s not the same to be a civil partner as it is to be married.

It’s rather sneaky to create an entirely separate piece of legislation like this (instead of amending current definitions of marriage), because it means that you have to continually cross-reference the rights that are granted to married couples in order to see if they are included in the 118 pages of the Civil Partnership Bill. So, I didn’t get too much out of reading the bill, but it did spur me to seek out analysis on other sites, where people have had the time to comb through current marriage rights and the proposed civil partnership rights on a comparative basis. Here’s a brief list of some of the problems (you can see I have already decided to attend the protest):

- no mention of children and parental rights. so, nothing changes in relation to the children of same-sex couples. single gay/lesbian people can apply for adoption, but they cannot apply as a couple. that’s just absurd.

- foreign same-sex marriages essentially get downgraded to civil partnership, and if one partner has Irish citizenship, it is harder for his or her same-sex spouse (if married elsewhere) to obtain citizenship than it is for the spouse of a married heterosexual person.

- if your church recognises same-sex unions and is willing to ‘civil-partner’ you, they can’t. Religious bodies can only perform marriages

- when splitting up, only married couples can have a judicial separation. And if a civil partnership is dissolved, partners cannot apply to courts to work out property rights, and married couples can.

I could go on, but there are better summaries out there on the web, so I’ll point you in that direction. When I first heard about the bill, I naively thought “how different can it be, really,” but now, it’s clear that it’s entirely insulting.

To read more, try these sites:

LGBTNoise
EurOut.com
MarriageEquality
GLEN (Gay and Lesbian Equality Network)

If you are interested in Canada as a comparative case, same-sex marriage was made legal in 2005 following fairly heated debate that rallied between discussions of religious freedoms (the clergy’s right to not perform marriage ceremonies for same-sex couples), and lots of discussions about the language of the Constitution and Charter of Rights and Freedoms. In the end, instead of creating separate legislation for same-sex couples, the Canadian parliament created new legislation that defined ‘civil marriage’ - or more plainly, defined marriage itself. This legislation is what now governs all legal marriages in Canada, regardless of the number of X chromosomes in the pairing. Changes were made in relevant Acts to remove references to ‘opposite sex’ when it came to defining spouses. There was initially a lot of backlash from religious groups and Alberta, but it’s pretty much disappeared from public debate. I have to say, I felt a very rare sense of national pride the day that bill was passed. I don’t mean that I don’t like being Canadian, I just mean that I always get the willies when I see a lot of flag waving, or when I (used to) hear every American, including Ani Difranco, mention that they ‘loved their country’ before saying anything critical about it during the Bush Jr. years.

A very thorough summary of the debate, legislative process, and Act is available here: Bill C-38 Legislative Summary

One other thing of note: I read that nowhere in the Irish constitution is married defined as members of the opposite sex. So, wus de problem? In fact, the BUNREACHT NA hÉIREANN is an interesting read. You'll learn about the social changes in the last few decades pretty quickly in the first few pages. For example, divorce was only legalised in 1996. For those of you reading this who have no idea of Ireland's history, then it is also important to point out that homosexuality was only decriminalised in 1993! By comparison, . But the battle continues - Uganda was in the news recently for introducing a big-brother anti-homosexual bill that would "imprison anyone who knows of the existence of a gay or lesbian and fails to inform the police within 24 hours," among other penalties (Globe and Mail, Nov 29, 2009). The UN just introduced a declaration on the decriminalization of homosexuality at the end of last year, noting that 86 UN countries still have at least a partial ban on homosexuality on their books (Guardian, Dec 8, 2008).

Ok, judging by my use of citations, this is dangerously close to becoming an essay, and I can't possibly write a comprehensive one on this topic right now, so I'll leave you to explore the links.

Liffey Bridges in Images - updated

2009-11-29T21:02:00.003Z

About a month ago I posted a slideshow of Liffey Bridges, moving eastward from Heuston station. I got about half way to Dublin Bay at that point. Today I decided to talk a walk to the sea in the blustery weather, and capture the other half. So now this slideshow has all the bridges from Heuston Station to the point where I couldn't go any further along the southside quays. Didn't get to see the open sea - have to find a different route next time.

Excursion: Puerto Rico

2009-11-27T23:35:00.002Z

So, I've been a bit slack with the postings, but I've been busy! I know that most people's year-in-Dublin does not include a week in Puerto Rico, but mine did. I was there for the annual ASTR conference, and actually managed to hit the waves a few times. I was being extra careful, of course, because I didn't have health insurance. This is something one should know about, so I'll explain the difficulty. Basically, you have to purchase your travel insurance from your place of residence before you embark on the trip. When I was getting ready to leave Canada, I bought insurance for my time in Ireland. The insurance companies don't care where you are traveling to, unless your destinations include the US. Not thinking about Puerto Rico, which was many months away at that point, I purchased the 'anywhere in the world but the US' package. Then, leading up to the conference, I thought, oh no, Puerto Rico is the US. Kind of. I mean, when given an option of states to choose from on any online drop-down menu, PR is never there, but they are technically a protectorate. So... I thought, no bother, I will just purchase Irish insurance. Well, to do that, I need to be an Irish resident for at least 6 months, and I only just passed the 3 month mark a couple of days ago. SOL - better not let a surfboard hit me in the head. Stay away from fluey looking people. Don't let the water get too far into my ears... I was fine, but as I said, cautious when it came to one of my most favourite activities: jumping in the waves.

I could talk about the conference, but as I said in the beginning, the remit of this blog is entirely unrelated to my job. So, instead, I'll post some pictures of San Juan. The Old City is the place with all of the interesting architecture: like a mix between Spain and San Francisco. The first slide-show contains streetscapes, because they were so darn pretty! I wandered around on a few occasions with friends old and new from the conference, but most of these were taken on the afternoon I spent roaming with one of my best buds/academic partners-in-crime, Alvarez (we like to use each other's last names). Take a look at the paint jobs! I want a house with bright colours like this! And sun all day!

I was taking photos and at one point realized that the light was really curious - fantastic shadows being cast on the ground that were shaped by palm fronds. Somehow A and I decided to make a series of Nouvelle Vague inspired snaps. Here are a few, as well as some silly ones. She's giggling at my instructions to remove all expressions from her face in the last one...

I'll put a more complete series of pics on Facebook, where I feel freer, somehow, to look sillier. 'Cause A and I probably had heatstroke, and were feeling kind of silly.

Happy Weekend!

2009-11-27T22:38:00.000Z

I'm sitting here in my Old City flat, and the church bells are going mad around the corner at Christchurch Cathedral. The first few times I heard them ringing wildly on an evening, I thought certainly something special must be going on. Perhaps a wedding? Christening? Church anniversary? But now I've heard them repeatedly, every Friday evening, and I've realised what is actually going on: the bells are celebrating, and heralding, the start of the weekend. "Yippeee, it's here!" they seem to call out to anyone who can hear.

A while ago, I was texting a friend to invite her and her partner over for dinner later in the week, and she said that she was nursing a Saturday morning hangover, and generally having a lazy day. That week wouldn't work for dinner, because she had a project due at the end of the week, and would be hitting the books pretty hard. I texted back "Rest up, and get back to work on that project!" Immediately she responded "No way! Weekends are for relaxation and definitely NOT work!" It struck me how true this was, and how much I agreed with her, given the relative leisure of my current life in Dublin, where I don't have teaching or administrative responsibilities. I've been been slowly rebalancing my life, which I think was quite out of hand for the last few years. But what surprised me about her text was not the sentiment, but the clarity of that sentiment: I will not give up the small bit of leisure time I have - I want to relax, wander about the markets, and spend time with my partner. This all may be very true to many people out there, but work has a way of creeping up, and I am getting the sense that Dubliners do a better job of keeping it at bay than we do back in work-driven Toronto and environs. Yes, the Irish economy is in the shitter, but they're still going out for pints! Balance needs to be approached from both directions.

The culture of work-life balance is certainly cultural in a geographic sense, but it is also historical. I've just finished watching the first season of the television series Mad Men, and have become quite addicted to it. I think it's fantastically well done, but if we can view it as even remotely representative of middle class life in the early 60s, then it is also fascinating from a cultural standpoint. The main character, Don Draper, is an ad executive at a competitive Manhattan agency by day, and by night, he either goes home to his family in the 'burbs, or his to lovers in the city. It's a sexy show with good production values, a hefty feminist bent, and strong writing. They manage to work the 'origins' of contemporary attitudes into each episode - for example, the most recent one I watched was talking about how all the young people drink coffee, and how it must just be a fad. They also include some of the politics of the day (e.g. the election of Kennedy to the White House). It's clever. But what is most astonishing is the image the series present of work culture: these people are well-paid, they have large suburban houses and drive nice cars, and all they seem to do all day at the office is drink, smoke, socialize, and read newspapers! Then they go home at 5pm. Surely it never was this way? Or was it? Of course the women in the office spend every minute typing away and dealing with barf-inducing sexism, and I bet it really was that way for them. The show is clearly operating in hyperbole, trying to show by exaggeration and contrast how men's lives and women's lives differed so drastically. But the relative amount of time dedicated to leisure by the high powered execs is remarkable (even if the leisure is questionable and bad for your health).

Only in Ireland, hic! Part II

2009-11-18T20:22:00.002Z

As a follow up to Part I of this post, I have another Ireland-and-liquor story. I was traveling back from San Juan yesterday, and about to board my second flight at JFK. Terminal 4 at JFK seems solely for use by Aer Lingus, but I haven't done my research. However, I am led to believe this is the case, because the first establishment that you pass once you've cleared security is a pub, with a large sign in faux-ancient bubble letters that boasts "We Serve Guinness!"

I stood in line as my row of seats were called, handed the flight attendant my boarding card, and then proceeded down the ramp towards the loading bridge. I didn't get very far, however, because there was a line up of passengers about 50 metres long. The cause of the traffic jam? Duty-free purchases! At the bottom of the ramp, which switch-backed its way down, I could see about 200 duty-free bags, mostly filled with booze, waiting for their owners to retrieve them en-route to boarding the plane. Perhaps the whiskey tasting on the other end had encouraged people to raid the duty-free on the way back home? Or, maybe, people drink a lot in Dublin. Hmmm. Detained by duty-free. Backed up by booze booty.

This Is It

2009-11-12T03:28:00.004Z

Last night I went to the Savoy, a famous old Dublin cinema, to see the film about Michael Jackson’s final concert preparations, This Is It. As a film scholar, I realise that I am opening myself up to accusations of extremely bad taste, but here’s the truth: I was a Michael Jackson fan long before I was a film scholar, and in this case, my tweenage infatuation trumps my much more adult perspective. Or, perhaps, I can blame it on my friend Shannon, who insisted we see it after I demonstrated my moon walk one evening while she and Deb were generously hosting me, filling me with delicious homemade antipasto and red wine (real Italian antipasto, I might add – not vegetable chutney from a jar). Shannon was excited to find another Michael Jackson fan, because, she told me, there was no way she would be dragging Debs out to see the film. And then we swapped stories of what paraphernalia we remembered best from our childhood: me, the red zipper jacket from Thriller and the eight full sized posters in my bedroom; Shannon, the glitter glove, homemade by her parents, much to Shannon’s disappointment.

Michael Jackson, we all know, was a very odd fellow; there’s the Neverland stuff, the hooded surrogate children, and the multiple surgeries that left him looking like a futuristic android (gynoid?) But he also seemed like a little boy, not so much in the fun sense of a Peter Pan, to whom he is often compared, but to a child who has lost his mom at the supermarket, and who sits alone in front of the fountain, not knowing what to do next. Some of this naivete comes across in the film. At one point he talks about the importance of saving the planet, and you can feel that he really means it, but his simple language, soft voice, and even softer delivery make it sound like you’re listening to a ten year-old doing a presentation at the front of the classroom. It is remarkable how he can talk about environmental catastrophes, and humanity’s role in these catastrophes, without sounding the least bit political.

The film is basically a series of rehearsals for the big concert, shot over a limited number of days. Much to my disappointment, there was no extended moonwalk shot, but then again we have to remember that this footage was never meant to be a film. He wasn’t expected to be dead less than a year after it was shot. Some of the time, Michael Jackson is backed by a group of incredibly talented dancers, and at other times, he performs alone on the stage, making all of the characteristic moves that made him famous. (I could call him MJ as everyone in the film does, but this must be from another era in his life, because I didn’t call him that in the 80s). On a couple of occasions, he shimmies up to one of the guitar players, or one of the backup singers, and does something that ends up looking incredibly awkward: he tries to interact with them. When the amazing electric guitar player rocks her stuff at the front of the stage, he sort of bends down a bit, and tries to do a little dance with her, moving his arms out to the side, beyond her guitar, and so on. I found it painful to watch, because it reveals so clearly his total isolation from the social world around him. And it reveals this in a moment when he is otherwise King – dancing in a way that still gives me the shivers because it’s so incredible. In one sequence, he goes into the song Human Nature, which requires him to hit some really high notes, which he does so brilliantly, his voice sounding hardly any different for its 50 years than it did when he was a teenager. How is this possible? He may have lived an extremely eccentric and questionable life, but his talent is unmatched.

I have always liked Motown - it feels like the core musical genre that speaks to me -- but I realised while watching the movie that my musical tastes, preferred tempo, and sense of the dramatic in music have been deeply shaped by Michael Jackson. A few times in the film, he has the musicians stop and take it back a few bars. Or he asks for an extended silence. Or for the tempo to increase or decrease. And each time he made one of these adjustments, I just felt YES! This is right! This moves me! But of course it does -- his style built my musical tasteS in the first place.

As money-making postmortem films go, this one isn't half bad. I expected it to waddle in the maudlin -- to show us lots of footage of Jackson in his daily life, hiding from prying eyes, another victim of paparazzi-overload. I thought there would be a lot more shaping of the material to include interviews and perspectives on his life and death. And while it does have some of this, the film over all is pretty pared down. Most of the time, it is just Michael on stage, singing and strutting. The way it should be.

Only in Ireland, hic!

2009-11-11T19:57:00.000Z

I was on my way to Puerto Rico for a conference this morning, having risen at 6am in order to catch the airport bus to be at the boarding gate for 8:45am, for a 10:30am flight. It felt ridiculous for the boarding card to demand that I be there that early, but by the time I went through 5 checkpoints (count 'em!), the flight attendants were calling the back rows of the plane.

Bleary-eyed, I arrived through the first series of checkpoints -- the ones that take away your liquids and make your pants fall down if you’re wearing a pair that requires a belt – and found that the duty free was serving complimentary shots of Irish whisky! Sure, it was a marketing ploy, but how often do you get anything for free at the airport? And whisky at that! Only in Ireland, where I still muse that the national flag doesn’t have a pint of Guinness between the orange and green bars.

Several men were standing there sampling the single malts and blends, lips pursed but chins dropped to better catch the flavours. I didn’t really feel like a shot of whisky at nine in the morning (after a mostly sleepless night, I should add), but there is something about a youngish woman joining middle-aged men for whisky. Earns instant respect and even a bit of awe, I think. The marketing woman was pouring the half-shots pretty full, and insisted I try at least two. I’ll tell you, a nice bright shot of Irish whisky in the am certainly does warm you to the lower depths of your guts! I left the stand feeling quite refreshed, and headed to the next stage of inspection, wondering if the booze on my breath would cause them to ask me more probing questions. But, you know, when in Dublin...

Dissed in Dublin, Part II: Dissed by Simon

2009-11-11T19:56:00.000Z

I’ve talked about the very visible homeless problem in Dublin on this blog before, and I mentioned that I was hoping to volunteer for Dublin Simon. I went ahead and sent off an application early last month. It was quite extensive, and I took their questions very seriously. They want to know basic things like why you want to volunteer and what your experience is in the area, but they also want to know which skills on a list you could share with clients (I said I could teach cooking skills and computer skills). They also asked for two letters of reference, but feeling sheepish about my very frequent requests for letters of reference, I just put down the names and numbers of some colleagues, and sent off the form, asking if that was sufficient. The volunteer co-ordinator got back to me a few days later, saying that my application was fine as-is, and that she would be in touch in a couple of weeks, because they would be training new volunteers in November.

A few weeks went by, and then a few more, and just when I was starting to wonder when the training would take place, I got a very thin letter in the mail. I was hoping it was the earplugs I had asked my sister to send from home (can’t find those orange ones here), but instead, it was ... a ‘thanks for coming out’ letter from Dublin Simon!

I was dissed by Dublin Simon.

I had been rejected, without ever meeting anyone, as a volunteer. They didn’t want to take me on and not pay me to help homeless people! All I could think, really, was WTF? The letter said something about having an unusual number of applicants this round, but we all know that is just a nice way to say “we decided we liked other applicants more than you.” I don’t want to sound cocky, but really, I think I have things to offer. I worked on a crisis line for a year, and had pretty extensive training in how to support people in a variety of difficult situations. I know, first hand, a lot about mental illness, this is certainly an issue for a lot of homeless folks. I said my availability was very open. And that I could teach skill (I’m a teacher, LOL), but that I would also be keen to do nighttime soup and blanket runs, etc. But, no go. Of course I haven’t called them yet to find out what the scoop is, because then I couldn’t be all pissy in my blog posting. But I am going to call. What’s with being dissed first by a king and then by an apostle?

Dissed in Dublin, Part I: Dissed by David

2009-11-11T19:53:00.001Z

I said to my sister the other day that I am becoming a ‘coffee whore,’ in the sense that I will ask pretty much anyone out for a coffee or pint if they seem interesting. This is a new thing for me, or perhaps maybe it’s an old thing that has resurfaced under my current circumstances – in a new country, single, and determined to create a rich and interesting social circle. Most people have been very obliging (you know who you are!), but you can’t win all the time.

Last weekend I went to see a production of Knives in Hens by playwright David Harrower. This is a very special play to me – I directed it six years ago in Toronto (almost to the day), and during the audition process, met the amazing woman I would spend the next six years of my life with. And of course it was written by a fellow Harrower, even if I don’t think we’re very closely related (who knows? Need to get on that family tree one of these days). My friend Paul suggested that I see it with his friend Florry, who lives in Dublin. Paul was one of the stage managers on the TO show, and his friend Florry is friends with the publicity guy for this Dublin production. Lots of odd connections here and there.

The production, by Landmark Theatre, was being staged at the Smock Alley Theatre, which is just steps from my apartment (like so many things!). I set out a few minutes before I was to meet Florry, taking a small winding street that conveniently connects my street to the quays. As I turned the bend, there was David Harrower himself, walking in the same direction. I knew that he was going to be doing a Q&A after the show, so I wasn’t surprised to see him, but I was a bit surprised by my own ease in chatting him up. The conversation went something like this:

Me: Hi, aren’t you David Harrower?

DH: Yes, I am

Me: Ah yes, I’m going to see Knives and Hens as well, just around the corner (I think I was hoping for something more than ‘Yes I am,’ so my response was a bit awkward).

DH: Oh yes.

Silence. Walking.

Me: Actually, my name is Harrower as well.

Pause.

I wouldn’t normally find that so interesting, but we both know it’s not very common. I’m Natalie. Natalie Harrower.

Pause (with me thinking ‘Your turn now’).

Me again: Actually, I directed Knives and Hens years ago, in Toronto.

DH: Oh, yes. Wait – did you send me a Facebook message a couple of years back?

Me: Yes! And you never responded! Hahaha.

DH: Oh yes, sorry about that, I was into Facebook for a while, then I wasn’t, then... (mumbles something).

Me: Ah well, it was a random message.

We talked about a few other things – the origin of the name Harrower or something – he thinks it’s from Fife – and then I somehow managed to make a joke about his lack of response to my email, and slapped him heartily on the back as I said this. I was thinking to myself, geeze, no shame here! I’ve just met him on the street and already I am making fun of him. We entered the space and both got caught up in the folks we were meeting, and that was it for a bit. In my peripheral vision on one of the uncomfortable benches that made up the audience seating, I could see him sitting a few rows behind me, struggling to make notes in the low light of the production.

There was a short Q&A afterwards, where I managed to ask a couple of questions about the play, and then when I was over, I went up to him and said “I don’t know how long you’re in town, but I am here until Wednesday morning, and then I have to head out to a conference, but if you have time I’d love to have a coffee and talk more about your work,” handing him a scrap of paper with my mobile number on it. He said he was around until Thursday am, and seemed vaguely interested in calling me (I did tell him I was a theatre academic). I smiled, and went off to dinner with my companion.

He never called (are you surprised?!)

I was dissed, for a second time, by David Harrower.

Looks like our common heritage and my interest in his work didn’t warrant a response the first time, and that my shining personality, presence in the same city, and continued interest in his work couldn’t even grant me the chance to buy him a coffee! Maybe I shouldn’t have slapped him on the back. Ah well, dinner at Gruel with Florry was lovely, and now I’m going to the Carribbean.

To soothe the Tiger King's weather-beaten skin

2009-11-06T11:52:00.005Z

This one is for Brian, Charlie, and all of my past Celtic Cinema students (one of whom I bumped into on the street yesterday!)

I was visiting a small farmer's market a few weekends ago, and came upon a great find: Man of Aran beauty products! Aran, of course, refers to the islands off the coast of Galway. They are known for their dramatic cliffs, windswept vistas, and proliferation of Aran sweater shops. When I visited years ago, Inishmore (made famous more recently by Martin McDonagh's macabre The Lieutenant of Inishmore) seemed to be populated by artists, innkeepers, and tourists. So that's Aran.

Man of Aran is something else - a film released in 1934 about the poor and rugged but romantic Irish folks who 'scratched out a meagre existence' on the islands alongtimeago, digging dirt from between rock crevices in order to plant gardens, and fishing for sharks to obtain oil to light their lamps. The film was marketed as a documentary, but came under significant criticism when it became clear that many elements of the film were anachronistic, or fabricated for effect. Anyway, that's enough of a lesson for now. It just completely cracked me up when I saw Man of Aran beauty products at the local/organic market. The irony of branding luxury items on a film about the decidedly beauty-product-free characters in the film was too much. I expect several folks were wondering why I was crouching down in front of a serviceable metal shelf to take photos of shampoo and body lotion.

Speaking about the shelves, the market had one stand that served a fabulous lentil soup (they only had half a bowl left, so I was charged half the price, and went around that afternoon half-full), and the most reasonably priced natural soap that I've seen in Dublin. Many bars are 7-8 Euros (ahhhhh, don't convert!), but this place had some for 2.50. Small pleasures...

The SuperNatural Food Market operates indoors at the St. Andrews Resource Centre on Pearse Street, and is open until the mid-afternoon on Saturdays. If you walk along Pearse St. past Trinity College in the direction of Dublin Bay (notice I refrained from saying 'east', 'cause Dubliners don't use compass directions), you'll find it on the right (south) side of the street, across from Pearse Square. If you reach the bridge over the Grand Canal/docks, you've gone too far.

Observation: Smells like Guinness

2009-11-06T11:09:00.000Z

A not-so-great pic of the massive Guinness brewery, taken on my walk to Phoenix Park last week

I know that Ireland is associated with Guinness, but really, it smells like Guinness in the air. And I am not referring to the smell that wafts out of pubs on any of the city's popular nights out (which appear to be Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and sometimes Wednesday).

I was walking home last night, and the air was filled with the fragrance of fermentation. It sounds nasty, but in fact it's kind of like the smell of bread baking. I estimate the air is filled with the scent of stout, at least in my neighbourhood, about every 10 days. The Guinness brewery is 2-3 km away, so it's got quite a powerful waft. I haven't figured out quite what is going on. Does it smells like this every day near the brewery, and it only makes its olfactory presence known in the Old City when the winds are right? Or am I catching the smell of a particular moment in the brewing process? My guess is that it's the latter. Anyone know? Is 10 days a key number?

Around Wicklow in Images

2009-11-02T01:12:00.001Z

These pics were taken this weekend in Co. Wicklow, around Glenmalure, Ballinaclash, and Avondale. It had rained quite heavily in the valley, so you can see flooding on the fields (neon green in November!) in some of the later pics. Thanks to my lovely hosts, Nicky and Eleanor!

No Boozing in the Library

2009-11-01T23:31:00.001Z

I thought this was really funny. We all know you can't drink or eat in the library (unless you're at Queen's), but it's like there was no other option than a booze glass for the icon to represent drinking... No really old cell phones, either!

The Economy of My Street

2009-10-29T22:07:00.006Z

They're filming right outside my building. For the last two evenings, I've had to wait for the director to yell "cut" before I can cross Cow's Lane, and make my way along Essex Street. This is a minor inconvenience, and of course it's always fun when a film crew sets up in your hood - especially if you're not a driver, and the diversion causes few hassles. When I realized that there was a film crew in place, I was actually quite relieved, because the afternoon before the filming began, I came home to find crews stringing Christmas lights across the lane, a Christmas tree vendor in place in the alcove at the end of Cow's lane, and fairly elaborate Christmas decoration displays in all the shops on the corner. I was feeling really cynical about it - I mean, cripes, it's not even NOVEMBER and "they" are pushing Christmas on us already? What happened to Hallowe'en? The city crew decorators had skipped right over Samhain, and were in full ho-ho-ho mode. But of course they weren't city crews - they were film crews decorating the 'set' that is my neighbourhood.

The film crew - which is making an ad for Meteor that features carolers - (watch for it on tv to see my hood) got me thinking about the economy of my street. I think I've mentioned before that I often come home at night to people sleeping in the alcove in front of the door to my apartment building. They are not bothersome to me, and have never seemed aggressive - they're cold, homeless, and trying to find somewhere safe to sleep. One night I came back around 10pm and found a lit cigarette burning on top of one guy's sleeping bag. I said quite loudly "Um, there is a cigarette burning on top of you - did you mean to leave that there?" He looked up, in a bit of a daze, grabbed the butt and took a haul, then tossed it into the street and tucked his head back into the sleeping bag. I do admit that a wee "thank you" would have been nice :) A few days ago, there was blood all over the tiles of the alcove. I'm not sure what's going on, but it can't be very good. Still, I've never felt nervous or put upon.

And then yesterday - the day the filming began - I was leaving the building, and found my building manager and a few workers taking out the perfectly nice dark grey tiles that made up the floor of the alcove. "What are you guys up to?" I inquired, thinking that the tiles had seemed more than adequate for my standards of apartment-building external decor. "We're moving the door out to the street," my manager said. "So when you come in, you'll just walk right in off the street." They were making the door flush with the building. How do you stop homeless people from seeking shelter in the alcove of your building? Remove the alcove! I was really taken aback. I mean, if you asked me if I would prefer to pass homeless people sleeping in my doorway at night or NOT pass people sleeping in my doorway at night, I guess I would have to choose the latter. But this is for complex reasons. The construction seems so extreme! My friend Sophie reminded me that Toronto planners did something similar in the past to benches in street-side bus shelters - they made them all twisty and weird with lots of armrests bisecting the benches, so no one could stretch out on them. And presumably, they're not worried about middle-class commuters taking a little nap while waiting for the next bus. What do you think about all of this? I am curious, because it just feels really wrong to me to move a whole frigging doorway to keep away the odd body in a sleeping bag. But you can't be filming Christmas ads for Meteor with homeless folks in the background...

Liffey Bridges in Images

2009-10-26T18:25:00.006Z

I love bridges, so I've decided to make a slideshow of the Liffey Bridges from Phoenix Park eastward, taken from the south bank of the river. This is just the first installment -- I will add the rest later. They start off quite interestingly, but as you can see, they become architecturally a bit more...er...pedestrian as the set goes on...

See my updated post on this for the full slideshow.

Phoenix Park

2009-10-26T17:32:00.002Z

I've been fever-free for a few days, and I even left the house a couple of times this weekend, so today I took a longer walk to Phoenix Park. I think I am almost over the nasty flubug that wiped me out for the week, however, that little bug appears to have left me with a parting gift: the spins. Or to be more specific, I think that I have labyrinthitis, which is a kind of vertigo.

Now, I am not a doctor (well, not that kind of doctor at least), so I only have the internet to go on for self-diagnosis, but I don't think that the physician's diagnosis on Friday was accurate. When I visited the little clinic, still in the throws of fever and weakness, she told me that I was likely suffering from a well known condition that affects people in Ireland: Nightnursitis. Nightnursitis is caused by taking the over-the-counter medicine Night Nurse, which contains the mind-alerting antitussive DM. I felt like that diagnosis may have been accurate, because DM is pretty crazy stuff, but I was a little puzzled by the fact that I was still feeling the symptoms later the next day, when I hadn't ingested any Night Nurse for almost 24 hours. When I woke up dizzy again on Saturday and then again on Sunday, I figured that I couldn't possibly still have significant amounts of DM swimming around in my system. So this is what brings me to determine that I have labyrinthitis, which, according to emedicinehealth.com, often follows a viral illness such as the flu. According to the same website, labyrinthitis can also be caused by tumors at the base of the brain, but I am going to go with common sense on this one, and just assume that my brain base is fine, and the flu is the culprit.

Anyhow, I digress. I was feeling a little less spinny this morning, so I decided to take a walk to Phoenix Park. The sun was shining for the first five minutes of my walk, and then, phew, it returned to normal. It took me about 25 minutes to get to the entrance, but I was keeping the pace relatively slow, just in case the labyrinthitis decided to act up again, and I accidentally strayed into the Liffey. (I did notice, by the way, that ladders have kindly been placed at regular intervals along the inner concrete walls of the Liffey in anticipation of such a thing occurring).

The flotation device I would have used, had I fallen into the river

The park emerges right out of the cityscape, like an oasis beckoning tree-deprived Dubliners. If you follow the quays on the north side of the Liffey past Heuston station, it's hard to miss:

Phoenix Park is the rough equivalent of Toronto's High Park, or New York's Central Park. Dublin Tourism boasts that it is the largest enclosed urban park in Europe, and at over 1,700 acres, it does have a lot of space to offer. I only walked through about a third of the park this visit, and most of what I saw was well manicured and shaped by pathways.

The park also houses the Dublin Zoo, which I was too cheap and tired to visit this time around, and the mowed fields were full of soccer games that looked both planned (some coordination to shirt colours) and impromptu (five players ranging from 6 years old to 60, with skinny tree branches sticking out of the ground as goalposts).

I ended the exploratory part of my visit in the Tearooms, situated adjacent to the Zoo. For 5 Euros I had a machine-brewed hot chocolate and a very nice raisin scone with butter and jam. It's still pleasant enough to sit outside (actually, I think the temperature has been exactly the same every day for two months), so I parked myself on a bench, and listened to an American woman exchanging language lessons with a Spanish woman at the next table. The Spanish woman was trying to get the pronunciation of the English word for "Camión" right, and she kept saying "Lorr-a"? "Lorr-ee"? "Lorry"?, looking for guidance, but the American woman just kept throwing out other terms, convinced that the Spanish woman was totally off track: "Cam-ee-own, right? Um, truck? Van? Bus? A large vehicle, right? Truck." No lorries in Dublin.

Here's a pic of the Tearooms, and a bandshell-type thingy, and some holly. The holly is clearly just the height of all marketing ploys to get us thinking about Christmas -- it's not even Hallowe'en yet!

Giant's Causeway in Images

2009-10-23T21:21:00.000+01:00

While I am still stuck on the couch, I figured I would get caught up. These pics are a month old now - from the same weekend that I went to the Famine Village in the Inishowen Peninsula. The Causeway is one of the island of Ireland's (how else to I say Republic and Northern Ireland economically?) three UNESCO world heritage sites. The site looks like a jigsaw puzzle made out of basalt columns that were formed millennia ago by volcanic activity. The columns look like they could be stepping stones for a giant, hence the name. They're quite fascinating because they are so geometrically even, with most having 6 edges. Enjoy the pics, and remember that if you click or hover over the bottom right corner, you can make the slideshow appear in full screen. Might as well take advantage of the unnecessary 10 megapixels on my point-and-shoot.

Dispatch from the couch

2009-10-23T17:29:00.000+01:00

If you want an idea of what I've been seeing in Dublin for the last week, then look no further than the picture above. It is a very pretty view, indeed, but after four days, it becomes a little less interesting.
I do admit that an extended view has brought out things I may not have noticed from an everyday glance out the window. Look, for instance, at how my plants are magically lined up to colour-coordinate with the trees and ivy outside! This was a fluke. I have one flowering plant, which is a nice hot pink colour right now, and from my current view, it appears to be placed right in front of the reddening ivy that is growing on the opposite side of the courtyard. And my little bonsai, bought at a street sale days before the plague hit me, is placed nicely in front of a similarly shaped tree outside. Most plant pots are white; so is the wall of the building! It's amazing, really.

I should have noted at the start that this posting very well may not make any sense. I make no promises that the grammar is correct, or that my writing will be relatively free from typsos. You see, I've been prostrate and mewling to myself for days, and as of this morning, I can add 'delirious' to the list. It's probably H1N1, but they don't bother testing for it anymore because it's so prevalent. All I know is that I've been on the couch since Tuesday am, watching the thermometer rise as the ibuprofen wears off, and watching it fall as I metabolize another dose. And things were coming along swimmingly (swimming in my head, in my bed...) until this morning, when I woke up feeling so dizzy that I had to lie down approximately 30 seconds after I finally got out of bed. I felt...completely stoned. The rest of my symptoms -- sore lungs, achey body, cough - were all lessening, but this dizzy thing was new. Of course I pictured myself passing out, only to wake up hours later wondering where I was...so, I called a doctor.

Thankfully my colleague Lisa had given me the number for the clinic she attends. She said it was run by a handful of female doctors, and that they were all the no-nonsense type. Sounded perfect to me. I called up, and the secretary said that she could fit me in right away. Now this is amazing to me. I've waited months for an appointment in Kingston before, and even weeks in Toronto. This clinic -- the Suffolk Street Surgery -- is very near to me, so I managed to get myself upright, stuff my feet into a pair of shoes (I was happy to see that the pair matched when I took them off after returning home), and off I went to the clinic.

Sometimes I really appreciate the more relaxed demeanor in Ireland, even if it is scary. For instance, the secretary knew I was coming in with potential swine flu symptoms, but she still had me into the reception to get a form. Then she asked me to go sit on the stairs, in order to stay away from other patients. It was all very casual - no mask or clear quarantine - just a half a flight of stairs between me and potential new victims. To be fair, I wasn't hacking all over the place, and I was clearly aware that I should keep my distance from others. I was able to see the doctor within 20 minutes of my arrival, and she checked all my vitals. The overall diagnosis: definitely a bad case of the flu -- swine or otherwise. The diagnosis for my dizzyness: just what I had felt: I WAS stoned out of my tree! Unable to find Neo Citran in this fair city, I had purchased a capsule medication called "Night Nurse." Night Nurse has acetaminophen (known as paracetamol here) in it, as well as an antihistamine for drowsiness, and the antitussive dextromethorphan hydrobromide, otherwise known as DM. The DM is definitely the culprit. "But my last dose was 14 hours ago! And I've been taking it for 3 nights," I protested, "And this is the only time I've felt wacked out!" Apparently the Nurse can have varying effects on the same person at different times. My sickness combined with my slightness had somehow brought about an extreme sensitivity.

A good ten or fifteen years ago, I had an out of body experience after taking a cough medicine with DM in it, and I swore off ever using it again. I remember sitting at the round white kitchen table with my mom, and thinking that I was floating above everyone, and that the world wasn't actually real. But a few years ago I was experimenting with cough suppressant alternatives to the narcotic codeine, and I successfully used DM on a couple of occasions. But now I am thinking, No More Night Nurse for me. It's been 17 hours since I had the last dose, and I am still feeling stoned.

I must say that my first encounter with the healthcare system in Ireland was successful. They managed to fit me in right away, and the cost for the consultation was only 55 Euros. I must remind myself that I paid 55 Euros to be assured I wasn't dying, as opposed to paying 55 Euros to be told I was stoned from medication I had knowingly and willingly taken. The Doc did provide me with a prescription for Tamiflu, an antiviral that has proven quite effective against H1N1, but it's up to me to decide if I want to fill it. Right now, I am feeling remarkably better, so I think I will wait. Now I just have to muster the strength to get those damn pink elephants out of my livingroom. Hey! You! This is not some kind of circus ring! This is my FLAT!

PS: A few other things I have learned about drugs: While Neo Citran doesn't exist, you can get a hot lemon drink that contains paracetamol and vitamin C. It's called LemSip. Ibuprofen, which is best known by its brand name at home as Advil, is known as Nurofen here. Acetaminophen is known as paracetamol. Apparently, you can take these two together without any harm, because Ibuprofen is excreted by the kidneys and Acetaminophen is excreted by the liver. So you won't over tax either organ if you have regular doses of each medication. I had always lumped the two, along with Aspirin/acetysalicylic acid in the general category of "pain killers" and thought that if you were on one, you couldn't be on the other. But my local pharmacist told me otherwise. This page from the brand Nurofen gives a brief explanation of the differences: Ingredients. A friend of mine who is in medschool here told me that this is the best website for medical advice -- it's the one that doctors use: www.emedicinehealth.com.

Yoga Studio 2: Trinity College

2009-10-13T19:18:00.000+01:00

The title of this post is a bit misleading, because it's not really a studio, but a smelly little room located just off the main square of Trinity College Dublin. During freshers week in late September, all of the student societies had their tables spread around the main square, enticing Trinity folk to join their societies. Now, I am most definitely not a fresher, but they let me join anyway! The membership for the Trinity Yoga Society was very small - under 5 Euros, and it's only 3 Euros for a one-hour class. The point isn't to make a lot of money, clearly, but to provide a community for students and staff. The money is meant for the teacher, but I am not sure if it all goes in that direction, or if some is held back for society purposes. Regardless, it made me think about how much of each student's daily tuition must go to building costs in private studios, because I think it is fair to assume that the TCD Yoga society gets the room for free.

So I arrived with my mat, half dressed, and kind of confused about how to negotiate my way around the building. When I say I was half dressed, I guess that is a bit misleading as well. I was FULLY dressed, but only half-dressed for yoga purposes. I don't currently own any full-length yoga pants, because I just started my practice again in the summer, and I was attending a lot of hot-yoga, shorty-shorts classes. There are were no changerooms, but there was a little fence-like object for quick shifts. I was surprised by the room (Room 50, in the Atrium above the Buttery), because it was small, stuffy, carpeted, and kinda smelly. The yoga mats were already out on the carpet, so I just set my own on top of one. My mat is starting to wear out - bits are popping off - so the extra cush is nice on the knees. But frankly, it is kind of gross to use a communal mat, unless there is some nice mat spray and a towel around to give it a wipe.

The room was all achatter for the 10 minutes I lay there, trying to centre myself, concentrating on my relaxing my third eye, and getting the Ujjayi breathing going. After all of the home practice sessions, it was actually quite shocking to be among so many (talking) people. But in some ways, it posed a good challenge - could I sink into a good personal space despite the distractions?

When the teacher walked in, the room suddenly went quiet. I looked around, and it was packed. I was impressed by the interest, but it is a bit frustrating to do swan dives, or any other pose for that matter which requires your arms to reach over the sides of your mat. People did their best to stagger themselves on their mats, but my little critical side couldn't help thinking: um, how 'bout staggering the mats?

Room criticisms aside, the class was fantastic. The teacher even adjusted me at one point, which I know I desperately needed. I am sure that I have developed some not-so-great habits at home. (Actually, as an aside, I just tried out a new and very useful podcast through iTunes. It's called CalYoga, and it provides short video podcasts of individual asanas - showing you how to get into them, when to breathe, how to check your own alingnment, and, importantly, how to get out of the pose. Searching CalYoga on iTunes should bring it up). YogaSoc brings in qualified teachers from other Dublin studios, so you get a nice mix of styles and traditions. Today's class was taught by Dierdre, who also teaches at Yoga Dublin in Ranelagh; the class combined Hatha principles with some flow. She has a great energy, and was attentive to the room. It was good for me to slow down a bit and sink deeper into some of the postures. Something is going on with my downward dog lately - I am finding myself really shakey, particularly in the legs. I think that I'm starting to get my hips higher and my heels lower, and it is challenging different muscles and tissues, but Dierdre also told me to broaden my hands on the mat a bit. You know when the teacher is adjusting your hands in downdog that it's really best to practice with other humans in the room... Anyhow, I highly recommend the teacher, but, uh, too bad about the room.

A portrait of the woman who used to live in my flat

2009-10-12T00:11:00.006+01:00

I never met her, of course, but I know that she used to live here. When I rented the flat just over a month ago, the letting agent told me that the previous tenant had stayed for two years, because "she liked it so much." In this short statement, I found out that, well, the previous tenant was a woman, and that she, like me, really liked this flat.

I like my home to be very clean. In fact, I am just a bit freakish about cleaning when I first move into a new place. I want to know that I'm starting fresh, and that, as my Aunty Nancy said, when dirt finally does accumulate weeks later, at least I know it is my dirt. So the night before I moved in (which consisted of dragging two suitcases along the cobblestones), I came over armed with microfibre cloths, eco cleaning products, and a bottle of wine. (Side note on the bottle of wine: I am a notorious nester. I hate moving, and find it extremely stressful. I actually was happy to return to my residence room the night after my clean-fest, because the residence room had become familiar, and I really like familiarity in a domicile. So the red wine was meant to drown my sorrows at having to acclimatise, again, to a new space. And I already liked this new space - imagine if I didn't?) Cleaning the space is a kind of ritual - a ritual of making it my own, and putting my little Ecover stamp all over the floors, doors, walls, bathroom grout, baseboards, light fixtures, sinks, door handles (you get the picture).

As I was cleaning (moving furniture around, etc.), I came upon a very small number of items that collectively told me a little bit about the previous tenant. It's time for me to dispose of them, so I arranged them on my counter, and took a pic:

I know these are very few items upon which to paint a portrait of an entire human, but if you consider that the letting agency had professional cleaners in before I took possession of the place, then really, this is a fairly good haul. Let's take a closer look, from left to right:

The first item is a bookmark that contains a poem about beagles, so from this we can assume that the woman who used to live in my flat (WULMF for short) like to read. And she liked dogs -- particularly small ones with good noses. And... unless this was an unwanted present that she failed to regift -- she was okay with something as cheesy as a bookmark with an ode to beagles on it. This tells us something of her personality, but admittedly, not that much. I found the bookmark under the bed, so I guess she liked to read in bed.

WULMF is either a woman of simple tastes, or of small means, when it comes to clothing. But she does buy clothing, so that tells you something. The hanger is from Dunnes, a medium-end department store that has decent stuff, but also some really cheap stuff. Such as the "Le Bain" toilet brush I bought for 5 Euros, which just broke this morning because I was, er, scrubbing the toilet too vigorously (I don't spend my all my time cleaning, despite the apparent focus of this posting. But it's Thanksgiving at home and not here, so what else am I to do with my weekend?) Anyway, this hanger is just representative of the 10 or so identical hangers she left behind in the wardrobe. There were also some metal hangers, and one hanger from Penny's (kind of like Walmart), but the bulk of the hangers were from Dunnes. Dunnes puts the size of the clothing on the hanger itself, and they are all size 12. This means that WULMF is an average sized person. I'm a size 8, which is actually the smallest size they carry at Dunnes, and I am kind of puny. Back in Canada, I think they would call it a 4 or 6. So, WULMF is bigger than me, but not too big for our very modestly sized flat. Oh yes, she also likes girly things, because there was a tag from Dunnes underneath the bed, and it read "Shorty Yellow Polka Dot Dress." The tag didn't make it to the picture -- it was likely recycled with the empty bottle of wine.

Speaking of things that didn't make it to the photo, I also found out that WULMF is straight. Or at the very most, bisexual. OR she just likes to play with condoms. I'll never really know, but the empty, torn condom package that also made its way out from under the bed means that at least one of the previous statements is true.

WULMF fancied herself a gardener, but she was not a very good one. There are about 5 pots filled with earth on the balcony, but nothing survives in any one of them. The earth has been very useful to me, however, for repotting those IKEA plants from several blog-posts ago.

WULMF was not a very thorough person, because as I was cleaning out the (emptied) kitchen cupboards, I found a package of instant noodles (one of those "yummy real Italian side dish in 5 minutes!" thingies) that expired in 2004. Recall that the letting agent said that WULMF was here for two years. This means that the pasta side dish predates her occupation of the flat. She just never looked that far back in the cupboards, which I think means that either a) she is very short, b) she is not very curious, or c) she didn't cook much, because she didn't need the entire cupboard space for food storage.

Back to the photo. The blue thing with an "R" on it is, I think, a perfume bottle. I don't know of any brand of perfume that has this kind of bottle, so I am going to assume that her name starts with R. That, and the fact that the piece of junk mail in the mailbox had her name on it, and indeed her name does start with R. I like this little bottle, and might just keep it on my counter for its decorative properties. WULMF likes pretty things.

WULMF (or should we call her R?) had medium to long hair. She didn't have short hair, because she's straight. Whoops, I mean, she didn't have short hair, because she had this red baubly thing that is only useful if your hair is long enough to pull back in some fashion. I found this hair tie between the couch cushions (or should I say, the vacuum found it, announcing its catch with a deafening squeal of delight). From this fact, we can also surmise that she would recline on the couch, release her hair from the bauble, and watch television. The tv placement corroborates this rather speculative 'fact'. I must add that she was very careful with her hair ties, because if this had been my flat prior to when I moved in (?), there would be at least fifteen hair ties in the couch.

And finally, we come to the last bit of information. On the right of the picture there is a ticket. It's a receipt for the Dublin bus from the airport to another location in the city. There is a fair bit we can learn from this artefact. First, she took at least one trip by plane while living here. On this particular trip, she returned back to Dublin on July 6, 2009. Also, she had at least one friend or acquaintance in Dublin, because instead of coming home to this flat, she went to a different address on the way back from the airport. She's also fairly frugal, because this receipt is for the regular city bus, which costs just over 2 Euros from the airport, when, by comparison, the airport shuttle costs 6 or 7 Euros one way.

WULMF: A short, girly woman of medium build with medium to long hair, who earns a modest income, likes dogs, reading, and watching tv while reclining. Doesn't cook much, once tried her hand at container gardening, travels abroad, but likes to keep costs down. Had sex with a man once.

Nice to meet you, WULMF.

Inishowen Peninsula in Images

2009-10-07T00:30:00.018+01:00

I don't have that much to say about the places I drove to in the Inishowen Peninsula, because they were just beautiful, and my blog posting would look something like this:

"Wow, this place was so stunning"

"Holy crap, this place blew me away"

"OMG, I can't believe how stunning this place is"

So, I will save you the drivel, and just post a bunch of pics of Ballyliffin, and Malin Head, and Five Fingers Strand, and... If you want to know where any given picture was taken, email me. The beauty and softness and silence of these places speak for themselves. You can click on the bottom right of the slideshow to make it full screen, or to change other options.

The Battle of the Boyne @ the Boyne Valley. Blah.

2009-10-07T00:04:00.001+01:00

I promised this blog would not be very academic, and here is proof. This is what I have to say about my visit to the site of the Battle of the Boyne:

Newgrange, and the most remarkable individual I have ever met

2009-10-06T22:56:00.001+01:00

A couple of weeks ago, I made a research trip to the Inishowen Peninsula, Co. Donegal. I was visiting the Doagh Famine Village, because I am interested in how the site -- which is a kind of hybrid theme park/historical recreation about the Great Potato Famine of the 1840s -- 'performs' a kind of Irish identity. And I'll save you from the rest. Anyhoo, I just finished writing the paper, so now I finally have time to write something about the rest of the trip, which was beautiful, and moving, and contained a number of surprises (aside from my lost wallet and damaged rental vehicle). I say unexpected, because I didn't realize that I would be passing so close to a number of important historical sites. I guess this year is going to be about this very thing -- breathing in experiences whenever and wherever I can. I have so much to write about this trip, but it already feels like it happened a long time ago, so I will try to make these postings short. For tonight, I'll talk about Newgrange.

I picked up the rental car early in the morning, and despite my pleas, Thrifty could only offer me a standard. Now, I had a standard for five years, and drove it around a lot for at least four of those years. The last year it was parked on the street, because I couldn't bare to give it up (but it was undriveable). I love driving standards. I love driving standards when I am driving on the right side of the road. And shifting with my right hand. But over here, these two things are the opposite: Left side of the road, left hand for shifting (and I still have a stiff finger on my left hand from a yoga mishap), but most importantly: the bulk of the car to the left side of the driver. I didn't realise that this would be the most difficult thing. Left side of road? No biggie. Left hand on the stick? No biggie (except it hurt). Bulk of car on left side of me? Not so good. I just couldn't get a proper sense of how close I could drive to the side of the road without hitting the bushes. Or the large diamond-shaped road sign that appeared out of nowhere and left a nice 18 inch present along the side of the car... Normally the proximity would not be a big deal, but the roads are EXTREMELY narrow in much of Ireland, and the "highway" I took up to the Peninsula was not an exception. But anyway, I digress.

I was about 50km out of Dublin, taking my time getting north, and I saw a sign that said "Newgrange, 5km" and pointed to the right. I was shocked. I truly feel I wasn't meant to go to this place alone, but there I was, five kilometres from one of the world's most sacred and celebrated ancient sites, and I had finally figured out how to turn right. Off the highway I went, and found myself driving through the valley of the Boyne, which also happens to be one of Ireland's most important sites, but this time in the realm of political history. The Battle of the Boyne in 1690 is where King William of Orange (a Protestant) won the battle against King James (a Catholic). It's a big deal.

But Newgrange is a bigger deal. It is one of only three UNESCO world heritage sites in Ireland, and it is about a millennium older than Stonehenge. It's 600 years older than the pyramids in Egypt. It's older than Aristotle and Plato and Sophocles and Aeschylus!! But importantly, it is a site of great significance from a spiritual perspective, because it was both a tomb, and a kind of astronomical observatory. At the moment the sun rises over the horizon on the morning of winter solstice (Dec 21), the light beams through a very carefully constructed aperture to illuminate the inner chamber. Last year over 30,000 people entered a lottery for just 50 tickets to be in the chamber during the 17 minutes that it is illuminated by the first rays of solstice. The magnitude and precision of its construction is mind boggling, especially when you find out that the kerbstones that surround the tumulous weigh several tonnes each, and come from quite far away. And oh ya, Newgrange predates the invention of the wheel...

On a regular day, you have to join a tour to see the monument, but the whole process is quite relaxed, and I think I was there early enough in the day to be assured a spot. Once you pay for your ticket, you are bussed from the visitor centre to the site, and a guide gives a lot of background information about the mound, its meaning, its significance, etc. But the special moment comes when you get to enter the tumulous, and crouch along the pathway into the inner chamber. Once inside, our guide spent a good ten minutes arranging the 25 or so people on my tour in order of height. He was trying to make sure that everyone would have a good view, and for once, I felt blessed to be a shorty. I got to stand in front! He checked to see if anyone was claustrophobic, because he was about to turn out the lights.

The entire monument has been beautifully preserved, and great pains have been taken to disturb it as little as possible. But, he explained to us, they have mounted two little light bulbs near the opening of the chamber that admits light, in order to simulate the experience of being there at solstice. As the lights went out, I held my breath. And then suddenly, the smallest stream of light crept along the floor into the chamber. I started crying. Like, a lot. I knew this was a simulation, but it felt remarkable and rare and sacred all at the same time. Thinking about the great wisdom and power of the people who made this place, I felt overwhelmed by a sense of human history. I felt overwhelmed by my own history. I felt...uh, overwhelmed in general.

I think I managed to get some beautiful photos, because the sky was so bright and clear. You can click on any of the blog's photos, by the way, if you want to see larger versions. Below is the entranceway to the tomb. The stairs have clearly been built for visitor access, but otherwise, every effort was made to restore it to what archaeologists believe it would have looked like 5000 years ago.

The picture below is a close up. You can see the spirals on the entrance kerbstone - they are also found on many of the other 96 stones that surround the mound, and on the walls inside. The inside walls also have graffiti, with the most recent scratchings of initials dating to the Victorian era.

Here is the view from the entrance, looking out to roughly where the sun rises:

And finally, the latest sparkling water I tried. It doesn't quite have the bubbles of the PC low sodium cans I'm so fond of, but it gave Ballygowen a run for its money. But I bought it, of course, because its label has Newgrange on it!

So, that's my little bit about Newgrange. I feel unsatisfied leaving it at this, but I can't really post my guts up all over this blog, now can I? The experience of being in a place like this is not best expressed through language, because its effect is much more internal. So, I'll stop writing now. G'night.

"Life is a process of becoming, a combination of states we have to go through. Where people fail is that they wish to elect a state and remain in it. This is a kind of death" -- Anais Nin

Everything in Perspective

2009-10-03T11:43:00.004+01:00

I've been Dublin Theatre Festivalling all week, and while that is exciting in itself, it's also a great way to occupy my evenings, which are usually rather quiet. I saw DV8's To Be Straight With You last night up at the O'Reilly Theatre in Belvedere College.

Image source: voiceofdance.com

On a map, Belvedere College looks far away from me, but it's really only a 20-25 min walk, so I killed time after dinner so that I would leave around 7:15, take a very leisurely walk, calmly take my seat, and do that thing I'm not used to: be just a bit early. (Dinner, by the way, was composed of smoked salmon and pre-made carrot-parsnip-turnip mash, because my stove/cooker blew yesterday and I had to blindly buy things from the prepared section of the grocery store. I'm not so good with prepared foods).

So, 7:15 rolls around, I leave the flat, I return 30 seconds later for my umbrella (this little farce is standard practice - I'm still not in the habit of bringing it automatically), and when I step back outside again, the misty rain has stopped. I double check my wallet to make sure I have the ticket (and the wallet, LOL, because I 'lost' it on the way to London last weekend, but that is another story), and then I glimpse the ticket: Start time 7:30pm.

Check phone. Current time: 7:24. OK! Time to hail my first cab! I frantically run across the bridge to the north side, because the traffic flows east along the Quays on the north side, and I have to go a bit east before going north (these are directional indicators that don't mean anything here, but my brain is hardwired for Never Eat Shredded Wheat). I jump in, and the guy says "Hello Pet, where can I take you?" and I blurt out something about thinking the show started at eight but realizing it starts at 7:30, and he's like "Oh sure, I'll get you there in time." Which is vey nice of him to say, but his driving revealed otherwise, as he leisure wove his way up to the theatre.

Arrival. Check phone. Current time: 7:33. I go inside and there are about thirty people standing around chatting, and I'm thinking, boy, aren't they casual - shouldn't they be inside right now? Until I ask someone, and it turns out this is the group of late people. They finally let us in, but they did little to guide us to any available seats, so I ended up following a bunch of women who were hiking up their skirts to climb over the front rows to available seats farther back. I admit that it was fitting, as DV8 is a physical theatre company, so it sort of put us in the mood. The show was a kind of testimonial/doc theatre piece about politics and social dangers of being gay in the world, all supported by beautiful movement, but talking about it in any detail feels like work, so nah-uh. It appears that DV8 are travelling to TO for World Stage, so you can see it yourself if you're interested.

I tried making friends in the lobby (Hello! (said like Carm), I was at the theatre, for a show about homosexuals, so you think I'd have a lot of people to talk to), but that didn't work, so off I trotted home, down O'Connell street, past a million Spars and Centras and Londises, past the Spire, along the Quays. I've been experiencing an acute bout of loneliness the last couple of days - it's the beginning of flu season so perhaps I've caught an emotional strain - and moments like the walk home are particularly hard, because as I leave the theatre (or cinema, or talk, or resto), the illusion of belonging created in that space slowly fades away, and I remember that I am going home to my cool pad -- my cool, empty pad. Cue the violins.

I decided to walk over the Ha' Penny Bride, 'cause is sure is purty, and it's lit up quite nicely at night, with the period lanterns at the top of the arches reflecting brightly off the shiny white paint below. This bridge is always really busy, with people stopping to take photos, or pausing to look down the Liffey in either direction. And there are often a number of people sitting in sleeping bags, trying to gather some change, and, I think, stay safely out of the dark and pissed-filled back alleys of the city. I think I have some kind of internalized bougey middle class guilt, because everytime I see someone who appears homeless, I feel terrible. But most of the time, I do nothing about it. And then I feel more terrible, and I really have no idea what the whole thing is about, but aside from giving people change every now and then, I do not interact. I want to interact, but I don't. And I don't like myself in these moments. But being in a new place, and in a remarkably new and porous headspace in general, all I could think is - cripes, if I am feeling low and lonely, how must these people feel? Talk about isolation. I walked by one young woman who was huddled in what looked like a damp sleeping bag, and I looked down and smiled, but I kept going. I got down onto the sidewalk, and just stopped. What was my fear? I felt like I wanted to connect, but there is something in me that tells me to shut off that feeling - to preserve something. Feck it, I went into the convenience store (not sure which one, but certainly a SparCentraLondis variety), bought two bags of chips with markedly different flavours, and headed back to the bridge. As I approached her, I felt I had to make as if this wasn't planned - I just happened to be walking by with two bags of chips, and I happened to think about offering her one. What is this BS? Why the performance? I don't know.

So I kind of paused, held out both, she scanned the labels, and chose the plain one (good choice, the salt and vinegar ones nearly took the roof off my mouth). I crouched down, and we ate the chips, chatting casually about nothing, the way one does with strangers on a bridge in the middle of a city. Except I was probably saying dumb and obvious things like "do you have somewhere to go," etc. But here is the thing that killed me. I pulled 5 Euro out of my pocket and handed it to her, and she looked at me with a perplexed face and said "Are you sure?" And all I could say was, "Yes, yes, I am sure," thinking how little 5 Euros really was to me, and absolutely taken aback by her question. I don't know why she asked me that. Was it, "Are you sure you can spare this, because it's so much more than the 20 cent coins I usually get," or was it "Are you sure you really want to give this to me - is it worth it?" Or something else that I haven't thought of. But I was really moved by the impulse, and so so so glad that I finally stopped to chat. I eventually got up and wished her well, and as I walked home, my head was ajumble with thoughts of my theatre-going and her bridge-living. My funky leather jacket and her damp sleeping bad. My loneliness, and whatever it is she must be feeling. It's never going to make any sense to me, so I came home and did some research, and I just sent off my application to volunteer with Simon Community. It's about frigging time.

Houseplants, walking, and other cultural idiosyncrasies

2009-09-29T22:35:00.003+01:00

Moving to a new country has revealed to me how deeply we are shaped by our home culture. I knew about the food, the social rituals, the idiosyncrasies of language, and many other things that a different culture has to offer, but there are little things - tiny things - that amaze me, or frustrate me, or just baffle me.

For instance, I can't seem to walk properly on the sidewalk. I don't mean that I've been imbibing too much Guinness, but that there is something about the way people move in public spaces that I just can't figure out. I keep almost bumping into people, or having to slow down suddenly because someone in front of me has stopped. I cannot figure out what is going on. At first, I thought "Aha! I'm walking on the right side of the sidewalk, and I suppose people naturally gravitate to the left side here, in order to do as all good pedestrians are trained to do: act like traffic. So I tried consciously shifting, but it didn't really make a difference. Then I tried altering my pace. Perhaps I was walking too quickly? A little bit too much NYC in my North American mobility patterns? Didn't really work either. It's clear that I am just not picking up the cues. People send off cues unconsciously, and I am not picking up the signal when it comes to walking. I have decided to stop thinking about it, and perhaps my body will figure it out on its own.

I was in London this past weekend visiting friends (more on that in a future entry), and SF asked me how I was doing in Dublin. He lives in London, but has spent chunks of time in other places (including Toronto), and said to me "Everything is completely different, isn't it?" And I said - "You are SO right!" I had never really thought of it that way before, and just thought that maybe I was getting dumber by the minute. We see the obvious differences quite quickly, but the more subtle differences -- such as the humour and unmarked references to celebrities or local politicians -- just glide right over my head at times. I'll stop thinking about it, and maybe my mind will figure it out on its own.

But onto more serious differences: shopping and consumption. There are certain things that I found very easy to find at home, and clearly I took them for granted. In Dublin, I have searched and searched for such things, and only with great effort have I come upon them. Like a bathmat made of simple terrycloth towel material. Like one of those Japanese scrubby towels used for vigorous exfoliation, which I used to pick up for two bucks at the Korean stores on Bloor. Like pretty tea towels, made of absorbent material. Like Toms of Maine or JASON toothpaste that doesn't cost 8 Euros. Like HOUSEPLANTS.

I love houseplants. We had so many of them in Kingston that going out of town always made us scramble for botanical care-givers. Parting with my plants was harder than parting with my clothes, or my small bottles of Aveda products taken from hotelrooms, or the ginger I had lovingly cut into cubes, dried, and saved for a days when all the fresh stuff was lying flavourless at the bottom of the teapot. My consolation of course is that houseplants are easy to come by. Every corner store, grocery store, florist, and even some hardware stores in Ontario have them, so it wouldn't be a problem in Dublin, where many indoor plants in Toronto could live happily outdoors. But I was wrong. I have been here for over a month, and have kept my eyes peeled on every shopping venture. Marks & Spencer (which has yummy and healthy prepared foods, by the way), had a few sickly day lilies next to their cut flowers, and one florist had some limp looking heather, but there was not a schefflera or philodendron in sight.

And then I remembered that Dublin just got an IKEA. Woohoo! Multinational mega-chain comes to the rescue! I tried - I really did - to go local. At least I took the bus. The trip back to the city, on the 13A bus, is like a nature peep show. If you sit in the front row of the top deck as Sophie taught me in London - you can see the Wicklow mountains beyond the city as the bus weaves back and forth through different neighbourhoods. It always amazes me when I see mountains in the distance. They look close enough to walk to, but I think it would take a good day.

Anyway, here's a picture of some of my new plants. The basil was from M&S, and I think it was meant to be eaten, but I just separated the roots and put it in a bigger pot. It was very unhappy for a while, spitting brown leaves at my floor, but it is perking up. The peace lily on the TV was left beside the dumpsters in the courtyard this morning, so I figured that was a 'good garbage' sign. There is also an ivy in the bedroom, but I'm feeling too lazy to upload two photos, because I am at least 6 or 7 blog posts behind...

Yoga Studio 1: The Elbow Room

2009-09-23T12:30:00.002+01:00

Since I arrived in Dublin almost a month ago, I’ve been keeping up an (almost) daily practice in my living room, which is much nicer now that I have wooden floors, and not the industrial carpet of the residence room I was staying in at the beginning. I’ve been surviving on audio podcasts that you can download for free through iTunes – check it out, there are tonnes of yoga podcasts to satisfy every kind of practice. My favourite hour-long ones are Greg’s from Yoga to the People – a New York based studio that wants to, well, bring yoga to the people. At their live classes, they charge very little, and pack everyone in like happy little yogi-sardines. There are nine classes currently available from YTP through iTunes, but I find they can really handle repeat playings.

I’ve also done podcasts by Wade Zinter, Kinndli McCollum (who does a Baptiste-style power class), Eoin Finn, and the super-hot Seane Corn, whose grace and core strength I long to achieve (see her Body Prayer on YouTube for an idea of what I mean – watch those feet float back into Chattarunga like someone had rigged her up à la Hero or Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon!)

As a quick fix, Yogadownload.com offers 20-minute classes that target a specific area, such as “Shoulder Opener,” “Hip Opener,” and “Yoga for Buns.” The cool thing about these 20-minute podcasts are that they offer a pick-and-mix approach: you can choose a couple, fire them up on your iPod or through your computer speakers, and have a longer class tailored to what your body and mind need that day. They also come with PDFs of pose guides, so you can consult the visual if you’re not sure about a particular pose. You can download these directly from their site, but if you download them through iTunes then they go directly into your Podcast folder, which I think is preferable to having them show up under Music.

As much as I find yoga to be a deeply personal practice, I’ve been starting to feel that it is way more satisfying to practice it with other humans. For one, I’ve been concentrating on my alignment in some of the central asanas, but without having a teacher around to guide me, I might be on the path to perfecting an incorrect alignment without knowing it. And I somewhat begrudgingly admit that I like chanting Om with other people at the end of class. So with this in mind, and my chest cold/sore throat on its way out, I decided to hit a studio last night. And I decided that I wanted Hot Yoga.

I don’t think hot yoga has caught on in Dublin the way it has at home, but there are a couple of studios in Dublin that do some version of it. Dublin has at least a couple of Bikram studios, and if you're interested, here are the links: Bikram Yoga, Bikram Yoga Fairview. However, I’m not a big fan of Bikram yoga – it just seems too militaristic, and frankly, at odds in practice with the spirit of yoga – so I had to seek out a place that uses heat with non-Bikram classes. I wanted the heat because I had been sitting in my cold, draughty, office all day, my fingers were turning blue, and I needed to finally stop wearing my coat and scarf. I quickly found The Elbow Room on the internet. It’s located in an area called Stoneybatter, which is just above Smithfield, which is less than a 15 minute walk from my flat.

View Larger Map

As an aside – Dublin has names for many of its areas, and it always makes me think that I will have to travel to a suburb to get there. Then I find out it’s a stone’s throw from … well, wherever I happen to be at that moment. Dublin is really not that big.

Anyway, off I trotted to Stoneybatter, yoga mat and hot-yoga mat-towel under arm, and my bag full of yoga clothes, new underwear, another towel for the shower, and face cream (the only product I feel I really must have after a shower). For anyone who has never done a hot yoga class, it’s really really sweaty. You basically come out looking like you went for a swim in your clothes, and dropped your towel in the water to boot.

The Elbow Room is easy to miss if you’re not paying attention, because it’s in a little courtyard on the north side of Brunswick St. North, just east of Blackhall. The sign is inside the walls of the courtyard, so you have to go right up to it to see it. The reception area is very nice, and there are magazines and cushioned benches to sit on while you wait for the previous class to empty. It also has change rooms and a couple of showers with free toiletries. And you can book and pay for your class online, which means you don’t have to bring your wallet. So far, so good.

I went into the room to get set up, but it wasn’t very warm. I thought perhaps I was in the wrong room (they have two). I went out to ask the guy at reception, and he told me that indeed I was in the right room, but it’s hard to get it very hot, you know, depending on how cold it is outside (it was probably about 15 degrees outside at that point, which is really not far from the warmest temperature that Dublin reaches). So I went back inside, wishing I had worn yoga pants and not my favourite blue Lululemon hot yoga shorts. I think the temperature reached, maximum, about 25 degrees, which is considerably cooler than the high 30s or even 40s that I’ve had in places at home. In fact, one day at my sister’s studio in Mississauga, Leewi Yoga, the instructor confessed after the class that it had accidentally reached 50 degrees! It’s not that I needed to be baked like a little Irish potato, it’s just that, as I said, I had been freezing all day and was hoping for something to replicate the tropics. I almost wanted to ask for a blankey.

However, the class was good, and the slower pace of it helped to bring me back to some of the basics. I’ve been pretty addicted to the power side of things for the last couple of months, but not every class needs to test the outer limits of one’s breath and physical stamina. As I suspected, my alignment was off in a few cases, and Aidan helped to correct an errant butt here, a lose leg there, and a tight shoulder…everywhere. And this is totally silly and immature to say, but it was kind of funny listening to someone say all the yoga words with an Irish accent. Maybe it’s because I find many Irish accents have an earthy quality to them, and yoga language is a bit more on the airy side. Anyhow, I’d like to go back, but I was really disappointed by the lukewarm temperature. I don’t think I will practice hot yoga all the time, but when I crave it, then I want it to be actually hot, because the heat helps to bring about a very deep peaceful (read: exhausted and perhaps delirious) feeling by the end of class. Yoga is also very expensive (like everything!) here, and that might be prohibitive. This class was 17 Euros, which, if you do the conversion, is about $27 CDN. I keep telling myself to STOP CONVERTING.

From one green place to another

2009-09-17T08:52:00.001+01:00

I'm off to the Inishowen Peninsula on a short research trip, so more beautiful photos of green places will be arriving on the blog next week. But it's been a busy week getting down to work and planning out what I will see at the Dublin Theatre Festival, which starts next week, and coincidentally (for me) boasts Quebec's Robert Lepage as one of the big-name headliners...

But I realise I haven't posted on the blog in a while. I have so many quirky things to report, but they are going to have to wait. Until I return, here are some more photos of the hike at Howth - I went again last weekend, and had a beautiful sunny day, so I decided to do the longer walk, which should have been a 10km loop. But I got a bit lost on the way, and didn't loop back towards Howth when I should have, so I ended up at Sutton Cross, which is the town one DART stop closer to Dublin. It was a really long hike, and while I think the cliff walk before you get to the lighthouse is more awe-inspiring, the part after the lighthouse has its own charm.

Here's another, clearer pic of the walk up to the lighthouse. But the time you see this, you're most of the way there:

And here is a view once you've come around Howth head. Not as stunning, right?

My favourite part about the backend of the hike is that it brings you to this beach, which includes a rather treacherous set of stairs/rocky path combo to bring you down. I saw a family there with kids and a stroller, and I have no idea how they got it down...

And here is what the rock formations look like at beach level. I stepped into the water, and it was surprisingly mild - I expected to get the freezing-pain feeling in my feet that I first experienced as a child at Cape Cod, but I was able to stay in it for a while. On a warmer day (haha, as if), I might even attempt a swim.

I paused for a little camera-timer action because I love this heather-strewn landscape. A friend pointed out that this is my 'Maureen O'Hara in The Quiet Man' pose, which wasn't the intention. It was actually a test shot to see if I was standing in the frame...

See you shortly. And don't be afraid to use the comment function below - I have no idea if anyone is actually reading this thing.

Keeping it clean, environmentally

2009-09-12T00:31:00.000+01:00

I've been a fan of Ecover products for a long time - they smell so good, and kept our house clean and fresh. But I always felt a bit odd buying them; the intention was to rid the house of harsh chemicals, and to use something friendly to the environment, but Ecover products are made in Belgium, and it's a long, carbon-emitting journey from Belgium to Toronto. So when I stepped into my new favourite health food shop, Down to Earth on South Great Georges St., I was happy to find Lilly's Eco clean products, made just a hop, skip, and a jump away in West Cork. I've tried the toilet cleaner and the floor cleaner, and can report that although they both give off a topnote of vinegar, the sharpness subsides after a while and everything is left sparkly and fresh.

The Liffey at Sunset

2009-09-12T00:20:00.000+01:00

Garbage is Gross and SO ARE YOU!

2009-09-12T00:15:00.002+01:00

I've been busy moving so the blog has suffered, but I promise an update on the flat hunt, and the eventual find, shortly. For now, just a little observation about Dublin's current obsession with cleanliness. Everywhere I walk in the city centre, I keep my eyes open for fear that I will be swept away by a street cleaner. The pedestrian areas around Grafton St and Henry St. are the worst (or the cleanest) -- I don't think I have walked on either of them yet without seeing one of these puppies:

This is not a pedestrian-only street, but the fairly heavily trafficked Westland Row, so clearly they don't just keep to the cobblestones. I was walking around Trinity College the other day, and noticed, through the frame of my camera, an unprecedented number of litter bins within eyeshot. The naked eye may only be able to pick out SIX in this shot, but there are actually more of them in the distance.

And on the green across from the Book of Kells entrance, there are new-fangled bins (about one every 10 feet):

This sweeper almost ran me over as I exited a department store on Henry St:

And here are a few pics from earlier this evening, with the crews cleaning up the Moore St. market area after the day's sales, and a recycling cart touring down Henry St.

Ballygowen sparkling: 7/10

2009-09-05T21:54:00.001+01:00

It's called sparkling water here, in order to distinguish it from 'still' water. At home we call it soda, or bubbly. I'm addicted to it, but have found that it's just not as bubbly here. I like really big, sharp, mouth-popping bubbles, so I am going to track the different brands. Today I had Ballygowen sparkling, and it caught my attention because it seems to pack more CO2 than the others I've tried. I'll give it a 7/10, in the hopes that I can find an 8 or 9...

Fringe Festival Review: Point Blank

2009-09-05T21:44:00.003+01:00

Image source: http://www.liveartwork.com/dvd/current%20issue6.htm

The Dublin Fringe Festival opened tonight, and knowing nothing about most of the companies, venues, or performers involved, I spent a few hours in a cafe pouring over the program book in an attempt to find performances of interest. It's quite a new thing for me to choose shows without knowing any of the above information - as a somewhat professional theatre-goer, I am usually armed with a lot more information. But in some ways it is a relief to come at things so purely, without preconceptions. I might end up seeing some real groaners, but then again, I won't really feel compelled to see anything because I know someone in it, or I've seen that company's work before.

Tonight I saw Point Blank, written and directed by Edit Kaldor, and performed by Nada Gambier. It was at the upstairs space of the Project Arts Centre (which, quite brilliantly, is also right around the corner from my new flat, the Irish Film Archive, and the Farmer's Market -- have I scored, or what?). The performance was excellent, and concept deceptively simple: a young woman finishes highschool and travels to find out what she wants to do in life. She takes thousands of pictures using a powerful zoom lens. The pictures are voyeuristic -- couples kissing on balconies, an old woman eating by herself inside her apartment -- but the young woman's interest in them is introspective and philosophical. By showing us the picutres, and discussing the taxonomy she is trying to create around them, Point Blank provides a very thoughtful meditation on the everyday, which, of course, is more profound than we usually want to believe. I highly recommend it to anyone in Dublin, and I believe it is also touring to other Fringe Festivals.

Obesrvation #3: It even rains when it's sunny!

2009-09-05T21:28:00.004+01:00

And here is proof. The blinding light on the sidewalks is the sun's reflection.

Farmer's Market

2009-09-05T20:56:00.001+01:00

Yeeha, I just found out that there is a weekly farmer's market in Temple Bar, just around the corner from my new flat (more on the flat-hunt later). I'm getting used to things being on a smaller scale here - grocery stores are smaller, apples are smaller, and neighbourhoods are smaller -- so I was kind of expecting a very small market, with maybe three vendors. But to my great suprise and glee (I think I may have audibly yelped), it's a full market that rivals the one at Dufferin Grove Park in Toronto. There is one major fruit and veg vendor who does everything organic, and then there are several cheese stalls, bakers, butchers, and even one flower stall. There are also a few prepared food vendors, serving noodles, sandwiches, burritos, and 'Gallic fare', and all of it seems on the healthy side, and not the fast-food side. I'm eating the kale I bought right now, and it tastes very fresh and earthy.

Translation moment: I know that aubergine = eggplant, but there are a few other translations necessary for the interested eater:

rocket = arugula
mangetout = snowpeas
spuds = potatoes

I'm sure there are more, so I'll update this as I go along...

In the same way we have seen the rapid growth of the organic food movement at home, the local food movement seems to be rapidly growing here; I've been noticing signs in many restaurants about where food is sourced. Very exciting, because eating cheese from 'Wicklow cows' is much more exciting than eating regular old cheese. I came across a list of other farmer's markets, so I look forward to checking them out.

I spoke with one woman at a bakery stall (I bought a lovely loaf of rosemary garlic bread, which, as it turns out, is a bit salty), and asked her when they closed up for the day. She said that they closed at 5pm, which is great news for me, because despite my early rising these days, and my intentions of getting out early, I often find myself attending to other homey kinds of things on a Saturday morning. "Great!", I said, "and when do you close down for winter?"

"We never shut down - we are here every Saturday, all year, rain, hail, or sleet"

Well didn't I almost fall over. I thanked her profusely, as if Ireland's temperate climate were all her doing. Yes! One point, finally, in favour of Ireland's climate!

The vegetable vendor is all little off on his own through a laneway on the east side of the Meeting House Square:

But the rest of the vendors are smack dab in the middle of the square, which has its nicest entrance off Essex St. East:

Observation #2: New Ground

2009-09-03T16:11:00.001+01:00

Earlier this week, the road changed in front of Trinity College's main gates:

Notice the light-coloured ground. It used to be regular black pavement, but the night before, the trucks were out putting down "skid proofing." Considering all the rain, this is a great idea. Notice how slick the black stuff in the background looks in comparison.

Observation #1 : Church and Economy

2009-09-03T16:07:00.004+01:00

I was walking around the north side after having visited the new art cinema in Smithfield with my dear friend Sophie -- who brilliantly hopped on a plane from London to help me flat hunt earlier this week -- and we paused to look at this beautiful church, which is certainly a landmark of an older Dublin:

We gazed up to look at the shiny brass plaque:

"Is that an @ sign?" Sophie said, with disbelief in her voice.

"Well, yes, I think it is," I responded, equally surprised.

Now that's the New Ireland.

Incidentally, the Lighthouse Cinema is a gorgeous space, with lots of crazy levels and interesting nooks and crannies. Sophie was drooling at the layout, thinking of all the arty events she could host there. I haven't seen a film there yet, because at last check, they were playing almost all the same films currently in rep at the Irish Film Institute on Eustace Street, which is just about my favourite place in town. I'm hoping the Lighthouse will diversify their offerings once we're out of the dreadful summer film season, because the IFI plays the same few films for over a week at a time, and I need more than that.

What You Need to Get Things

2009-09-02T00:24:00.001+01:00

This is a partial list of the documents required to ... get other documents or important things once you've arrived in Dublin. I'll add to it as time goes on.

To get a ... You need...

BANK ACCOUNT
1. Proof of identity (passport),
2. Proof of address (a utility bill mailed to you at your Dublin address, or, in my case, a letter from my university stating that I was employed there, but could not produce a utility bill because I have not been living there very long. Make the bank be specific about exactly what they want in the letter. I had to go back and get a different letter, built on a template they gave me.
3. A PPS Number

PPS NUMBER
1. Proof of identity (passport)
2. Proof of address
3. Any statement of employment if you have it already

MOBILE PHONE
*If you choose to pay as you go - to just top up money and not purchase a monthly plan - then currently you don't really need anything other than money to buy the phone or SIM card to convert your current phone. But if you go with a plan, you need
1. A Bank Account so that they can direct debit monthly
2. Proof of identity (passport)
3. Proof of address

TO GET PAID
1. A Bank Account
2. Then you need to go the Tax Office. If you're in the city centre, this is on Cathedral Street, which you get to by walking up the east side of O'Connell past Cleary's department store, and then turning right at the Burger King. They are very efficient at this office. If you neglect to set up your taxes, your employer is obliged to charge you 'emergency tax'. It's an emergency to YOU, not so much to the government, because emergency tax means they dock a huge percentage of your wages until you set up your taxes, as as incentive to ... set up your taxes
3. You probably need an address as well.

As you can see, each of these relies on the other, but the most key one other than your passport seems to be an address. May the force be with you if you're staying at a hotel and can't find a way to prove even a temporary address.

More to come...

Postscript to Howth, or More About the Rain

2009-09-02T00:13:00.003+01:00

My shoes got so wet hiking in the tall wet grass, that they have come unglued. I've been flat-hunting in shoes that are separating in several places. And they are serious hiker shoes. More proof that I am going to have to live in wellies.

Lily O'Connor and My Hike at Howth

2009-09-02T00:08:00.003+01:00

Seeing I couldn't do much in the way of getting settled on Sunday, I decided to take a trip to Howth. Howth is a small suburb about 25 minutes north around Dublin Bay on the DART. It's quite tony now, but I have made a point to go there every time I've been to Dublin, in order to hike the ridge that follows the sea. It's a beautiful, peaceful place for contemplation, and just what the somewhat dazed and lonely expat requires. I looked up the timetables for Pearse station (Tara and Connolly stations also go to Howth), and found I only had a few minutes to make the next train. I ran there, argued with the attendant who said he could not make change for at 20 (you mean I am going to miss the train because you don't have change??), and finally arrived, breathless, on the platform, only to discover that the online timetable was not correct. I had 40 minutes until the next train....

Luckily I met Lily O'Connor on the platform. She was asking me for timetable information, which I thought was hilarious, seeing I detected a faint Irish accent in her voice. Here's a picture of Lily, just before we had to part ways half an hour later:

Turns out Lily is Irish, but she's been living in Australia for 30 years. She's also a writer, who has published two memoirs and is now working on her first novel. We had a lovely chat about living in Ireland and living abroad, and we shared our love of walking. She told me that she was going to a small town on the DART line to find her sister's friend. Her sister is also in Australia, but had lost touch with this Dublin friend. So Lily looked up the friend in the phonebook, found the street name, and jumped on the train. No phone call, no map - she was just going to ask around to find the street. I love her sense of adventure! I'm carrying around two maps, my mobile, and my notebook that has all the DART times listed in neat To and From columns...

As Lily left the train she grabbed my hand, and gave me the following advice: "You've got to keep fit in life. That, and a good diet. And observe. I take down everything I hear. In a cafe (she mimics scribbling on a notepad). Observe. It keeps you alive. Take good care of yourself!" If Lily's books are even half as interesting as she is in person, they're bound to be a great read.

Lily's books are on Amazon.com

A couple of stops later I was in Howth, and it was raining, so I was happy to find the O-One Coffee shop - a very cute place to wait out the latest shower.

I ordered my first coffee as a Dubliner - so far, I've been practically drown in tea, and despite the heart palpitations from all the caffeine, I just needed a change. I had a long espresso with cream, and much to my delight, the cream came whipped, on top of a tiny perfect bowl of espresso. I'm extremely picky about my espresso - I don't drink it very often, so when I do, it better be good. O-One, despite their kind-of-dumb name, passes the test.

I picked up a wifi signal from the Quay West Cafe across the street (thank you thank you for not password-protecting - I promise to frequent you in the future), and soon the rain had passed and I was off on my hike.

It takes about 10 minutes to cross the harbour and get to the road that leads to the mountain path. Along the way there are drop-dead gorgeous houses, and, of course, little bits of humour:

And then you get to the beginning of the path. It's really not dangerous, unless you decide to walk many many metres off the path, and lean over the cliff. This cannot happen without intention.

The walk is stunning, and I managed to stay pretty chipper despite getting soaked in my efforts to take pictures of myself doing yoga amidst the heather. The umbrella had to shield the camera, which was on a rock on timer, so I was left exposed to the elements. Thankfully it was a warm day, so I'm still pneumonia-free. Here's one of the outtakes (it's really hard to press the button, run 20 feet away, balance, and pose gracefully all in ten seconds - thankfully regular yoga does not require such sillyness):

But mostly, the scenery looked like this: stunning but drearily romantic, fresh and cleansing:

The prized view is just before you reach the 'summit'. One can turn around at the summit, or keep going for a much longer hike around the other side of the ridge. I haven't done this longer one yet, but it's in the books for a future hike.

How to call Ireland from Canada/US

2009-08-30T11:21:00.005+01:00

Making phone calls here, and to here, is confusing the hell out of me, because there are different rules if you are calling a mobile phone than if you are calling a landline. You actually DIAL differently depending on what you are calling - landlines have area codes, for example (Dublin's area code is 1), but mobile phones do not. And unlike the changes that have been in place at home - where you dial the area code regardless of where you are calling from - it's old-school here, so if you're in Dublin, you don't need to dial the Dublin code. Or at least I think. I will figure this out and write a more comprehensive guide later, but for now, I am interested in one thing: how my family and friends back home can call ME here.

Calling from Canada/US:

- The first thing to know is that when making an international call, you need to 'get out' of the country. To do this, you dial 011. That's why international numbers are always listed with a ++ in front of them. The ++ stands for whatever code you need to dial from your own country in order to signal that you are calling internationally.

- Then you need to know the country code that signifies Ireland. This is 353. I know this is confusing, because the country code for Canada and the US is simply 1, which, to me, has always just meant 'long distance'.

- Then it gets a bit more complicated. Generally, the phone number consists of an area code (one or two digits), and then 7 more digits. I'm just talking landlines for the moment - mobiles are for another day.

- Dublin's area code is 1, and it seems like most phone numbers - the 7 digits - start with an 8.

- So, to call a Dublin landline from Canada, you dial:
011 353 1 8XX XXXX

- Now, if the number above were a Dublin mobile, and you were still calling from Canada, you would omit the single '1', which is the Dublin area code. I don't know why.

I learned some of this through trial and error, some of it by looking doe-eyed at acquaintances here and pleading for help, but most of it from this site: How to Call Abroad. It's a great site to bookmark forever.

But really, all of this is hardly relevant if you just set up Skype on your computer. It is free to set up, and free to make calls to any other computer with Skype on it. FREE.

One last thing: Ireland is currently 5 hours ahead of Toronto. So if you want to catch someone in Ireland before, say, midnight, then call them before 7pm your time. If you feed the phone after 7pm, Gizmo turns into a Gremlin. The cool thing is that if you are an insomniac, and you're awake at 4am, you could call your Dubliner friend right away, and it would be a very decent morning hour in Ireland. I've just put a clock at the top of the right sidebar - it lists the current time in Dublin.

Dogs are meant to poop outside

2009-08-29T23:05:00.006+01:00

I was meeting a new friend for dinner tonight in the Temple Bar area (I know I know it is touristy, give me a break, I've only been here for a few days!), and decided to go for a little walk first. My intention is to walk around as much as I can, so if I find a great flat, I can confidently decide in an instant whether or not I would like living in that neighbourhood. Dublin's not really that big, if you plan to stay within 2km of the absolute centre (which I guess I would poinpoint as the O'Connell Bridge, but maybe living here will change that attitude).

My mission was to find some soap - just a nice bar of soap made from, you know, pure ingredients, essential oils - the usual. It takes a while to find a Kensington Market-like space when you are in a new city, but I hold out no hopes for finding anything as cheap and down-home as Sugar and Spice.

I found a great bar of lemongrass soap at Down to Earth on South Great Georges Street, and decided that was my new scent. Bright, lively, ready-for-anything. It was 4 Euros, and seeing this kind of soap at home is often 4 dollars, I figured this place was on the mark. I've decided not to convert currencies anymore - it's too painful. The numbers stay the same, even if the conversion speaks of highway robbery.

I left the chipper guy at the counter of the store, and continued walking south. Oddly, Dubliners call this 'walking UP the street,' which is confusing, seeing I have always associated 'UP' with walking north. But maybe I am too attached to maps, which place the north arrow at the top...

I had a few minutes before I had to turn around and head back to Temple Bar for my dinner date, so I popped into Penny Farthing Cycles Shop, thinking I might find out if they had any second hand bikes that were suitable. Air Canada was going to charge me $275 to bring the bike over - $225 for an extra 'bag', and $50 for the that 'bag' being sports equipment -- and I figured that it would cost the same to bring it back, which just made it not worth it.

So there I am in this (admittedly kind of grotty - I should have known) cycle shop. The fellow said they had very few used bikes, but then a woman on the phone placed her hand over the mouthpiece, and said "How 'bout that silver-and-grey Ladies' that just came in? It's not serviced yet, but it's a 16."

Well, I am short, so 16" would be perfect. I proceeded to the back of the shop to inspect the bike. There was a very large boxer moving around, but he seemed friendly enough, and didn't jump on my head (dogs for some reason like to come up and lick me on the face, no matter how far my face is from the ground). He pointed out the bike, but it was in a big stack, so I moved around back to inspect it. I was talking about derailleurs and the like - making myself out to be the knowledgeable cyclist that I am (or pretend to be), and I noticed this...smell. I was thinking, phew, that doggy sure does smell! Then I realised, um, that is the smell of...poop. Dog poop. And yes, I was standing in it. Great big fluffy piles of it.

On the concrete floor of the shop.

INdoors.

The guy was like "oh no, I hope you didn't step in it." I looked down, and there were, like, TEN PILES of poop at my feet. Under my feet, actually. That is WAY MORE than a day's worth. WTF? Who DOES that? I mean, a warning would have been nice.

Let's just say that several toilet paper rolls and visits to a grotty bike-grease covered bathroom later, I was in St. Stephen's Green, not paying homage to Joyce and Bloom, but wiping my soles for dear life. I was a little late to meet my friend at Temple Bar, but... I had a pretty good excuse. And oh ya, the bike sucked.

PPS Number

2009-08-28T19:23:00.007+01:00

So I popped out of the shower this morning, stood out the window to check the weather, and found it sunny and mild. Got dressed, finished my extra-strong Marks and Spencer fair-trade tea (which I think is only extra-strong because they put more in each bag), and got ready to head out. But in the minutes between dressing and exiting, I had to...re-dress. The temperature had dropped, and the sky was covered in ominous, dark clouds.

When people say it rains a lot in Ireland, it really means that it rains many times in one day, not that a lot of water comes out of the sky during any given instance. This is very different from Toronto weather, where it either tends to be rainy all day, or not rainy all day, and the amount of rain, especially during fantastic August thunderstorms, can be torrential. But back to my topic...

I went to apply for a PPS number today, which stands for Personal Public Service Number. At home we call this a Social Insurance Number. The last time I got one of these, I was 15, and applying for a Christmas job at The Bay. I didn't know that I had to take care of this myself, because, funny, my world-class institution of higher learning neglected to mention it (anytime over the last 4 months). But no bother, the guy at the bank told me where to go, because in addition to requiring an address, one needs a PPS number to get a bank account. So off I went in my newly changed clothes to find the Social Welfare Office on Tara Street. I found it, and found the little machine that gives you slips of paper with your number in the queue, but tacked to the front of that little machine was a notice saying "PPS Allocations have moved to 20 King's Inns Street, Dublin 1". Apparently they are reducing the number of offices that issue the numbers, so check here before you go.

Now, I didn't know where King's Inns Street was, but luckily there was an information window, with only one woman standing in line. This will take me no time at all! But, there was no one at the window on the official side. About 10 minutes later, a social welfare office worker showed up, she had a five second exchange with the one woman in line, and off she went again for another 15 mintues. I was starting to feel a bit irritated, because I only needed directions, and a confirmation that they were still open. Finally I decided to ask the one woman in line - the one taking up more time than I think one person should, and her response was great: "Aw geeze, I don' know where dat is. Well, it's in Dublin 1, and sure, that's the north side. So you just go up to the north side."

Now, I have only been in Dublin for a couple of days, but I know that Dublin 1 is central and north of the Liffey, and that Dublin 2 is central and south of the Liffey. But I also know that the 1 and 2 are postal codes, which means they cover, oh, about 2 square kilometres each. I supposed I could zig zag through hundreds of streets until I found King's Inn Street, but the concomitant problem is that many streets are not named at each intersection....I did a lot of walking in circles this afternoon - all around here:

View Larger Map

I finally found the office, was issued a number that seemed very far away from the number currently being served, and went off to do some shopping. I kept checking back in, but after an hour and a half, they were only 12 numbers later, and there were still 20 people ahead of me, but only an hour until closing. I went off for another 20 minutes, only to return and find they had just passed my number. How did you do it, I asked? But there was no answer; instead, I elbowed my way to a wicket as soon as someone left, and pleaded. The guy wasn't impressed, but he helped me nonetheless, and now I only have to wait 2 weeks to receive it in the mail! Fortunately, he gave me a number to call on Monday to find out: (01) 704 3281. Now everyone can use it!

Yamamori Noodles, yummm

2009-08-28T02:01:00.001+01:00

Today my new colleague Lisa took me on a city centre walking tour that had three themes: cheap eats, cheap electronics (my request), and useful libraries/archives (isn't this everyone's perfect walking tour of a new city?) We had lunch at Yamamori on South Great Georges Street, but I see that they have two locations. The atmosphere was fresh and lively, but not swank and chi-chi as the cheese-oid music on their website might suggest. Around 1pm, we seemed to be the only people in the place, but by 3pm it was packed - a fact that I only realised when I noticed I was sort of yelling at her over my bowl of noodles.

Happy to find ramen on the menu, I ordered the seafood version. (Ramen is hard to come by in Toronto, and the one new place that features it in TO -- Kenzo Ramen on Dundas St. -- proved to be a bit disappointing when I went there a few months ago with my friend Phil). Anyhoo, in expensive Dublin, I was expecting that for 10 Euros I would get a tiny bowl with canned salad shrimp and pollocky fish balls. Moments later, a massive steaming bowl of fresh seafood, veggies, and noodles arrived. The broth was a silky miso-garlic combination (I couldn't taste the oyster sauce that was listed on the menu), the prawns tasted like lobster, and overall, it was very good. I even had to leave some behind, but that might be blamed on the jet-lag. Thanks, Lisa!

P.S. Speaking of foods tasting differently, the cottage cheese here is DEElicious! It tastes...cheesier.

Health Insurance

2009-08-27T18:39:00.006+01:00

The Ontario government says that it reimburses health costs incurred outside of country for Ontarians still covered by their government health insurance, but the catch is that they only cover the costs at a fixed rate, and that rate is very very low. It's worth paying attention to the not-so-subtle message scattered liberally, in bold, across the Travelling Outside Canada page on the website of the Ministry of Health and Long Term Care: 'you are strongly advised to purchase additional health insurance every time you leave Canada'.

So...I conducted some research into private health insurance, because my world-class Dublin institution does not provide that for me, and you never know when you might get hit by the LUAS and require emergency health services. I have to keep telling myself to look right and not left when I prepare to cross the street... I've had travel insurance many times in the past, but it's significantly different when you plan to be out of province for an extended period of time. There are essentially two kinds of health insurance relevant to those planning to be abroad: travel insurance, and global expatriate insurance. These types depend on your situation, and they are mutually exclusive. I'll try to make this as simple as possible, because it took time and lots of questions for it to become this simple for me:

TRAVEL INSURANCE VS. GLOBAL EXPATRIATE INSURANCE

1. Travel Insurance
If your Canadian government health insurance (GHIP) is valid for the entire duration of your trip, then this is the kind of insurance you must purchase.

It is cheaper than the global expat option, and the coverage is far superior (e.g. up to $5-million, or unlimited). The next question, of course, is: How do I know if my GHIP remains valid? This is a very scary question for a Canadian, who, if you're like me, has never seen a doctor's bill or hospital bill in their lifetime, let alone actually paid a GP, referred specialist, or hospital or emergency room for any kind of service. We've got it good. The short (but not complete) answer is that your insurance remains valid as long as you are not away from the province for more than 212 days in any 12 month period. I say the answer is not complete because if you've been coming and going a lot in the 2 years prior to your big expat adventure, the rules may differ. Refer back to the Travelling Outside Canada factsheet. So, that's the bad news for those leaving for over 212 days. The good news is that under certain circumstances, you can apply for continuous OHIP eligibility beyond those 212 days. The certain circumstances currently include:

study outside of Canada
work outside of Canada
missionary work outside of Canada
vacation or other reason outside of Canada

Fortunately I fit under the second circumstance, but the last one seems to include anyone!!

So, off I went to line up (join the cue) at my local OHIP office to apply for an extended absense with continued coverage. And oh ya, I had to bring several documents. Out came that hosting agreement again (see section above on Work Permits), along with proof of Ontario address (driver's license or utility bill), proof of citizenship (I used a passport), and another proof of identity (I used a credit card).

2. Global Expatriate Insurance
If your are no longer covered by your government health insurance, then you must purchase Global Expatriate Insurance.

There are not that many companies that offer this kind of insurance, and it is more expensive than travel insurance. The good thing is that you can purchase travel insurance to cover you for the first portion of your trip, when you still have valid GHIP, and then global expat insurance for the later part of your trip, when your GHIP has run out. But if you can, get your GHIP extended as per instructions above, and go with standard travel insurance.

I learned about the differences between travel insurance and global expat insurance partly by talking to insurance companies on the phone, and partly by talking to the very helpful Gary, who works at the Canadian OmbudService for Life & Health Insurance. The OmbudService is non-partisan, and provides excellent assistance in navigating this rather complicated (but hopefully after reading this, crystal-clear!) situation. Gary assures me that all of the other folks are also equally helpful, so you don't need to ask for him specifically :)

You have to check out the different companies and policies yourself, but the one piece of advice I will give is this: stand-alone insurance companies proved to be quite cheaper than insurance offered through the banks or Blue Cross. And their policies were comparable, or even better.

Visas and Work Permits

2009-08-27T18:38:00.006+01:00

VISAS
Before setting off, I made sure that my passport was valid until for at least 6 months after the end of my contract, and I found out that as a Canadian, I do not need a visa to enter the country. This does not mean that I can enter Ireland and stay indefinitely, however (more on that in the next section). You can check out the Irish Naturalisation and Immigration Service website to see what the visa situation is for your country of origin.

WORK PERMITS + HOSTING AGREEMENTS
Even though I was recruited by the university, most everyone planning to work in Ireland requires a work permit. Check into this early, because at last count, the Department of Enterprise, Trade and Employment noted that they are just now getting to applications that arrived over 3 months ago. The Department processes applications in the order they are received, and the following link shows you where you might be in the cue: Current Processing Dates. And oh ya, the permit is not cheap, either. One alternative, if you are 18-35 years old, is to apply for a work permit through SWAP. It's a bit cheaper, and they help you through the process both before and after your arrival.

Things are a little different for researchers; my employer provided a hosting agreement at no cost to myself, which is a kind of work permit created by the EU exclusively for researchers. I made sure that the hosting agreement was in my hands well before I had to leave Canada, and so far I've had to pull it out at the airport, the bank, and even at my institution to prove I was working there! If you go this route, you'll need to send your institution two passport photos. It's not easy to find the link to hosting agreements on the above website, because it is housed under the section on Enterprise, Science, and Technology. You can find it here. You're on your own if you are searching for similar goverment sites for other European countries, but at least you now know this kind of agreement exists!

One small but very important point about the hosting agreement: you can bring along your children and spouse under this agreement, but you must provide the authorities with a marriage certificate for the latter. The definition of spouse in Canada is much broader, with common-law and same-sex couples having most of the same advantages and obligations as legally married couples. I understand that common-law does not cut it for purposes of the Irish hosting agreement, but I am not sure what they would do if presented with a marriage certificate by a same-sex couple legally married in Canada, seeing that Ireland does not currently allow same-sex marriage, despite the public's growing support for it.

A Canadian Expat in Ireland: Preparation and Arrival

2009-08-27T18:37:00.011+01:00

So, I've just arrived in Dublin from Toronto. I have a one year research contract at a world class institution, Dublin is a fantastic world-class city, but I don't know a soul in the city, and this is my first time living abroad. I know that I have a lot to learn.

I am hoping that this blog will serve as both a record of my travails, and as a guide of sorts to others contemplating the same kind of move. I'll start with the boring but important stuff first, and then I plan to paint this town red and get to the good stuff about Dublin...

There are many things one must accomplish when arriving in Ireland without EU passport, and each thing seems to depend on the other one already having been accomplished. For example, I need to find a flat ASAP, but when I find that flat, I have to provide a deposit. Well, one needs a local bank account in order to write a cheque (unless you want to carry around a couple thousand Euro in your purse or pockets). Guess what the banks want in order to get an account? An address. Back to square one. I also need an address in order to get myself a mobile phone with any decent kind of monthly plan. But many letting companies advertising on Daft.ie (the major accomodations listing site) ask you to 'text' them - using your mobile - to set up an appointment. Hello again, square one. And finding a flat and bank account assumes you've actually already entered Ireland, and there are a few things you need to do before you arrive at the airport and hope that they let you stay. So, onto these boring but essential details...